#like the first time he died was after a betrayal; still in the walls of l'manberg

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

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

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

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

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

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

It went something like this. 

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

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

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

The timing could have been more opportune.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown, glancing at the door. 

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

“I don’t know his name—!”

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

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

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

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

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

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

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

“Coming to you.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was so quiet here. 

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

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

“No hello, then, Hart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

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

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

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

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

You are made of memories. 

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

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

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

Tall; formidable. 

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

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

“Join?”

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

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

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

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

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

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

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

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

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

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

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

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

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

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

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

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

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

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

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

There can be no failure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

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

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be seeing you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then so will I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

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

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

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

You loved each other. 

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

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

What should be. 

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

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

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be here.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wraith of lies and murder.

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

And now you have a positive ID.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

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

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

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

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

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

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

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

“Explain.”

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

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

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

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

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

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

Not you. 

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

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

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

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

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

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

Emmett was a snake. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

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

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

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

Where were you? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

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

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

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

It’s nothing. 

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

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

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

You’ve gone through worse.

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

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

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

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was love—that was duty.

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

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

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

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

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

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

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

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

—

Day Three:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sounded like a choking fish.

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

Day five:

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

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

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

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

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

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

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

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

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

But this is something else. 

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

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

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

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

“Am I green, Laswell?”

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

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

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

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

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

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

Where was John?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

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

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

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

But the brain is a funny thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

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

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

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

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

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

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

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

Your chest is heavy. 

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

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

It’s a double-edged sword.

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

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

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

—

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

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

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

“Again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forget something, John?”

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

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

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

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

“Easy, Love.” 

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

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

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

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

Your eyes snap back.

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

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

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

“When do I get to go back?”

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

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

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

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

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

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

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

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

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

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

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

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

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

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

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

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

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

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

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

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

“I love you.” 

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

All that remained was the pesky words.

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

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

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

It’s there you had a revelation.

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

He’d always just been saying Heart.

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

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

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

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

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

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

Thank you all very much for your support.

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[atlabeth]

weight of the world

series masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of poseidon!reader

summary: percy returns to camp after a successful quest. luke battles his guilt.

a/n: a lot of you guys seemed to like the percy pov and the pure angst of luke doing all this stuff to his first love's brother percy jackson instead of just percy jackson and first and foremost i would like to say you're all crazy but i also agree. so here you go. title from the jon bellion song

wc: 5.6k

warning(s): reader is dead (i feel like i have to tag this every time lmao). angst made angstier with fluffy flashbacks. tlt betrayal scene (pit scorpion edition). everyone is so sad

When Percy returned to camp with Annabeth and Grover, they were hailed as heroes. 

It might not have felt like it on the road, isolated with just the three of them, but they’d prevented a third World War. They certainly stopped camp from getting destroyed, if what Luke told them was true about the cabins taking sides. 

Burning their burial shrouds felt even better, especially with the Ares cabin’s expert craftsmanship. Apparently it was a tradition because demigods died so frequently on quests—Percy took pride in breaking that unsettling standard. 

It turned out all he needed to come into his own was to go on a quest everyone thought would kill him and not die. 

He excelled during his sword fighting lessons—going against a god would do that for you—he’d gotten much better at using his powers—going against a god would also do that for you—and his team always dominated on the lake during races, though that might’ve just been him cheating. 

He’d even started getting used to the Poseidon cabin in all its emptiness. It still felt too lonely, but he was working on it. The first thing he did when he got back to the cabin was pin your photo on the wall—Cabin Three belonged to you as much as it did to him.

And of course, everyone wanted to hear about how Percy saved the world. He’d told the story of his quest about a hundred times since he got back, sometimes with Annabeth piping in to set the record straight, sometimes with Grover dramatically setting the scene, always with a million different questions in between about how everything went down. 

Tonight was no different in the amphitheater—a group of Athena kids wanted to hear about his fight against Ares again—but he managed to get out of giving them the excruciating play-by-play courtesy of campfire songs. Percy didn’t really mind, though—any night with a large, golden fire was a good night in his books. 

Which was kind of how he ended up giving Luke the play-by-play of his quest. Maybe it was bragging, but he hadn’t seen who he considered his first friend at camp in a while. And yeah, sue him, but he wanted to impress Luke. He was cool and nice and good at everything, and Percy wanted to prove he’d made him proud. 

“—And I thought I didn’t stand a chance, but she taunted me and told me to jump into the water if I was really Poseidon’s kid. So I did, and it worked, and somehow I lived.” Percy shook his head with a slight laugh. “It ended up all over the news. I was a nationally wanted criminal for a couple days. We also blew a bus up, and rode with a zebra and a lion to Vegas, and went to the Underworld— gods, we did so much. It was crazy, honestly.” 

Luke chuckled. “I’m sure.” 

Percy glanced over at him, his brows creasing when he saw his distant gaze. He didn’t think Luke heard a single word. “You good, man?” 

He blinked and focused back on Percy, and though he smiled it was strained. “Yeah. Sorry—spaced out for a second. You were talking about your quest?” 

Percy nodded slowly. “Yeah. The whole criminal thing.” 

His smile turned a little more genuine. “You made front page news, too. I think you became the idol of a lotta kids here.”

“Oh, god,” he said with a frown. “You guys get news here?” 

“Couple New York papers,” he nodded. “You’re camp-famous.” 

Percy huffed a laugh and shook his head. “It feels crazy. I just got here a month ago, and everything’s already changed so much.” He looked over at Luke. “What did you do after you got home from your quest?” 

“...It takes some getting used to,” he admitted with a shrug. “I mean, getting to camp after so many years on the road was rough—coming back to camp after getting this—” he tapped his scar— “didn’t help.” 

“How did you get that?” he asked. 

“You’re always trying to get the saddest stories out of me,” Luke said wryly. “You know you can read books, right?” 

“I can’t, actually,” Percy said. "Not well."

Luke laughed and shook his head, his gaze falling back to the fire. Percy took it as him moving on. 

“I— I know I’m kind of proving your point, but… I wanted to ask you if I could have a couple more pictures” Percy cleared his throat, brushing a few dark strands of hair out of his face. “Of my sister, I mean. Obviously, you have way more of a right to them than I do, but— but Cabin Three’s a little bare. I thought adding a couple current things to the old stuff she put up would be nice.” 

His throat bobbed, and it took him a second, but he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah— sure.”

“Tomorrow after breakfast?” he asked. “I’ve got some free time before I have to go down to the forge.”

Luke nodded again. “Sure. You still have that picture I gave you?”

“Of course,” he said. “I already put it up on the wall. Do you want it back?”

His smile was bittersweet as he shook his head. “Nah. Like I said, you deserve to have a piece of her with you. And I’m sure she’d say the same.”

“I asked my dad about her, y’know,” Percy said. Luke’s eyes widened a bit as he looked back at him. “I went to Olympus on my own to return Zeus’s bolt, and the two of them were there. My dad and I got some alone time, and…” he shrugged. “I already annoyed two gods that day. Figured a third wouldn’t be that crazy.”

“What did he say?” 

“That it was one of his greatest regrets,” Percy said. “And he’d never forgive himself for letting her die, and for what it did to her mom.” He glanced at Luke. “And to you.”

Luke’s chest stilled, his gaze going out of focus for a moment as a muscle worked in his jaw. He hid it well, but Percy knew. He’d spent enough time at home with his mom and step-dad, overheard enough one-sided arguments. 

“You’re braver than me,” he finally said, and he stood up. “I’m gonna turn in—it’s been a long day.”

“I’m sorry, Luke,” he said. “And Poseidon is too, for whatever it’s worth.” 

Luke didn’t look back at him as he started towards the path. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Percy.” 

-

“Are you sure you’re allowed to put lights up?” Luke asked. 

“Okay, Chiron,” you said cloyingly. “I didn’t know you were such a stickler for the rules.” 

“I’m just worried about fire safety!” he exclaimed. “The Hephaestus kids nearly burn down their cabin at least five times a week.” 

“They’re working with actual fire. These are just Christmas lights.” You glanced down at him and he handed you the next strand. “Besides, this is the safest cabin for possible fire hazards. And they look pretty—that’s all that matters.” 

Luke chuckled as you hung them up, and he took a step back as you jumped off the chair and moved it to the other side of the room. You usually hung fairy lights, but with the holidays just around the corner, you wanted to make the place more festive. You asked Luke if he wanted to hang out with you while you decorated, and he obviously accepted. He took all the time he could get with you. 

“It’s so quiet in here,” Luke said as you got back up, taking the next strand with you. “I’m not used to an empty cabin.” 

“That’s what happens when you’re not supposed to be alive,” you mused. 

“You of all people can’t say that.” He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Do you ever get lonely in here?” 

“‘Course not,” you said. “I’ve always got you following me around.” 

“Can you blame me?” he asked. “Your company’s the best.” 

You grinned and looked back down at him, and Luke gave you the next string of lights. “Or maybe you’re just a little crazy. You’ve gotta be to spend three years on the road with me.” 

“Being around you is what’s kept me sane,” he corrected. “Especially in the Hermes cabin of chaos.” 

You got up on your toes and lifted a leg up so you could lean to reach the last hook. “Oh, come on. Your siblings are so fun to be around!” 

“Maybe in small doses,” he said wryly. “And be careful, gods—” 

You looked down at him, your grin only growing. “Are you saying you’re worried about me?” 

“Always,” he said, still watching you, “but the last thing you need is to break your leg.” 

“It’s a five foot fall, Luke,” you said, amused as you got back on even footing. You hopped back down and tilted your head. “I’ve survived much higher falls.” 

Luke frowned. “You don’t get to joke about that.” 

“I thought you were dead too,” you defended. “That means it’s fair game.” 

His chest twisted. He’d played that day over in his head thousands of times since he first lost you, wondering if he could have done something different or if he should have searched more—he stayed in those woods for a week and a half searching for you before another monster attack forced him out of the area. It was the whole reason he came up with a designated meeting area with Thalia and Annabeth if they got separated—he never wanted to lose someone again the way he lost you. 

He shook his head with a sigh. “Sometimes I still can’t believe it, y’know? 

“Thank my dad,” you said. “I would have died if I didn’t fall into water. And he’s the reason I got to camp.” 

He’s also the reason you ended up on the streets in the first place, Luke wanted to say, but he held his tongue. You’d never shared his disdain for the gods, and he didn’t want to spoil your mood with his bitterness. 

So he doesn’t. He tilted his head and focused back on you. “Do I ever tell you how thankful I am that you're still alive?”

You smiled as you pushed the chair in front of your desk. “I could always stand to hear it more.” 

“Well, I’m thankful that you’re alive,” Luke said. He could have stared at your smile forever. “Mourning you was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” 

“With any luck, you won’t have to do it again,” you joked. “I get it, though. Sometimes it feels like a dream. I thought I was hallucinating when you came over that hill.”  

The best and the worst day of his life—he found you again and lost Thalia in the same five-minute span. It wasn’t fair—Luke had told Thalia so many stories about you, and she was the one that brought him back from the edge your supposed death sent him to. On his worst days, Luke blamed himself for both. 

“Luke,” you said, jarring him out of his thoughts. “What do you think of the lights? Tacky, or festive, or both?” 

He blinked, then took a step back with you so you could get the full view. He nodded. “Festive, definitely. Where’d you even get them?” 

“The Big House attic,” you said. “It’s not just full of Oracles and spoils of war.” 

He chuckled. “And how did you convince Chiron to give you those?” 

You shrugged. “You know I’m persuasive.” 

Luke shook his head. “I’m jealous. No one else really gets to decorate their place like this.” 

“No siblings means full creative control,” you mused. “And Big Three dad means a big cabin all for me.” 

“And yet you still get a twin bed,” he said with a smile. “We’re all equal, really.” 

“Like you wouldn’t prefer a full.” You fluffed your pillow then set it back down. “You spend as much time in here as I do.” 

“Can you blame me?” Luke shrugged. “There’s no privacy there. We can get away with basically anything in here.” 

“And because you love me,” you said cloyingly as you rustled your hair with his hand. 

“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I really do.” 

Your smile widened and you gestured at your box of decorations. “Wanna prove it, loverboy? Help me get the rest of this up before sword lessons.”

“Y’know, I’m leading them today,” Luke said, picking up a stack of snowflake cutouts. He was pretty sure you just took all the rejects after you were in charge of the crafts for a week. “Technically, that means we’ve got as long as we want.” 

“Oh, Luke Castellan,” you said airily, pressing a hand to your chest. “You know the way to my heart.” 

-

“Oh,” Percy said. “Wow.” 

“Yeah. And this is only one of them.” Luke set a cardboard box full of things on an empty bed and sighed. “She made this place her own while she was here.”

Percy took out a stack of baseball cards on top—Red Sox, of course, the only bad thing about you—and shuffled through them. “Everything’s a little dusty.” 

“No one really wanted to come in here after she died,” Luke said. He had a tangled mess of Christmas lights in his hands. “All this stuff stayed up for a year or two before I took it all down.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “You’re probably the only one apart from me to be in here since she left.” 

Percy set the cards down. “Do you mind if I put some of it back up?” 

Luke glanced at him. “Why do you always ask me? This is your place.” 

“It’s not just my place,” he said. “I… I want to make sure I’m honoring her well. And I don’t wanna make it harder for you. Especially if you took it down for a reason.” 

Luke was silent for a moment as he stared at the lights. He brushed off some dust with his thumb. 

Percy felt bad for pushing the matter every time he was around Luke, but there was a tug inside of him—an innate need to know more about her, a desperation to honor her life despite never meeting her. 

“I appreciate it,” he finally said. “But go for it, man. You don’t have to get my permission.” 

Percy nodded, and he took a poster out, wedged in the side of the box. A Blondie poster, based off the huge block letters above a blonde singer stylized in pop art. It had a torn corner, and bits of tape had been folded over some parts of the edges. 

Luke chuckled. “She was a huge Blondie fan. She brought her Walkman when she ran away—I lost count of how many times we listened to Parallel Lines. Definitely put that one back up.” 

Percy nodded and set it on his bed. He looked at the lights in Luke’s hand. “Why’d she have those?” 

“She loved to light the cabin up,” he explained. “Said it made it feel more homey, and she liked to change it with the seasons. And when she enlisted the Aphrodite kids, it was like a— a HomeGoods warzone.” Luke shook his head with the most genuine smile he’d seen all day. “She really was something special.”  

Again, Percy’s heart clenched. It wasn’t fair he only got to learn about you through stories, only through the past tense. If he could get his mom back, why the hell couldn’t he get you back? Why couldn’t his dad have stepped in? 

What good was regret when you have all the power in the world to stop it? What good was being a god if you couldn’t save your family when it mattered most? 

“Y’know, I decorated this place a million times with her,” he said, and Percy was thankful for the interruption with his thoughts. “She wanted it to be a welcoming cabin, open to the whole camp if they ever got homesick.” 

“So the opposite of what it used to be,” Percy said wryly. 

“Yeah,” Luke nodded. “You two are the first Poseidon kids in a long time because of the oath—it was just here for respect. She didn’t just make it into her home, she made it into a home for anyone that needed some extra warmth.” 

Percy looked around, trying to imagine you and a younger, unscarred Luke putting all this stuff on the walls, him helping you hang Christmas lights. You sitting on a bed, maybe what he’d chosen as his bed, talking a younger camper through their fears or their homesickness. You forcing the innate coldness of Cabin Three out and replacing it with warmth of your own. 

“Did you bring any pictures?” he asked. 

Luke nodded again and took a few out of his pockets, offering them to Percy. He took the one sticking out the most and smiled a bit. 

“Very Poseidon of her,” he commented. 

“She loved the beach,” Luke said, smiling wistfully. “No matter what state we were in, she would always try to find one. We could’ve walked twenty miles that day, and the moment she stepped into the water she would be good as new. I should’ve known who her dad was a lot sooner.”

Percy’s hand lingered on the picture he’d just put up. You stood on a sandy shore with your arms spread and head tilted back, and you looked wholly in your element. 

He wondered what you would think of Montauk. 

“This was one of those times?” he asked. 

Luke nodded. “North Carolina. A year and a half in, I think. We missed the East Coast after being in the Midwest for so long, and naturally, she found a beach immediately.” His eyes softened. “She was always so happy around the water, even after she knew what it meant.”

Percy frowned. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Finding out the thing you’ve always loved is the domain of the father who abandoned you is a little rough.” 

Luke always spoke with more nerve towards the gods than any other camper he knew. Funny, considering he was one of the first ones to tell him that names had power.

And he’d been acting weird since Percy got back from the quest. He thought maybe he was jealous, but Luke didn’t really seem like the jealous type—especially when he was already so cool. 

Then again, they did just come back from the brink of a possible world war. Percy should’ve been surprised more people weren’t acting weird. 

His attention drifted to the clock on the wall in the midst of his thoughts—Chiron’s last ditch effort in a camp full of time-blind kids—and his eyes widened. 

Percy muttered under his breath—Annabeth had taught him some Ancient Greek curse words on the road, and he was sure his mom would love them—and looked up at Luke. “Sorry, man. I’ve gotta go. Time really got away from me.” 

“I get it,” he nodded. “Have you gotten any better?” 

He glanced away bashfully. “Not really. But Beckendorf has the patience of a saint. Maybe someday I’ll make an actually functional sword.” 

Luke chuckled, though it was wistful. “Good luck. You mind if I stay here for a bit? I can put up some of her things.” 

“Yeah,” he nodded, “of course. Stay as long as you want.” 

Percy stopped once he got out of the door. Luke’s gaze was glued to a picture of you on the wall, his expression softer than he’d ever seen before at odds with something indistinguishable in his eyes. Again, Percy felt that all-encompassing dread, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. 

He left before it could consume him, but the haunted look in Luke’s eyes didn’t leave his head for the rest of the day. 

-

You took in a deep breath of salty air. The sea breeze blew over you as waves gently rolled into shore, and you smiled. You never felt more like yourself than when you were at the beach, and when you and Luke were constantly on the run fighting for your lives, sometimes you desperately needed to feel like yourself. 

You exhaled long and slow. It had been a particularly rough week—Luke did his best patching up your shoulder, but it would definitely scar—and this was just what you needed to wind down before you started moving again. 

You and your mom went to Cape Cod a lot when you were growing up, and though this wasn’t anywhere close to the same, it made for an alright stand-in.

The click of a polaroid camera interrupted your peace, and you opened your eyes and turned your head to see the culprit. 

“And you made fun of me for constantly taking pictures,” you said wryly. 

Luke smiled. “I made fun of you for taking up valuable space in your bag to bring your camera with you. I can’t not take pictures of you—especially when you’re so photogenic.” 

“Flatterer.” 

“Not if it’s true,” he remarked. He held out the camera to you. “Wanna get any pictures of the sea? You’ve got a better eye than me.” 

“Well, the sea’s a better subject than me,” you said. “Hold onto it.” 

He chuckled and took it back, drying out the newly printed picture. “How’re you feeling, by the way? I know it’s been a hard few days.”  

“Never better,” you said. “I needed a break from the road.”

“I get why you wanted to stop here,” he said. “It’s… calming.”

“Isn’t it?” You spread your arms out, breathing in deep once more. “I always feel better out here. More free.”

Another camera click, and your smile grew. “How do you feel?” 

“Better too, surprisingly. But that might just be because we’re walking instead of running.” You heard his footsteps and he came up next to you. You took the picture he offered and chuckled. You had your head back and your arms spread, soaking up every bit of sun and sea air you could. 

“I look like a stock photo.” 

“Does that mean I can get a job as a photographer?” he asked. “We could use some extra cash.” 

“Half of the pictures are either random parts of nature or me,” you said. “Who’d buy those?” 

“Me,” Luke said. “But I don’t think that would help with our money problems.” 

“All this flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you said. 

“It got me here,” he said. “I think it’s worked out pretty well.” 

You smiled as you looped arms with Luke, and after you gestured with your head, you started walking down the sand together. Whereas you always felt like you were blurting out the first thing that came to mind when you were around him, Luke always knew exactly what to say to make you feel better. “Do you like it here?” 

Luke nodded. “It’s nice. I get why you like the water so much.” 

“At least one beach a week going forward now that we’re on the coast again, then,” you said. “Deal?” 

“Deal,” he agreed. 

“Good,” you said with a smile. “I’ve been wanting to go back to Virginia Beach. Last time, those giant ant things ruined it for us.” 

“Gods,” Luke grumbled, and you felt him shiver. “Don’t remind me of those things. I’ll never forget what their poison smelled like—and I’ll never forgive them for ruining my favorite shirt.” 

“Don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll get you a Red Sox one someday, and it’ll become your new favorite shirt.” 

Luke shook his head. “Your Boston baseball propaganda isn’t gonna work. I was raised as a Yankee.” 

“And I’m here to undo that awful brainwashing,” you said sagely. “Next time we go through Massachusetts, I’ll have to get you one. And we can stop by Cape Cod—I think being close to the water is good for my health.” 

“And I like seeing you happy,” he mused. “So I guess it works out for both of us.” 

You laughed. “We’ll have to stop at a music store before the day ends, too. I’ve nearly worn out my Cyndi Lauper tape, and I need to get some new ones. You should pick out an album you like too.h” 

“‘Course,” he said. “I think we’ve got some extra cash saved up. And if we have to—” 

“We shouldn’t steal anything yet,” you interrupted. “I don’t wanna get the cops on our backs so soon.” 

“You say that like I would get caught,” Luke remarked. “It’s literally in my genes. I’m making my father proud, and I’m helping you. I see no reason not to do it.” 

“Cool it,” you said. “We’re not becoming Bonnie and Clyde at the ripe old age of eleven.” 

“Fine.” You couldn’t see it, but you could sense his smile. “I’ll hold off. For now.” 

That got another laugh out of you as you leaned your head against his shoulder. It felt like you’d been on the run for a week straight—this was the best break you could have asked for. Maybe the sea was good for your health, you thought. Or maybe it was just Luke. 

Either worked for you. 

-

Percy could hardly breathe as he stared down at the scorpion, slowly inching its way up his pants leg. It wasn’t every day one of your friends betrayed and tried to kill you in the woods, but this seemed like the year he started checking things off his bucket list. 

“So this was your plan all along,” he said, attention split between the pit scorpion and the traitor. “Gain my trust, send me to Tartarus, start a war for Kronos.” 

The air got colder, and Luke tilted his head. “You should be careful with names.”

“And you should do the job yourself,” he challenged. “You want to kill me? Fight me like a man.” 

“I’m not Ares,” he said tartly. “You can’t bait me.” 

“So you’re a coward too?” Red hot anger rose within him, and the words left him before he could really think about them. “Did you also lie about my sister? Got a hobby of killing Poseidon kids?”

“Zeus got her killed, Percy!” Luke yelled. There was something wild in his eyes as he gestured with his sword. “I loved her more than anything—I held her as she died, and your dad let it happen. If it weren’t for the gods, both her and Thalia would be alive!” 

Maybe it was a good thing Percy didn’t know that until now. If he knew the king of gods was responsible for his sister’s death, he would’ve gotten himself burnt to a crisp on Olympus. 

“This isn’t what my sister would have wanted,” he said. “She—”

“Don’t you dare talk about her!” His voice continued to rise. “You don’t know her— you don’t know what she would have wanted!” 

“She couldn’t have wanted this!” he exclaimed. Percy’s breath caught momentarily as the scorpion inched closer and he forced his muscles to remain as still as possible as his gaze flicked back over to Luke. “This isn’t the way to fix things, Luke. I promise.” 

He shook his head, and he could have been a son of Ares the way fire seemed to blaze in his eyes. “She died because of Zeus, Percy. She was so close to sixteen, and that meant she was a threat to his power. He sent monsters to kill her, and your dad could have saved her, but he didn’t do a damn thing about it. And y’know,” Luke huffed a laugh, cold and mirthless, “the same thing’s gonna happen to you.” 

His blood had turned to ice. “He knows the pain of losing a daughter. Why would he—” 

“Because they don’t care, Percy!” he yelled, his sword cutting through the air again. “All they care about is keeping their power and their position. Your dad would rather send you on a death quest than stop stroking his ego for one measly second. Hades sent monsters to kill Thalia, and Zeus sent monsters to kill your sister—they can’t punish each other, so they punish us, and the cycle will never stop until we make it stop.”

“And you think that this is the way to do it?” he asked desperately. “By betraying camp and all your friends? We’re in the same position as you are!” 

“And anyone that’s smart will join our cause,” Luke said. “Do you really think I’m the only one that’s upset with the gods? I’ve been here for five years—I’ve seen kids leave for the school year and never come back. I’ve seen kids die without ever being claimed. My own dad turned me away at every opportunity. Our numbers are bigger than you know, Percy.” 

“You say I don’t know my sister,” Percy said, “but I know her enough to know she wouldn’t want this. Not in her name. Not against our father.” 

“You don’t know her at all,” Luke said, voice trembling. “If she knew that Zeus killed her for nothing but paranoia over a bullshit prophecy, she would be fighting against the gods right beside me.” 

“I lost her once,” he continued, shaky but full of anger, “and then I got her back, just to lose her all over again. The gods will never know that kind of pain—if they did, they wouldn’t have let it happen in the first place.” 

The scorpion was at his knee now. Percy was running out of time, and his mind was working in overdrive on how to get more, but he found himself rendered speechless. What could he say to a boy who’d lost everything? 

Luke was the lightning thief, he’d fully intended to kill Percy with those shoes, he meant to turn the gods against each other and raise Kronos, and now he was really trying to kill him.  

And yet, he couldn’t help but feel sympathy.

Percy thought he’d lost his mother, but now she was back. He’d met his father in person. He had a sister he’d never meet, that he would never be able to fully grieve. Luke loved her and grew up with her and grieved her twice.

Percy didn’t care—anyone who his sister loved couldn’t be a bad person. Not fully.  

“Please, Luke,” he said, voice low. “I don’t know how to solve it, but this isn’t the way. You think the gods are using you? Kronos is doing the exact same thing.” 

“You’re twelve, Percy, and you’re already the chosen one,” Luke said. “Hades and Ares would have both killed you if they got their way, and it was your job to stop a war between the gods because they couldn’t see beyond their egos. How is that fair to you?”  

“There was no other choice,” Percy insisted. “If either of them backed down, they would look weak. We’re the only ones that can do quests like this.” 

“Exactly,” he said. “They start petty fights that they can’t finish and it gets taken out on us. We have to be their heroes, and we have to praise them as we die.”

Percy remembered their bus exploding. Medusa, an innocent woman favored by Poseidon and punished by Athena for it. The endless souls in the Asphodel Fields, and even more waiting in line for their chance to be judged. Luke’s quest given to him by his father permanently scarring him, Thalia Grace sacrificing herself for her friends, his sister never getting the chance to see sixteen—Percy himself being used as a pawn to enact Kronos’s plan. 

“You don’t have to be a hero,” Luke continued, almost begging at this point. “You can join our cause—you can prove you’re so much more than the prophecies want you to be. Say the word and I’ll call it off.”

Percy wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of godly respect. He tricked Hades, insulted Zeus, and actually fought Ares. But his dad loved him—or loved his mom, at least. Annabeth’s determination and Grover’s steadfastness and all the friends he’d made at camp—all innocent children like himself. He couldn’t turn his back on that. 

Percy clenched his jaw. “I will never serve Kronos.”

Pain flashed in Luke’s dark eyes, but he shut it down just as soon. “So be it.”

He slashed his sword through the air and a ripple of darkness appeared, the void bleeding into the forest. 

“I really am sorry it came to this, Percy,” Luke said quietly. “But it’ll be quick. And that’s a bigger mercy than Zeus gave your sister.”

Luke disappeared into the darkness and it vanished soon after. Percy didn’t have time to think about his words—the scorpion had reached his thigh. Sixty seconds, Luke had said, then it was over. 

Percy had about five seconds to think of a plan before it lunged at him. He batted it away with one hand and uncapped his sword with the other, cutting the scorpion in half before it could reach the ground. 

He thought he did it. Then he looked at his hand, a red welt already sweltering on his palm, oozing sticky yellow liquid. 

Percy stumbled to the creek and submerged his hand, but nothing happened. He muttered a delusional prayer to his dad, then to his mother, then to you as he stumbled his way towards camp. Nymphs emerged from their trees, and he croaked a plea for help. 

As Percy collapsed, barely caught by nymphs on either side, he swore that he saw you. Did that mean he was dying? You had kind eyes like his mother, an aura of warmth unlike the feverish heat in his body, and it made the idea of it a lot less scary. 

He wondered if he’d meet you in Elysium. 

Percy reached a leaden arm out to you, mumbling your name despite his cottonmouth, and then his vision went black. 

#the difference between luke w hurricane and luke post hurricane hurts me and im the one in charge of this whole operation #makes me feel a little crazy tbh #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan fic #luke castellan angst #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #pjo x reader #x reader #daughter of poseidon #child of poseidon #sadie writes

[onceuponastory]

betrayal - nick fowler x reader

"Girls will go to hell and back For boys who taste like heaven." - teenage sacrifice by creeper

Plot: Nick Fowler is gone, killed on a mission a year ago. And his partner and girlfriend Y/N made her peace with that. ...Until she suddenly finds out on a mission that he's very much alive. Pairing: Nick Fowler x Female!Reader Warnings: Death/murder (Nick faked his though), kidnapping, death threats, betrayal, lies and manipulation, grief (and reader shutting herself away due to her grief), heartbreak and angst, light violence. And especially: Nick Fowler being a complete asshole (but one you still can't help but love, because...look at him). But as always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know! Notes: I have not written for Nick Fowler in a LONG time, but like I said, a few weeks ago I had a ton of Nick edits show up on my tiktok fyp, and @holacia3 sent me a gif of Nick, so I had a few ideas floating around. But as soon as I heard this song and that line in particular, I knew it would be the perfect fit.

Not beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.

It was a bad idea. She knew it was. She should have stayed with the rest of her team, and not gone off alone. After all, it’s what got Nick killed. As soon as the memory of Nick enters her mind, her body and heart ache, and she has to fight the urge to cry or scream. 

“No. Not here. Make them pay first.” That’s why she got separated from her team. The criminals they’re tracking are the very same who took her partner from her. And she just had to be the hero and go after them, trying to seek justice for Nick. That was the plan, until she ended up getting lost. And now, she’s in a completely radio silent part of the building with a malfunctioning earpiece. “Ugh.” She hisses, leaning up against the wall and trying to get her bearings. If Nick was here, he’d be laughing at her. Sure, he’d tear down every wall in this place to try and find her… but he’d be sure to laugh too. “I miss you, you asshole.” She whimpers as a few tears break free, rolling down her cheeks.

When Nick died, Y/N shut herself away for months, refusing to speak to anyone. Honestly, she lost a part of herself that day. Not just because she and Nick were dating. Well, he said they were. She was the one who refused to confirm it, not wanting to put labels on things because she knew what a job like this does to people in relationships. And the last thing she wanted was to lose what she had with Nick.

But she loved him so much, and though she never admitted it, she was coming round to the idea of officially being his girlfriend. Actually, she was going to tell him that after their mission… the same one he never came back from. When she finally went back to work, she was relegated to desk work, deemed too vulnerable to be out in the field after what happened.

Despite how much she protested, hating the idea of being wrapped up in cotton wool for the rest of her career, refusing to be forever known as ‘the agent whose boyfriend died in the field’... she was secretly appreciative of the coddling. It was a much better option than being sent out and constantly remembering what was lost. The moments with Nick she’d never get back.

And then, this case came along, bringing her the one thing she wanted right on a silver platter. A chance to stop the very criminals who killed Nick. A chance for revenge, to finally put an end to this reign of terror. To make them feel the same pain she did. And she said - no, she fucking insisted - that she would be okay, and not do anything stupid. Yet here she is, proving them all right. Y/N sniffles, ready to try and find her way back to the rest of her team.

But then, it happens. Something grabs her, and she screams, trying to kick her assailant, desperately fighting for her survival. Yet, the more she fights, the tighter he holds her. She’s dragged into a room, and turns around, immediately preparing herself to continue her fight.

That is, however, until she finds herself staring into a pair of blue eyes she recognises immediately. The same pair of eyes that have been haunting her nightmares for the last year.

And everything just…stops.

“Hey there.” Nick chuckles. 

Nick Fowler, her partner and the love of her life. 

Nick Fowler, who’s supposed to be dead. 

And yet, here he is, standing right in front of her, looking perfectly fine. Her entire body stiffens, freezing her in place. 

“No.” She gasps. “No…N-No, you’re dead.” Nick simply laughs again, grinning like he hasn’t just ripped her entire world apart. As if the months she spent crying over him, mourning his loss, feeling empty and numb meant nothing to him. She lifts her hand, placing it on his neck. The rhythmic thudding of his heartbeat tells her Nick’s very much alive. His skin tingles under her touch, and her breath hitches. Maybe things will be okay?

“Sorry. You know how it is in this life.” Nick simply shrugs. She blinks, waiting for him to continue, to explain that even though it’s part of their job, there are some things he can tell her. That he trusts her enough to tell her something, anything. That there’s a reason he had to fake his death and hide it from her. One that she’ll understand if he just fucking tells her.

Because she’d help him, whatever it is. He knows that. She trusts Nick Fowler with her life, and as far as she knew, he felt the same about her. But his silent stare causes a thought to dawn. And it feels like an icy jolt through her body. Since he clearly had no problem lying to her… did he ever care about her feelings? Or feel the same about her? Even in the wee hours of the morning, when Nick held her and kissed every inch of her body and told her she was his girl, the most important person in his life…. was he just pretending? 

“No.” She thinks. “Nick loves you. He’s the one who called you his girlfriend.” But just as soon as that hope flourishes, another thought comes, destroying it. “So why has he been lying to you for so long?” The icy realisation quickly gives way to a new emotion. A deep, passionate anger. It engulfs her, boiling her blood and making her voice like venom. “I am…was your partner, you fucking asshole!” She snaps, shoving Nick back away from her. “You didn’t think to tell me you were going to fake your death? We promised each other that we would tell each other everything, no matter what!” Nick simply smirks. “You promised!” She repeats, imploring him for an explanation.

But she can see it in his eyes. 

He doesn’t care. 

And despite everything Nick has done to her by this point, all the deception… that is what hurts most of all. She shared so many intimate moments with him, gave him so much of herself, and he just threw it back in her face. Like it’s nothing more than a game to him.

“Don’t be like that.” Nick tuts, tilting his head to get a better look at her. As if he wants to see every part of the pain he’s causing her, like some sick perversion. “I had to do it. Don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

“If it was me, I would’ve told you. I trusted you!” Her voice cracks, and she almost bursts into tears right there and then. But Nick simply scoffs, his disinterest sending another spike through her already broken heart. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” Nick sighs once he notices the tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay?” But she can’t even trust him now. She doesn’t even know who he is anymore. If the Nick she fell in love with even existed.

It’s only then, when she looks anywhere but at Nick, that she notices other men in the room, watching them. Men she knows all too well. They’re the enemy, the very people they’re trying to stop, the ones who took Nick away from her. So what is he doing with them? “Nick, if you’re under duress or in trouble, I can help you. Just let me…” Because that would make sense. That would explain why he faked his death and abandoned her. Because he’s in danger too. Her hope builds. "Please god, just let me save him."

“Hey, hey, shhh.” Nick soothes, gently taking her hands. “It’s okay Y/N. There’s no need for that. They’re with me.” He chuckles, cupping her cheek. She tries to flinch away, but he keeps a hold on her. And for just a moment, it’s like how things used to be. Her stomach flutters, and she’s reminded of when Nick kissed her for the last time. Little did she know it was a kiss goodbye. But then, she realises what he’s telling her. And her last smidgen of hope is destroyed.

“You’re… working with them?” She gasps, eyes wide. But that means. Oh god. Her stomach drops, and her chest heaves. Has he been working with the enemy this whole time? Did he ever care about her? Or was she just a stepping stone for his career, a pawn in his plan? 

“Now do you see why I couldn’t tell you?” Nick smirks, still laughing like it’s all a big joke. Like he hasn’t just ripped her apart.

“How could you?” She whimpers. “Y-You used me, and you lied to me. And now you’ve brought me here to kill me.”

Every memory of the moments they shared flashes through her mind. But now, she sees them differently. Nick’s seen her at her most vulnerable, with her feelings and insecurities laid out in the open. He comforted her as she cried, worrying that they’ll never catch these criminals before they hurt someone else. 

And he was working with them the whole time. He was probably laughing as he held her, enjoying the manipulation he was causing.

He never loved her. He just used her love to his advantage. 

“Nobody said anything about dying.” Nick chuckles. “Yet.”

“What do you want with me?”

“Just a proposition. Nothing too bad.” He smiles. 

“Given what you’ve already told me tonight, forgive me for not believing you.” 

“Told you she was stubborn.” Nick smirks to the men in the room. Y/N’s stomach churns. She can’t bear to think about the other things Nick’s been saying about her. She looks around, searching for an escape route. But every exit is blocked. She’s trapped. “Why don’t you join us?” Nick continues. “I told my boss how talented you are, and we both agree that you’d be a perfect fit in our…organisation.” He grins. “You can finally be a free agent, do what you want instead of having people order you around. And….” His voice lowers, and he looks over her body. She hates how her body still betrays her when he does that, how her heart pounds, her breath catches in her throat and she instinctively steps closer to him. Nick grins, knowing he’s got her. “You’ll see a lot more of me. Win-win, really.”

“And what about the innocent people who’ll die?” She asks, her brow raised. Nick simply shrugs.

“Part of the job. You know it is.” He chuckles. “So, what’s it going to be? Come on, Y/N. Come with me.” Nick whispers, smiling at her. The same smile he had whenever they woke up beside one another, their bodies entangled. When she thought he truly loved her.

He was just gathering intel. 

“No.” She speaks. At first, Nick frowns, almost wondering if he misheard her. “I’m not being a part of this.” But then when her words sink in, his gaze hardens.

“Oh. I see.” He sighs. “Must you always be the hero, Y/N? It’s such a weakness.” 

“It’s what I chose to do. To stop people like you.” She hisses.

When she tries to push past him, he grabs her arm, pushing her back against the wall, blocking her path with his body. “Did I say you could leave?” He asks, his voice more forceful. She’s never heard him be so angry, so demanding.

Or maybe he was just a master of hiding it.

“Nick, let me go.” She orders. He ignores her, tightening his grasp.

“What am I going to do with you, Y/N? Hm? I can’t let you go running off to your friends, spilling my secrets, can I?” When no word comes from Y/N, Nick raises a brow. “Cat got your tongue? That’s weird, because you had no issues talking earlier.” Y/N starts to notice the men around them reaching for their weapons, and her heart stops. Suddenly, it all becomes real.

She’s going to die.

She’s going to die at the hands of the person she loves… loved.

“Please don’t hurt me.” She murmurs pathetically. Nick chuckles.

“I’m not going to kill you.” Yet, his grip tightens ever so slightly on her arm. “I might just keep you.” She raises her free fist, attempting to strike him. But Nick is just too quick, grabbing her wrist and twisting it back. She cries out in pain, trying to kick him, but Nick dodges the hit. “Mmm. Touchy, aren’t we?” He smirks. Y/N tries to remain calm, to show him she’s not affected by his betrayal. But her body betrays her once again, and she starts crying.

“Go fuck yourself.” She hisses through her tears. Nick rolls his eyes, tutting. 

“I need to go. Got to explain to my boss that our new asset might take more convincing than we thought.” He turns to the men in the room. “Be careful.” He warns, giving her one last wink. “She’s trouble.”

And then, he's gone.

And Y/N is all alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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#nick fowler x reader #nick fowler x you #nick fowler x y/n #nick fowler x female reader #nick fowler fanfiction #nick fowler #nick x y/n #nick x reader #the 355 #the 355 fanfiction #the 355 fanfic #nick fowler fic

[nevereatpearss]

Okay so this is kinda old and not the best, but making use of the new tags. So boat boys ficlet from double life for you.

—

He was still shaking off the disorienting effects of the Nether portal when the panicked voice of his soulmate registered. “Go back! Go back through! They’ve trapped it! They betrayed us!” Taking in their surroundings, adrenaline spikes as he registered first the heat, then the lava— surrounding them entirely —trapping them. His soulmate continues to yell at him, /for him/ anger and betrayal clear in his voice, along with the almost hidden /fear/. Terror even. Terror because if they died here— and how were they to live? With shared health depleting so quickly —if they died here it would be the end. It was morbidly fitting in a way, their demise. Not fighting, not going out swinging like they’d wanted— if it had been a fight after all, it would be no demise for them. Fighting by each other’s side they have no fear —but burning. /The ship burns everything burns/. Including them it would seem. However irony, was doing nothing to dull the pain. Etho’s body finally decides to respond and he takes the chance to dive forward, through the lava wall surrounding them, suffocating them, /burning them/, and struggles to break through, moving is hard, especially while drowning in lava, especially now. He cries out in agony once he’s broken the barrier of molten liquid. Through blurry, burning eyes he sees stone, sees a platform, and if he could just make it there… but his whole body is aflame, pain from both himself and his soulbound clouds his mind. The hearts of their red life, their *last* life tick down, three hearts, two, one left… The time he has is not enough for him to make it to safety even with adrenaline propelling him.

They go up in flames, like their ship, their Relation, like the rest of this world and the ones before. They burn alive knowing that their words held truth beyond rage filled revenge. If the ship burns, everything burns.

#trafficfic #boat boys #smalletho #Pears writes? #fic #ficlet #wow #let me know if I should just have the font normal #I like the type writer thing but yeah

[legally-allowed-to-slime]

Before Gem could register it, Scar’s sword ran her through, taking out the last of her hearts.

The death screen flashed in front of her. She instinctively pressed the respawn button, and all of the weight in her body disappeared, leaving her lighter than a feather.

She looked down at her hands. They were transparent. No weight, no colour. A ghost.

She was dead. And she’d respawned in her bed.

Oh, God…

Scott.

She’d always known from day one that in the end there would be a final battle, that there would’ve been kills she didn’t want to make. But it had always been hazy in her mind.

She’d gone along cheerfully, picking off anyone who wasn’t on her side, never thinking that when it came down to it she would have to kill someone she called an ally.

More than that. A friend.

She remembered Scott’s blue eyes. Not staring at her in his final moments, but focusing on his inventory, and her diamond blade swinging down, and the lightning blinding her for half a second…

Gem gasped and clutched her head. Those few seconds kept replaying in her mind.

“You have to kill me, Gem.”

She knew even now that Scar and, and, Pearl were probably fighting it out, deciding the winner, or whatever. Winning didn’t seem to matter now.

The lightning flashed again, in front of her eyes.

She hadn’t wanted to be the leader! Why had Scott kept looking to her as if she was, telling her to kill him? Why did he have to die like that? She didn’t want to do this anymore.

Gem tried to lean against the wall to stabilise herself, but she fell right through and ended up outside, floating anxiously.

The cherry leaves were still falling, like nothing had happened. As if the base could stay in its pink, cherry, happy state forever.

(The crater by the entrance disagreed.)

Scott’s voice, her sword, the lightning, her gasp after she’d done it were all confused in her mind. Overwhelmed, she squeezed her eyes shut, but it wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Gem! Gem, you okay?”

Gem, nearly hyperventilating, barely heard Impulse but looked up.

“It’s okay, we’ve all been there,” Impulse said soothingly as she practically collapsed into his grasp, relieved for something real.

“She’s up here?… Oh, Gem,” Scott ran into earshot. Gem broke away and looked at Scott uncertainly, still breathing fast, her heart pumping. What felt like her heart. She didn’t know how ghosts worked.

“Scott?”

“You did so good,” he said, smiling but not moving closer, as if unsure of how she would react.

“Scott, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that, uh, I’d have to kill you, and I just got caught up in the moment, and, you know,” Gem rambled hysterically.

“I don’t regret it. You carried the band so, so well. You’re safe now, alright? All good.”

Gem slowly nodded as she tried to recollect herself. “Right.”

“It’s always like this on the first series. I remember in Third Life everyone was so shocked after they died.” Impulse said, grinning as he pat Gem on the shoulder.

“Nah, in Double Life when Pearl died was even worse. Ready to kill everyone, more like.”

Gem’s head snapped up. “Pearl! She— she and Scar…”

She hadn’t expected it, she hadn’t expected Pearl to swoop in for a blow as she was fending Scar off. And then she’d just stood back and let Scar kill Gem. Entirely indifferent. Betrayal without a word.

She hadn’t understood, Cleo had been right. She hadn’t understood a single thing about the death game, and it wasn’t a game, it was just death—

Gem started to panic again, gasping for air. Scott quickly put his arm around her.

“Shh, don’t worry about that. It happens every time. You get used to it. For now, just relax, okay?” Scott said reassuringly.

“Okay, okay,” Gem said, half in tears.

There was no sound for a while, except for the wind extending its wispy fingers through the cherry leaves.

“Come on, let’s sit on the plank,” Impulse said.

So they did. Since they weren’t solid it couldn’t be done, but they decided to float above it instead and look out on the rest of the server, empty but, finally, peaceful.

“The band’s back together,” Scott joked.

Gem sighed, and smiled. For now, for that brief moment in time, everything was okay.

#no sl!gem fics? #gotta fix that #it was this or gem pearl meeting after pearl betrayed gem #and this fit better because they were all already dead and pearl was still fighting scar #geminitay #scott smajor #impulsesv #gem and the scotts are so wholesome #gem and the scotts #secret life fanfic #secret life #secret life smp #life series #life series smp #life smp #trafficblr #traffic life #traffic life series #traffic life smp #traffic smp #slsmp #secret life finale #secret life spoilers

[fancyrat4]

The temple was dark in the night. The moon's light made the white marble gleam with a silvery sheen. A tall figure was alone at the altar with hands pressed together and head bowed before a regal statue of a dragon-like form of a sheep.

Something manifested in the walkway, the shadows peeled back as if afraid, or perhaps bowing with reverence to the God of Death.

On silent hooves, they glided over to their worshiping disciple. The feline at the altar chanted an ancient language in a deep, rugged voice. He donned a shredded veil. It is the same veil he had when he wore when he was still a God. Thin strips of black fabric partially covered his face, hardly hiding it, but succeeded in concealing his third eye.

"Narinder, it is late, surely you're tired by now. Come meet me, I have to tell you something." Lamani whispered. Narinder turned, his third eye closed, and threw the hood on his cloak over his head.

"What is it, Lamb?" Narinder sighed, stoic and unemotional as ever. His stride was graceful. With sleek, dark fur and faithful red eyes, Lamani was always fascinated with the cat. So much so, they had forgotten what they wanted to say to him, so their mind spoke for them.

"I… love you-" It was an accident, a slip of the tongue. Lamani immediately realized what they had said out loud and clamped their mouth shut, gritting their teeth. That was not what they had meant to say at all, where had it come from?

To say Narinder was taken aback would be an understatement. His body went rigid as he lept backwards. All three crimson eyes were wide and disbelieving. His golden crescent moon earrings swayed back and forth as his ears swung back.

"Love?" the cat scoffed, his tone harsh with scorn. "You, who took everything from me, dare even suggest I might be something more than you already forced me to be?" The Lamb loved to torture him, he felt, unaware of Lamani's true feelings.

"I am your disciple. I am the head of your faith. I am a witness to your rise to divinity. You keep me alive only to torment me, using me as a puppet in your grand design."

But even as the words left his lips, he felt a twinge of something unfamiliar stirring within him—a flicker of doubt, perhaps? The memories of Lamani visiting him during his imprisonment lingered in the back of his mind.

He could almost see the truth reflected in the depths of the young God's eyes—a truth too potent to be denied. Then again, the lamb had always had a gift for manipulating followers. It was needed to be a sufficient cult leader, after all.

Before Lamani dethroned him, the little lamb had formed a connection with him, or so he thought. Lamani's betrayal was the catalyst to shutting out any and all affection from then on. For a moment, he had felt a feeling unlike any other every time he gazed upon the soft, blood stained wool each time Lamani perished in combat.

When they first started their crusades, Lamani was not yet used to the pain from each demise. The image of the poor, shaking creature standing before him had died over and over in his name. And, sometimes, after a particularly violent end, Narinder would lift the delicate Lamb in his skeletal hand, cradling them in his palm until their shivering ceased.

But now, their positions had swapped. Narinder may be immortal and have been given some powers by the lamb, but he still had a fragile mortal body.

The first death was the worst. The Lamb had revived them in their realm, away from the prying eyes of their followers. He had awoken in the palm of a massive hand with a forest of sharp teeth and horns glistening from above.

They mocked him, he truly believed that Lamani was punishing him, or at least taking out his anger on him for the elimination of their kin or the centuries of servitude to him.

A thousand years and multitudes of betrayals from those he cared for had caused him to subconsciously build a wall around his heart, a heart that truly longed to be loved. His body was free of chains, but not his mind.

It didn't matter now, and he felt nothing now, or, until the night Lamani accidentally confessed their love. There was something deep down in his chest that had been absent for centuries.

As he stood glaring and motionless, Lamani's ears pinned against their head and cheeks flushed. They hid their snout in their cloak. The sudden movements softly jingled their bell.

"I will leave now. Do as you please." Unable to remain any longer, Lamani vanished into the darkness from whence they came, leaving Narinder alone in the cathedral.

He dragged his feet back to the draconid sheep statue and fell to his knees, his chest was aching and he couldn't understand why. The moon was dipping into the horizon now, and the faint luminance glittered through the red stained glass.

He lifted his chin and spread his arms out, as if waiting for an embrace. Blood rushed through his skull and ears as his lungs burned. He felt faint, and it was hard to breathe. The agony of it all constricted his very soul.

Bathing in the moonlit sanctuary, his mind kept repeating God's words. Love him? Did they? There was a faint echo, the longing of a connection that he had sworn to himself to never make again.

He would continue his quiet worship for the rest of the night. Narinder closed all his eyes in silent prayer, his desires a battleground. But in that moment of quiet surrender, he felt the wall around his heart crumble down.

This is Part 1.

Next →

#cotl #cult of the lamb #cotl lamb #cotl narinder #narilamb #fanfiction #fanfic

[thethirdpapa]

What a life.

Summary: Terzo learns an important lesson after his resurrection

TW : depression , trauma , death ,

AN: Maybe this fanfic will find you in a dark time of your life and remind you to keep going. Youre not alone.

He hasnt been present for the first week or two after the resurrection. Terzo didn’t know why, but maybe , it was because his brain decided to not let him remember, in case there was something deeply traumatic. Fuck, it was traumatic, everything was . but especially the moment he died and his soul left to hell. Especially the betrayal has set deeply into his heart

They betrayed him

Stole his future

His dreams

His lover

Maybe it was that what gave him this deep stab inside his already wounded soul. The people who he thought were his family turning against him, and then that he had to leave people he cared about behind. Terzo didn’t even want to know if there were people who had to watch him die. And if, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. Because the last thing he wanted was to leave a painful gap in these people’s hearts. But he knew the last part has been inevitable. What he also knew was that things weren’t the same anymore. But who would he be if he got mad or upset that he was replaced. Why would he be mad in the first place anyway? If he felt something it was worry, worry about that Copia would be just killed and replaced in the same cruel way. He blamed himself for not being able to atleast get him out of this after he found out what the clergy really thought about their papas. His perspective has been changed by being greeted with death in an non peaceful way

Terzo has been through..a lot. Even in an attempt to somewhat heal the cracks in his soul and the turmoil in his mind. The former Papa woke up to a feeling that something wasn’t right in some way. He was a fool for thinking that maybe death would wipe his mind, leaving a pleasant feeling of not remembering what happened on his mind. But this is not how the brain works. It will just repress until he would be “ready” to handle it. But is anyone ever ready to handle ones trauma at all- It was clear that at some point he would have to work through it. And the time came that day. It has been about a month after his resurrection when something was feeling off.

It began with a phase where he was repulsed, if not defensive even when someone addressed him by his title. He couldn’t stand it. Terzo has been never impolite about it. But it was the expression on his first that implied that he wasn’t to happy about being called Papa anymore. All in all, the pride was gone too. It rather has left a sour taste ,which of course got away over time, in his mouth that he was Papa. Some days he thinks about if accepting the title as Papa opened the door towards his death.

Then the wave hit him. It almost crushed him and it drowned him. Terzo was almost completely silent about it if even, he has disappeared from the ministries daily life in those painful weeks of his life. It wasn’t memories, but it was that pain that was in his heart and has spread into his brain, his eyes, his mouth. Terzo didn’t cry much about it, he rather mourned in silence. Starring at the wall for hours, days on end. He was afraid to sleep because he was afraid to remember. Terzo didn’t like confrontation in the first place anyway but this time he ran from it. He was and is still somewhat running from his past. Terzo didnt get much sleep. He was awake and somewhat almost on time every night he was striken with an existential crisis sort of feeling. He knew if he just bathed himself in that water that broke out of his shattered soul, as in drowning in that pain, he wouldn’t get better. He knew he couldn’t pull himself out, that’s just a rational thinking considering how deep the trauma was. But it hurt too mu h to talk about it. It felt like stabbing at a wound which was already bleeding. Touching a bruise what already hurts. And too, he was overwhelmed with the trauma, he didn’t want to make it worse.

It felt like this would never end . That this is all what was left of the confident and cheerful Terzo. Yes, he had his struggles in the past but he never thought that at some point he would hurt this much. It was like rock bottom had a basement.

One day, he understood. He understood that there was no way out but through it and that for this way through he had to drop most of the beliefs he had until now. And fundamentally, his view on life has been changed. After those weeks of isolation and dread, he was found in the garden, in the library, observing. Noticing details, tracing on textures. Fully in the present. It kept him from spiraling. It kept him from going inside the dark he had somewhat fought himself out of.  The darkness jad changed him just as much as his death. Like storms and floods have created new lands and islands, like a volcano outbreak left new fruitful grounds for plants. Like a sunset after a long and dreadful thunderstorm where the birds sang. Peace. He has grown soft, observant and still quiet. His tired eyes held a comforting gaze now.

And on some days he was found in the hammock in the garden , just enjoying the sounds and looks on nature. Every morning on his way to get coffee, he observes the stained glass through the sun shining through it, looking at the paint it leaves on the floor. He realized how colorful spring was and how warm summer evenings really were.

Maybe this calm after the storm changes your view on life as well and reminds you that there will be peace after the most painful thing in your life.

Don’t die yet.

#ghost band #ghost #ghost bc #papa emeritus iii #ghost the band #terzo emeritus #papa terzo #papa emeritus terzo #tw depression #tw mental health #tw mention of death #tw trauma #tw ptsd #ptsd tw #trauma tw #menta health tw #depression tw #terzo fanfiction #ghost fanfic #terzo fanfic #ghost fanfiction #omega ghost #omega ghoul

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Next update of op reader in kny world

Sure Cookie-dear

Happy you like it!

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Op Reader | 3

You three were on your way. After you helped bury the Kamado family with Tanjiro you began traveling to Urokodaki’s. You were feeling especially heavy hearted as you let Tanjiro cling and cry on you before beginning the journey. How could you tell him? How could you tell him you knew this would all happen? How could you tell him his family died and you did nothing about it? How could you sit there breathing as if you did nothing wrong? How could you exist when the ones who have barely lived at all have died? It wouldn’t be far to say that you were on par with the demon who actually killed them, right? Only you could hold your ground in a battle with him this early so why didn’t you stop him then? You were practically the murderer. The murderer. A MURDERER! MURDERe–

“(Y/n)?”

“Uh, ye-s?”

Were you sleep walking? A side effect of you not sleeping, probably. You pushed on passing Tanjiro who was standing ahead of you as you prepared to make camp near the cave you knew Nezuko would burrow in. 

“I-i’m going to get a basket for Nezuko...”

“Okay.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Mmmhm.”

He deadpanned putting his hand on his hips before mockingly asking you again. 

“Did you knoe,Nezuko can fly?!”

“That’s great Tanji.”

“Alright that's enough!” 

Planting his feet in the ground he grabbed your hands attempting to pull you away; struggling until you realized he was trying to move you. Now working with him you let him set you down against the wall of the cage. 

“Ever since yesterday you’ve smelt of nothing but guilt and regret! And you won’t tell me anything even after being gone for months!” 

For the first time since the night before their deaths you could think nothing of the future completely forgetting about the present. Looking in his magenta eyes you tried to dismiss him but you couldn't. Your heart was hurting. You had to tell him.

“Tanjiro I-” 

You tried to speak instead you felt the warm hold of his hands hold your shoulders. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, telling you to get rest before heading off. You felt even worse but nonetheless you let your eyes close. 

While weaving the basket Tanjiro let his eyes drift to your sleeping form and his heart squeezed. He really thought he’d be able to marry you and everything would be dandy. But it wasn’t. His family was dead; save for his sister and lover. And now his lover was stressing about something. He knew you were grieving but something was clouding your emotions and the scent was so heavy he could hardly bear to be around you. It was the scent of blame and only now as you slept did it finally dissipate. He had to know why you felt this way.

Awoken to the scent of soup, your stomach was growling before you fully opened your eyes. The sun was setting and Tanjiro had seemingly finished cooking a rather large bowl. You didn’t know where he pulled that out from but you still joined him around the fire. 

“Tanjiro. .. I have to tell you something. I wasn’t ready before and honestly I still don’t think I am but here goes.”

You scooched closer to him pulling his hands into your lap, forcing him to turn away from the food. 

“You know how I’m..different...kinda weird?”

“I don’t think you’re weird!” 

You gave him a look and he mischeviously tilted his head.

“Basically where I’m from..I can see your world's future..”

You looked at him, pensive. Waiting for his eyes to make that shaking motion when he realizes but he didn’t. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I had a general idea of how things might go..” You added the ‘might’ in case of any changes you knew were bound to happen because of your existence. 

He blinked and nodded his head.

“Oh, I see.”

“You see?”

It was an incredibly underwhelming response. No anger, no shock, no sense of betrayal. 

“You see that when I left to train it was to try and stop this right?! Because I knew this was happening?!”

“..I got it (Y/n).” 

You feel a slight twinge of unease but quickly push it away as Tanjiro pulls you into his lap to hug you. 

“I know you’re a very special person with..special abilities. I wouldn’t put it past you to be able to do that too. I love you (Y/n) and I know you are trying to help us even when you're in a place you have no history in.”

This precious boy! You turned to hug him still in his lap feeling then suddenly feeling the weight of someone else.

“Nezuko! I’m sorry-!”

“MMMMMMM!!!!” 

Even with the bamboo shoot in her mouth her acceptance was heard and suddenly the burden that weighed you down was lifted from you. 

“I’m not leaving you guys again ever!!!”

“W-wait don’t cry!”

—----------------------------------

Nezuko and (Y/n) walked ahead, letting the latter play and talk about something from their home. He didn’t know. He was trying to sooth his anger. 

The same scent that lingered around his family’s corpses was the same scent that hung on you. Whoever did this to his family, fought his love and for that this mystery man just added more to Tanjiro’s revenge.

“Tanji-Tanji come play with us! We need you Tanji!” 

“Coming!” 

He’d do anything to avenge his family but he’d do everything to protect what's left.

#yandere x y/n #yanderexrea #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere demon slayer #yandere kny #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere kny x reader #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere kibutsuji muzan #yandere demon slayer x op reader #op reader #yandere tanjiro kamado #yandere tanjiro #yandere harem

[racfoam]

More Professor Gaunt. (because I wanted to write a kiss)

-----------

The next few lessons (Hermione and Ron had told her there was absolutely no way Professor Gaunt was Voldemort because he ‘isn’t terrible enough’) were absolute torture for Harry.

Harry was terrified. She fought off panic attacks every few minutes, stopped writing down things from the board, and the only thing that didn’t suffer was the wandwork.

Harry was honestly just glad she didn't find out during OWLs or she would have flunked all of them. She remembers how normal it all was (even Neville was confident and performed every charm on his first try during the practical), how prepared Professor Gaunt made sure they were. Harry had seen Fred and George grinning ear to ear after their DADA NEWTs, and they even sent Professor Gaunt chocolate frogs without any ulterior motives. Every NEWT and OWL student was pleased with the DADA OWL exam.

Harry remembers how she talked Professor Gaunt’s ear off after the exam from happiness, telling him about getting extra credit for the Patronus (how embarassing, she was puffing up pridefully like a bloody peacock) — nobody else got extra credit.

Now, Harry couldn’t believe she'd been so open, friendly, and vulnerable with him — Voldemort.

First, Harry was sad. Hurt. One would think she'd stop giving DADA teachers any trust after last year, and of course, it’s come to slap her in the face. Stupid, foolish Harry.

Then the hurt disappeared and anger came. How dare Voldemort do this? How dare he lie to everyone? Why did he even bother coming here? To spy on Harry? Maybe.

Sadness came again, this one a sad acceptance. Voldemort would always lie to everyone, including Harry, as long as it was for his own gain. It was almost relieving, that acceptance.

It almost felt good not to be angry, or betrayed, to just be... disappointed and exhausted.

Suddenly, everything made sense. Why his face was so familiar... because it was Voldemort’s face. Just not white, not as snake-like, with a nose, black hair, chocolate brown eyes, slender, masculine fingers and pink lips.

Harry thumped the back of her head against the wall, welcoming the pain. She was in a cupboard, skiving off the next to last lesson of DADA. She couldn't look at him anymore. It hurt too much.

------

“You’re not even going to deny it?”

“No,” answered Gaunt calmly. “Nobody will believe you.”

Harry breathed a bitter laugh. It sounded a bit mad, but what did it matter?

“Suppose it was fun for you, having us trust you —”

“Harriet —”

“Was it fun, Voldemort, lying to me again?!”

The yell died out into silence. That was the worst. Harry wanted Voldemort to yell, too. Harry wanted to fight him, argue with him, anything to chase away the pain in her heart over another betrayal.

“You fucking —” And she was stepping forward now, looking up into his striking features, watching the glowing, red irises and the slitted orbs instead of round ones, and she shoved him on the chest, hard, with both hands, just pressing him into the wall of the small cupboard. “—fucking liar —”

Warm, strong hands cupped her cheeks, and the red eyes stared down at her. There was a softness to his features now, an openess to his face, a vulnerability. The hands stilled her, and the gold and sunlight warmed her cheeks upon their touch.

No touch brought that except his. It really was him.

“I wanted to spend time with you,” he whispered, the timbre of his voice soft and hypnotising — like a lullaby. “Keep you out of trouble.”

Harry was stunned for a moment.

“You...” Her brain stopped functioning properly. “What?”

“I wanted,” he repeated, leaning down, pressing his forehead to hers. He smelled on snow and yew leaves. “to spend time with you.”

“You —” she growled, trying to cling onto the anger, not let her fluttering heart or butterflies in her stomach win. “you think I care —”

“I know you do,” he said, brushing a few strands of hair away that obscured her forehead and cheeks. “You care about me, Harry.”

It was too soft, too kind, too understanding. Harry hated it. She hated it. It was difficult to be angry with him when he spoke like that, when he looked so vulnerable, when he gave her some sort of Dark Lord puppy eyes that were really effective and Harry hated it because she just wanted to be angry — to hold him and be held by him — and he looked like a kicked puppy, the bastard —

“That doesn’t —" snarled Harry, struggling to stay angry. “— it doesn’t change anything —”

“It changes a lot of things, Harry.” he said, smiling that wonderful, broad smile, putting Harry's racing heart into full gear, like a speeding train —

His face got very close. His nose brushed over hers, nuzzling. Voldemort cupped Harry’s cheeks, leaned down, and stole any other argument by claiming Harry’s mouth in a kiss of starlight and liquid gold.

His lips were the softest thing in the world.

#harrymort #female harry potter #professor gaunt au #guys I see you all and I just want to say thank you 🥹 and I'm happy you like it and I love you all ❤️

[jedi-lothwolf]

Febuwhump Day 11: Time Loop

Fandom: The Bad Batch

Summary: Hunter keeps reliving the day Tech died and Omega was taken, desperately trying to stop it from happening.

    Walking up was something Hunter didn't want to do. When he awoke he would have to face the fact that Tech was dead and Omega was gone. He grabbed his blanket and pulled it closer to him. Hoping that Echo and Wrecker wouldn't notice, he pulled the thin blanket to his face and dried his tears. He didn't have the time to cry or to lie still.

    Getting up, Hunter looked around. Echo must have cleaned up. He swung his legs over the end of his bunk and stood up. Echo's bed had been made and so had Wrecker's, even though he never made it. Tech's bed had also been made. Resting a hand on the medal of his bunk, Hi ter thought that Echo must have made his as well.

    Then he heard it, Tech talking to Echo. Hunter stepped back. That wasn't possible. Had it all been a dream? The pain felt so real.

    Omega walked up to Hunter. "You looked tired so we got you go lay down. How are you feeling?" He didn't say anything. Instead he picked

    But things started to fall into place for those hellish days to happen. When Hunter realized they were going to Eriadu his heart sank. But that couldn't be right. That horrible day had been a dream, right?

    A few hours later Tech was hanging off the side of the rail car. "When have we ever followed orders?" He had sighed before shooting the only piece of metal that connected the cars.

    This time, instead of silents, Hunter called out for him. Almost immediately afterwards, he grabbed a hold of Omega, pulling her close to try to protect her.

    But they still ended up on Ord Mantell. Hunter was the one who required AZ to heal him. He was unconscious, making him unable to tell them about Cid's betrayal. It felt he was defenseless this time. As she was taken away, he still tried to follow her. It didn't matter, she was still gone.

    Then he woke up. Again.

    This time he would do it right. That's what Hunter had told himself at least. Trying to find a way to convince Saw Gerrera and his extremist to stop their attack, to wait just long enough for them to leave. But that didn't work.

    "Tech, we will find another way!" Hunter yelled as he claimed to the top of the rail car.

    "There is no other way, Hunter." Tech continued to follow what seemed to be his destiny.

    "When have we ever followed orders?" Again he shot the metal that connected the two cars. Again Hunter grabbed Omega. He moved to a different place in the car.

    Then he woke up on the Marauder. "Hunter, how are you feeling?" Echo asked.

    "I'm fine. Where's-" Hunter tried to sit up but couldn't. It hurt too much to move. "Where's Omega?"

    Wrecker walked into the room. He looked worried.

    "Hemlock has her." The man said.

    Then he woke up. Hunter didn't move. Maybe if he didn't move, nothing would happen.

    This time, Hunter killed Gerrera. Tech was stunned by his action but didn't say a word about it. However, the explosives still went off. Tech still went to the top of the rail car and he still called plan 99.

    "When have we ever followed orders?" Hunter mouthed along with the words. He knew them all too well. It had been three times he had gone through this after all.

    There had to be a way to stop this. Why else would he be stuck in a time lop like this? Was this a punishment for something he had done, for not saving them?

    Shoving Omega to Wrecker, Hunter turned around. As the rail car hit the wall, Hunter fell unconscious. Unlike every other time, he woke back up on the Marauder at the beginning of the day.

    "Oh" he whispered as he sat up. The man hadn't survived the crash. Hunter looked around. First he went to find the others. Grabbing Omega, he ok pulled her into a hug.

    "Hey Hunter!" She said, excited for the random hug. It didn't happen often. "Are you okay?" Her joy faded in to concern.

    "I'm okay." The man put down his daughter. "We'll be okay" he whispered.

    "I know. I trust you."

    Tears threatened to fall from his eyes. Hunter just smiled, "thank you." The girl didn't know know what he did. Hopefully she would never know that he knew.

    It didn't matter what happened, nothing changed. "There is no time Wrecker" Not again. "Plan 99." Hunter started to tear up. He couldn't do this. The conversation was engraved in the clones head.

    "Don't you do it Tech" Wrecker yelled. Hunter felt his mouth move to say something more.

    "When have we ever followed orders?"

    The rail car fell and Omega pulled in Hunter's arms, "go back, go back!"

    The car crashed and Hunter grabbed Omega quickly. They still had to go to Ord Mantell, that stayed the same. Then she was fine, again.

    Days went by, at least to Hunter. Over and over he watched as Tech sacrificed himself for his family. Then he would watch as Omega was taken from them. He was done.

    "Wrecker, stay here." This was new. This was a plan he hadn't tried yet.

    "What?! Why?" Wrecker droned.

    "In case we need a pickup."

    "Why me?" He winded

    "You are the most likely to get us caught." Tech said as he walked.

     "Okay." Sulking, Wrecker walked back in the ship.

     As the mission went forward, Hunter grew nauseous. What if this didn't work? He would just have to find out.

    When they boarded the rail car, everything seemed to be going as it had before. But this time, Hunter had already contacted their get-away driver. 

    There he was. Tech had gone to restore power to the rail car. Like every other time, he hung from the bottom of the car. "Echo, get Omega on the Marauder!" Hunter demanded.

    Wrecker kept the ship steady as the two made their way on board. Hunter had his gun ready. With the two left in the car, Echo ran to man the guns. He started shooting down the empire's air support.

    As the rail car creaked closer to falling, Hunter jumped on board. The car began to fall, Tech still dangling from below. The Sargent grabbed his gun and shot his brother with his safety line. He didn't expect the scream that would come from the end of the line clamping onto his brother's left arm and shoulder.

    Pulling him up seemed to hurt more. Tech's shoulder was bleeding. It looked painful, the way the clamp dug into his skin. But either way, he was alive. That's all that mattered now.

    Calling for one of his brothers, Hunter pulled Tech aboard. "You're gonna be okay Tech. We've got you."

    "Thank you" Tech said shakily. "I- I can't move my arm right now."

    "I know. We'll get you taken care of."

    "We'll head to Ord Mantell for AZ. He can-" Omega started.

    "No" Hunter interrupted. "There are doctors on Pabu. Someone there can help him. I-" he sighed, "don't trust Cid."

    "We can't just leave Az" the girl protested.

    "We won't. But right now we just need to take care of Tech. We can't do that if something happens on Ord Mantell." Omega looks like she wanted to say more but walked away to get Tech's bunk ready.

    While Tech's recovery would be difficult, it was better than him becoming a memory. Maybe that was a little selfish. Maybe his arm wouldn't heal but he was alive. That was enough

    After twelve attempts, everyone was alive. Tech was in a large amount of pain but he wasn't alone and dead at the bottom of the ravine. Omega may be mad at him but she wasn't taken by the empire. Hunter could fix that when he later sent Phee to pay their debts and to return Az.

    It was over. The painful two weeks were over.

#febuwhump day 11 #febuwhump #febuwhump 2024 #time loop #whump #star wars #star wars whump #star wars the bad batch #the bad batch #hunter the bad batch #plan 99 #hunter whump #hunter bad batch #tbb hunter #tech the bad batch #Omega #hunter

[marcobodtlives]

I wanted to ask just a random question, what do you think of reiner, annie and bertholdt? Do you like there characters just not there actions or will you never like them because of what they did to marco ect.

Hi! Thank you for the question, I actually love answering random q’s 🥰 Don’t be afraid to send more! They’re fun 💖

Short answer is that yes, I like their characters and I’d actually say Reiner is one of my top faves overall! I was upset at what happened, and very confused for a while, but after seeing the whole story I understand why it happened. (I don’t ✨condone murder✨)

It’s still sad, it’s still something I know they carry guilt for, and I didn’t root for their demise or anything like that, but it happened because they were all kids unfairly forced into a war.

——

First time I watched AoT I was mostly confused on how I felt about them, up until the episode in season 3 where we saw exactly what happened to Marco.

When we saw the scene with Reiner and Bertholdt running away, with Bertholdt screaming that they didn’t want to be doing these things, I knew something was up. Combined with the shot of Annie crying within her titan, I kind of suspected they were either doing what they were doing because 1) they were forced to, or 2) there was an unknown threat that they were having to thwart by breaking the walls.

What happened with Marco was upsetting, I won’t lie, and I initially struggled to maintain that logical empathy for Annie and Bertholdt at first. (Reiner was a tricky situation because he clearly had mental health conditions that were blurring lines for him, and it was unknown at this point exactly how coherent he was while making each decision).

I still felt for all of them, because at no stage did I see genuine enjoyment in their actions. There are certainly characters in AoT who got enjoyment from killing and betrayal, but I didn’t see any of it in Reiner, Bertholdt, or Annie. The show did an amazing job of capturing moments of regret, indecision, and distaste for their own actions.

We see a lot of determination from those three, yes, but it’s clearly driven by guilt and the unmistakable fear that you only get from kids who’ve been pushed into a war they shouldn’t be part of.

I wasn’t glad when Bertholdt died. I think it paralleled Marco’s death for a very specific devastating reason.

I was initially on board with Sasha and Connie’s reaction when I thought Reiner had been killed. I was upset.

He was a great character, but everyone was still in the mindset that ‘it had to happen’ because he was hurting people. (I was glad when he survived, even if he was on ‘the other side’ now, because I wanted answers, I was so confused).

Annie was a moot point because she quite literally fell off the map after her crystallisation in season 2. I wanted her to return, I wanted to see her side of the story too.

With this all being said, I don’t think killing Marco was the only option. I think he had already been established as a forgiving, understanding individual (whose last words were quite literally a plea to have the opportunity to just talk things through.)

If Reiner had been in another mindset - his s4 part 2 mindset - I think that he would have handled it differently. I think Bertholdt and Annie would have gone along with alternate options if Reiner had been the one to suggest it.

I also think that if there hadn’t been time pressure and a conveniently approaching titan, the three of them wouldn’t have been able to summon the courage to kill Marco themselves. Setting him up to die, leaving him vulnerable by taking his gear is one thing, but killing him themselves would be another.

——

So no! I don’t dislike them at all. I love Reiner’s character, I wish Bertholdt hadn’t needed to die to save Armin. I feel bad that Annie disappeared for so long and faced so much guilt over Marco on her own in the military police, isolated.

I wish they’d made different decisions, but I know that the nature of Trost and the approaching titan left them with the impression that killing Marco was their only option.

I know there are some people who blanket statement hate Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie, but I’m not one of them.

#yay questions I love em! #just thoughts #my drabbles #answered #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #reiner braun #bertholdt hoover #annie leonhart #marco bodt #or if you wanna be funky: #berthold hoover #marco bott

[lilacthebooklover]

An analysis of Rococo (OMORI), because he doesn't get enough love :)

This is an analysis of Rococo as a character, looking into almost every word he says and interpreting them. It's time to find out just how tragic this funny little artist man can be >:]

"I've been alone for so long... but after what feels like an eternity... At last... I have... an audience!"// "PLEASE LISTEN! I'M SO LONELY!!"

He's been alone for ages, judging by Sweetheart’s long-lasting relationship with Spaceboy, him falling in love and moving in with SWH when she got her castle 'as a young donut', and his loneliness . This is someone who hasn't spoken to anyone in years and is willing to beg for a bit of company. 

He also clearly thrives on attention, both from this quote and the grand flamboyance of others, so being without that for so long must have been terrible for him. While 'what feels like an eternity' could quite probably be a hyperbole, he's had no way to tell the time since he's been literally trapped inside the walls.

The poor guy's so lonely . :[ 

"In the beginning was me... crying in a pod in the middle of space... witnessing my home planet blow up right before my eyes." // "I can still remember it all so vividly... Fire... Fire... everywhere... and then darkness." // "Even as a baby, I knew I was the sole survivor of my species... the last elf in the entire universe."

I know this is a Superman reference, but I’m going to treat it as its own separate thing for the sake of the backstory :)

Immediately, this shows us that he's lost his home as a child (being a literal baby when his planet was destroyed) alongside any family, friends or even people of the same species. He was completely alone from the start, and there's no way that something like this wouldn't cause issues later on.

Also, the fact that he remembers this shows two things: A- this affected him so deeply that it remains with him to the present day; and B- he can remember it despite being incredibly young. This means that it's likely he remembers a lot more , having such an extensive memory– e.g. everything that happened with SWH, too: them being close, her claiming 'Sweetheart is for everyone', himself getting abducted by the guards, every moment of living in the walls... It may be a stretch, but it's a possibility, and his storytelling shows that he may overdramatise his past a lot, but there are still some key facts within it.

The repetition of 'fire' makes it seem like he's almost reliving it, caught up in his memories. This is a tragic backstory already , and this is just the first 2 lines.

""So this is how it ends..." I thought."

There's no panic, no regret. Just pure, depressing acceptance. He was ready to die, knowing that he couldn't do anything to stop it and having been exposed to death so early on.

(This is also likely just something he made up remembering for the effect, but that shows that either then or later on, he realised he could very well have died in that desert. Ouch)

"Yet... In a stroke of luck, I was found by none other than a young DONUT by the name of SWEETHEART. She brought me to her family and they took me in as one of their own."

He and Sweetheart grew up in the same house, the same area of Faraway, best friends. They seemed to be like siblings, judging by her taking him in, them fighting, and knowing and caring about each other incredibly well. This makes her later betrayal all the more heartbreaking because this isn't just a woman Rococo's pined for before, but rather his entire world . 

He never mentions Donut Grandma or any other relatives outside of this, just her. They don't mention him, either.

 He doesn't have any friends, or a close bond with anybody , except  for Sweetheart, who intentionally locked him in her walls for years. Again, Rococo's completely alone.

"It was a rough childhood. We fought frequently, but she would always win... If I fought back... Well... ..." // "Anyway! I learned to run! And I got quite good at running… But... there's only so far you can run." // "Yes, it was a hard time. But even through that suffering, I stood firm."

I have... A lot of feelings about this part.

He describes his childhood as 'rough' even after he was rescued, which is immediately a red flag. He says that he and Sweetheart fought frequently, and it doesn't seem like any adults broke up their arguments.

Then, Rococo says that SWH always won. They would get mad or disagree, but even as a child, Sweetheart refused to accept she was wrong. This says a lot about her character; Sweetheart's always been like this.

'Fought back' means that Sweetheart had to be fighting him in the first place, and Rococo just had to take it. He was getting hurt, either physically or verbally, on the regular.

The frequent ellipsis throughout show how difficult it is for him to remember and share this. He cuts himself off a few times, his voice trailing off, while never explicitly saying what Sweetheart did.

However, as a result of Sweetheart having different opinions to him, Rococo 'learned to run' . This means he had to be running from something, his forced cheer at the matter and determination to change subjects and make his story dramatic and lighthearted again demonstrated through the exclamation mark. 

Then, there's the phrase, '...there's only so far you can run'. He's speaking from experience here, and it really brings to question again just what he had to run from, and why. 

Furthermore, this is immediately followed by, 'Yes, it was a hard time', showing that he found simply growing up around her– and having reason to run– difficult. This is to be expected growing up with Sweetheart, but the fact that he didn’t seem to have anyone else means that she was his only company constantly. His childhood is far sadder than I initially realised.

'Suffering' again shows us just how much he endured as a child; I'll go back into this in the next point.

"Because even then, I knew everything had a purpose. I was sent to this planet and survived for one reason and one reason only... to repopulate my entire species."

Rococo ploughed through his 'suffering' for only one reason: he felt it was his obligation to repopulate his wiped-out species. That's... Actually really disturbing, when you think about it.

Rococo doesn't think he's alive for the sake of being alive. He doesn't think he was just fortunate enough to survive. He believes that he has been kept alive by the fates solely in order to procreate.

This is an impossible goal, too, since he is the only one left. There are no other elves for him to have kids with– even if they were, options for partners would be incredibly limited and based not on love, but necessity. At best, he could make hybrid elf-donut kids with Sweetheart, but he can't repopulate his species. What he views as his only purpose is one he isn't even able to fulfil.

This is also a huge weight on his shoulders. There would always be that sense of estrangement since he is the only one of his kind, his desire to make more showcasing even that hidden hope for those like him. Because people like to be around those of the same likes, interests and species , but for Rococo, that last bit's impossible.

Loneliness is the centre of his entire backstory, and has followed him relentlessly throughout. 

"There is a conspicuous gap in my memory after this, so I'll fast-forward a few years." // "At some point... SWEETHEART and I fell deeply in love, became engaged, and moved to this giant castle together!"

This has some truly horrible implications. 

Rococo, having remembered his time as a literal baby, lost an entire chunk of his memories as a (presumable) adult? It doesn't seem likely, and 'conspicuous' only further supports this.

The fact that this is immediately followed by him and SWH falling in love seems wrong , to say the least. Rococo has just said he suffered at her hands, fought frequently with her, learned to run because of her, and now, he doesn't even remember falling in love with her.

One moment, he's living in Orange Oasis with his adoptive family. In the next, he's engaged to Sweetheart in a giant pink castle with no clue how he got there.

What seems more likely is that Sweetheart, who loves people loving her , got frustrated with Rococo's lack of blind adoration and decided to do something about it. 

It seems that here is when she encountered the Keeper of the Castle, who she begged to make the castle hers. In the Keeper's words: "That girl. She was an elaborate one.

This dwelling. It takes the shape of one's deepest desires. A place to return to. Somewhere to call home."

Her 'deepest desires' resulted in Rococo having a years-long gap in his memory before finding out he was apparently in love with and engaged to Sweetheart. He probably believed this, too, as by that point, he would have been affected by the Castle he now resided within. 

The Keeper said he gave her "A castle full of riches, servants for her to command, a stage for her to flaunt her power". He does not mention Rococo, but this tells us about SWH's desire for power and reveals that the sprout moles are either of Sweetheart’s creation/wants or were tricked into loving her.

If it is the latter, the same would have likely applied to Rococo.

"We were inseparable, her and I... and we loved each other dearly! I would do anything for her, and I mean anything!"

The ellipsis here indicates either that Rococo looks back on this fondly or with unease. The following exclamation mark again shows that he's trying to make his story seem happy, trying to convince himself that the only person he was close to genuinely cared about him as a person.

The emphasis on 'anything' once again contradicts his feelings prior to the memory gap, suggesting that Rococo's mind has, in fact, been tampered with. There is no mention of SWH doing anything for him– only the Keeper' remark on her hunger for power.

Needless to say, this doesn't suggest that their relationship was particularly healthy .

"I was ready to spend the rest of our lives together... to grow old... and to raise hundreds upon hundreds of children!" // "Hmm... Thinking about it now, I wonder if I ever made that clear to her."

Again, he longs for people of the same type and is excited to fulfil what he believes is his purpose. He made it clear quite early on that he's always wanted to be a father, so him not mentioning this to Sweetheart ever seems unlikely. 

Knowing SWH, she was probably far more focused on her own wants than Rococo's, regardless of his feelings. Their relationship was based off of what she wanted– and it seemed that Rococo grew a little too attached for her liking.

"Alas, all good times must come to an end. As SWEETHEART's fan base grew, she and I grew apart as well."

He views their relationship as 'good times', despite what he's depicted being sudden and unequally reciprocated devotion. As Sweetheart became more centred on her fame and fans, Rococo grew more and more alone. 

Again .

"She began receiving gifts and letters from suitors from all over the universe... asking for a chance to prove their love to her."

The ellipsis once again shows his hesitation. He doesn't want to remember this, yet recounts it all the same as it is an integral part of his story. She’s the only person he has, and Rococo doesn’t want to lose her.

Don't forget that by this point, he and Sweetheart were engaged . 

"Being her one true love, I was vehemently against this notion! But she wouldn't have it!" // "“SWEETHEART is for sharing!” she would say!"

They are planning on getting married by this point. Sweetheart is all Rococo has, and he has said that he would have done anything for her.

And yet, that wasn't enough for Sweetheart. Rococo is being perfectly reasonable here, yet once again, he suffered as a result. This is a sad echo of their apparent fights as children.

"..." // "So... one night while I was asleep... SWEETHEART and her servants tied me up and sealed me inside the walls of her castle."

The pause here shows his sadness at this, seeming to have to take a moment for himself before speaking. Here, his grandeur is gone, replaced by pure misery.

Sweetheart assisted in tying him up, and as the guards were manifested from her desires, them helping her get rid of him shows that she simply no longer desired Rococo.

This would have been traumatising in itself– being kidnapped in the middle of the night and aware enough to see your attackers–, but the fact that Rococo knew and trusted her so much makes this even sadder.

He had nobody else, and Sweetheart sealed him away for what was probably intended to be forever. Rococo, once again, was alone .

"I have been wandering aimlessly through the darkness inside the walls ever since... surviving off old TOAST and TOFU." // "Yes... You four are the first living beings I have seen since that fateful day."

Firstly... Toast? As in, toast that people become if they lose a fight? As in, toast that is essentially dead bodies?

Considering all of Sweetheart’s skeletons in the dungeon, it would not be a surprise if the corpses of those she executed were also thrown into the walls– anything SWH didn't want, after all.

Rococo, potentially having never been exposed to the concept of toast=person, had to survive off of this. What's even worse is that he could have known what it was yet had no choice but to eat it, supported by the use of ‘living’ in the above quote. This also means he's been here for a while , long enough to start starving and for SWH to make through multiple seasons of a show and date Spaceboy.

If that isn't a horrifying thought, then what is?

Secondly, he became absolutely isolated after this. Left with no closure and no explanation, Rococo can only wonder what went so wrong for this to happen.

Living in the walls means he could have been able to hear everything SWH was doing– including her courtship of Spaceboy and 'Sweetheart Quest for Hearts'.

Either that, or he’s been exposed to no other form of human contact for years. He's also in a dungeon , with no natural light and a distinct lack of hygiene or, well, anything really.

"Sniff... Oh... SWEETHEART... Why did you do it? Was I not good enough for you?"

He doesn't blame her. He doesn't blame the fans.

Rococo blames himself .

His idea of 'not being good enough' for Sweetheart is equivalent to him being locked in her walls to rot for years. This is someone who is very much not okay.

He has to stop himself from crying here, sniffing as he laments what he views as his failure. Because Rococo has been alone for his entire life, and Sweetheart was the only exception.

He loved her more than anything, so it's hard for him even after he's found to view her as in the wrong. Sweetheart, after all, was always the one to win their arguments, to do something that caused Rococo to run if he fought back.

!

"Sigh... For the last few years, I've had a long time to think." // "I kind of gave up on my dreams and all that stuff now... It all seems so far away and pointless..." // "So... I've decided to drop everything and become an artist instead!"

He's given up on his dreams. Rococo's main one was to repopulate his species, but now, he can't think of anyone who loves him. It takes two people to make a child, and Rococo's all alone.

So, he's left without a purpose. He has nothing to do but utilise his surroundings– until Omori & co. find him, Rococo believes he's never going to leave the dungeon. So, he decides to use what he has available.

And that's painting supplies. He aspires to become an artist, waiting and waiting for anyone to make art for. He's desperate to be commissioned, to have a purpose again.

We never actually see him leave the dungeon, but he had to be getting those bed upgrades from somewhere . Imagine, after years of solitude, Rococo finally manages to leave the walls, only to retreat back to them at the first possible opportunity. He doesn't know how to live anymore, how to be around other people.

He feels incredibly lonely, but can't find the strength to interact with others anymore.

Art becomes his only reason for existing, Rococo devoting every bit of his time to it until he masters it. But then...

"Thank you, fellow living beings. Through these few commissions... I feel as if I had made great leaps in my quest of self-discovery in the process. I am also very rich now." // "I can do no more for you! I truly feel complete!"

'Fellow living beings'. Rococo's so socially awkward by this point that it's not even funny (okay, maybe it's a little funny). He feels the need to remind himself that he is, in fact, still alive.

He 'feels complete'. There's nothing more for him. He is ready to pass away.

Now, Rococo has managed to 'find his purpose', be it what he originally intended or not. He's become as good as he can at what he focused on doing, except...

...There's nowhere to go from there. 

Rococo will inevitably be left alone once again, trapped in a cycle of loneliness and purposelessness. If his purpose is to be an artist, how will he get any better than he already is? If he wants to spend his money, what will he use it on?

At the end of this story, just like the rest of the points throughout, Rococo is still alone. 

He has money, he has his art, he has a comfortable bed, but he still possesses a total of zero friends. Omori and co. are customers. Sweetheart is in Deeper Well, working for the Slime Girls and not giving a toss about him. None of his adoptive relatives in Orange Oasis seem to care about him.

Rococo always has been, and seemingly always will be, all by himself– all the way up until he dies, just like the rest of his kind. He was never able to complete his original goal, he is left with nothing more to do after completing his last commission, and he has nothing more to spend his money on.

Because Rococo is alone once again

The End :)

Huh, that turned out a little longer than I thought it would. Oh well :)

Rococo's such a fun character but I barely see anyone talking about him, so I hope you enjoyed this little look into him! He's so silly and dramatic and angsty :D

Thanks for getting this far lol

#rococo #rococo omori #omori #analysis #character analysis #omori sweetheart #omori rococo #angst #character study #sweetheart omori #this guy's been trapped in the walls for years #and nobody talks about it #he's such an angsty little elf man #give him some love :)

[tagthescullion]

Diplomacy: a Net of Embellished Lies

Fandom(s): Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Heroes of Olympus

Rating: G

Summary: Five times Nico lied to the people around him, and one time he told the truth.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

AO3 link

Chapter 6: The Truth

I may have used you, but Nico used you and lied about it.

That’s what Gaea had said. But Gaea would have said anything back in that suffocating mud in Alaska for Hazel to let go.

You’re wondering if we can trust the guy. So am I.

Jason’s words had cut deeper than Hazel was willing to admit out loud. 

The few months she’d known Jason before his disappearance the year before, he’d always seemed like an agreeable boy. Perhaps a bit reluctant as a leader, Hazel had always found his jolly disposition faked to a certain degree, it made her think he wasn’t all too sure about what he was doing, but he’d always been honest and hardworking. And above all, he’d been understanding.

That empathy had clearly dissipated like hot steam when you opened the window after a shower.

Hazel sat on a comfortable armchair in her cabin, next to the sleeping form of her brother. 

After the absolutely ghastly day they’d had, she thought he deserved to sleep properly. And that he wouldn’t do if he was alone after the whole ordeal he’d been through. Much less on a ship with hostile allies.

She wasn’t sure how long he’d actually rest, he’d refused to go to bed for a long while, offering to take up the first few watches above deck, but eventually Hazel had coerced him into at least trying to get some shuteye.

He looked small, exhausted, too thin and gaunt. And yet, there was such an angelic definition to his sleeping face that Hazel had no doubt the prophecy’s line, ‘twins snuff out the angel’s breath’, wasn’t only referring to his surname.

Angels, however, weren’t supposed to lie.

Hazel’s idea of an angel was heavily influenced by the nuns in her childhood school. Sammy had once commented that biblical angels weren’t the cute cherubs they painted in churches, but in spite of all the reasoning he’d given, Hazel had still imagined a young-looking, humanlike creature dressed in a white tunic, and who did acts of good in the name of an all-forgiving God.

Hazel couldn’t quite believe in God after everything that had happened both to her and to the people she loved, but in her mind, Nico di Angelo was nothing short of a guardian angel.

He’d rescued her from death itself, guided her in a world that had changed almost entirely, led her to a safe space where she could try to belong. He was a shoulder to cry on, and a source of knowledge of all things mythical. Every time Hazel had felt everything was overwhelming, or whenever her blackout memories were happening too frequently, Nico had been there to offer his support. All of that in exchange for nothing. 

Had it been in exchange for nothing?

Hazel’s brain was battling itself. 

One side was falling prey to Gaea’s, Octavian’s, Jason’, even Leo’s mistrust. Nico had lied. He’d hidden important information from her, he’d lied openly to Percy, he’d betrayed Camp Jupiter’s hospitality by refusing to acknowledge the existence of another section of demigods.

The opposing side called all of that bullshit. Nico was her brother, the only family she had in this century. None of his lies had been personal, nor had he kept information for nefarious purposes. 

“You look troubled.”

Nico’s sluggish voice startled her.

He’d woken up and was looking at her with concern.

“It’s nothing,” Hazel said, trying to clear her expression.

Nico raised an eyebrow. His manner reminded Hazel of their father.

He stretched like a cat, crossed his legs, and leaned with his back to the wall and her comforter around him like a cocoon, despite the Mediterranean summer’s heat. 

“You are a terrible liar,” he said.

Unlike you. But Hazel couldn’t tell him that, could she?

Hell, of course she could. But whatever anger or mild betrayal she felt wasn’t strong enough to want to hurt him.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” she said instead.

Nico shrugged. “Physically, yeah, I guess.”

“Is your Catholic guilt acting up again?” She asked. 

Nico snorted. He seemed to be on the brink of despair. “It was my fault. I should have been quicker.”

“I could have been quicker too,” she told him. “And the rest. But even demigods have limitations.”

Nico wasn’t looking at her. 

“If they didn’t have to rescue me,” he muttered. “Percy could have gone to Annabeth sooner.”

“Even Percy has limitations, Nico,” she argued. “They would have fallen earlier, perhaps. What if they fell and we didn’t even know what had happened to them?”

He didn’t look much relieved. 

“We will find them,” Hazel promised. 

Finally, Nico looked her in the eye.

“Yes,” he agreed. “We will. I owe them that and more.”

“Why?” She asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you ‘owe them’ so much?” She wondered.

“This and that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

“No.” 

The firmness in her own voice surprised her. And her brother too, his eyes snapped up to meet hers again.

“It’s always the same with you,” she told him. “You hide your past and expect the rest of us to ask no questions because ‘Pluto sent you’ and nobody dares challenge that. But it wasn’t Pluto who sent you, was it?” Hazel breathed in to give herself some courage. “It was Hades. You’ve been lying to us —to me— since last year!”

Nico had the decency to look ashamed. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were fixed on the sky outside her window.

“He told me not to—,” Nico started. “Father, I mean. He told me to pretend to be one of you guys. He said it would be easier if I made myself pass for a Roman demigod. Children of Pluto may be considered bad auguries but they’re better than a Greek demigod —you’ve seen how Octavian’s like—.”

“How did you find out about Camp Jupiter?” She inquired. 

“Father told me,” he answered. “I saw Jason and Reyna last year in Mount Tam. They were scouting the enemy lines, and so was I. I was curious because, well… because I’d never seen them before, and demigods that age weren’t likely to be alive without some training.”

“Did father tell you then?”

Nico huffed. “As if. He told me they weren’t enemies, that was all I needed to know, and that I stayed well away from them.”

“Which of course you ignored,” Hazel guessed.

Nico made a more-or-less gesture with his hand. “Father knew I wouldn’t leave it fully alone. But the war had begun, and I had to spend most of my time convincing him to be part of the battle.”

Hazel swallowed down the envy she felt at Nico so casually being invited to converse with their father. Pluto had ignored her for her whole life with the exception of two minimal conversations, yet Hades had allowed his 12-year-old son to convince him to take part in a battle. 

Still, it wasn’t Nico’s fault. 

“And then I saw you,” Nico continued. “I knew you were one of them, whatever it was they were, not a Greek demigod. But you were also my sister, I couldn’t leave you down in the Underworld if you could have another chance!”

“How did he react to that?” Hazel had never asked that before. Maybe she’d been afraid the answer would be awful.

Nico shrugged. “He wasn’t exactly happy I was messing around with life and death. But he was glad, I think. Your death was an unfair thing, he’d been upset about that.”

Hazel doubted Hades, or Pluto, or whatever he wanted to be called, had been upset necessarily, but it was kind of Nico to suggest it.

“Anyway,” her brother said. “He had to explain then, I couldn’t just take you to Camp Half-Blood. Chiron realised Jason didn’t belong immediately. He’d have known about you too, and he doesn’t like me at all, he wouldn’t have let you stay.”

“What about the ambassador thing?” She wondered. “Was that real or was it just an excuse to give you some leverage?”

“He told me to use that name,” Nico said, giving her a funny look. “I would never have come up with that alone, I don’t think I fit very well in the diplomatic category.”

“You know how to bend the truth to your convenience,” she argued. “A pity you hate people, you could have gotten far in life with that.”

Nico gave her a wry smile. “My grandfather was a diplomat, did you know?”

Of course she didn’t. She didn’t even know his mother’s name.

“I see you got the unsociable genes from the other side of the family,” she commented.

“Or from his wife,” Nico offered. “My nonna hated people too, but she was cleverer than I, because she knew through gossip you could blackmail others so she endured social events all the same.”

“Sounds charming,” Hazel deadpanned. 

“Hard times, I suppose,” he said. 

“Because of the war?”

Nico shook his head. “Because she was a woman born in the nineteenth century, more like.”

There was a moment of silence. Not too charged, Hazel thought. She’d learned more about Nico in a quarter of an hour than she had in almost a year. 

Nico leaned forward and took her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Hazel knew he meant it. “I should have told you sooner. I…” He sighed. “At first I didn’t know if I could trust you. Don’t take it personally! I— I hate being disappointed by people, it’s easier to keep everyone at arm’s length. And then, as the time passed I thought —perhaps I hoped— that I could ditch the Greek side. In Camp Jupiter people may be wary of me, mistrustful now, but they’re not scared. I liked being there as if I belonged.”

Hazel squeezed his hand. She wasn’t sure why Nico owed so much to Percy Jackson if he wanted to leave that part of his life behind so badly, but she thought Nico had told her enough, it could wait for another day.

“You’ll always have a place in Camp Jupiter,” she promised him. “When we get back—” Not if, when. “Well, either we’ll be killing each other or we’ll leave all this resentment and hate behind. Let’s hope for the second one.”

“Mild difference, those two outcomes,” he stated.

Hazel rolled her eyes. “Let me put it in other words: either we’ll both be dead, or you’ll have a place in the Twelfth Legion if that’s what you want.”

Nico snorted a laugh. “Sums it up nicely.”

“Now let’s go eat something,” she pulled from his hand and got him up, comforter poncho included. “I’m starving, and I want you to eat something too.”

“I—”

“At least a couple of grapes, as an apology to me,” Hazel insisted. “And to whoever else you’ve been dishonest to in the past year.”

Her brother didn’t look amused. 

“Fine.”

#last chapter! i can't believe i finished a non-pre-written WIP in less than a month #hazel levesque #nico di angelo #jason grance #percy jackson #pjo #hoo #pjo hoo toa #riordanverse #pjo fic #mis fics #tagthescullion #embellished lies

[fortrivmph]

❓ + would you have come back to my mother if you knew about me sooner.

SEND ❓+ A QUESTION AND MY MUSE HAS NO CHOICE BUT TO ANSWER TRUTHFULLY

The way his face immediately creased with stress was rather telling. It was a question he kept returning to, no matter how many times he told himself he wouldn't, that it was over and done with, the door shut, the bridge quite literally burnt. His fingers rubbed together in that telltale sign of an explosion to come. Nervousness first, always; how quickly it progressed to anger varied, but that it should progress was inevitable. It was already sparking behind his eyes as denial rode a wave of stomach acid up his throat, stopping just short of his mouth.

Again, the vision came to him, dousing his fire in freezing water: Tiio, her back turned, her braids pulled over her shoulders to reveal her neck, her hands on her stomach. Should he have known? Could he have known? Was that why she had been so angry? Oh, she would have been furious either way, and only in hindsight did he understand how it must have looked -- he, newly-arrived in the colonies, playing the role of saviour to gain her trust, to gain access to her land and her body. That wasn't how it had gone, but still, the narrative hovered over the time they'd shared like a shroud, refusing to be ignored. With that in mind, had the pregnancy frightened her? Had she thought that he would reject their mixed child? Or had she worried that he would drag him into the mess that was the Order?

Would he have? Another question with no answer. He cast his mind back twenty years and saw only the sharp precipice that was Reginald's betrayal, and the void that had followed. He'd been so numb, then, going through the motions, fighting and failing to keep the Rite from a senseless war. When his faith in the cause had been at its weakest, he had turned to look at the Brotherhood, and they had shown him the worst of them. If ever he'd thought to convert and 'redeem' himself, such hopes had died with Haiti and Lisbon. Given the choice between calculated treachery and chaos, he'd gone with what he could reliably predict, and perhaps change. Even so... two decades after his passions had cooled, he still had no real interest in converting Connor, when doing so might have saved his dying Rite. If that was true now, he doubted he would have done it then.

He set a hand to his forehead, feeling a migraine coming on. All of this was relevant, but none of it was what Connor had actually asked. Honestly? He didn't want to know the answer. He didn't want his son to know the answer. He was being made to hold a mirror up to his soul; having never liked what he'd seen before, he was flinching preemptively. You are deformed, and you are ugly. Connor didn't understand the degree to which his father was ruined. He looked at him with cautious hope, and it made Haytham ill, because he knew he had nothing to offer. He'd been scooped clean of any and all redeeming qualities, save his sword and his political intellect. He was the house at Queen Anne's Square: a burnt shell, God having reached down and smashed His fist directly through Haytham's ribs. And Connor wanted to know if he would have turned back to be a father.

"I can't say." He bit his lip for a split second before catching it and stopping. A nasty habit, Haytham. We're going to break it. And what else, he wanted to scream. And what else? Instead, he said, "It was her desire that I stay away. I don't know that she would have let me see you, or that I would have pressed her on it, come to that." He certainly would have felt the tug, as he did now, but he wasn't sure it would have made much of a difference. Fighting her for the right to see his son... the thought turned his stomach. He had always sought to do as she asked, as recompense for his lie, but weighed against knowing his child? He shut his eyes and leaned against the wall for support. "...I would have gone to speak with her," he murmured. "That, I would have done."

#forlibcrty #᛭ verse: forged from treachery ( canon. ) #|| sorry this got long his blood pressure skyrocketed.

[sunshinebingo]

In The Forest

This is my present for @sparklingreader. It was great to get to know you through @acotargiftexchange. Hope you like it!! Also Happy Holidays to anyone who finds this. xoxo

Pairing: Elain Archeron x Lucien Vanserra

Summary: When Elain crossed the ward between humans and shifters, she did not expect to encounter something - or someone - that would change her life.

Word count: 1.7k

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Chapter 1

Day 1

Elain ran through the trees. The tears clouding her eyes made it even harder to know where she was going. The only thing that mattered was that she needed to get away; away from that wretched place and its wretched people; away from him. The one who has destroyed what was left of her with his cruel words but also with his own gods-damned hand.

The evidence of it was the mark of the hand printed on Elain’s left cheek which grew redder and hotter with every passing second. But what hurt the most was the betrayal and how easy it seemed. How right he made it sound. How dare he dispose of her like that? How dare he did what everybody else always did and get rid of her for someone better? It’s true that Graysen wasn’t the best man in the world. But he was the only thing that hasn’t changed yet in her life. Even her own sisters didn’t need her anymore for gods’ sake.

If no one needed her, then they surely wouldn’t care what would happen to her, even if she went to the forbidden part of the forest. So Elain ran, her feet carrying her deeper and deeper in the ancient woods of Oakwald, until she passed beyond the ward separating the humans from the others. She didn’t notice the slight tingle on her skin as she passed through the thin wall of fog, nor the change in the other part of the forest. Elain ran until her feet caught on a protruding root and she fell to her knees. She didn’t bother to get up nor even acknowledge where she was. She just lied down on the forest floor and sobbed louder than she had in a long time.

.....

Graysen had realised the mistake that slapping Elain had been the moment he saw her cheek turn blood red and saw the tears starting to well in her eyes. What made him do it was not exactly the explanation that Elain started to ask of him, but the frustration at himself that he had been discovered. It wasn’t the first time that Graysen brought another woman to his place but it was the first time that Elain caught him. He couldn’t have known that Elain would come to his house when she had rarely left her own for weeks. Something has clearly been wrong with her ever since her father died some time ago. But Graysen thought that it was her family’s role to be there for her for that particular situation. Since they were her sisters, they should know exactly how she felt and how to console her.  He had tried reaching up to her at first but hadn’t insisted when she kept telling everyone that she was fine. He had only thought that she would get back to her senses when she was ready.

However, he had decided to catch up to her and apologise a few moments after she had slammed his front door. As he ran after her, Graysen was already thinking about the sweet lies he could tell Elain to convince her not to leave him. He could tell her the things that every women likes to hear; things like 'I only have feelings for you’ or ‘I will not do it again’. Hopefully she would forget about all this and not dump him.

No! Elain would not dump him. Her father was dead now so she would need another man to take care of her. She would need someone to help her manage her part of the inheritance that her father had left each of his three daughters. After all, if it wasn’t for Mr. Archeron’s worth in money, maybe Graysen wouldn’t have stayed with Elain for that long.

Graysen was still thinking about the lame apologies he would offer her as he ran after Elain through the village when he noticed her entering the forest. She was barely visible as she made her way through the dense trees. He called after her but she either didn’t hear him or didn’t care enough about her own safety to stop. Graysen started debating with himself whether Elain was really worth it the moment he saw disappear behind the ward. He stopped before the wall of fog, closer than he had ever come to it before. He yelled Elain’s name over and over but no response came.

Everybody in the village knew the dangers that lay beyond this ward. They have all heard the stories of the beasts that lived there. There were even tales of those fool enough to cross the ward thinking they would see one of the beasts. The only thing they saw were glimpses of fur or claws before the strange growls and howls that erupted in the forest had them running for their lives. Others have even bragged about how they could come back with a dead one as trophy that they would display in their houses. None of these fools had ever come back. And Graysen wasn’t about to be one of those fools.

Maybe Elain was so desperate that she wanted to die, but he wasn’t. She would probably realise her mistake soon and leave that cursed forest before something can eat her alive. So Graysen turned around and made his way back to the village.

.....

Lucien had sensed the presence of a human the moment they stepped through the magical ward. As he made his way to the wall of fog that separated the lands of the humans from the lands if his kind, trying to pick up on a new scent or unusual sound, the guardian of the shifter’s territory wondered what type of men he would encounter this time. He would probably just have to make enough noise to scare them away as usual. But if it was one the humans who thought they could come here looking for trouble, he would gladly make them regret ruining his quiet afternoon.

As he started to get closer and closer to the ward, his furred ears picked up on something. Lucien stopped abruptly, claws digging into the soil beneath him, and listened. It seemed like someone was calling a name. Elain. He moved his ears to listen more carefully. This time, he also picked up on another sound. Someone was crying. A few moments later, he realised that the man calling for someone was on the other side of the ward and the one crying was in his part of the forest. So Lucien moved silently and followed the sounds of the latter. When he approached the area of the forest where the crying was coming from, he detected the scent of jasmine and honey mixed with the salt of tears and a slight note of blood. Lucien froze at the sight.

A few metres before him, a woman was lying down between the trees in a short flowy black dress filled with white and yellow flowers. Her golden brown hair was tied in a ponytail atop her head which was resting on the long sheer sleeves covering her arms as she wept. When his eyes roamed over her, he noticed that the scent of blood came from a scrape on her right knee. Her breathing was ragged and her body was slightly trembling. In the distance, Lucien heard the man’s voice calling a few more times before it stopped. He figured the man must have left.

Hidden behind the thick trunk of a tree, an array of questions started to hit Lucien. Was she Elain? What happened for her to have come here of all places? Who was the one calling after her? What should he do now? Scaring her away didn’t seem like the best idea. Besides she didn’t seem to be harmful at all so maybe he could allow her to calm down and see what she did next. Maybe she would leave on her own when she realised that she was on the wrong side of the forest.

His senses urged him to stay and ensure that she was safe. He didn’t want to risk harming her even more so Lucien sat still and watched her from a distance. He was glad that the humans didn’t have a heightened sense of smell like his kind did, or else she would have known that he was nearby. Some minutes later, the woman stopped crying and her breathing calmed. He expected her to lift her face and waited to see how she would react when she acknowledged her surroundings. But she didn’t move from her position and so neither did Lucien. His gaze never left the woman as her body slowly relaxed despite the seemingly uncomfortable position that she was in.

After some time Lucien realised that the woman has fallen asleep on the forest floor. That realisation brought another series of questions to his mind. Bringing a human to his place could be a risk. But he couldn’t leave her to sleep here, especially when the sun would set in just a few hours. Lucien shifted behind the tree he was using to hide his presence, paws replaced by limbs and fur disappearing to leave tan skin behind. Lucien thanked the gods that he had bothered to at least wear pants that day. He didn’t need the woman to wake up and think that a naked male was kidnapping her in the middle of a forest.

She didn’t wake up when Lucien crouched next to her and moved her body around. Only then was Lucien able to take in her face. She seemed so young and beautiful. However he immediately noticed the ugly red mark on her left cheek. Someone had hurt her. It made his stomach twist. He thought of the man who was calling her name beyond the ward and wondered if he was the one who did this. Lucien suddenly regretted not going after him.

He would think about that later. Lucien carefully lifted the woman in his arms, holding her with one hand behind her shoulders and the other behind her knee. Then he made his way deeper into the forest, to his home.

Thanks for reading!! <3

#acotar gift exchange 2022 #elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra