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koolades-world · 1 year

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just like lilith

Got inspo after that satan angst hc, here’s the link in case you haven’t seen it. also drew inspo from willow and lavender haze by taylor swift, my favorite normie artist LOL

hurt/comfort, happy ending :)

Loud crashes and bangs, followed by enraged, maddening screams echoed through the House of Lamentation late at night, a tell tale sign Satan was mad about something again. His brothers didn’t dare check on him and everyone who walked by kept as silent as possible. He really tried his best to not do that anymore, he really did. But some things just couldn’t be helped.

He toppled another bookshelf with both hands and knocked over another with the accidental lash of his tail, making him even more upset. Pages fluttered as the shelf hit the ground. He grabbed one book in particular that had been a gift from Lucifer and ripped it apart by the spines, throwing the halves to separate sides of the room. He hated Lucifer.

Stupid Lucifer.

Stupid Mammon.

Stupid Levi.

Stupid Asmo.

Stupid Beel.

Stupid Belphie.

Stupid Celestial Realm.

Stupid angels.

Stupid Devildom.

Stupid Lilith.

He didn't mean that... did he?

Diavolo, why did everything have to be so complicated? The name Diavolo alone sent him into another rage induced fit. He tore off part of his bed frame and threw it as hard as he could at the only mirror in the room. Despite it being enchantment, it shattered into hundreds of pieces. Part of the enchantment held up, as it stayed in its frame despite being in so many pieces. He snatched it off the wall and began hitting against any surface he could get his hands on. He tried his hardest to do any more damage to it, but it stayed intact.

As he tried clawing the mirror, he noticed himself again. Messy blond hair stood on it's ends. Obsidian horns curling out of sight. A ruddy face. Deep jade eyes, bloodshot and red in the whites. Tears actively fell from his eyes, streaking their way down his face.

When had he started crying? He saw hundreds of himself, each and every one coming to the same realization. He swiped his tears away. All of his mirror-selves followed suit. For once, he was unsure how to feel. He looked himself in the eyes, horrified yet transfigured to the spot by the sight of his own face.

He found his thoughts drifting and his rage slowly took the backseat. Was Lilith's hair as wispy has his? Did she have those little flyaways and that cowlick that refused to behave no matter what he did to it? Did she really have the same straw-yellow blond? Asmo always told him his eyes were breathtaking. Did he tell her that too? Were Lilith's the same? Did they reflect everything she felt? Were they really the same green, the green that could be both jade and emerald at the same time? With the same hints of yellow at the bottom the were reminiscent of the sun on the horizon before dawn or dusk? Was she also fond of beautiful things? He was sure if she was the rising sun, he was the setting sun.

Usually his fits were about Lucifer, and how he felt he could never escape his shadow. In the end, they were the same. Not this time though. This time, it wasn't even really his fault. If it wasn't his fault, who's fault was it then? Could he really blame his brothers for seeing their lost sister in him? They probably missed her so much it hurt. If she had survived, would they even want to see her like he was? He knew she would have taken his place as the Avatar of Wrath. If he and Lucifer were two sides of the same coin, what does that make Lilith to him? Were they the same face, or did were they too two sides of the same coin? What did that make Lucifer to Lilith once he was added to the equation? Did Lucifer subconsciously wish to have Lilith back? Is that why he was the way he was? Would he even be here if Lilith had lived? Would his brothers prefer that?

The thoughts were dizzying. It overwhelmed him. He threw the mirror as hard as he could across the room. It finally shattered. The tiny shards showered across the ruins of his room like snow onto a battlefield. He let his tears fall freely, and sank his knees in the small patch of moonlight coming in through his window. He let out an agonizing cry, one that everyone in the house could feel the pain deep from within. For once, his brothers felt bad. They would never understand. It felt good to get a little of that feeling off his chest. He wallowed in the silence after his shriek, until he heard a soft knock on his door. This caused him to snap to attention and growl at whoever was on the other side.

"Satan?" He heard an echo of the voice he knew so well. Their tone was gentle in a sorrowful way. No longer was it warm. This was waterlogged, droopy, like a small flower under heavy rain. "Can I come in?"

"Mc? Yes, come in." The door cracked. For a moment, he thought his brothers would be behind them, and that it was all a trap. But he was wrong. They were alone, still dressed in the fancy outfit from the dinner they had gone to as a family earlier that night. Their eyes were just as red as his own. They stepped into the small gap and shut it behind them. As they got closer, he noticed silent tears falling from their eyes. He got up and met them at the door, pulling them close to his chest. They began shaking, wracked with sobs. He quickly forgot about his own spiral that had taken place just minutes before. While he was raging, Mc had been out there somewhere, upset. He began to feel more awful about what he had done.

"What's the matter?" He ushered them over to his bed, one of the few mostly undamaged things. Part of his bed frame had been used to shatter the mirror, and at some point he had shredded a few pillows. They sat among this fluff, holding each other, Mc in his lap. It was silent for a while before Mc was calm enough to answer.

"I'm so sick of your brothers." They looked up at him with tearful eyes. He gazed back at them, knowing he probably looked exactly the same. "It's just... I love them. I really do. But I am so tired of trying to be my own person. I am not Lilith." Her name cut him like a knife. But as Mc placed their hand on his chest and leaned in, he could fell the cut heal. A small void within himself began to fill.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" He wiped away their tears that had been steadily falling, like he had his own.

"You must be tired of hearing that name." They couldn't even bring themself to look up at him anymore. He felt guilt seep in. He had never even considered that. They had been hiding everything from him to keep him safe. He cuddled them closer, hoping to shield them from all the pain. "Lilith must have been so sweet, but I am not her. You are not her. We are not her. I've seen the way your brothers look at us when we're together. It's like they don't even see us. It's only Lilith to them. Part of me wishes we never found out. Maybe things would be the way they were before. I wouldn't even be here if everything hadn't happened the way it did, and maybe you wouldn't either. But they just don't seem to care about that and it's sickening how obsessed they are over the idea that we are what they lost."

"What happened after I left?" He had an idea of how this had all started. He had stormed off to his own room after they got home from dinner upon discovering his brothers wanted to retake a particular photo they had taken with Lilith but with him and Mc where Lilith was. That was the whole reason behind the dinner, and he and Mc were the only ones left in the dark.

"I wanted to go after you, but Lucifer wouldn't let me. I didn't know what had started the argument in the first place, so I wanted to get to the root of it. Everyone seemed uncomfortable. I get it now. They were feeling guilty about what they had decided to do. They filled me in on everything after I screamed enough. I said some things that would have made you proud." He could feel them smile weakly against his neck. "I told them I hoped they were sorry for what they had done. I honestly didn't mean to be so harsh with my words, but I think it was the wake up call that they needed."

"What did you say?" He stroked their hair, laying his head on top of theirs.

"I told them Lilith was dead and that she wasn't coming back. Lucifer slapped me and the force sent me pretty far. The others tried to act like they were concerned, but it was just as much their fault as it was his. I refused to let them touch me. And then I came here." After hearing that, he pulled them off his chest to look at their face. Tears were still bubbling over both of their faces. The room was dark, but he could see the bright red outline of Lucifer's hand on their face.

"Don't do that ever again. Not on my behalf. What if you got seriously hurt? What would I do without you?" It was silent for a moment. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to his questions or not. "Where does it hurt? Let me make it better."

"It hurts here. And here." He watched as their hand ghosted over their face, and to their side, their back and their leg. He could feel fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. Holding them close, he muttered a spell that would take away the pain. Feeling them relax in his arms soothed him a little.

"I'm never going to let Lucifer near you again. I'm... scared. What happens if he gets his hands on you?" He wasn't used to admitting how he was feeling, but the moment felt raw enough to admit it. He took in a shaky breath and hugged Mc tightly like they might disappear.

"I want you to know that you're beautiful. Satan, the Avatar of Wrath. You're you, and nobody else. The man who established so many animals shelters across the Devildom. The man who got me through exam week time and time again. The man who took me in whenever I felt upset just to get away from it all. You are your own person, and I love you for that. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you." Mc burrowed their head into his chest to place a kiss over his heart. At some point during their conversation, he had shifted from his demon form to his regular appearance.

"I could say the same about you. You're also your own person. You've been there for me more times than I could count. I love you too. All the love in the world wouldn't be enough for me to give you. I wouldn't trade you for the world." He began to smile for the first time that evening. Mc lifted their head to meet his eyes.

"I have an idea. Diavolo owns me a huge favor. How does a spontaneous trip to the human world sound? Just you and me, for as long as we need, and as long as it take your brothers to really miss us?" The mischievous glint in their eyes was something he was so familiar with. He met it with enthusaism.

"That sounds wonderful. Where would we go though?" He thought about the logistics quickly.

"While my first thoughts were my house or Serenity Manor, but once they realized we weren't in the Devildom, they would look there first. Diavolo has mentioned this small, cute beach house he goes to from time to time on his own. He would let us borrow it. It's barley big enough for two, but we could make it work. It's in the middle of nowhere. Perfect for us." The more Mc talked, the more Satan liked the idea.

"I love that idea. When do we leave?" Satan was never one to agree to spontaneous idea like this, but in the moment, it just felt right.

"How does in twenty minutes sound? We pack right now and disappear before your brother realize we're gone. Diavolo has to be awake right now anyways." Mc brushed their hands over his face. Tears had stopped falling. The stains lingered but they could only see each other.

"Let's do it. I'll take you to your room first, just in case Mammon happens to be in there." He stood up, and hugged Mc for a moment more before letting them go in favor of taking their hand. Satan knew he would be in for a fun time. He could always rely on Mc, no matter what.

#obey me #obey me!#obey me x reader #obey me satan #obey me satan x mc #obey me mc #obey me x you #obey me x mc #obey me satan x reader #obey me satan angst #obey me lilith

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a-world-with0ut-dr34ms · 8 months

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Ghost x City Girl Reader

You expected Ghost to leave you before the morning; he usually does. However, you're surprised to see him rush to your aid after being woken up by violent night terrors. A sweet and unexpected moment between you, that only ends as quickly as it began.

Tags: Romance, Drama, slight Hurt/Comfort, slight Angst, Intimacy, Fluff that turns sour, Mask-Kissing, Arguing, Swearing, Enemies to Lovers, FWB, Jealousy, Toxic Relationships, "Couples", Arguing, Swearing, A Little Melodramatic, I'm aiming for something more real though, Reader is somewhat bratty and immature, Ghost is bad at communicating his feelings, Damaged people not knowing how to talk to each other and let their walls down, reader has night terrors, I wanted representation!

WC: 4.5k~

Author's Note: I'm back from Vegas! I was on a drunken bender on Fremont St. partying with my brother for his birthday this week (I talked to a lot of interesting people too 😏). This chapter might be a little different, I don't know? I'm not gonna lie, after this chapter, the tone is about to take a shift. Please enjoy~

Also, thank you so much @argella1300 for helping me out when I asked. Your insight was greatly appreciated and it really meant a lot! 💞

Masterlist

It came in the dim shade of dusk, tucked in by shadows of your hall -- the abnormally tall silhouette of a man. Stalking you. Haunting you.

He looms at the brink of your hallway, expressionless, unmoving, and yet somehow inching forward all at once. With each step he closes between you and himself, an encroaching darkness fills the room behind him within the blink of an eye.

Who was he? It's a question you've had since adolescence. The answers never felt as true as his unsettling existence.

The world around you is silent, fogged as though you were being held underwater, your mind racing at an incoherent speed. The only sounds you hear are that of your own screaming. You knew what was happening; your body and mind had just been unable to control it.

Night terrors.

You've never told anyone about them before; you've never felt any need to. It's not exactly a hot topic of discussion, nor something you could even put forth any real value into if asked; you can't explain something you don't understand.

They haven't been anything beyond a waking three-minute inconvenience. An on-and-off occurrence throughout your life. But once it happens, there'd be no avoiding it.

They send your body into a mindless, cold panic, the only emotion coursing through your veins being the unknown fear that first woke you. Your arms thrash frantically as you scream, your body feeling as though it were being grabbed by a million hands...

Don't touch me, your mind cries out. Don't touch me. Don't touch me...

...Until you've felt the one, very real hand touch your shoulder, taking with it the darkness you'd thought had all but swallowed you whole and replacing it with the waking world around you.

The morning returns, as do the rest of its unpleasant realities.

"Hey." That deep and raspy Manchester voice is the first sound you finally register, and for once in your life, it couldn't have sounded any sweeter. "Hey," Ghost says again, placing both hands gently over your shoulders to wake you. "Everything's OK. You're in your living room."

Your chest heaves shallow breaths when sitting up on your couch, taking in your surroundings. That's right, you're still in your living room. You'd almost forgotten you'd passed out on your couch last night, now catching the breaking dawn which pooled through your windows.

It always takes you a moment to regather yourself after it happens, having to make sense of what had been real versus some strange in-between with you and your REM state. In those moments, everything felt real, and fake all at once.

Even the shattering and reforming of reality around you could not take your mind from Ghost's hand, which remained wrapped protectively over your arm, fingers trembling with the hesitancy of his own actions.

"Are you alright?" His dark eyes look your face up and down, taking in every twinge your lips made and how your eyes seemed to look in every direction but his own, still glossed over and dazed from sleep. "You just started screamin' out of nowhere."

Once his words run through your head a few more times, you realize that you'd made a scene right in front of the one person you hadn't wanted to know this about you, a new detail he no doubt did not expect from you at all.

Ghost has known you to be many things -- seductive, witty, cold, distant, and near every other synonym in between. He's heard your voice moan in pleasure more times enough to recognize it within a crowd; he's heard you hurl enough insults his way to send even the hardest of soldiers home crying and insecure.

Never has he heard you scream like this before, with such fear and strife. In fact, he can't think of a single time you've ever been so frightened around him. To see a glimpse of that had been more unsettling than he wished to let on.

He'd only woken up a few minutes shy of you, having slipped away to fix himself up and reset his balaclava. His lips had still felt stained by your kiss from last night, the skin on his face tingling off the memory of your touch alone.

Nearly two months he's spent with you in this odd, little fling and he's never actually kissed you like he had last night before. Never for so long. Never so deeply. He wouldn't allowed himself to. Kissing just for the sake of it always felt like a step beyond casual, as much as he often craved your lips on his most exhausting days.

Ghost must have stared at himself in the mirror longer than he should have, just chasing that feeling again, making himself sick with it. He debated on leaving before you woke, though he'd keep that to himself, having heard your screaming once he'd rounded the corner. In which case, Ghost ran to your aid without question.

His first thought had been that you were in danger; perhaps someone had broken in, or worse, you'd been hurt. You might get on the man's nerves, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't care about your well-being at least somewhat. He never wished any harm to you, and he damn sure wouldn't let anything happen to you if he can help it.

The archway between your hall and you had felt as foreign and distant as space itself, however. When Ghost found you on your couch, your arms writhing, and wide eyes locked on him with confusion and terror, he had frozen in place.

For a split second, he thought that fear had been caused by the sheer sight of him. And then, the strangest thing had happened -- it tore him to pieces being given a glimpse of a reality he didn't know he feared most of all. One where the sight of him brought you complete anguish.

Your screaming didn't stop when he approached you, nor had it stopped when he knelt beside you, saying your name and asking what was wrong, only falling on deaf ears.

Nothing had stopped your screaming, nor these emotions that ripped at him, until his hand had touched your shoulder, and you both felt the sensation of one another.

Your features calmed, your gaze softening at the sight of him, now having been pulled from that sudden trance. In a matter of seconds, you'd just barely managed to get your breathing to a more manageable pace, your heart not drumming so loudly in your ears. You played his words in your head, again and again, until you've slowly regained composure. Everything's fine. Everything's fine.

Had you noticed he had this effect on you? Ghost imagines you'll only carry on as though it were just another thing; the kindest of gestures are often the hardest to notice in the moment, and you never did like to dwell. It only took years' worth of tragedies for Ghost to be able to recognize them himself. Though every now and then, it isn't something he can catch either. He only wishes this hadn't been one of those times.

Embarrassment and shame flood within you like a crashing wave, though you mask it in an annoyed groan, turning your body away from Ghost in hopes he'd take the hint and give you some space. You always hated when this happened around others, most of all around the men you slept with. Slowly, you prepared yourself for your usual dose of reactions.

"I'm fine," you say. "I just... I'm fine." You rub your hands over your face in defeat, before sinking your head into them with a low groan.

There had been reasons you didn't sleep over or have others do the same often, this being one of them. You didn't need to have another guy slowly ghost you because you scared him awake at 2am in a frantic panic; the best way to avoid it would be to not put yourself in the situation at all, right?

But what happened last night hadn't been like any of your normal nights with Ghost. Last night had been something... not quite the same. There had to be some reason you haven't sent him home yet otherwise. You wondered if it had been the same reason why he hadn't gone home yet either.

"Fuckin' hell," Ghost sighs. "You might've woken the neighbors with that one."

"It's nothin' they're not used to," you say casually, though the second you do, you wish you hadn't been so cavalier about it. You hadn't meant to invite him into your world like this.

However, no one had been more understanding of these sorts of troubles than he; Ghost knew what a pain it could be feeling as though you needed to explain emotions you had no control over. So he wouldn't ask you what that was about, or why you think it may have happened. He didn't need to know anything beyond the fact that you were OK.

"Well," Ghost sits down beside you on the couch with a dramatic "oomph", huffing to himself with a certain contentment to it. "I've been there."

"I'm sure you have," you groan. You couldn't help being sly with him, even now. It came out of you impulsively, knowing he'd always reward you with some form of attention you both could get something out of. Something you both let sit at the back of your minds all day.

You stretch your arms over your head feline-like, your body now finally feeling as though you'd slept in your living room instead of your bed. Your shoulder ached dully, your back already popping at each stretch you made with your body. The wonderful joys of aging.

"That's one way to get the blood pumpin' in the mornin', yeah?" Ghost jokes, he always did feel a little humor could lighten any mood. "You never scream like that with me."

"Perhaps you should do a better job then," you tease.

"Don’t tempt me, love."

Love. He doesn't call you that often. Only in your most intimate of moments. You hadn't felt your face smiling, but you knew you were.

You looked so innocently up at him after without even thinking. "Tempt you, Manchester?" You give the man a rather tired but still lurid look, bumping his shoulder playfully with your own. "Perish the thought," you say. "As if it's that hard to do."

"Oh, fuck off." Ghost sighs, and you can practically feel the man smiling beneath his mask. A smile that felt as warm as a heater come after a snowstorm.

Wind chimes clung lightly outside your window, the finches gathered at your bird feeder chirping blissfully. You both laugh lightly to yourselves, your arms faintly brushing at every small exhale from your noses. And you both sat there even after the laughter, simply looking off ahead of yourselves, with eyes still heavy from waking.

It had felt suddenly a tremendous task to look over at Ghost. Once you've worked up the courage, you catch him gazing out your window aimlessly, peacefully, his body settled into your couch as though he'd been with you the day you bought the thing.

And then he looks down at you. Maybe he felt you staring, but you never noticed how brown his eyes are, or how deep they could look in a dimly lit room. Similarly, he's never noticed how animated your own eyes are, always moving and observing some small, unknown detail. It made his skin crawl delightfully. Ghost would have thought that feeling to be a bad thing, and yet it had been quite the opposite.

Why don't we ever do this? You asked him that last night, and though he'd answered you, it hadn't been the entire truth.

A sudden burst of energy springs from you, pulling you from your seat and inviting yourself onto Ghost's lap, who leans back and lets you do so without question. Your legs settle over his boulderous thighs, humming lightly as he rests his hands back against your hips, sighing pleasantly to himself and looking back up at you.

Ghost did his best not to squirm around too much with you on top of him. It hadn't been the worst thing you two have done together. However, it wasn't common for things to feel so... easy. He could stay like this all morning if you let him.

Something tells him you felt the same way; you don't usually take this long to start getting to the point of things physically.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I'm surprised you're still here."

You watch your comment bring him to a short pause and find yourself now at the edge of your seat, arms resting gently over his shoulders and not being used to this sudden anticipation towards his answer.

Ghost had thought about being completely honest with you, admitting that he'd been equally surprised. That's when he woke up and saw you still sleeping on the couch next to him, it had been the hardest thing to even excuse himself to the restroom.

Your arms had been entangled around him, cuddled against his large shoulder like a giant pillow. You slept soundly beside him, peacefully, having felt so at ease with letting your guard down, all things considered. An innocent sight too far and few between bitter exchanges.

He's never slept over after before, nor has he ever held you in his arms like this. Yet, it had felt like the most sensible thing to do now, something as natural as breathing or blinking.

He found himself just watching you sleep for a while, still. In the early morning light that crept through your living room window, he sees all these details to you he's never had the chance to; you are beautiful. Truly. And he hadn't meant it in ways that were superficial or lustful. Genuinely, he really did find you a stunning woman. He's always found you so, even behind the toxicity.

Seeing you next to him had made him happy, and all at once, it hurt him the same, knowing this time would always be finite. You'd bore of him soon enough, only to call him later as another passing thought. Maybe one of these days, he'll gather the strength to stop answering.

Even now, with you over him like this, it's odd. He doesn't want to get up, and yet he does. He wants to pull you in closer, and he wants to leave. He can feel himself breathing, yet the sight and touch of you made the air catch in his lungs each time he went to inhale.

Maybe he could just blame that on the smoking.

"Good thing I was 'ere, yeah?" he finally quips.

"Right," you lean forward, letting your nose brush the tip of his just faintly enough for him to long for its sensation beneath his mask. You watch the blond of his lashes flutter innocently, with eyes wrapped up in you even more than they had been last night. "My knight in shining armor. You won't hear me complaining."

"That's a first," he teases.

"Fuck you."

Your kiss is what truly wakes him that morning, your lips sculpting the shape of his mouth through his mask and gently planting slow, light pecks. His arms hug around you warmly, with strong fingers gently grazing their way up your back. He always did like these rare occasions where you'd treat him softly; he liked to think it had been a side of you that only he had seen. Even as he knew it wasn't true.

You continue to kiss him for a little while, the man's hands only remaining comfortably at your back to keep you over him. Ghost wasn't sure how much more he could take of you wiggling about on his lap before he gave you what you were clearly looking for. But it wasn't until you started reaching for his mask that he felt a sudden bolt of lightning strike him.

Both his hands shoot up to grab yours, large fingers hooping across your wrist like cuffs, keeping you just out of reach from the brim of his mask. His sudden hesitancy makes you smirk, and already does he know that you're about to push his buttons.

"Aw," you tease, purposefully rocking your hips into him. It makes you giggle when he huffs to himself. "Feeling shy?"

"Not shy," Ghost says. "Just..." Vulnerable. Anxious. Wary. Careful. "...You know how it is."

"Aww," you start to pout mockingly. "Is that honor only reserved for the special girls in your circle?" you ask. "Or just the ones you don't fuck?"

"For the ones actually interested in sticking around," he says. "Instead of just being some fling."

You can't help but scoff, and Ghost can't help but tense up afterward, already preparing himself for an outburst. You certainly were good for them, and Ghost hadn't wanted to kid himself here either; this would all end soon enough.

It wouldn't be long now... and he knows he should pull away before that day comes. He's lost enough people in his life to recognize not to get close to something that won't last long enough to really matter. So he won't hold back his words with you. You can't have your cake and eat it too, he thought.

But some small, sad part of himself wanted you to fight his words, however harsh that storm would be, just like you always do.

Your shoulders slouch and your eyes drift off somewhere into the room. You couldn't make it more obvious that what he said had stung, in ways you hadn't even known you'd been capable of feeling towards him.

A fling. A piece of meat. That's how you liked to present yourself -- it's how you've viewed others too -- most of the time. So you can't get mad if that's how he sees it.

Yet every time that truth is brought to attention, it can't help but make your gut twist up in knots. As if some delusional part of you felt you could continue to sleep with Ghost and see other men as well without him caring.

You've been in a losing battle with Ghost since you first slept together. You knew on that night that any real formalities between you two were forever gone; you'd already spoiled so many of the first joys of being with someone, and it often left this feeling of things being too late to change. What you have now will probably always be what it is. So why can't you enjoy it for that while you still can? Why must he complicate things?

"I just wanted to kiss you," you admit.

It's the honest truth. You dreamed about his lips; his kiss had felt that good. You never expected him to have left such an effect on you, yet you've woken up, and the want to taste him has not subsided.

Ghost takes his eyes from you, dark orbs lowering to your lips as though to telepathically share the same thoughts as you.

"I..."

BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!

Your eyes turn to the thunderous rumbling of your cell phone against your hardwood coffee table. A phone call.

Ghost looked back at you, expecting you to sit up and answer it. You merely turn back to him, letting it buzz until the call finally drops. You could always call them back.

As you've opened your mouth to speak, however, the phone begins to buzz again. Another phone call. It's this time that you've decided to sit up and see who it is; you freeze once you read the caller ID. Shit!

"Who is it?" Ghost regrets asking the second his voice lets the words rumble out.

"It's uh..." You stumble on your words, purposefully being coy, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

"Your boyfriend?" Ghost answers for you, and your silence after speaks volumes.

Your boyfriend. Mr. Sweet and Super Understanding himself. This supposed "doomed" second relationship that has been nothing but highs since you've known him, if anything you told Ghost last night had been true. It figures he would call you so early this morning, you two had seemed close after all.

And like the strike of a match, his entire demeanor runs from cold to ticked off. Ghost can do nothing more than laugh to himself, shaking his head as though you'd just pulled the rug from underneath him and blown the ceiling off the roof of your prior delusions.

After all, you got exactly what you wanted here from him. He fixed your car, fucked you after, and now you get to send him on his merry way while you spend some real time with someone else.

Grumbling to himself, almost without him even knowing, he mutters, "I don't know what else I fucking expected-"

"He's not-" You struggle to find the right words to say, feeling as though every sentence spoken made a true difference between Ghost walking out of your life for good or not. The thought made you start to panic all of a sudden. "I'm not with him like that. You know this already."

You're right; he does know this. You haven't lied about a single thing since he drove over to jump your car. "Besides," you start to argue. "Why does it matter anyway? Why do you care? It's not like you want to be with me. You won't even let me look at you! You've said it yourself; I'm just some "slag" you sometimes like to fuck. Why the fuck do you care if I'm seeing someone who doesn't think that way about me?"

Because he hadn't felt that way about you. Not anymore. Not ever.

Never has he met a woman able to push his buttons so effectively, in ways all too familiar to his childhood. But at the same time, this woman, this human who unknowingly held so much power over him without even being aware, you equally found the littlest of ways to creep into his mind and bring him a bittersweet peace he had not felt since his youth.

But if he said that to you would you listen? Would you even understand? You've never been a woman to be tied down. He's known this. Who was he to think he'd be the difference when what you say is true. He has not been kind to you, not until it was too late, and now you've one foot out. How could he blame you for that?

And yet Ghost stands up, a bubble now having been burst. "As though you're so innocent," his voice raises, emotions finally starting to tip. He matches your hostile energy, his dark eyes glaring down at you, a mirror of wounded gazes. "How many times have I been here for you, only for you to cast me aside like an old toy you can just play with when you're bored? All I've ever been to you is an easy out; you've never cared what I've thought-"

BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!

Ghost's eyes shoot down to your phone ringing in your hand, and you swear you've never seen him more upset.

A passing fear of him stepping over and snatching your phone from your hand passes over you, and your entire body language subliminally shifts in response. You instinctively take a step back from him, lightly turning your body to keep your phone from his reach. You'll be damned if he thinks he can try that.

He notices this small action, and a part of himself felt akin to his father, recognizing that fear in your eyes from his mother, even as you hide it behind a biting glare. That feeling alone could have done him in for good.

Though Ghost wanted nothing more than to answer that call and tell that other man to fuck off already, he had more self-composure and respect than that, along with his own moral obligations.

Still, it didn't take long for the conversation to take a turn, and from that point, it had been as though everything this morning had been but a slow build-up to an inevitable argument between you two. It always did come naturally.

It started out antagonistic from the jump. You questioned and belittled his sudden emotional flare-up, criticizing every one of his reactions and ignoring the obvious signs that you really needed to back off and just let him go. Or it would be better to say you didn't care for it.

To be frank, you didn't understand his frustrations. If other men had been such a problem, why does he keep coming back? What is it that he keeps seeking here?

Ghost hadn't been interested in spending his whole morning arguing with you, and physically feeling a grave be dug for the remains of your tarnished relationship. He moves around you and begins gathering his things, needing the air now more than ever.

"Hold up-" you approach him, throwing any caution or personal space out the window, as you've stopped a few steps shy of him. "Where are you going?"

"Back home." Ghost starts to put his boots on, the frustration he controlled in his voice being taken out by the aggression he used to tie his laces. "It's time I've made myself scarce."

"You're just gonna run off now? Just like that? I didn't take you for such a pussy, Manchester-"

"Don't push me, Spice," Ghost warns you. "I mean it."

"Or what? You'll leave?" you taunt. "I'll do whatever the fuck I want to."

"And that's the problem," Ghost says, standing up on his two feet and towering over you. "All you ever do is what you want. You never care how your actions affect others or what someone might think of them."

"What do you want from me, Simon?" You finally ask him, voice starting to rise, your chest puffing up aggressively. You'd curse him for getting you so emotionally riled up this morning.

What do you want from me? What do you want? A simple question that had been impossible to answer, because answering it would mean being honest with himself about what's happened with him here. It would mean being vulnerable.

"Stop calling me," Ghost says. "Stop seeing me. Stop being with me. We should never have done this in the first fucking place... This has to stop."

No longer did he wish to feel this way, to feel as though the worst parts of himself came at a constant full display with you. No longer did he want to feel himself slowly start to care for you, knowing that at any moment you could be gone. He's not sure he could handle something like that again.

Your mouth opens, and then it closes, and then you frown. Ghost thought you wouldn't say anything to him. He thought you might even cry. But no, you never were one to just leave things at that. You always had to say the last thing in an argument, and you never minced words.

"Then fucking go already," you say. "Get out. You won't have to worry about me calling you ever again."

Ghost didn't say anything after that, though he had looked at you for a little while longer. If you hadn't known him as well as you think you did, you'd say his brown eyes looked rather sad.

He moves away from you, making his way to your front door and unlocking it. He makes sure not to look back as you see him out. The man wouldn't be able to stomach the sight.

He remained on the other side of the door after you'd slammed it, feeling the wind hit his back and the sharp silence that it brought with it. Ghost then cocks his head back and closes his eyes, sighing in defeat. He felt the warm, morning air hit the little parts of his skin left bare for the air to kiss, and as though his mood couldn't drop any lower, he remembered he still had to go to work with you this morning.

Part Seven Coming Soon. Stay Tuned~

Since I'm trying to explore toxic relationships, I wanted to delve into the complexities a little (while not being so on the nose about it). They have their ups and they have their downs; they blend and happen all at once and take each other's places at every positive or negative interaction. You can have genuine moments of care and empathy with people you simultaneously butt heads and take issue with I feel; nothing is ever just black and white. I'm rambling and probably not making a lot of sense.

But, now that Ghost and the Reader are in the pits, they've gotta look within themselves and fix their shit if it's meant to be. I want to write them in a way where it's clear if they could just sit and figure out what it was they wanted from each other, then this could be something real if they let it. However, life waits for no one, and they're about to be in for a doozy. The mission i have planned for them is gonna be 👺👺👺

Taglist: @cabreezer0117, @homicidal-slvt, @deadbranch, @argella1300, @poohkie90, @glitterypirateduck , @sarraa-26, @quincessimus, @0-444-4444, @crazymela, @13thprogenitor, @joce2fine, @sapszilla, @dmitriene, @justherebecauseafarisucks, @zevrajalexxandra, @corvusmorte

#call of duty #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #modern warfare ii #call of duty modern warfare ii #mwii #mw2022 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #no good men left to spare #Spotify

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musings-of-a-lovesick-fool · 1 year

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Hi! I’d like to make a request 😄 I love fics where enemies take care of each other, so how about one where the gender neutral reader/deputy is injured or sick and they show up at John Seed’s ranch. John is surprisingly concerned about them and takes it upon himself to nurse them back to health. Thanks for considering my request!

I am a big fan of these types of fics too! I'm splitting this into parts so I can post some of this finally, thank you for requesting and I hope you like this first part!

Title: Dusk Till Dawn Part One

Warning(s): Descriptions of stitching and cleaning an open wound, canon-typical violence

Words: 8.1k

The sun was slowly settling behind the trees, tinting the skyline with pinks and oranges as that familiar deep blue bled across the sky in the wake of its absence. John inhaled deeply, the smell of wet earth and the candles he'd lit meeting his nose and filling him with a sense of serenity he hadn't experienced since the reaping began. He had been preoccupied cleaning up after the ever troublesome deputy who seemed insistent on leaving a trail of destruction through his valley; but surprisingly they'd been MIA for a few days now. Something John was almost glad about.

Until his mind got the better of him, that is.

Even now, standing on the back porch of his ranch; sipping idly on a steaming mug of coffee and basking in the changing sky he could feel a trickle of worry on the back of his neck. It was infuriating, being worried about someone who was hellbent on knocking down everything he'd worked for; someone whose stubbornness and unwillingness to listen to his point of view further wedged an invisible barrier between them. He wasn't sure what was worse, the fact that he was worried something had happened to them or the fact that if the roles were reversed they wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over him being gone.

And lose sleep he most definitely had. His eyes droop with the sun as it finally disappears behind the trees, allowing for the moon's soft glow to bathe over the landscape. Each day the deputy was missing was another night John failed to get a full night's rest and it was starting to impair his work. Sighing he mulls over the day and how he'd snapped at a few of his Chosen who were simply doing exactly as he asked—they just happened to be doing it far too loudly and far too close to his open window.

He'd have to apologise, if only for crowd control; it wasn't very unifying for the herald of Holland Valley to be snapping and being irate at project members. Running a hand down his face John heaves out a heavier sigh, this wouldn't be a problem if the deputy was just where they were supposed to be. There were only so many places one could go off the radar in the County, they really couldn't be that far.

Rustling in the bushes pulls John out of his pondering and he feels his spine go rigid, he'd asked for some privacy so all the project members usually stationed at the back of the ranch were at the front and that fact left John a bit more vulnerable than he'd like. He takes a cautious step back, figuring he could probably make it inside before whatever was slinking around in the bushes could reach him.

But then he catches the sight of familiar eyes, a familiar face covered in blood and dirt stuck in a grimace and he feels his heart stop.

"Deputy."

He mutters the title under his breath, as if trying to assure himself he was really seeing them and not a sleep deprived hallucination. They fall to their knees, one hand clutching their bloodied side as they stare up at him with conflict raging in their eyes. He could tell this wasn't their ideal choice of destination but taking in the state of them, beaten and looking close to death, they obviously didn't have much of a choice.

"John,"

They choke out his name and his blood runs cold from how weak they sound. The deputy always had a tone of confidence, brazen and fiery and doused in a shameful amount of pride; it was jarring to see them like this. That worry that had been fogging John's mind was now an encompassing flurry of panic, his limbs moving before his mind could catch up and he was on his knees beside the deputy in seconds. His tattooed hands flutter about around them for a moment, hesitant to touch them in their fragile state yet desperate to check on their wounds and tend to them.

He doesn't have time to question his own desire to help what some would consider his sworn enemy, as the deputy falls into his chest, their shoulder digging into his sternum and temple resting on his collar bone. The contact urges him to wrap his arms around them and keep them from falling any further. Manoeuvring them to their feet is a struggle, having a near miss of their elbow in his face and a slip of their feet nearly sending them both tumbling down to the ground again. He manages to get their arm around his shoulder and his around their waist, leading them inside as fast as their injured body would allow.

Each grunt and hiss of pain pricked at John's skin, he found himself wincing as if he were the one injured.

He considered laying them down on the couch but the chance of his chosen walking in and seeing them was too high, so despite their whine of protest he dragged them towards the stairs. They both make it up without falling but the deputy's breathing only grows more ragged as they reach the second floor and John can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage as they stagger onto the balcony. Luckily the stray project members are distracted with each other so he gets the deputy into his room without being spotted and lays them down on his bed as quietly as he can manage.

They don't say anything as John rushes in and out of his ensuite, a medkit in his hands as he returns to their side. John unbuttons the deputy's shirt hastily and their lack of resistance does nothing to ease his anxiety, the blood staining their stomach and deep gash in their side worsens it even more so. He wasn't a doctor, far from it, but even with his limited knowledge he could gauge it was a pretty serious wound. If they were lucky there would be no internal damage but that wasn't something John could tell just from looking at it.

John doesn't waste any time, pouring disinfectant on the wound to clean it; doing everything in his power to ignore the agonised noises that escape the deputy's hoarse throat as he wipes the area clean. This isn't exactly how he'd planned his night to go and he assumed it wasn't in the deputy's planner either. He tried to take in the wounds and assess how they got them, maybe a judge or cougar got a good swipe at them, or a project memeber got them in the midst of a fight. It probably didn't really matter. He could hear the chatter of project members out the front and he prayed the music they were playing would drown out the deputy's rising voice.

"You might not be happy about this deputy but i'm afraid you're going to need stitches, I don't have any—"

"Just—do it," The deputy cuts him off and for a moment he finds himself lost in that flickering fire burning deep in their eyes. Even on the verge of bleeding out in their enemies bed they still managed to be as stubborn as ever. Ready to grit their teeth and bear the pain wrought unto them. John couldn't help but smile; he'd almost forgotten how impressive their grit was. He quickly takes out the needle and sutures from the med kit. The deputy squeezes their eyes shut as he threads the needle, and he watches their body tense as the metal makes contact with their overheated skin.

He tries to be quick while also being as meticulous and careful as humanly possible, each time the needle pierces their skin the deputy writhes under his hands. Seeing their attempts to keep from screaming bloody murder is almost impressive, but he was also worried if they kept tensing their jaw like that it would snap. He didn't really have anything to offer as an alternative however so he just kept his head down and focused on closing up their wound.

Under any other circumstances he'd tell them they'd gotten what they asked for; if you set a house on fire while you're still inside what do expect to happen? But with the blood still gushing out of their wound and coating his hands he simply couldn't find it within him to be any kind of teasing or condescending. It was odd, the tension in his shoulders and hammering of his heart against his ribs. He couldn't quite understand where all this anxiety had come from, or why he was feeling it over the deputy who he'd done his fair share of damage to at the point. Well maybe not drawn any blood as of yet but still.

By the time he's done and cutting the thread the deputy is all but unconscious, eyes fluttering and chest heaving as they try to keep themself from succumbing to the exhaustion and pain anchoring them to John's bed. John watches their face for a moment and stands, wandering back to his ensuite almost robotically to dampen a hand towel. He pauses as he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his shirt and hands coated in the deputy's blood, hair out of place thanks to their less than graceful journey to his room and eyes shaken and pupils dilated.

What on earth was he doing? Hadn't he been begging for someone to put a bullet in the deputy's head and save him from their ruthless disruption? Maybe he had been, but maybe he had also been hoping they'd come to their senses and come to him under different circumstances. This was less than ideal but still presented an opportunity. Maybe he could work with this—If they could find it within themself not to succumb to death in his bed.

A groan from the bed steals his attention again and he briskly walks back into the bedroom. The deputy watches him weakly as he folds the hand towel and wipes the freshly stitched wound, being careful not to drag too much over the fresh sutures.

"Thank you,"

John's hand stutters for a moment, shocked by the words they just croaked out. They close their eyes and he's not sure if it's because they truly can't keep them open any more or their weak attempt to avoid holding his gaze. Perhaps the genuine expression of gratitude was embarrassing and they didn't want to see the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Either way, he goes back to wiping the blood and grime from their skin and bites back any comments he could make on their docile attitude. He'd rather enjoy the moment while it lasted instead of sour it in any way.

Bandaging their wound is tricky as they seemingly passed out as soon as they closed their eyes but John manages; tying it off and then throwing what he could of the quilt half underneath the deputy over them. It's then that it sinks in that his perfectly well kept bed is drenched in the deputy's blood as well as covered in dirt and who knows what else. He cringes knowing he'll have to throw a majority of it out, blood did not come out of silk easily enough to bother trying to save it. The quilt he would make an attempt on however; when it was free of the deputy's beaten and bruised body of course.

He stands there, looking down at the deputy as their breathing evens out and their expression relaxes. They almost look peaceful and even more vulnerable than they did bleeding out in his bushes. As he himself was coming down from the adrenaline he slowly mulls over what just happened, cleaning up the med kit and disposing of any rubbish he idled around his bed. What should he do now? He could easily have the deputy taken to his bunker, placed in one of the many rooms to await confession. Their current condition might make them more susceptible to talking.

He could alert Joseph, see what he wanted him to do. But John didn't really want to do that—Not yet. He wanted to prove he could break the deputy on his own, get them to see the truth without any intervention.

He runs his eyes over the deputy once more, the menace that had been haunting him day and night without stopping was finally right in front of him. And he didn't feel how he expected too. He felt relieved. Relieved to see they were alive, albeit very badly injured, they were still breathing and he was thankful for it. He couldn't really understand why, or why he was so ready to help them but what is done is done.

Slowly he walks closer to the bed and sits on the edge of it, tracing over every feature of the deputy's face with his eyes as if trying to find an answer in the curves of their jaw or slopes of their eyelids. He was coming up with nothing, nothing besides his heart picking up a new pattern to beat too. Completely unrelated to being so close to the usually distant and far away time bomb of a human being before him he was sure.

He reaches out and caresses their temple, dragging his thumb down to their cheekbone. Their skin was soft, still ablaze and covered in a layer of sweat and grime, but soft. The last time he'd been this close to them they were tied to a chair in his bunker, being prepared for confession for the first time. He could still remember the look in their eyes as they glowered up at him, gnashing their teeth like a wild animal as he regaled his tale of finding his path to salvation. He wanted to pull from them their own, learn what had broken them and help them put themself back together. They couldn't see it that way, calling him crazy and cursing him to hell at any chance they got.

The memory brings a small frown to John's face and he retracts his hand, instead running it through his hair as he stands and steps away. If he was lucky, the fact they came to him meant something. And maybe they would actually listen to him for once, with the option of fleeing no longer being viable in their current condition. Maybe…

The next morning John is alerted to the deputy waking by the sound of his bed creaking and their low pained groan that runs along the floorboards. He hurries to finish off what he was doing, tossing the dirty frying pan in the sink and putting the plate of what he would call a successful attempt at eggs benedict on a tray. He hums as he places a glass of juice beside it along with a fork and lastly a napkin.

He decided it best not to give them a knife for the time being, for his own safety.

It was a spur of the moment decision to make breakfast, John didn't usually cook for himself let alone others but he was feeling particularly chivalrous this morning. And with his surprise guest in the condition they were in he thought it only polite; and perhaps his show of kindness would make them more inclined to follow his lead. Plus showing another side of himself may help the deputy come around to him, there was a disconnevt he was sure was created solely from distance and unfamiliarity. If he could bridge that gap he would get through to them, he knew it.

Climbing up the stairs and heading to his room John carefully nudged the door open with his shoulder, walking in only to be immediately met with a gun pointed at him. His gun to be in fact. Lovely. He forgot to take it from the bedside drawer while they were passed out, good grief he was losing his touch. He'd blame it on the mess of a night, being thrust into playing doctor and lack of sleep had thrown him off his game is all. He would be more careful going forward.

"Good morning deputy, I hope you slept well." He greets, continuing inside as if they weren't pointing his own weapon at his head. If he played it calm and collected surely they'd understand he wasn't a threat to them right now, or at the very least stop pointing his own gun at him. They falter, eyeing him and the tray in his hand. Their brows knit together, clearly suspicious of him, but they lower the gun by a small margin and lean back against the pillows. Their body is still tense and index finger still hooked around the trigger so John keeps his movements slow and careful. The last thing he wanted was to get shot for trying to do a good deed.

"What are you doing?" They ask warily as he sets the tray down on the bedside table, wiping his hands on his jean clad thighs as he steps back. Giving them their space and allowing them to inspect the tray with a distrustful gaze. Like a wolf sniffing at bait in the forest.

"After a person loses that much blood they've usually got quite the appetite, am I wrong?" He asks, tone almost casual as he eyes their bloodied clothes and bruised skin. In the morning light their injuries were much more obvious, aside from the gash he'd stitched up the night before their skin was littered in cuts and the bruises painting their skin could almost mimic a very muddied galaxy. Not to mention the blood and grime covering them from head to toe—they'd most certainly seen better days.

"You… Didn't cook that, did you?" They ask after a moment of eyeing the plate of what John would personally describe a very delicious looking breakfast. The deputy lowers the gun to their lap and glances at him for confirmation.

"I hardly think you're in the position to be picky about your food deputy, it's not poisoned if that's what you're thinking. I wouldn't let you ruin my sheets just to kill you in the most unsatisfying way I could imagine," John scoffs, somewhat offended they would think he'd do something so plain. He was more creatuve than poison for fucks sake. They roll their eyes gently and push themself up more, tentatively reaching out and grabbing the fork on the tray. They very carefully take a bite, as if one wrong move would leave them choking and fighting for life. All the while they watch John from the corner of their eye as they slowly chew and eventually swallow; his expression remaining pleasant as he watches them.

It was funny in an odd way, they were behaving like a feral dog brought in from the wild and given food for the first time. He'd be best to keep that thought to himself though, if only to avoid having his gun pointed at him again. He didn't want any holes in his walls or himself for that matter.

"Well look at that, you survived. Not the most awful thing you've tasted, hm?" He asks after a moment and they eye him for a second in silence before nodding begrudgingly.

"No,"

"Good, eat all of it, you need it. I'm sure you'll regale me about how you ended up in my bushes half alive and bleeding out when you're feeling better," He hums, flicking his hand in the air in a dismissive motion as he turns to look out the window.

"I feel fine now," They mutter and John huffs out a short laugh. He highly doubted that.

"Oh is that so? Well by all means you're free to leave, deputy, don't let me stop you," He smiles at them over his shoulder, waving towards the door he came through as they glare at him.

"Really, you'd just let me leave? Just like that?" They ask, distrust clear in their voice.

"Well you may find my chosen a bit hard to walk through outside but I won't alert any of them if you really think you can successfully sneak out in your condition," John smirks, raising a brow as they glance past him to the window. Honestly he'd be interested to see if they could, they'd pulled off seemingly impossible tasks before with much greater risks and disadvantages involved.

"They don't know I'm here?" They ask incredulously, voice hushed now as if they were worried about being overheard. John almost feels embarrassed for a moment, it was definitely a confusing choice not to let his family's followers know he had the catalyst of the apocalypse in his bed especially when they posed a very real threat to John's life. He'd thought about all of that, he knew there was a chance this could go south and all his hopes were for naught. But he still decides to risk it. There was no success without risks after all.

"No and I assume no one else does either?" He muses, watching as their face morphs through multiple emotions before settling on unease. They had just inadvertently trapped themself with their enemy and despite John's good intentions they weren't privy to his inner monologue and regret danced in their eyes as clear as day.

"This is quite the predicament isn't it deputy? What compelled you to come to my doorstep of all places I wonder," He can't help but taunt, turning back to face them and wandering to the end of the bed with a small smirk on his face.

"I wasn't really thinking straight, blood loss will do that to you," They mutter bitterly, glaring down at the food he'd given them as their shoulders sag slightly. Not from defeat but perhaps a resignation to their current situation. John decides not to poke them any longer, the stress and fatigue woven into their features causing a heavy weight to wash over his chest. He was trying to be civil and amicable and failing miserably. They could go back to their hostile back and forth quipping when they felt better.

"So i've heard—I'll leave you to your breakfast deputy," He utters quickly, ducking his head as he swivels on his heel and makes his way to the door. He can feel their stare burning into the back of his skull like a magnifying glass zoning in on an ant. That was good, in a way, their usual intensity was back which meant they were already much better off than they were last night. Hopefully the food would help and after that he could offer them the antibiotics he'd dug out of his medicine cabinet earlier that morning.

When he returns about ten minutes later the deputy is laying back against the pillows, cradling their stomach with their eyes squeezed shut. John makes sure they hear him coming and their eyes fly open and zero in on him as he approaches. He holds out a glass of water and the antibiotics as they point his gun at his chest, eyes guarded as they frown gently.

"I'll need to move you to another room for a moment, you did make a mess of my bed and I'll need to change it if I plan on sleeping in it anytime soon," He informs them as they push themself up, caustiously sitting on the edge of the bed and taking pills hesitantly, other hand still protective clinging to the gun.

"You're… Letting me stay?"

"Letting is one word for it," John hums, tilting his head to the side as they pop the pills in their mouth and take a sip of the water after taking the glass from him. He was surprised they didn't ask what he was giving them, seeing as they were so on guard.

"Keeping me captive then?" They prod further, eyes glancing up at him and John feels himself get winded for a moment. The food had obviously helped as that fire was starting to dance in their captivating eyes again, the flames cutting through him as they watched him with caution.

"Like I said, you're free to leave as soon as you can do so on your own two feet," John turns his gaze to the empty plate as he speaks, anything to avoid being swallowed by their inferno. Had their eyes always been that distracting?

"Why?"

The question hangs in the air and John furrows his brows in confusion.

"Why what?"

The deputy scoffs and leans back, holding their arms out and nearly spilling the water in their hand.

"You've been hunting me down for months, this is like your big opportunity to squeeze a confession out of me isn't it?" They ask, brows raised incredulously. John mulls over their words for only a second, trying not to let his rush of eagerness show as he nods down at them.

"If you wish to confess I am all ears deputy but, you came to me in your time of need. You could have gone to any of those little heretics you run around with but you came to me; call it what you want but I believe this is a step in a new direction for us," He smiles, placing a hand on his chest as he speaks. He reaches out and places a hesitant hand on their shoulder, their body goes rigid at the touch and they glance from his tattooed hand to his face. But they don't try to move it.

Once again their face twists through different emotions, settling on frustration as they shake their head and heave out a sigh.

"What does that even mean?" They ask, voice strained and tired as they raise a hand to grab his wrist. Their fingers wrapping around him sends jolts of electricity up his arm but he tries to ignore it, clearing his throat and tightening his grip on their ragged shirt.

"It means you will give me your confessions willingly, in time, and until then I will be patient and I will give you your time," John elaborates earnestly, squeezing their shoulder and offering another smile; this one much more giddy. He was so sure he was right, he could feel it deep within him. Just them being here was proof enough for him that they were edging closer to what he was saying. They would come around and see what he'd been trying to tell them, he knew they would. He just had to wait.

The deputy watches his assured expression, takes in his words slowly and removes his hand from their shoulder much to his disappointment.

"You're gonna be waiting a long time," They mutter, not bitterly, not even begrudgingly. They sound unsure, hesitant, and it only makes that spark of hope in his chest grow.

"Then so be it, but I have faith in you deputy; this is proof you have the ability to come around," John retracts his hand, missing the feeling of their skin against his immediately as he drops his hand to his side.

"Whatever makes you happy John—let's just get this over with," They sigh and John takes the glass from their hand. He places it on the bedside table before holding a hand out to them, they look at it like it's an iron rod ready to brand them, but they take it all the same. He eases them up onto their feet, his other hand resting on their abdomen to steady them. He notices they had left the gun on the bed, he chooses not to comment on it lest they reach for it and bring it with them.

John wraps his arm around their waist, just like he did last night; except this time they're fully conscious and not searing hot to the touch. They're skin is still warm and as their arm slings over his shoulder he can now fully appreciate how soft their skin feels against his. Their aroma leaves something to be desired, dried blood and sweat was never a good combination. He'd think about running them a bath once he was done, they were still weak but he knew they'd refuse if he suggested helping them bathe. A pity, he muses for only a moment, side eyeing the deputy's face as they slowly shuffle out the door.

The deputy cringes as the sun blinds the both of them, and they duck further into John's side as they bow their head to hide from the offensive light. The contact sends shivers up John's spine but once again he tightens his jaw and tries to ignore it. He slowly guides them to the guest bedroom, he sees them glance down at the yard and look back at him with confusion knitted into their expression and he chuckles gently.

"I sent them away, only for an hour. Just enough time to clean up and get you comfortable," He explains easily, opening the door and leading them inside. It was smaller than his room, with a single bed, two bedside tables and a small round table and chair tucked away under the far window. The deputy doesn't comment on what he said, they just nod and let him lead them to the table and chair tucked away in the corner. He helps them into the chair, they grunt with the effort and wrap a protective arm around their stomach as they curl in on themself.

John rests a comforting hand on their back, rubbing gently despite the warning sirens in his head telling him not to be so bold and familiar. They do nothing to stop him so he keeps his hand there. He almost doesn't want to leave, seeing them in such a pitiful state had a foreign feeling flooding his chest and the thought of leaving them made him feel ill. But he also needed somewhere to sleep and the longer he let the blood soak his bed the longer it would take to clean.

The mattress was going to be a nightmare he realises, perhaps he could get a chosen to clean it. He's sure he could come up with a believable enough story about the blood, one that didn't involve the deputy hunched over in front of him right now.

"I'll be right back, feel free to read any of those books if you get bored," John mutters quietly, motioning lazily to the bookshelf by the table before letting his hand fall from their back.

"Right."

They all but cough the word out, not looking up at him as they glance toward the books. Admittedly they were mostly law books but there were a few others thrown in there, surely something could appease them. If they read, he wondered if they actually liked books. What kind of books did they enjoy if they did, did they prefer fiction? What was their favourite book? Author? John leaves the room with a whirlwind of pointless questions filling his mind, in due time maybe he'd be able to ask them. Maybe they'd answer.

John walks back to his room and frowns at the sight of his bed. Without the deputy there he could see the full extent of the damage, a hauntingly large blood stain clung to the material and he shuddered to think what state the mattress beneath it was in. He looked down at his watch, sighing and rolling up his sleeves. It takes him a few trips to get all the bedding to the laundry and a few times he almost trips down the stairs but he manages to get the bed stripped. And lo and behold, the mattress looks like a murder scene.

He does his best to scrub the top layer of blood off of the material before dousing it in disinfectant and laundry detergent—surely that would do something? It would be enough for now before he decided on what poor soul was going to clean this for him. He might need a new mattress, not that it would be easy to find a queen sized mattress laying around at the moment. He runs a raw hand through his hair, he'd worry about that later, right now he had a guest waiting for him in the room over.

He steps out onto the balcony, breathing in the fresh air deeply and allowing it to wash out the strong smell of chemicals. He stands outside his door for a moment, running his blue eyes along the landscape and taking in the mountains in the distance. He wondered if the deputy ever stopped to appreciate the scenery, with how much they ran around the county he could only imagine they had to stop every now and then to at least catch their breath.

He turns and steps toward the guest bedroom door, twisting the knob and nudging the door open slowly. The deputy's eyes are on him immediately and John smiles at the sight of an open book in front of them on the small table.

"You took your time," They say quietly after a moment of the both of them staring off silently, turning their gaze back to the book. John scoffs gently and steps further into the room, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe.

"Well deputy, I don't know if you know this but you bleed quite a lot and blood stains are not that easy to remove," He says, watching as the deputy shoots him an unimpressed look.

"Oh I'm so sorry, I'll try to bleed less next time." They say, the sarcasm dripping from their words an absolute delight to hear and John can't help but grin.

"That would be greatly appreciated thank you," He teases, grin widening as they roll their eyes at him. It felt so—friendly—normal. It felt good. Talking with them like this, like they were friends and not enemies—it felt right. Like it's how they were meant to be. A small ache echoes in the hollow of John's chest as he remembers that's not what they were, not yet at least.

"Do you have a shower in that fancy ensuite of yours?" The deputy pulls him away from the nagging thought and he nods in response to their questioning gaze.

"I do but I believe a bath would be better suited considering…" John trails off, waving his hand in a sweeping motion over the deputy's form, still very battered and bruised. And very dirty.

"I think i'll manage," They press their lips into a firm line as they decline his suggestion and he shrugs gently.

"Alright deputy have it your way, if you need my help—"

"I won't."

Their words are firm. They sting a bit and John has to swallow the spark of annoyance it causes. It's not like he was helping them already or anything, no, patching them up, letting them sleep in his bed and making them breakfast couldn't possibly count as that. He bites his tongue, something he seemed to be doing quite a lot. He'd have to tread carefully lest all his unsaid comments accumulated and burst out in a fit of frustration. Not that his dear deputy was going to make that an easy task.

It would be worth it, just a bit longer, he could do it.

"Then I suppose you can hobble to the ensuite yourself hm?"

He could be a small bit petty as compensation, it was only fair.

The look of irritation that flashes across the deputy's face is rewarding to say the least. But then they're standing, holding themself up on the table and staring him down with that steely determination in their eyes. John watches as they stagger towards him, their legs almost giving out halfway across the floor and face twisted into a look of pain as they pass the bed.

Forever impressing him with their mere grit they stop in front of him, breath ragged from the effort of dragging their body across the room. John drags his gaze from their booted feet to their face and he smiles, reaching behind him and pulling the door open for them.

"You are something else deputy," He muses, stepping out and holding the door open for them. They grip the doorframe and stagger past him, grunting with the effort. They steady themself on the railing of the balcony and John glides to his door, swinging it open and keeping his eyes trained on the deputy as they hobble in his direction. It was cute, in a weird way, like watching a fawn take its first steps. A very angry, stubborn fawn glaring at him like he was forcing them to walk on their own. He would help but they would have to ask first. Nicely.

They make it into his room and pause by the doorway as their leg almost gives out again. This time John catches them by the elbow, they lean into his side as he guides them back up and despite himself he wraps one arm around their waist again. He'd love the satisfaction of having them ask for his help but he knows that won't happen and they'll just end up standing in the doorway all day. They don't utter a single word as he helps them the rest of the way to the ensuite. He could rub in the fact they do need his help but then they would no doubt become twice as difficult and he'd rather avoid that.

Plus, it was much sweeter to bask in their semi-defeated silence.

John lets them go and they lean against the sink, their scrutinising gaze running along the tiled walls before landing on him through the mirror.

"Think I got from here," The mutter, eyes fluttering down to the sink. John nods but doesn't move, eyes transfixed on the way their eyelashes fan over the top of their frike covered cheeks. They look criminally soft, even from a distance. The deputy glances back up and he straightens up abruptly, inhaling sharply and turning with another small nod.

"Alright—Well if you need anything i'll be right outside,"

"Comforting,"

John shuts the door behind him as he leaves, rolling his eyes and letting his hand fall to his side. It would be comforting if they had more faith in him. He wasn't an animal, he wasn't going to attack them while they were already down. Not only would it not be rewarding it would go against all the work he'd done trying to get them to break their icy walls. He hears shuffling behind the wooden door, no doubt the deputy undressing and he feels a mismatch of feelings stir within him at the thought. His enemy was getting undressed in his bathroom and was about to use his shower.

A stray thought of them falling and needing him to rush in and help ran across his mind and he swatted away as quickly as it came.

He listens to the sound of the running water with a frown etched onto his face. He runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he stands there lost in thought, the project members and his chosen would be back in thirty or so minutes and he had until then to make up his mind about what he was really doing here.

While the deputy had done everything in their power thus far to blow his plans up into smoke they did provide a challenge he hadn't faced before. A challenge he wanted to win. He was sure he could get away with having them here for a week without any problems, if they decided to stay that long anyway. And if anything it would be beneficial to the project, they were the main cause of disruption thus far and having them out of the picture would make room for repairs and getting back on track.

If anyone found out the deputy was here, he could explain it that way and he was sure no one would question him. He could also take this time to try and ease them into their atonement, maybe having a moment of rest would let them see some reason. It would probably be easier to hold conversation now that they couldn't really run away or shut off their radio and ignore him.

Yes. Alright. There it was then, he'd made up his mind.

"John,"

He jumps at the deputy's voice through the door. Fuck, he hadn't honestly stood their that long had he? He hadn't gotten lost in his thoughts like this for a long time. He hears them repeat his name again and for a moment he considers staying silent just so he can hear it roll off their tongue one more time—but he decides against it.

"Yes deputy?" He clears his throat and answers as evenly as he can.

"Kinda gonna need some clothes,"

Ah right. Of all the things to forget.

"Right, One moment," He walks over to his dresser, picking out a shirt and sweatpants and placing them on the edge of the bed. He steps back, running his hands down his jeans as he glances at the bathroom door.

"I'll leave them here on the edge of the bed, unless you'd like some help?" He calls through the door, tacking on the suggestion as an innocent after thought. He had no ulterior motives in mind whatsoever, he was just being helpful. In their state they might struggle to change, it would be practical to have him assist.

"I'll pass, thanks," The deputy replies dryly and John chuckles, he expected nothing less.

"Well I'll be right outside if you change your mind." He calls out, making his way out the door and closing it loud enough so the deputy could hear it.

He pauses outside the door and then takes a seat on one of the chairs by the window, clasping his hands together and running his thumb over his knuckle. Faintly he hears the ensuite door open and the deputy stagger out. A decade ago he might have turned and snuck a peek through the tinted glass, but he hadn't been that man in a long time and he kept his gaze on the road and trees in front of him. The windows were tinted anyway, he wouldn't see more than a hunched over, struggling blob micmiking a vague human shape.

Minutes tick by and John listens to the sound of the deputy struggling, it was amusing to say the least. Their annoyed grunts and curses barely make it through the thick wooden walls and to his ears. When the ruckus stops he stands, flipping his wrist over and checking the time with mild disinterest. A small part of him considered making a call and telling his chosen to stay gone for the rest of the day, but then the deputy might very well sneak out and run off into the wilderness once again. Despite their hesitancy beforehand John wasn't fully confident in their ability to stay put, they were stubborn and if he poked and prodded just an inch too far they'd crawl out of his ranch and right into a ditch.

And if that happened who would be to blame? Themself obviously—but others would no doubt put the blame on John. Joseph wouldn't be happy that he was certain of. The thought makes an unpleasant feeling curl around John's throat and he rubs at it as if to alleviate the phantom feeling. He'd just have to make sure the deputy was fully healed before they left, that way no one could point the finger in his direction if they succumbed to deaths embrace.

"Are you still out there?"

At the deputy's question John steps back to the door. His hand hovers over the doorknob and he turns it slowly, allowing the deputy time to react before he pulls it open and steps inside. They sat on the edge of the bed, glaring at him and adorning his clothes. He feels a lump in his throat at the sight, the fabric that usually draped over his skin on slow Saturdays now fell over theirs—it looked so natural. Like they were meant to wear his clothes, sit in his bed, watch him with that calculating glare.

"So now what?" They snap him back to reality and he rips his gaze back up to their eyes, they looked much livelier after the shower. Much more themselves now all the grime and blood was gone.

"Hm? Well rest is about the only thing you can do, in this state." He muses with the smallest shrug of his left shoulder.

"For how long?" The gawk, shoulders tense as they straighten their back.

"Well given the state of your wound I'd say a few days—"

"Days? Here? With you?" The deputy almost barks and John purses his lips into a straight line. He tries not to take offence, even though the horror on their face was anything but flattering. They could show a tad more appreciation for his willingness to let them stay, after everything they'd done and all he'd selflessly forgiven. He was being more than accommodating.

"Yes, with me, is that so terrible? I think you'll find when you're not raging your warpath and fighting me I'm quite pleasant company." He smiles, as if to convince them of his words. They give him a blank stare in return and it takes everything in John not to scowl.

"Right, I'll believe that when I see it."

A challenge.

Simple, easy. John had wonderful table manners and his conversational prowess was unrivalled, as long as his companion was willing to be cooperative.

"Trust me, by the time you're back on your feet you'll barely want to leave. I doubt Miss Fairgrave offers breakfast in bed after all." John hums, clapping his hands together and tilting his head as the deputy rolls their eyes and turns away from him. They drag their eyes over the expanse of his room and for a moment John does the same, checking the state of it and assuring himself it was more than presentable. Not a thing out of place after the thorough clean of the bed.

"Nah, but she's got whiskey." The Deputy shoots back, turning with a smug smile sneaking onto their face. It's quite a sight, one that gives John another pause. If he wasn't mistaken, that was the first time he'd seen the deputy smile.

"No whiskey, i'm afraid, but I do have scotch or wine." At his words the deputy's eyebrows shoot up almost comically.

"I thought you weren't allowed to drink?" They inquire, tone puzzled as they look at him with curious eyes.

"It's solely for special occasions." John said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Special occasions or lonely nights where he stayed up too long, a small indulgence no one needed to know about.

"And this is a special occasion?"

"Yes. Very." If only they knew. This was his chance. Both of their chances to prove something to Joseph, to get that golden ticket into Eden. A few days were more than enough for John to get them to understand what he'd been trying to tell them, if he gave them a behind the scenes view of what he did for the project they'd understand how he could help them. He was sure of it.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell me what happened over a glass?" John suggests, stepping forward and noting how the deputy didn't recoil or glare at him as he approached. Their gaze shifts to the floor and then to his now outstretched hand, hope bubbles along John's finger tips as he watches them like a hawk watching it's prey. Finally, after a moment of hesitation they take his hand. Their hand is warm, soft from the shower and their skin glides against his hypnotically.

He tries to ignore the fire set by their touch and helps them to their feet once more. The time much slower as he slides his arm around their waist and taking his time to guide them to the door. He wanted to savour the feeling dancing through him, the glee clouding his thoughts. This was progress. This was good.

#Far Cry 5 #john seed x gender neutral!reader #john seed x reader #far cry 5 x reader #GN!Reader Tag #Oneshot Tag #Anon Tag #this is longer than I meant for it to be and it's still not done sorry anon lmao #working on part 2 idk when it will see the light of day tho! trying to mix readers pov into it since this was entirely john pov #I really likethow this part turned out anyway so I hope other people do too <3

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seriowan · 1 year

Note

please can you write a fic where tech takes dear reader bird watching (or...like...whatever the star wars equivalent of that is) i crave wholesome fluffy goodness after.........THAT

{ doves - tech x gn!reader } · warnings: none, just fluff and suggestive implications at the end · word count: 981 · a/n: SOFTNESS. FLUFF. DELUSION. just for you and your comfort ♡ love u moonie!! · radio: the sun is in your eyes, jacob collier

Sunlight kisses his face like golden fingers against his skin. There isn’t a cloud that can overshadow the peace in his eyes. Nothing but contentment while he watches the skies. With a hand on his chest and the other on his stomach, he lies in a rare bed of ease.

Relaxed by the sun’s warmth, the cool winds, and the gentle tickle of grass against his legs, Tech sighs gently through his nose.

“Have you drawn your birds yet, mesh’la?”

It’s a serious question, but the way he says it in the faintest jesting tone has your cheeks flushing red.

You look down at the empty pages in your sketchbook, clearing your throat.

“No,” you reply, setting your pencil down against the spine before closing the journal. “And I don’t think I’ll be seeing any of those doves. It might be too late in the day.”

The slight disappointment in your voice causes Tech to sit up, brows pinched in concern. “Perhaps you will have better luck tomorrow if we leave earlier in the morning. The rainbow doves leave their nests near dusk or dawn and it is midday.”

You shift, sitting crisscrossed on the blanket, and glance up at the sun with closed eyes. Its warmth beats against your face, gentle and comforting. After a moment, you sigh. “Maybe it’s best if we just move on. If the doves won’t come out on the sunniest day in the week, I’ll doubt I’ll get lucky tomorrow.”

“Mesh’la.”

You look at him, furrowing your brows when you notice him staring behind you. Slowly, you turn, eyes widening at the sight coming from the colorful trees in the distance.

Rainbow feathered birds come fluttering out from the shelter of the trees, the faintest sound of dove song greeting your ears like a hello. The sight of multicolored birds soaring into the sky is so beautiful that you nearly forget why you’re birdwatching in the first place. Quickly, you grab your sketchbook and begin to draw the scene, acutely aware of the blanket’s rustle.

Tech’s hands snake around your hips, hauling you in the space between his legs. He hooks his arms around your waist, chin settling on your shoulder as he watches you sketch. You feel the beat of his heart against your back, causing you to smile at the welcomed distraction.

“You’re hovering,” you murmur in a teasing tone.

He hums, adjusting his goggles. “I’m observing. Your artistic skill is fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” You giggle, brushing eraser shavings off of the paper. “Thank you. I love being fascinating.”

“You’re more than fascinating, mesh’la,” he adds, tightening his arms around your waist. “You are passionate and kind and I find your adoration of birds to be endearing.”

You smile, cheeks flushing red with a blush. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

With a stroke of your pencil, you finish the sketch and hold it up. With the birds flying across the sky, it looks as if you took a picture of the moment and put it on paper. “On this planet, the doves mate for life. They usually find their partners five to seven months after leaving the nest to live on their own and once they mate, they stayed paired for life.” You turn to look at him, catching the faintest trace of adoration in his eyes. Shy words leave your lips ever so slowly. “Will you be my dove?”

“Your dove,” he echoes in amusement. The look makes you giggle while you lean back against him, allowing him to take the sketchbook out of your hands. Tech eyes your drawing with a gentle gaze, lip twitching up in a small smile at the sight of your work.

“I would love to be your dove, cyare,” he says sincerely, gently thumbing the page. “My only request is that you draw me onto one of these pages among the other birds.”

At this, you move off of his lap and sit in front of him, eagerly snatching the book out of his hands. Pencil in hand, you face him and give him a cheeky grin. “Get comfortable, dove. This’ll take a while.”

“You’re being awfully eager,” he noted, smiling. “You’ve thought of this before, haven’t you?”

“Drawing you?” You chuckle shyly. “Maybe. I’ve just never mustered the courage to ask.”

“Well,” he grunts, lying down on his back to face the sky. After adjusting his goggles, he places his hands on his chest and looks at you, arching a brow. “Now you do not need to ask.”

You watch him with eyes full of love as he relaxes against the blanket. The sun’s golden hands gently cradle his cheeks until they turn pink, his eyes fluttering shut at the light. The wind combs through his curls, ruffling them up as his chest rises and falls with a deep breath.

“Hey, Tech?”

“Yes, dove.”

You lean over to curl a stray hair around your finger. It falls against his forehead and you smile at how cute he looks. With a lean, you press a gentle kiss to his lips and smile when he returns it without hesitation. When you pull away, he gives you a pleasant but questioning gaze.

“You’re… you’re beautiful.”

“Ah,” He clears his throat, shyly looking away. The only sign that gives his true feelings away is the flush of his cheeks, now red. “Th-thank you, cyare.”

“Always,” you murmur, brushing the curl away before sitting back. “Now, sit still. I need to get every detail.”

“I’m still.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“That is not something I can control.”

“Then go to sleep.”

“If I could, I would attempt to-”

“I can tire you out.”

Your suggestive comment causes him to turn his head swiftly, lips slowly curling up into a small smile. “Finish your drawing and if we have time-”

“Alright, alright! I’m going as fast as I can-!”

taglist? taglist.

@discarded-beskar @lucyysthings @dangraccoon @burningfieldof-clover @cyarinka @zaddymaul @echos-girlfriend @ladykatakuri @sol-oya-6116 @corona-one @eloquentmoon @maulslittlemeowmeow @misogirl828 @theclonesdeservebetter @frietiemeloen @torchbearerkyle @witchklng @ivela3 @kaminocasey @sunflowerrex @nekotaetae @literallydontlook @agenteliix @starqueensthings @fives-lover @sunshinesdaydream

@chicknstripz @sskim-milkk @queenquazar @jedimastersovi @mo-i-ra @boomtowngirl @nahoney22 @techs-ass @babygirlrex0504 @questforgalas @littlebluebatbrat @crosshairs-wife @jambolska-grozdova @get-wr3ckered @arctrooper69 @thetiredtoad @edlix @sinfulsalutations @aconstructofamind

#tech x reader #tech x reader fluff #tech fluff #tech #the bad batch tech #the bad batch #bad batch tech #tech bad batch #tbb spoilers #< just to be safe

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laracrofted · 1 year

Text

baby, i'm high octane (i)

synopsis: nora rogers has made a name for herself in the documentary world, but lately, she's been running on empty. and then, with impeccable timing, her aunt charlie calls about an eight-week project in san diego: a feature on naval aviation's newest and most elite squadron. she accepts.

pairings: jake seresin x nora rogers (oc), minor bradley bradshaw x nora rogers (oc)

warnings: 18+, minors dni, explicit language, existential dread, alcohol consumption, slutty (affectionate) rooster, eventual smut in later chapters. set after the movie, so spoilers!

note: i have been working on this for many, many months, and every time i went back to edit it, it gained another 500 words, so i need to put it out in the world for my own sake. hope you enjoy!

read on AO3 | series post | next chapter

tagging: @theharddeck as usual, some mutuals (@anniesocsandgeneralstore @roleycoleyland), plus some folks who were nice about the halloween fic (@peakyrogers @t-nd-rfoot @double-j) let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!

[ OPENING CRAWL ]

On March 3, 1969, the UNITED STATES NAVY established an elite school for the top one percent of its pilots. Its purpose was to teach the LOST ART OF AERIAL COMBAT and to ensure that the handful of men (and now women) who graduated were the BEST FIGHTER PILOTS IN THE WORLD. They succeeded.

The Navy calls it Fighter Weapons School. You might know it better as TOP GUN.

The DAGGER SQUADRON is Naval Aviation’s newest and most elite squadron, exclusively made up of patch wearers. Here are their stories…

[ CUE MUSIC AND FADE TO BLACK ]

Back in California for less than 24 hours, and Nora already longs for the cobblestone streets and late night espressos and dear god, the accents of the past six months.

She is used to being on the move. Living out of an expertly packed suitcase, down to a science now. Never quite settling down.

Any documentary filmmaker worth their salt learns early to stay light on their feet, ready at a moment’s notice to get the call that takes them halfway around the globe and brings them the quote, unquote next great story.

This…was a different sort of call.

“You want me to go to San Diego? Why?”

It was well past midnight in France, which made it more or less dinner time on the other side of the Atlantic. For Charlie Blackwood, a perfectly acceptable time to ring her favorite niece, but Nora had to take the call out on the small balcony that was attached to her hotel room.

Documentaries weren’t the same as Hollywood films with their wider box office appeal and George Clooney-type stars. Funding was measly in comparison, so Nora bunked with one of the producers for the Paris leg. She and Jenna had worked together before a couple years back, and while Nora knew her to be sugar sweet from dawn to dusk, the 30-year-old woman did not fuck around with her skincare routine and her eight hours.

At this time of night on a non-weekend, Paris didn’t have much street noise, but Nora was still certain Charlie’s connection must’ve cut out somewhere in the middle of her sentence. Or maybe Nora had heard her wrong.

International calls could be so fickle sometimes. Right?

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking if I want to leave Paris to go to San Diego…” Nora repeated slowly, leaving ample breathing room between each word, plenty of time for Charlie to cut in and correct her, “and meet with your ex-boyfriend about some Naval feature? We don’t even like him.”

“You can call him Maverick,” Charlie replied evenly, “Everybody else does.”

Nora pulled a face. “I’ll call him Pete. How’s that?”

“He’ll definitely ask you to call him Maverick.”

“And I’ll still call him Pete.”

Charlie’s answering sigh was loud in her ear, even through the static, and Nora smiled down at her shoes. She took a careful step around the bite-sized table, stacked precariously full with her laptop, camera, and notepad, and planted her elbows on the railing. Metal creaked gently under her weight.

“Pete… will be fine,” Charlie relented, “and really, Pete is fine in my book. We’re just… two old acquaintances who wanted different things and were never going to work out in the long term. Besides, from what I hear, Penny Benjamin is his new sweetheart now. Well, new old sweetheart.”

She didn’t know who Penny Benjamin was. Must be a real saint to put up with him.

“Good. He won’t be knocking on your door the next time the Navy sends him to Washington to accept some medal then, right?”

Nora was seventeen the last time Pete Mitchell came knocking on Charlie Blackwood’s door; around eighteen months after Nora’s mom died, making Charlie her legal guardian. He happened to be in town for some medal or some ceremony or some medal at some ceremony.

He left in the dead of night, out the window, and Charlie spent the next two weeks muttering curses about hotshot pilots and their charismatic bullshit.

“That was almost twelve years ago, Nora,” Charlie chided, much less fun Aunt Charlie and much more diplomatic Charlotte Blackwood, employed by the Pentagon in that moment. Nora rolled her eyes.

“And anyway,” Charlie continued, not letting her get another word in, “Maverick isn’t the main contact. You’d only meet with him because All Hands…” A Naval magazine, print and digital, funding the project, as Charlie had explained in her initial one long sentence explanation before Nora had been distracted by the who and the where. “…wants to focus on his team. Everything is already approved. All you, my love, would need to do is get the golden seal from Cyclone to head it up. He’s the Air Boss over there.”

“Now Cyclone is a name that I don’t know,” Nora said, then swiped out of the call to look up the definition of Air Boss. “Doesn’t sound like a name made up by a 13-year-old boy who plays too much Call of Duty. He a Captain too?”

“Vice Admiral. You can meet him on your first day,” and Nora’s lips parted in protest, to say that was a little presumptuous, given she hadn’t agreed to anything and was still half a world away working on something else. Charlie cut her off, right at the knees: “Don’t start with me. Your Paris job wraps in what… four, five days?

Three, but Nora didn’t correct her.

“Normally, by now, I would be getting half a dozen calls every week from you, gushing about what you’ve got going on next; whatever place you’ll be jetting off to this time. This is the first time I’ve talked to you in at least two weeks,” Guilt pinged at her chest, along with a large helping of existential dread. “Have you even signed on to anything new?”

No. And Nora was doing jack shit to change that.

Her producer was already signed on for a film that would start pre-production ten weeks from now. It was a big one, lots of people to bring on board, and Jenna – literal angel in human form Jenna offered to pass Nora’s name along for consideration.

Nora still hadn’t given an answer.

She worried the edge of her lip but said nothing, and Charlie must’ve taken that as encouragement enough to continue on. “It’ll be a short project. Gives you enough time to find something new that excites you. Just… go to North Island and talk to Cyclone. You need a break.”

Late May breezed across her cheeks, smelling of the sweet pink and white cherry blossoms in bloom at a nearby park. She’d passed it nearly every day, afraid that the end of May would come and Nora wouldn’t ever see them in full bloom before having to leave. They bloomed two weeks ago, almost overnight, and Nora knew that June loomed and with it, the end of another project.

All that remained was uncertainty.

She did need a break, though Nora wasn’t sure that anyone other than her aunt and herself would consider working on another documentary to be a break. She couldn’t remember the last time Charlie had even taken a sick day. They were born and bred workaholics the both of them, and usually, Nora thrived on that.

But lately, Nora was so tired.

Another project could be good for me, Nora thought. Fewer eyes and expectations, without the pressure of acclaim and awards and future grants and questions of what are you doing next tightening like a noose around her neck. It’d be a one and done. She could do that.

“Alright,” Nora said, feeling a little lighter from letting the words loose. That was reassuring, at least. “Start from the beginning. How’d you find out about it? Who are the subjects? What’s the goal?”

Smile audible in her voice, Charlie started again, “Here is what I know…”

They wrapped mid-week with the usual fanfare, and the next day, Nora was packed and on a plane back home to Southern California.

Nora could already tell the Vice Admiral was ready to have the screening process over and done with. He barely asked her any questions before shaking her hand and foisting her onto Admiral Bates who ran her through the rules and regulations for getting onto the base and her accommodations.

Since Nora was freelancing for a Naval magazine, the United States government would be putting her up for the duration of the project. God bless America. She did not want to find a last minute hotel room in San Diego in June.

After obtaining a temporary ID card and a neat stack of manilla folders, probably filled with generously redacted background and service records, Nora is promptly deposited in the beachside parking lot of a steel-blue apartment building, faded from sun and brine, with a whole night ahead.

Showering off the plane eats up a few minutes, as does replying to the check-in email that the magazine contact sent over this afternoon. They would talk more over the weekend and into next week. It was difficult to connect with the time difference, so Charlie had guided the initial communication.

Calling Charlie drains another half hour, while Nora hums in all the right places and fights to keep her eyes open, chiming in with the occasional observation about North Island and tidbit about the conversation with Cyclone and Warlock.

“What’d you think of Cyclone?”

She stares at the blank wall across from the bed – all that wide open space and not an art print in sight – and thinks back.

Cyclone leveled an impassive stare at her over the folder that held her portfolio – apparently faxed over by Charlie before Nora had even agreed to come – and said, “This is an unusual circumstance. Most of the nepotism hires that come across my desk are aiming higher than an eight week contractor.”

She’d bitten her cheek to hold back a laugh, and Admiral Bates let out a suspiciously timed cough, hiding his mouth behind a balled fist.

“He was kind of hot,” Nora admits, then has to hold the phone away from her ear to not be deafened by Charlie’s laughter. “What? Just because I lack a father figure, I’m not allowed to appreciate an older man every now and then?”

“Sure, but I think I’ll draw the line at Maverick.”

Nora does her best projectile vomit noise, and Charlie laughs so hard that Mr. Charlotte Blackwood – as Nora affectionately likes to call Charlie’s husband John, who always accepted it with a congenial smile that only made her like him more – shouts from another room, wanting to know what exactly is so hilarious.

She won’t see Pete Mitchell until Monday, and after promising to tell him that Charlie says hello and sends her best to him and this Penny Benjamin woman, Nora hangs up the phone.

It’s barely 8 PM, and Nora wants nothing more than to crawl under the covers and leech the travel from her bones, but the San Diego sun is stubborn and high on the horizon. She knows her own body well enough to know that an 8 PM bedtime makes for a 3 AM bout of insomnia.

Boredom finds Nora perched on a cushioned barstool, a fresh t-shirt on her torso and a new coat of red lipstick on her lips, in the crowded Hard Deck bar. Sipping on an Old Fashioned, chatting with none other than Penny Benjamin.

“Charlie Blackwood,” Penny Benjamin repeats, a surprised but amiable smile on her face. A brown leather jacket sits over her slender shoulders, the same warm shade as her hair, and Nora spots a United States Navy patch on the sleeve. “God, I haven’t seen Charlie in… 30 years now. She may have told you, but I met her once or twice at Top Gun, back before my old man, the great Admiral Benjamin, retired. How’s she doing?”

“She’s good,” Nora offers, adding as an afterthought, just in case Penny Benjamin was the jealous type. “Married now.”

Penny sends her a sidelong look, narrow-eyed, that must make the fresh-faced Top Gun hopefuls cower in their regulation boots. Behind the glass, Nora’s lips curve into an amused smirk.

Things must be going well. Good for them.

Nora swirls the amber liquid, fishing out an extra cherry from the bottom and popping it into her mouth. “She sends her well wishes. She’d probably want me to give you a hug or something, but I think I’d fall on my ass trying to lean over the counter. Consider yourself lucky.”

“You can give my hug to Pete, but only if I’m there to witness.”

“Distinguished Captain Mitchell isn’t much of a hugger? I’m shocked.”

“Are you kidding?” Penny fills another pint glass for a patron a few barstools down, sliding it down the counter and looking back at Nora with an amused twinkle. “He’ll turn into a robot. He won’t know how to react. Make sure to ask one of the boys to record it for you so I can blackmail him with it forever.”

Imagining it, Nora is still smiling when Penny’s name calls her to the other side of the counter. Leaving her alone to people-watch and observe the establishment with a filmmaker’s eye.

Miniature planes hang from the ceiling, swaying in the breeze that cuts in with the opening and closing of the door. A wood island separates one side of the bar from the other, stacked high with an assortment of colorful glass bottles that gleam in the fading sunlight.

A golden wash spills through the back windows, and the Hard Deck is filling up fast with civilians, veterans, and servicemen alike. They’re the easiest to spot, wearing their service khakis and all.

Music swells through the bar, and Nora spies a jukebox in the corner, drawing a line five deep, all waiting for their turn to select the next 1980s classic. She recognizes the current song from her white dad music playlist.

‘Take It Easy’ by Eagles. Track four, baby.

Over her shoulder, a tight-knit crowd surrounds the pool table. They throw jeers and jokes at each other with familiarity, and Nora watches them for a moment too long, dragging her tired eyes away when one of them starts to turn in her direction.

She checks her phone, under the bar, not on top, of course, unless Nora wants to buy the whole room a round. A little after 8:30 now. She just needs a kill another hour or so, and then, that’ll feel like an acceptable time to crawl into bed and sleep for the next ten hours.

Fingers dancing through her tote, Nora fishes out her favorite journal, setting it down flat on the least sticky surface she can find. Leather-bound, stuffed to the brim with colorful sticky notes and touch-creased photographs. Further searches reveal that Nora left her pens back at the apartment, somewhere in one of those suitcases that had gotten packed and unpacked in an attempt to burn time.

“Do you have a spare pen?”

A blue pen rolls over to her waiting hands as Penny passes with a wink and dashes down the counter to fill a round of drinks. She has that endless energy that Nora needs a few coffees to achieve.

Thinking it makes Nora’s lids feel even heavier.

Tracks switch again on the jukebox, and Nora hums along to the new song, another winning installment on her white dad music playlist. Has the United States Navy hacked her Spotify account or something? She cuts through the pages like a surfboard through an ocean wave to find a fresh page, and Nora spins the pen between manicured fingers, mouthing the lyrics to ‘Dancing in the Dark’ under her breath.

Her brain is a firework show, thoughts shooting off high and fast, bursting into a million different directions. Loud and colorful. She can be like this on her best day, but a severe lack of sleep – or in this case, horrible jet lag – makes it a million times worse.

A long blank stare at the page later, Nora manages to piece a few words together into what might resemble a coherent thought, with emphasis on the word might here.

And right as Nora clicks the pen and presses it down on the page, denting the lined paper beneath the blue ink, an empty pint glass is set down on the counter, a few inches from her left hand. A whiff of cologne fills her nostrils, a little overbearing but still pleasant.

Fingers drum against the wood, in time with the music, and determined, despite the distraction, to pin down the semi-coherent thoughts that are now fleeing like scattered mice, Nora reaches for her drink and finds it empty save for half-melted ice and an orange rind.

“Buy you another one, sweetheart?”

She looks up, in spite of herself, and damn.

He is handsome as hell, heart-aching levels of handsome, a little like looking into the sun. Like a goddamn movie star, all broad shoulders and perfect, slicked back blonde hair, and easy confidence that fits him like a well-worn shirt.

He plucks the rocks glass easily from her stunned grip, holding it between two fingers, a loose, almost careless hold, and damn her to hell, Nora swallows against her suddenly dry mouth.

She really needs to go to bed. Among other things.

Green eyes study the contents of the glass, then flick back over to her, and Nora is hit with the full force of a mega-watt smile.

Dimples out. Ready to film a tooth-whitener commercial.

“Bourbon girl? I’m impressed.”

“Why?” Nora drawls, and hell, the word comes out of her mouth a little rough. Get it together. Put away the bedroom voice. She clears the cobwebs from her throat. “Because I look like I’d order a cosmopolitan in a dive bar and act surprised when I’m given a vodka cran?”

He seems to take look as an invitation, dragging his eyes over the soft t-shirt, a little damp over the shoulders from her shower, and the faded blue jeans that hang loosely from her legs, an old pair with a rip in the knee big enough that Nora might soon need to give them a second life as shorts.

His appraisal stalls out on her blood-red lips, tracing the shape of them, getting the lay of the land. And then, slowly rises back to meet her gaze. All the while, smiling like a pageant contestant.

“Name’s Hangman.”

Record scratch. He’s a pilot.

Goddamn pilots.

“That doesn’t sound like a name,” Nora drawls back, matching his conceited-ass smile with her freshly chilled ice-cold bitch smirk. “And I can buy my own drinks.”

Rudeness isn’t her drug of choice, but Nora clocks him as a tough one. A swift one-two ego punch should do the trick, rejecting his advance and mocking his precious call sign in one fell swoop. Aviators toss those around more than their actual names.

He’ll leave now.

She stares him down, and Mr. Pilot stares right back, eyes amused and sparkling in the twinkling lights dancing right above the bar, tucked between the steins.

Any minute now.

He doesn’t move an inch, and if possible, the Barbie and Ken smile grows even wider on his perfect face. He’s so hot, Nora kinda wants to break his nose just to make something on his face crooked.

“It’s my call sign.”

She is so tired. It trips off her tongue, almost out of habit: “Well, I’m not calling you Hangman. What’s your actual name?”

Why…. Why would those words come out of her mouth, instead of the ‘Get lost, Malibu Barbie’ that was locked and loaded in the back of her mind? Damn damn damn.

She doesn’t fool around with pilots, not after Charlie’s history with Pete Mitchell and her own Air Force sperm donor who couldn’t be bothered to call more than once a year. And especially not, when Nora will be working on the base for the next two months. What if Nora ran into him?

The edge of Hangman’s mouth twitches into a slow, dangerous smile, and Nora catches a flash of his canines, ultra-white like the rest of his teeth.

She fiddles with the pen cap, rolling and bending it between her pointer finger and thumb. Waits impatiently for him to give her an answer that gives her the opening needed to send him packing, back to the pool table to make better use of his bulging arm muscles over there.

Some co-ed girls push behind him, stumbling and giggling to each other, and in stepping out of their way, Hangman inches forward into her space. Breath warm at her nape, stirring the pale strands loose at her cheekbones, too short to remain tucked behind her ears without a fight.

Clever fingers capture one and brush it back into place, softly brushing against the side of her neck. His words are a low, hot rumble against the shell of her ear: “It’s Jake. Lieutenant Jake Seresin.”

Oh, Nora thinks, warm all over in a way that has nothing to do with the sticky heat of the night. Oh shit.

She has the borrowed pen in a chokehold, gripping it hard enough to redden her fingertips, and Hangman – now Jake notices. His grin widens, and Nora forces herself to loosen the hold, to let the blood flow back into her hands, to regain some of her composure.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

Not a question this time, so Nora doesn’t need to give him a yes or no.

He’s offered a loophole, one around her own better judgment, without even realizing it. She can just drop her shoulders with casual indifference, as if to say if you insist, and turn back to her journal. Pretend not to feel his intent, most definitely intrigued gaze on the side of her face.

It’s a free drink, and Nora’s hardly encouraging him. What is the harm, really?

A smug smile crosses his face when Penny comes over, an unreadable expression on her face, and Nora doesn’t stop him from ordering another Old Fashioned. He’s close enough now to feel the evening heat radiating from his tan skin, exposed where the sleeves of his t-shirt cut across his biceps.

Nora is not enabling anything. Not at all.

Rooster is on the last swallow of his beer when Phoenix looks over his shoulder and groans, a dramatic and drawn-out sound that would’ve made her an excellent soap opera star in a different life. He barely has time to snort before Bob appears at her side, a look of sudden concern on his clean-shaven face.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re never getting our next round.” Phoenix rigidly jerks her head in the direction that Hangman disappeared a few minutes ago. Too long ago, now that Rooster thinks about it. “Bagman got distracted.”

This is enough to bring the rest of the Daggers to attention. They round the pool table one by one, incited by the suggestion that Hangman might get out of buying them drinks.

“Distracted,” Payback lets out a sardonic snort. He leans on the pool cue like a walking stick, towering over the rest of them with Rooster seated. “He probably forgot to order the round. Idiot.”

“I don’t blame him,” Fanboy drawls, looking to the center of the room, waggling his brows. “I think I’d let her distract me anytime, anywhere. Is that not the hottest woman you’ve ever seen step foot in this bar?” His eyes go wide, almost panicked, darting to the only woman in their ranks. “No offense, Phoenix.”

Phoenix shows no sign of hearing him, and Rooster and Payback share a disbelieving look over the WSO’s head, snickering underneath their amazing mustaches. Lucky son of a bitch.

“Poor girl,” Phoenix muses with a slow shake of her head, sending her loose curls cascading over her shoulders. “Someone needs to launch a rescue mission. He’s practically drooling into her glass. And…” Something changes in her expression. “Did I hit my head in the cockpit this afternoon and not remember it? Does that girl look familiar to anyone else?”

“Never seen her before in my life,” Payback says, slapping his WSO on the shoulder, which seems to give Fanboy the confidence to add in, “I’d love to get further acquainted though. Think I can swoop in and steal her from Hangman?”

Phoenix has already pulled out her phone, paying no attention to the round of low chuckles and smirks that are shared between the men. Her fingers skate across the screen, faster than an F-18 on descent, and Rooster looks over his shoulder to get in on the joke.

It takes him all of two seconds to find them, mostly because Hangman has just flashed that thousand-watt smile that could probably blind an enemy dogfighter.

He leans against the counter, the cocky bastard, with a pint glass in his hand – one that should be in all of their hands right now. Not an empty glass filled with an inch of foam. Looking down at the barstool next to him, or more specifically, at the woman perched there.

Slender, blonde, dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans, and most definitely a civilian. He can’t accurately weigh in on Fanboy’s assessment, at least until Rooster can catch a glimpse of her face.

“I knew it!”

All of them startle when Phoenix makes the announcement and looks up from her phone with the victorious expression of someone who’d just shot down Maverick in a dogfight. She waves her phone in front of their faces, too fast for him to make out more than a blur of words and pictures.

“I fucking knew it. I follow her on Instagram.” And the wide smile on Phoenix’s face be described as nothing short of gleeful gloating. She cackles to herself, leaning over to show the screen to Bob again. “And you little shits made fun of me for loving documentaries so much. Who’s laughing now?”

Documentaries….

Recognition tugs at the edge of his drunken memory.

“Her name is – ”

She turns, and Rooster sees her face.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Rooster calls out, and Phoenix and Bob startle at the sudden change in volume, brown and blue eyes shooting up from the phone like Rooster blared an airhorn between their heads. He ignores them. “Am I seeing things, or Nora fucking Rogers, is that you?”

Everyone in a 10-foot radius looks at him, exchanging looks and eye rolls, dismissing him as belligerent but harmless, but Rooster ignores them, keeping his eyes locked on one woman.

Cornflower blue eyes survey the crowded room, sifting through the noise to place the voice, and finally, land on him. Surprise softens her features. And as the jukebox switches tracks, another crooning 1980s love song pouring through the speakers, Nora Rogers smiles at him for the first time in half a decade.

“Bradley Bradshaw, from beyond the grave.”

It really is him. This… six-foot-something hallucination with tree-trunk arms and a ridiculous porn star mustache and a familiar gleam in his eyes that spelled trouble. Did Charlie know Bradley would be here? She might’ve mentioned that. Nora looks up at him… and up again, because goddamn, were all Naval aviators so fucking tall?

An awkward beat passes where Bradley and Nora seem to grapple for the right greeting for a person you hadn’t seen in years and hadn’t seen all that often in the first place and mutually, come up empty-handed.

They’d met all of four or five times over the years, courtesy of the long-distance friendship that blossomed between Aunt Charlie and his mother Carole after Pete had left his Top Gun instructor post and shipped out again. She could use the extra friend without her husband, Charlie had said.

And then, Nora got older and became Charlie’s backup plus one to some Naval Aviation functions, usually thrown by Top Gun graduates who passed through when Charlie was a civilian instructor. She’d see him there every once in a while, all grown up and pursuing his dreams of becoming a pilot.

And then, Nora thinks absently, there was that one time…

She should’ve remembered that Bradley Bradshaw is a hugger.

Making up his mind for them both, Bradley reaches out and tugs her against his chest. And for one moment, Nora can feel the muscled strength of his arms banded around her torso, the firmness of his chest underneath the open Hawaiian shirt and incredibly thin white tank; can practically make out the ridges of his abs through the fabric.

It is barely longer than a brief squeeze, but as Nora pulls back, an unnatural but not entirely unexpected lightness buzzes in her chest. She is quick to blame it on the lack of sleep and dark liquor coursing through her veins.

She is feeling all kinds of strange tonight.

Like earlier, when Jake Seresin handed over the Old Fashioned, an unshakable curl to his lips, and as Nora took a delicate sip, watched the movement with half-lidded eyes; the muscles that worked in her throat. Like Jake wanted nothing more than to follow the path with his mouth, and Nora could picture him sprawled across her bed, clear as a snapshot: chests heaving, sweat dripping, tongue dragging across her pulse point, his large hand a collar around her throat.

Right then. Silly little thoughts like that.

Nora clears her throat, tugging at the neckline of her tee, and almost unbidden, like a magnetic pull, her gaze wanders back to him, standing in nearly the exact same spot at the bar, collecting a round of drinks. He apparently owed the group for the last pool game or something.

She can’t help but notice a new tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. She can tell, having been slightly too preoccupied with the strong line of his shoulders over at the bar for her own liking. He’d seemed so casual at the bar, so relaxed.

Is Jake mad? At Bradley, for interrupting them? At Nora, for coming over here?

These seem to be his friends. He was playing pool with them after all, up until Jake approached her at the bar. And Nora was hardly even talking to him at the bar, scribbling in her notebook and entertaining the occasional question as Jake seemed content to stand at her shoulder and watch.

“What’s your name?”

“What’re you doing in Fightertown?”

“What do you do for work?”

“A filmmaker? Like Quentin Tarantino?”

And Nora had been incised enough to set her pen down and stare him down. “I make documentaries, and if I did make movies, I’d at least like to be compared to someone decent. Not some piece-of-shit asshole director.”

His brows rose, but Jake looked unperturbed. “Like who?”

“Like… I don’t know, Nora Ephron or Greta Gerwig. You probably don’t even know who Nora Ephron is, do you? Do you also think Fight Club is a love letter to toxic masculinity?”

He exhaled a laugh, brows still halfway to his hairline, and opened his mouth to reply when Bradley called her name, and Nora was gone before Jake could get another word in.

Still. Seeing him look so… Tense? Dejected? Annoyed?

It makes her feel off-kilter.

Maybe Jake just wanted to chat her up at the bar and go back to his friends, not to be bothered for the rest of the night. She’s ruined that plan by coming over here, invited or not. It shouldn’t matter. She can’t stop herself from wondering anyway. God. Why do you even care?

She doesn’t know him, and after tonight, she’ll likely never see him again.

He starts to turn, and Nora slingshots her gaze back to Bradley, refusing to be caught watching him, who is looking down – and down – with a rose-colored hue to his face. A pair of aviator sunglasses sit crookedly over his eyes, showing her reflection.

She takes a half-step back to not have to crane her neck so much to meet his eyes. Raises her voice to be heard over the music, much closer to the jukebox now. “What are you doing here? I might be out of the loop, but didn’t you already graduate from Top Gun? Like many, many years ago?”

“She’s calling you old, Rooster,” Jake cuts in, reappearing and passing out the few bottles and glasses around the circle. Seven total, including another Old Fashioned that Nora probably doesn’t need but still accepts. He shoots her a wink over the glass. “You gonna take that, man?”

“I was not, you jackass,” Nora shoots back, the second Old Fashioned blurring the lines between her brain and her mouth.

Jake settles against the pool table in a casual stance, arms crossed across his chest, biceps bulging. She must’ve imagined the earlier tension. He seems fine now, watching her with a smirk.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew here. Answer the question, Bradshaw.”

Bradley’s laugh is a little loud, a little unsteady. One look at the nearest hightop table, littered with empty beer bottles and pint glasses, tells her everything she needs to know.

Bradley Bradshaw is tipsy. Color shines high in his cheeks.

“‘What am I doing here?’ You’re on a Naval base, darling, which makes me,” Bradley pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose and with the hand holding the new beer bottle, gestures to his own chest. Covered in that shirt that is… not hiding much, “the law around these parts. I ask the questions around here.” A dark-haired woman rolls her eyes behind his back. “What the hell are you doing here, civilian? You following me around now?”

Oh wow. He’s so drunk.

“In your dreams.”

She doesn’t like the look on his face; doesn’t trust what drunk Bradley might spit out next in a public setting, so Nora brings them back to more even ground, summarizing everything with a short and sweet, “I’m doing Charlie a favor” that is more or less true. Gives him the barest rundown of her past 48 hours, all too aware of the four Naval aviators standing within earshot, shooting her curious glances and waiting for an introduction.

“It’s your turn now.”

“We were here on a special detachment. Eight months ago. Top secret shit,” Bradley offers in an oh so serious tone. All of his concentration seems to go towards hiding a smile. It’s given away by the obvious twitch of his mustache, dampening the effect slightly. “I can’t talk about it, or Cyclone will shoot me out of an airlock.”

“We’re on the ground, Rooster.”

“Semantics, Payback. He will take me up into the atmosphere in an F-18 just to shoot me into space. And then, probably like, come down here and have one black coffee in victory. Happy now?”

Nora offers, “I actually have some security clearance.”

Some was probably an exaggeration. Charlie set her up with a director who needed an assistant, back when Nora really needed another project under her belt to build her portfolio. Lightly sensitive, all for internal use, of course.

“No shit. Aren’t you special?”

Drenched in sarcasm, but Bradshaw is looking at her over the edge of his pint glass with a hint of something else in his brown eyes.

Nope. No. Not going there tonight.

“Now, Bradshaw.” She delivers a light slap to his chest, and Bradley looks down, amused. It’s a little more familiar than Nora was going for. She probably didn’t need another drink. “When are you going to stop being rude and introduce me?”

His arm settles over her shoulders, swiveling her like a Hard Deck barstool to face the rest of the group. They go down the line, one by one. Call signs, then their first and last names, upon request because Nora refuses to call a bunch of grown men things like Rooster and Fanboy. Phoenix is actually a damn cool name.

Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback, and Bob.

Natasha, Mickey, Reuben, and Bob again.

“And Hangman,” Jake finishes, a pronounced twang in his voice that Nora didn’t notice before. She was missing the accents earlier, wasn’t she? “We met at a little spot not far from here. I was the devastatingly handsome man buying you a drink.”

“Sorry,” Nora shoots back, all calm and collected. “I don’t think I know a Hangman. Doesn’t sound like a real name to me.”

A muscle twitches in his cheek. “Jake.”

“It’s all coming back now.” And Nora doesn’t mean for it to come out so quiet, so intimate. “Hi Jake.”

He flashes her a dimpled grin, all soft edges. “Hi Nora.”

It’s so damn charming that Nora has to bite back an unbidden smile, but with the high-speed attention of an F-18 pilot, Jake catches it, the smug son of a bitch. He lifts his beer to his mouth and shoots her a heated look that curls her toes inside her boots.

“So,” Phoenix interjects, glancing between them with an all too knowing look that makes Nora flush. “Who is up for another round of pool?”

She should’ve stuck to her original plan, which would have seen her leave over an hour ago. Already curled up under the sheets for a long, much-needed sleep by now.

But Nora is having too much fun, sitting on a barstool near the pool table, watching the game and listening to them trade insults and stories (just the non-classified ones, of course) back and forth. All of them seem to know each other well, and Nora learns early on that Captain Mitchell recruited them for this special top-secret detachment a few months back.

“We’re still here under Maverick as an actual squadron now. We’re… I’m sorry, I’m not exactly sure what I can and can’t tell you,” Bob explains, cutting himself off with a sheepish expression. He is damn cute, clean-shaven and baby-faced. Easygoing. He reminds her a little of a duckling, jabs rolling off his back like water. “You can ask Maverick on Monday. Are you just following him around with a camera or…?”

She gives him the quick run-down, well aware that the Daggers are all within earshot now, not even pretending not to eavesdrop on the conversation. “It will probably be a good bit of interviews and additional footage. It’s not just about Captain Mitchell. I’ll be focusing on the whole team.”

“We’ll probably be seeing a lot of you then.”

It is a perfectly nonchalant observation, but Nora’s heart does a stuttered thump-thump in her chest, the exact same realization piercing through her intoxicated brain way too late. If Maverick is their CO, then Bob is on the team that Nora will be profiling in the feature. All of them are. Which means...

She will be seeing them. Probably every single day.

Nora manages to get out an even, “I guess so.”

She remembers the cardboard box of files, sitting unopened next to her overturned suitcase, and wants to bang her head against a wall. Instead, Nora washes down the overwhelming sense of uh oh with a too-quick gulp of her drink. Green eyes burn against the side of her face, stinging like the bourbon in her nostrils.

Natasha drops onto the next barstool over, providing the perfect distraction from her thoughts. She’s just landed an impressive sequence of shots against Mickey and Reuben, who now stand staring down at the table, hands on hips in identical stances of contemplation.

“I follow you on Instagram,” Natasha admits, snagging her beer bottle from a nearby table and waving off the popcorn that Bob offers her. “And I have to tell you. I have invited these idiots over to watch documentaries with me more times than I can even remember. Tried different topics too. Bob is the only one who ever comes over. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”

“Oh, I won’t. I can smell a fraud a mile away,” Nora reassures, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes to match the other woman, “but I, for one, would love an invitation to watch a documentary with you. Make it a weekly thing while I’m here.”

And Natasha grins wide enough to inspire warm and fuzzy feelings in her chest. Is this what budding friendship felt like? She has been on the move so much lately. She’d almost forgotten.

“Nora is my friend, Phoenix,” Bradley cuts in, sunglasses sliding further and further down his nose. His large hand comes up to deliver a playful push to the other woman’s shoulder. “Stop trying to steal her away from me. Get your own friend.”

“We’re friends now, are we, Bradshaw?” Nora can’t help her laugh, slightly mocking, light enough not to be mistaken as rejection. “I haven’t seen you in like… five years. You probably don’t even know my birthday.”

He pouts. “Phoenix doesn’t know your birthday either.”

“It’s in August. She posted about it on her Instagram.”

“Go away, Phoenix,” Bradley reaches across her again to push at Natasha harder. He loses his balance a little bit and nearly topples into Nora’s lap, only caught by Phoenix shoving against his shoulder. “Don’t let her do this, Rogers. You’re breaking my heart here.”

“You’re drunk,” Nora giggles, an honest to god giggle, only reserved for drunk Nora. Sober Nora laughs. Drunk Nora giggles. It’s usually a sign to call it a night. “You’re drunk, and I think… I think I might be drunk.”

“You’re definitely drunk.”

Nice. Real professional. Getting drunk on the night before her first day and with none other than the only team of pilots on North Island that she is guaranteed to see after tonight.

“Oh no….” Nora whispers through another giggle, and with a hand that feels disconnected from her arm, reaches up and pushes Bradley’s sunglasses back up his nose. His grin turns wolfish and… “I think I need to go home.”

“Or…”

“I can take you. Where’re you staying?”

Jake pulls his keys out of his pocket and dangles them from a finger, while Bradley straightens, with sudden coordination, to his full height. Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha has paused mid-sip, watching with unadulterated interest, like Rooster and Hangman were the most interesting thing on television. Bob offers her the popcorn again, and Natasha takes a handful.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I stopped an hour ago, and I only had two.”

“She doesn’t know you.”

“Did you not just say you haven’t seen her in five years?”

“She’s not going home with you.”

“Jesus Christ…” Jake scrubs a hand over his face, his growing irritation plain. “It’s a ride home, not an invitation to bed. You’d rather put her in a cab with a stranger than have me drive her home? What’s your problem?”

“My problem is – ”

Well. This is… rapidly descending into a testosterone fest.

She can feel a dull ache developing in her temple, a heaviness to her lids that is becoming harder to ignore. She needs a strong painkiller, about three and a half glasses of water, and a bed. Preferably tonight.

“Alright, I’m calling an Uber.”

She reaches for her phone, and Jake raises a placating hand.

“Don’t waste money on an Uber. I’ll take you home,” Jake repeats, looking pained, and then, Bradley Bradshaw opens his mouth and takes a big breath, gearing up to restart this idiotic argument.

“Bradshaw, I swear…” Nora presses her fingers to her forehead and closes her eyes. “In about five minutes, I might sleep on that pool table, so please, I will take what I can get. I’m staying at…” Did Warlock ever give her the address? Goddammit. “It’s… It’s like a blue apartment building next to the beach. It’s not far from here. Know what I’m talking about please.”

Exhaustion makes her blunt, but Jake looks amused again.. More amused than Nora would give herself credit for inspiring with her drunken rambles.

“I know it. We all live there.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Oh. Great.”

She really will see them every day, even on her days off.

Something flashes across Bradley’s face, too quick for her to clock it, but Nora is focused on putting hands on her phone, wallet, and keys. Hoisting her bag onto her arm.

“Well, I’ll come with you.”

“Rooster. Seriously?”

“No, I should probably call it a night too, and I caught a ride with Phoenix here anyway. I’ll come back with you guys.”

Jake and Bradley share a long stare-down that Nora is too tired to even process. It is some sort of telepathic conversation that must be exclusive to Top Gun graduates, or a silent dick-measuring contest. One of the two.

“Oh,” Phoenix observes, tossing another piece of popcorn in her mouth. “This’ll be interesting.”

Yeah, Nora thinks. It’ll be something alright.

It is a short ride back to the apartments. Bradley hums the words to ‘Great Balls of Fire’ under his breath the whole time, over and over in an unending loop, while Nora presses her forehead to the window, breath fogging the glass with the late night temperatures, and closes her eyes.

It does little to alleviate the weight of Jake’s gaze, dashing off the rearview mirror at every red light. He casts a sideways glance at Bradley, then opens his mouth to say something, but then Nora’s eyelids flutter closed and Jake remains silent, reaching for the radio knob to turn the volume down.

His truck finally rounds the last bend in the road and pulls into the lot, and Nora is damn near crawling out of her skin. She drank two full glasses of water at the bar before leaving. She isn’t buzzed enough at this point to blame the heady warmth on the alcohol. It’s him.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake expertly steers the truck, one-handed, into a spot along the front row of apartments. She can see her door from here, spotlighted under a second-floor flood light like a safe haven. “Please keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle until I’ve come to a full and complete…”

He’s barely tapped the brakes when Nora mumbles a good night and makes a run for the staircase.

“Alright then,” Jake calls after her through his open window, accent thick from drowsiness. “Good night to you too, sweetheart.”

She shuts her door on his raspy chuckle.

It echoes in her ears all the same, even after splashing freezing cold water on her neck, stripping off her clothes, and climbing into the bed with the slightly scratchy sheets. Lingers, like the brush of his fingertips down the side of her neck.

Nora heaves a sigh in the blue dark. “Goddammit.”

end note: likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. and if you have thoughts and feelings, please shout in my asks or my messages. i'd love to hear from you!

read the next chapter!

#am sweating posting this #so please tell me what you think #fic: baby i'm high octane #hangman x oc #jake seresin x oc #jake seresin x nora rogers #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin fic #top gun: maverick fic #laracrofted writes

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ask-dawnanddusk · 8 months

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After Vox took a quick break on the shore, he once again entered the water to continue his journey home. The stinging of salt water in his still leaking wound was unpleasant, but it at least served to keep him conscious and aware, fending of the growing exhaustion that was beginning to weigh him down.

As Vox swam forward through a long stretch of particularly empty ocean, he pondered what he would say. His mother would surely be fretting over him, and he was worried about stressing Dawn and Dusk more then necessary.

As he pondered this, he slowly came to the realization that a powerful presence was approaching, and fast. He was alarmed for a moment, before he realized who it was.

It reached out to him, cautious, confused, and as gentle as a Titan of Its magnitude could be. The mere presence would overwhelm near anyone else, but Vox had long gotten used to the feeling of crushing water and hammering waves. The vast mind brushed against his, a clear question in Its intent. He so rarely passed through this section of the ocean, and It wondered why.

Carefully pushing back with his mind, Vox explained what had happened in a mixture of few words and many images. It was a more Primal way of communicating, and whilst it usually left others dazed and confused, the Presence that swam with him understood perfectly.

The sensation of foreign feelings washed over Vox. Irritation, annoyance, and a slight bit of anger, but luckily no true Wrath. A moment later ocean currents bent and shifted, an old power pulsing through the water as the world shaped itself to the other being's will. Vox found himself being pushed forward through the water at an even greater speed towards his home. Sending a quick wave of appreciation towards the Presence, he turned his focus back forward, towards the quickly approaching landmass in the distance.

And while the Lugia sped towards home, the other presence swam towards It's Opposite. There was much they needed to discuss.

Kyogre (?) has revealed itself and is now open for asks!

Best be respectful, lest you wish to be devoured~

#Voxgatum #pokemon kyogre #plot posts #pokemon lugia #pokeask #pokemon ask blog #pokemon art #since people liked kyogre and groudon so much i decided to fully add them to the story!#only kyogre for now though #the world is shifting and others are slowly becoming aware #vox is quite beloved by many~

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citanul-atsidosam22 · 1 year

Text

The Madness in the Dark

⚠️MATURED CONTENT ⚠️

The cold water slipping down inch by inch on her skin felt like glory. The sound of water spurting out of the shower soon hitting the floor made her company. The long day is about to be replaced by dusk, and so, she took a shower to ready herself for bed. It became her routine. Wake up in the morning, read, write, or paint throughout the day, then take a shower before light disappears.

This day was to no extraordinary. She witnessed dawn, maintain her proper hygiene, gather books she'll read from the library inside the castle, and now she's taking a shower. See? Like always.

After rinsing foams of the products and fragrances she lathered on her body and hair, she stepped out of the shower, her figure wrapped in a clean white towel. She then strolled to her bedroom.

Upon arrival, she saw a book spread open to a specific page on the floor. The content depicts sexual pleasures. She admits to herself that she searched for it in the library earlier, but knowing the book would center intimacy, she is beyond certain that she secured the book in a proper storage before she went on to take a bath. She knew too well that she would never be careless enough as to make such thing vulnerable.

But if she settled it in a proper placement earlier, then who could've dragged it on the floor? It's triggering her curiosity. Nevertheless, she picked up the book and placed it near the lampshade beside her bed. She got too carried away by the books' sudden displacement that she wasn't able to notice the heavy deluge of rain.

She walked to the window. The pane was occupied by plenty of droplets. The mist outside making the forest an aesthetic. The sky was gray and dark, a warning of continuous downpour. No wonder it was colder than the usual. Thanks to the book, though, that she forgot the overwhelming temperature for a while. But now, clothes would be better and more efficient than the skimpy towel.

She headed to her closet and gathered her chosen pieces of clothings and garments. She took her lotions, beauty creams, and oils next before she made her way to the edge of the bed to apply and wear the things in her grasp.

The towel dropped leaving her form naked. She turned around to sit on the bed. Upon settling, she was startled as a tall figure stood in front of her.

"C-Carla?!"

His eyes roamed every centimeter of her body. His vision engulfed in the curve of her sides, the roundness of her hips, the slope of her breasts and the smoothness of her skin. As his sight reached down her feminity, the glow of his eyes was accentuated by the synchronous loss of power.

Everything around her was dark, but two narrowed eyes above made no exceptions of still glowing in the dark with enticement and sadistic intentions. It horrified her. She attempted to run but he caught her arm and tossed her harshly onto the mattress. Due to the force he exerted, the mattress ejected her slightly.

Carla made swift motions to hover above her and pinned her wrists above her head. He lowered his face as near that he could feel her breath embracing his lips.

"Carla!"

She raised her voice as he tilted his head to have a better access to the inside of her mouth. His tongue was long and slender, much to her surprise. The tip was pointed that it traced the walls of her mouth, and it was incredibly strong that hers got dominated even in its own cavern.

Carla explored her curves with his free hand. It glided down and down—dangerously getting close to her womanhood— her velvety skin. She squeezed her eyes tighter as well as her thighs.

He left her lips to proceed to her neck. Her collarbones gave more emphasis to the perfection of her neck. It made Carla thought of other sensitive spots in her body. Oh, how he loved how her face twists with fighting over dominance pain and pleasure. He may never admit that, but he'll—whenever he pleases—seek that.

He bit on her collarbone harshly, almost crunching it with his teeth. His fangs dove deep down her flesh. She arched her back and was unable to suppress a gasp. He gulped the blood that exited the pierce his fangs penetrated.

"Stop!" She whined.

He kept drinking. He looked for another spot and bit there. Her tears subconsciously flowed from her eyes. His bites were extremely painful yet good. Carla bit every sensitive spot he could ever imagine—her collarbones, her cleavage, her chest, her waist, above her navel, her wrists, and even the tip of her fingers. He drank too much, her eyes are puffy and her nose was clogged from crying.

Yet, it wasn't enough to offer him satisfaction. He backed a bit and and pushed her further up the bed. He crawled and spread her legs wide.

Her beauty is ethereal.

She flinched and shrank. She's whimpering and it amused the male. She's fighting the sensation without thinking what will happen if he ever leaves her unattended. Her essence is dripping from her entrance it pooled on the mattress.

Carla aligned his face on her womanhood. He inhaled in her scent and gently massaged her devil's doorbell with his thumb. Her moan was but a startled gasp. Too silent for his liking. It never rubbed his ego as much as her existence fueled his arousal.

He put pressure on his thumb and moved it faster. She cried yet covered her mouth with her released hands. Carla grew impatient. Her volume was not the problem, it was her attempts to conceal her reactions. 'Well, let's see if those tiny hands of yours be able to suppress your melody if I do this', Carla thought.

He spread her labia open, exposing her throbbing nodule. She was a falls whose essence Carla would pridefully coat himself with. Carla licked her opening, starting from the bottom to the top then kissed her knob before sucking it like he's helping himself to an oyster.

She screamed out of delight. Carla repeated his ministrations till she was arching her back and moaning his name nonstop. He picked up a much faster pace. He pushed and pulled his fingers in a swift rhythm. Not long, the knot that formed in her abdomen set her free to ecstasy. Her orgasm ripped through her, its intoxicating pleasure making her guilty.

Carla watched close as her release gushed out of her clenching opening. It was plenty. A mixture of his saliva, her essence, and the outcome of his actions and her pleasure.

He felt as though he was selfish to himself. Carla backed off and kneeled above her in front. He observed how she squirmed, he adored how her expression is difficult to explain yet a masterpiece amongst the finest of arts.

Her form trembling, panting, and sweating. Despite that, she lifted herself with the support of her elbows.

"Ah?!" She gasped.

Carla kneeled in front of her. His organ—long, thick, hard and erect—was freed from his pants. Carla was now, like her, naked. His body a sculpted figure of muscles. His curves are exquisite, and his beauty an erotic facade behind royal appearance.

She froze as she realized that his manhood is pointing at her. The darkness was now but an overcast.

"Carla! Please, no!" She cried as he leaned down on her. He payed no attention. However, the thunder roared. He must've got pissed by her relentless resistance.

He kissed her. The kiss was feverish. It was wild, harsh, and hungry. His greed is consuming him till he's no longer concerned of her mortality. And that's because, he isn't.

Carla coiled his hand on her throat. The other making its way to pin again her wrists above her head. She felt helpless. As much as she would want to escape, its a waste of attempt that adds fire to Carla's rising temper. While it is not time to mind his temper, it will really will make her situation hell if she'll completely ignore it. After all, she's all alone and everything is in his favor.

She grew lightheaded. Must've been because of the loss of blood and anxiety. However, her eyes went wide when she felt his tip at the entrance of her canal.

"NO!!!" She shrieked weakly.

He continued as if not regarding her protest. That night, mixture of cries, moans, and grunts from her and Carla could be heard all throughout the mansion. The mattress was soiled with sweat, tears, and release. The thunder roared even more, the rain poured harder, and lightning striked more frequently—illuminating everything its light could reach.——————————————————————

I once heard from my mother that silence is the loudest sound that you can ever hear in this world. When I was young, we would have a banter about that. I used to believe that silence is...well, the most silent sound there is. We often end up with her telling me that I'll understand it when I grow up. Understanding it was the worst thing I could ever comprehend.

Clicks and clanks are the only sounds I heard as Carla and I ate in the dining room. He had his usual dry-cured ham and the castle's cooks served me a steak. It was delicious. However, being alone with him made me uncomfortable. I heard that Shin went out to some place he had told the young one to.

I can sense him occasionally taking a glance at me. And, so I am to him and his...ham. It's not like I want to have some, the fact that I would want to tell him something made me cautious of this moment.

"Woman." Carla's call was short yet dangerous. My fork fell to my plate out of fright.

"Y-yes?" I stuttered. I shouldn't have.

His gaze on me intensified. It is as if my response rekindled some sort of fire inside him. Carla was never easy to read. His eyes were always stern, and his lips never held any emotion.

"What is it?" I added. That was the only interrogation I could ever muster.

"Say it." He spoke, it wasn't a question. It was more of a command. I always try to make my intentions hidden but he always succeeds on making it seem like I am an open book to him. He reads my thoughts like they were written.

I remained silent. How did he ever knew? After all of that, I realized that I really don't want to tell him anymore. That way, I could've avoided it to prolong. I thought of hiding it as impossible, and now I am certain.

"I don't have all night, yet you as well. Delay more, and I will assure you do not last long, woman." He warned.

The worst that could happen to me was this. As much as I would want it to end, but I am not sure of what Carla meant. I feared how he chooses and plays with his choice of words. How I interpret it might not what he really meant it.

"You got me pregnant."

#carla tsukinami #smut #diabolik lovers #shin tsukinami #reader #rain #mature #vampires #founder

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rei64bit · 1 year

Text

Heimdall x Reader ⎯⎯ From Dusk till Dawn [Chapter 6]

Night 6 (Heimdall X F!Reader)

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✎ Summary: Fanfic of reader married to Heimdall cause Odin wanting a grankid.

✎ Word count: 1.5k

✎ Title: From Dusk till Dawn

✎ Chapter: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] ... more // trying to publish as much as possible.

✎ Note: Im not a writer, its the first time I want to write something on a character I like alot.

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After that night, you two are getting a little close to each other, at least that is what it seems like. Perhaps its after what you two did, to finally be one intimately, and now every night when your husband back to the bed chamber, he always find a chance to start getting touchy and get intimate, even when you sit on chair doing work, he will just stand behind you and start teasing, in anyway you can think of.. “Isn’t that your wifey duty to take care of your husband needs?” As he said, which one time you trying to reject him as you too busy doing preparation for your work next day.

Today you have been way too busy than usual working on the new mission assigned by All-father, checking on the dwarves’ progress on the new mining site, a dwarf leader named Durlin has been making a scene and on this. You still remember Durlin was the rebel lead of the Dwarves, you may not be part of the war but you did know some of the story from the Asgardians gossiping in the mead hall. Durlin has certain demand before they will start working on the new mining fields and you been trying to negotiate with them which now still with one more demand left – “to grant the dwarves the right to trade in other realms with other species. ” which you will need to get permission from All-father and All-father been away the whole day, your work come to a halt.

Since there is nothing much you can do at this point, the only thing on your mind is to go back and rest, perhaps tomorrow morning All-father will be back to discuss the dwarves matters. “haahhh--” You sighed loudly in a long breath, this is so much work you think to yourself. “Welcome back, wife” You already heard your husband voice even before you open the door.. He really has this weird habit.

“It’s quite rare to see you back so late hm, did you get lecture by the Svartalfheim’s sow hm?” Heimdall sat on the chair, reading his diary. “It was the mission in Svartalfheim, their leader demand something and now left the last one, I need All-father agreement on that.” Rubbing your eye, you said.

“Durlin huh” Heimdall responded. “How you know his name is Durlin?” You questioned. “Well, he is one of my dear old friend I knew from the battlefield, and I gave him a little special treatment” Heimdall been sarcastic again, you know what he mean little special treatment and you remember the scar on Durlin’s head, perhaps that’s his so called special treatment he gave to him. “Yes, to remind that traitor to never bite the hand that feed them.” Heimdall replied to your thought.

You want to avoid talking about war, it’s not really your favorite topic. Putting your equipment on top of another table, you try to catch your breath from the long working hours going back and forth multiple time both Asgard and Svartalfheim the whole day.

“How was your day?” It’s just one of your habits asking such questions, Heimdall found it annoying the first few times but now he just get used to it. “haa- it was fine. Next question.” Turning to the next page he said. You smiled at the way he talks, it’s funny for some reason.

But now you do have something in mind that you have been curious about the whole time since the first day of your marriage, the diary. “Why do you keep reading your diary? It’s the thing you always do when you get back. Seems like you’ve been reading the same few pages over and over.” You probably now regret asking it to cause the way he looks at you is not what you call friendly.

“Sorry..if I crossed the line...” Not wanting to meet his eye, you turn your head continue to clean yourself and change your clothes to your night wear. It is quiet the whole time after you asked that question. You really regret it now, it was dumb.

Getting the book you bought from the Svartalfheim market about wood carving, you lay on the bed to face the window and start reading it. Not sure after how long, you heard Heimdall preparing himself to sleep too. You tense up a bit when he joins you on the bed, hoping he is not mad at you, it will be hard for you to fall asleep when you know someone hate you just next to you.

You felt his hand on your waist, slowly feeling your skin and starting to move up. “hm!” You squeaked at his hand motion, it’s tickle. You grab his hand but not because you want him to stop. “It was my mother’s diary.” Heimdall finally told you what it was and quite a surprise as you don’t expect him to told you especially something belong to his mother, he never actually talk about his mother at all. The suspension after his answer, you gently squeak his hand to get him some comfort.

“That few pages were the page she wrote about me.” Heimdall snuggles his head on your neck and continues. It’s really a very rare sight to see Heimdall to be so vulnerable, even more vulnerable than the time you two get intimate. Heimdall is always a prick to everyone even to you when you both are still not married to each other yet. You still remember the Asgardians complain about the god of foresight how he purposely spills his mead on the floor so the lady not able to have her midday rest. He also a jerk to you too way before you two put in this arranged marriage, he purposely throw your notebook that you accidentally left in the mead hall as you getting too busy into the nearby pond and he told you he thought it was just some garbage and doing you a favor to clean your mess, what a prick. You still remember it took you a week to fully dry your notebook, the content is too valuable to throw away. “I see..” Cut off your own thoughts and you replied back to Heimdall, not sure what to say. You can feel his breath on your neck and his hand trying to turn your body to face him and you comply.

“…” Still silent and you decided to break it. “Do you know where she is now?” You really want to test the water to see if the dreki monster will come out and bite you. “..not sure, her last few pages doesn’t sound happy about Asgard, so she definitely not here..” Heimdall closed his eyes and spoke. That’s kinda make you sad to think that his mother left Asgard, things must be hard for him even he never say any--. “Don’t you dare feel pity for me.” That’s sound like an order to you. “I’m not pity you, I feel sad about it.” You answered genuinely. Heimdall opens his eyes look into your eyes, you know he is searching something, a falsehood of the statement you make just now. Heimdall is very prideful, he can’t stand people feeling pity for him, this applies to his wife too. You cradle his face with your one hand, kissed on his forehead. And yes, that’s how he started to get in the mood and demanding more from you and things start to get messy..again.

After some time the wave of pleasure finally cooled down, both of you cuddle for sometime before felling asleep.

“Hey, can I ask you another question?” You want to make sure he will answer you or you can drop it if he is not happy about it. “haa--- I knew this going to happen..go on..” Heimdall sighed and put his head on top of your head, and one hand feeling your belly. “I saw the scar on your back, what happened?” You go on. “Is this your hobby to poke on people weak spot?” Heimdall looked at you and said it in a sarcastic way, this is a good sign that means he is not angry.

“..it was when Baldur still a brat, even he still is now. I was not paying attention to him as I thought he won’t be too physical and hurt me in anyway. He threw a spear at me just for fun as he thought I definitely will dodge it.” Baldur, his younger brother was very active when he was a kid and hardly see he sit at one place, he always running around the whole city causing trouble although he didn’t mean it. You put on hand on the scar to feel it. It did give Heimdall a weird but pleasurable sensation as he trembles when you move your hand across the scars. That’s cute you think.

Heimdall has been feeling your belly the whole time whenyou two talk. You looked at him and he just stared at you silently. “..?” Raising your eyebrows signal him to tell you if anything wrong, but he just imitates your face expression and continue feeling your belly but changed to use his finger drawing circle on your belly. “oh.” Realized what he means, that’s the only word came out of your mouth.

“I think it’s a boy.” He looked at you.

Cont.

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#gow heimdall #heimdall x reader #heimdall fanfiction #gow ragnarok heimdall #heimdall

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hiramaris · 8 months

Text

Dusk til Dawn

Part 13

Summary: Following Episode 9. And spoilers for Episode 10.

Author’s note: As Episode 10 is just released I just want to say heads up for those who are not yet finished. Completing the game without spoilers really made a difference, and as much as possible I want everyone to experience that. And for those finished, I’ll gladly welcome you to my domain where MC took a different route.

Disclaimer: I do not own Duskwood or any of the related characters. Duskwood is created by and owned by Everbyte Studio. This fanfiction is intended for entertainment only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of the original Duskwood story belong to Everbyte Studio.

Warning: Mentions of blood, suicide, violence, pedophiles, drugs, gun, murder, sex offenders, kidnapping

Shits started to go down the moment those words left your mouth. What did you expect anyway? You had unintentionally hit a raw nerve. Ted had poured his heart and soul reminiscing that night, and yet you have the audacity to laugh at his misery.

You didn’t really mean to laugh, really. Laughter sometimes escapes us in moments of intense emotion, not because we find something funny, but as a release valve for relief.

It was a relief that Hannah and Richy may not go to jail after all these. Because Ted had already admitted that he pushed Jennifer on the road, thus the crime committed wasn’t actually done by them.

You understood Ted's suffering. Under different circumstances, in a life where you weren't bound by the law, you might have reacted similarly if Jill's death had gone unpunished. Your empathy for Ted's situation ran deep. Yet, you were starkly aware of the reality you existed in—one that demanded adherence to the law, no matter how difficult it might be. They may call you a hypocrite all they want, but your top priority right now is to keep everyone safe.

Ted also needs help, psychiatrically speaking.

You’re not entirely sure, but you can see bits of physiological manifestations of his mental illness. His mental instability could be a potentially dangerous weapon against you all. The unpredictability of his actions was a looming threat. That’s why you need to pin him down— fast.

Something in your demeanor must have given Jake a signal because suddenly, his resistance flared to life. With a swift bite and a kick to Ted's shin, he managed to create enough space to scramble away, taking Richy along.

A stifled laugh threatened to escape you— it was a desperate attempt on Jake’s end, and you didn’t quite envision it before that Jake would have the guts to bite someone’s hand.

The small trickle of blood at the corner of Jake's mouth was evidence of the pain he had inflicted. Ted's angry growls confirm that he’s not pleased with what Jake has done.

So, with Jake out of the way, you launched yourself at Ted without hesitation. The revolver in his hand had just gone off, a deafening bang that temporarily left your ears ringing. But your focus was unwavering, and you met Ted's attempt to regain control with a swift move to disarm him. You managed to deflect his aim, causing the bullet to miss its mark. The metallic tang of adrenaline filled your senses as you grappled with him, determined to subdue the threat he posed.

The dimmed surroundings gave you the disadvantage not to mention the addition of fighting a full-grown man. In the midst of grasping for dear life in his hands and the gun, you caught a glimpse of Hannah, Jake, and Richy. Jake had positioned himself protectively in front of Hannah and Richy. It seemed Hannah was too overwhelmed with the current events to notice that her brother was just in front of her.

"Jake, help Y/n!" Richy rasped out behind Jake when he saw how dangerously close the gun was to your abdomen. That made you shoot back to the horrible reality.

Hannah froze at the mention of Jake’s name.

Usually, under normal circumstances, it would be best to outnumber the culprit but given Richy’s relative lack of experience in fighting, he might be shot first before you. He’s also injured. Jake is also injured, and even if he may have experience in fighting, his concussion will only slow him down. As of now, you're the best chance you've got, and you pray to the deities above that you no longer believed in long ago that they'll be able to help with the slimming luck you only have.

“Jake, no!” You shouted as you saw Jake try to move towards you. “You have to go NOW! Don’t come near me!”

“B-but—”

“Just do it!”

Ted's chuckle cut through the tension. “You think I would let anyone leave this mine?” Ted chuckled darkly as he leaned closely on your face, his breath chilling against your skin. His whispered words hung heavy in the air. “I just told you. No one will ever leave this mine alive.”

“As if I'd let that happen,” you snapped back, focusing on prying the gun from his grip.

Your priority right now is to disarm him. You can’t take the risk of having him fire it on anyone.

You suspected Alan had already called for backup at the entrance by the Grimrock. It is a matter of choice now: it’s either you all die, or he’ll be captured. He’s desperate, and that makes him more dangerous than ever.

With a burst of strength, you managed to make Ted stagger backward, pressing him against the wall. You motioned the three to get out of here and Jake readily nodded in agreement, understanding the severity of the situation.

"We have to help, Y/n!" Richy protested, struggling against Jake's grip. His desperation was palpable, his eyes wide with concern for you and the dangerous situation you were in.

“We have to go.” Jake's voice was urgent as he decisively snatched the laptop from the table, his movements quick and purposeful. He pulled Richy and Hannah away from the escalating conflict, his protective stance shielding them from the potential danger. You could see the fear and determination in his eyes, his focus solely on ensuring their safety. Meanwhile, your battle with Ted continued— a life-and-death struggle that demanded your full attention.

You were acutely aware of the weight of the situation. The gun held by Ted was a deadly threat, and your unwavering goal was to disarm him as swiftly as possible.

“At this point, we’re just going to be a liability to her,” Jake's words cut through the chaos, a stark reminder that your priority was to keep them safe, even if it meant leaving you to face Ted alone.

Amidst the clash, a fierce blow struck your face, sending a jolt of pain through your skull. Your jaw clenched in response, determination overriding the pain as you tightened your grip on Ted, refusing to back down.

“A hard face I see,” Ted grunted, a twisted smirk on his face. “No wonder you seemed unbothered to my threats.”

Despite the blood trickling from your nose, you shot him a wolfish grin. “I think you've underestimated me.”

This fucker has a sick punch you admit. You didn't want to be deterred by that so with a fire in your eyes burning brightly as you pressed forward, your head still throbbing from the earlier blow, you slammed your forehead on him, leaving both of you momentarily stunned.

Before Ted could regain his bearings, your palm crashed down on his wrist, exploiting his momentary weakness. The gun slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a loud clatter. The sound was a welcome confirmation of your success in disarming him.

Shaking off the residual dizziness, you moved with swift precision. Your foot struck out, kicking the gun away from his reach. In the same fluid motion, you advanced, your boot connecting with his stomach. The impact sent him hurtling backward, his body colliding with the table. A cacophony of splintering wood accompanied his fall as the table shattered beneath his weight, leaving him sprawled among the debris.

As you stood there, panting slightly, you couldn't ignore the fact that Richy and Jake were both eager to join the fight. This was their battle as much as yours, yet your experience told you that their involvement wouldn't bode well. Jake's injuries left him barely able to stand, and Richy's weakened state from blood loss only added to the danger. As much as you value their willingness to help, you can't allow them to worsen their conditions by joining the fray.

Disregarding the blood that continued to flow from the reopened wound on the side of your head, you closed the distance between you and Ted. But in the midst of your advance, you didn't anticipate his sudden move. A knife materialized in his hand, seemingly from thin air, and he lunged toward your leg. Your reflexes kicked in, and you managed to evade just in time to avoid the full brunt of the strike. Still, the blade grazed against your pants, leaving behind a stinging sensation that served as a harsh reminder that Ted at all fucking costs, should not reach anyone from the three. He’s fully capable to fucking kill someone, and you’ll be damned if you let something happen to them.

"That's it. I'm going in," Richy's voice strained as he struggled against Jake's grasp. While Jake's weakened state made it easier for Richy to wriggle free, the blood loss had left Richy even more vulnerable.

It was a rare sight to see Richy losing his characteristic calm and rational demeanor, and for him to be losing his cool right now means this looks way worse than you imagined. It's a wonder you're still able to keep up with Ted.

Muscle and strength were undoubtedly in Ted's favor, a fact you were acutely aware of. Your typical strategy of using agility to outmaneuver your opponent and turn their strength against them was hindered by the persistent ache in your head from the concussion. Despite this setback, you found yourself pushing through, driven by a potent mixture of adrenaline and determination.

As your breaths came in labored pants, you raised a palm, the blood from your head wound now smeared across your skin. "It's okay, it's okay..."

It was not the best reassuring gesture you could muster but you have to stop Richy. As of now he didn't give much impression that he can give the right call when his judgment is clouded by emotions, it is best to let him stay out of the battlefield.

You let out a harsh breath and tried to get your shit together.

"Richy, listen to me—" your voice caught in a groan, your chest heaving. “You know this mine better than I do. Take everyone to Grimrock. I've got this, hah...”

****

As the tension escalated, Jake was forced to take charge of the situation, guiding both Richy and Hannah forward.

Along the way, as he furiously types against the laptop, he realizes that the stream the culprit had given you was a fake one and was programmed to loop all this time. He also found out that this laptop is also connected to a massive surveillance camera network within the mine. So, to speak the mine is probably riddled with these cameras, lurking in shadows and corners, watching every step they take including the one inside the room you’re currently in under the watchful eye of one such camera.

There’s also an unknown source that had successfully breached their way inside this laptop which essentially had stopped the looped stream minutes ago.

Which means… anyone who has access to the link must have heard and watched what had transpired earlier, and what is currently transpiring in real-time.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath as he shuts down the laptop. He halted, his eyes darting around their surroundings. And then, he spotted it – another camera, the fourth one he'd noticed since they'd left that room.

He had little sense of how far they had come from the exit, but he’s quite sure that they are significantly far enough from you and Ted. He mostly relied on Richy for directions since Ted had destroyed all his gadgets and phone, however, the mechanic seemed lost in his own thoughts, his mumbling refrain of 'It's all my fault' haunting the air like a grim mantra.

Hannah, on the other hand, was a mere shell of herself, overwhelmed both physically and emotionally. Her wide-eyed gaze darted around, barely conscious of her surroundings. He has no idea what happened there before he woke up but the two seemed pretty shaken up more than before.

Though his own memories remained foggy, Jake pushed through the mental haze, focusing on the present moment.

Jake's injuries weighed heavily on him, making every movement a strenuous task. He cursed softly under his breath, knowing that his strength was waning fast. Despite the pain and the nagging worry of potential arrest once they reached Grimrock, he pushed those thoughts aside. The current priority was ensuring the safety of his sister and Richy, especially knowing that you were out there, risking your life for them.

He has to make Hannah and Richy get out of this mine alive. Only after that could he think about returning to you. No matter what.

"Richy," Jake's voice was firm as they reached yet another fork in the tunnel. "Where to?"

“I... I think we should go back.”

That snapped the remaining patience in Jake. “Get yourself together.” He hissed quietly. “We have to get out of here. That is the only way we can help, Y/n.”

“No,” Hannah spoke for the first time in a long while. Her lips trembled as she continued, “this is all my fault… Y/n shouldn’t — Agent Y/l/n shouldn’t risk their life for some murderers!”

Confusion tightened Jake's features. “What are you talking about. Hannah?” he demanded, reaching out to steady her shoulders. “You’re no murderers.”

“No, no, no!” Hannah pulled away; her eyes filled with anguish. She dashed towards the dark tunnel they had come from. Her figure was easily swallowed by the darkness of the mine.

"Hannah!" Richy cries out for her.

No, Hannah...

Jake made a motion to run after her, but a sudden surge of pain pierced his head.

He crumpled to his knees, his hand pressing against his forehead. He tried to sit up, only to be hit by another wave of agony. He groans as he tries to sit up but a sharp beam of light cuts through the darkness, followed by an authoritative voice that echoes off the walls.

“Freeze! This is Duskwood Police!”

****

“I knew there would come a time Richy would betray me,” Ted muttered, his voice dripping with bitterness. His eyes shifted toward the direction they had gone, a hint of anger in his gaze. He started to take a step, his intent clear, but you are not having any of it. He’s going to need to get through with your corpse first before he can leave this room. “Still,” he chuckled darkly. “He did a good job doing the dirty work for me.”

You spat out blood and grinned. “May I remind you he’s never been on your side to begin with?”

“True.” Ted's lips twitched in an almost begrudging acknowledgment. He raised his fist, the knife gleaming menacingly in his other hand while you stood there within a careful distance with an annoyingly sly grin.

Ignoring the ache spiking up with every inch of your body, you settled into your usual fighting stance. One leg was positioned forward, the other slightly back, creating a solid base. Both fists were raised defensively in front of your head, elbows tucked in tightly to protect your sides.

Everything is fucking painful but you didn’t allow yourself to feel anything. Anything but rage. That's all you should feel. Maybe rage would suffice enough to make you stand, to make you walk, to make you fight.

Ted seemed almost amused as he casually tilted his neck, producing an unsettling crack that echoed through the air. His previous grin morphed into a snarl; his eyes filled with a deadly intent. “I’d never want a murderer on my side anyway.”

He decided to move first, the knife swinging fast like a bullet. You just hop back casually, the knife hitting nothing but the air. A wide, almost manic grin spread across his face. Another jab was missed, and then another; one to the right and another to the left.

You quickly realized that Ted is planning to keep this pace up for a while, knowing that if he continued like this given your injuries, you wouldn’t be able to keep up with him before long.

While you're confident in your combat skills, whether up close or at range, your endurance is practically top-notch. You're also aware that Ted has the upper hand in terms of strength and speed at the moment due to your injuries. Nonetheless, you've noticed that while his strength and speed are commendable– he lacks precise muscle coordination, which allows you to deftly evade his jabs.

As the fight raged on, it became evident that Ted's patience was wearing thin. Time seems to slow down as he notices that he has yet to make contact with you. Despite his best efforts, he's only hitting the air. Even your injuries couldn't suppress your movements from being so agile and fluid that he could barely keep up.

“Come on,” you taunted, a playful grin on your face. “You think you’ll be able to catch your self-proclaimed murderers if you can’t even finish off little ol’ me?”

You’re not sure if it’s quite possible to make a person angrier than this but you must have struck a nerve as Ted’s punches came in quick succession, but you are still able to move with such speed, barely needing to shift your weight to evade his blows. Your hands casually rested at your sides, almost mocking Ted as he grew increasingly frustrated.

Minutes passed like a blur, and you continued to evade Ted’s attacks with your god-speed movements. It’s starting to wear you out but still; you manage to go beyond your limits. Even when he had finally cornered you against the wall, you were able to sidestep just in time, causing his fist to collide against the hard wall leaving a large dent against it.

You were always one step ahead. With each punch, you sidestepped, twisted, and ducked with great precision, using quick footwork and careful movements to evade his attacks. You spun and shifted, your movements were seamless and well-timed, making Ted’s' parries miss their mark time and time again.

A second of distraction was all you needed as you quickly rounded behind him, stomping your foot on his back.

You grinned happily as you hop back on your feet and went back to your original stance; hands tucked securely against your arms, patiently waiting for him to stand up.

Ted collided with the wall with a grunt, his tight grip against the knife loosening as it fell to the ground. He didn't expect you to attack back. Nonetheless, he recovered and backed off. That kick was far stronger than he anticipated.

Ted now knew he had underestimated you, and this was no longer a battle he could take lightly. He took a deep breath and charged towards you, this time with more caution in his movements. You could see the determination in his eyes, and you knew that the real battle was about to begin. You have been relying on your evasive skills alone for far too long, and you decided it was time to change up your strategy.

You stepped to the side, avoiding his attack, and countered with a quick jab to his ribs, followed by a hook to his jaw. The blows were quick and powerful, but you didn't stop there.

You followed up with a low kick, sweeping his feet from under him. As Ted fell to the ground, he stood up just as fast as he fell. You didn't let him recover from that and landed a kick to his back. He grunted in pain, but you didn't stop.

You delivered a series of punches to his sides and stomach, each one more powerful than the last. Ted tried to block and dodge, but your attacks were too quick and too precise.

Finally, you backed off, giving him a moment to catch his breath or more precisely, give yourself a break because ‘Goddammit, I think I’ve pushed myself a little too hard.’ You think. You just hoped they had already gotten out of here.

You tried to hide the grimace on your face as you stood there, waiting for him to get back up.

“Aren’t you going a little overboard protecting those murderers, agent?" Ted questioned; his breaths uneven as he regained his footing.

“The only murderer I see right now is you,” you retorted with a teasing expression, you ran your fingers through your hair, brushing away the dried blood hindering your vision.

“Fool!” This only provokes Ted to charge at you again. This time, his kicks were even more forceful and aggressive than before, and you could see that he was putting all his strength into the attacks. However, you remained unfazed, still smirking as you evaded his blows with ease. Although there were moments when he nearly landed a hit on you, you managed to block them just in time with one arm.

You noted though that if you weren’t a trained agent, even though you managed to block his attacks, they are still strong enough to leave a bruise or worse, break a bone to a normal civilian with no fighting experience or whatever.

After a moment of pure evasion from a parry of attacks from Ted, your smile widened as you noticed a glaring blind spot that everyone could see in broad daylight.

As Ted threw a careless punch, you swiftly ducked and moved to his right, unleashing a series of quick, harsh jabs to his ribs. He grunted in pain and swung wildly at you, but you ducked once more and followed up with a roundhouse kick to his face. The blow left him dizzy and disoriented, causing his attacks to become more and more inaccurate.

As he threw another punch, you swiftly yanked his arm and tossed him away. You watched as he turned around and surged back towards you, ready to attack once again. But you were ready for him this time, swiftly ducking under his arm and delivering a punch with such incredible speed and force that may seem impossible for someone who is injured. Your fist made contact with his chest, sending him hurtling into the wall with a thud.

“Finally…” you panted as you crouched in front of his unconscious form, checking for signs of consciousness. Confirming his state, you knew that this was the one-in-a-million outcome you had hoped for.

The suspect was alive, Richy and Hannah had escaped, and you were left victorious. Thoughts of Jake's safety lingered, but you held onto the belief that he would find a way to save himself. If not, you were determined to come to his rescue.

With a sense of satisfaction, you stood up and turned to retrieve the ropes you had been tied with to restrain Ted.

Suddenly you heard a bang.

It was so sudden and loud that you weren’t able to react immediately. Only when you felt the sharp stinging pain against your side did you realize that you had been shot. Warm blood began to pool against your palms as you tried to put pressure on them. You look back at the source and to your horror, Ted with a revolver in his hands has begun to rise from his place. A sickening grin plastered all over his face.

"Got you," his raspy voice cut through the air.

The pain was too much. You have only been fighting earlier out of sheer will and adrenaline, and now that they finally wore off plus a gunshot wound, the pain you are feeling is spiking up all over so bad that you can’t even determine which one hurts the most.

You tried standing up, but it only made you fall on your back as you clutched your side in pain.

Ted’s grinning face looms over you menacingly. “You have put up a good fight, Agent. I’ll give you some credit. However, this is where you will say goodbye.”

Ted raised his revolver, and time seemed to slow down. The movies had always depicted this moment — life flashing before your eyes. Faces of loved ones, friends, and memories cascaded through your mind. Each cherished moment, each unfulfilled promise, they all surged to the forefront.

Images of Jake, Richy, Lilly, Dan, Cleo, Thomas, Hannah, and Jessy flooded your thoughts.

All your moments with them— with her came flashing.

All moments of what could have been came spiraling. All the possible dates, the traveling, the camping with the gang. All those you promised to give her.

You won’t be able to keep your promises.

How could something that hasn’t yet begun start to end right in your very eyes? Was it really meant to be this way?

Maybe.

It’s okay. You tried to convince yourself. They’re safe now. You can rest.

You close your eyes, acceptance slowly creeping up to cover up the pain. You waited for the gunshot.

A beat of silence occurred.

But none came. Only to hear a soft hiss of a swing was heard and then a crack.

“Y/n!”

You dared to open your eyes and saw a pair of warm gray eyes meeting your own. “H-han…” you tried to speak but found it difficult to even breathe.

“I've got you… I've got you,” she whispered, offering a shaky hand to help you up. You grunted, your vision going white from the hot pain. Nevertheless, your eyes fought hard to spot Ted.

There he was, sprawled across the floor, blood pooling around his head. Beside him is the bloodied metallic baseball bat that he had swung at you earlier. An understanding came through you.

“I-I hit him…” Hannah tries to explain between sniffs. “He was… he was going to shoot you..! I didn’t— I don’t know what to do. I j-just can’t let him kill you. I’m sorry.” Her tears fell, her grip on you trembling.

You squeeze her other hand that supports you. “I… h-hah it’s okay, Hannah. You— you didn’t kill him.”

As if to prove his point. Ted's laughter broke through his pain, filling the room. He laughed, a haunting sound that soon morphed into sobs. Both of you watched as he crawled on the ground, his movements feeble. Hannah had hit him pretty hard.

“Jen… I’m sorry…” He sobs, eyes staring at no one in particular. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I missed you so much…”

You can only watch him break down. You’re sure his ragged sobs will forever be embarked in your mind. You truly felt sorry for him. But there’s no way out of this one.

Abruptly, his sobs ceased, leaving behind an eerie stillness that engulfed the mine. Ted's gaze shifted toward you and Hannah, his eyes vacant, as though grappling with his inner demons.

It was during this unsettling stillness that you noticed Ted conjure a lighter from thin air, its faint glow illuminating his twisted grin. He ignited the lighter's flame and then released it, allowing it to fall to the ground with a soft hiss. Suddenly, the damp soil underfoot ignited, setting off a chain reaction of fire that raced through the room and beyond the tunnels.

Only then do you realize that the damp soils from the ground weren’t because of water, they were gasoline!

Fuck it. You didn’t expect Ted to resort to suicide, and of course, he thought that’s the best way to bring down you two. Even at the expense of his own death.

The roaring fire's fury consumed the surroundings, the air thickening with smoke and chaos. As the flames surged ever closer, Hannah's grip on you tightened, pulling you away from the encroaching inferno. “Come on!” She fights back the tears as you hear Ted’s one last scream of agony before everything goes silent.

“You should go…” You managed to rasp out, the pain evident in your voice. “Hannah, I’m just going to slow you down…”

“No!” she shook her head vehemently. “I can’t leave you here!”

You managed a weak chuckle, your body straining against the pain. “You’re as h-hah— stubborn as Lilly… but I’m here because I want to s-save you. And that still stands true right n-now…”

Hannah’s grip on your hips tightened. Her pace suddenly goes faster as she helps you navigate through the tunnel with slight ease. Luckily the fire here isn’t as bad as where you came from, but you know it will eventually catch up if you don't hurry.

“This might be hell coming its way up here to come and make me pay for my sins.” Hannah's laugh was tinged with bitterness and tears. “I’m done running away. But I’ll be damned if I let you get caught in this mess again. Let me save you this time, Y/n.”

~~~~~

A/n: Hi! Good evening (morning or afternoon) to y'all. Sorry, this took so long. As I have said, I find it quite challenging to write a fight scene that would be satisfactory but I tried my best. This is not beta-read just yet because my eyes are so tired from finishing the chapter hahaha but nevertheless, I think it's worth it. Lemme know what you guys think in the comments. I shall rest my eyes now so I'll probably respond to y'all tomorrow. Adios!

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