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motherofagony · 6 months

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A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 2

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: post outbreak!joel x f!reader setting: jackson, wy (think tlou pt. 2 minus the golfing) rating: mature, 18+, minors dni word count: 8.7k series summary: a vicious raider attack robs you of human connection and lights a fire of destruction in your life in jackson. joel's fixated on you, and your lives tangle. revenge becomes a needful thing. chapter summary: you take care of joel after a patrol injury, but you suspect there's more to it than he's telling you. the atmosphere shifts as you and joel grow (begrudgingly) closer. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), protective!joel, brief masturbation (f!reader), praise kink for two seconds, blood, bodily injuries, needles (reader gives joel stitches), dissociation/triggers, alcohol, angst, sexual tension intensifies, The First Kiss™, soft!joel vol. 1 // vol. 2 series playlist a/n: we're picking up speed, folks. world-building is my weakness, so i hope you enjoy this nonetheless. honorable mention goes to the readers in the trenches, waiting patiently for joel to [redacted] reader senseless until she [redacted] all over his [redacted]. thank you for the love on the series so far. taglist: @ghostwritesthings, @widowssbite, @p3rkerr, @eternallyvenus, @punkshort if anyone would like to be added/removed to the taglist (or if i missed anyone), please send me a DM!

You’ve always hated flying.

In the great before, the stone ages of family vacations and things to look forward to, fears were singular and planes were yours.

Your family never had a lot of money, not really, but on the special occasion of a death in the family, you’d find yourself trapped to a seat in a metal tube. Going nowhere but up. Sitting through safety instructions that came from smiling, lipsticked mouths that were only hypotheticals until they weren’t.

It’s like a rollercoaster, your dad would say, amused in the way only a dad can be and sleeping through damn near anything in the same fashion. It did nothing to calm the knocking of your knees, to quell the flip of your stomach as you climbed higher and higher until you couldn’t see anything but cotton ball clouds.

It was always unnatural to you that something so heavy could float, that you were supposed to go on doing human things and drinking your ginger ale and munching your pre-packaged snack option. As if you weren’t being hurled into the sky with no one walking you through it.

As if the plummet onto tarmac meant no harm, just completely normal erratic braking that felt a lot like the moments before a crash.

There was no control — it was in someone else’s hands that you never saw. And as you fell, you were supposed to say thank you, that’s exactly what I paid for.

This is your version of the oxygen mask. This is you putting yours on before you help Joel.

You’re on your knees digging through your med bag, thumbing through bandages, checking for a quick count of gloves, antibiotics, wash cloths. You fumble with the zipper, fighting with the tremor that starts in your forearms and liquifies into your wrists. There isn’t much in the way of supplies unless you ransack what’s kept in storage, but there’s no time, and you’re not sure of what you’re about to walk into.

Waiting any moment for a scream, or the blast of a gun when they realize Joel’s not Joel anymore.

And it isn’t really a big possibility in the grand scheme of things, if you consider that he would’ve likely turned on the route home. But it’s still there, tickling the back of your head, nudging your navel uncomfortably. Nothing’s impossible.

You of all people know that.

You linger in your living room, giving a final sweep. Worst case, you can run back for what’s forgotten, but something about the idea of abandoning a vulnerable Joel – if only for a minute – doesn’t settle right in your stomach.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving a bottle of whiskey into the bag, the only anesthetic on hand. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you need to score back some points.

The steps leading up to Joel’s house are sturdy, and you imagine it’s because of the pride he takes in what’s his. Before this, his house was just another skeleton of roof, foundation, windows, and siding.

The kind of houses you pass by every day that are rife with familiarity but you don’t know what it’s like to see the people inside eat dinner, brush their teeth. Fight. Fuck.

Fresh paint from only two seasons ago, reinforced porch posts. A swing. It’s weird to see permanence in this day and age, but his intention to anchor himself and grow roots here flutters meaningfully inside you.

It’s always been a sacred thing to you, you don’t know why. A place you’d never dreamed of entering, but dreamed about what it would smell like. A pair of boots haphazard by the front door, small piles of organized chaos, of collected tangibles. A you never know if you’ll need this in one corner, a saving that for a rainy day shelved in another.

So when you raise your hand to knock, you feel like an intruder, an unwelcome invasion of privacy. And you don’t know why you knock at all, you nearly think better of it given the circumstances, but you’re testing the atmosphere, hoping for voices inside instead of a struggle.

Ellie’s swinging the door open, relief smoothing out the lines in her forehead when she sees you. Her presence seems to answer any unspoken questions you had about Joel being infected, and you don’t voice them to her when you can see unrest in her antsy legs.

“Hey. Sorry for the wait. He alright?”

Her teeth are worrying her lip, probably more traumatized by the sight of him than anything. A few strands of hair have freed themselves from her lazy half-bun at the base of her neck, caught in the crossfire when she ran her hands through it, you think.

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes, committing to it. “Yeah, he’s okay. Bleeding stopped, nothing seems broken. Just needs stitches, I think.”

It sounds more to convince herself than anything else. There’s a foreign fragility to her, and you hate it.

“He tell you what happened?”

The question strikes a nerve. Ellie’s shaking her bowed head, scoffing in a half-laugh that doesn’t touch her eyes. Her hand wraps around her knuckles, cracking slowly in an effort to alleviate the tension that’s reached a fever pitch inside her.

“He won’t tell me, says it doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have gone alone anyway, he was bein’ a dick. ‘I wanna think, kiddo - need t’clear my head,’” she mocks in a gruff, rolling pitch, the perfect dosage of Texas.

It levels you, potent. Are you the thing Joel needed to clear his head of?

You’re weirdly longing for it, but being flicked away like a bug, peeled away layer by layer from him isn’t something you want.

There’s hope that you’re contagious. That you’re haunting him and lurking in the darkest corners of his mind like an apparition like he has yours. And maybe there’s hope after all, something left to salvage.

But you play dumb, furrow your brow a little too expertly.

Ellie’s measuring you, and there’s a glimpse of worry but she hides it in a way that you wouldn’t know what you were looking for if you hadn’t already found it.

“Anything you wanna tell me about the other night? He was pissed when he left,” she tacks on quietly.

You go a little slack-jawed. You don’t even know how to put it into words, and you couldn’t tell her what it meant even if you tried.

What’s there to even say?

“You know what, none of my business,” she says, her hands lifting in tired surrender when you don’t answer, ignoring your near-sputter. “But you’re not off the hook, just make sure the old man doesn’t croak. And tell him he scared the shit outta me.”

You exhale and hope it doesn’t read too much as relief. You’ll have to answer to her later, but at least you might have an answer to give.

“Handful of salt in the wound, rub in circular motions – got it. Tell Tommy I’ll catch up later.”

Your shoulders scrape affectionately as you nudge past each other, and you cast a wide look at the periphery of Joel Miller’s house. The feeling of unwelcome disappears, and if anything, you’re being tugged further inside. Imagining what it’s like to be a fixture, an adornment in his weird little life.

Nooks that you assumed would be messy are neat, coiffed even. There’s that unavoidable smudge of secondhand all over the furniture – mottled ever so slightly, aged uneven in places that only an apocalypse can do. But it’s an otherwise tidy existence. Another surprise from Joel that you’d never pick up on if you only witnessed him nursing a drink at the bar.

An oak bookshelf props itself at the bottom of the stairs and it rivals your own, dust gathering in thin lines where he’s repeatedly shelved this, reread that. There are paintings hung decisively on most of the walls, breathtaking rural landscapes of wherever.

You’re lugging the bag upstairs, counting your breaths with each step. The whiskey rattles mutely against the first aid tin, and it’s a toss-up now of who you really brought it for.

The landing mirrors the ground level, a purposeful littering of tchotchkes. Doors line the second floor, some closed, some ajar but not inviting, and you realize you have no idea which one you’re looking for. You sway uninvited by the bannister until you hear the unmistakable hiss of breath between clenched teeth, then a soft moan as his weight shifts.

And you’re stepping inside a room – his bedroom – warmed in the soft beginnings of sunset. Joel’s sprawled asymmetrically on his bed, eyes pinched shut, delirious with blood loss but already looking substantially less like a corpse. A damp rag settles just above his brow, and the handiwork of Ellie.

There’s an unrecognizable hurt in him, wounded in ways that he shouldn’t be capable of.

He doesn’t give any indication that he knows you’re here until he’s rasping out something weak disguised as stern.

“I ain’t bit. Shut the door behind you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“How did you –?”

Joel just huffs in response, as indignant as his body lets him be.

“You see anyone else here? They might as well’ve jumped out the window, as fast as they dumped me ‘n left. I ain’t stupid.”

You accept that and drop the pretense, pursing your lips with a nod. He doesn’t seem that offended, knows it’s just the nature of the beast.

You move over to his bedside, unpacking the bag quickly on a side table, looping your metaphorical stethoscope around your neck and switching gears into a mode that’s strictly doctoral.

Yet, there’s still that hum beneath your skin, the fizzle of unfinished business. It’s thick in the space between you, in the way he flicks his gaze at you lazily. You’ll let him foster the anger, giving it a home. You can be the martyr he says you are.

This new lens feels calmer, almost professional. Your nerves are still firing rapidly, and your composure is forced, but it’s better than nothing.

You drag a chair from the corner up to Joel’s bed, not letting your eyes wander too far into the depths of the space. You don’t have time to dissect the idiosyncrasies of his life. Not yet.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but you get the sense that he’s tracking your every move. His limbs are concrete, the tendons in his forearms so tense and coiled like any and every movement is forbidden.

“Joel.”

He grunts, a pained translation. Still no effort to move.

“I need to take a look at you,” you say patiently, bargaining like you would with a kid. “Wanna tell me what hurts?”

Another grunt, softer this time. He motions vaguely, weakly to his head, then the left flank of his abdomen.

You already know what you’ll find under the rag on his head, and it bodes well that the bleeding looks to have stopped. His stomach wound, on the other hand, was enough to bleed through two layers.

“Alright. Lemme see.”

A muted whimper echoes in his throat, so uncharacteristically that it tugs on your heart. Still statuesque, unmoving.

Your fingers are deft, careful as they unbutton the first, second, third buttons of his flannel. Joel’s stock-still, and his breath comes in sharp, slow waves through his nose. Your own breath kind of sits in the back of your throat, and you pretend with a hurried exhale that you weren’t just holding it.

Your fingers reach his navel on the last button, and you’re gently tucking each panel of his shirt under him on either side, focusing too hard on not touching him. It feels like something is somersaulting low in your stomach.

You can’t even dare yourself to look at his chest, his stomach. The patch of hair leading down to the band of his pants.

Get it together. That’s not what this is.

An angry gash looks up at you, thankfully clotted with dried patches of blood. It’s about two delicate fingers long, a nasty slice. It looks clean, abrupt in shape but suspiciously manmade. Not too deep, but not superficial enough to heal without some assistance.

And thank god, not nearly as bad as you thought it would be.

Joel’s looking at you now through heavy lids, wary of you, but something like fear touches the corners of his eyes. You fight to stay medical, methodical in your diagnosis. No emotion slips out, nothing allowed in.

You sit back calmly, letting loose a sigh. Not letting yourself bathe in the intimacy of the moment, in the way he’s staring.

“You need stitches,” you announce simply.

“Like hell.”

“Joel.”

He’s scowling, a hurt animal pissed at its own vulnerability. Silence passes like a ship between you, and for a moment, you think he’ll really fight you on this. He can’t hide anything when he’s like this, the weighing of his options evident in the tick of his jaw, the pathetic pinch just in the center of his brows.

“Fine,” he grits out. “Make it quick.”

This fucker.

You’re rolling your eyes, unceremoniously tugging the rag from his forehead. The cloth is red but not soaked, just twinged pink around the edges. Joel curses, just an octave above unintelligible.

His hand is shooting to the cut near his hairline and you’re smacking it away before he can pollute it.

“Lay still, fuck’s sake,” you chastise. “An infection’ll put you out longer than a few days. Unless you have a puzzle you been meaning to get around to?”

The faux-threat calms him immediately, and the shift in restraint doesn’t go unchecked. He doesn’t say another word, but you catch a glare and a twitch of his mouth.

You make quick work of cleaning him up, squeezing rubbing alcohol on a clean towel and scrubbing patient circles through the mess of dried blood. Joel releases sharp noises you can only describe as growls when you get too close to the border of his cuts.

It’s primal, a dog asserting dominance with his leg caught in a trap.

You try to lose the attitude, and it’s difficult when your patient hates you, doesn’t hate you, won’t clarify either way.

There’s a hint of purple that’s developing like fresh film on the mountains of his knuckles that doesn’t go unnoticed. Places on the most taut peaks of flesh where his skin has split, marred with scrapes that look like indents of teeth. And in the right light, there’s a discoloration of something in the same family splayed on his ribs.

And that… you know that when you see it. Even if everything else can be explained away.

“You wanna talk about it?” you say quietly.

There’s an intermission where he doesn’t respond. Too long to be the truth, too short to come up with a lie. And you know he’s been waiting for this question, might’ve already thought of a story.

“Got clumsy,” Joel recites. “Tripped on some stairs that were caving in, hit my head.”

“Bullshit.” And it’s a statement, not an insult. It doesn’t cover why he has a certified stab wound in his side.

Another stretch of silence, lack of defensiveness, makes it clear that he knows you know. But he doesn’t elaborate, and for whatever reason, you don’t push it.

And maybe it’s enough to acknowledge this sort of thing for now. You can stow it away, let it keep you up at night. Draw parallels where there possibly aren’t any. If he’d run into a human thing, he’d be much worse off, right?

Just like you were.

You take care in lining up the supplies to stitch in neat order beside you, mulling over each step in your mind. Stalling, maybe.

You pull the whiskey bottle out of your bag by the neck and nudge Joel with the cap.

“Something to take the edge off.”

He kind of hesitates, but there’s a tenderness. Recognizing it as an act of mercy, a peace offering.

There’s nothing said, but he takes the bait, spinning off the top and swallowing a messy mouthful. A drip escapes through the corner of his mouth and slips into his beard.

You can feel the taste of it blossoming on your tongue.

He grunts his thanks and keeps a steady grip on the neck of the bottle, and the network of veins in his forearm unwind.

You clamp the needle, laced through with something thicker than thread but not quite medical grade. Joel exhales a shaky whine when you pierce the skin, and his fist grips the sheets when you twist clockwise to push the needle through to the other side.

“You’re doing great,” you murmur.

The needle weaves over the cut, greeting the other side. You pull it through and up, and his lower lip trembles, sweat beading his forehead.

“First one done,” you say, praising him but also yourself.

Joel’s still clenching the linens on the bed, ignoring you and hiding out in his own mind somewhere.

You don’t tell him that you’ve only ever practiced on fruit, that your suture knowledge comes exclusively from the one medical text you have and endless hours of TV you grew up on.

Silence envelopes you again, heavier than before if possible. The pressure waxes and wanes like nighttime waves, licking the shore between you. And it’s not angry, just something… else.

“Some house you got,” you note casually as a distraction, like you’re commenting on the weather. It comes off relaxed enough, though any conversation between you feels like flossing a crowded mouth.

His eyes sharpen, and you think it’s in excruciation, but there’s a twinge of apprehension. You straighten for a moment, hands fixed mid-stitch, and roll your eyes.

“Okay, cool it, Home Alone, I’m not casing the place.”

Joel takes a turn rolling his eyes. You swear that you see his mouth twitch again, but you hang your head, dabbing a cloth where pinpricks of blood form.

You try again.

“I like your paintings.”

You dare to look up, and his mouth is in a tight line.

“You like my paintings.” he repeats dully, not a question. Joel’s as cynical as you, and he thinks it’s a jab, not sincere.

“You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Now’s as good a time as any. You sigh at that.

“Look, the other night wasn’t my finest moment. It didn’t need to go that way,” you mutter, leaning on the concentration of sewing up Joel’s skin. Otherwise, you might feel too strongly, dissect your word choice with an uncomfortable linger. “Sorry. I know you were trying to help.”

He goes rigid as your second stitch meets a third. The bottle tips to his lips again, and you wonder if it’s an act of liquid courage. You boldly hope so.

“Nah, I shoulda kept my mouth shut. Been thinkin’ I needed to apologize anyway,” he admits, and you know he’s happy you made the first move. You can already feel him loosen, but maybe it’s the alcohol. “You ain’t a martyr, y’know.”

Oh.

The needle hooks into the final sliver of skin, your handiwork tightening into a neat line. You sit back, wiping your brow with the ungloved section of your wrist. It’s a treaty, a handshake at the very least.

“Actually, I think you hit the nail on the head with that one,” you smirk, olive branch fully hanging between your teeth now. “Keeping up the charade is so exhausting.”

Joel presses out a pained half-laugh, and you feel something crumbling between you.

You tie off the last stitch, trimming the excess thread off the knot. The clamp clatters into the tray, and you give it a final once-over before peeling a large rectangle of bandage from your kit and pressing it gently over the wound.

“All done,” you quip, peeling your gloves off. “Didn’t even have to amputate.”

“Not too bad,” he grunts.

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

While you’re riding the high of approval, you stand and move to the foot of the bed. Joel’s boots are still on, laced messily.

And for some reason, you don’t even ask permission, you just start untying, tipping them off and lining them next to one another on the hardwood.

He doesn’t say a word. Out of confusion, maybe.

You scoot your chair and makeshift flatlay along with you, positioning yourself at Joel’s head. That look is back, a side-stare that steals your breath.

That look that knows you could absolutely ruin him, and he’d either thank you or kill you.

The pads of your fingers brush back the hair from his forehead, still slightly matted with blood. It’s a surface cut, but crescent-shaped and easily hidden by a curl of brown, peppered with grey. Butterfly closure it is.

No signs of a concussion show themselves. At least there’s that.

“You might have a scar,” you murmur. Being this close to Joel makes you feel like you’re wearing two layers too many.

And he hasn’t broken the stare, not even minutely.

“Add it to the collection,” he says lowly, not an ounce of self-pity.

Your eyes flash to the scar near his temple. You’re exercising full-on restraint not to ask him about it. But it’s not the time, something you could try to pry out of him later. And knowing there’ll be a later makes you relax your shoulders, unclench your jaw.

He’s nice enough to pretend not to notice, or he’s in too much pain to mention it.

You dab the damp rag around the border of his cut again, mopping up any excess. You reach for the isopropyl.

“You might wanna take another swig,” you warn. And he obeys, down the hatch and white-knuckling through it.

“Good boy,” you’re murmuring automatically, and it just slips out.

Your mouth falls open just so, and Joel’s coughing, clearing his throat against the burn of whiskey. You’re pleading with the universe that his cough was close enough, loud enough to cover the words, but his face has turned a shade of red that’s probably rivaling the heat that reaches your ears.

Good boy? Jesus Christ.

If there was ever a heightened moment of being fucking touch-starved, it’s this.

You make haste with the disinfectant and place the closures over the cut. The bloodied towels and scraps from the DIY surgery are cleaned up, tied neatly into a plastic bag. And now, this is the part where you run and never face him again.

You’re already making plans to board up your windows, maybe have Ellie deliver your meals solely through a slot in the door.

But Joel’s pain is overriding everything, and he’s sunken even further back into the pillow, his head lolling to prop on his shoulder. He’s whispering a weak thanks that’s incoherent at best. You tug the blanket up and over him.

You grab a glass from downstairs, fill it to the brim with water and bring it to him. He groans at the sight, petulant.

“I’m not leaving until you finish this.”

His lifts his arm for it, scowling. “Gimme the damn thing.”

Satisfied, you hand it over and watch him drink it down, his throat bobbing in a hearty gulp. Your gaze can’t help but snag on it.

You have got to get the fuck out of here.

You come back with a refilled glass and sit it on his bedside table, close enough within reach. The medical bag is packed up and ready, sagging slightly in areas where you’ve emptied it. It knocks against your already-knocking knees, and you’re grateful to use its weight as an excuse for how blurred you feel.

“I need to talk to Tommy. You gonna be alright for a bit?”

His eyes are closed again, on the outskirts of rest, but his mouth pulls up in the ghost of smile.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart.”

And you hope he means it.

—

You track down an unsettled Tommy, finding him pacing in the back of the general store. He’s restocking some shelves but not quite – there’s an gross pairing of tinned fish and fresh eggs sitting on a display that’s unappetizing at best.

“He’s okay. No bite,” you add lowly, acutely aware of how many pairs of ears are in the store. “But he needs to be monitored.”

Tommy slackens, rubbing his eyes that are full of exhaustion and bruised with worry. Index finger and thumb stroking the respective tails of his mustache one, two, three times as the gravity of that strikes him.

He loops you into an embrace, and it’s kind, full of ease. The smell of firewood and smoke tickles your nose. His worry evaporates then, and honestly, so does yours.

“He doin’ alright?”

You chew on that for a moment and nod. There are complications, but nothing to do with Joel’s health.

“He was pissed about the stitches, but I didn’t have a choice. Cut was pretty deep.”

“So… he tell you what happened, then?”

There’s that question again. You feel like you should have an answer, but if he wouldn’t clue in Ellie, you sure as hell wouldn’t be.

Like squeezing blood from a stone, your dad used to say.

“No,” you lie instinctively. You don’t know why.

But it isn’t really. Not if you don’t know the full truth yourself. There’s just something about Joel’s omission that makes you feel entitled to find out first.

“He said he fell down some stairs,” you amend, “just didn’t say where or how.”

Tommy offers you the same look that Ellie gave you – a raised brow coupled with a touch of disbelief.

“If you say so.”

You shrug, playing it as cool as’ll come natural to you. “You know Joel. Doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and rolling out his shoulders that you know have been holding tension. He believes that, at least.

“Sounds like you know him, too.”

—

A few days come and go.

Ellie takes on a lot of the recovery, but she doesn’t like messing with stitches — creeps me the fuck out that you did that without puking all over him, she claims — and she’s eager to substitute for the patrol routes while Joel’s down and out. You offer to step in, with a totally normal and selfless motive.

If she thinks anything else of it, you’d be the last to know.

Your new itinerary consists of changing Joel’s bandages, cleaning up through his hissed breaths and every goddamn it. Twice a day, morning and night and sometimes in closer intervals, but never approaching the cusp of any boundary.

Joel’s fiercely independent, swatting your hands when you try to help. Donning a clean flannel in the space between your lunchtime visit and your nightcap, despite you telling him that he shouldn’t be pushing his mobility.

That said, he’s marginally better about following doctor’s orders, drinking the water you leave on his nightstand but neglecting the pills that would stop him from coiling in on himself like a ready spring. And he doesn’t say it but you know it’s because he thinks it’d be a waste.

You trade regular formalities at first, each of you standing behind your respective walls, daring the other to toe a bit closer.

Joel doesn’t ask, but you bring him some short stories to pass the time and he devours them. You didn’t think much of it other than just straying past the point of being nice, but your heart sings a bit at how he leaves his shell at your coaxing.

You learn Bradbury is his favorite, but when he finishes The Most Dangerous Game, it’s the most he’s ever spoken to you in one sitting, astounded at the perfectly tied bow of an ending, asking you questions that only the author could answer. But it’s a marvel to witness, something you think about when you’re cleaning stables or washing dishes.

He’s unraveling for you, a loose thread tugged too hard on your favorite sweater. He talks of the places in the paintings, sometimes abruptly, like he isn’t sure what his cue is or if he has one.

Mentions of pre-Jackson when there was so much uncertainty and isolation, but it was coupled with those types of watercolor skies that you couldn’t paint if you tried.

These little pieces of him that make him whole – it’s like you’re both in on the same secret. And Joel isn’t doing it to lighten the tension, to be nice; that isn’t his brand of politeness. He just revels in the holy act of confession with you as his witness.

You come to learn that his room is modest, different from the rest of his house. Clues of hobbies sprawled on his desk – leatherworking tools and hand drawn blueprints that you can’t get a good look at with just a sidelong glance.

There’s a dusty stereo tucked at the back towards the wall, and you picture a content Joel, sketching new plans for a porch swing or some small addition while old bluesy country croons from the speakers.

You like this daydream, placing him in something lighthearted where his only worry is that he’s losing daylight on yardwork.

The two of you talk about little bits of everything and nothing. Reminiscing about sending snail mail, discussing what you think places like Italy look like now. How close you came to crossing an ocean in another life.

Tonight, you have a night terror that clings to you like wet denim. Stop-motion, nonsensical. Your head ricocheting into concrete, hitting your temple just so. Flashes of the people that used to be your parents, your friends.

And just as the life drains from you, blood seeping onto the floor and into spidering cracks, you wake up a flailing mess.

You practice your routine, twisting on knobs of lamps and plugging in the twinkling lights hanging around the perimeter of the living room. You press your cheek to the floor, checking under your bed for monsters for good measure.

Bleary-eyed, you’re climbing back under the covers, pulling them snug up to your chin.

There’s a neediness crawling its way through your organs with a one-way ticket south. The juxtaposition of fear mingles with an otherness, and it anchors itself to Joel.

You never cared for a protector, still don’t, but the eagerness that sprouts from him to defend your honor — and for nothing in return — magnetizes you on a cellular level.

Your fingers are dipping into the band of your already-damp underwear, taking inventory of what the thought of him does to you. Body on auto-pilot. A pool of dripping neediness, so slick that you’re coating your clit in excess and rubbing in tight circles.

He doesn’t even have to touch you, and it’s pathetic.

Images of Joel’s beard scratching your thighs swirls behind your eyelids, your hand gliding between the glistening of your folds. Fingers crook inside you, dipping into the last knuckle, and you’re choking on a gasp, already on the edge.

You wish they were more calloused, thicker, with length that can hit the spot that’s desperately out of reach.

You wish they were Joel’s.

It takes only a minute, some curling and pumping of your wrist to make it quick in case it’ll only ever be a fantasy. The wet noises of your arousal are nothing short of obscene, and you’re coming loudly, sharply on a string of moans.

In some ways, you think, you have already died.

And fuck. It’s so poetic it makes you sick.

—

On the fourth day, Maria sends you to Joel’s with some stew — two hearty containers that're meant for the both of you.

She’s been taking her shift at his place, carrying over containers of this and that to keep him fed. You wonder how often she takes on that role anyway, sans injury. You don’t peg Joel as the type to eat three square meals a day of his own accord.

Tell Joel I can’t make it tonight. Gotta do inventory.

She makes no room for elaboration, so you don’t ask. But you thank her with a hug, and you could swear that she’s giving you a conspiratorial smirk.

When you knock on Joel’s bedroom, he gives a new, warm invitation, coated in subtle hospitality. It’s a far stretch from the unaffected what? you might’ve received a week ago.

You place the stew down on the bedside table, along with some bowls and spoons you plucked from his kitchen. He just looks up at you from his bed, uncertainty reaching the lines of his forehead.

“It’s all Maria,” you explain and he hums, catching up.

“Explains a lot,” he mutters.

You eat quietly for a little over ten minutes. Joel’s flannel today boasts a rich navy, buttoned up to the top but not far enough to hide the sprinkling of hair that peeks through.

He catches you staring and pins you with a dark glance.

“You afraid of the dark or somethin’?”

Joel’s ask cuts through the air, and your spoon stops mid-route to your open mouth. It’s so out of the blue that it stuns you momentarily.

“Sorry?”

“You turn the lights on at night.”

What you thought to be private moments of fear were actually on display for all to see.

For Joel to see.

And the memory of your thighs trapping your hand as you came over and over again on your fingers… you’re grateful to at least have had some decorum to draw your bedroom curtains.

“Um.” You dig for a way to say nope, I’m actually just a pussy and I see things that aren’t there. Also, I was touching myself thinking about you last night. “No, just nightmares.”

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s searing. A bead of sweat makes a slow descent down your spine to your tailbone. You laugh lightly to deflect.

Joel’s mouth thins into a tight line.

“It’s nothing,” you promise.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he snaps. His brows are knitted in fury, misdirected. But you get it.

Your stomach is rumbling, but you’ve effectively lost whatever appetite you had. The bowl finds a space on the side table, and you’re pulling your knees to your chest protectively, thumbing at the fray on the cuff of your jeans.

You don’t mean to scowl, but you can’t help it. You can’t even meet his eyes.

Joel’s sighing, his own bowl discarded on the nightstand, grazing the lip of yours.

“Look, it’s not my business,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “but that kinda shit worries me.”

When you do look up, he’s rubbing his beard with rigid fingers. You should feel nice and fuzzy that he cares enough to point it out, but it’s just embarrassment instead.

That, on top of everything else, you can’t even get through the night without waking up in a cold sweat.

“I know how it looks,” you say in surrender, “but I swear I’m fine.”

You can imagine what it would feel like to really mean it; it’s just on the tip of your tongue. There is a defiance there, it’s just struggling to find a way out.

“You sure about that?”

You let your feet touch the floor, straightening out your legs and busying yourself with smoothing the creases in your pants.

“You worry about everyone else like this?” you muse, hoping to redirect.

Joel’s scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed anywhere else.

“Always worried about you.”

If you were any farther away, you wouldn’t have heard him.

Outside, kids are yelling, playing tag. You watch in jealousy, can almost hear the crunch of their boots and their tiny, inconsequential conversations. It takes you longer than intended to give a response, and he waits, patiently. Just trickles a look from the crown of your head to your hands to your face. Searching for a reaction.

“You’re about ten months late, Miller.” And you’re smiling briefly. You mean it as playful, but it’s colored with sadness.

His eyes glaze, and the wheels are turning, wondering if that also means too late.

“Didn’t want you to think I was takin’ advantage of the situation. And I thought Max —” Joel bites down on the name.

“Fuck Max,” you spit in disgust. “That was never a thing.”

You don’t have to make eye contact to see that he’s pleased by that. He hums in the back of his throat. Resists a shit-eating grin. From the looks of Joel connecting the dots, you don’t need say much else.

“Yeah, well. We all failed you,” he insists. “I failed you.”

It sets an incredulous spark in some hidden part of you. Nails cut into your palm, your fists balling harshly. Everyone else? Sure, you’d give him that. Jackson spit you out, with the exception of a select few.

But Joel?

“You saved me.”

“Not good enough,” he says under his breath.

—

The next day, you let yourself inside, already learning the language of Joel’s house when you press a little extra weight against the door to seal it shut when it sticks.

It’s quiet, on the cusp of 8, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Joel’s on the brink of sleep.

The sun’s long settled over the mountain, so there’s not much in the way of guidance.

It’s dark, but you expected it to be. You draw the curtains one by one, moving blindly from room to room yet knowing exactly where your feet are. It strikes you as odd, a visitor keeping pace with an unfamiliar house.

But if Joel’s anything, it’s predictable. Unfussy in the way he keeps out of the way, even in his own space. Takes pride in it, sure, but lives in a way that demands nothing but cherishes everything, even the absence of something.

Meaning there’s nothing too unexpected, too risky in its placement. He doesn’t take up too much room in the event that it’s gone tomorrow.

When your hands fumble for the switch of the living room lamp, the bulb springs to life and bathes a wary Joel in light. Sitting on the couch, slouched with residual soreness, but waiting.

For you.

“Jesus, fuck — what the fuck, Joel —”

“You’re late.”

“— sitting in the fucking dark like a lunatic —”

He puts a hand up to stop you, as if to press your mute button.

“I didn’t fall down any stairs.”

Your hands have risen to your chest in the shock of him there, and you’re gripping your shirt in the way he had almost a week ago. You don’t miss that little detail, so much so that you struggle to piece together what he’s saying.

It punches you abnormal; you kept so busy with leaving the subject alone that it slipped your mind that he lied.

“Sit down.”

You’re obedient and you don’t know why. You find a seat across from him, pulling up a stool that’s meant for feet, not your ass. Something crackles beside you, and the embers of a dying fire glow and warm to the left of you.

Your leg crosses over your knee, creating a 45-degree angle that you rest your elbows on. “Yeah, I gathered as much, thanks. You’re a terrible liar.”

Joel’s just eyeing you. And it’s not in a way that sizes you up, more of a calculation of what to say next. What to give away. There’s a beat of this, then another, then another.

“I thought ‘bed rest’ was pretty self-explanatory.”

You’re growing impatient, filling the room just to do it. You both know what happened, and maybe that’s what’s needling at you. That you’re the one person who’d understand the most, but the one person he doesn’t want to know.

It feels wretched and seething, knowing something but not enough.

“I’m gonna need you to cut to the part where you tell me what happened, Joel.”

At that, Joel drags in a breath and leans deeper into the couch. His gaze has moved to somewhere far off, burning into the drawn curtains like he can see outside, can see directly into the window of your kitchen. And with sudden clarity, you realize that he could — it’s a clean diagonal stare.

Are you afraid of the dark?

How many times has he sat in this very spot, taking in the show, watching you make tea, watching you read, watching you stutter and shake with sobs? Witnessing the onslaught of a nightmare?

Touching yourself? Watching you undress?

You aren’t the voyeuristic type, just uncaring to the point of defenseless. But Joel keeping an eye on you in this way is the coup de grâce that does you in. There’s no question now of whether he cares.

“I took Mountain View, headed for the outpost. Not much up that way lately, maybe one or two infected every once ‘n a while,” he says, and it’s unsettling that he’s talking in a way that could be to anyone or no one at all. “Thought I’d stop at the pharmacy on the way up, check that off, too. ‘Cept I wasn’t the only one with that idea.”

He pauses only to crack his knuckles for effect. Fingertips splay on his spread knees, and what seemed so fragile earlier, watercolors of bruises stretching from ligament to tendon, seems threatening now.

“One was lootin’ in the back, didn’t hear me come in. I thought he mighta been alone ‘til his friend followed me in,” he pauses, lost in thought. “Got into it with him.”

As if on cue, the gory split-skin of his hands flexes. Offensive wounds.

You were right, but you wish you weren’t.

“His friend came up from the back, ‘n they took turns for a minute. Long enough for me to get a good look. I ended up takin’ out the shorter one, other one was gone before I could get up.”

Joel doesn’t lift his head, just his eyes. The skin around them crinkles in sinister shapes, lids disappeared, lashes nearly touching brow. You know it’s not anger directed at you, but it’s shrinking you back down into an armchair, your fingers digging and clawing at the fabric without recognizing it.

“Know what’s funny about that?”

You don’t think you can answer with the desert that runs through your mouth. And whatever it is, it’s anything but.

“Not a lot of activity along the outposts this way, unless it’s infected. Everyone else comes straight through to Jackson. The logs say we’ve only run into two groups of raiders in the last five years along the patrol route,” another pause for emphasis. “And one of them was ten months ago.”

Something catches in your chest.

And then there’s a dam that breaks, pure relief. Relief that Joel’s seen the thing you’ve been pointing and screaming at while everyone else shrugs their shoulders and squints.

Then — panic.

Ice sneaks into your veins. The tips of your fingers run numb. It strikes you that you’re standing, that the foot stool is tipped on its side.

He doesn’t move, but there’s a contained rage in his eyes and his voice. A temper bubbling now that you’ve confirmed what he suspected.

“He have any tattoos?” Joel asks roughly.

There’s a flash of stars, hand-poked, bordering on downright sloppy.

“Who?” You say dumbly, but it’s obvious what he’s referring to. He’s seen it, too, and he’s seen it this week.

“You know who.”

You do.

You could draw it from memory if he asked.

Your weight becomes too much for your legs, and you collapse back down, this time into a chair that supports your amoeba-like state as everything in you turns to jelly.

“They’re getting closer. We were in Teton, so if they made it this far —” you jumble out, not sure if it’s just meaningless vomit to his ears. By his solemn nod, it isn’t.

He’s up and out of his seat with a wince that’s not as severe as before, his eyes careful on you, on your hands that you’re gripping together tightly to keep them still.

The isolation of his side is evident in the way he closes the space between you, but he masks the grimace as best he can. There’s a reprimand in you somewhere that he should be resting, lying down at least, but you know it’s pointless.

“Hey.”

He’s kneeling as much as his flank will allow, a pain in his eyes that isn’t for himself. Those fingertips scale the cliff of your jaw, ghosting as if he’s afraid to overstep. They’re prodding you to meet his eyes, and when you do, he drops his hand like he’s been burned.

It connects fiercely to a memory that you try to hold in your hands. A snowy, reminiscent one that slips through like a ribbon of smoke.

“Ain’t gotta worry about him. I’ll take care of it.”

You laugh, a real one that’s stained with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

Joel softens now, and the shift startles you. He thinks for a beat before answering.

“Whatever you need it to mean.”

It feels incomprehensible that anyone would willingly put themselves in danger for you, even adjacently, but then who noticed you were missing that day? Who led the pack, found you bleeding out?

The weather was violent, incoherent — a lost cause, a needle in the proverbial haystack. He already toed the line of a dangerous, potentially fruitless rescue mission.

And you never even thanked him.

“Why?” You ask it for the second time in as much as a week. It’s disjointed in conversation, but he knows that you need this answer.

“You remember how you were before?”

And for a split-second, you try.

There are glimpses, a rickety reel of kids tugging on your pant leg as they beg you to join them during recess, a glittering spray of laughter with Ellie as empty beer cans and discarded guitars litter her living room floor.

Of your friends’ faces on too many relaxed, sunny patrols, sometimes forcing them into a detour into the abandoned record store through Alpine so you can see what’s left.

Dinner in warm houses like Tommy and Maria’s, so full to the brim of love and potatoes and mead that you stumble on down to your house with cheeks burning and tuck yourself in with all of the lights off.

Visions of Joel that are fleeting, taped in frames on a film strip, but friendly exchanges.

But it’s a faceless narration. The accident wiped clean of any room for interpretation. Any visitation with these memories. You can place yourself in them, but can’t for the life of you feel tethered to her.

Frustrated, eyes watering, you shake your head.

“That’s why.”

Now he’s holding your jaw like he would some fragile thing, slotting his thumb just under the pulse thrumming in your neck, feeling the echo of it in his hand. There’s a silence, as if he’s straining to hear, to know the sound and syllables of your livelihood. You wish he’d press harder, bring you to the precipice of pleasure and death.

If only to know what it feels to be glass in Joel Miller’s hands, to be given the taste of death after he’d given you the gift of life all those months ago.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You know he can feel the adrenaline in your pulse point.

“Joel,” it falls out as a whisper, and you hate how good his name feels in your mouth.

He’s looking at you with empathy, thumbing through the pages of every agony you’ve succumbed to. It’s new and buzzing, knowing that there’s nothing you’d ever have to explain to Joel. No reasoning or fine print for how you are, he just knows. And he stays anyway.

A tear tracks a salty line down your face and it meets the pad of his thumb, an easy swipe.

And there’s a surge low in your throat, seesawing with satisfaction and the tell-tale lump of more tears if you lean in hard enough. Joel never shows his hand, the last to fold, but it feels a lot like you’re the prize he was waiting to throw cards down for.

So, you lean. Concave cheek into his calloused hand, tears without sobs leaking between his fingers down into his sleeve. The weight of only the world — your world, plural and shared — pushing you into him. The cataclysmic release that you’ve been aching for.

Your head is against his chest, cheek pressed against flannel because he’s guided you there. And it’s nice, you think, nice that he’s being a gentleman about the whole thing.

A gentleman just finger-combing through your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

It’s serene, and you’d happily make a home there and fall asleep if it wasn’t for the hammering of your heartbeat. You know he can feel it, and your quickened breath is the cherry on top.

Joel levels your faces, and his fingers are deja vu on the braille of each ridged cheekbone. He’s waiting on a cue, a line to be given to him from offstage, but you see flames licking through each darkened iris.

Something keeps holding him back, keeps holding you back. He’s too careful, afraid of cutting his hands on you. And in exploring every facet of that, it’s because he doesn’t want to bleed on you, not because the sharpest parts of you could hurt him.

You keep telling yourself it’s foreign and you’re strangers to one another.

But is it? Are you?

As if he’s reading your mind, Joel closes the distance in one fell swoop, and he kisses you.

It’s clumsy at first, in the way that clumsy is when you’re learning each other’s mouths. You taste the dregs of whiskey, of something wanton, and every unspoken word that’s ever misted between you. Years of forming smile lines and the prickle of his unkempt beard against your chin, taste the stories of every scar.

You’re tangling with him, lips pressing urgently against Joel. His tongue’s expert but gentle when he dips it inside your mouth, and you’re swapping breathless sighs. You can only imagine what he’s tasting of you, what flavor he’s been dreaming of.

His hands are still at either side of your face, thumbs pressing sweetly into the bony part of your jaw. Joel’s stilling the unrest in you that’s put its bags down and refused to leave. It quiets, tips a hat and walks out, leaving a welcome calm in place.

There’s a chasteness, but you know he’s just as desperate and hungry as you are. Wanting to claim, to devour each other entirely. And it’s not lost on you that he’s on his knees, hands clasping your face in prayer like you’re some communion he’s drinking from.

He engulfs you, and you’re moving together, fitting together like you were poured from the same mold. Joel’s fingers have moved to thread through your hair, one of his hands cradling the back of your head and tugging just barely.

Enough that magma pools in between your hips.

But he slows, letting loose a low groan into the heat of your mouth. It’s helpless, like he’s accepted he can’t swim and has submerged his head underwater.

And when you finally break apart, Joel’s pupils are dilated, on the cusp of black. Your collective breaths are uneven. He looks at you in awe.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a long, long time,” he’s saying, but you can barely hear him. Not when your heart is catching up with the rest of you, roaring above everything else. His thumb skates over your bottom lip, and the instinct to unhinge your jaw for him shouldn’t be there, but it is.

Maybe this sort of suffering is worth it, if it’s Joel you’re suffering for.

If you weren’t in trouble before, you sure as fuck are now.

#my writing #ahfe #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us hbo #jackson!joel #joel miller #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #a heart for eating #joel miller x f!reader #the last of us smut #motherofagony

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ask-spooky-manor · 5 months

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Toby Character Headcanons

So I was tagged with a list of questions for me to answer that I reblogged, and while none of them were sent in my inbox, I still wanted to answer some cause they were really interesting.

Trigger Warning: I do talk about how abuse has affected Toby and how it has left some long lasting scars mentally and emotionally speaking. Not all of the headcanons are like that though, just be cautious. Nothing too in detail but can be uncomfortable

Clothing style

Toby’s style is like mixing grunge with cottagecore (goblincore is what it’s usually called). He likes his knitted sweaters and earthy tones, but at the same time he enjoyes ripped jeans and chunky black boots that can basically double as a weapon.

Eating Habits

Toby has a massive appetite. You will always catch him with a snack in his hands or complaining that he’s hungry despite having eaten a full meal not ten minutes ago. He just really likes food, and people in the house know to give him an extra serving for dinner

Hobbies

Music is more of a passion so tinkering around and making little gadgets is probably his number one hobby. He mainly likes to make things that blow up. Other general hobbies he has are cooking, hiking, uhhhh arson, and drawing

Fighting Style

He’s fully aware that he’s not the strongest or fastest or even has the most endurance, but Toby is extremely clever and crafty. He thinks way outside of the box and relies heavily on all of his odd little gadgets and inventions to surprise an enemy like smoke bombs, traps, loud fire crackers, you name it. He is an unpredictable fighter because you’ll never know what he has up his sleeves, and the surprise is something he will very much use against you. Not to mention that when he’s stuck in a sticky situation, he’s really good at coming up with on the spot plans that will get him out of trouble.

Ways he says I love you

Well, he will just say it. Toby won’t shy away from using the L word on anyone he even mildly likes. Though another way he shows it is through encouraging his loved ones to take care of themselves. He will make sure you eat properly, sleep well, take your meds, etc. Also hugs, Toby is a hugger.

Introvert or Extrovert

Extrovert, which surprised him when he realized it. Toby thought he was introverted for the longest time when in reality he was just dealing with a lot of nasty people who made him feel unsafe. Being alone felt safer, but at the same time it made him miserable because he naturally gains more energy with good people around. Ending up in the manor was the best thing to happen to him because now he has buddies he can spend time with like all the time.

Religious or Non-religious?

Complicated as fuck. He was raised Christian only to kind of despise organized religions as a whole. He would say he’s an atheist if he didn’t live with a literal moon god (Ben), so now he just has a beef with gods in general (Except Ben, they’re chill). Basically he thinks about how if these beings really are all powerful, all kind, all forgiving and omniscient and good then why the fuck did none of them help him? Why did it reach a point where he killed his own father? Why was he never saved? Basically, the idea of there being a higher power gets him in a bitter mood. Best to avoid the subject altogether.

Something he could never forgive.

Toby is generally a forgiving person but the one thing he could never forgive is when someone takes advantage of the kindness he is willing to give. Classmates did it in school as a way to bully him, and his dad would sometimes guilt trip favors out of him (usually to sneak him more beer, which will end up biting Toby in the ass when facing his drunk dad later on). Just the general act of trying to manipulate Toby, knowing they can toy with the heart he wears on his sleeve, is enough for him to want that person dead.

Something that scares him.

For the small, irrational fear; Toby is afraid of the dark. It’s just a childhood fear that he never really got over. It’s fine if he’s with someone but being alone in the dark will put him in fight or flight mode. For the bigger existential shit: dreads the idea of everyone secretly hating him. His own father and peers have created this idea in Toby’s mind that there is nothing good about him. That his own existence is nothing but a burden on others, so there’s always this fear that his friends and even his own boyfriend don’t actually like him and that it’s all a front. He knows that realistically that’s not true, but it’s hard fighting against a toxic mindset that was pushed into his brain at such a young age.

Did he grow up too fast?

No, thankfully. It was Lyra who had to grow up too fast. Connie did her best, she really did, but there have been a lot of times where it was Lyra who had to care for Toby. Especially after really bad nights where their dad thought having one more bottle wouldn’t be a problem. Toby was unlucky enough to have been surrounded by people that were cruel to him, but thanks to Lyra and his mom he at least was able to be a kid from time to time.

#creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta headcanon #ticci toby #toby rogers #lyra rogers #ben drowned #they’re mentioned so it counts lol #headcanons

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baby-jaguar · 1 day

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Lust by Nature {Part 4}

Masterlist, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Read on ao3

Pairing: Captain John Price x fem!Reader

MDNI: 18+!

Warnings for this chapter: Drugging, hinted non-con but just a hair

Word Count: 5,777

Summary: He’d been used to the small messages telling him to make you simmer down, something not uncommon in the scope of you being, well, you.

A/N: There are a few POV Shifts and time skips in here, denoted by the "---". Work has been kicking my butt so sorry this is late. I hope ye enjoy

Waking up, you almost bit a medic’s hand off.

Wild and afraid. It was sudden and the place was seemingly so new that it triggered your fight or flight. You did not want them anywhere close and for far too long than you deemed necessary. Insistent on them leaving you to heal on your own even if you’re sucked dry of any magic at this point. Snapping your teeth like a wild animal when one medic tried taking your shirt off to get to the gouge on your side, before snarling as two were tag teaming you to keep you down.

Something about their hands not feeling warm enough, not having the smell of tobacco leaves stained into their skin to leave a trail of smoke. Yet there was something lurking in the air. Something different; You knew the scent was familiar, it felt like it belonged in the medical ward yet it shouldn’t be here near you. It screamed danger, something clawing and scratching at your mind to remember.

The scent trails around the room like the smell of burnt clover, making your stomach want to recoil and throw up its acid with the lack of any substance in it.

The lab.

Neurons fire off, and your hackles are raised. Literally. Hissing and ignoring the medics around you, yowling like a damned animal in pain when you realize what you’re smelling. Stuck in fear, now grappling with the sheets as your hands grab onto the bed rails, shaking the bed as you shift in short and shaky bursts.

---

Somedays Price’s office felt like a sanctuary, while others, it feels like his own jail cell. Head down, furiously scribbling his memories onto paper to prepare the after-action report while leaving a separate sheet blank and off to the side with your name at the top.

God, he had it in his head that he needed to be so fucking pissed at you. For the dream, for disobeying orders, for getting hurt. But he knows it’s irrational and can at least objectify his emotions enough to see them from a third-person point of view.

His head’s in his ass and he’s acting like a fucking boy.

Even Soap had earned a scolding from the Captain, taking it in strive to only break the berating with a smirk on his lips. He knew. Johnny knew, Ghost knew, and even fucking Gaz knew that you were getting underneath Price’s skin. Something no woman had ever done so easily and successfully before.

His cell rings, not his personal mobile but rather his work flip phone. One that either means business or trouble.

“Laswell.”

The number was unsaved, as all are since this was the one he toted around everywhere while deployed.

“Captain. I’ve got some news for you. Now a good time?”

Leaning back, he takes this saving grace as a moment to rest his eyes and hand from writing. “Of course. Wha’s goin’ on?”

There’s shuffling on the other end of the line, sounding like she’s standing up to walk somewhere. Price presumes it is towards a window. Dramatic woman.

“We’ve gotten word that there's some unrest back in-”

Her statement is cut off when the phone begins vibrating again. “Laswell, hold on. I’ve been expecting this call, can I catch you in a moment?”

A scoff is his answer before cutting the call and switching to the new one.

“Yes?”

“Need you in Med, stat. Saint’s going-”

“On it.” Snapping his phone shut while moving to the door. He’d been used to the small messages telling him to make you simmer down, something not uncommon in the scope of you being, well, you.

He can hear the commotion at the end of the hall before he’s near the door. Opening the door in a flurry, he finds you in a state he’s never seen before; Wide-eyed, backed into the back of the bed, and curled up to shield yourself. A second sweep of the room makes him realize you’re not protecting yourself from the medics. No, you’re looking towards him, but seemingly not at him.

“Saint.” The growl catches your attention, focusing on his mustache twitching as his eyebrows furrow. “Care to tell me why the medics said you need to leave the infirmary before you make one of the staff go to inpatient?”

“It's wrong. Doesn’t smell right.” In return, your head only snaps in his direction, eyes only keeping on his for a moment. “Don’t take me back, I don’t want to go back.”

The blatant stare you receive is more than enough to let you know he’s lost in whatever this whirlwind of emotions is. “You need to settle down, and behave.” The whisper is a promised threat, entirely off-kilter from what you need right now.

“I don’t want them touching me!” You hiss almost petulantly, being sure to restrain your voice for only him to hear. “I have to leave. Just let me heal myself, please-”

His hands move out of sight from your narrowed eyes as you beg; Coming up to capture your jaw with one hand as the other holds your shoulder. He steadily leans in to hold your face still.

“You need to stay and get checked out. You were hurt, sweetheart.” The harsh command battles with the softness of his palm cupping your jaw as his thumb stroking your cheek.

That’s when you saw him through the window.

A man, dressed in square glasses and a white coat that seemed cheap and fake in material. A scam of a man. Dr. Deidrick.

This man knows you well, as you know him. He was a constant in the lab, the person who oversaw all testing of blood, vitals, but most importantly testing the magic inside you. A large amount of scars on your body were because of him, always measuring your healing capabilities depending on your energy levels and what you had used as energy prior to the test.

Locked in a stare-down, Price only registers your change when you stiffen and stagger a breath. “What’s wrong?”

Looking at where your eyes are, he finds the man looking in through the small door window, glaring at your face, seemingly at where Price touches you gently. When he moves to glance at Price, he gives a small nod before entering.

“Everything okay, Captain?” His tone is polite and neutral, speaking to Price while his gaze remains on you. “Is she having a little fit?”

The clicks of his dress shoes make more noise of his entrance, your hands latching onto Price’s forearms.

“And you are?”

The doctor laughs, giving a smile more than forced. This you know for certain.

“My apologies, I am Dr. Deidrick. I came to visit once I heard our little demon was wounded.”

His possessiveness in the phrasing alone ticks off the Captain's mind, raising questions as to what in the fuck is going on. He can feel the slight tremor of your hold and, for more decency, the hand cupping your jaw moves to hold onto yours.

“So, you’re from the facility?”

“Yes, I was her previous caretaker in medical for the last several years.” Cockiness evident when his attention shifts to grab the chart at the end of the bed. “I hope you do not mind I came to check in on her healing and progress. Just a simple evaluation and report.”

He reads over the chart for a moment; Flipping the page while moving closer to your side, opposite of Price.

“How are you feeling, Devil?”

Instead of quiping a sharp or actual answer, the response is enough to shock the Captain.

“Hello, Dr. Deidrick.” Speaking softly and politely, as if you were some nobel greeting a high priest. Don’t misbehave.

You’ve learned this lesson with him.

“Hello. Now, how are you feeling?” He digs in further with the question, eyes moving up from the paper with a weighted look.

“I’m fine. Sore. Tender. I told them I could heal on my own.”

"Mm..." Dedrick watches as you speak before moving to place the clipboard down, grabbing a pair of gloves. "And you believe that you can heal yourself easily?" His voice remaining calm and civil.

That's one thing you’ve always hated. Even in the cruelest and inhumane moments when studying creatures and hybrids alike, he had the calmest voice.

“Yes, I’ve dealt with worse.” Spitting the answer at him in a quick snap, you can't help but let anger flare. “You of all people should know that.”

Dedrick's expression changes for the first time. His eyebrows raise and jaw tightening in warning with a sharp look.

"I know that you can heal, but that doesn't mean that you should." A hint of an edge to his voice bleeds through. "Your injuries are still serious. If you leave here before fully healed, that would be highly irresponsible."

“The medics already cleaned and sutured it. There’s nothing more to do.”

You can see the game he plays, yet you’re playing it too. Price doesn’t know, the entirety of your team doesn’t know. If for their sake or the sake of keeping yourself alive, it's not certain.

Telling Price would solve this problem right here, right now. Screaming the horrors Dr. Deidrick has committed to others and to you could easily raise alarm bells through the whole base, yet you remain a perfect little actor. Just as you were trained.

“I’ll determine that for you, not you.” Deidrick retorts shorty, gaze shifting from your body to Price. “I will have to do an exam of the wound and her damage. Just to make sure there are no outliers to her magic or health.”

There isn't room for argument here, seeing as Price is a Captain and not a fucking Doctor over mystical creatures and beings.

“Well, I can be in the room with her. That be an issue?”

The most Deidrick can muster is a forced grin, narrowing his eyes to Price’s presence. “Yes, that is perfectly understandable for you to oversee the process, Captain.”

A swift silence ensues as Deidrick walks to the medical cabinets and the end of the room, looking over his clipboard and grabbing medical tools- the kind that isn’t even needed but instead for show. All for the sake of Price.

The velcro cuff of the sphygmomanometer wraps around your arm before the manual pump begins from Deidricks hands. The cold stethoscope in the crook of your elbow, silence as he measures your blood pressure. Just as he is about to speak, the sharp ringing of a dial tone sounds out.

“Shit- I have to take this.” Price’s hand retrieves the phone from his pocket, confirming the caller. “Be right back.”

“No… No, please.” Unabasidly begging, your hands on your Captains arm to try and anchor him to you. “Don’t go.” It's a quiet plead, begging if that, but the wild look in your eyes makes him stiffen for a moment while caught between two choices.

“I’ll be right back. Be good.” The faint squeeze of your hand registers in tandem with him leaning down to place a reassuring kiss on your head. Before you can beg again, he’s out the door.

---

“Laswell.” Price speaks quietly into the phone, moving into the hallway near the medic’s station, a few idling around on their computers to input vitals.

“Said you were gonna call me back, John. Got worried your old mind forgot about me.”

A small scoff out of courtesy for the woman's harsh humor, yet he doesn’t say anything back.

“Anyway, I need to tell you where your group has been assigned to. You’re headed out to-”

“Do you happen to know if any personnel relating to Saint's previous facility can be on base?”

Cutting off Laswell would usually end with a sharp reprimand akin to an elementary school teacher. Yet this question is well worth her thought. Even she can recognize that.

“Not without warning and an established confirmation of visitation. It’s the normal protocol for off-site visitors to that level. Why?”

He chews the side of his cheek, nodding in thought as he confirms what he previously knew. His eyes flit between your medical room’s door, the window to the outside, before settling on a whiteboard with various patient names.

“There’s a doctor in the med unit with her right now. Say’s he found out she was wounded and came to check on her… That’s just downright unnatural when she was wounded three days ago for fuck sake. How’d he even find out?”

Silence greets him in response, but it's a sign of her thinking. A tussle of paper sounds out before typing on her keyboard. “There was no agreement or discernment of their medical staff being on base. Only the executives and her previous commander. He shouldn’t be there nor even have access.”

It only confirms Price’s simmering anxiety, eyes stuck on your door from afar.

“What did you say his name was?”

“Dr. Deidrick. Said he’d be givin’ her an exam of the wound-” The words die in a sharp crumble on his tongue when you scream his name.

“Was that-”

“Send the boys my way, I’m dealing with it.” Hanging up the phone, his body already shouldering the door at a moment’s notice.

It doesn’t budge.

Looking through the window, he’s met with your wide eyes, brows arched up, while your body tries to scurry off the bed yet you’re not even moving. The sight of brown leather tied to your wrists becomes glaringly obvious.

“Somebody get this door open, right fucking now!” The bellow echos in the hallway, sending a fluttering panic around the staff while he continuously tries to shoulder the door and get the handle down.

“John! Help me!” Your howling meets his ears to send a shiver down his spine. I should have listened, I should have stayed, I should be in there.

I should be protecting her.

Shifting his stance to the left, he can see Deidrick at the counters, holding up a small brown vial while extracting its contents into a syringe. Only after he deems it filled, pushing the air bubble out, does he look to Price.

“It’s just to settle her down, not to worry.”

God, he wants to throw up. He wants to murder this man with his hands and rip each artery from his body to hang up as vines growing onto the wall. He wants nothing more than to soothe your crying face in his arms away from whatever torture is going on right in front of him.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS THE KEY?” He shouts again, sparing a glance towards the staff as five of them look in drawers around the main pod of their stations.

Movement from the room demands his attention, the footsteps ringing out in heavy weighted clicks on the floors. You can’t even look back to Price, struggling like an animal caught in a metal trap.

---

“They already know, just fucking run while you can.” The guttural hiss is uncontrolled as it leaves you, voice raw from lack of water in your mouth accompanied by the panting of your breath. Eyes only set on Deidrick, you can’t focus on anything but keeping the needle away from you.

“This is your exam, my dear. There’s no harm in that.” He chastizes, tsking you with a mocking voice. Fully seeing his old self alights your body and magic, trying to strum out of you like a whip, yet so dulled into yourself with nothing to thrive on.

“I can see how weak you are. Have they not been taking care of you?” The coldness of his hand dawns upon your face, grabbing roughly on your jaw to pull you towards him. “You know I can give you what you need.” The green of his eyes makes you sour, having only ever seen them as a rancid mix of piss yellow and barf green to match his existence.

“You’ll settle down and be a good girl for me, yeah? Just like old times.”

“I can’t wait to torture you in hell.”

He laughs, a genuine smile lighting his face up as he leans in closer. “The sweetest promise of eternity, devil.”

Moving back after giving your jaw a far too firm squeeze, his bony fingers bring the needle up to the light to double-check before gripping the meat of your bicep. “Dont. Move.”

You couldn’t hear anything over the commotion outside, thus, when the metal door slams open, you jump.

Right into the fucking needle.

A shocked cry leaves you, eyes now stuck in fear to watch for the amount he pushes through.

Half of the dose goes into your arm.

It would have been more, save for the body that immediately pulls him and the needle away from you, throwing him onto the ground.

Price stands, heaving and shaking with a snarl lighting up his face while looking down on the man.

“When I put you under, it will be six feet under the god damned ground.” His hands are on the man in a flurry of movements, checking his waistline for any other surprises, and when finding none, he throws a punch at him.

Then again. And again. And Again.

You don’t realize you’re stuck in a trance of watching him until warm hands find your wrist on the opposite side of the commotion. You’re startled until being met with warm brown eyes that match his skin, his smile calming.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” Gaz’s hands work quickly on undoing the straps of your wrists, letting the sounds of the fighting echo in the room while rushing footsteps come from the hallway.

Ghost and Soap enter the doorway, a quick survey before getting to Price and doing god knows what to the man- you can’t see anymore as Gaz cradles you into his neck. Tucking the blanket around your backside before carrying you away in a bridal carry, he shushes you when his scent and warmth break you into a sob.

“Shh, it’s okay. We’ve got you now.” Vaguely registering his lips on your head, your eyes dim into a barely open gaze while the world moves too fast around you. Hot tears track down your face and onto his shirt.

“You’re with us now. Not gonna let that happen ever again.”

The sound of a whimper mixes in when you call out his name. Raising a hand to grasp his shirt in a weak fist as you register him moving you to somewhere through the hallways. Somewhere familiar; the team’s common room.

“Gonna make you nice and comfortable right here. Not gonna leave you, Saint.”

And in the most ironic series of events, for a second time, your world goes dark.

---

The sound of the TV playing a god-forsaken soccer football game makes you stir. Muscles stiff and tired, a feeling of something on the back of your hand makes you wince. Groaning, you move the other hand to paw at the intrusion, before someone else’s touch halts you.

“Hey now, none of that.” The soft voice from earlier speaks out, with an almost hint of authority as he moves your hands away from each other. “You’ve got an IV in you, Need to keep that in for a bit longer.”

Stirring, the world comes back into view when your eyes open slowly and try to blink the yellow overhead lights away. “Gaz?” His name is slurred in your drowsy speech, head lifting up to look around before finding him face to face with you.

“Good morning, Princess. How’ya feelin?”

Stiff, sore, like you just got run over by a train.

“Not too bad.” Sitting in his lap, now in a pair of sweats and a shirt that you recognize isn’t yours, you both sit under a fuzzy blanket pulled from your room. “What happened? Where is-?”

“Hang on, let's focus on you first. Does your side hurt right now?”

It does, a constant stinging that radiates into a dull thrumming. It feels bulky, the firmness of tape keeping down what you presume to be gauze while it pulls at the peachfuzz on your skin. Your arm, the one that took the injection, feels sorer than after a full mission.

“Feels fine right now, would like some meds maybe later.” Quietly responding before looking up to his brown eyes. While Gaz usually has enough snark to serve his entire country, his gently and nurturing tendencies highlight in the soft and intimate moment.

He holds the qualities of a leader, and possibly be concerning at his young age. But seeing as he’s grown under Price’s wing, being a favored candidate from the beginning, maybe his weight was a shouldered experience to lighten the Captain's load. Maybe he won’t be able to fully take his place until the gentleness withers away into hate and bloodborne desire to bark and bite under the pull of a leash.

Maybe he’ll get sick of it and decide to have a family, leaving this life behind when he feels his hands have turned far too dirty.

He turns his gaze to the TV for a moment, drawing a long sigh in before releasing, a small frown on his lips. “You remember anything?”

You’d rather not. Had you still been in a sterile environment, you’d have woken in a panic just as before.

“Yes. The… yes.” Glancing away, you can feel the shift in your eyes focus. “I remember something happening when I saw Price’s face then you were there.”

You miss the look of worry on his face when the game on TV catches your attention as someone scores. “Where are the others?’

“Price and Soap dealing with the brass. Ghost was here a second ago but will be right back.” Gaz’s head tilts back behind him to check around before reaching up to the IV bag behind you two. “You’re just about finished, you fine if I take this out?”

Offering him your hand, he removes the tube and tape before placing a gauze square and bandaid over it. “Not supposed to take it out until you’re completely done, but you’ll drink your water, yea?” Inadvertently speaking close to your ear while he clamps the IV line shut, a chill runs down your spine.

“Mm, I will. Thank you.” Silent gratitude for him being sweet enough to let you off the tether, you take it as a signal of freedom and try to get up. Before being interrupted.

“Stay down, Saint.”

Ghost enters the archway of the common room; Dressed in baggy sweats and a T-shirt that shouldn't be as form-fitting as it is. A black gator mask hides the lower half of his face. He makes his way to a spot on the couch adjacent to you and Gaz.

“Your stitches are barely holding from earlier. Not allowed to be moving like that.”

Underneath you, Gaz squirms while clearing his throat once you settle down. “Ah, actually. Ghost.” He starts, voice now sounding reluctant with trepidation. “You mind taking over for a bit? Haven’t eaten and need to piss.”

A mix between a laugh and worry crosses your mind as you pout when realizing he’d been here the whole time with you.

“Sorry, Kyle.” Whispered as you give his shoulder a pat, looking to Ghost for whatever his plan would be. “How long was I out?”

The lieutenant scoots next to you, arms brought out to grab underneath your legs and back before gently transferring you into his lap. You can feel Gaz getting up behind you, a soft squeeze on your shoulder before he leaves. “Bout an hour ‘n half.”

The difference between Gaz and Ghost is definitely in size, but the lieutenants body is firm and demands that you accommodate to him rather than how Gaz’s size lets his boldly mold to you. You’re still blinking slowly, sluggishly trying to reintegrate your mind into full speed. A grunt acknowledges the statement.

“Didn’t know you had blond hair.”

Ghost is pretty, not even in his own way, he is just simply pretty. Brown eyes contrast the lightness of his hair, some spots missing where scars trail over his scalp. His forehead also having lines from stitches done too messy, wrinkles from years of fighting, and a few freckles decorate the top bridge of his nose. A second scan shows a hairline scar over his left eyelid, a group of eyelashes being blond where the scar ends.

“You wouldn’t ‘ave known.” A huffed laugh makes his chest puff up, only looking down at you for a moment before watching the game.

Before you can even ask another question, he voice muted. “That… doctor. He wasn’t supposed to be on base. Not even from what he did, but there was no agreement to have the facility’s medical here. Not even the command can get on here without clearance and a schedule.”

The clench in your jaw halts your words, growing almost distant in the eyes as you digest the information. “So how did he get on base? Just lie his way through everything?”

Ghost sighs, watching one of the teams score a goal before turning back to you.

“Yes. Fucking skunk lied his way through, altered some ID and got into medical. They say he was watching over your file and once he saw your name ping in as a combat injury, he was acting as your attending and case manager.”

It really should send more of a chill down your back than the small amount it does, rather, a sluggish feeling churning in your stomach. You’ve been through horrible things. Having eyes on you stopped phasing you a while ago.

Letting the conversation drop, you both turn your attention towards the football game to watch the halfway point. You find a place for your face to rest on his collarbone, laying yourself to use his chest like a pillow. He doesn’t react, yet in moments where the visiting team comes close to scoring a goal, his knee bounces in anticipation.

“Did you ever play any sports?”

His knee settles before responding. “Hockey. Short time, but ‘s fun.”

“Hm, was gonna take you for a rugby kinda guy.”

“Nah, that's more John’s style. The both of them.” The mental image of a younger pair of Johns conjures in your mind, a soft grin twitching the corners of your mouth at the thought. “Sometimes they’ll play when we’re together on leave.”

“Leave?” A pause as your eyes blink open slowly. You don’t remember closing them. “Like you guys just… Leave?”

The feeling of his large, warm, hand moving to hold your back comes when he shifts to look down at you. “Leave. When we get a break from duty.” It comes out as a question more so, his brows furrowing down.

“Oh.” Matching his confusion. “I didn’t get to have those. Nowhere to just, go.” You didn’t have a home, lost that long ago. Sadness was gaslit into happiness by telling yourself you didn’t have to pay rent, and bills, and not worrying about the economy.

Something shifts in his eyes, Ghost himself looking like a kicked puppy now as he takes in your implications. Softness emits subtly in his eyes and the way he slightly rests you on his chest when pushing you into him.

“I’m sure you can ask Capt’ to fix that.” A soft scratch of your scalp leads you to settle down, and when you keep breathing in the smell of him, you fall asleep.

---

“... lost it by a point. Bloody coach looks like a muppet.”

“Won’t be able to show his face for the next year. Damn bloke.”

The voice sends enough of a spark to take you out of your REM cycle, now taking stock of where you’re at. From the smell of it, you’re on the couch but now lay on it instead of a body. There's a few more steps of shuffling before it stills.

“How is she?”

The warmth next to you grunts, shifting to leave the couch. “Seems fine, but fell back asleep quickly once Gaz left ‘er with me.” The new set of footsteps have a distinct gait, trying to be silent but failing with the TV no longer being on. “How’d your side go?”

“Almost got me on excessive force.” The croaky voice makes your mind wake up more, realizing its Price. “Almost knocked the brass out hearing that. Had to make sure he saw the vials and needles he snuck in.”

“Was he going to… do anyth-”

“No.” Price cuts Ghost off immediately, something lying in the tautness of his voice. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know, else I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em.”

Exhaustion covers your body and mind, fighting it to the point where it feels like you have to unstick yourself from the couch but tingling makes your body want to still. You pull on your muscles enough that Price notices.

“Hey, pretty girl. Can you hear me?”

The groan that leaves you is enough of a signal that you can. One of his hands moves to pet your hair down as the other adjusts the blanket on you. Footsteps elsewhere fade away, signaling Ghost’s departure. Your eyes open to watch Price squat down in front of you.

“There she is.” He coo’s in a hushed whisper. Part of you wants to cry at how good it makes your heart feel. All you can manage is a whimper.

“Still tired?”

“Mhh. Yes.” Croaking makes you realize how thirsty you are, somewhat regretting not staying up to drink your water like you’d promised Gaz. “Where were you?”

Blue eyes leave the depths of your red ones, tracing over your face to your neck, down to your body, and how you lay on your uninjured side. “Taking care of business. Nothing to worry about.”

His hand comes back to your arm, making you flinch as he presses onto the tiny spot of dried blood. The small twinge of pain from his softness makes you want to scream at him, cry at him while crying for him to hold you. To give any emotion clearly while silence eats away between you.

“Did I mess up?”

The white of his eyes shows a bit more when he widens them in surprise, fliting up to hold your gaze. “No… No, Saint. You did not mess up.” In a moment, he moves to his knees, crowding you onto the couch while bringing your face closer to his. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have left you in there. Should have fuckin’ listened to you.”

In a twisted sense, the couch seems like his pew, and you are the body he weeps over. Wrapped in a blanket is a far-off notion from any white to be buried in, but your open eyes just feel so tired and dulled from the last few days. Rightfully so. His hands cup your face like they would hold a bible open, finding scripture in the features of your face.

Price doesn’t cry. How much would it take to make him? Has he had a family? Did he lose someone he loved because of enemies? Did he have a tragic backstory that granted him an almost immortal sense of luck?

There’s certainly no angel on his shoulder because you’d have fought and killed it on the first day.

“You didn’t know.” Starting hoarsely, swallowing the saliva in your mouth. “I didn’t want you to know.”

There's dissatisfaction from hearing your answer, a pull at the corners of his mouth. “I need to know, Saint. I have to know. That’s not goin’ to happen again.” Leaning down to press his chapped lips to your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

The feeling of his hair in your hands is surprisingly soft, almost as surprising when you realize you’re bringing him in to kiss you.

It’s soft, languid, and slow, yet anxiety boiling at the bottom of your stomach. His lips part yours, leading you to taste the tobacco you tried days ago. His mustache and beard scratch your face, prickling your skin in an added sense of feeling to grapple onto. Dragging you closer with an arm wrapped behind your back, his tongue teases yours before diving in deeper.

“While this is sickeningly romantic,”

The voice makes you gasp like a whore in her lover's shared bed, the drawl sardonic enough to know it is exactly not that.

It’s so much worse.

“I rather prefer a different type of scene.”

The woman stands against the doorway, arms crossed while she surveys the scene. Dressed in black pants and a turtleneck, her blue eyes light up with the white overcoat that shields her from the coldness of desert nights.

“Kate-” Price backpedals, separating himself from you enough to sit up straight from his place on the floor. Stuttering, he glances at you before back to her, a blush fading into existence on his aged skin. “I- uh. What are you doing here?’

Kate Laswell, smirks before looking at you with a slightly softer expression. She’s still cocky through and through from catching her prestigious ally making out with his little demon.

“After the shit show got up the ladder, I decided to make a quick trip to check-in. And, you never called me back, Captain.”

Ok, now it is starting to seem like a lovers quarrel. Feeling out of place, you don't move until Price takes a moment to clear his throat, leaning forward as if to obstruct you from her view.

“Well, I’m assuming it’s more serious than a phone call let it out to be.” Standing his hand brushes your shoulder before he crosses his arms. Laswell watches, moving forward a bit. Her eyes glance towards you, a subtle nod in greeting.

“Pleasure to meet you, Saint. Sorry to interrupt.” Absolutely no shame eludes from this woman. Continuing on, she holds Price’s gaze; “A base just got accredited for their first hybrid operator. Similar to our situation with Saint.” She takes a moment to look over you, briefly checking out the remainder of the IV bag on its stand. “Need you to go do didactics for our friends.”

“And which friends are you speaking of this time.”

She pauses, a flicker of her lips turning upwards if only for a moment.

“You’ll be headed back to Las Almas.”

As if watching a dramatic TV show, your eyes flit back to take in his reaction. If you had the energy, you’d feel bad for Price’s stress levels. With the sigh he lets out, you know that he can never catch a break.

#task force 141 #call of duty #cod mw2 #captain john price #call of duty modern warfare #tf141 #john price #john price x reader #captain jonathan price #captain price x reader #kyle gaz garrick #sergeant kyle gaz garrick #simon riley ghost #ghost simon riley #simon riley #is this how you write suspense #John Price needs a break

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endermen-impasta · 5 months

Text

Rise's B¡Future v.s RUINs' B¡Future

(( An Explanation on What's Different ))

Spoilers: There is a bunch of reading... also trigger warning / cw: mentions of death, gambling, and some other stuff ig... ye... Read on to enjoy the info dump.

-- Character Run Through --

Leo || In the RUIN au, Leo was founded the position of leader after Rapheal died. He wasn't given any warning or heads up, Mikey told him. For a while Leo didn't know what to do and from that they lost a lot of survivors. After a while he took the role and his personality had a huge shift. Sometimes he could be calm and collected and other times he could easily lash out.

Donnie || Donnie was more known as the calmest one out of any of his brothers. He rarely went out into the field after Cassandra's death and stayed to take care of Casey Jr and Koine for the most part. He also helped out a lot inside the med bay and the technology side. Sometimes helping others train to be on the field. Though worry would catch up to him whenever someone he cared for came back beat up.

Mikey || After the big change with Raph and Cassandra's death, Mikey was a bit more like a sour lemon. He would isolate himself a lot and stop speaking after a while as well, though he was still known as the greatest mystic warrior. After a while, Mikey had become a mystery to people, until he disappeared forever.

Rapheal || Raph was a sweet and calm person, only if you didn't get on his bad side. No one would rarely try to get Raph mad, out of some unknown fear. After both Splinter and Cassandra died he didn't really have much to strive for, this led to Raph often being reckless and difficult to communicate with. After a few missions going horribly wrong, Raph had to be tagged along with someone so the group would stay safe.

April || April was protective and observant of most of the resistance, almost always watching over anyone new. More like Leo, April didn't want to have the title of commander but in a time of need April had to take the title. Besides her unwanted title commander, April was known for having an inside look to everyone. She was also a mysterious player inside the Bad Future as well.

Cassandra || Cassandra was known for her passion to destroy anyone who was against someone she cared for. Whether that meant physically hurting someone or verbally. She was quick on her feet and sneaky as well. Though she had morals with her streak of behavior. Cassandra was closest with Donnie and Rapheal, often found hanging around the two turtles. She was also considered a good luck charm for supply missions.

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

Splinter || The man was placed inside to stick with training newcomers, help some wounded people, and take care of children. Why he was placed to do that job was the basics of he was injured badly to be yeeted off the playing field. He would also help calm anyone with strong emotions and give some good wisdom.

Draxum || The head of the Medic Field. That was Draxum was known for to anyone who saw him inside the resistance. Leo had the chance to take it but chose not to due to his desire to always be on the field. If you were looking for Draxum, good luck. He would always be in the places you wouldn't think of. Draxum didn't go into the battlefield that much so he would wander around to find hidden areas inside the base (( a trait that was passed onto Koine ))

Casey Jones Jr. || More known as Cassandra Jones Jr. or Cassidy, Casey is about a year younger than Koine. He is an energetic soul and loves to make anything a game. Casey isn't stuck up but he does find more fun in stuff that has games placed in it. He developed his own mystic/ninpo which grew in time (( he can do some paranormal stuff )) Casey was raised souly by Donnie after Cassandra died and never looked towards anyone else as a parental figure.

Usagi Yuichi || A skilled katana ninja, aka rabbit yokai. Usagi was the lovely boyfriend of Leonardo, until Usagi died. Usagi was all round known as a person who could throw hands if he wanted to. He knew what he wanted and if he truly wanted to get it, he would. Usagi would hang out with the kids the most, training them in any free time he had. Though he was known to have more of an empathetic heart, which wasn't the best for the apocalypse.

========================

- What's Goin On --

+ Inside the apocalypse, the Kraang were practically more intelligent than needed and there weren't any technology resources around that were easy to find. Most of the tech was found by different groups or destroyed. Because of the lack of technology, the resistance group has to always be on the run and try to stay hidden the best they could. It would be about a weekly routine of running away from the Kraang.

+ Apart from living on the brink of panic, you had almost no free time. Which was understandable deeming that not only you had to run away and leave almost everything behind, but you had to gather new things if needed. There were constant chores, missions, or training needing to be done and all of it on a schedule. Training was easy to say the least, at least compared to missions they were. Missions were almost constantly going on, 24/7, all day.

+ Resources: The only thing common to find was canned foods, dried snacks, and seeds. Occasionally some REALLY GOOD food was found (( meats, veggies, etc. )) but it was mainly a canned food source. Like stated before: Tech was the hardest to stubble upon. This was the same as: note books, toys, pens, and furniture. Fabric could be found inside buildings or abandoned vehicles, and water was mostly found from a single river almost everyone knew about.

+ The Gambling Table: In the case of certain resources being hard to find, the resistance group would often gamble objects and sweetened foods with each other. The trades were fair enough to have the gambling streak become a whole tradition at one point.

=================================

-- Rules and Issues --

+ The resistance was small, it was around the population of a small village. In the RUINs' apocalypse there were many small groups; any large populated groups were quickly killed at the start. Sometimes there would be spies from other groups trying to join another group, to either throw the group off into danger or get information about good-resourced spots that their group didn't know about. After a while, this caused many people to have trust issues in anyone who wasn't originally a part of the group.

+ In any situation where the Kraang had found where the resistance was camping, everyone was on their own. If you didn't stick with the group, you were a goner in two seconds flat. Unless you were injured or a small kid, you were on your own until the situation was leveled down. No one was salty about it either, it was logical in their minds, mainly because they were trying to make it out alive and not dead, so....

=============================

-- The Ranking System--

+ The resistance had three main groups with a bunch of different rankings for each group. The three groups were: Medics, Fielders, and Spies. The medic group has three letter rankings: S, K, and I; along with a head leader. Fielder (( people who do constant missions and such )) have named rankings: Second + First Wings, Cover Feathers, Secondary Feathers, and Starter Feather along with two leaders. For the spy group, they have number rankings: 1-4 levels. Leveling up to another level is harder than it's thought out to be and it can take a long time.

============================

-- The Skull and Stripes Duo --

+ Casey Jr. and Koine, like stated in another post, were best friends but had more of a sibling relationship than anything. In technical terms: Casey and Koi were biological Uncle and Nephew (( but no one in the resistance thought of Koine like that )) On that note Casey and Koine were set to be in a sibling relationship. Being one year apart from each other, they quickly became chaotic and both equally as strong. Do NOT fight both of them in a battle... they know how to work together when they need to.

============================

-- The Death Logs --

< In order of first to die - last to die >

+ Cassandra: Died on a mission due to injuries

+ Splinter: Old Age

+ Draxum: Health Complications

+ Raph: Died from mistake in battle

+ Usagi: Died trying to recuse a person who fell behind during a Kraang Attack

+ Mikey: Possibly kidnapped? No one knows...

+ April: Bleed to Death

+ Leo: ???

+Donnie: ???

==============================

Hello! You've reached the end of the info dump! Congratulations, now hold tight because more content is sure to come!

RUINs Main Post

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m-jelly · 2 years

Note

Hi!! Could I request a fic about post war where Levi and the reader have been a couple for awhile. Everything has been peaceful since the war has ended until one day when the reader is out she gets stabbed while being mugged. She tries to make her way back home before she bleeds out and when Levi sees her he’s in fear trying to help. Obviously with a happy ending

Holding on

Pairing: Post War Levi x Reader

Genre and tags: married life, canon world, post-war Levi, angst, happy ending.

Concept: While out shopping to get your husband his pain meds for his knee, along with some presents for him to lighten his day you get approached by a mugger. You willingly give him your money but refuse to hang over the three rings Levi got you, which results in you being stabbed and having them taken. You stumble home back to your husband and deliver his meds right before collapsing. Levi gets you help and as you heal up, he hunts down the man who attacked you and gets your rings back.

Trigger warning: The reader is stabbed, mentions of blood.

There is a Happy Ending. Levi and Reader both live.

You waved as you left the pharmacy with the last of your things for your shopping trip. You smiled brightly as you juggled the shopping. You hopped and skipped down the road and slipped between two buildings as you took a shortcut home to your husband.

"Hey!"

You jumped and turned around to face a man with a knife in hand. "Wh-what do you want?"

He walked closer. "Give me your money."

You put your shopping bag down. "You can have it all." You opened your purse and handed all your money over. "Here."

He shoved it into his pockets and saw your left hand. He grabbed your wrist and stared at three rings, two on your wedding finger and one on your index. One was the first ring Levi ever gave you, another was your engagement ring and the last was your wedding ring.

He yanked you closer. "Give me your rings."

You tried to pull away. "No! No, you cannot have them. They're too important. You have my money!"

"Give me those rings!"

You fought against his grip. "N-No!"

He yanked you close and plunged his knife into the side of your gut. "I said, give them." He shoved you back and watched you slam against the floor. He grabbed your left hand and pulled your rings off. "Bitch."

You welled up and gasped. "N-No, my...rings..." You watched him run away from you. You winced as you felt something hot and wet pumping out of your side. You placed your hand on your wound and got up. "Le-Levi. I need to tell Levi." You grabbed your bag and stumbled home as tears ran down your cheeks. "He ne-needs his meds."

You kept walking home as the blood seeped through your fingers and tapped on the floor leaving a trail behind you. You smiled at your sweet home with a bright garden all around it. You shuffled down the garden path as you felt cold and the sweats started. You opened the door and fell inside.

Levi jumped out of his seat and limped to the door. "Darling?"

You handed over his pills in your bloodied hand. "I got you...your meds..."

He dropped to his knees and shouted your name. "What happened!?"

You welled up. "He took...my rings...I'm sorry."

He scooped you up into his arms and carried you to the dining table. He lay you down on it. "I have to stop the bleeding." He limped around and went right to his scout trunk. He threw it open and grabbed his medical kit. He returned to you and started working on your wound. He slowed the bleeding, stitched you up and then patched the wound. "Okay, okay...that should help."

You panted and smiled at your husband. "Thank you."

He kissed your forehead. "You did so well. I'm sorry I caused you some pain as I fixed it, but you're all better now."

You welled up. "I lost the rings."

He picked you up and carried you to bed. "That's okay, I'll buy you more."

You shook your head. "Those rings mean so much to me. The first ring you got me, my engagement ring and my wedding ring."

He lay you down and sat on the bed. "Tell me what happened."

You welled up. "I was taking the shortcut home and he was waiting there in the dark. He asked me for my money and I gave him all of it. I swear I did. He then demanded my rings and I said no." You rubbed your tears away as you cried. "I love you so much and the rings mean so much. He stabbed me because I wouldn't hand them over."

Levi clenched his jaw in rage. "Thank you for telling me." He kissed you. "I'll give you your meds, then you must rest."

You nodded and took what Levi gave you and sipped some water. "Thank you."

"Sleep."

You frowned. "What about you?"

He kissed your forehead and petted your head. "Sleep, my love. Sleep."

"Okay."

Levi watched you drift off before he left you. He grabbed his cane and limped to the pharmacy using the normal long way. He retraced where you'd go and ended up in the shortcut. He stared at the blood on the floor and noticed a trail of blood one way and a trail going the other. The big droplets were you, so he followed the small ones.

He limped his way through the backroads until he came across a house that was clearly lived in. He knocked on the door and waited. He locked eyes with a man as soon as he opened the door.

The man looked Levi up and down. "What you want freak?"

Levi clenched his jaw. "I heard you're the best to go to for jewellery. Do you have any rings?"

The man smirked. "I just got some. You got money."

Levi pulled his wallet out and flashed his wad of cash. "Yeah."

"Come on in!"

Levi followed the man inside and saw the place was full of stolen goods. "I want to get something for my wife."

He hummed and grabbed a tray of rings with your three on there. "You should find one here."

Levi picked up your three rings. "You get these today?"

The man smirked. "I personally got them today from a lady."

"I'll take them."

"Great!"

Levi put them in his pocket. "I'll give you a lot of payment too." He lifted his cane and smacked the man to the floor. He gritted his teeth. "No one stabs my wife and steals from her."

He thwacked the man over and over. Bones cracked and snapped with each hit. Teeth spilt out of the man's mouth, along with blood and spit. When Levi was done beating the man, he grabbed your money and made his way to the police and reported the mugger. He bought some meds for you and limped all the way home.

Levi tended to you and waited for you to wake up. "You feel better?"

You smiled at your husband. "Much, thank you. The meds are really good."

"I'm glad." He put his hand in his pocket and took your left hand. He slipped your rings back on. "I found them."

You gasped as you looked at them. "Thank you, but this means..."

"The cane you bought me came in handy."

You kissed him. "Thank you." You nibbled your lip a little. "So, you beat him?"

Levi blushed. "Yeah."

You held his hands. "You're such a strong wonderful man."

"Thanks."

You giggled. "I can't get over how strong you are."

Levi lay on his side and gazed at you. "You're stronger."

"Thank you."

He put his arm around you. "No one hurts my wife and gets away with it."

You giggled as Levi kissed your cheek and temple. "Yes, Levi."

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wonderwhump · 1 year

Text

wonderwhump / november_1 fanfiction list

Hi guy's I hope you're all doing fine :)

This is a list of my fanfics. I'm a huge fan of reading and also writing fanfiction of all kinds of fandoms. My AO3 name is november_1.

If you like, check my them out. They are all whump stories with various degrees of emotional and physical whump. If anything triggers you, please check out the tags before reading.

I'm happy about any feedback you might give me. Kudos and comments make my day (yeah, I'm desperate and attention seeking 🤣 But aren't all writers...)

I will add to this list as I write more stories.

FANDOM: Jedi Fallen Order / Star Wars

Endings and Beginnings

An explosion on Bracca and Cal and Prauf are in the thick of it. Hurt and comfort ensue…

FANDOM: Lockwood & Co.

The dread of undying love

Lucy had been keeping a close eye on Lockwood for days. Something was off, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Yet. He was quiet. And pale. Big dark circles under his eyes. She knew something was wrong, but he didn’t talk about it. Of course he didn’t.

Will Lucy and George find out what's going on and be able to help their friend before it's too late?

A Lockwood & Co whump story with lots of angst and pain but also friendship and some undeniable more-than-friends-tension between Lockwood and Lucy.

FANDOM: Chicago PD / Chicago Med

The wrong son

A party. An argument. A car crash. And a dead brother...

Lots of angst and emotional whump for a young Jay Halstead.

Survivor

"What are you supposed to do when somebody calls you out of the blue one beautiful summer evening and tells you, that your husband is missing?"

This story is set some months after 10x3. Jay and his team are captured on a mission in Bolivia. What will happen to them? Will they get out alive?

Brothers

Jay and Will Halstead take a car trip together. It doesn't go that well...

I'll give it to someone special

Jay is out Christmas shopping. But the day doesn't go as planned.

Into the abyss

They find Jay in his apartment, unconscious, unresponsive... dying. Pills and alcohol. A suicide attempt obviously. But was it really?

A week of bad luck

It was one of those days you wish you just hadn’t gotten up at all. That you’d just have turned over in bed, pulled up the sheets over your head and ignored the world out there. It had been a whole week of those days for Jay Halstead and he desperately wished to be able to crawl back into the safety of his comfy bed and hide from the world.

But the world had some more bad luck from him in store.

Life and Death and Baseball

Jay gets injured during a Baseball game. But that's just the beginning and the day gets from bad to worse rather unexpectedly.

Camping is fuckin' dangerous, man!

Jay stumbles into the bullpen and collapses to the ground unconscious. He's seriously injured and drugged up to his eyeballs. Everybody thought he was out in the woods camping and fishing for the last week... But did he even get there? What happened to Jay and who did this to him?!

The bar fight

A good looking stranger steps in to protect a woman in a bar.

Sacrifice

It was Jay's fault that they were in this mess. Now he'd do anything to protect his unit. Even if it meant torture and death...

Pain & Purpose

"The mornings were the worst. The nights were pretty bad too, to be honest. But the mornings made him feel so lost, like he had forfeited the grip on the world. Like the world, and Jay in it, had lost all meaning."

Jay Halstead is a broken man - physically and mentally - when he returns from the war in Afghanistan as the only survivor of his unit. How will he deal with the pain and the trauma?

Remember me

Hailey is 37 weeks pregnant and she and Jay are excited and happy to be parents soon. But one day they are kidnapped right off the street... and suddenly happiness turns into fear, pain, suffering and despair... What will happen to Jay and Hailey and their unborn baby girl? Will they survive this dire situation unscathed?

Beautiful day gone south

The blood felt warm and sticky. It gushed out between her fingers and colored her hands in bright red. She pressed down as hard as she could and he groaned. But how ever hard she pressed down on the wounds, the blood kept on flowing. With every passing second, with every drop of blood, she could feel the life leaving him.

Burning up

Jay knew he was getting a cold. He had been feeling off for the last couple of days: sore throat, beginning cough, headaches, maybe even a fever. But he just ignored it. It would pass. He didn’t have time for a common cold, no time for feeling like shit. And just for the record: Halsteads didn’t get ill. End of discussion.

Shaken

"There was a sharp jolt and then the earth started shaking. From one second to the next the lovely sunny day turned into chaos and destruction."

Will and Jay Halstead are in Los Angeles visiting their friend Connor Rhodes who moved there a year ago to work at UCLA. It was supposed to be a vacation! A little escape from Chicago with sun, beach, fun and drinks. But somehow everything turns out quite differently when an earthquake hits the city and Will and Jay are buried under tons of debris.

Trust and betrayal

Connor's day starts out perfect - until he is wrongfully accused of sexually assaulting a young woman. Suddenly everybody hates him, nobody believes in his innocence, he is suspended and arrested. Who is this woman that accused him of raping her? And what kind of game is she playing? Will Connor be found innocent or stumble deeper and deeper into this mess?

It should have been me

Terry's death hit Jay really hard. It triggers his PTSD and he's spiraling down. But before he can hit rock bottom, somebody from Jay's past turns up and something even worse happens. Something that Jay and his brother Will may not get out of alive...

This story is set right after 3x17.

Shallow waters

If anybody had told Jay that morning that he would drown in thigh deep water in the middle of Chicago, he would have laughed. But right now, he didn’t feel like laughing as the water swashed over his mouth.

FANDOM: Seal Team

Broken

Brock’s last conscious thought was „Oh, fuck – that was it!”. He didn’t feel the shuddering of his body when it impacted with ground. Didn’t feel the bones splintering. Didn’t feel his limbs go slack. He didn’t feel the blood seeping from his nose and head wound, forming a little pool on the forest floor. He also didn’t hear his brother’s screaming. Didn’t hear Cerberus whining.

Wake up, sleeping beauty!

Clay still lay on his side, as he had before, eyes closed and fast asleep. He looked pale. Stella crouched down in front of him smiling, gently stroking his hair. “Hey, wake up, sleeping beauty.” She kissed him, first on his forehead, then on his lips. He didn’t move. Why didn’t he move?

Clay just doesn't wake up the morning after they came home from deployment in Afghanistan. What happened? Will he be ok?

Cold as ice

Sonny Quinn’s right leg was on fire. Well, obviously not literally, as he was lying on his back on the icy ground - in the snow of a dense larch forest. He was sure the leg was broken. He had sneaked a peak down his leg – and no leg should ever be bent in such an angle. But that wasn’t his top concern at the moment. Clay, his best friend, lay about 5 meters from him, his body curled around the tree trunk that had broken his fall down the steep slope - as if he was hugging it. Lifeless.

Too much blood

Brock felt something impact with the back of his head. Hard. His head, and with it his whole body, flew forward and stars exploded in front of his eyes.

Brock is mugged on his way home from the bar.

FANDOM: Six

8 weeks later

Did you ever wonder what happened to Joe "Bear" Graves and his team after the show's last episode (S2E10)? This is my take on that story never told...

Joe „Bear“ Graves was in pain. 8 weeks since the day that had shattered his life to pieces. 8 weeks since the day he had destroyed the life of the people he loved. But now it would be over soon.

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sarahinara · 1 year

Note

it's like 230am and I've already taken my meds but let's see how coherent I can manage to make this.

first oof omg. okay but the like. conflating of maine and the meta (with sigma & eventually the others) and the meta (without the ais) within fandom is so?? like distressing lmao.

the fandom wiki goes on and on about he was ambitious and conniving and power hungry but I just feel like that's so unfair?

because looking at the leaderboard across seasons nine and ten, I think the main reasons for him climbing the board are due to other people's actions and then like. taking a bullet or twenty to protect the briefcase/carolina during the terrible no-good very-bad heist™, and then once sigma gets involved it sure does seem like he does a lot of whispering in maine's ear. (the whole 'sic him' moment will never not be unsettling asdfghjkl)

BUT! but sigma was supposed to be carolina's and she gives him up so that maine can still communicate with the group but like. a decent majority of them can Already make sense of what he's saying? and sigma obviously has his own agenda like friendo iunno if your interpretation of what maine Means to say is wholly accurate.

I'm gonna get to Washington in a hot minute I just have a lot of feelings ;__; because he's got creativity&ambition via carolina, and then fear and happiness from her too. and then theta was next I think?? then gamma and omega, and finally delta? the order he acquires them in aren't intentional I'm sure but it still has me feeling like the pepe silva meme.

and he has So Many all at once? I mean there's that whole 'oh he was power hungry and that's why he&sigma are scooping all of the ais and tech up' but there's also that like. is it so wrong to want them to all be together? in the scheme of things? do they talk with one another in his head? is it Almost like being part of a team again? when does the mental exertion start to melt his brain and hollow him out into the seemingly single minded Meta? what was it like to suddenly have them all gone again? alone alone alone in his head and he can't even properly use his equipment anymore. absolute bullet in the kneecap no wonder he's so petulant and sassy to wash in s8.

anyways. pfl strong silent aggro tank maine and messy rookie 5ever washington make my heart hurt. they both (wash later, mostly) have that hair trigger tip into sudden sharp violence and Yet that 'my friends are in danger gotta toss myself in front of oncoming bodily harm bc that's how I operate' aspect to them as well. how washington is the only one still sitting in the lecture room while sigma fiddles around with the concept of metastability. like what was That about. those moments in s8 where it's almost back to normal exasperated banter? you can't see it but wash is prolly making exasperated lil bitchfaces all the time?

the whole. whose idea was it to bring the meta back along on the epsilon retrieval quest. his brain is prolly fried and he can't use his armor properly and his more than a little unstable. was it the chairman? surely he must have seen some sort of flaw in sending him back out there. was it washington? insisting that the shell of one of his dear friends needed to tag along with him? was there a trade thrown in there somewhere for maine's sake? would he have wasted away in some unsc prison somewhere if not?

wash knew the meta was likely going to try some nonsense when it came to epsilon (and later beta) and yet!!! and yet they're still a team and duoship weird not quite wary friends again not quite perfectly civil work partners. breaks my HEART!

anyways ;__;

okok putting my thoughts under a read more because this got long LMAO

pre-sigma maine (+wash)

YES justice for pre-sigma maine. when it come to the freelancers and the leaderboard, the only ones who reeeeeally cared about the rankings (that we saw) were carolina, south, and ct. the others mention it at points (york and north had a short convo about it), but they have the most reactions to changes/their placements on the board.

but maine? the guy who just does his job of kicking ass when asked? he’s not the one trying to jump off buildings and compete against his fellow agents (a la carolina after tex shows up), nor does he push himself to perform in the field (a la york after his eye injury). you’re absolutely right that maine probably climbs the leaderboard because he’s just good at what he does.

I think that’s partially why I love the maine+wash duo so much—neither of them played to the project’s machinations of the leaderboard. wash comments so. many. times. about the absurdity of what they’re doing that partnering with maine is probably a breath of fresh air. no-nonsense, you-charge-ahead-I’ll-cover-the-field, oh-right-my-trackers-thanks—they know their strengths, that they’re good, and don’t need a leaderboard to tell them that.

post-sigma maine aka the meta

sigma is absolutely the source of any ambition for power in maine. at this point, the other AIs in use were omega, gamma, delta, and theta; tex probably didn’t talk to anyone about omega, gamma was just sorta odd, delta was calm but logical, and theta was unassumingly cute. maine didn’t have any reason to be overly cautious about sigma when he first got him, and sigma probably kept up pretences during their initial days in order to gain maine’s trust.

and then he has this AI, this piece of hardware wired into his brain and every thought—maybe sigma doesn’t interpret for maine 100% correctly, but he’s able to convince maine that he does. maybe sigma oversteps his boundaries as an AI, and goes down neural pathways he shouldn’t. then, when sigma whispers to maine, how is maine supposed to know if it’s the AI’s thoughts or his own?

I like to think that maybe that’s why he was able to have multiple fragments at once and still function, unlike carolina. whereas eta and iota kept to the AI-designated areas of their freelancer, sigma had such a handle on maine that his want to become human became maine’s as well, because suddenly he realizes that he feels the fragmentation as much as his AI does.

with each fragment he collects, maybe maine feels more whole despite the strain he’s putting on his body. each new voice in his head is like him remembering how to feel—happiness, fear, trust. when they talk to each other, it’s just like any other time he’s rationalized with himself.

this is when maine becomes the meta. when “maine”—everything he was before sigma was implanted—just becomes another fragment of the alpha, desperate for the other pieces that they lost. I don’t think meta is hollow-minded necessarily, but just an amalgamation that transforms maine away from what he once was.

post-meta maine (+wash)

the EMP goes off and it is so quiet.

I think maine is left reeling, still feeling like a fragment despite all biological evidence to the contrary, and doesn’t remember how to be human anymore. his combat abilities are deeply-ingrained muscle memory, but his thoughts? his emotion? the AIs were so intertwined with his mind that every flare of feeling is new and alarming.

then he meets S8 wash, and it only makes it so much worse. because the angry, betrayed man in front of maine is so conflicting with who he remembers, and he doesn’t have the capacity to process that. wash gives him an order and it’s so familiar and maine knows that he should trust wash, that he wouldn’t have hesitated once upon a time, but his mind is broken and all he can focus on is how quiet it is why can’t I trust you why can’t you trust anyone—

why does maine go with wash to search for epsilon? I think they’re both loose ends for freelancer, but neither with any lingering love for the project. wash is tired of it all; maine is a lost man wandering through each day. wash offers his efforts in exchange for his freedom; maine is offered freedom in exchange for his efforts. the chairman pairs them together because the records are clear—they were a good team, and they won’t come anywhere near freelancer after this.

I think if their goal was anything else, if they weren’t dealing with AIs, then maybe wash and maine could’ve come out from their mission a little better for it. his friend is broken but he’s here, and wash learns how to trust again when he feels that white armor pressing against his back in a firefight; his friend is broken but he’s here, and maine finds his own voice again when they’re killing time between objectives. with time, they both feel less alone.

but they were hunting epsilon, and this is maine’s chance to feel whole again, like how he felt when he had the fragments filling his head. there is no downtime, no chance for either of them to heal with their mission looming over their heads. maine might work with wash throughout S8, but when the opportunity presents itself to collect epsilon and beta? the opportunity to be human again?

he never had a choice.

#asked #red vs blue #mainewash #god i'm so.#i have so many thoughts on them #that they could've been happy!! post-pfl!!!!#but instead it was just sad #jafglhjhdfh i am so sad over them

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ask-the-clergy-bc · 1 year

Note

I seen that your HCs are open and it literally couldn’t have come at a better time, I’m getting my wisdom teeth removed next week and I have been having sleepless nights over it. For someone who’s DEATHLY scared of anything medical/dental this is such a big deal- plus I have to go through it whilst awake because I’m not able to have the anaesthesia. I’m almost 30 so am often made to feel humiliated about my fear so was wondering how papa iii or Copia (my favs) would comfort someone going through this for some sort of escapism if you will- I adore your blog too much sweetness 🖤

Oh man, I hope you had an easy procedure!! This definitely came late, but I hope you enjoy it none the less!

As someone who had their wisdom teeth out, it's never fun! There is no reason to ever be ashamed of being scared!!

Throwing in a minor trigger warning tag for medical procedures, medical instruments, shots, and other unfun things!

Papa III and Papa IV/Copia Comforting an S/O Terrified of their coming Medical Procedure

Papa III:

~The night before he does everything he can to take your mind off of the next day. That way you aren't stressing yourself out and can actually sleep that night! Takes you out to dinner, makes sure you are doing something fun, and even going out for gelato! Anything to keep your anxiety at bay!

~Papa has a wonderfully brilliant way of downplaying the procedure for you. "Oh that? That's NOTHING! You can do this in your sleep! That wouldn't hurt a fly! You'll be in and out in no time! WHY, I bet I'll yawn ONCE, Amore, and you'll be done!" Papa is very good at talking it down, and you're grateful for it!

~If the procedure/medical facility will allow him, Papa would 100% be in the room with you and annoy most of the staff. He has no problems holding your hand as tight as you need during! Papa is all about that moral support and comfort! The best part? You can feel his thumb brush the top of your hand to remind you that he's there.

~If it's something like a dental surgery, where you can't talk, Papa ends up talking the entire time. You listen as he just fills the entire room with stories and other topics he finds interesting. At first the staff working on you is super annoyed, but soon even they want to know what happens next! The sound of his voice and listening to his story ends up calming you down and taking your mind off of everything happening.

~You both love and hate that he asks so many questions of your doctor. He's genuinely curious about what's going to happen! Your doctor and Papa, thankfully, don't mention any part that involves getting shots or getting cut open. It ends up being an educational time for your both. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy the almost child like curiosity Papa had!

~If you have something removed (like wisdom teeth) Papa INSISTS you should be allowed to take it home and keep it in a jar! You have to put a stop to it immediately, unless he actually leaves the facility with your removed body part like an oddity display!

~Provided that you are coherent enough (and not on TOO STRONG of pain meds), Papa will take you to get a surprise after! Anything you want! Shopping, ice cream, dinner? Just name it! You DESERVE it after such a tough day!

Papa IV/Cardinal Copia:

~Unfortunately, Copia might just be as worried as you are! Strange coming from the man who was completely fine getting recreational plastic surgery! Copia is just unable to watch any of his loved ones go into medical procedures- most of all you, his partner! Copia HATES seeing you suffer or need any kind of treatment! He tends to get a bit dramatic about it out of worry, but he's been getting better at keeping it to himself. After all, this is about YOU needing comfort! Not him making it worse!

~Something Copia does that helps you be less scared about your coming procedure is researching every aspect of it. Copia by nature loves research. The more he knows about a topic the more in control he feels. With your permission he can info dump about everything that's going to happen during your procedure! That includes instruments used, recovery times, and even how they will stitch you up after (if needed.) While it makes him better, he understands if it doesn't make you feel better.

~Somehow, Copia managed to swing taking the day off to go with you to the medical facility! Copia wants to be there in person to comfort and support you! He knows how nervous you'll be! (Also how nervous HE will be if he doesn't have a constant update on you.)

~They allow him in the room but he is forced to sit on the opposite side of the room. Why? Because he keeps hovering over your doctor to make sure you are alright. That and he has knocked over the table for the instruments when he first got into the room. It makes you laugh, but the staff is less than amused. Copia will consistently ask if you're alright through out. He sighs in relief whenever you give a thumbs up.

~Like Papa III, Copia will hold your hand if allowed. He loves to kiss it and whisper encouragements and reassurances to you. You're going to be fine, he promises! He's here for you! Will even sing for you gently if it keeps you calm.

~After everything is said and done Copia will bother your doctor for a status update! You go ahead and let him because it makes you laugh and a bit flattered that he's so involved! The doctor forces him to sit down and lets you both know how everything went. The doctor pre-emptively has the front desk print out a pamphlet of how to take care of you post-procedure, knowing Copia will hound them about it.

~Copia will be happy to get you anything you want after, but INSIST you must stay sitting or in bed! He will happily run and get it for you! Just worry about recovering! Copia would give you a giant diamond if it made you happy and resting easier! You're not sure whether to be amused or shocked that he got himself this worked up! He finally calms down when you tell him that HE needs to settle down. Copia doesn't want to stress you so he happily complies!

#the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost headcanons #reader insert #reader fluff #ghost fluff #papa emeritus iii #x reader #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #trigger warning #minor trigger warning #medical procedure #shots #needle #surgery #medical

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trifoliumrex · 2 years

Text

Mafia Meet Cute Yoongi 3

1 2 3

A Yoongi/ Reader Fic

Working at the library might not pay much but it had always been your dream. When you meet a man who who seems afraid of tech but desperate to learn, you have to decide if being brought back from the brink is worth waking up in a place even more dangerous than you dreamed.

Word Count: 3716

Ao3 link

Tags: @scuzmunkie

Mr.Mins favorite time to fuck you, you had another word for it but saying it out loud had just made it worse, was when your migraines were bad enough to make you compliant in a way that ropes and fear just couldn't match. He was a sadist, enjoying your pain as much or more than the feeling of you wrapped around him. You didn't even know his first name. You weren't allowed to call him anything other than sir and had to refer to him as Mr.Min.

It was unfortunate that he had found you. He had wanted you at first just as a weapon against his son. Now though, he enjoyed so much the pain he could cause in you. He didn't even have to bruise and break you like his past lovers, He thinks you might last longer. He might get the longing look from his son that much longer. Might get to see that lingering concern to hate. He hoped you lasted that long. Hopes he sees Yoongi take a turn at destroying you.

You learned quickly to conceal your headaches. Not directly. Not when he asks you point break in that singsong voice, baby do you have a migraine? No when he asks that you answer honestly. He already knows. He likes the little game though. You, trying to hide your pain from him. The fear that you’ll be discovered.

He has long since moved you into the big house. You stay in your room most of the time. He likes it that way. The thought of you trapped like an animal, just a toy waiting to be taken out of the box. He did like showing off his toys though. Picking what you were, what you eat, if you eat that day, sometimes he would forget. Nothing to do all day so that when he left you for long enough you were almost desperate to please.

The only things you had to read, to interact with were the detailed files on all the pain he caused Yoongi, his mother. You saw him of course. Some days he wanted you to see each other. He wanted you both to have just enough, enough to hope for each other. Today was one of those days. You were being let out. It was for an engagement party.

Yoongi's party. His father has put you in a cream number. Inappropriate. Eye catching. You are allowed out of your room. You are not allowed outside. Your bruises, the ones that he doesn't have to leave, have been more frequent. The makeup does not quite cover them in direct sunlight. You watch as the people mingle in the sun. How long has it been since the sun touched your skin?

Yoongi and his soon to be bride posing for photo after photo. A few are snapped of you and Mr.Min. His hand around your waist, or arm is always too tight. Griping into your flesh. The flashing lights of the camera trigger a pain that you are trying to fight down. You wished you had some pain meds, even as weak as ibuprofen. You weren't allowed.

Not unless you got on your hands and knees and begged for them. You couldn't make yourself do that again. Not after the first time. His favorite thing to do was fuck you when you had a migraine. His second favorite was to take out his gun.

He had made you tell him what he already knew. What Yoongi had stopped. He made you describe the fear you had felt. The terror. And Then he made you relive it. He had reenacted every part but this time there was no Yoongi. He kept the gun inside your mouth for so long, while he put other things inside you, every sound you made caused him to put his finger on the trigger.

No, no pain meds for you. Not anymore. Mr.Min is outside making rounds and you take the opportunity to lean against the wall. He hates when you lean. He wants you weak in his room but in public, he wants you as the happy couple. You had to play your part. You hear a door close and shoot to your feet ready to step back into your role.

Yoongi freezes when he sees you. Did you wear white to punish him? To remind him that he didn't get to have you. That his bride wasn't the spouse he wanted, he craved? You look at him and offer him a small smile and he sees it, the glassy haze in your eyes. He knows you have a migraine and despite the doubt his father has sowed between you he can't leave you like this.

He walks over and pulls out a little tin that once contained mints. He takes your hand and pushes two pills into it. You look at them. Yoongi can’t see your eyes, can't see the fear and assumes it's something else. He puts his hand out for you to give them back and glares at you.

“Even my fucking drugs aren't good enough you?!” You look up at him confused.

“No, Yoongi , I just, I can’t” His glare doesn't soften.

“I can’t believe you were just like the rest.” You look like he’s slapped you and it confuses him, makes him scowl more. Why did you look so surprised. Where are the poison words to be flung at him. He doesn't understand why you aren't attacking him back. Now turn your head looking out the window trying to find his father. Trying to determine if you are able to speak freely.

He sees a bruise, one that you hadn't realized was visible. He pulls the fabric down not far just far enough to see. “I thought you didn't like it rough?! What else did you lie to me about?” There is so much rage in his voice. Is that what makes you flinch? Or is it his touch, his slight undressing of you without your permission?

“I don't.” Your voice is gentle. “Yoongi?”

“What?!”

“With her, you’ll be safe right? You dad can’t risk messing that up right? Her parents could be a problem for him?” He looks so confused. You pull his hand off you. Gently, so gently. You turn his palm up again and drop the pills in his hand. “You should try and be happy with her” you touch his cheek. You know he’s leaving the house after the marriage. You aren't sure what will happen to you after that. “I'm sorry I can’t take this” You go to turn away from him but it's too late.

You see him in the corner. Grinning. “Hello son, You should be with your pretty fiance not with my lover. I don't think your hands should be on him, baby. A man might get the wrong idea” he crooks his finger at you. Your hand drops from Yoongi's cheek and he sees what he’s missing. The puzzle piece that he needed to understand how you could do this to him.

You go to his father and he brushes your hair back. You force yourself not to flinch back. “Baby do you have a migraine?”

“Yes Sir” Yoongi recognizes your tone. It's the same one his father has taught, no trained, beat into him. How had he gotten you to take that tone? You submit so readily to him. Yoongi is frozen over where he was standing over you.

“And did Yoongi offer you some pain meds?” He’s not looking at you, he's looking at his son. When Yoongi meets his fathers gaze he understands. This is it. This is his punishment for touching computers. He hoped that it had just been turning you against him. Convincing you he wasn’t worth it. This was worse.

Mr.Min has been waiting for this. For Yoongi to offer you something. For him to force a link that he was responsible for what was about to happen to you. “That was very kind of him. Yoongi, you are so sweet. Tell me baby. Did you let those pills touch your hand?”

“Yes sir I touched them” even now Yoongi can hear your choices of language. Trying again to protect him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. How could he have done this to you? How could he have let himself be so manipulated. He knows, knows this is how people, who grew up with fathers like his, react. Knows these responses are expected. Intended.

“Yoongi why don't you put your pills you offered them right here” the taps the edge of the desk with Yoongi obeys. Of course he does. Mr.Min looks at them calculating. He likes pain, but pain without rules was pointless. He wanted obedience. “You know what happens if you want pain meds don’t you?”

You get on your knees. You want to scream at Yoongi to leave. You think this will hurt him. You know this will hurt you. His hand goes to your face trying to remember where the bruises were the first time he had forced Yoongi to bring you to him. Like a sacrifice. “Was it here”

“To the left” you whisper and the first tears fall. His grin widens as he adjusts his grip. He back hands you holding your head in place with his other hand. Your moan of pain is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the panicked breathing from his son.

Yoongi's panic attacks were infrequent. But always a treat for his father. He wonders if he will be able to trigger one now. His ex had taught their son such good coping mechanisms. He had disposed of her, over the course of many years. Just another way to hurt his son.

When his gun comes out he can feel the atmosphere change. He wonders if you’ll beg first or Yoongi will. He bets on Yoongi. “Open your mouth baby. Show Yoongi how well that pretty mouth works.” his eyes are still on his son.

Yoongi's eyes are on you. When the gun goes into your mouth. When you start to gag. I don't like it rough. This is rough. Despite his words it is not what ‘your pretty mouth can do’ its very much his hand finger not quite on the trigger plunging into you.

“Dad! Please” his voice is strained. “Please!”

“They know the rules Yoongi, do you think I should let them break them? I don't think that sets a good president.” He withdraws his gun. For now. He picks up one of the pills and examines it. It probably won't even make a dent. Your mouth is still open as you pant trying to regain composure. You know better than to move before you are released. Mr.Min pops the pills into your mouth and you still don't move. He watches you for a moment “ you may swallow.”

Yoongi wonders how many times you’ve heard that. How many times you have been here. On your knees. Because you know him. “I'm going to fuck them now Yoongi, before that migraine wears off. You can stay if you want, but you’ll have to participate. That could be fun. A little bonding time with your old man”

You turn and look at Yoongi. “Please.. Please go. You have a fiance Yoongi, you need to leave!” Mr Min back hands you again. This time it draws blood and you are knocked to the floor. You deserve it, you think. You know the rules. You are not allowed to speak to him. Not without permission.

Yoongi is frozen. If he leaves you now. It will be bad. He recognizes the look in his fathers eyes. If he stays though. He won't be able to say no to him. It will make it even worse for you. He knows what he has to do. He looks at you one last time and then turns to leave.

“Yoongi?” His father calls just as he’s about to leave. “I think, since you’re moving out soon you should ask them why they came over that day. You know when you walked in on us. No loose ends and all that.”

“Why did you come back?” Yoongi's voice is flat. He is so sure he doesn't want to know.

“Your father had me read a file. All the things that” you struggle to find a way to say this so you don't hurt him but a boot to your chest reminds you that's not an option for you. “Your punishments. If I didn’t come back I’d get you punished”

Yoongi spins around to look at you horrified. You’re looking at the ceiling. Eyes glassy. He meets his eyes. “You’re not going to touch another computer are you son?”

“No”

“Yoongi” His tone is disapproving.

“No sir.” He lets his head hang.

“You’re dismissed Yoongi. Tell the guards at the door to ignore the noise.” He kicks you eliciting a cry of pain. Yoongi closes the door and tries not to hear. Tries to go back to being angry because at least when he's angry it was because you consented. Wanted it. I thought you didn't like it rough. He had insinuated that you liked it.

It's one am when you hear a knock at your door. You sit up with a groan. The door knob twists and you're afraid that it's Mr.Min back for a second round. It's not. It's Yoongi. He has a rag and bowl of water.

He comes over to you. You didn't even have the strength to shower. He wordlessly starts to dab at your skin. He when he gets to the makeup. Uncovers the bruises hiding there. That he missed. “How many times”

“That specifically?” you whisper. Your eyes are on your hands, not him.

“No. How many times” his voice is firm and insistent.

“I don’t know” how do you answer a question like that. You wonder if Mr.Min has a record. A file on you the way he has a file on his son. You wonder if there will be pictures. You know there are at least few.

“I'm going to make it stop” You look at him your eyes wide in panic. You grab onto his arm.

“No! Yoongi, you have a chance. You can leave him. Please you have too—!!”

“I broke my engagement.” your panic goes to terror. She had been relieved. She agreed to keep it a secret. Agreed to help, delighted that there was a possibility of peace between the two families that did not involve her as a bargaining chip.

“He will hurt you! You can't do that” you start to cry. How could he ever have thought you were going to betray him. His hand goes to your cheek the way you had touched him and with his other hand he takes out the tin.

“He will not get the chance. Take more pain meds. I know it hurts” You look at the pills in fear. What they did today was because you had touched them. What would he do to you if he found out? This is a test. You know it is. Can you trust him? To keep you safe. You reach in and take a pill.

He looks at you expectantly. You take three more until he’s satisfied. He gets up and goes to the mini fridge and gets you a water bottle. He had never considered why your room had a mini fridge, a microwave. It was like a small apartment. You take your medicine and expect him to leave but he stays at your bed hand stroking your hair as you fall asleep.

You Are awakened with a little shake. Gentle. The sunlight is bright and you don't know how long you've been asleep. Just like before he’s kept the nightmares at bay. He had asked you if you felt safe at the hospital. When the answer had been no he had stayed with you. Would he stay now?

“It's time for more meds”

“Yoongi I…don't know” You had been in so much pain last night. Now though you could bear it. Maybe. If he would stay. “If he finds out.”

“He will” You flinch. Drawing the covers up to you. As if they could protect you from him. “When he comes to you. Does he always have his gun?”

“No, that was… worse than usual”

“And does he usually call you to him?”

“Not unless he wants you to see. Usually I stay here. In this room” Yoongi looks at you face blank. He sees the fear. It's been months. Since he brought you here for the first time. He left you here. He knew what it was like to be locked away under his fathers thumb. “I'm going to stay here. Until he comes. And I’m going to destroy him. For touching you”

You look at him. Eyes lingering on the places where he’s been broken. “What do you need me to do?”

“He’s going to come to you. And when he sees you, clearly on pain medication he will get angry. Sloppy. I will not let him touch you again.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes” you take the medication. You need to trust him. You choose to trust him. He kisses you while your eyes grow weary. “I promise, when he comes in you just close your eyes alright? I’ll take care of it”

It takes a full day for his father to come and get you. Yoongi keeps waking you up to take meds after the previous dose wears off. He’s an old hat at this. Both ends. No meals are sent to your room. His father wants you weak. Vulnerable. Scared.

When he does come he has his own rag and water. He opens the door and frowns. You are in bed as he expected but the blood he left on your face. It's clean. He doubts you made it up on your own. He was very careful not to break anything. You look. Peaceful. He doesn't like that. Who gave you pain meds? He didn't care if they forced them down your throat you would both suffer for it.

He drops the things he has in his hand making a clatter loud enough for you to wake. Your eyes take a second to focus. For a moment you think it's Yoongi. When you realize who it is you sit up and scramble back. Your eyes dart around the room. You don't see Yoongi. “Baby… did you take more pain meds?”

“No!” You lie to him. For the first time. But you know what the next question will be and you don't see Yoongi. How can he keep his promise if he’s not here? And if he already got to him? He could always make it worse. If there's something you’ve been taught by Mr.Min it's that he can always make it worse.

“Baby, I’m feeling generous. You were hurt, I can be understanding, maybe someone made you do it. Did you disobey me?”

“No sir” He looks at you with disappointment.

“I'm going to have to break you now Baby, you understand that right? And then I'm going to chain you here. I don't think you’ll ever move off this bed again. I’ll give you one last chance” You shake your head again sure if you admit you lie it will be worse. He takes a step forward and you let out a sob. Where is he?! You scramble off the bed hitting the ground with a thud. Wincing.

“Someone came in here, cleaned you up and gave you pain meds against my permission. And you are covering. I know it was Yoongi. If you come over to me now? I’ll let him live.” You close your eyes, trembling. “Fine them. I’ll kill him. Kids are easy enough to make. Ill enjoy making you watch.”

You hear the boot steps and hold your breath. Trying to stop the trembling. You hear a click. Safety of a gun. You have become intimately familiar with that sound. He wasn't supposed to have his gun. “It's ok. Just keep your eyes closed” its Yoongi. He sounds calm. He was behind the door. Had to wait for him to fucking get closer to you. To turn his back to him.

He is calm. His gun is at the back of his fathers head. “Finally ready to make a move Son? For the first time I’m not disappointed, maybe there's hope for you yet. Tell you what, we both know you won't pull that trigger but since you—”

“Get on your knees,” Mr.Min swallows. He doesn't move for a second and Yoongi brings the but of his gun down on the back of his neck. For incentive. He drops to his knees. You hear a creak. “You’re getting old Dad. You don’t have many friends left. Have started to make bad calls. You can’t even use a computer. You should read the emails they send about you” He steps around him gun never leaving his head. Blocking his sight of you.

He brings the gun to his lips. “Show me what that pretty mouth does” He whispers. When his father opens his mouth wraps his lips around the gun Yoongi fires. There's a gurgling noise.

He fires again. The man at his feet doesn't die. Not immediately. He takes something out of his pocket. A lighter. He holds it to the bed. How many times did he hurt you here. When Yoongi was just down the hall.

He bends down to your level. “You can open your eyes now” You look at him and then the fire. He picks you up. “Just look at me ok? Just me” He takes you out of the building. Pressing your head to his neck. He rings the fire alarm on the way out. Nothing here is precious. The insurance money is worth more anyway. And this is important. It sends a message.

He is going to run a different kind of empire. He intends to make sure what happens when you touch what was his. If Mr.Min was to be feared then his son was on track to terrify.

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#min yoongi x reader #suga x reader #suga x you #suga x y/n #yoongi x reader #bts #bts x reader #assault #non consensual touching #bts angst #bts mafia au #violence #non con drugging #drug use #mmc

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morning-star-whump · 2 years

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Smile for the Camera! 21

Chapter 21: Skylar Jones

Masterlist || Previous

Have some Skylar angst and history teehee >:)

Tag List: @livingforthewhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thebaffledtiewriter @whumpkinpie @pretty-writing-things @make-it-gay-please @onlywhump @heeheehooho0 @basicallyachild2004 @susiequaz12 @pickywhumpreader @shameless-dumbass @scp-1296 @burningkittypoet @tiredghostboi @painsandconfusion @whump-queen @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @whumperfully

CW: Reference to torture, multiple kidnappings, multiple whumpees, captivity whump, medical whump, conditioning, domestic abuse, intimate whumper, dehumanization

Year one. Walter Young. Seventeen. Skylar was a senior in college, pre-med. They had met Nathan on Tinder, and when they met in person, they hit it off. But after three months, everything changed. Nathan kidnapped Walter and started livestreaming his torture for money and fame on the dark web. The sheer thought made Skylar sick to his stomach.

And yet, Skylar had helped him. They had gone down to Nathan’s basement, littered with torture implements. And they had walked into the white room and seen the blond boy lying on the table after a whipping. They had to help him. They had nothing to knock him out with. They could still hear his screams.

Sure, Nathan had beat them in order to get them to cooperate. Sure, he had broken their ribs and held a knife to their chest. But it didn’t change the fact that they were an accessory to kidnapping, torture– and later, murder. Above all else, though, they were a coward. The only thing stopping them from turning in Nathan was that they would go down with him.

Year two. Raj Gupta. Sixteen. Nathan had convinced Skylar not to go to med school. “I’ll need all your attention if you’re going to help me,” he had said. “You can’t be distracted with studying.”

They had tried to stand up to Nathan. That’s when he told them that he would hurt Raj more if Skylar refused to fix him up. Skylar was helping Nathan out of fear, not just for themselves, but for Raj. They were doing the right thing.

By then, they had the burn scars riddling their back to remind them what happened if they didn’t cooperate.

Year three. Jerome Brown. Eighteen. Skylar had become an expert at compartmentalizing. Their memory was getting worse. They forgot that they weren’t helping Nathan voluntarily. They forgot that Nathan had hurt them. They forgot why it hurt so much to lie down on their back.

They weren’t as intimidating as Nathan would have liked. They recoiled at the sight of Jerome’s mangled body. Nathan would always remind them that they were just confused. They were his partner, romantically and in crime. They would help him no matter what.

Sometimes, Nathan hurting them would seep into their dreams. But they knew it was just that: a dream. Nathan loved them and they loved him. He would never hurt them. Besides, he was always there to comfort them when they woke up screaming.

Year four. Charlie Green. Seventeen. Skylar had toughened up. They didn’t have the night terrors anymore. They had moved in with Nathan, and as long as they were with him, they were safe.

Something in their brain told them that they didn’t want to do this. They didn’t want to hurt the poor kid in their basement more than Nathan had. That voice annoyed them. They remembered Nathan telling them they wanted to do this, and they believed him. The thoughts angered them, and they took that anger out in their work.

Year five. Daniel Li. Sixteen. Skylar wasn’t having the bad thoughts anymore. They loved Nathan, they would do anything for them. Until death do them part.

Daniel was more of an annoyance than anything. His begging nearly triggered an emotional reaction within Skylar, but they pushed it away. Their heart and soul were always replaced by anger, but they didn’t remember what they were angry about. They just knew that they had to be good for Nathan. They didn’t remember the consequences, but they didn’t want to find out.

Year six. Alex Diaz. Fourteen when taken– he had turned fifteen in captivity.

He was the youngest, but Skylar didn’t go easy on him. They repeated the harsh words that Nathan had said to them throughout the years: that he was Nathan’s property, that he wasn’t a human being. Nathan usually kidnapped boys around six feet, but this boy couldn’t be more than 5’6”. Regardless, they knew they had to be good for Nathan. That is, until Alex got sick.

He was delirious. He had begged Skylar before, but that time was… different. It reminded them of something. Walter had begged the same way. It brought them back to five years ago, when they had the bad thoughts. They remembered things they were sure had never happened– Nathan hurting them, Nathan threatening them, Nathan arguing with them…

But Nathan loved them. And they loved Nathan. It didn’t make sense. They were confused. And now, they were fixing up Alex after a beating, and the boy was making them more confused.

“Skylar?” Alex’s voice was barely above a whisper. He hissed as the bandages were applied to his broken ribs. “What happened to you?” He looked up at them with wide eyes.

“What do you mean?” Skylar tried to keep their tone even, but their voice wavered.

“You… you were scared. Scared of Nathan.” He glanced down. “Like me.”

They glared at the boy on the table. “I thought I told you not to bring that up.”

“Come on, Skylar,” Alex begged. “I know you’re in there. You don’t want to do this.”

Skylar remained silent. He’s just trying to confuse me. Can’t let him.

“Skylar, please,” Alex tried. “Please help me.”

Silence.

“I’ll tell everyone you didn’t hurt me,” he said. “I’ll tell them you were a prisoner, too. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Skylar gritted their teeth. “Stop talking.”

“We can help each other,” Alex continued.

Skylar shook their head.

“Please, Skylar–”

He was cut off by a slap to the face. “Do you ever shut up?” Skylar growled.

Their expression softened, taken aback by their own actions. They always helped fix Nathan’s boys. They never hurt them more than necessary. Who cares if I hurt him? Why do I care?

Alex just stared back. “C-can I ask a question?”

Skylar sighed. “What is it?”

“How many people–” His eyes widened at his mistake. “I mean, um, p-playthings, has Nathan, um… owned?”

“You’re the sixth.” Why am I having a conversation with him?

“How, um…” Alex swallowed. “How long does he keep them?”

“A year exactly.” Why am I answering his questions? “It’s June 26th, so…” Why am I telling him the date? “You have a little under eleven months.”

Alex sobbed. “I c-can’t do eleven more months of this, Skylar, please…”

A small bit of sympathy overtook them. “Um, happy belated birthday, by the way.”

Alex snickered. “Yeah. Happy.”

Skylar saw the deadness in his eyes. They felt like they were being tested– doing their job has never hurt them so much before. “And I’m sorry about Jordan.” Nathan always took people with very few friends or family looking for them. And now one of Alex’s people was dead. WHY DO I CARE?

A tear escaped Alex’s eye. “I miss him.” He looked up at Skylar with wide eyes. “Please tell me my mom’s okay.”

“I… I don’t know,” Skylar answered honestly. Nathan never talked about the murders. “If he hasn’t told you anything, then probably.”

“Probably?” Alex tried to yell, but his throat wouldn’t let him. “My family’s in danger and the best you can give me is ‘probably’”?

“I’m sorry.” The words escaped their mouth without their realization.

“If you’re sorry, then help me.” Alex grabbed Skylar’s hand. “You weren’t always like this, were you? Help me and I’ll help you.”

Skylar’s breathing sped up. They thought of attacking Nathan, turning him in– no, no, can’t let the bad thoughts in. Their hands balled into fists, making Alex recoil, but they exhaled and released their clenched hands.

“Please, Skylar.” Alex looked away. “C-could I at least have some water? Coughing up blood is dehydrating.”

“Okay,” Skylar resigned, “but don’t tell him I gave you any.”

“Don’t tell him I asked.”

“Fine.”

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adventuretolkienlover · 1 year

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The Journey's Just Begun (Chapter 2: Home At Last!)

Intro: OMG THIS TOOK FOREVER! I'm am so sorry guys! Yeesh! I've got to get faster. Anyway, I hope you all like this new chapter. I tried to accurately write Hugo's PTSD from his previous life with Donella and Cyrus. I don't know how good I did, but I did my best. So, I guess that's what counts. Also, I've done a great injustice to portraying romance. Namely Ulla and Quirin. I'm am so sorry.🤣 I'm SO terrible at the lovey dovey stuff! Hopefully I'll get better at that. Honestly I'm better at comedy. (Oh! And as usual, please do not tag as Varigo! This is a Sibling AU! Thank you guys!) Now without further Ado, the chapter! (EDIT: Fixed a big mistake in the continuity. Note to self: Never update when under pain meds.🤣)

Chapter 1 ⬅️ Chapter 3➡️

Summary: Varian is finally going home! And Hugo and Ulla are with him! Hugo is nervous about meeting Quirin. He's a an ex-knight and a lord? Yikes! But that becomes the least of his worries when a "technical mishap" occurs.

Trigger Warnings: Brief Implied Abuse

Varian drove the caravan down the road that led to Old Corona. It's engines we're on it's last legs and he hoped it would make it at least to the edge of the village. Varian couldn't wait to see his dad again! It had been so long since he'd been home. He could hardly wait to be back in his old lab. And have some of his dad's home cooked meals. And it wouldn't be just him and Quirin anymore. Varian looked over his shoulder at Hugo and Ulla. They were sitting in the back. Ulla was excitedly talking to Hugo about everything she wanted to do now that she was free. And Hugo looked all to happy to be spending time with her. Varian figured it was the only real exposure he'd had to a good mother figure. And knowing that said mother figure genuinely cared about him made everything better. The sight warmed Varian's heart. He couldn't be happier with two of his favorite people with him.

Of course the pets were there. Ruddigar and Cheese were sitting on Varian's bunk and appeared to be reading a Flynn Rider book together. And Frankie and Buttercup, the two puppies that Hugo and Varian had found were also present. Buttercup was snoozing on Hugo's lap. And Frankie, being the bundle of energy he was, was trying to get Ulla to notice him by tugging on her apron strings. Ulla put the squirmy puppy in her lap to calm him down. It wasn't very effective. He instead took to tugging at her sleeves. Varian smirked. That pup was nothing but trouble sometimes.

Despite all this, the caravan still had a feeling of emptiness in it. It was strangely quiet without Belle and Jacky. Jacky and Belle had left to find places to stay at the capital. Ulla had offered to take them in, but they didn't want to encroach on the family. For a house that was used to having only a father and one son, having a mother and another boy in the house would be quite the change already! They promised they would find a good place to stay and to keep in touch. Varian hoped they would be okay and that he see them again soon. Varian had other worries too. They had made plenty of enemies on their journey. Some of them were still alive and searching for them. He hadn't told Ulla yet, out of fear of what it would do to her. And Donella? Donella was a whole other story. Telling her that her best friend had turned evil and tried to kill him and his friends? Varian had contemplated simply not telling her, but the truth would get out eventually. He shook the worries from his mind and tried to focus on the positive. He turned back toward the road. "We're almost there guys!" he shouted to them!

"Yes! Can't wait!" said Ulla! "One thing a have to do now that I'm free is check out the capital! I haven't been there in years! And Varian told me that the princess there had magic hair, but she doesn't anymore. But I'd still love to meet her! She was stuck in one place for a long time just like me! Of course, she was stuck in a tower for eighteen years and I was stuck in a library. Did I tell you how happy I am to be out?"

"Yes." Hugo chuckled. "A few times."

"Oh right! Ugh! I'm sorry! I'm so excited. I can't wait to see Quirin again! I wonder if he's changed much?"

"What's Quirin like?" asked Hugo curiously. He wasn't gonna lie. He was a bit nervous meeting Varian's father. He didn't know what to expect.

"Oh! He's the best! He's kind and thoughtful! And he loves everyone in the village! You'll love him! And he's gonna like you too! The last time I saw Quirin, he was a knight for the Dark Kingdom! And klnow Varian tells me he's been farming all this time! Tall about a crazy career switch amight?" rambled Ulla. Hugo's eyes widen. "Wait, he's a knight?" Varian realized he never told Hugo much about his dad.

"Uh, yep! Well he was knight."

"You mean knight as in, has military training?" asked Hugo worriedly.

"Um, yes. Is this a bad time to tell you my dad's kinda the lord of Old Corona?"

"WHAT! Wait, your nobility?!"

"You didn't tell me that Varian! Cool!" exclaimed Ulla.

"He didn't tell me either!" said a very flustered Hugo!

"I guess... It didn't cross my mind. I mean we've been on the road most of the time and running from you know who."

Hugo stood there with his jaw dropped. He didn't know what to say.

"Who's this You Know Who?" asked Ulla.

"I - Uh- N - Nothing!" Hugo stammered. He hugged his knees and took a deep breath. "Okay. He has military training AND connections to the crown. I've make sure I get on his good side." Hugo was so anxious, he didn't even realize he was talking to himself. But Ulla did.

"Hey, it's okay Honey." Ulla rubbed his back. Hugo looked at her. "Don't be so nervous. He's gonna love you. You're a sweetheart. It will be fine. Okay?" Hugo nodded. Ulla pulled him into a side hug. Varian smiled. He heard everything. The caravan climbed over one last hill. At the top, Varian could see Old Corona stretching out before them. "Guys! We're here!" Varian tried to put on the brakes to slow down. But nothing happened. Varian looked down surprised at the brakes and tried again. Nothing. Varian's eyes grew wide. "Uh oh." He thought. He tried again. And again! And again! His panic rising with every attempt! Suddenly Ulla and Hugo both noticed the commotion up front. They both looked at Varian in confusion. "Everything okay?" Ulla asked. "Yep! Just fine!" shouted a very frantic Varian. He turned around and gave a fake grin. Suddenly his hairstripe started to glow!

"Gah!" yelped Varian and he frantically covered it up with one hand before quickly turning back to the dash, his face reverting back to panic. Now, this whole "Hairstripe Glowing Thing" may seem strange. But there will be more on that later. Varian furiously began pressing the brakes again. Hugo looked at Varian clearly struggling with a deadpan expression. "Varian. You're not fooling anyone. What's up?" said Hugo.

"Okay. Nobody panic." said Varian. "But uh... I think the brakes went out."

"WHAT?!" shouted Ulla and Hugo!

"I said don't PANIC!" said Varian, who was panicking.

"We're not panicking!" Hugo said as him and Ulla frantically ran up into the cab! "Who says we're panicking?" (He was though.)

"Maybe we can jump out!" said Ulla!

"We're going too fast!" replied Varian.

"Okay! Well, what if we hit something soft?!" Ulla suggested.

"Not any people I hope!" yelled Hugo as he spotted some bewildered farmers watching them pass by in their fields! Varian spotted some hay stacks in the distance. He got an idea! "That's it!" he said! "If we cut the power, and steer into those hay stacks, we should stop!"

"The ones on the other side of town square?!" shouted Hugo terrified!

"Yep!" replied Varian!

"Okay everyone! Strap down! This is gonna get bumpy!" called back Ulla! The puppies ran and hid under the bunks. Ruddigar grabbed Cheese and jumped in a crate!

"Guys? There's only one problem with that plan! The fuel intake is one the outside!" said Hugo.

"I know. Hugo! Take the wheel!" said Varian!

"Varian?! What are you doing?!" said Hugo as he switched places with Varian!

"Saving us!" said Varian, as he began to climb out the window and onto the hood!

"VARIAN! Get in here!" Yelled Hugo! But Varian was already almost on the caravan's hood! "Be careful!" shouted Ulla!

"I don't worry! I'll be fine! I hope." replied Varian, who's was now hanging onto the hood! He opened it a crack and began fiddling around, trying to find the fuel intake. He found it and yanked it out! The engine made a loud BANG noise and then lost power! They we're moving purely on inertia now! "I got it!" said Varian excitedly! Suddenly he almost lost his balance! Varian yelped and waved his arms, trying to keep his balance! Ulla and Hugo gasped! Ulla kicked the cab door open, grabbed Varian, and pulled him inside just as he began to fall off! Hugo looked over his shoulder at Ulla hugging a very shell shocked Varian! They were both on the knees! Clearly neither of them had the nerves to stand up.

"Oh my gosh! You have me a heart attack!" Ulla said!

"How do you think I feel?!" said Varian shaking!

"HOLD ON!" yelled Hugo as they neared town square! People had already spotted them and were running out of the way screaming!

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Varian's father Quirin was quietly turning the soil in one of his estate's many pumpkin fields. It was what seemed a mundane or tiresome task. But for a man that had seen many a war and bloodshed, there was no better peace found then in tending living things. Unlike most nobels, he enjoyed working the land. Instead of leaving farm work to the lower classes, he always helped in farming the land surrounding his estate and in bringing in the harvest. It always brought him joy to see his people working together and with him. However, lately he had been a bit depressed. Even when doing his favorite farm chores. He lifted his face to feel the calming presence of the wind and sighed. He's gaze fell upon the road that led away from Old Corona. The wall surrounding the kingdom had been long since torn down and he could see the road reaching far into the distance. It had been almost a year since Varian had left down that very road. And Quirin missed him more everyday. And it was agonizing to not know if his boy was safe. He turned to go back to his chores when he heard a familiar sound faintly in the distance. He looked up and searched around for the source. It sounded like Varian's caravan! And people screaming? He looked toward the town! Was that Varian's caravan?! At first, Quirin got excited. But something seemed off. Quirin peered at the strange sight in the distance. Where we're the caravan's horses? And why was it barreling toward town?! Something must be wrong! Quirin quickly threw down his gardening hoe and mounted a nearby farm horse. Quickly, he began riding toward the town!

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Hugo steered wildly through the town, trying not to cause any damage! "Sorry! Excuse us! Coming through!" he shouted as another group of farmers ran out of the way! Varian just knew they were going to get an earful from them later. "LOOK OUT!" Ulla yelled as they dodged a horse drawn cart!

"Was that Ulla?!" said a villager as the caravan sped past! At this point, everything was pure chaos! Chickens were fluttering! People were running, jumping, and screaming! Objects ranging from fruit to tools we're flying everywhere! And Hugo was trying his hardest to navigate through it all! Quirin reached the village just in time to see the caravan shoot out of it like a rocket! It wizzed past him and steered into a nearby field. Hugo headed for the largest hay stack!

"Making contact in three, two, ONE!" said Varian! And with a FOOMP the caravan crashed into the hay stack! Hay and dust went flying! But the caravan had stopped! Quirin stared in shock at the crashed caravan. Then rode toward it. He dismounted his horse and ran up to the cab. "Varian?!" he shouted and banged on the cab door! Suddenly the door swung open! Varian pocked his head out! He was covered in hay, coughing from the dust, and his googles had slid over his eyes! "Hey! *Cough* Guys! I think we- *Cough Cough* I think we stopped WAAA-" Varian clumsily fell out and into Quirin's arms! Varian looked up at him.

"Dad!" he said excitedly!

"Son!" said Quirin hugging him. Varian threw his arms around Quirin's neck as he was lifted clear off the ground in his embrace. Quirin was incredibly relieved to see his boy. He was finally in his arms again. Safe and sound. Varian was just as happy and buried his face in Quirin's shoulder. The scent of familiarity calming his soul. Just then, Quirin heard the sound of someone approaching. He looked up curiously. He caught sight of someone walking out of the cloud of dust behind the caravan.

"Varian?" said Quirin. Varian looked behind them. Then smiled. He knew who it was. The figure got closer and closer. Then walked out of the dust. It was Ulla. Quirin's eyes widen and his jaw dropped. He slowly put Varian down. Ulla coughed from the dust and brushed off her clothes. Suddenly she locked eyes with Quirin. Her arms dropped to her sides and she stared at him. They stood there for a moment. Not daring to move. Was this real? Were they really together again? Ulla gulped and broke the silence.

"Quirin?" she said quietly.

Quirin nodded. He had tears in his eyes. A smile broke out across his face.

"Ulla?" he said. Ulla gasped excitedly and ran toward him! Quirin reached out to embrace her. Ulla leaped into his arms. Quirin lifted her off the ground in hug, just like with Varian. And spun her around before stopping and holding her tight.

"It is you!" said Ulla through the joyful tears. "It's really you!"

"I thought I'd never see you again!" said Quirin. This was better then he could have hoped for! His son AND wife had come home! Varian meanwhile was practically quivering with excitement. His whole family was back together. Just then Ulla and Quirin gave each other very passionate kiss. "Woah! Oh, uh." Varian blushed and looked away with a nervous laugh. He didn't want to encroach on their moment. They certainly needed one after being so far apart. A crowd began to gather. They had made a big commotion and everyone was curious.

"Is that Varian?" said one.

"Of course! Who else would it be?" someone answered.

"Who's that lady? Is that Ulla?" asked another.

"Yes! I think it is! She's back too!"

Soon Varian lost sight of his parents amongst the town's people. But he heard his father reassuring them that everything was okay. The back doors of the caravan opened and the puppies scampered out. Followed by Ruddigar and Cheese, who staggered from the rough stop and fell right out of the caravan! They both laid on the ground, trying to stop the world from spinning. Hugo staggered out next.

"Hugo!" said Varian! Quirin and Ulla turned their eyes toward the boy walking dizzily towards them. Varian ran up to his friend and began leading him toward his parents! The crowd had began to dissipate and there was clear path now.

"Come on! I want you to meet my dad!"

"Heh. Great Hairstripe." said Hugo. "Let do th-" Hugo froze in front of Quirin. Hugo was not expecting him to be so... GINORMOUS!

"Hugo, meet my dad! Dad? Hugo!"

Hugo nodded and tried to fight the urge to run away. "H-Hi..." Hugo squeaked. Hugo was used to be the tallest around. Having someone towering over him like this was a bit unsettling.

"Hugo is my best friend and also pretty much my brother. At least we think of each other that way. Kinda like you and the Brotherhood?"

"I see." said Quirin.

Quirin looked toward Hugo for confirmation. But Hugo was too focused on wondering just how strong Varian's father was. He looked like the type that could snap a tree in half! Quirin looked Hugo over. He clearly wasn't from Corona. And had a few piercings in his ears and an undercut. He was also very pale compared to Varian. Quirin guessed he was from one of the colder kingdoms. He felt a twinge of suspicion, because he looked a bit like some of the thieves he'd seen hanging around Bayangor. But his demeanor didn't seem threatening. In fact, he looked quite nervous. Quirin was always a bit awkward in social situations. But even though the boy seemed a bit different, he wanted to make a good impression. Especially since he was one of Varian's friends. He put on a friendly smile and shook Hugo's hand. Hugo almost jumped out of his skin in surprise. He looked down at Quirin's hand in shock. It practically engulfed his own. And his grip was like a vise! "Well Hugo, it's good to meet you. You and Varian seem very close. You're welcome to stay with us if you like."

"Th - Thank you." Hugo stammered. After his hand was let go, he rubbed it and let out a nervous laugh. "I'm sure you're all tired from the journey." said Quirin. "Let's go home. We can all rest and talk there." Ulla squealed with excitement and took her husband's hand. "Let's go Varian!" She said.

"Yeah we'll be right there!" he called back. "Come on!" he said patting Hugo on the shoulder. "Let's get out stuff from the caravan.

"Right." said Hugo. Varian ran inside the caravan. Hugo paused and looked nervously after Quirin and Ulla walking away. His eyes fell on Quirin's fist. A brief frightening memory of Cyrus raising his fist to strike him ran through Hugo's mind. Hugo flinched and shut his eyes. He gritted his teeth as he tried to make the uncomfortable memory fade. He took a deep breath and let himself calm down. The memory faded away a bit. He looked up again at Quirin walking away, before hurrying to join his brother in the caravan.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Varian shut the caravan doors closed and locked them. Him and Hugo had their packs of stuff ready and on their backs. "Alright. Let's go home." said Varian tossing the keys in the air cheerfully. They began to walk down the road toward Varian's home. The pets ran on ahead. "You're gonna love this place. It's kinda quiet, except when your know, I'm causing accidental explosions - But besides that, it's really calm and laid back!"

Hugo didn't answer. Varian noticed his mind to be other places.

"Hugo?" he asked.

"Hm? Oh! Sorry Var! I uh, heh. It sounds better then anything I've had to call home."

"Right." said Varian. Hugo was being strangely quiet.

"You okay Hugo?" he asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah! It's just, I didn't expect your dad to be so BIG."

Varian snorted and laughed. "You think he's big, wait till you see my house. Oh! Oh! I have to show you my lab! I built to be state of the art and fully functioning! And I don't want to brag, but I have some of the best technology in this part of the Seven Kingdoms there."

Hugo stopped in his tracks. Varian stopped too and looks at him worriedly. Hugo looked down at the ground and rubbed his arm. "Varian?" said Hugo quietly.

"Yeah bud?"

"Do you think... Quirin likes me? I thought he seemed like maybe he didn't."

"What? Of course he does! I'm a hundred percent certain he has no problem with you."

Suddenly Varian's Hairstripe began to glow brightly and stick up!

"Gah! Uh, eh! Heh heh heh!" Varian frantically tried to pat down his mood ring hair. He gave Hugo a sheepish grin. Hugo looked at him with a deadpan expression.

"Yeah. I'm sure." he said sarcastically. Varian sighed and his shoulders dropped. As I said before, Varian's hairstripe had been a little different since he left. At one point in his journey, he also seemed to have acquired Moonstone powers. And with that, his hairstripe had been able to tell lies from truth. It has to do with the "Connected to Emotions" part of the magic. Eventually after a rather frightening adventure, they had figured out that somehow, a small piece of the Moonstone was inside him. And he had not yet figured out how to remove it.

"Okay. So maybe my dad was a little thrown off by you. But I don't think he really disliked you. He just has a hard time with new things sometimes. And that includes people." Varian's hairstripe stopped glowing and fell back down. "That hair of your is a tattle tale, isn't it?" said Hugo with a smirk. Varian sighed again.

"Yeah. But look." said Varian. "I know you're nervous. That's perfectly understandable. But I'm sure that Dad will warm up to you. And besides. We got mom on our side. And she loves you. That's a big win in our favor. You'll do fine."

The stripe didn't light up this time. That seemed to give Hugo a little confidence.

"Promise?" Hugo asked.

"Promise." said Varian confidently. Hugo smiled and hugged Varian. Suddenly he looked at the estate in the distance, than at Varian. Then he bolted off!

"First one to your house wins!"

"Hey!" shouted Varian! "Looks like the old Hugo is back." he thought. And the two boys took off running toward Varian's home laughing! Hugo tried to leap over a fence. But his foot got caught and his fell flat on the ground. Varian vaulted clear over the fence and kept running. "You can't beat a country boy sucker!" he shouted back at Hugo. "I was born and raised here!"

Hugo sat up and looked toward Varian with a mischievous smile. "We'll see about that!" He shouted as he got up and took off! Varian looked over his shoulder and saw Hugo gaining! "Shoot!" said Varian! Of course, to look over one's shoulder, you have to not look forward. Varian turned back to the path and saw he was heading right for a flock of the sheep cross the the path!

"Holy Flynnolyum!"

Varian skidded to a stop right in front of the flock. The sheep all looked at him in shock. As if he'd offended their great sheep ancestors by almost plowing through them. Varian laughed breathlessly. "S-Sorry guys." he said. Suddenly Hugo ran past Varian, leapt up, grabbed a tree branch and swung clear over the flock! He land safely on the other side and ran off laughing. "Hey!" shouted Varian!

"We'll see who wins now Goggles!" shouted back Hugo! He dodged carts, trees and fences, completely leaving Varian in the dust. "I'm gonna win!" He thought. Suddenly Hugo gasped and skidded to a halt. He was stopped infront of one of the biggest houses he'd even seen. Hugo stared at it. He didn't even notice Varian catching up! Varian spotted Hugo standing frozen in awe. This was his chance! Varian ran past him and touched the front door knob! "Ha! I win!" said Varian.

"Yeah! Only because I was in shock!" laughed Hugo. "You live here?"

"Yeah! Pretty big, huh?" Varian motioned to the house with a flourish. The house, or more accurately a castle, was bigger then even some of the mansions Hugo had been in. He stared up at it. It's tallest tower seemed to reach into the sky. "You want to come in?" Hugo looked down at Varian again. The door was open and Varian was waiting for him. "Sure!" said Hugo.

"Great!" Varian walked inside. "Come on in!" Hugo walked up the front steps. He almost walked inside. But then he remembered something important. Where were the pets? Hugo looked around for them and spotted them by a nearby sheep pen. Ruddigar appeared to be scolding the puppies for chasing the sheep. Ruddigar angrily paced back and forth chittering. Then pointed at a sheep that appeared to be missing a small patch of wool from its hindquarters. Franky had a mouthful of wool in his jaws and didn't look the least bit sorry. He was wagging his tail and all smiles. Buttercup on the other hand was looking down at the ground embarrassed. And Cheese meanwhile, appeared to be having a conversation with the sheep? Perhaps apologizing to them? He was sitting on the fence whirling at three sheep. All of whom were staring at him intently and baaing now and then. Hugo stared at the scene perturbed. Then shook his head in confusion and walked through the door.

To be continued....

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wilt3d-r0zes · 1 year

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Fic Name (and link): Mighty Meltdown Series: Mighty Med Characters: Kazimieras, Oliver Pairings: N/A Trigger Warnings: Autistic Meltdown, Self Harm (Hitting), Screaming, Implied/Mentioned Canonical Character Death Important Tags: He/They Oliver, Autistic Oliver, Angst, Stimming (Takes place between Mighty Med and Elite Force) Fic Summary: His mother was the supervillain Mr. Terror who might be the most powerful person on planet earth. They can’t live in their own house anymore. Their only remaining safe place is… gone. Their father figure and almost stepfather is dead. Their best friends are both falling apart at the seams. He’s falling apart at the seams. or, Oliver finally has that meltdown I mentioned he had after Mighty Med was destroyed, youchies. (Fic below the cut!)

Oliver Smith was…

He was.

Unfortunately.

His mother was the supervillain Mr. Terror who might be the most powerful person on planet earth.

They can’t live in their own house anymore.

Their only remaining safe place is… gone.

Their father figure and almost stepfather is dead.

Their best friends are both falling apart at the seams.

He’s falling apart at the seams.

He’s homeless.

He’s sitting in an alleyway, bundled up under a blanket Skylar stole from Gus. It’s barely been a day since Mighty Med was destroyed, not even a full twenty-four hours.

Oliver spent as much time as he could helping people find what remained of Mighty Med. Recovering bodies, helping survivors, and finding salvageable devices. Kaz helped people treat injuries as much as he could with what little he had on hand, while Skylar alongside a group of less injured heroes searched for things Oliver could help dig up.

It took them hours, well into the night, before they decided they couldn’t keep going. Oliver knows Kaz has been trying really hard not to get pissed, whether at him, another hero or the people who did everything that ruined their current lives.

They’re thankful for it, because they think they might be forced to let those emotions out after pretending like they didn’t exist for so long. It feels like there’s a ball of emotional agony in their chest and like they’d wrapped it in flextape but it’s starting to leak anyways.

Anxiety, fear, hurt, anger, confusion, hatred– it’s all blurring together into a ball of an indescribable feeling that has Oliver letting out a pained whine and flicking his head back until it smacks against the brick wall behind him.

(The wall cracks and he briefly wonders how strong he really is.)

“Oliver?” Kaz’s voice reaches his ears, and he makes a grunting noise, hitting his head on the wall again. His fingers, hands and wrists are all flexing and stretching and he wants to hit, hit, hit but he knows he shouldn’t, “You okay?”

He wants to verbalize that no he’s not okay, he’s already ankle-deep in a meltdown and it’s only going to get worse from here. Kaz has seen them before, he’s helped with them many times and any second now he’ll realize what’s happening.

(They’re suddenly worried they’re going to hurt Kaz. They tend to get violent, physical and struggle to be particularly aware of their surroundings when having a meltdown. They might hurt their best friend. They wish they weren’t in an alleyway at five in the morning.)

He makes a squeaky, gaspy sound, and then his elbow jerks back and hits the wall. It scrapes up his only shirt, but he keeps doing it until it feels wet and Kaz is trying to pull it away from the action. He’s talking, but Oliver is too far deep to really process it.

He just wants it to stop. It hurts, it hurts, everything hurts, he needs to get it out.

He’s dead, Horace is dead, so many superheroes are dead and it’s not okay.

Oliver shoves himself off the wall and out into the middle of the alley, hands up and tangled in hair that’s gotten too long, too long, he needs to cut it but he can’t because Mighty Med is gone and his mom isevil and they have no money or scissors or even extra clothes.

They break off into another whine, and they can feel the tears now when one hand gripping their hair starts yanking on it and the other releases it in preference of hitting their fist to their chest with a loud thunk. They have their head tilted back so the streetlights are hitting their closed eyes but they can’t move it because this is what feels right this is what feels good even if it doesn’t.

His mind is running a million miles a minute and he thinks he might explode if he doesn’t get everything out but he has nothing to get it all out.

Someone touches him, and before he’s really thinking he’s stumbling back and slamming his hand into something. It’s metal, and it crunches loudly when he hits it. A scream breaks from his throat, and it vibrates his chest in a way that settles the pain(?) for a minute, so he doesn’t stop.

Somewhere he gets the feeling that he’s drawing attention to himself, to the two homeless kids hiding in an alleyway on a busy street so early in the morning, but the rest of him can’t care less because it gets rid of the bad.

…

Kaz knew it was coming eventually, alright?

That doesn’t mean he was really ready when it started.

And now he has no idea what to do because Oliver has just totaled a dumpster when he tried to grab him so he would stop hurting himself, and now he’s screaming. It’s a loud, heartbroken scream that pops in and out between panicked, heaving breaths.

He’s… never seen Oliver have a meltdown this bad.

The closest thing that came to it is a month ago when Mr. Terror turned out to be his mom, and even then it wasn’t this bad. Kaz is pretty sure that’s because he’s still repressing those emotions until she gets captured.

(Or at least he was, they could very well be contributing to this meltdown. Kaz has no idea. Mind reading might’ve been a useful superpower right about now.

Actually, scratch that, Kaz doesn’t think he wants to hear Oliver’s meltdown train of thought.)

The point is even if he was expecting this and he's been in similar situations before he doesn't really know how to help- especially since Oliver doesn't seem to be hearing him and has super strength.

Chances are pretty high he'd break any fidgets given to him, and also he'd probably break Kaz if he got anywhere close. so instead Kaz is forced to just… watch.

Oliver doesn't seem interested in stopping his screams, whirling on the dumpster he slammed into when he got startled and brought his fists down on it. The trash inside makes a gross squelching noise in reaction, which has them reeling back to cover their ears.

Kaz glances towards the mouth of the alleyway, then up at both buildings. One of them is an apartment complex if he’s not mistaken, and there’s no way the cops aren’t called on them.

Hopefully, Oliver passes out for some reason or calms down before the cops get there. Even if he wasn’t superpowered they wouldn’t take kindly to an unknown who’s reacting violently to touch and screaming his fucking head off.

(How does Kaz help? How does he do anything except stand there with his stance wide and hands fidgeting or flapping in panic and worry? How long is this going to take? Is Oliver going to be okay?)

Oliver’s screaming slows to a stop. There's a moment of tense silence, where Kaz is looking at his friend’s shaking, bleeding in more than one spot body in preparation for if he drops. Yet, nothing more happens.

Their noodle-y, weak, shaking limbs keep them up, and for what feels like eternity but could’ve been anywhere from five seconds to five minutes, nothing happens.

Kaz makes the mistake of approaching his best friend. Makes the mistake of getting too close even if he was just trying to ask if they’re okay. If they can hear him yet.

Instead of deigning him of a response, or a non-verbal response or even a grunt or a whine or something, Oliver makes a stunted, stumbling movement back and slams his head into the wall again.

The wall cracks again, a big dent right behind his head that runs big, terrifying cracks up the brick building. He’s not screaming again yet, but he is gasping like a fish on dry land, fingers twitching and head still thumping against the wall, though much lighter on the hits now still not awesome.

There’s no way he doesn’t have a concussion.

Kaz glances out towards the mouth of the alley, sees somebody clutch their bag as they glance down the alleyway. They look away and keep walking when they see the person staring at them from inside it.

Fuck.

Oliver grunts, and one hand comes off their ear to thump against their chest again. Thump, thump, thump, he’s probably bruising himself. Is he tapping into super strength when he hits himself? Is he going to break his own ribs and crush his heart?

Kaz is terrified.

(It’s bad, and it continues to be bad. Despite Kaz’s begun anew attempts to get Oliver’s attention, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge much of anything until he collapses in his best friends general direction and cries into his chest.

They both end up back asleep until well after noon, and Kaz decides to try and start looking for people who can help with the repairation of Mighty Med and hunting down of the people who attacked it.)

#Mighty Med #Elite Force #Fanfiction #Kaz #Kazimieras #Oliver Mighty Med #Kaz Mighty Med #Mighty Med Fanfiction #autism #autistic meltdown #autistic oliver #idk how else to take this #fanfic #wilt3d-libr4ry

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khalixascorner · 1 year

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Meant to Be Part 2

Day 4 of my 12 days of Christmas!

Summary: When Tony first met Peter, he was sure the kid would be an omega. The perfect omega for him rather. But when Peter presents as an alpha, Tony is willing to take drastic steps to correct the error. Luckily Peter is more than willing to go along with his plan. Somewhat tropey Omegaverse bitching fic written for @monster-cock69

Read on AO3 Part 1

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Tony Stark, Omega Peter Parker, Alpha Peter Parker, Dark Tony Stark, Tony bitches Peter into an omega, Mpreg, Breeding Kink, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Consent, Peter wants it, but Tony definitely eggs him on along the way, and then takes advantage of him in doing so, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Bites, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Smut, So much smut

When Peter arrived at the compound Saturday afternoon, Tony had everything set up. He had soundproofed a room and stocked it with plenty of food and water and everything else they’d need to ride out the flash heat that bitching the boy would likely trigger. He had also built a breeding bench that should be strong enough to hold Peter if he struggled.

Tony had cleared his schedule and even pulled out some old projects for SI and Shield that had been easy to finish and would act as a smokescreen for what he was doing. Then he had scheduled for an unknown compound to also be ‘delivered’ towards the end of the week. It would be easy enough to fake a lab accident, call it freak thing that interacted with the Spider bite and Tony’s own alpha presence, and then no one would question it too closely that Peter had suddenly become an Omega and mated Tony Stark.

The only people smart enough to figure it out were on his payroll, missing, or fugitives. And even if people eventually found out, it wouldn’t matter. He had Peter’s own statements of consent lined up and buried on Friday’s servers. Add that to a long established bond that would destroy the omega to break, and Tony was satisfied that he had covered his bases.

Peter met him down in the lab, a ball of energy as always, though a hint anxious if his scent were anything to go by.

“Is everything alright, sir?” Peter asked, and Tony realized he had been frowning while lost in thought.

“Just fine, Peter-Pie, just fine,” Tony assured him. “Was just going over all of my precautions one last time. You ready to do this?”

“Ye-yeah, I’m ready, sir,” Peter said, though Tony could see the fear there too. He contemplated giving the boy one last chance to change his mind, but it’s not like he would listen anyway.

“The first bit is going to be the most uncomfortable, and by that, I mean it’s probably going to hurt as your body tries to reconfigure its genetics,” Tony said, grabbing a few syringes and pocketing them before waving at Peter to follow him. “Think spider bite all over again.”

Peter flinched at that, and Tony nodded. The kid had told him all about that nasty experience, and Tony intended to use it to his advantage.

“Yeah, I figured you’d feel that way, so Friday and I synthesized a drug to help you sleep through the worst of it,” Tony said. “Only if you want it, of course, it’s your body, kid.”

“No, yeah, please,” Peter hurried to say. “I, I don’t want to feel that again.”

“Alright, well, let’s get you changed and fed, and then we’ll get this started,” Tony said, guiding Peter to a prep room he had set up next to the breeding room. “Here, change into this, then hop up on the chair there. I know it looks like a dentist chair but I promise no drills.”

Peter huffed at the bad joke but Tony could see him relax a bit as well. Tony turned away from the boy to grab the food Friday had prepared while adding the first dose of the meds into the drink. It was tasteless, and given Peter’s fear of needles, this was the simplest way to knock him out.

“You decent, kid?” Tony called and Peter stuttered out a yes so Tony grabbed the tray and carried it over. “Eat as much as you can, and make sure you finish the drink. Hydration is important.”

Peter nodded and started eating even as Tony distracted him with small talk. Soon, the tray was cleared and Peter was laying back, staring at the ceiling in a drugged haze.

“You with me, Peter?” Tony asked, checking in. Friday was monitoring his vitals, but they only had one chance to do this right.

“Mmm, M’ St’k?”

“Yeah ok, kid, drugs are almost kicked in, so I’m going to start getting things ready,” Tony said, chuckling at the dopey smile Peter gave him.

He grabbed an IV line and got it inserted with minimal trouble, then hooked up the omega hormone cocktail they had prepared alone with Peter’s sedatives, a hydration bag, and a mix that would provide Peter’s body with the calories his metabolism needed while he couldn’t eat.

After that, he grabbed a specially designed cock cage, and replaced the one Peter had been wearing. Tony was pleased to see that the first one had kept the kid’s cock from getting too big but this new one would take it a step more. It would slowly compress down as Peter’s body underwent the changes, until his cock was more appropriately sized for an omega. Tony had contemplated letting him keep at least some of his cock size, but Peter was so dainty with a dancer’s body. He would look much sexier with a dainty cocklet too.

“Alright, Friday, let’s get him transferred over and go ahead and activate the Smokescreen Protocol,” Tony called, and two suits joined him in carefully moving Peter from the chair to the padded bench. Tony buckled him in, checking everything carefully and ensuring that his mate to be would be comfortable when he finally woke.

“Protocol is fully active, boss,” Friday said as the suits withdrew. “I have put Peter’s vitals on the primary screens and you’ll find the requested supplies prepped in the container to your left.”

“Good girl, let me know if his vitals spike into unacceptable ranges, otherwise monitor the incoming and outgoing communications for the compound and intercept as necessary,” Tony said, checking everything one last time before finally letting himself appreciate the feast in front of him.

The bench kept Peter’s ass elevated, presenting to the alpha behind him. His head was cradled by soft bands that left his neck exposed while his hands and legs were pinned down on equally soft but strong ledges built into the bench.

Tony felt his cock stiffen as he ran his hand along Peter’s back, the skin so smooth underneath his roughened hand.

“Soon, soon, you’ll be mine and no one will be able to take you away,” Tony promised.

With a shake of his head, he stepped away to find the lube. Bitching wasn’t something done often in modern society, but there were extensive records if you knew where to look. It used to be a way of ensuring there was only one heir in a line of succession, not that royal families would admit that.

Tony slicked his fingers, running them over Peter’s hole, pushing gently but not penetrating as he spread the lube.

“Come on, baby, open up for me,” Tony murmured as he continued the pseudo massage. It took a little patience but eventually, the muscle softened and his finger slid in.

Tony continued his gentle assault, taking his time as if Peter were awake to feel it. He knew his mate wouldn’t remember this but Tony still wanted their first time to be special. One finger became two, and then three. Time was immaterial as his senses focused in on his mate to be. Peter’s scent hadn’t settled, and the omega hormones he’d been taking for a few days had already softened the heavier alpha musk. He couldn’t wait to learn his mate’s proper smell, mated and pregnant if he had his way.

Finally, he had reached 4 fingers, and he deemed Peter loose enough for him.

“You’re doing so good for me, kid,” Tony said, dropping kisses along Peter’s back as he unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out. “Gonna make you a proper omega, just like you wanted now. Just gotta be a good little boy for me and take my knot until your body learns its place.”

Tony slicked himself quickly, and then pressed the head of his cock against Peter’s hole. It resisted at first, but he didn’t let up. Peter’s body tensed beneath him, the alpha instincts fighting what was coming, but Tony just ran his hands along Peter’s body soothingly as he breached the virgin ring of muscles.

Inch by inch, he pushed his cock into Peter’s body, moaning as it clenched around him.

“That’s it, baby, take your alpha,” Tony groaned as he finally bottomed out. He stilled, letting Peter’s body adjust as he peppered the younger man’s back with more kisses and nips. Tony slid a hand under Peter’s chest and started playing with his nipples, pinching and pulling until Peter’s body was twitching beneath him and the death grip on his cock had loosened. “There we go, sweetheart, knew you’d like that. Can’t wait till our pups are suckling your swollen tits while I fuck another into you. Gonna breed you until you’re cock silly all the time for me.”

As he spoke, Tony started thrusting into Peter, short thrusts lengthening into longer ones that shoved Peter’s body into the bench and the straps holding him down.

“That’s it, baby, gonna take it all, aren’t you,” Tony grunted. “Not gonna make it long this time, baby, been wanting you so much. Promise we’ll play more properly once you’re bitched into a proper omega though.”

Tony pounded into Peter, chasing his knot with abandon, all words and gentleness forgotten in the wet sounds of their coupling and the slapping of skin on skin. When his knot finally grew to full size, Peter tried to flail briefly beneath him but relaxed again as Tony soothed him with gentle touches and kisses.

When his knot finally went down, he pulled out and plugged Peter up with a special injector that Tony had created. It was filled with cum that he had been collecting for the last few days. Thanks to modern medicine, he had managed to store quite a bit to help speed this part along.

He took a short break to take samples and grab a snack for himself, checking in with Friday as he did. Once he was sure everything was good, he pulled a stool over to the front of the breeding bench, pulling his cock out again and grabbing a spider gag. It was quick work to get the gag in place and loosen the head straps enough to pull Peter down onto his cock.

“Alright, baby, Alpha’s gonna get some work done so you keep this warm and wet for me until then,” Tony said fondly, running a hand through Peter’s curls. He made sure Peter’s breathing was steady, then pulled up the next project on his list for the Smokescreen Protocol.

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

Tony got lost in his work, taking care of two smaller projects before he noticed his cock was rock hard. His pants had a wet spot from Peter’s drool, and Tony groaned as he thought of how it would feel when this was slick instead of spit.

“Baby, look at you, I can’t- just gotta,” Tony murmured to himself as he grabbed Peter’s hair and pressed into him until he felt the tip of his cock breach Peter’s throat. “That’s it, baby, just a few times, I promise, but I have to, you feel so damn good.”

Tony pulled him off and then pushed him back down, gagging his little mate a few times before he finally pulled all the way back.

“Fuck, so good for me, baby,” Tony said, taking the gag off and kissing Peter deeply. Then he stood and moved to the back of the bench, yanking out the plug and thrusting in. He was so close that it took hardly any thrusts before he was knotting again.

Tony draped himself over Peter’s back, nibbling at his neck and searching for the gland that would enlarge as the omega hormones became more prevalent. When he softened, he pulled out and replaced the plug before getting himself cleaned up and into more comfortable clothes. Then he put the gag back in and pulled Peter onto his cock once more.

It took three more cycles before Friday finally registered the hormone levels they needed for the next part. Bitched omegas were often infertile due to a lack of internal reproductive structures, but a recent study had shown that inserting unpresented reproductive tissue coupled with an activator could correct this problem. Of course the original research was on natural born omegas who didn’t develop or had trauma, but the theory was the same as far as Tony was concerned.

Friday took control for this one, using a custom apparatus to take their modified cells and place them in the correct location. She had run numerous tests to ensure the cells would take and that they had accounted for the spider DNA, and the final result was a smug AI announcing that the procedure had gone perfectly on the first try. They kept sensors on Peter’s abdomen so Friday could monitor things just in case but they had used Peter’s own pre-presentation samples coupled with lab grown cells to create their artificial tissue.

“How’s everything looking, Fri?” Tony asked, trying to hold back but so turned on by the thought of stuffing his boy full and not just bitching him but breeding him too.

“Green across the board, boss, but I’d hold off another 30 before taking him again,” Friday reported. “We don’t want to risk your hormones triggering the tissue into going non-omega.”

Tony groaned but knew she was right, so he settled for choking Peter with his cock while he waited for Friday to give the all clear.

The knotting after they added the new cells seemed to be the tipping point, and Friday measured increasingly high levels of Omega hormones coupled with major physical changes. Tony disconnected the sedative and added a heat inducer that doubled as an aphrodisiac, wanting to hear his omega moaning for him as he bitched him the rest of the way.

#khalixa writes #starker #tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #peter parker #omegaverse #alpha tony stark #alpha peter #omega peter #mind the tags

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enigmaticexplorer · 2 months

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I Yearn, and so I Fear - Part II - Chapter IX

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers.

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 4K

Beta. @starstofillmydream

“To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.” – Bertrand Russel

22 Helona

The lake was nestled in a clearing down the hill from the house.

Kazi discovered it the first week she moved to Eluca. Fehr said the lake was an old fishing hole used for sport; however, over the decades, the fish population deteriorated and died. Today, the sole creatures that visited the lake were various aquatic birds and the occasional frog.

Roughly a hundred meters in length, the lake’s deepest point was no more than six meters. The water was translucent blue, a unique feature most Elucan lakes claimed. Even the pit of the lake was visible and served as an illusion, making it appear shallower than it truly was. Fehr had warned her about the deception, and Kazi had made sure Neyti knew to never visit the lake alone.

Beneath a gray sky bloated with coming rain, Kazi swam laps.

The swim was, obviously, different than her morning swims on Ceaia. Fresh water. Visible depths. Water contained. Waves and currents a nonexistent issue. Sometimes a monkey perched on the branches of the trees overlooking the water and appraised her routine. The brown, furry creatures scurried away the moment she noticed them.

Lazily backstroking, Kazi studied the skies above. Her neck still ached and the skin was raw. Bruises still painted her skin purple and blue. She couldn’t even swim properly—twisting her neck to the side to breathe hurt too much, which was why she had taken to backstrokes. She needed a bacta salve if she wanted the bruises to heal quickly. But bacta was too expensive.

Carefully regulated by the Empire, bacta could only be found on the black market. It was one of the Empire’s first laws—to prevent “Separatist rebels” from receiving efficient medical care.

All bacta production sites were managed by the Imps, and a large purchase flagged Imperial security systems. Only med centers and military bases received a substantial amount of bacta supply, and even those were carefully documented. Planetary systems could request large quantities separate from med centers, but it was unlikely the Empire would supply them.

One of the benefits of Ceaian culture was the emphasized importance of apothecaries and herbal medicine. Hence Daria’s bruise salve Kazi used last night and this morning. Herbal medicine wasn’t effective like bacta. But it was more useful than nothing.

Another lap completed, body fatigued and stomach cramping from renewed menstrual pain, Kazi called it. She surveyed the darkening sky once more and then started toward the shore. Until she noticed the person sitting on the log where she kept her shoes and towel.

Unease pinched her stomach. She inhaled a slow breath to calm the sudden race of her heart. Wolffe was watching her, his expression unreadable.

The fallen log bordered the edge of the lake, water lapping at its smooth trunk. Kazi stalked through the thigh-high water and stopped a meter before Wolffe.

“What are you doing here?”

Rather than his usual morning attire, he was outfitted in gray sweats and a black long-sleeve. Dark marks smeared his under-eyes and the lines on his face were more pronounced. He looked tired. Like he hadn’t slept. And yet his gaze remained as attentive as ever.

Forearms pressed to his thighs, Wolffe scanned the lake. He seemed to be intentionally avoiding her direction. “Why do you swim?”

His purposeful ignorance irked her and she rolled her eyes, glaring at the trees behind him.

“I like the water.” Sliding into her flipflops, she grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her body. “My father took me sailing almost every day. And since I can’t sail here, I might as well swim.”

Finally, Wolffe looked at her. “Is your father on Ceaia?”

“He’s dead.” Kazi considered him. “He died when I was ten. It’s been a long time.”

An uncomfortably long moment passed. Wolffe searched her face. The assessment in his gaze felt like a knife cutting into her, peeling her open.

A breeze, chillier than usual, whispered along her skin and she fought a shiver.

“Your mother—”

“Is dead. Everyone is dead.” She didn’t like this line of questioning, and she didn’t like the calculation in his expression. “Loss is a normal part of life and some have experienced it more than others. As you’re familiar with.”

His lips pressed in a disapproving line. “I don’t want your pity—”

“Likewise.”

“I was asking to figure you out—”

“It’s really none of your business.”

Wolffe pushed himself to his feet. “You say that a lot.”

They were standing far too close and Kazi wanted to step back. To create distance. Wolffe was taller than her. Broad shoulders and healthy fat sculpted the body of a battle-hardened soldier. This close proximity was intimidating, but her pride kept her glued to her spot.

“You tell me it’s not my business,” Wolffe said, voice low and edged with restraint. “But you come back here with a fucking handprint on your neck, Ennari. Tell me how that’s not my business.”

Kazi stilled. Her teeth gritted.

“I have assumptions.” Wolffe ran his tongue along his teeth. “None of them are good.”

“If it’s your brothers’ safety you’re worried about,” she said, “I can assure you I haven’t betrayed you—”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.” The annoyance in his tone was overt and he released a sardonic exhale. “I thought we were past that.”

“I did too,” she said sharply. “But you’re out here, in my space, accusing me—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he snarled. “You have a handprint on your fucking neck and I need to know what happened.”

“And I told you it doesn’t concern you or your brothers, so you can fuck off—”

“You can trust me.” Wolffe worked his jaw, his voice quieting. “I want you to trust me.”

Shaking her head, Kazi looked toward the lake, toward the visible depths where sunken trees and aquatic plants mossed the lake floor.

It wasn’t a question of trust. More a question of her own pride. She didn’t want Wolffe to know what happened yesterday simply because she was too raw from it. Not yet disconnected and numb.

A look in the mirror this morning was too much. She saw a broken version of herself—eyes sunken, skin dull, mouth flattened. The woman she saw this morning was a version of herself she worked hard to hide from the world.

A woman who yearned for things she didn’t deserve. A woman who wanted so much and yet refused to accept good things out of fear they would disappear. A woman who was tired and no longer wanted to rely on herself.

For a majority of her life, Kazi had carefully cultivated and nourished a façade. A façade of disinterest, aloofness, and absolute control over her emotions. She was unflappable and independent. Disciplined and level-headed. She bore responsibility for Neyti and Daria; she couldn’t be weak and broken.

But it was lonely. To rely on herself, to maintain the pretense she was competent and in control. Perfect.

It was so fucking lonely.

“I told you,” Kazi murmured, eyes fixed on Wolffe’s shoulder, “it doesn’t concern you.”

“What do you want?” Wolffe lowered his head, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do you want me to beg?”

She recoiled. “No.”

“Tell me what I need to do to learn what happened.”

“I don’t understand why you want to know.” She released a shaky breath. “I can handle it on my own.”

“That’s the problem with you.” Wolffe cut a hand through his hair. “I don’t doubt your competence. But if you’re being abused by the network, we’re going to have a problem—”

“It was the magistrate.” She glanced at the surrounding trees again. “Not the network. They wouldn’t do that—”

Wolffe scoffed. “Those people have a goal in mind. And they’ll use whoever they can to achieve it. Even at the expense of your life.”

The truth in his words was brutal, but Kazi had always assumed it of the network. It was easier to pretend the rebels were moralistic. That they were the opposite of the Empire and would never use people to their advantage. Refusing to acknowledge the truth allowed her to pretend she wasn’t digging her own grave.

“It wasn’t them,” she said.

Tentative fingers lifted her chin. Wolffe eyed her neck, his focus intense. “Was he trying to kill you?”

“I don’t know.” Softly, a finger traced her bruises and she swallowed. “He’s paranoid. He doesn’t know who he can trust. I think he was trying to threaten me to convince me of my loyalty to him.”

“I have bacta—”

Pulling away, she frowned. “How?”

“Our missions aren’t solely rescue-based.” He shrugged. “We do have a need for certain resources.”

It made sense. He and his brothers needed the efficacy bacta provided.

“Save it,” she said. “For something more important.”

Wolffe cocked a brow. “Do you really want Neyti to see that?”

“Of course not,” she said. “But I have clothes that can hide it.”

Seemingly unconvinced, Wolffe looked away, rolling his shoulders back. The silence between them was awkward and strained.

“Quit your job.”

The statement caught her off guard and she blinked dubiously at Wolffe. The seriousness in his features, the insistence in his tone, made her retreat a step.

“I can’t.” She gestured to the house behind him. “I have to work to provide for my family. And I’m spying for the network.”

“The network is dangerous. You know that. You don’t owe them anything.”

“Do you really believe they’ll let me go?” She smiled ruefully at his stony scowl. “Unless I left Eluca, they won’t let me quit.”

Moving wasn’t an option either. Both she and Wolffe knew it. The information she had on the network, even if it were minimal and her interactions confined to few members, was a problem. The network wouldn’t risk their existence for a single person.

Kazi shrugged. “Like I said, it’s—”

“Don’t tell me it’s not my concern.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “The magistrate is looking into deserted clones. He suspects a spy in the Institute. Lack of information about possible rebel spies and deserted clones will further increase his paranoia. All of this concerns me.”

“I’m doing what I can,” she said defensively. “I think this was a fluke. He believes I’m loyal and it won’t happen again.”

“And what if he doubts you again? What happens then?” His gaze returned to her neck and his nostrils flared. “You could have died—”

“I know.” Her voice was trembling but she couldn’t stop it. A phantom touch—like the magistrate’s hand was once more squeezing her neck—brushed her skin. “I was the one there. I know what could have happened.”

“We can get you out—”

“And take me where?” Throwing up her hands, she laughed. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

“There are remote places—”

“Yes, there are. Planets without the education Neyti needs. Planets without the medical care my sister needs.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “This is dangerous.”

“Your missions are dangerous. I don’t understand how this is any different.”

“Because it’s my life on the line,” he snapped. “And my life doesn’t mat—”

An uncomfortable grimace contorted his features and Wolffe scowled at a point behind her. Kazi could only stare at him, too tired to respond, too numb to comfort. Anyway, she doubted Wolffe would care for her response. He despised pity.

A handful of raindrops pricked her arms. Small and cold. Just like how she felt on the inside.

“If something happens to me,” she started, voice brittle. Empty. “Will you make sure Neyti and Daria are okay?”

Wolffe exhaled a strained breath, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes returned to hers. His gaze was unwavering. He studied her for a long time; she was surprised there was anything left to see.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Ennari.” He squared his shoulders. “Nothing.”

The static of galactic news hummed in the sunroom. Clouds a dark gray, like the charcoal used to start a fire, layered the sky. Hours ago, solid sheets of rain watered the jungle’s rolling hills. Now, the skies were somber. The quiet and emptiness after a good cry.

Kazi stood at the windows overlooking the dreary afternoon. Tucked among the knee-high ferns sat Neyti and, to her bemusement, Nova. The man held a neatly tied collection of bird feathers. A myriad of colors, from moonless black to opaque white to a rainbow of blues and indigos, the feathers ranged in length and thickness.

Nova said something to Neyti. The youngling scrutinized the feathers, eyebrows knitted and mouth wrinkled. She reached for the largest feather, cerulean blue with sketched lines of black.

Nodding, Nova set the feathers on the ground, all except for the cerulean one. He stroked a finger down the rachis, and then offered the feather to Neyti who mimicked. A small, toothless smile lit her face.

Kazi felt herself smile similarly.

From the kitchen, a timer beeped. Muffled voices spoke and a quiet laugh drifted to the sunroom. Daria was teaching Cody one of the sisters’ favorite recipes—Ceaian sea-cakes, a traditional breakfast more common during the winter holidays.

Why Daria wanted to teach Cody the recipe was beyond Kazi. The dish was nothing more than tradition—even if it was a staple of their childhood—and tradition only those from Ceaia could appreciate. She doubted Cody had any interest in Ceaian culture. Why would he care?

A twist of the radio and the staticky voices loudened.

“…in an astonishing turn of events, Emperor Palpatine made an unannounced appearance at the Galactic Senate…

“…after the shocking news that an Imperial admiral ordered the destruction of Kaminoan cities…

“Emperor Palpatine was quoted: ‘With this momentous act, we shall usher in a new era. Heralded by the Imperial stormtrooper.’...”

Searching the backyard, Kazi redirected her attention to Wolffe. Beneath a canopy of thick trees, he and Fox had outlined a perimeter of short stakes. The area was around fifteen meters in length and five meters wide.

The two men were out there for hours. Ever since the rain released its hold. Currently, Wolffe knelt on the ground, hammering two pieces of wood together.

Kazi had half a mind to ask him what he and Fox were building. But, after this morning, she was avoiding him. She regretted their conversation, and she regretted revealing certain fears and uncertainties. She didn’t want him to think she wasn’t good enough to—

“I was wondering where those two had gone.”

Kazi jerked away from the window and spun around. Standing at her side, close enough she could elbow him, was a freshly-showered Fox.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your blatant staring.”

“I wasn’t staring,” she muttered. Smoothing an unwrinkled spot on her shirt, she ignored his amused look. “I was wondering where Neyti had gotten to.”

“She’s a remarkable kid.”

Outside, Neyti held the stack of feathers, mystified by whatever Nova was showing her on his datapad. The man had a particular interest in medicine and trauma therapy, according to Daria who had gifted Nova one of her old medical books to study. Based on Neyti’s blatant confusion, Kazi assumed Nova was showing her something related to the biological breakdown of bird feathers.

“I’m sorry,” Kazi said quietly. In the corner of her eye, Fox stiffened, carefully scanning the green mass beyond the windows. “For snapping at you when you were obviously joking.”

“We’re all protective of family,” Fox said. His words were contemplative, but a hint of warning underscored his tone.

Seemingly satisfied with his assessment of the backyard, Fox took a seat in a chair across the room. A position where he could see the partition, backdoor, and anything outside the windows. It was then that Kazi noticed the objects in his hands. An old, rusted knife and a chunk of wood.

Intricate lines carved the wood into a simple shape. Kazi appraised the figurine, her lips parting in surprise.

The carving was a familiar black bird. The same bird Neyti had insisted on burying two days ago.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” The intense concentration on Fox’s face belied his casual demeanor.

“I think she will.” Kazi took the seat beside him. “You know, she would probably like you more if you didn’t tease her so much.”

He breathed a quiet chuckle. “I know.”

The solemnity in his answer was begrudging, and it revealed something she hadn’t yet known: Fox didn’t want to get close to Neyti. The teasing remarks—the soft glares and adorable scowls he received in return—were his way to maintain a distinctive line. A barrier not to be crossed.

Kazi recognized it. Because she did it too.

Over the years she had distanced herself from everyone. Family. Friends. Coworkers. Similar to Fox, she had distanced herself on purpose. Because closeness, companionship, created a vulnerability, a happiness that could easily be stolen the moment the companion left.

“The Senate is still debating the decommissioning of clones,” she said, changing conversation. “It seems they’ll vote in favor.”

“They’d be real stupid to do it.” Fox flicked the tip of his knife. “But it makes sense why they’ll go through with it.”

Kazi frowned. “I thought you would support the bill.”

He slid his eyes in her direction. “And why would you think that?”

“The Empire will no longer use clone soldiers. They’ll be free from service.” She paused, hesitating. “That’s the entire purpose of your missions, isn’t it? To free those men?”

“The purpose of our missions is to rescue.” Setting aside his knife and block of wood, Fox lounged back in his chair. “We’re rescuing the ones who want out.”

Static from the radio chirped and Kazi lowered it.

“Decommissioning is the Empire’s way of cleaning up a mess they don’t want to deal with anymore,” Fox said. “Clones don’t have a pension plan. They don’t have retirement savings. They’ll be decommissioned and tossed aside. Forgotten by the galaxy they fought to protect. They’ll be jobless, homeless, and left without a purpose.”

Kazi glanced at the half-finished puzzle littering the table—the puzzle Wolffe had been working on the last two weeks. “I don’t understand why the Empire wants to decommission clones. No natborn can compete with your training and skillset. Clones will always be superior soldiers, and for a government that desires power, the most efficient and effective military is a clone military.”

A wry smile darkened Fox’s face. “You’re forgetting the aging gene.”

“I thought the aging gene was degenerative.” She leaned forward. “The Ceaian government intercepted Kaminoan intel and we were told the aging gene stopped acceleration at twenty-six. Is that not true?”

“It is.” Fox shrugged at her exasperated scowl. “The aging gene’s degeneration was kept quiet. The Kaminoans were pressed their experimentation was faulty. And one bad gene raised questions of other possible degenerations.”

“Which could lead to an investigation into the chips, and if the general public knew about the chips’ existence, it could lead to questioning of the Empire’s authority. Even questioning Palpatine himself.” Kazi scoffed, tapping the plush armrest of her chair. “So Palpatine is cleaning up his mess.”

Fixing the cuff of his gray button-down, Fox appeared insouciant to the revelation. Then again, he seemed to have already considered and assessed the situation at depth.

“Clones aren’t droids,” Fox said, rolling the cuff on his right wrist. “We have minds of our own. And Palpatine is starting to wonder if the clone army will remain loyal to him. He thinks it’ll be easier to decommission them. He’ll create a new army from those propagandized to support him.”

They lapsed into brief silence, Kazi musing their conversation. Something about his tone struck her.

“You talk about Palpatine like you knew him,” she commented. Years of training kept Fox’s features composed, but Kazi had also spent years studying the subtle changes in posture and expressions. She noted the sudden wariness in his eyes. The slight tightness around his mouth. “Did you know him?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m only curious.”

Shaking his head, Fox shifted his attention to the windows, tapping a finger against the armrest of his chair. He sighed.

“I served Palpatine.”

The guarded reticence in his face reminded Kazi of Wolffe’s mistrust, and she realized he expected her to react poorly. Probably accuse him or stalk away.

A month ago she would have. A month ago, she would have considered this proof the men were hiding their true motivations and they weren’t to be trusted.

“I’m surprised you aren’t yelling at me.” Fox chuckled bitterly.

She shrugged. “I’m not one for yelling.”

“That’s not what Wolffe said.” Kazi rolled her eyes, and Fox relaxed marginally, dark brown eyes searching her face. “I wouldn’t blame you. If you went to Wolffe or Cody and told them I couldn’t stay.” He grinned. “Some of the men we rescue don’t trust me.”

The words were flat, bored and uncaring, and yet Kazi noted a hint of exhaustion.

“Why not?” she asked.

“I was a good soldier,” Fox said. “I obeyed my orders. I didn’t question them. I took my job seriously, and I made hard decisions not everyone agreed with. I earned a…certain reputation among the ranks.”

His deceptive casualness was well-practiced, and she couldn’t help but wonder how often he pretended to be in control. How often others overlooked his collected appearance.

“I was loyal to Palpatine. Until the very end.” His gaze grew unfocused. “I did things I shouldn’t have.”

“We all do bad things,” she said, “and we all make mistakes—”

“These weren’t simple mistakes.”

For a long moment, Kazi and Fox sat in pensive silence, the shifting of pans from the kitchen and the static from the radio serving as background noise. Kazi watched Neyti play with her bird feather, smiling smally at the little girl’s enthusiasm. Her attention shifted to Wolffe. He was drinking from a bottle, his long-sleeved shirt matted with sweat, the white fabric clinging to his dark skin.

“What will you do,” she said, “once decommissioning starts?”

“Decommissioning can mean a number of things.” Fox ran a finger down the stem of the spindly plant sitting beside him. One of Daria’s, the dark green plant almost reached Kazi’s shoulders when she stood. “Certain units will be kept in service. There will be clones forced to train new soldiers. We’ve even heard reports of possible clone detainment centers. We’ll keep busy.”

“How long will you do this for?”

Outside, the breeze stole a feather from Neyti, carrying it to a tree branch. Neyti chased after it. But the branch was too high for her to reach. Before Kazi could help, Wolffe plucked the feather from the branch and returned it to Neyti.

Hugging the feather to her chest, Neyti patted Wolffe on his arm and raced back to Nova who was absorbed in something on his datapad. Wolffe looked from his arm to Neyti, bemusement wrinkling his forehead. Kazi bit her tongue to stifle her amusement.

Sudden movement from Fox drew her attention back inside. He approached the windows, slipping his hands into his trousers’ pockets. “We’re committed to these missions for one of three reasons: responsibility, guilt, and atonement.”

Still seated, Kazi surveyed his side profile.

“Cody believes it’s his responsibility to correct his wrongs, and that starts with his men. And Wolffe does it out of a twisted sense of guilt.” Fox rolled his shoulders in a move so similar to Wolffe it was eerie. “The missions give us purpose.”

Kazi could relate to the sentiment. After University, her career gave her purpose. Meaning. It kept her alive, especially on those lonely nights when she didn’t understand why she existed. Those lonely nights when she questioned if someone would miss her—

Hesitantly, Kazi joined Fox at the windows. “Wolffe goes on every mission while you and Cody switch. Why is that?”

Fox chuffed a strained chuckle. “Wolffe is single-minded when it comes to his goals. He’ll run these missions—and run himself ragged—until he either shifts his focus elsewhere or learns to live with the guilt.”

Kazi frowned. “Guilt for what?”

“Surviving the war.”

Masterlist | Chapter 8 | Chapter 10

A/N: I’m afraid Fox’s words might get misconstrued: Fox is arguing that Wolffe’s guilt is an unhealthy coping mechanism that’s driving his life. He is not arguing that Wolffe needs a romantic partner to 1) fix him and 2) bring meaning to his life. Romantic relationships do not give purpose; they do not give someone a reason to live. And when it comes to the clones, I think any similar rhetoric reduces their personal aspirations, individualism, and humanity.

Next chapter release – March 7th

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