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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat

Captain John Price x Reader

》 WORD COUNT: 12,7k

》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MATURE: allusions to smut but nothing graphic/explicit

》 TAGS: Gender-Neutral Reader. Angst. Mutual Pining. Idiots in Love (but in Romania). Fluff. Love and Romance described as death and decay and broken religious imagery. Y'know. The usual Yey tags.

》 NOTES: I recently got into Augury (just a fancy word for bird watching, innit??) so this feels more whimsical and nonsensical than usual. Good luck with this one, lads.

It's like clockwork.

A text comes—some variation of are you awake, or are you home? in that strange Price-esque way he manages, even through the stark face of a message (biting derision, Gaz calls it, adds: man can't pretend to be a little less angry even over text)—and then a phone call.

Always after midnight.

Devil's hour.

When your phone rings at half past three in the morning, hearing Price's gruff perfunctory greeting of "alrigh'?" bleeding through the phone, and right into your ear doesn't surprise you anymore.

(Not much does, really.)

These phone calls are a strange, almost paradoxical thing that both happens often enough not to be considered rare, and yet: it still seems outlandish enough each time it happens for you to ever really let yourself expect it. Odd. Price doesn't strike you as the type of man to need to rely on his friends—the seldom few he does have, you often joke (always a shade too close to the truth like most jokes are; the one that makes him dip his head in a nod of quiet acquiesce, and make you wonder if you went too far)—but he's never given you a reason for them.

Never answered why.

They just—

Happened.

(Over and over and over again—)

The brief conversation in the oddest hour of the morning started a new tradition. A routine. Expecting a phone call from Price at least once a week was now so commonplace, you almost felt empty when days had passed, and your phone never rang.

He can't sleep. Neither can you.

And so, he calls you.

It's not always about a mission. Most of the conversations that take place are about absolutely nothing. Everything, sometimes, when you pry apart the bones locked around your chest, and bare your insides to the warm cellphone clutched in your hand. To the voice on the other line.

A man you know—have known since you first stepped into his training ring, and into the orbit of Captain John Price—and barely understand at all.

You know everything about him—his name, his title, where he grew up, went to school, his favourite food, his least favourite drink, what he does after a mission; his greatest fear, his biggest worry, the insecurity that gnarls in his chest, and the weight of the world that sometimes feels like it might splinter his bones, grinding them into gun cotton—and nothing at all.

The reason why he called you all those months ago, invited you on a mission you had no real part to play in, and why he still does is a mystery.

(Loneliness, maybe.

Insomnia, you find, is more bearable when it's shared between two.)

But that was before.

The last phone call you got from Price had been nearly three months ago after you touched down in Heathrow following a botched mission in Tenerife.

You heard the murmurs about Shepherd, about Zyani that trickled through the mess hall (when there was no battle to be fought, they gossiped), and so his radio silence makes sense considering he was halfway across the globe for the bulk of it.

In the midst of it, though, you would find yourself staring blankly at your phone, screen black and void of any calls, and wonder if it had anything to do with your offer. With his swift rejection.

When it rings after an aching expanse of time, you can't place the gnarled tension in your chest. The uncomfortable feeling that blooms in your heart at the sight of his name flashing in neon blue.

Price seems almost surprised to hear your voice on the other line instead of the monotonous droll of your voicemail.

"Up for a trip?" He asked when you cleared the sleep from your throat, and rubbed blearily at your eyes. "Jus' me and you."

It feels like nothing at all had changed since he last called you with an offer to accompany him to Tenerife.

"Just like old times," you murmur, a touch distant. Hedging.

"Right," he says, words glueing to his throat. You hear the click when he clears it, and pretend you're only pulling the phone away from your ear to check the time.

Half past three. Of course. Of course.

"Got a proposition for you."

Typical Price: he gets right to the point.

There is no staying up talking about everything, nothing, and all the in between until well past five in the morning when your alarm sounds for your run. Or his for a shower before heading into headquarters at Hereford to reach a new class of hopefuls when he isn't saving the world with his infamous team.

The very same one he refuses to let you be a part of.

(Better on your own, he says.

You think you'd be better with him—

His team. Team. Not—)

The blooming heat under your cheeks is never acknowledged in the sanctity of your lonesome bedroom with his rough voice pitched low enough to squeeze through the little holes of your speaker. Tucked away to pine while still somehow making a fool of yourself.

You're only half listening when he murmurs about his proposition.

It's a simple mission, he tells you. The usual grab and go.

Usual, because only in this work could kidnapping bad people in foreign countries be considered normal. Routine.

(Legal, kind of.)

"It's in Romania," he murmurs, and the tinny sound of his voice through the old dial phone of the inn he's staying at between missions makes him sound lighter than he usually does. Airy. "I know you liked visiting the last time—"

It drags a snort from you. "Yeah, on holiday. Something about this whole ordeal tells me I won't be enjoying mici in Târgovişte much."

"Well. Consider this a pre-paid holiday. I'll do all the work, you just 'ave to sit there, and—"

"Look pretty?"

"—listen."

You hum. "I think I'm much better at looking pretty than I am at listening, John."

"Yeah," it's dry, derisive. "Don't I know it."

Silence lapses between you—intentional, of course. He's letting you think it over. Weigh the pros and cons of a free trip to Romania. With four hands and two heads you could clear it up before the allotted time frame, giving you those extra, precious few days to linger in the country.

Tying up loose ends is what will end up on the official report. Discouraging witnesses from coming forward with stacks of Euros stuffed deep in their pockets.

Making sure no stone has been left unturned—the Americans, in particular, like that one. They never ask questions when you wax about patriotism, and ensure there's no chance of calamity. They like their ends tied, and their witnesses happy.

It's all a cash business. More than enough money wired to an infant account under an preconstructed name. Passwords and identification handed to you in a sealed envelope. It's unlikely that anyone would ever track said witnesses down to discover the person given hush money was actually a nightclub in Mamaia or a fancy pub in Cluj.

Illegal, of course. Should you ever get caught, you'd be reprimanded. Punished. Made an example of.

(But who doesn't skim a bit from the top? Especially when the pile is given to you by the military.)

"Fine," you huff, and aim for some semblance of acquiescence in your tone despite knowing full well that you've yet to turn down these impromptu partnerships with him since they started two years ago.

Moldova. Egypt. Chad. Canada. The Philippines. Taiwan. Tenerife. Your odd partnership has taken you further across the world than the sedentary office job of pretending to make a difference ever did.

The place he said you were better suited for. You refuse to wonder what that means.

"Okay. I'll go. But I'm not doing anything at all except enjoying the Romanian countryside."

"Wouldn't expect any less from you."

You want to say, then why bring me at all? Why not take Gaz or Soap or Laswell? Why sideline me so blatantly only to keep asking for my help when it's never really needed? but the words are stuck in your throat. Trapped in their esophageal prison.

Instead, you say: "count me in then, I suppose," and wonder when you became such a coward.

"Mm. I should let you get some sleep, then."

You make a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat. It's been three months of nothing but unanswered texts that gradually faded into nothing by the third week. An island of uncertainty. Worry. Dread. Fear. Wondering what you did wrong, and coming, quite conclusively (and indignantly) to the conclusion that you didn't.

Hearing his voice again, tinny and always shades softer than you've ever heard him speak before, unearths the sarcophagus you laid your feelings inside; a sudden and abrupt disinterment of everything you tried hard to ignore. The desecration cracks the tomb wide open. The flood of everything you tried to bury blooms; the foetid sickness of your festering wants taste a little bit like regret, and even more like hope.

Helpless, your finger gnarl around the blossom of what laid bare, bones and rotted flesh, and the weight of it in your palm feels more comforting than ever before. Made more potent, you think, by the absence of him.

It's an unignorable truth that you missed him.

And so, you cling to the offering like it's a sacred trinket.

"How—," the words are rough, gritty, when they slip through the moulted dirt clogging your throat. Dredged up in the wake of the sudden excavation. You swallow hard when he makes a noise. Force yourself to claw through the humus. "How are you, John?"

You want to add something you know will make him huff, call you cheeky, something a little coquetry in the wake of your exhumation. Such would be your exequy, but the words are buried once more when the dirt shifts as he draws in a deep, staticky breath.

He's not usually a loquacious man in person, but something seems to crack open, shift, when it's well after midnight. A secret, a new side of him, shared only with you.

You don't expect him to respond. You hope, but you don't assume.

When he sucks in a breath, a staticky little noise that reverberates through the receiver, victory snakes across your vertebrae. Unwarranted and unearned, but the stinging reminder of it does little to stop it from nursing on the marrow of hope pullulating inside of you.

"Been better," he offers, and the muted shift of him relaxing into the starchy pillows cuts through the line. Settling, you think, for the beginning of your routine. "Didn't have much of a chance to call you. How've you been?"

"Been better," you echo, a wry twist of humour snaking across your lips when he offers a huff in response. "Lots to get caught up on, I suppose."

And you do.

You talk about nothing. Everything.

Your darkest secrets were spilled out in those phone calls at Devils Hour—fears, uncertainty, failures. This is no different. He tells you about Shepherd blinding them all with his dedication to the cause. About how he would have let Laswell rot to save his own arse, but knew, of course, that not letting Price and Gaz rescue her would have raised even more alarms.

They cornered an animal, he spits. One who led them around by the nose for years.

Bloody American Politicians, he grumbles.

No better than the bloody English, you snark back. At least they're honest about their motives when it all comes tumbling down around them, and don't hide it under layers of the blooded elite. Of status.

He mumbles to himself for a moment before begrudgingly conceding your point.

It buzzes in the static. A lapse in the midst of espionage tainted catch-up that makes your hindbrain tense for what he might say next.

He shifts, then, offers even softer than the hello he greeted you with:

"What about you? Get up to any trouble while I was gone?"

He listens to you bisect yourself in a midnight confessional, letting your rotted guts tumble out in deep lags of silence you wish weren't as comfortable as they are.

He talks, too.

Tells you about woes of nepotism, and the muppets they send him for basic training. The fleet of soldiers he doesn't want to carry on his back, but does anyway. The losses he couldn't prevent. The monsters he made.

"I wouldn't change anything," he always says, as if you don't know him by now. As if you need reminding of just how tar-coated his heart really is. "I'd do it all over again."

You say, "I know, John." And when you hear the hitch in his breath, you add: "you wouldn't be you if you did. I trust your judgement—no matter what."

Explicit trust. He runs from it.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. It always sounds a little bit like a mourning toll.

"I… should let you get some sleep."

It's something he always says during your late night phone calls.

Par the routine, the same question claws through the mess of words unsaid in your oesophagus until it reaches the seam between your teeth and lips.

Why me, Price?

But every tradition has its rules.

You let him run, and wonder if he feels as cleansed as you do after baring your soul to someone who knows you better than most of your closest relatives, your friends.

(Or if the silence that lingers when you hang up feels just as oppressive and empty to him as it does to you.)

Wishful yearning.

Instead, you say: "try to get some sleep, John. I'll talk to you later."

And then, like the hypocrite you are, you lay awake and wonder why.

He meets you at Heathrow, and really—

It sometimes surprises you just how intimidating a man like Price is.

He glowers down at the phone in his too large hand, eyes downcast, and brows pinched by whatever is irritating him now—emojis, you later discover.

(Bloody things make no sense to me, he grumbles, shoulder knocking against yours when you make yourself comfortable on the plane.

You gently remind him he's barely even forty.)

Price is an indomitable man.

Tall. Broad shouldered. The heft of his bicep is actuated when he curls his hand around the strap of his duffle bag, muscles bulging. Flexing.

It's hard not to stare at him.

His shoulders roll back when you approach, eyes flickering up from unravelling the nuance of modern text messaging from a man who came out of the womb a fully fleshed adult with a mortgage.

The corners of his eyes relax from their narrow slits when recognition bleeds into ashlar blue. His mouth parts a little; the flash of nicotine stained teeth.

The furrow of his brow flexes like it wants to smooth itself out, but something passes across his face—unknowable, brief; the incipient markings of something that makes him look a little more at ease in the bustling confines of Heathrow (hell on earth you have both very quickly, and unanimously, acknowledged)—and it's pulled back together. Irritation, but not at you. Never at you.

(But if not at you, then who?

Why, you wonder, does he always look so cross in your presence?)

He clears his throat. The grumble of his voice, full and robust, and so different from the tinniness of a phone, nearly makes you jump when it glides across your ears, abrasive and raw. A rough growl.

(You wonder sometimes if the brassiness of his timbre is from choking back apoplectic snarls all day.)

"Took you long enough."

You huff. "London is a nightmare at this time of day, John. As if you could've gotten here any faster."

"You chose to live in it."

Another sigh falls from the split seam of your lips. "It's not that bad."

"London smells like shite."

"As if Liverpool smells any better," you volley back, watching the subtle shift in his expression fade from the pinched world wariness almost permanently etched into the lines of his face into something more relaxed. Agreeable. Or rather, as agreeable as Price could be in the middle of Heathrow, and surrounded by people.

He opens his mouth, then, as if to remind you of the sea-salted scent of Liverpool, briny and bitter. Smog and hardwork. Oil, gun cotton. The city smells like the working class. Blue collar. Hands gnarled from the factories, and stained permanently with grease.

A distinct thrum of pride, of home, rumbles through him with each new add-on to why Liverpool, in his opinion, is the best choice to call home.

(And London, he always adds, if only for another barb, another insult in your choice, always reeks of selfish ambition. The kind that rots your insides into something askance, and is deprived of decency.)

His biggest gripe with London, however—

"They never fuckin' smile."

You passively nod in agreement—you mostly get looks of outright suspicion when you smile at passers-by in central London, so: point to Price—and then undercut the small victory he gains with a mocking grin in his direction.

Price's nostrils flare when he catches the derisive bite of your lips curling over your teeth.

"You think you're smart, mm?"

"I'd rather hope so, considering."

"Bloody annoyin' is what you are, considerin'—"

His words are swallowed by some boarding announcement ringing shrill overhead. You pull away from him, and the mocking smile fades into some facsimile of genuinity when you watch him shake his head, put-out and already annoyed by whatever thought skimmed through his thoughts.

London always seems like a sore topic, but you've known him long enough that the edge in his voice is less severe and more mocking. There is a distaste for the city, but the reason has evaded you much like—

Well. Everything else.

You've thought about asking why nearly hundreds of times in the past, but that line of questioning has always been a terrifying endeavour. There is a locked door: a proverbial floodgate keeping all of the other why's at bay. Opening it now, in the middle of a crowded terminal, feels reckless. Stupid.

It's nearly four hours from here to Transilvania.

You think of all the insubstantial reasons he could offer, and find the idea of them all rather bitter. Anguishing. It sends a ripple of hurt through your chest, and the sting alone is enough to seal your lips.

Words stuck, once more, in the back of your throat.

Price says nothing when you quiet, eyes flickering between the throng of people rushing through the terminal, listless and impassive.

There is always a degree of separation between you and him whenever you meet in person, as if the personal, raw conversations whispered into the early hours of the morning are just some strange dream. A fugue wanting, unslaked and bothersome, that ripens inside your virgin sulci. A sickness that manifests in the fibrils of your desire, covetous and greedy; gnarled gyri breathes life into the dreams you reach for until the delineation between reality and fantasy wanes, fades to cinders.

So, you bite your tongue, letting the noxious words pollute, rot, inside their esophageal prison, and pretend the claw marks on the walls aren't from your own bloody hands.

You follow his lead, and he's always seemed so content not to speak of the vulnerability you whisper into his ear. The fear he rasps about at quarter to four.

Gone, then. It doesn't exist when you can see the lapis of his eyes listing toward you periodically, expression oscillating between a rendition of something that feels a little worrisome, and—

Tenerife.

That unnameable thing that broke through the gleaming sapphire when you whispered his name, and broke your own rules for the very first time.

(You'll call me anyways.

Does it bother you?

Never. Wished you called more—)

You turn away from him, from the weight in his gaze when it finds you. Worried, somehow, that a single look will be enough to ferret the secrets out of you.

A man in fatigues lingers in your periphery, standing awkwardly by the Starbucks entrance. He nods sharply when you catch his eye.

"Guess we're up," you murmur, smile fading into placid neutrality. Getting caught riling up Captain John Price won't win any favours back in the concrete vacuum of Hereford. "Ready, cap?"

If he notices your sudden distance, he says nothing about it. His eyes drop to the phone clutched in his hand, before he rolls his massive shoulders.

"Suppose so," he grumbles, slipping his phone into his pocket.

Out of sight.

Selfishly, you wonder who else he calls late at night, and find the burn of bitterness, jealousy to be some torturous form of retribution.

It burns like a knife to your gut. You wallow in it.

Price isn't a man known for his garrulity, and so, when he takes his seat on the plane, and immediately reaches for the files stuffed haphazardly into the zippered fold of his duffle bag, you take no real offence the undeniable abolishment of conversation.

You're used to it, really.

Silences that stretch on, culled by the hum of the engines cutting through the thin air some several hundred kilometres above sea level, are nothing novice.

In turn, you take to flipping through the worn, jaundiced pages of a book you packed away in your carry-on specifically for this. Whatever secrets lay nestled in the crease of his rumbled folders doesn't matter to you—not yet, anyway—and you're content to enjoy something that you can pretend to be immersed with for the four hours you'll be sharing the scant space that separates the two of you.

Pretending, of course, being the operative word.

Price is a breathing furnace. The seams of his tight jacket crackle with unbridled heat that wafts against your arm when you settle into the chair. There is no armrest allotted to you with his sinewy bulk taking up most of the aisle and middle seat, and you feel each exhale when his frame almost melts into your own.

Broad shouldered. Thick biceps. A tapered waist. Thighs quite nearly the width of a gnarled, hardened fir. It's hard to find space, privacy, with him bleeding out around you. It's hard to concentrate on anything that isn't the muted press of his covered flesh on yours, and, rather illicitly, the way it makes you feel.

It's a rush of singular emotions nearly indistinguishable from each other, but all leaving you feeling like a raw nerve scrapped from muscle, and dissected from bone. Flayed with just a touch.

The tremulous wake of them makes your body fight against the onslaught of the roaring deluge that rips through you. An amalgam of wishful anticipation, trepidation, and fear of being caught. Discovered. Having your dirty secrets, the one's you're not willing to share over a tea after midnight with a man who, despite knowing his greatest fear (the lives of his team over the stakes of everything, everyone, else), and his proudest accomplishment (getting the fuck outta Hereford while he still had the chance), galvanised out of you. Spilled into the open air.

It comes too close to the lowered inhibitions you felt in Tenerife to ever sit well in the churning pits of your stomach.

And so, you try to force some semblance of distance between your bodies despite there being none. The curved ledge of the plane window digs harshly into your forearm, but you still press into it more.

Welcoming the ache, almost.

It doesn't feel good, but it's a harsh reminder that the feelings pooling inside of your chest are wrong.

A part of you, then, almosts hopes that the pain will soon become an almost Pavlovian reminder whenever you think of Price, and of—

Everything.

Negative reinforcement.

(Price and you; the thought brings pain.)

He mistakes your tension for nerves, and drops his chin down when you keep wriggling about, struggling to find a modicum of distance between the weight of him pressing against you.

His expression is always oscillating between lour surliness and a pinch of frustration, and something in the middle of the two—glum, you think: stoic impassivity weighed down by heavy shadows—but the usual ire dims as the jet lurches down the runway. It's washed away in the tenebrous that leaks in from the empty interior of a military craft where it's just you and him and the pilots.

A world where the stench of London dissipates into the familiar filtered scent of recycled oxygen that wafts through the open vents. Sterile, almost. Void of the grime, the pungent smell of stale petrol on the wet pavement, the distinct scent of the tube—sweat, fungus; putrid and ripe with something mouldy; tobacco and marijuana—and old cigarettes.

(Smells like shite, he'd gripe if he knew you thought of it with fondness.)

When he looks at you, you have to force yourself to remember hierarchy, propriety. Decorum.

Distance. Reality.

It aches, but you push it down. Swallow the words until they leak back into their cage, glued against the soft tissue of your oesophagus, and force something neutral, unbothered in your countenance while pretending as if you weren't choking yourself to death.

"Alright?" He murmurs, words uttered low. Susurrus, almost. It's different from the phone calls where his voice is relaxed, muted; saturated in an ease, a warmth that lacks the usual snarl choked in the back of his throat. He talks with a degree of distance. Boxed into the role of unflinching, infallible leader even in this microcosm that bubbles between you.

Still. It makes the air in your lungs stutter all the same.

"Fine."

He hums, and the guttural vocalisation is adorned with the flat press of his disbelief. Price isn't the type to pry, though, and he takes your virginal lie with a mere shift of his eyebrows; a soft buoy of skepticism that is just scrutinising enough to let you flee if you so wish.

You do, and so, you take it. Offering him a tight smile that you know will never reach your eyes, or any semblance of believability, but it's the most you can manage over the drumroll of your heart (now making serious threats of breaking through your ribcage, and leaping out of the jet), and the shallow gasps of your breath, a desperate struggle to quench the flames billowing in your lungs.

He's so warm, you think, that he burns you. Fire spread from the heat of him, catching on the cindered embers lying in the soft fibrils of your being, and igniting you in a flameless smoulder.

Price nods once, and you're unsure if it's in a gentle acquiescence of your bold-faced lie, or your quick prevarication, but you find yourself mimicking it all the same.

Good, then. Settled.

But he leans down instead of returning to the urgent press of files and papers all neatly stacked in a manila folder, and you come undone at seams when the scent of him envelops you.

Crushed tobacco leaves, stale smoke, ambergris and vetiver.

The headiness of his smell smothers you, and makes your hindbrain tense at the familiar, enticing miasma that seeps into your lungs, and fills your sinuses until it washes everything out but the gun cotton, and leather he reeks of.

"Hmm, a bit early to start lying," he rasps, the words just as brittle as your crumbling resolve. "Ain't it?"

Your breath shudders out of your lungs. Caught, then. Called out. The idea of confessing everything to him, all at once, passes through, but it's immediately dismissed. Shoved back into whichever crevasse it slunk out of.

The fact that it even drifted through, sneaking past the tightly guarded prison it was kept in is enough to make you fluster.

As if to hold them in, you sink your teeth into your tongue to keep from speaking the words that still echo in your head, and offer nothing more than a simple shake of your head, and some facsimile of a wry smile tossed in his general direction.

He hums again, and the coo rumbles through his flesh and ripples across your skin. Electric shocks. Static buzz. The vibration of it shakes the doors of the mausoleum where everything is left to moulder, rot.

A plume of nicotine dusts across your nose when Price shifts in his seat, much too small for a man with such broad shoulders, and thick thighs, and when you breathe in the heady scent of it, your head spins.

"We're all entitled to our secrets," he murmurs. His hair scratches against the fabric when he turns his head, chin notching down to bore into the side of your face. It's all you'll offer him when the rattling at the doors of your tomb dislodges a piece of rotten wood; lignin crumbles to the floor around you in stripped, fleshy white. A hole big enough to sink your fist through.

"And that's fine, but—," his tone dips, timbre scorching through you when he speaks. The words are gritty, and coarse. They sink into your ears until the flesh is rubbed raw. The change in pitch makes you look up, wordlessly following the command that tangles around each vowel. Sharp, authoritative. This isn't John right now. It's Captain Price.

His pelagic eyes are hardened into firm, dense sapphire lined with unbreakable obsidian.

"But," he stresses the word again, brows arching high on his forehead until three, four, lines are carved into the pale skin. "Those secrets can't interfere with the mission, yeah?"

His stare is intense. Firm. Unyielding. He doesn't look away. Doesn't cower under the strange, too hot sensation that fills your head whenever you're forced to make eye contact for more than a few moments.

It occurs to you, then, when he holds your stare for three, flinching inhales, that the only reason he's saying this is because he knows. Maybe not everything, maybe not all of it. But he knows enough that you're acting strange. Odd. Not yourself.

Price sits back, and the loss of his intense stare boring into you, stripping you down to basal parts—raw and vulnerable—allows air to inflate your burning lungs. Oxygen bubbles and seeps into your bloodstream so quickly that you feel a little sick with it. Dizzy.

"We clear on that?"

His expression is guarded, pinched.

You swallow thickly against the deluge of emotions that run down your spine, and wonder what he knows. What he pieced together already. It makes your heart slam against the flesh and bone cage it's prisoned in.

His flat, phlegmatic expression seems to wobble. A frisson ripples, and splinters his reticent resolve, and he looks, in that moment, like the man who speaks to you late at night about his biggest worries, and fear. Touchable, reachable. It's a sharp contrast to the impenetrable man who stands at the top of the command post, and makes decisions of life and death. A stalwart leader made human.

You drink it in, trying to make sense of the softening of his gaze, the tremble of his moustache as his lips relax into an even line, but it's indecipherable. Unknowable. You struggle to piece the pensive, almost contemplative look together, but the gingerness in his expression snaps shut.

All at once, it's forced back, and pulled taut. The drawing of a bridge.

His lips flatten into a grim line. A divot forms between his brows. The tick in his jaw speaks of frustration, but—

Not at you. Never at you.

You can't make sense of the enigmatic distance in his eyes—a floating island in the middle of the open ocean. Separated by the turbulent sea.

Something changed between you. You feel the incipient shift trembling through your bones; a novice crack. The plates deep below the surface surge, and split; shattering into the other. The waters froth white as something begins to emerge from the depths.

A new landmass, maybe.

"Alright, then," he rasps, turning back back toward the files spread out on his lap. "Try to get some rest. We'll be jumpin' into the thick of it when we land."

You can see the hesitation in his eyes. The uncertainty in his mein. It's a sharp juxtaposition to how these strange missions usually unfold, where you both pour over documents, and leads, and have easy conversations between sharp, playful barbs, and impish quips to always devolve into some debate over something trivial.

The silence is stifling. Oppressive.

Tenerife, you think, when you drunkenly stumbled down the stairs, and into his arms, and—

Coldness. Frigid distance. He cut you off after that, and it was radio silence until last night when he called you.

You don't know what it all means, but Price is startlingly observant when it comes to you, and you wonder, with your heart thudding in your throat, just how much you gave away.

A snag in the middle of lush green. You tremble.

Into the thick of it, huh?

His words haunt you.

(But when don't they?)

The novel—a neo noir mystery disguised as a romance—does little to capture your attention. Threads of interest snag on the ends of the protagonist's steadfast determination to not to let crime run rampant in the city he's taken a reluctant appreciation for, and to rescue his penultimate damsel from the crumbling affair she's trapped in with a married man of the mafia, but it dwindles after the discovery of the red herring.

It sits, untouched, in your lap as you gaze out of the circular window. Plumes of thick, white clouds blanket the world below the plane, and look dense enough for you to almost believe you could stand on the curled peaks of the cumulonimbus. A mirage, maybe.

(Or wishful thinking: you've always enjoyed chasing the unattainable.)

The sky above is a midnight blue that fades into lighter shades of lazuli as curves around the earth.

A shade lighter, flecked with greens and golds and greys, and it might have looked just like his eyes.

(Chasing, always chasing.)

The shock of it makes your leg twitch as your muscle tense back into that familiar state of constant fight or flight that Price always seems to put you in. Stage fright. Fear of discovery.

Sometimes you wonder if it would be easier to just spit the words that have been coagulating in the back of your throat for years out now into the world, and let him run from them.

Flee, like Tenerife.

Does it bother you?

No, I wish you called my more—

—can't, love. Can't do that, you know I—

Dreams pop like rubber balloons around you. The snap of the recoil blisters your skin.

A lesson, then, that there are certain words that should never be uttered, or mentioned.

He drew a sharp delineation between you and him. A line in the sand. Uncrossable. Unspeakable.

Unignorable.

Your heart aches, but you know it'll soon pass. Soon. Soon—

"Ready?" He asks when the wheels of the plane kiss the solid ground with a jolt, and the single word feels more augury than you'd like.

It feels almost instinctual, then, to glance through the small window, eyes listing to the pale blue sky. Two chaffinches chase each other in the blooms of white, their plumage harsh against the idling clouds overhead.

"Sure," you say, and wonder if he'd asked the same thing when you touched down in Tenerife. It doesn't matter. You shake the thought from your head, and try not to linger on the birds.

Leave it for Agamemnon.

Despite his insistence to the contrary, it turns out to be the exact opposite of what was promised.

Your idyllic vacation to the Romanian countryside is forfeited for the cold interior of Brașov where the man you're after, Iulian Mitrea, is hidden somewhere in the near hour long commute from here to Sinaia.

Somewhere, of course, because no one is willing to tell you anything at all. From the moment you landed at Târgu Mureș Transylvania Airport, help from anyone within the country evaporated, dissolved. Mistrust was rampant between the soldiers here to help you on your hunt.

You couldn't blame them, really. Not when their orders to stall, delay, and interfere came directly from above.

It makes sense when you're trying to capture a well-known friend of several high ranking politicians worlds over.

The pinch in their brow as they say, we don't know where he is, despite confirming only an hour earlier that they did, in fact, know where he was speaks volumes to their reluctance to participate in this farce. It needles inside of you because despite the irritation of the delay, you get it.

If they help you catch him, their name will be in the report. People will talk to you. You get to go home with a wanted man nicely wrapped in a bow for Lady Justice, and they stay behind and face the ramifications of letting a man go who greases paws with men in power—politicians, businessmen, foreign diplomats.

So.

You get it. It doesn't make it any easier to swallow when you see them on the radio each time you get closer.

It'll be a wait and see mission until someone either relents enough to let you get a headstart, or the bigger people in power finish the behind the scenes negotiations to protect as many people as possible from the fallout.

Either way—

You're landlocked in a city that's never felt more hostile to you; stuck in stasis in the middle of a brutal winter.

The inn is nice, you suppose. Old architecture. Its age sings with each movement you make against the wood that is nearly three generations older than you. It's plumed a dusting of disuse that sneaks into the corners where it rots, and stinks of mildew.

But it feels unwelcoming each time you catch the eye of a soldier, a local police officer. The lady behind the counter of the front desk is oblivious to the tension bleeding between everyone, and offers toothy smiles whenever she catches you. Eager, you think, to talk to someone who doesn't respond in clipped tones.

You soak up the rapid Romanian, and try to remember the phrases you picked up—much to her amusement.

Her hand fixes itself permanently against her chest with each new pronunciation of the Romanian alphabet you pick up—breve, circumflex, S-comma, T-comma—and she seems eager to listen to prattle on in stilted Romanian with more appreciation than the men who are meant to be your partners.

They linger, listening in on each conversation you have with the woman. Combat every effort of your futile attempt to salvage some holiday from this mess.

They undermine Price at every junction. Cut his opinion down until it's shredded paper snowflakes on the icy cobblestone. A forgotten arts and craft project now mushy from the snow blanketing the world around you in an endless white prison.

It's easy, you think, to just give up.

But you know Price.

Despite their delays, and mutterings to each other every time a lead pops up only to quickly slip through your fingers, he doesn't falter. He won't. Not until this is seen through.

He'll fight to the bitter end.

(You think he just might prefer to do his fighting on the battlefield instead of dabbling in subterfuge.

So.

You do it for him.)

Your efforts amount to a burst vessle: a rumbling eruption spewing anger and tension at your feet like an angry volcano.

And with it, you feel the words you try to swallow down buoy to the surface.

This mission makes you feel like little more than some ornate polyptych, folded away for convenience sake, and unravelled in the privacy of his borrowed office.

It's there where Price poses questions, and piques at you for more information.

His tongue is too thick when he tries to speak the language echoed around you, unable to catch the proper slur on the t-commas and drag the breve out the way it should be spoken. It sounds somehow more French than it does Romanian, and you resolve to take the mantle of lacklustre translator for him, wondering whether he took your words as coming only for the holiday as sincerely as possible.

It makes a needle of fondness grow in the gyral folds of your beating heart. A sudden deluge of empathy, and affection that makes you idealistically moony-eyed at his penchant for keeping promises.

Still.

It's unneeded.

You take a proactive role in trying to find the man who keeps evading the grasping fingers of the law (however twisted it might be), and make it quickly known to him that you're here as a partner, at his behest, and not as some fancy tchotchke to be placed, indiscreetly, on the sidelines.

It's unlike him, though. And you wonder more about the potential ramifications of this mission each passing day that you're stuck in the stifling confines of some luxury inn where the men around you whisper furiously to prevent your success.

You ask him about it, and receive a piercing stare in response. A gruff, don't worry about it. This is my muck up, not yours.

It hardens your resolve.

All it takes is a few words whispered while rolling sarmale, and you manage to find a man in Brașov who might be hiding the person you're looking for.

Information that turns out to be more fruitful than anything else thus far.

You tuck it close to your chest. The man is landlocked and stuck, hidden in plain sight by the soldiers there to help you. He isn't going anywhere.

But you might be.

The lack of progress is noted by the people who requested your aid on this—the ones that must have conveniently forgotten that the person who kidnapped foreign dignitaries was also the man they had over for summer parties at their luxury estates in Dorobanți.

They dangle Price's visa over his head during a massive row after—yet another—delayed piece of information is forwarded to you by the local police. By the time it lands in your hands, on his desk, it's too late.

More blocks. More opportunities to catch the man squandered, lost to politics.

The schism between Price and them widens. A wide chasm, uncrossable.

You catch his eye, and wonder if you should share the secrets you keep, but you don't. Not yet, anyway. There's a mountain on his shoulders. A mess of politics that you know makes his blood boil.

You want to ease the burden. The tension.

But it doubles to a new height when one of the men jabs his finger in your direction, eyes blazing, and calls you his assistant.

"My what?" Price's words are eerily calm despite the gyre welling in blue. "What did you say?"

The man doesn't back down. Neither does Price.

It's his warmth by your side, unflinching, as he stands tall and guarded, leaking anger and ruin at the slight against you. A white night in red-hot anger.

You've fought your own battles, cutting your knuckles on cracked teeth until bone embedded itself into your cartilage like a macabre set of brass knuckles in jagged ivory. You throw punches like you're fighting for your life behind the screen of a computer that ticks away for eight hours, and pretend the emblem on your lapel doesn't weigh you down to the pavement below. Your own weight to carry.

And you don't need this, don't want it, and a little part of you wants to rebel, to throw your fists around like they're the white-hot slugs spat out of the barrel of a firearm, but it's tapered down when he seethes beside you.

His hands curl into fists before swinging up, latching onto the straps of his tactical vest. A defensive manoeuvre, you once thought, but now you know better.

Price isn't clinging to the woven fabric to keep himself steady, to ground himself. It's to keep those burly fists from sinking into the gullet of the first man who wanders too close to the rapacious maw of a starving beast.

Your eyes are fixed on the hairs dusted over his knuckles as he flexes and tightens his grip until they bleach white like dead coral, sharp bones threatening to break skin.

Those hands once pressed you tight to his front, holding you steady as you stumbled through the haze of want, and longing, and kept you steady as the boat rocked with the calm waters of the neverending sea.

(—wish you called more—

—don't know what you're sayin', love. What you're startin'. Gonna let you turn around, and pretend this never happened, mm?—

—but—)

They tightened then. Hard enough that the skin around your hip bones bulged between his thick fingers. Your flesh filling in his gaps. His eyes dropped there, fixed on the way you fit between him despite the pain that bloomed where his fingers dug deep.

(—jus'... Walk away, love—)

Tenerife feels like a dream. A wisping cloud of want dredged from the depths of your subconscious yearning.

But the ache in your side where his hands rested the night before kept you from casting away the words as drunken ramblings and masticated dreams.

Those hands whiten under the strain of holding himself back, and you recognise the colour as the same shade when he held you. Paperweight. Featherlight. You wonder, then, your eyes only for him as the world you've been invited into erupts into chaos and blame tinged with the palpable weight of unwelcomeness and claustrophobia when he hasn't been holding himself back—

"Talk about 'em that way on more time, and I'll stick your goddamn heads on a post for that slimy bastard you want to protect so fuckin' bad to see—"

—from you.

You find him near the window, gazing out at the snow-covered roof-tops of the sprawling village below.

He stands, his back angled toward you, with one hand curled around the crystalline glass, filled with three fingers of scotch—the perfect amount, he stresses, and gives credence to his sincerity with each winkle in his brow—and a lit cigar in the other.

Price brings the cigar up to his lips, eyes roaming across the smear of lights in the distance. You catch the spark when he inhales, the orange intensifying into an angry red.

It casts a halo of orange on his face, and the fire makes him look somehow older and younger than he really is. An timeless visage of a man who, hours earlier, was recklessly throwing himself into the very same fire he syphons from as it burns the tobacco in his stem.

The brief flash of red is complemented by the harsh dandelion-yellow from the illuminated city when it spills through the glass, frosted with condensation from the heat in the room, and the brutal chill kept at bay by a two inch glass panel.

He's a composition in contrast.

The only light inside the room is from the kindling fireplace, and the jaundiced lamp on the desk table, spilling over the documents you'd come to talk to him about. The dimly lit interior bathes his back in a clouded tenebrous, darkening the crevasses, divots, and the contoured folds of his body until they're shadowed in the gloam. It's perfectly juxtaposed to the highlights that catch in the warm golden glow of the sleepless city just below.

A perfect chiaroscuro, you think.

The sight of him, then, at peace—or as close to it as he can manage—steals the air in your lungs. The words on your lips.

The look on his face is pensive, yet coloured in a hue of consternation that seems to quiver through the dark pools of blue gazing back at him. A ripple of disquietude. A splash of rumination. It all coalesces into an unfathomable knot of emotions that bloom in the deep divot of his brow. Ones you can't even begin to unravel.

(But your fingers itch to try.)

There is something about him in absolute stasis—completely unguarded, and unburdened by the devastating world around him—that spools under your skin like a fever. A webbing nebula that weaves with the threads of venial sin until it tangles around you.

When it tightens, it feels like a noose.

This moment of privacy between him and the thoughts locked tight inside his head makes you feel a little bit like you're intruding on a moment not meant for your eyes. A sacred thing. A voyeuristic spectator.

You should leave. Let him have the sanctity of this moment to himself, where the pensive, introspective look etched into his brow is shared only with his reflection, and no one else.

An unwitting birefringence. A glance inside Pandora's box.

You try to tiptoe back in the direction you came from, a manila folder tucked under your arm, but the wood is worn. Aged. The floorboards creak when you press your heel into them, letting out a loud, jarring noise that seems to reverberate through the arched ceiling, and against the frosted glass that encompasses the vast majority of the eastern wall.

Loud enough, you think, to crack the class. His reverie.

Price makes a noise in the back of his throat when he turns to you, brows drawn tight in wordless displeasure at the intrusion. Recognition bleeds into ashlar blue. His shoulders ease when he sets his steeled gaze on your cringing form, one foot out the door, and the other fixed firmly in your mouth.

The way he relaxes when he finds it's just you melts some of the embarrassment away. The tension dissipates, sheds itself from his coiled muscles pulled taut from carrying the weight of everything on his broad back.

(The world, then, is tucked into the corner when he dropped it earlier.)

"Sorry," you murmur, hiding another wince. "I didn't realise you were—" Brooding. Another grimace. Your foot slides deeper into your mouth. "Uh—"

"It's fine," he says, his voice hoarse from the growling threats he made against the Romanian diplomats who insisted on your help only to shrug off everything he suggested.

He clears his throat before he speaks, taking the brief lull to drag his gaze down your form. Tendrils of something soft liquify the hardened edges of sapphire—a look you haven't seen on him since Tenerife—but it pauses at the folder you try, and fail, to discreetly tuck further into the crevasse of your body. Hiding it, futilely, from view.

Something sours across his face. The half melted azure firms into unbreakable obsidian.

"Business as usual, then?"

You huff. "Not if you don't want that."

Price inhales deeply at your words, and you know that he can't. He won't.

You mourn the loss of that soft, unfathomable look on his face when the only concern he had was the condescension from his breath hiding the view of Sinaia from his appreciative gaze.

A look full of something aching. A want, maybe; a need. Things you can't begin to connect to your stalwart captain.

But then you think, again, of Tenerife. When he caught you mid-stumble, hands heavy and hot on your flesh. The look on his face ages younger than the grey around his temple would lead you to believe.

"Careful," he murmured, eyes lighter somehow as he pulled you in closer to his side. "Can't go falling all over the place."

It was your quip of, "but you'll catch me, won't you?" that made him feel almost reachable when he turned away from you, the tips of his ears dusting a pretty pink.

"Jus' watch where you're goin'."

You think about it now—about the unfathomable distance between the stars.

Between you, and him.

(And then of broken walls you mend with your own hands.)

"Jus' bring it here," he mutters, moving toward the desk cluttered with everything he was trying to avoid. The desk you brought him back to. It pinches something sour inside of you. "I'll 'ave a look at it."

Price sets the glass down, and reaches for the crystal ashtray left near the edge of the table. When he drags it closer to the fish-shaped map of Romania, decorated with little red stickers of possible hideouts for the man you're supposed to be catching, you count four ends of a cigar in the mess of ashes, all smoked down to the stem.

Concern gnarls in your gut.

"Busy day for you, Captain?"

All he gives in a noncommittal grunt in response before eying the chair with a touch of wariness as if sitting down now will prevent him standing up again. It might, you think, tentatively taking stock of the neverending pages on the desk just waiting for him to tackle. A ceaseless maelstrom that tries to drag him down that endless abyss that leaves stress marks on his forehead, grey hairs around his temple, and grinds his bones down until marrow below is exposed to the rotten air.

He doesn't sit. A pointed gesture.

The heels of his palms rest on the edge of the table, and he leans forward over the papers strewn in his familiar organised chaos, and drops his head down between the bracket of his arms, locked at the elbows.

He's the very picture of exhaustion.

"I don't have anything good to share with you," you murmur, tone low and susurrus as if raising above an octave will shatter the fragile glass that houses the two of you from the brutal storm outside these four walls. "Mostly a complete repeat of what already happened—"

"Bullshit," he grinds the cuss out like the potency of his tenor will somehow strengthen it into a hex. "Fuckin' politics."

"Nothing we haven't dealt with before," you note, turning to lean against the desk. You mirror his pose in the reverse, fingers curling around the ledge. "It'll smooth out eventually."

He considers your words, lids sliding to half-mass. Lost in thought. In—

Something.

You're not privy to the war in his head. The battle he struggles through.

But you want to be.

You'd give anything to fight alongside him in this moment of quiet contemplation. To aid him in the pursuit of victory, and help ease the burden he carries on his broad shoulders. A weight that makes his heels dig deeper into the ground than any other man you've met. Gravity falls on him harder than the others, but he never folds. Never falters.

Something shifts when you tilt your head toward him, waiting. Watching.

Irritation drips down, polluting the cenote until it's a gyre grey. Clouded with the poison of choices that lay in front of him.

"Maybe," he settles on, rolling one shoulder to alleviate the burn in his tense muscles. "Would be easier if they'd just bloody listen—"

"They will."

His eyes flicker up to you, curling with something playful, you think. Or as close to mirth as the shadows in his brow will allow.

"You gonna make them?"

The tone of his voice—smoke cured, molasse thick—is blunt, but—

Baiting.

Loose tendrils of smoke weep from the end of his forgotten cigar, and curls in the air between you. You taste ash, and feel the burn of nicotine when you breathe in.

It does little to quell the spike of nerves gnarling in your chest; the itch under your skin.

Something brims in your pulse. A rapaciousness that seems to burn through your arteries until they're blistered from the heat. You lean back on the desk, knees locking until your legs are straight to alleviate the anxious knot growing in your stomach.

His gaze drops to your legs when your ankles cross, sliding up to the softness of your thighs now spread plush over the wood.

Another shift. Poisoned grey darkens into thick tar. Bog water. You wonder how long it would take for anyone to find you if you sunk below the thin film of pleats, swallowed whole by the fen.

Imprisoned in his clutch.

"For you? Anything—"

The words slip out before you can stop them.

His head jerks up. The roundness of his almond shaped eyes can only be derived from your slip-up, to your unintentional confessional between secondhand smoke, and borrowed nicotine.

A mistake, you think. An accident. A follie.

But the words are lodged under the syrup-y thick water that leaks down your throat.

You swallow again, but it feels like you're drowning.

An impasse. Brutal, and uncrossable. You wonder what he might say, what he might do, and try to ignore the ache in your chest, the bitter throb of anticipation as the lines in his brow deepen, darkening with the stains of his indecision.

That same wellpool of emotions buoys in ashlar blue when he stares at you, plain faced and—

A touch uncertain.

It's strange to see him so unsure, so hesitant.

Price isn't a man who falters in the face of anything. Who concedes, and surrenders.

His tenacity is what drew you to him. That staunch perseverance that you sometimes wish you could fill each hairline fracture in your soul with. To somehow syphon the staggering presence of him, indomitable and ferocious when he needs to be, into your marrow where it'll congeal and paint the walls of your bones with the same stalwart dedication to a singular gospel that he carries with ease.

He huffs, then, and the exhale reeks of stale cigarette butts in a damp ashtray.

"Don't know what you're getting yourself into, love—"

Something flickers across his face, and you wonder if he even meant to say it. Or if the endearment slipped out, oiled by the same elixir that covered your throat and coaxed something closer to the truth, to your hidden wants, out of the depths of your yearning.

It's unfathomable, though. The mere idea of it being drug from the same hidden well as yours itches between your ribs; a blossom of something featherlight. Hopeful.

When you look at him, eyes scouring the dividing lines between the face he shows the world—the one with a deeply furrowed brow and obsidian clotting in the crevasses of liquid sapphire; a stalwart sense of detachment, and pointed distance—and the one he shows you.

With you, though—

With you, he's always asymmetrical.

A singular brow notching up at something audacious you said; one side of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin. The flash of teeth when you murmur under your breath about the stuffy politicians you're meant to be saving.

Rusted picket fences. Faulty hinges. Open, lax. Void the usual symmetry that makes him Captain John Price; a stalwart presence on the battlefield, shoulders strong enough to lift the morale (and morality) of every soldier under his commands. Has to, you think, or he might implode, crumbling under the stifling weight of his utilitarian choices, and the actions guised under the moral grey dust of patriotism.

It clings to him. Scars shaped like canines: the teeth of an old, rotten dog. Nightmares in absenteeism.

He never tells you about them, ever; but you've gotten more than a handful of phone calls during devil's hour to know they haunt him just as much as they do you.

(And if you've taken to turning your ringer on as high as it will go—just in case—then that's a secret between you and midnight blue sheets.)

The look on his face now makes you think of that mission in Tenerife, when his fingers curled around your wrist after landing in Heathrow. Warm, flushed skin. Rough like a cat's tongue when it slid over your flesh.

He stopped you from leaving, eyes shaded in stagnant blue as the taxi idled in front of you.

"Could go for a coffee. Want to come?" He asked, and it was unlike him to stall, but the prospect of more time, and coffee, numbed you to it all.

You didn't give it much thought, but the words feel almost sibylline now. Hindsight, you think: that pesky little thing that makes you feel like Lleu, caught in the crosshairs of a feud between Arianrhod and Gwydion.

Over burnt, bitter beans and coffee flavoured water, he said: "don't get much sleep anymore."

"Our late night phone calls don't bore you to sleep?"

It was a pawkish barb not meant to be taken seriously, but Price, you find, is percipient when it comes to you.

"No, they don't." He shifted in his chair, eyes cutting toward the mid-morning haze dusting the streets of London in a fine periwinkle blue. He looked older, somehow, in the virginal rays of the dawning sun. The words that slipped out felt softer, subdued in a way that made you wonder if they were meant to be uttered at all. "I sleep much better after them, actually."

Price has a strange ability to leave you both speechless and full of words. Of things, mundane and inconsequential, that you long to spill out over the linoleum countertop.

More often than not, they're just naked, bare. Raw words not yet shaped or formed into any semblance of meaning, but ones you want to say, anyway. If only to keep the conversation going. To keep him around a moment longer.

(After all: if the conversation does end, he can't leave.)

But your lips are glued. Words stuck in the wet ashes that congeal in your throat.

Your eyes followed the breadcrumbs of his gaze, and found the quieted road of Liverpool Street staring back at you. Drenched in cobblestone grey, and smeared in industrial neon. An uninspiring visage of some secluded corner tucked away from the tourist trap of central London.

The near hour long drive from Heathrow to London for a cup of coffee is another mystery. Why he invited you where, of all places, isn't known to you.

He paid for the coffee, the taxi. Said nothing at all but walked you back to your flat in London, the place you stay after each mission brings you back to Heathrow. It's a near twenty-nine minute commute in the opposite direction.

Said no when you offered him a place to sleep for the night, and you tried not to let the bitter sting of rejection show while his fingers curled around the wooden frame of your front door, knuckles turning white from the strain of—

Hindsight, you think.

The shift in his gaze when his hand snared around your wrist. When he hailed a taxi for burnt coffee in the middle of a city that he couldn't stand—a place you'd heard many tirades about in the middle of the night, all leading back to the same reason for his staunch hatred of London: it's too bloody far from Liverpool. Too bloody far from him.

When he turned to look out the window to watch your reflections contrasted against drab, grey London.

Earlier, when he was gazing at the city below.

It clicks, then.

He wasn't staring out the window. He never was.

"Why didn't you come into my flat?" You ask, words thick. Heavy.

His nostrils flare. "What—?"

"That night in London, after Tenerife—I asked you to spend the night. Why didn't you—"

White knuckles. The look on his face was—

Pensive. Dusted with consternation. Just like—

Now. Then. All the moments in between.

Like many things in conjunction to this, it's probably your fault. An unignorable truism that sits under your skin like an itch you can't scratch no matter how viciously you claw at your dermis.

You could have asked, but it wouldn't have mattered.

The answer was staring at you this whole time.

Why he called you in the middle of the night. Why he never even bothered to entertain your application to join the 141. Why he looked so troubled when you invited him in. Why he kept you at arms length this whole time, but let you see the gnarled ruins of his soul in the middle of night.

The delineation of your relationship was drawn in the distance of a phone call at midnight, ones made not because he was lonely or bereft of comfort—

But because he could hang up before he said too much. Widen the gap with a press of his finger.

You can see him try to pull back again. To put a distance between you greater than this lonely hotel in the middle of Brașov to Orion's Belt.

Words—stay, don't, why—caught in your throat. They refuse to come out. A conversation trapped. One you can't start.

(You've always been better with actions than words.)

And so, you kiss him instead.

A cacoëthes.

It's less of a kiss and more of a messy punch to his mouth with your blistered lips.

Your trembling fingers curl into the straps of his tac-vest. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes.

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. Words, you think, like: what're you doin'? or this is sexual harassment and I swear to god I'll sue—

You don't let him finish. Don't let him start, either.

You fall back on the desk, yanking on his straps. He jerks forward.

You meet, clumsily, in the middle. An awkward assemblage of limbs; bodies cut across each other like an unfinished T.

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss.

There are moments leading up to this that, in hindsight, make everything seem almost inevitable. The look on his face. The ache in your chest. It blooms from the same vine; a want in spades. You almost weep when he groans against your mouth, teeth knocking together. You taste heme in the back of your throat, and nearly choke on it when his fingers curl under your jaw, holding you steady as he tries to devour you whole.

It sheds threads of kismet, and tastes a little of finality when you brush your lips against his again, meeting in the middle: a perfect equilibrium. Absolute congruence.

(Or, maybe, it's the thrill of his taste that shades everything else in a roseate veil; that swallows down the other moments, trials and tribulations that felt more gruelling than your training, and lets the others surge to the surface. Moments of heartache, and pain, and—

And it doesn't matter, you think, a touch delirious; not when you know what his hands feel like when they curl around your waist, when his fingers dig into your skin, and he pulls you closer.)

"Listen—" the word is mangled in his throat; charred from the fire that burns in his lungs. "You need to know what you're getting yourself into."

"You say that like I haven't been thinking about it for years, John."

It sobers him a bit. He pulls back until a thin strand of space sits between your wet lips and his moussed beard.

The implication in your words makes his eyes darken. Lids fluttering.

Want, palpable and thick, pulses in the charged atmosphere between you. A microcosm of your own design: a place carved from stone, ashlar, and shaded in the midnight blue of his eyes. A roseate gossamer falls, veiling you in that corusating haze that makes the world look prettier than it really is.

Shades of rose.

The breath he pulls in is tremulous.

When he speaks, it sounds like an orison. A plea. "That so?"

It's a weighted question. Benediction paints his throat, stains the words when they slip out.

"Kept me waiting for quite a while."

"Didn't think you were waiting." His hands sear your skin when they slide up your back. His forehead falls, resting against yours. "Not much to sit around and pine over, love."

It makes you scoff, a wet noise in the back of your throat. "You think I answer my phone in the middle of the night for just anyone?"

"No," he murmurs. His hand lifts, cups your cheek in the seat of his palm. "But I'm not jus' anyone, am I?"

"Nope. Your a walking contradiction on how—sometimes—nepotism isn't all bad—"

"Watch it."

"Or what, John?"

You're distinctly aware of the age-old idiom about playing with fire, but when he dips his chin, and narrows his eyes at you like that, you find you don't really care much about getting burned.

His nostrils flare, eyes dark, and hungry. A warring pelagic storm looms over ashlar. Gyre grey. Arsenic white. You want to stain the tips of your fingers in the liquid blooming in his gaze.

"Might need to teach you a lesson in respect."

"Might need to teach you not to keep someone waiting."

His mouth is searing it when it presses to yours.

"Touchè."

Price tastes of saltpetre.

Thick, ichorous. An heady elixir that sits heavy on your tongue, leaking down the back of your throat when you swallow.

A fine sheen of nicotine paints his teeth from the forgotten cigar burning in the ashtray on the table, and when you swipe your tongue across them, chasing the secondhand buzz, it feels anxiolytic. Your head is a slurried mess from it all, and the way he feels beneath you.

Hard edges, broad—massive.

His chest expands with each deep inhale. Shoulders tense with the effort of holding himself back. A fact, you find, is more intoxicating than the nicotine on your tongue, or the saltpetre blooming in your veins.

The width of his thighs make your muscles burn when you perch your knees on the cushion beside them, the stretch a deep burn that feels more arduous than a workout.

You're not supposed to be kissing your captain.

To be sat on his lap while his big hands roam your skin, sliding down the knobs of your spine, thumb pressing the grove of each one. Massaging your sides when you gasp into his mouth, a wet noise full of the burn in your joints, the want in your belly—an ache, a need for more. More. More—

It was meant to be professional.

At work, on the field, in the stuffy headquarters of the SAS building in Hereford, it's meant to be distant. Cold. And—

And not this.

Not spread open in his lap, one palm cupping the soft cheek of your ass and squeezing until the flesh bulges from between his splayed fingers. Not heaving his name out in a palpable supplication drenched in want. Need.

Needy.

"Look'it you," he'd rasped into your neck hours earlier, slick with sweat from your impromptu training lesson in the comfort of his office. "So fuckin' needy—"

And you were. Are.

"C'mon, cap," you gasped, nose pressed taut against his temple, tongue chasing the briny tang that saturated his hairline. "Give it to me—"

He did.

Over and over and over again. Bending you over hard wood of his desk until your face was full of reports and papers, missions and confidential files on things, and people you'd rather not think about while your captain was spreading you apart with his tongue, and three fingers, and—

It was too much. Not enough. A paradoxical realm where pleasure and pain melded into a single entity. It's veins coursed with a potent cocktail of everything you could easily become addicted to—oxytocin, dopamine, endorphins rich enough to make you dizzy for aeons when it saturated all those gullible receptors in your head—and when he touched your skin with his bare hands, you felt the prickle of it leaking into your bloodstream.

The rough husk of his voice rasping out his pleasure in your ear is an audible opiate; euphoria condensed into decibels. It rattles your synapses. Your bones. You quiver under his bulk, eager for more.

Aching for it, really. Want him so badly that it hurts.

Even after he'd taken his time to prepare you, made you cum from his mouth, his fingers, more times than the chemical slurry of your melting mind could ever try to keep up with, it isn't enough.

Wasn't.

His cock feeding into you, stretching you open around the thick of him, until the world around you was awash in pure bliss in the most beautiful shade of blue, wasn't enough.

"More," you gasped, nerves throbbing like a bruise. Bones battered, rusted from the force of him taking you over and over again. "More, John—please—"

He obliged each time. Sliding home until all you could feel was him pulsing inside of you. The heavy weight of his hips notched against your ass. The branding heat of his hands gripping your hip, fingers curling around your shoulder, as he held you steady for him.

(Over and over again—)

Price smells of tobacco when he leans in close. Damp ash. The wet end of a cigarette butt. Stale smoke. Mossy, loam. You breathe in the bitter scent of him until it floods your lungs, clotting in each fibril until it's heavy with the tarish resin that leaks from the end of burning cigar.

"Greedy fuckin' thing," he hissed in your ear, fingers delving into you, feeling his release squelch around him. "Ain't you?"

"Always," you huffed, struggling through the onslaught of your mind buzzing for one more, just one more hit, and your body screaming for respite. "Always for you, John—"

"Stubborn, mm?"

He didn't give you one more. John is attune to you in ways you'd never anticipated. He just—knows you. Can easily see through the desperation for victory clawing at your throat, sinking it's nails into the delicate skin of your jugular, and hissing rapacious demands that rattle through your vocal chords.

When he meets the apogee of your mettle, he pulls back. Edging away from the battered fold of your limits once he brings it to a new precipice, a new level.

Price pulled you against him when your fawn-legs quiver, knees threatening to buckle, and tucked you against his chest, a protective embrace while he murmured words of gratitude, admiration, into your crown.

That was hours ago, and now—

The hunger rears. Your want is a perfect personification of greed, lust, pride, gluttony all coalescing into a molten desire that spools together, knotting tight against your chest where it tightens in a vice. A pretty bow of your searing need for the man whispering heavenly words of ardour into your damp skin.

"Price—"

He stops the whine with a nip of teeth against your jugular. "Come on, now," he bares the flat of them on your skin, pinching soft tissue between his incisors. "Rest a bit, love. Jus' wanna hold you, yeah? Jus' like this."

He leaks benzene, arsenic, and formaldehyde when he murmurs your name into the sticky column of your throat.

(And when he whispers it so softly, reedy benediction dipped the brush of his blunt affection, how could you ever deny him anything?)

Your arms thread around his nape, wrists locking together behind him.

The ticking of the clock on the wall is just another reminder of how little time you have, and yet—

"Stay," he murmurs against your jaw, whiskers scratching your chin.

Jet-lag. Exhaustion. Wishful thinking.

Whatever the reason might be, you pry your lips apart and choke out the words that have rattling inside your head from the moment you felt his chest bloom beneath your palms, and knew—without any doubt or uncertainty—that you would follow this man to hell and back if it meant you stand inches away from him for the rest of your meagre existence.

A tortuous whim. An exquisitely agonising proposition.

But you've always been rather smitten with poems that break your heart into pieces. Ones where you leave a little part of yourself between the lines that eviscerate your pericardium until you taste heme in the back of your throat.

Price reminds you of those poems. Ones that blugeons into you with a force so heavy and full, it feels as if it was written just for you. A pain so robust and brutal, that you're sure the lines in Times New Roman were first etched into your bones before they were spilled across the stark white page in black ink. Rotten blood between the pages of your barren soul.

Your fingers run through the mess on his crown, slick with sweat from earlier, and you nod, mind wandering down that path that leads to closed doors, a locked mausoleum, and with your bruised knuckles, broken nails, and bent fingers, you pry it open.

Finally, finally—

The words claw up your throat, grasping at the stretch of freedom within reach, and you—

Let them go.

"Wouldn't go anywhere without you."

(Not ever again.)

#this feels somewhat complete but it's been bumming about in my drafts for ages now and it's about time it left the nest #sorry for all the bird imagery i found a pair of binoculars in my shed and suddenly i think i'm Attus Navius #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #captain price x reader #john price #captain john price #captain price #goddd i hate tagging stuff #can i just not???#like if u wanna read it come check out my blog but i am sick to death of these goddamn tags

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m4ctavish · 1 year

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soap and ghost — mask on, mask off.

masterlist.

pairing (s) : john “soap” mactavish/gn! reader, simon “ghost “ riley/gn! reader

desc : in which reader finally reveals their face to their partner.

a/n : i’m down bad, can you tell?

john “soap” mactavish :

soap thinks your mask is pretty neat! he’s likely joked around a bit about getting one of his own so the two of you could match

if and when you decide to show him your face, he’s waiting with intrigue. what you look like won’t make him love you any less

i’m just thinking that this a two way street— you could either decide to do it spontaneously or have him sit down with you and close his eyes until your mask is off.

if you did it spontaneously, i feel like he’d do a double take and initially he’s kind of just like “new recruit???” until he’s able to take in to consideration that this oh so mysterious person is wearing the same exact clothes as you and also has the same mannerisms as you. (small world, innit?)

if you want to sit down with him and talk about it beforehand, he’s 100% willing to do whatever you want him to do. want him to look away? done. close his eyes? also done. turn around? he’s already doing it. this is your moment and he wants you to be comfortable.

after the initial moment of awe for both scenarios, his first instinct is to reach and touch you, possibly cup your cheek. (if you’ll let him) he’d just sit there a bit, thumb swiping over the top of your cheek, gentle and comforting. to him, it’s like meeting you for the first time all over again except this time, his heart is beating 10x faster.

at some point his hand would slide down a bit to stroke your jaw. i can just imagine: the two of you are sitting there, staring at one another intently. his hand is resting comfortably against your face, the warmth of his palm providing you with a sense of ease and comfort: the kind that made your entire body feel warm, like wrapping yourself with a weighted blanket. (“how ‘bout that?”)

may or may not ask to try your mask on— he wants to know if he’d look good in it!

if the two of opt to talk about your mask some more afterwards, he’d ask what prompted you to start wearing one and why you chose the design you did (he feels that it suits you, he’s just curious)

simon “ghost” riley :

simon respects your wishes for anonymity; the way he does it and the way you do it are two sides of the same coin.

you’d show him when you were ready and if that time never came, that was alright.

he’d love you all the same, regardless of what you looked like or if you chose to never show your face.

if you’d much rather take a moment and talk about it, he’s fine with that. if you need him to do something for you to be more comfortable, consider it done. this is your moment.

with him in particular, i’m just thinking of him taking your mask off for you— idk why but it’s just, something about it; he’s standing between your legs, staring down at you curiously. with one hand, he’s tilting your head upwards to look at him just a bit. his other is working to remove your mask, which is only just slightly difficult with one hand. it’s an intimate moment.

once it’s off though, the first thing he takes notice of is your eyes and just how striking they are regardless of the color. they’re enrapturing. (partners with intense eyes are partners that stay together)

the hand that’s holding your chin moves up just slightly and his thumb is pressed against your lips, the pad of it swiping over the expanse of your bottom lip in a featherlight touch. his touch is warm against your skin and his eyes are sweeping over all of your features in silent admiration, taking his sweet time to memorize each and every inch of your face for as long as you’ll let him. (“would you look at that.”)

the way he’s looking at you has your entire body flushing; when did his gaze get so intense? (jokes on you! it’s always been that way.) it makes you feel exposed almost, like he can see straight through you regardless of whatever facade you try to put on.

perhaps he’d take the time to take off his balaclava alongside you, in a “if you show me yours i’ll show you mine” type of way.

maybe, just maybe, he’d be willing to trade masks with you afterwards. just for a little bit.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #call of duty x reader #john soap mactavish x you #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x you #soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader

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hhhhleb · 29 days

Note

So…do you have any in detail things about the asylum AU? Like has Lyla met all the Mk boys? And the knows they are all different?

Hi! Thanks for the question!:3

I didn’t really thought it through as I drew, but your question made me think quite hard about it for a few days haha!

I’m no psychologist and not nearly close to the level of knowledge in this sphere that requires that kind of au, so I’m really unsure of anything I can potentially write about it)) thus I’ll try to be as shallow as possible in everything that concerns mental health issues.

In this au there is no such thing as superpowers or anything supernatural. Marc&Layla are simple people in a simple mental hospital. They met and with time and lots of long conversations befriended. I know that the last point seems controversial to pt2 of my comics but,,, they builded their deep connection with each other with time. That’s how I see it at least.

Answering your questions, I think for her it’s like: sometimes this guy mumbles in Spanish and sits somewhere in the corner, sometimes he quotes some French poetry and bubbles tons of facts about Egyptology, sometimes he talks with her about everything in the world in her mother tongue, because he knows it makes her feel less anxious, feel like home. Maybe on some unconscious level she understands that there are three of them, but on a conscious level she doesn’t strictly distinguish them. It’s something like: ‘seems like today all he wants is to silently draw stories with me’ or ‘he called me ‘chérie’ so we can discuss some interesting moments in Egyptian philology’ or ‘oh there is this little worried frown on his face, he would love to braid my hair rn, it’s always soothes him’

For MKsystem(particularly for Marc) she’s just a ray of sunshine in the dark kingdom(named his ‘life’). He likes to see her happy and just be with her in a same room, likes to listen to her, to see sparkles in her eyes when he stumbles through Arabic to ask how she’s doing.

For Steven she’s a pure inspiration, he admires her sharp intelligence so much, he feels so cheered up by their crossed interests, and he really values how she genuinely likes to listen to him.

For Jake she’s someone who sees him, who respects him, someone who really cares about him. If he asks her not to touch him, she never does, but she’ll be still somewhere near so he would not feel lonely. She gives him all new pencils she finds, she asks about all lil drawings he does. And he respects her in return, when everything is too much he silently leads her to some quiet safe space, when she’s upset he gives her some vivid photos of the sandy country he got after some agressive bargaining in exchange for his things.

I’ve pondered how and why Layla got there, because for MK system it’s already clear(Harrow-with-moustaches said that Steven brought them there, ‘cause of their mom) Maybe she’s there because of her dad? Maybe she was a witness of his death(like in comics) and it changed her on some level or brought to the surface what’ve always been there. Idk I’m not really into headcanoning mental illnesses to characters,, so I guess it can remain a mystery to us)

So, all I know they’re married and make each other's days much more bearable and brighter:) There is really nothing else to do in this place except spending time with each other(it’s fun at least) so I feel like they talk a lot. Therefore Marc SIGNIFICATLY more open to her and she displays her real emotions more often, not trying to hide by some mask of a tough lady anymore. So I suppose their relationship in this au much healthier then in pre/during s1,, quite ironic innit (^^ゞ)

Well, there is still a huge field of questions in this au but I hope this little weird essay of mine made some things clearer for you:3

#moon knight #layla el faouly #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moonscarab #comics #asylum!au #i guess it’s a tag now))

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gingerjolover · 6 months

Text

Pet Names - NM (Muna)

okay first things first, shoutout to @whore4munagenius because they helped me SO MUCH in coming up with these names and the vibe and i love them sm <3

okay here's the thing, naomi is so complex and i can't figure them out fully i can't explain it so here is to the best of our abilities of possible scenarios/names

also canonically thinking of soft!gf i cant stop myself we are one

All of Muna uses baby/babe/honey so those aren't included that's just canon i said what i said

rpf smut under da cut - minors gtfo

Luv (in a british accent ONLY) - you know the vibes okay naomi is walking in the door, chipper as ever and saying something like "ello luv," and fully leaning into the accent or like late at night you'll be half asleep on the couch and they're like "it's gettin late, innit luv," and you're giggling bc why are they talking like that? i think its usually subconscious or to cheer you up

Princess - hear me out, you are naomi's princess! period! okay you get what you want when you want it and no one will tell them otherwise. this could definitely be a dom!naomi situation but truly (like julien) it's an everyday nickname. naomi LIVES for the flushing of your cheeks when they call you princess followed by a swift kiss to the cheek or jaw.

definitely calls you princess while blowing your back out :-)

Bunny - this one.... okay so again ever the mystery i couldn't figure out what naomi would call their partner but i think they live for calling you bunny. maybeeeee it originates from you and your behavior when they've got you on their thigh and you're bouncing away... or it's because you're as cute as a bunny and they love you sm... could be either 🤷🏻‍♀️

Baby doll - everyday name, easy, pretty much the replacement for your name. there's definitely a backstory that might be explained in an upcoming smut, who knows, but i think naomi wants something more special than just baby or babe so they've coined you babydoll. definitely loves coming behind you in the morning when you're brushing your teeth or doing your skincare, holding your hips, lips attached to your neck being like "how'd you sleep babydoll?"

Pumpkin - this one is just so cute, i think naomi would have one name that doesnt get used often and its kinda special for just the two of you. like maybe they are having a shit day and feeling really down or super stressed and they feel sick, and you're walking into their office, rubbing their back and sitting sideways on their lap. definitely putting a plate of their favorite snack or bringing them a drink and they just nuzzle into your neck, "thanks pumpkin" before placing small pecks there

Pookie/Schnookums - they do this to annoy you, like you guys are fighting and its not a fundamental issue so you're just annoyed with each other and if there's one thing that naomi knows about you, its that you're stubborn and they have to give in. i think you'd be standing at the sink like angrily scrubbing a pot and naomi comes up behind you (canonically their fave way to embrace you) and they're placing kisses up and down your neck being like, "you can't stay mad at me forever pookie," and you're groaning in disgust and giggling before they laugh with you.

BONUS:

Boss - this isn't necessarily something that naomi calls you per say but it is so husband!coded for naomi when y'all are out with friends and they ask to plan something next week and they are like "let me check with the boss" because while naomi is the dom in this relationship, soft!gf is the boss and really what soft!gf says goes

#muna blurbs #muna x reader #naomi mcpherson blurb #naomi mcpherson x reader #gingy's blurb night

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hostilemuppet · 5 months

Note

I apologize if I sound stupid, but what’s mangoball? I hope I spelt that right

cheater cheater (known as mangoball) is a satirical social media fanfiction by twitter user mangobaii written in 2021 about the internet personas of twitch streamers georgenotfound and dream getting together after georges ex boyfriend sapnap cheated on him with dream. on paper it sounds fucking abysmal especially with what we now know about all three of them (ie. they should be publicly stoned) but its more or less infamous for the surrealist humour and the way it acts as a time capsule for stan culture of late 2021. the characters are:

george. a very very stupid british man who paid to get into college. his boyfriend cheats on him and he takes it really poorly

dream. a very very desperate american man who sucked sapnaps dick in a public bathroom and broke up his relationship. when he thinks things are over between him and george he runs away to disney land to become a goofy mascot, which george finds incredibly attractive

sapnap. a very very unpleasant man to be around. cheated on his boyfriend and when its clear theyre not gonna patch things up he resorts to just hanging around the main group and in general being a dick

now this is where it gets REALLY really good bc its unanimously agreed upon that while the dream team are really entertaining in this they dont hold a candle to the others

quackity. georges roommate. i would say he "favours the tough love approach" but that is putting it soooooo lightly.

kyle. georges other roommate. the designated "straight man" in that he is like a normal fucking person put into this insane world of crazy people. the catalyst for most of the events of the story since he is the one who saw dream suck sapnaps dick, told george about it, and encouraged george to rebound with dream. thank you rival cartoonrival for telling me that i called karl kyle on accident. it really goes to show how much of a normal guy he is

corpse husband (we dont know why he was included either). dreams roommate. hates that cunt and is actively praying on his downfall

wilbur soot. dream and corpse's neighbour. initially introduced as "guy who keeps stealing his stuff (and also knows george from england)" gradually devolves into "batshit insane, genuinely a threat to those around him, involuntarily gets them involved in his crimes for a 'bonding experience'". also he is kind of in love with corpse but that isnt ever expanded upon

tommy innit. a freshman that dream used to tutor for compsci (along with tubbo but hes not as relevant to the story as tommy is. SORRY TUBBO!) but he hated dream so much he started a space about it, which got bigger and bigger until it became a huge podcast (with individual episodes still named using space naming conventions) where he and various guests shit on dream. he doxxes dream. at one point it was sponsored by taco bell.

badboyhalo. mysterious man no one really knows (except i think its briefly implied george dated him at one point) who doesnt go to their college yet keeps interacting with them like they are all best friends. is actually quackitys estranged father he never met

there was also a christmas special where someone snitched on wilbur to the authorities and george got kidnapped and they try to figure out whos responsible while snowed in and unable to visit their families like they wanted

tldr: modern art

#text

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julianalvarez9 · 1 year

Note

Hello can you do a headcanon with John Stones

He dating a famous singer/actress?

🫶🏼

dating a famous singer / john stones headcanon

okay this is giving taylor x joe vibes I'M SORRY not over them Yet

I MEAN in the support-you-from-the-sidelines way

people know about you two bc you're picture together sometimes but other than that

no one knows much about you two

like how did you meet???? a mystery

you'll never say you once brought your parents to the etihad as a gift bc they're massive city fans and that's how you ended up meeting him but whatever right 🥹

you two are very private so

but sometimes you slip up, yk?

"sorry my voice is a little rough today, my boyfriend scored a header yesterday" and the fans all screaming

maybe your voice isn't rough. you just want to say your hot footballer boyfriend scored s goal jakdjsjj

your fans loving your relationship and how happy you look since being with him

but john also slips up sometimes!!!

in those challenges or videos filmed for the yt channel

when they ask his favourite artists

they do it bc they know he can't NOT say your name

"you're gonna get me in trouble, mate"

and then when he's forced by jack to say your name he gets all flustered and red and 🥹

"must be nice having a song like lover written about you, innit?"

BABYYYYYYYY

or like who's the last artist that he went to see and when was it

and it's you bc how couldn't it be, right?

"a couple of weeks ago actually. went to see y/n... she's amazing, she killed it".

him being asked for pics at your shows even if he tried to stay hidden

a lot of signs in the crowd during paper rings that say things like "can he fight?"

"well, unfortunately for you, he's a 6ft 2 centre back, i would say yes"

some posts that give me boyfriend!john energy

#WENT OVERBOARD WITH THISSSSSS I ALWAYS DOOO #john stones imagine #john stones x reader #john stones x you #john stones headcanon #football imagines #football imagine #football x you #football x reader

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sparxaf · 6 months

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The Inscrutability of Alex

So I might be working on an S7 Alex fic. I mean, I'm probably not working that. But I could be. Maybe. Anyway, for mysterious reasons, I decided to replay the current episodes because I found myself confused by a couple things with Alex. And a second playthrough left me even more confused. I sent @mrsbsmooth a nearly three minute, babbling voice note, asking her if I was missing something, because I cannot figure out how to write him.

This character is described by multiple others as having "golden retriever" energy. Something he absolutely does not have. I'd say he's not even that playful. It's just bizarre for anyone to say that. Nothing about him is overly energetic. Both Raf and Bryson are much better described like that. Alex has the most whistle-whilst-mowing-the-lawn-in jorts-dad energy ever. Golden retriever he is not.

So okay, his energy doesn't match the description. That's not a huge issue on its own. But like...who is he? He says he's not cocky, just confident.

Hmmm. Never is a strong word, innit?

Now, a less cynical person might say that Fusebox is just writing a realistic depiction of someone who is unaware of his own cockiness, but since I am a cynical asshole, I'm saying that Fusebox is not in the business of nuance. They make the same amount of money whether they spend the extra energy to give it depth or not. So they're never gonna bother with that. This is just inconsistent writing. Now, we all know that Alex's most overtly acknowledged trait is his desire to "Take things slow." He says he's looking for the one, and he's not gonna rush that. He knows things move fast there, but he still wants to take his time. He didn't kiss Estelle on the first night. He was uncomfortable with Summer being so forward before he knew anything about her. So how does a guy who takes things slow answer a question from a virtual stranger about what he does for a living?

A dirty joke. Yes, very much setting the tone for his lack of cockiness and his desire to take things slow 🙄 Though I do enjoy MC responding with "Very presumptive, but good to know." 😆😆😆 Not to mention, when he finds out you can snog during the icebreaker, he's not like, "Um too soon." Instead his eyes light up like he can't wait. It's so baffling. So let's say maybe he's just a slow mover who is also really flirty by nature. That feels like he's sending mixed signals at best and manipulating you at the worst. Now this one really threw me for a loop. There's a gem scene where you can ask the boys to tell you something cute about themselves. Alex tells a story about having a crush on a gym bunny and how it led him to weightlifting in order to ask her out. But he kept putting it off and by the time he finally got the nerve, she was already dating someone. So he learned not to hesitate. He learned to just go for it.

Um... what? That's a strange perspective to have for someone whose entire ethos is "Take it slow." Now, I'm aware that he is very straight forward with MC about where his head is at, so perhaps he just meant that he doesn't waste time letting someone know he's interested, but he still wants to take the relationship slow? I don't know. Last, but not least, on night one, you couldn't even kiss Alex (unless I'm misremembering). You could only snuggle. But on night two, Alex says he still wants to take it slow, but he wants to a little something. So the game gives us some options. And the first choice was to do bits. Now, this might be my fault, but I assumed that "bits" in this case would be some kissing and making out. Heavy petting. Maybe some under the clothes touching. But, to my utter shock, no it's not just a heavy make out sesh. Nope. He finger blasts you. He straight up bypasses the face lips and tiddies, and goes straight to rubbing the bean and shoving a digit inside of your person. It's an awfully intimate act for someone like him who's only been alone with you three times, and beyond challenge smooches (if you chose to even take those), has still never really made out with, nor kissed you privately. I would like to clarify that I'm not judging how fast or slow anyone goes in their personal lives. But I am I'm judging this character's pace in relation to the things he's been saying about his pace.

I wrote most of this before the last batch of episodes so I'll only lightly touch on the fact that Alex seems nearly ready to ask you to marry him the day after bringing you to the villa. So "taking it slow" really went out the window altogether.

Long story long, there are aspects to Alex I like. I mean, I'm writing him right now (OR AM I?) so it's not all bad. But it's really hard to attempt any canon reinterpretation, when I can't even sort out what canon is.

It just doesn't make sense. Is he cocky or not? Is he a slow mover or does he believe in not wasting time? Is he an inner city gym rat bro, or is he a home-on-the-range papa who wants to build you a cottage, and make babies? Is his whole "slow burn" thing some kind of manipulation to hide that he's a fuckboy (which would be hilarious) or he's just very badly written?

I love a good, lively conversation, so go ahead and let me know your thoughts. But for those who are rather... overly invested in Alex, feel free to yell at me about his perfection and how wrong and dumb I am. I look forward to deleting your vitriol.

#litg fanfic #love island the game #litg s7 #litg stick or twist #litg alex #litg alex makes no sense #does he take it slow or not?#finger-gate

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girlsdontlove · 1 year

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𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐬!

He was going to write back to you but he didn't know what to say. "Writing a letter are you" Bash asked "yeah....I don't know what to write her" Gilbert replied "its a girl" Bash asked "yeah she's back in Avonlea" Gilbert explained "why do you have a problem on what to write her" Bash asked "she just basically said she loved me in her letter and that she might be moving soon and I don't know what to do" Gilbert explained as he handed Bash the letter over. "Where is she moving to" Bash asked "to Charlotte town which isn't to far from Avonlea but it's still far..i'd have to take a train back and forth to see her if I wanted to" Gilbert explained "you want to see her" Bash asked "of course I do" Gilbert said as Bash handed him back the letter. "So tell her how much you like her if you do" Bash said as Gilbert took his writing utensil. Gilbert smiled as he wrote the note for you.

You had just walked in late to school, your eyes had very very light black circles under your eyes. Gilbert was worried sick but he wasn't surprised. Because the day before you two had got into an argument about something silly.

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫

-he walks up to you the minute he sees you get uncomfortable

-puts an arm around your waist and says "hey buddy so what's going on?"

-the guy ends up walking off and once he does Gilbert smirks and he kisses your cheek

Gilbert had recently told his friends that he was dating someone. "Well whoever this mystery girl is she is very lucky" Charlie said as the boys smile including Gilbert, 'She really is' Gilbert thought as he looked at you as you talked to your friends.

Gilbert was calling the wedding off for you, he had just realized that he wanted you. That he has always wanted you. "You can only know something when you know it" Gilbert told the blond haired girl. "There's another girl innit?" She asked "y-yes.....there is" Gilbert answered which only made her cry more "but it's basically unrequited love" Gilbert said trying to ease her crying, she gave him a pity laugh. "This is happening to me for unrequited love" She scoffed. N with that Gilbert ran his way to your place, he didn't care at this point if you didn't love him back. He had to tell you, he needed to tell you.

𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐱

-missed you ALOT

-finds excuses to talk to you, you dropped something? He'll pick it up for you and make conversation. Your parents need help with something around the house? He'll come over and try to be near you, might make conversation.

-Bash basically made a plan on how to get you two back together

-Gilbert finds out and he thanks Bash

-you two end up getting back together but it's kind of awkward at first

Gilbert laughed softly as he talked to Bash, "you must like her" Bash said to him "eh....I mean she is lovely and her smile is just gorgeous and it's stupid how she hides it because she thinks her teeth make her look ugly but I don't....." Gilbert muttered as he realized. He liked you. He liked Y/n L/n. "You don't what" Bash asked "I like her" Gilbert mumbled as Bash made a small noise that he always made when he was right about something.

He watched as you talked to someone, "can you take the hint I'm dating someone" you said to the guy who was flirting with you "who" the guy asked, you pointed to Gilbert "oh" the guy muttered before walking off. You two just started dating and he hadn't gotten used to it. His heart fluttered at your actions, he was still trying to process that you were his and that he was yours.

The guys watched closely as Gilbert walked up to you, "with you go out with me" Gilbert asked as he smiled at you "I don't know" you muttered. All of the guys were watching you and the girls were too, you didn't want the only female friends you had to hate you because of some stupid and gorgeous, the most absolutely handsome of your school. So you said this to him, "don't tell anyone but I will but" you said strictly "but" Gilbert repeated. "It has to be a secret and I have to get to know you first" you told him making him smile but he quickly hides it "what do I say to the guys" Gilbert asked "tell them I said no" you replied.

#girlsdontlovework’s #gilbert blythe #x reader #gilbert blythe x reader #anne with an e #my giffs

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i-am-beckyu · 1 year

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My Monster to Slay

WOOOOOOO! I DID IT! 8K+ WORDS! Here it is! My 100 follower fic special! Thank you all for 100 followers on my blog! I love you all so much and can’t believe we actually hit such a big milestone! You guys all mean so much to me and I love that you guys like what I create! So without further a do, enjoy! cw: abandonment, child abuse, minor gore scene but no one dies (just a rando animal), fear, fear of death, panic and anxiety, fluff, hurt/comfort, and happy endings (you know me ❤️) word count: 8856

Disclaimer! This story is based on the characters of the Dream SMP and not the real life content creators. Anything that occurs in this story is purely fiction and should be treated as such. Thank you.

It was common knowledge that no one was to enter the Forest on the West end gate of the Village. Those who went in, never came out. What was beyond the shadowy cover of thick foliage was unknown, and those who dared enter were considered dead. So of course Tommy took an instant interest, when it was sung by a bard at the Winter Festival.

Within the forest of the dark twisted wood, A place no one can go, or ever should.

Lies a creature of mischief, filled with dire deceit, Who wanders the woods, hunting to eat.

To the people who enter, full of pride and valour, Though they see themself brave, will all hide and cower.

For the creature that lurks knows your presence is near. It finds all who venture, through the smell of their fear.

And as it speaks, hot breathe spilling from their chin, You know you’ve lost from its treacherous grin.

So listen to my tale, I tell all to thee Leave the forest alone, let what’s within just be.

For all who enter have never come out. Each one a strike, in the beast's victim count.

Well if one song could scream ‘danger’ it was this one, and danger was Tommy’s middle name! The boy at 12 years old knew an adventure when he saw one! A strange unknown setting shrouded in mystery with a potential target to slay? Oh what a perfect opportunity to prove himself to the people of the village if he could bring back the head of whatever lived within the Forest. He’s seen many hunters bring back the heads of deadly creatures from beyond the village walls, and be praised for their services and bravery in protecting the village. But to bring back the head of a menacing monster, preventing the village from expanding their assets to the forest would surely result in an entire parade to celebrate his conquest!

The young boy had eagerly gathered his satchel and a wooden sword before rushing to the West end gate. He would prove his worth, he would!!! For no one is greater than the one and only Tommy Danger Kraken Innit! But of course a quest for glory was not one so simple. The West end gate to the Forest was sealed off and had been un-open nor used for a long time. Heavy reinforced iron gates were chained and locked at their operating point, to prevent anyone from venturing out, or anything from getting in. But would this stop the great Tommyinnit? NO! Using all his might, he tried to break the chains, pouring all this strength into breaking the chains with his wooden sword. But after the 13th or 14th try, he decided to spare the chain and look for an alternative exit.

“You win this battle chain…” the young boy had muttered, as he began to search the surrounding walls.

One benefit of the West end gate being so unused was that the walls weren’t attended to or maintained as well as other sections. So it wasn’t long before Tommy had found a gap just big enough for him to squeeze through and onto the otherside. Before him lay the Forest, the tree cover casting an eerie dark shadow. A last chance effort to keep intruders away. Repositioning his satchel, Tommy took a deep breath in and marched forward into the forest's depths, ignoring how his heart pounded as he began to journey deeper into the heart of the Forest. He would find the Beast, and he’d kill it.

After walking for a while, the thick foliage began to even out and soon light was pouring through the treetops, giving its surrounding a soft, almost magical glow. Seeing this himself, Tommy’s heart slowed as he relaxed and found himself enjoying his new found surroundings. What a wonderful place this would be for the villagers to explore when he returned a hero! When he found a wide enough open clearing, only then did he stop. He’d heard hunters say the best place to find creatures or monsters to battle would be to lure them out into a big open space, and create a false sense of security of having their foe in the open, all the while preparing a surprise attack themselves. When he felt he was ready, Tommy raised his hands to cup around his mouth before shouting:

“HEY! BIG UGLY MONSTER!!! HERE I AM! COME FIGHT ME!!!”

He waited a moment, listening intently for the inevitable sound of the monster approaching, but was met with silence. Well that’s okay. They’re probably doing Monster things and are busy. Tommy could wait. He’d be patient if it meant he’d get to make the village proud.

But as the minutes ticked by, Tommy’s calls were all but left unanswered. He didn’t understand. What could a monster possibly be doing that was more important than battling him?

“HELLOOOO! MONSTER?? I’M WAITING FOR YOU TO COME FIGHT ME!” He called again.

Suddenly a crack sounded from behind him, and Tommy whirled around to face the direction of the noise, hands perched on the hilt of his wooden sword prepared to draw it at a moment's notice.

“FINALLY! I’ve been waiting ages for you to show up!” He said in relief before his eyes settled upon a figure.

Before him stood a tall man with curly brown hair in a long worn trench coat. Upon his nose were gold circle framed glasses that highlighted his sharp glimmering amber eyes.

“You’re not a monster.” He stated blankly, as his face crinkled into confusion.

The man gave him a crooked smile. “I’m afraid not.” He said, his voice melodic in a way. “What are you doing in the Forest little one?”

“I’m not a child and I’m here to battle the monster. Isn’t it obvious?” Tommy said huffing, crossing his arms in annoyance. The man looked him up and down before a smirk appeared on their face.

“I’m not sure a wooden sword is going to be very effective then.” they mused. “Unless the monster you plan on battling is a rabbit.”

Tommy gasped in offense.

“You dare underestimate the power of the Great Tommyinnit?”

“Well I’m just not sure it would be very effective on anything else.” The man replied, stepping more into the clearing. Tommy drew his sword and raised it pointed at the annoying man, as he spoke with confidence.

“It’d be pretty effective at beating up a Wrong-un like you.”

The man burst out laughing as he doubled over slightly clutching his middle as he did so.

“What on earth is a wrong-un?”

“People like you thinking amazing people like me are weak. I’ll have you know I’m the strongest man alive d*******.” Tommy squawked in retaliation to the still laughing man as he tried to compose himself.

“Sure sure. You’re definitely the greatest man alive!” The man said as he began to calm down.

“I’m sorry for thinking otherwise.”

“As you should be. No one messes with Tommy and gets away with it.”

Tommy re-sheathed his sword as the man continued. “So why are you in the Forest to battle a supposed monster? I thought no one was allowed in here?”

“If I kill the monster and bring back its head to the village, I’ll be treated as a hero and praised by everyone!” Tommy replied eagerly, striking a heroic pose as he did so.

The strange man's brows furrowed slightly as he looked at Tommy in concern, but Tommy didn’t notice as he continued on. “Then people will like me and I won’t be alone anymore!”

“Did they send you in here?” The man asked.

“Nope! I snuck out here all on my own! I had finished all my chores for the day and I wanted to prove myself!” Tommy said proudly. “Why are you out here though? Wait, are you here to battle the monster too?”

“No, I actually live here.” The man said, raising an arm to scratch the back of his head as he looked away sheepishly.

“You live here???” Tommy replied eagerly, practically bouncing on the balls of his heels. “Have you seen it?”

“Once.” The man began, eyes drifting down to look into the boy's sparkling wide blue eyes. “It’s not safe to be out here, but I’ve lived here a long time and know this area well. The monster does not come to this part of the forest often.”

Tommy’s heart sank. He’d spent so long waiting and the monster barely ever even came to this area? How could he fight them if they never show up? And he couldn’t really journey much further than this either or he would be unable to get back to the Village.

“Oh.” He said flatly, his shoulders deflating at the realization. The man came forward towards Tommy, stopping till he was just in front of him. They towered over the small boy.

“I guess the monster might come back one day..” They sighed. Tommy’s face lit up.

“Really??” he said brightly. “You think so?” The man shrugged his shoulders, giving him a knowing smile.

“Can I keep coming back until it does?” Tommy asked. The man thought for a moment, looking as if they were debating heavily with themself.

“I guess so.” Yes! Success! He still had a chance then. With that answer settled, Tommy gathered himself up and turned to leave.

“I will be back tomorrow then!” He declared proudly, a bright determined smile plastered across his face.

“See you tomorrow then Tommy.” The man said, turning to watch the small boy leave.

“See you tomorrow uh, um. What’s your name?” Tommy asked, embarrassed that he hadn’t asked sooner.

“Wilbur. Wilbur Soot.” The man- Wilbur replied.

“See ya tomorrow Wilbur!”

As promised, Tommy returned to the same clearing upon finishing his chores and waited for the monster to arrive. Just as before he called out for them and waited for them to appear. Nothing. That’s okay. Wilbur said they didn’t come around alot. He could wait. He would slay the monster!

A little while later, Wilbur appeared. Almost a little shocked to see Tommy at all, as if he didn’t expect them to return. But upon seeing the excited young boy, joined him in the clearing to wait.

“Any sign of them?” Wilbur asked.

“Not yet.” Tommy replied, as he scanned the surrounding tree line once more.

“HEY MONSTER! IT’S ME! TOMMYINNIT! COME GET ME!” he yelled once more.

“Ouch. Give a guy a little warning before you do that.” Wilbur yelped, clutching his ears. “I’ve got sensitive ears.”

“Oops. Sorry. I’ll try to remember next time.” Tommy replied sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

“So how do you plan to beat this monster?” Wilbur asked inquisitively.

“Well when they get here, I’m gonna cuss them out for taking so long! Then I’ll draw my sword and slice them into tiny little pieces!” Tommy stated proudly, drawing his sword and posing dramatically, his weapon held high in the air. Wilbur laughed at the funny sight before him, as Tommy turned around to face him, stomping his foot in annoyance.

“Oi! Quit laughing ya b****!” he said, as he marched over a little way away from the man, stopping next to a tree to sit on the mossy ground.

“So, what's your favourite colour?” Tommy asked, wanting to change the topic.

“Blue. Yours?”

“Red.” They sat in comfortable silence for a bit.

“You got a favourite animal?” Wilbur asked.

“Cows are pretty cool.”

“Cows? Seriously?” Wilburs face contorted into an amused look.

“Hey cows are pretty intelligent alright? What about you? It’s probably something dumb like a squirrel.”

“Mmm no but I like rabbits. They taste pretty good.” Tommy turned to Wilbur and gasped.

“I meant that you like to look at or find interesting! Not to f***** eat!!!”

“What! I’m just being honest.” The man said at least looking a little guilty. “I’ve gotta eat something out here! Besides, it's not like you don’t eat cows!”

Tommy fake gasped. “I would never eat a sweet innocent cow. They’re so endedible and loveable!”

“I bet you’ve eaten beef in the last week.” Wilbur said, giving Tommy a knowing look as he rested his head into his hand, propped up on his knee.

“No…. I definitely didn’t...” Tommy said looking away, face going slightly red as he fiddled with his hands.

“At least I don’t think it was beef…” Wilbur just grinned.

“Alright alright. How about an animal you dislike? Mine’s an Anteater.”

“What’s wrong with Anteaters?” Tommy questioned.

“Oh Tommy. What’s not wrong with Anteaters?”

(\_(\ (\_/) ? (ง•-•)ง ? (•-• ) ? o/ | | \o ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It continued on like this for several days. Tommy would finish his chores around the village, then journey into the forest clearing and call for the monster where he waited. And not long after calling for the monster, would Wilbur appear and help call for the monster too. When they weren’t doing that, most of their time was spent chatting. Well mostly Tommy, with his rambles as he practiced his sword fighting skills, whilst Wilbur watched the wild child wave his treasured wooden sword around. Sometimes he would relax and nap in the warm sun's rays as the child spoke whatever was on their mind. Occasionally, Wilbur would manage to get Tommy to come sit still with him and would hum a melody or sing and a made up song, whilst running a hand through his blonde curls. The man had a soothing voice and it was almost hypnotic in a way. Tommy wished he could listen to it forever.

Days turned to weeks and soon Tommy was spending almost all his time in the Forest, and while he still called for the monster to fight, he found himself going for a different reason. Wilbur. Tommy had become attached to the man. The man had a gentle presence and treated him in a way that not many in the village did. He treated him with kindness, joy, caring and what could almost be affection, from how often the man insisted they hug before he left after coming to know him. But he couldn’t complain when secretly he loved it. Part of him almost wanted to stay with the man and never leave. But that could not be. He had a mission! Kill the monster and return a hero! That was his mission, his quest! But maybe when he did, Wilbur could come too?

He’d asked the man once before about it, his answer being that the village didn’t really like people like him, so he chose to stay away. Tommy wondered if it was because maybe he’d messed up too many times and the villagers had kicked him out? When Tommy made mistakes, he’d get punished pretty badly. Some nights he’d go to sleep covered in bruises and dried blood. But that’s okay! He’d complete his quest and return as a hero and then never be punished again. But if that was the same reason why the village didn’t like Wilbur, he thought that returning a hero with him would perhaps fix all that? Yes! That would definitely fix everything. How could it possibly not?

It was just another normal day for Tommy, as the young boy made his way to the usual clearing. He'd brought a pastry with him today that the nice baker lady had given him, for him helping her bring the flour bag order into the shop. He set his satchel down and cupped his hands around his mouth as he hollered his challenge to surrounding forest foliage.

“HEY MONSTER!!! IT’S TOMMYINNIT! I’M READY TO FIGHT YOU B****!”

He was about to call again when a rustle of leaves from behind him had him turning on his heels.

“Wilbur!” He called cheerily, not expecting the man to appear so soon.

“You’re here ear-ly…” The words died in the boy's throat as his eyes widened to see not Wilbur stepping into the clearing.

Stood before him huffing in a steaming cloud of rage, was a giant black boar with piercing red eyes. Tommy drew his sword, hands tight around the hilt, trembling slightly at the fierce animal before him. He could do this. He’d been waiting for a monster after all. This was just a uh- a warm up! Yeah a very big, scary looking warm up. But as the boar let out a menacing growl, and Tommy’s fear growing by the second, he took a step back. He-he couldn’t do this. Tommy’s hands loosened on the wooden sword, allowing it to drop to the grass floor below him. The boar taking this moment as its time to charge. Tommy sprinted for dear life. What was he thinking? That he could take on what was supposed to be a terrifying man eating monster alone and win? He’d bought a flippen damn wooden stick to a boss fight! And he wasn’t even trying to escape the supposed monster. It was just some ugly Boar!

Tears began to stream down Tommy’s face. He didn’t know what to do. The Boar was quickly gaining on him and he had no idea where he was going. He didn’t have a decent weapon and he was getting tired quickly. So he did the only thing he could think of and screamed.

“WILBUR! WILBUR HELP!!!” He shouted over and over again, in hopes the man was somewhere nearby and would be able to help.

“SOMEONE?! ANYONE?! PLEASE!!!”

Tommy kept running. He could feel the hot breath of the Boar growing on the back of his neck as the sound of hooves got closer and closer. He was managing to dodge his way out of the approaching jaws of the furious animal, but for how much longer?

Tommy’s luck seemed to have run out, as he soon found himself cornered at the bottom of an overhanging cliffside. He scrambled about looking for a way up, someplace to hide, ANYTHING to help him escape his impending doom, but ultimately was left with nothing. The Boar slowed its approach, knowing its prey had finally been caught.

“WILBUR PLEASE!! WHERE ARE YOU?!?” He shrieked in desperation; one last time.

“Please.” he barely whispered as he backed himself up against the cliffside wall, breathing heavily as he braced his arms against the rocky stone walls. He heard the Boar grunting and scraping the ground, a sign it was about to charge and deliver the final blow. He scrunched his eyes firmly shut and braced for the end. He didn’t want to see it coming.

Suddenly something hit the ground with a heavy thud, creating a small shockwave, causing Tommy to be knocked to the ground from the impact. A blood curdling shriek along with terrified squeals were sent into the air, instantly followed by the sound of several loud cracks and hissing. Tommy lifted his head up and wiped his face of dirt from the ground, slightly dazed from the harsh fall. Tommy’s eyes widened in terror. Before him was a giant brown and yellowish scaled tail. His head followed the scales up, anxiety growing of what was to come as he looked on to where the tail turned to the back of a human torso, of a man with curly brown hair atop of their head. Tommy’s heart stopped as realization struck him.

A Naga.

That was his monster.

But before him is Wilbur.

Wilbur was a Naga.

His Monster is Wilbur.

The monster he’d been calling for and patiently waiting all this time to come, had been Wilbur the entire time.

There was no doubt in his mind that now that the secret about Wilburs’ true form was out, would have them turn tail and devour Tommy alive. After all, that must be why he had come. They probably didn’t want their free meal to be snatched up by some other predator. The Naga had known the entire time why Tommy was in the forest. They knew Tommy wanted his head for the glory it would bring, but had indulged in his wild fantasies. They were probably letting him live till they got bored. That made the most logical sense. Besides, everyone always gets fed up with him eventually. It's how he ended up an orphaned street rat in the first place. People just put up with him till they’re sick of him, then make him get lost. It's why this hurt so much more. Because instead of being abandoned, Tommy knew he was going to be devoured.

Slowly, Tommy struggled to his feet. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t die. He had to escape! He just had too! The Naga was still turned away from Tommy, the now dead Boar hanging limply in its grasp. Ever so quietly, Tommy crept along the side of the cliff wall, around the Naga. He couldn’t afford to be seen. He kept his head and shoulders down and tried to blend in with the wall, doing his best effort to be as unnoticeable as possible. He was almost in the clear when he glanced back at the Naga. He froze in place. Tommy watched as a giant fist raised the dead Boar up in the air, as the Naga opened its giant mouth. Sharp fangs glistened in the sun as he watched them drop the entire dead animal in the awaiting maw, only to snap it shut and swallow the entire thing whole. Tommy watched in horror, as the large bulge of the boar traveled down the Nagas throat. A thin pink tongue slithered out of its mouth and licked its lips in satisfaction. Oh Prime, he needed to leave NOW.

But one wrong step was all it took for a twig to snap sharply beneath Tommy’s foot. The sound rang out loudly in his ears. He didn’t need to look down to realize his mistake. Oh so comically slowly, Tommy turned to face the monster. The Naga’s head had snapped to meet his own, its amber eyes nothing but thin slits. However, upon seeing Tommy, their gaze softened.

“Thank Prime you’re okay.” the Naga said, releasing a heavy sigh.

“I was so worried when I heard you calling that I-” They began to say as they turned to move forward.

Tommy bolted.

“WAIT! TOMMY!” The Naga cried as he lunged for him with an outstretched clawed hand, the small boy just narrowly dodging the giant appendage before the Naga crashed into the cliffside missing.

Tommy booked it for the tree line. He needed to get back to the village. He wasn’t going to just wait to be caught and die!! Wilbur had said he lived in the forest and was the monster.

This was their forest.

Its domain .

He wouldn’t be able to hide anywhere and not be found. It wouldn’t matter if he’d had a 100 meter head start, the monster knew where to go, where to look. Prime! It probably even knew what he smelled like and could track him! Tommy’s only hope of survival was to get back within the Village walls. He took every tight, confusing, twisting path he could take, ducking through small gaps that blocked off openings for larger creatures, praying that somehow this would slow the Naga down. Tommy could hear them approach from the sound of leaves crinkling from beneath the weight of the serpent that was giving chase.

“TOMMY, PLEASE! COME BACK! LET ME EXPLAIN!!!” Tommy heard the Naga plea, as he squeezed through the gaps of several fallen trees, stopping the naga effectively as they were too big to follow.

“COME BACK!”

They were so close. But he couldn’t stop. He had to get to the village. Had to get back home. He just had too!

As Tommy ran through another thicket of bushes, he stumbled into a clearing, tripping over something, falling to the ground harshly and scraping his knees against the rough surface. He cursed to himself as he looked over the now slightly bleeding scrape, eyes narrowing on whatever he tripped on.

It was his wooden sword.

He paused as he processed his surroundings; recognition sparking in his head. It was the same clearing he’d first met Wilbur in. It’s a bit ironic? The sword he wanted to use against the big, bad monster used against him. Tommy felt tears bud at the edge of his eyes. It just wasn’t fair. NONE of this was fair. This was the spot he had met his first real friend. The first time he’d had a real connection. The first time he hadn’t been kicked out for being himself. The first time he had felt like someone actually cared, and it was all a lie.

“Tommy? Are you alright? That must have hurt.”

Tommy whipped his head around to see the now human version of the Naga standing behind him. He turned to run again, but he was no match for the Naga’s speed as they shifted form and snaked around him, effectively trapping him within the giant coil walls. He ran to the edge of the coils and tried to climb out, but the end of the snake's tail trailed its way up the boys torso, wrapping itself around his frail form semi tightly and lifted the boy into the air. “Please Tommy. I just want to talk.” The naga said as Tommy began to thrash in attempts to break free. Instinctually, the tail tightened around him, squeezing the air out of his lungs, causing him to cease his thrashing. Oh Prime! He was going to be squeezed to death! His lungs began to burn from lack of air as the pressure on his ribs slowly constricted tighter.

It hurt .

It hurt so much .

He let out a strangled whine of pain.

“F***!” the Naga spoke above him as the tail immediately loosened, releasing its death hold around the boy, as they greedily gasped for air.

“Oh Prime. Oh S***. I'm so sorry!” The world lurched as Tommy was lifted and placed on a rough, warm surface. He blinked his eyes open, trying to focus on his surroundings between black splotches from the lack of air.

Oh.

He was in it’s hand wasn’t he?

“S***! Tommy! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to squeeze you like that!!! Are you alright?” concern lacing the giant's voice.

Now didn’t that just make Tommy’s heart ache. The jig was up! He knew what Wilbur was. This sick game or whatever it was was over. He had literally just tried to squeeze him to death. Why were they still pretending to care?

“Tommy? Please talk to me!”

“Don’t eat me!” Tommy pleaded, tears freely dripping down his face.

“Eat you?” the Naga breathed, taken aback.

“I don’t want to die!” Tommy cried, as he curled in tighter on himself. He didn't want to see the hungry look of the predator.

The Nags’s eyes widened in disbelief as a gasp escaped him.

“Tommy! I’m not going to eat you! How could you think such a thing?”

“Because you will! You almost squeezed me to death just then!” Tommy wailed as he began to tremble.

They glanced away. At least they had the decency to look guilty.

“That was an accident. I didn’t mean to and I’m so sorry I did!” he paused. “But I saved you from the Boar. Why would I want to eat you if I did that?”

“Because you lied.” Tommy whispered, the Naga taken aback; hurt by the statement.

“Please… I just- I can’t- I don’t want to die Wilby.”

Why did Wilbur have to keep delaying the inevitable? Why did it have to be the first person he’d come to love like that was to be his demise? Why had he been so foolish in believing he could succeed in defeating a monster like him? In a way he’s lucky he hadn’t been devoured sooner. He’d practically been dancing with death every day for weeks. It's not like anyone would even care if he disappeared. No one had cared when he’d disappeared for hours at a time as it was. No one liked him. No one truly cared for him. No one loved him.

“Tommy, sunshine. Look at me.” The Naga asked softly. Tommy lifted his head slightly as he sniffled more wet tears into his knees.

“Tommy. I’m not going to eat you. You mean so much to me. I could never imagine hurting you on purpose.”

What?

“Sometimes, my instincts get the better of me. I didn’t mean to squeeze you like that, I swear.” The Naga spoke gently.

“I came to save you from the Boar because you needed help. Not because I was afraid he’d eat you before me or anything like that that you might be thinking, but because I was terrified I’d lose you.”

Tommy’s whole body stiffened.

He thought he was going to lose him?

“Yes Tommy, you.” They chuckled almost as if he read the blonde's mind.

“When humans enter my forest, I usually just leave them alone because I know they're afraid of me. But that day you came into the forest, I couldn’t help myself. I’d been alone for so long, and you seemed so determined to battle a monster, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by you.”

Tommy uncurled himself to get a better look at the Naga, them taking it as a cue to continue.

“And when you found out it wasn’t around, I didn’t want to ruin that precious smile across your face. So I lied about the monster.“

He had lied because he would have been upset about no monster?

“I didn’t think you’d come back in all honesty. But when I heard you calling for me the next day and you kept coming back, I couldn’t stay away.” Wilbur lifted his hand up to his face so that Tommy was now at eye level.

“I care about you Tommy.

Tommy lifted his head fully, eyes wide looking at the Naga.

“Really?” voice wobbly, he asked.

“Really.”

Tommy’s breath hitched in his throat, eyes scanning the Naga’s face looking for any sign of they were lying.

But all he saw was the man he had come to love. Despite everything, despite them being a Giant Naga, a Monster: It was still Wilbur. Still his friend.

Tommy let his tears pour as Wilbur began to gently stroke his back up and down with his thumb in reassurance. He was okay. They were okay.

__ /) /) (\ (\ | ♡ > ( ›.‹) (⋅.⋅ ) o( づ♡ ⊂)o ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tommy continued to visit Wilbur even after the incident. The two became closer despite the truth coming out, and they couldn't be happier. Wilbur could be honest about his true self, and Tommy had someone he could depend on. Tommy would still call for the Naga though. While he knew that he didn’t need to (since Wilbur revealed he knew when Tommy entered the forest everytime by his scent and how he walked from his crazy good hearing) he still did it as a sort of tradition. It felt wrong not too.

Although, some of his calls were a little less than polite…

“HEY B****! I’M HERE!!” The 12 year old hollered for the snake.

“Where the heck did you even learn to curse like that?” Wilbur laughed as he slithered into their clearing.

Wilbur didn’t shift to his human form a whole lot anymore either. There was no real need too now that Tommy knew. He would occasionally at Tommy’s request, but the boy rather liked the Naga at his giant size. He’d crawl all over the man’s coils and slid down his tail like a slide. Sometimes he’d laze about in Wilbur’s fluffy hair and ramble on while the Naga lazily dozed in the sun listening. Other time’s when Wilbur was being clingy from instincts, he’d hold Tommy in his hands close to his chest. Tommy would complain, scratch and bite for him to let go, before eventually submitting to hand cuddles in defeat. He’d never actually admit that he loved them though. It’s not like it made him feel completely safe surrounded in the comforting warmth of his hands or anything. Nope! Not big Man Tommy liking some silly hand hugs. Nuh uh. Not him!

“So what are we doing today Sunshine?” Wilbur asked, as he lowered a hand for Tommy to step onto.

“Something awesome.” Tommy grinned mischievously as he stepped on and was lifted to sit on the Naga’s shoulder.

“Awesome or hey-OW! TOMMY!” Squawked Wilbur, as the boy launched himself off of his palm, grabbing onto one of the longer curls of his fringe, tugging it down as Tommy swung around wildly.

“Let go, you Gremlin.”

“NEVER!”

“You are such a little menace.”

“Little??? I’ll have you know I’m the biggest man alive!” The boy pouted, as giant fingers gently pulled him away from the man’s face, dangling him in the air briefly before placing him back on the ground. “Yes, I’m aware Tommy. You’ve said so many times.”

“So you’ll let me back up on your shoulder then?”

“Ha! No.”

It was moments like these that really made Tommy want to stay with the giant snake and never return. But despite the bond he and Wilbur had formed, Tommy couldn’t stay with Wilbur forever. He understood why he couldn’t, but he wanted to stay. Wilbur had told Tommy how much he cared for him and he knew that he did, but despite this, Wilbur still made him go home. The forest wasn’t safe for him even with the Naga’s presence, which was made very clear by the boar attack, and Wilbur voiced that he should stay with people of his own kind, within the Village walls where it was safer. He was still so young and he needed the care human’s provided him. Tommy of course had yet to tell Wilbur that he slept in an alleyway alone and all, but that’s okay. He didn't need to worry him like that. What could the Naga do about it anyways?

Although while he couldn’t stay, Tommy would be in the Forest every chance he could! The villagers, of course, now seemed to take notice of their dear little street rats’ disappearance. They didn’t like how their source of free labor was suddenly not around so much. Didn’t like how they suddenly didn’t have a personal punching bag for when they were upset. Concerned their little orphan wasn’t around to control anymore. So of course, they started to ‘inquire’ about it.

“Where are you off to?” The Fletcher asked him one day, as Tommy was leaving after helping sharpen the flint for the arrow heads. “Just going to practice my sword skills.” He replied simply as he turned and walked off.

“Disappearing to the West End District again rat?” The Butcher provoked. Tommy tried not to pull a face as he walked passed.

He hated that name. “What are you doing down there? Don’t you know what lurks beyond the walls?” “I like that it's quiet sir. Good place to practice my sword skills.” Tommy yelped in surprise, as he was suddenly grabbed by his shoulder. Pointed fingernails dug into his skin, as he was twisted around to meet the Butcher's face and a sharp cleaver poised dangerously close to his neck. “Make sure you stay within the walls, Rat.” Tommy’s eye’s darted from the Butchers knife to their piercing gaze. “When people go into that Forest, they don’t come out. Would hate for something to happen to you.” With a sharp blow to his back, Tommy stumbled forward out of the man’s grip and sprinted for the West End Gate, desperate to get away. He ran all the way to the gap in the wall and crawled through.

He didn’t tell Wilbur why he had run to the clearing that day or what had happened to cause the now-forming bruise between his shoulder blades. Simply lying instead about how a heavy book had fallen off a shelf that morning when he helped the Librarian. Wilbur had given him a concerned look before Tommy changed the subject to talk about cows. Tommy hoped that the odd interaction from the Fletcher and Butcher was a one time thing.

But it continued to happen.

Everyday, a different member of the village would question him about where he was going and why. Some would get a little aggressive like how the Butcher had, but he managed to get away with just a mild bruise or graze. He tried to cover them up best he could before visiting Wilbur. The Naga was beginning to get increasingly worried about how many injuries Tommy was showing up with. “Tommy, are you sure you’re alright?” They had asked him one day, when he’d appeared with a poorly wrapped cut across his forearm (a cut he’d unfortunately been unable to avoid from the Cartographers drawing compass).

“Yeah I’m fine Big Dubs. Just got a little reckless with some of the other kids in the village playing swords.” Wilbur raised a brow. “Just, promise me to try and stay out of trouble Toms? I don’t want to keep seeing you show up covered in fresh injuries.” “I promise.” Tommy promised nervously. He hated that he had to lie about this to Wilbur, but it wasn’t worth worrying them over a little scratch.

~~~

It only seemed to grow worse for Tommy as time went on. He’s not 100% sure, but he swore that he’d seen someone following him. Whenever he started to approach the West End District, it felt like holes were being burned into the back of his head. He had started to take back route alley ways to the gap in the wall after that, trying to avoid whatever had been tailing him. But you can only avoid certain things for so long.

“Haven’t seen you around all that much lately, rat.” The Blacksmith stated, when Tommy was unloading a metal order for him one morning. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing of importance sir.” Tommy replied as he kept his eyes trained down. He knew not to establish eye contact. He’d had too many slaps to the face recently to forget that. “Just keeping to myself till needed.”

“Hmpf. I know you’re up to something rat.” The Blacksmith said, stepping closer to the boy. “We know you’re sneaking off through the West End Gate.”

Tommy’s neck bristled, as a shiver ran down his spine. So he’d been right.

Someone had been watching.

“No sir. I would never do that.”

“DON’T LIE TO ME RAT!” The Blacksmith yelled, grabbing Tommy by the collar and yanking him into the air.

“WHY ARE YOU GOING INTO THE FOREST? WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?”

Tommy grabbed uselessly at the back of his shirt in hopes of getting free, as the Blacksmith held him high dangled in the air.

He couldn’t tell them about Wilbur! If they knew he’d been going in there to see him, they’d go after him! They would hurt him!

“NOTHING SIR!” He cried desperately.

“LIES! NO ONE THAT GOES IN THAT FOREST COMES OUT! HOW IS IT THAT YOU, A USELESS CHILD HAS!?”

The Blacksmith flipped him around and threw him harshly to the ground and into one of the furnaces. Tommy jerked his arm back, hissing in pain as it came into contact with part of the hot metal, the skin on his arm immediately turning an angry red. The Blacksmith trudged forward, pressing a heavy boot onto his frail chest.

“I’ll ask you again. Why are you going in the Forest?” They threatened, venom seeping into every word.

“I’m not sir! I know not to go in! I never do!” Tommy wailed, as tears streamed down his face.

“Fine. Be that way.” they hissed, stepping off his chest.

“We’ll get the truth out of you eventually.” They raised their leg back before kicking him harshly in the stomach winding Tommy, before swiftly walking away.

Tommy didn’t visit Wilbur that day.

Or the next.

For 3 days he stayed huddled up, hiding in the shadows. He was in so much pain that he couldn’t even bring himself to move, let alone leave his little shelter in the alleyway .

But even after he felt fit enough to move again, he didn’t return to the Forest. He was too ashamed of what Wilbur would say if he saw him covered head to toe in bruises and fresh wounds. He’d be so disappointed in him if he did. He was supposed to be looking after himself and staying out of trouble. Being good, and making Wilbur proud. Instead, he’d had to spend the afternoon trying to find a shirt with long sleeves that he could use to cover his arms, and hide the would be scars from the Naga, only managing to find a slightly too small red sleeved shirt that was in semi okay condition.

He was such a disappointment.

~~~

The next morning, Tommy helped the farmer. He didn’t want to go back to the Blacksmith. His arm was wrapped loosely in a makeshift bandage beneath his new shirt and it hurt like hell. He was still finding it slightly difficult to breathe, but the villagers had work for him to do and they wouldn’t take kindly to his ‘excuses’. Especially after vanishing for a few days…

The Farmer wanted him to harvest some of the carrots today. Normally, he’d be allowed to take a few of them when he’d finished the job, but today the Farmer had come as he was finishing up and was holding the small pile of carrots Tommy had set aside for himself in their grasp.

“I hear the Blacksmith had a chat with you the other day.”

Tommy stiffened.

“Yes-yes sir.” He stuttered.

“We don't take too kindly to liars boy.” The farmer threatened. “So make this simple for both of us and tell the truth.” “But I’m n-not going in, sir. There’s n-nothing in the Forest!” He stuttered, taking another step back.

“WE KNOW THAT’S NOT TRUE! WE’VE SEEN YOU SNEAKING THROUGH THE GAP IN THE WALL!” The farmer accused stepping forward, raising their pitch fork up. “YOU EVEN DISAPPEARED AFTER SEVERAL DAYS AND TURN UP ACTING AS IF NOTHING HAPPENED!! TELL THE TRUTH! HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?”

“But-but I-I didn’t go in!!!” Tommy stammered, his voice wavering as he spoke. “I was in my alley trying to rest from my injuries!”

“B*******! You expect me to believe that?” They spat. “Even if you were, that doesn’t explain why you’ve been going in!!!”

“There’s no rules that say I can’t go in! I’m just going there to practice my sword skills with a friend.”

“A friend?” The farmer asked incredulously. “Who on earth would be spending their time with a ratty orphan street kid like you? Stop making things up and tell the truth.”

“BUT IT IS THE TRUTH! ” Tommy pleaded in desperation. “WE JUST HANG OUT AND TALK!”

“B***S***! JUST TELL THE TRUTH!”

Tommy pushed himself up off the ground and away from the Farmer as they made a move to grab him, and high tailed it for the West End Gate. He couldn’t take this anymore. He had to get out of the Village NOW. He had to leave. Had to get out!

Even if Wilbur wouldn’t take him in, he had to get out of there. It wasn’t safe.

He ran through the streets, the sounds of angry villagers emerging from their homes to come after him and bring him back, trailed after him, growing in volume. He knew what they wanted him for. They didn’t love him. They didn’t actually care. They just wanted to have control over him. He hadn’t realized it at first, but after meeting Wilbur, he’d begun to recognise the choke hold they held over him. Making him work for approval. Making him work to prove his worth when it would never be enough. Using fake praise followed by belittling comments to control his feeble mind. He had thought that if he came back a hero, they would finally actually want him, accept him for him; not just claim that they ‘cared’.

Wilbur had shown him what being cared for truly looked like. And he’d take that over the s*** the village dished out any day.

He ran and ran till he reached the gap in the wall but skidded to a halt when he realized what the villagers had done.

They’d sealed the gap.

He pounded on the freshly dried layer of concrete sealing the gap over, desperate to break through before eventually giving up. He turned and sprinted for the West End Gate exit and tried to break the chains once more on the operating point.

But it was futile. The Chains remained locked tight, and despite the little bit of muscle he’d built up by practicing with Wilbur, he still lacked the physical strength to even leave a dent in the chains.

The sounds of angry villagers continued to grow louder as they approached and soon Tommy was surrounded on all sides.

“Awwww. The little rat wants to go into the Forest.” One woman snickered.

“Don’t you know you belong to us!” Another spat.

Tommy turned and ran to the iron gates and began to climb his way up. If he could make it over, he’d risk the broken bones the fall down would cause. “Where do you think you’re going?” The Weaponsmith snapped, grabbing Tommy’s ankle, yanking him back down to the ground.

He tried to climb up again reaching for the iron gates but was torn away with a yelp.

“Uh uh uh. You ain’t going nowhere. Not until you tell us why you’ve been going into the Forest.”

“LET ME GO A******!” Tommy shrieked as he struggled to get out of the Weaponsmith’s hold.

“Oh we’ll let you go alright. Right after you tell us the Truth. No one goes into that Forest and comes out alive. We’ll find out what you’re hiding: even if we have to break you.”

“SOMEONE PLEASE! HELP!!! ANYONE!!!” Tommy thrashed about, desperate to break free. He felt helpless. No one in this damned village would help him no matter how much he pleaded. He didn’t understand why the villagers were treating him this way. They had never cared about him before, but now that he had entered and emerged from the Forest unscathed they cared? What the F*** was wrong with them???

“LET ME GO!!” He screeched in vain, as he was dragged along.

Why won’t anyone help me? He didn’t deserve this. He just wanted- he just wanted…

“WILBUR!” Tommy screamed out of desperation. “WILBUR PLEASE!!! HELP ME!!!”

He knew the Naga wouldn’t be able to hear him, but he wanted his brother. Even if Wilbur didn’t feel the same, he wanted to be swept up in the giant’s gentle hands. He wanted to be held close to their comforting chest. He wanted to hear Wil’s rhythmic heartbeat and soothing voice. He wanted to feel Wilbur’s fingers card through his hair, as he whispered sweet nothings.

He wanted to be with Wilbur.

He wanted to be loved.

“WILBUR! PLEASE!!!”

“Your imaginary friend is going to come save you rat.” The Weaponsmith mocked.

“You belong to us and we will do to you what we see fitting-” The words died in their throat as a thud was heard from behind. A flurry of hushes were sent amongst the crowd, as all turned to face the West End Gate. They watched in anticipation as another loud thud hit the gate’s door causing it to creak, as dust floated down from the upper walls like snow.

Something was trying to break in.

“Oh Prime.” the Weaponsmith whispered, as the sound of hissing began to fill the air.

“Go-go, GO! GO NOW!”

The villagers began to disperse into panic, as the thudding increased and the Gate began to cave in on itself, whatever beyond the entrance desperately trying to break in.

“YOU!”

Tommy tried to fight against the Weaponsmiths hold as they pulled him to their face.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?”

But before he could answer, the Gates flew open, debris flying everywhere. Tommy tried to shield himself best he could, as bits of concrete were flung in his direction. The crowd went deathly silent.

Standing tall menacingly within the rubble, was Wilbur; hissing threateningly.

“Where is he?” The Naga demanded.

“Wilbur. WILBUR!”

“Shut up.” Weaponsmith hissed as they shoved Tommy away from the direction of Wilbur.

“WIL! I’M HERE! I’M MPHF” Tommy tried to call, but a piece of fabric was stuffed into his mouth, muffling his cries.

But the Naga heard it all the same.

“TOMMY! I’M HERE!” Wilbur yelled, as worried amber eyes searched the crowd.

The Naga’s eyes locked onto Tommy’s form, a warning hiss filling the air.

“Give him to me now, and I’ll spare you.”

“Never.” The Farmer spat.

“Have it your way.”

Wilbur slithered forward, not caring for who or what was in their way. The villagers scattered beneath him, screaming in fear to avoid the giant snake's tail, some not being so lucky. Wilbur’s eye’s turned to slits, as they let instinct drive them forward. The Naga bared their fangs and hissed in warning as they approached closer. The Weaponsmith trembled as Wilbur raised his torso up, poising themself to strike. Fear had the Weaponsmith turn tail and run, as they hurled Tommy forward trying to put as much distance between him and the boy. Tommy stumbled forward, Wilbur shooting his hand out beneath him to catch him. The Naga’s eyes dilated as they brought Tommy up to their face, eyes searching every inch of the boy. Their frown deepened at the sight of every new bloodied spot, as Wilbur removed the makeshift gag.

“What did they do to you?” Wilbur whispered, voice tight as he gently ran a finger over Tommy’s forehead, brushing the hair out his eyes.

“Wil. I, I-I’m so sorry.” Tommy whimpered.

“Shh shhh. It’s alright Sunshine. I’ve got you.”

Tommy felt himself being moved as Wilbur began to slither away. He kept the boy close as they moved through the Village and back to the Forest, Tommy clutching onto Wilbur’s giant fingers tightly the whole way.

“I was so worried about you Toms. When you stopped coming, I thought something horrible had happened to you.” Wilbur said, as he stopped to rest in their familiar clearing.

“I’m sorry.” Tommy whimpered softly. “I tried to stay out of trouble like you wanted! Really! I did! But the villagers were so convinced that I was doing something wrong in the Forest because I came back! I didn’t do anything wrong Wil! I swear I didn’t!”

“Oh Tommy sweetheart I know. I never should have sent you back. I thought that it would be better if you remained with your own kind. I thought humans looked after their young. But they hurt you. They hurt my Little Brother.”

Tommy’s whole body stiffened.

Little Brother?

“Yes, Little Brother Tommy.” They chuckled, as if he read the blonde's mind.

“Every time you went to leave, I didn’t want to let you go. I just wanted you to stay with me. It was so hard to not just reach out and pull you back into my arms.”

“I thought you didn’t want me.” Tommy sniffled as he looked up at the Naga in disbelief.

“Oh Tommy! How could I not want you?” I love everything about you! Your smile, your laugh, your personality, EVERYTHING. I want you to come home with me. I want to hold you close, protect you and never let go. I want you to be my little brother.”

Tommy could feel tears budding at the edge of his eyes.

“I love you Tommy.”

And Tommy? He broke. Sobs ripped from his throat as he threw himself at the Giant Nagas nose as Wilbur brought his hand up to hug him back in an awkward way.

He Loved him.

Wilbur actually loved him. Finally, someone really loved him!

“I-I love you too Wilby!” Tommy wept, clinging to the giant's nose. “I love you so so much Wilbur. You’re my big brother! No one has ever cared about me like you do!”

They stayed like that for a while before Wilbur pulled Tommy back from his face, tears threatening to fall from the giant's eyes as a fond smile grew wider across the Naga's face.

“Let’s go home.”

/)/) (\(\ ( . .) (. . ) o( づ 💗⊂ )o ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Within the forest by the West end Gate, Journeyed a boy, led in by fate.

A monster they went a looking for. A monster he found, but was not so sure.

Some say the monster took them to eat, Other’s say the boy still searches to beat.

A once monster, fabled in fear, But not to this boy, who holds them most dear.

For while glory they went, a looking for, Instead they found something worth much more.

Within his forest home, the boy now sleeps, With their monster brother, safe he keeps. There they stay loved, never a part. The boy who claimed the monster's heart. ❤️❤️❤️

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! I KNOW SO MANY WORDS BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

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justmeinatree · 4 months

Text

05 - the greatest show : the moment you’ve waited for

Summary : a group of misfits, a mysterious leader, a string of murders, and a life on the road.

previous part /// jump to pt. 1

Word Count : 3.5k

Series Masterlist

“ahh, here they all are,” harry hums, finally finding the boxcar that everyone’s seemingly chosen to gather round in tonight.

he’s ushered ladybug into the small space, the fairly large group of people sitting on a bunch of different pieces of furniture strewn around the room. they’re all speaking to each other animatedly, laughing, passing around a dark bottle filled with something fairly potent, based on the smell.

“hey,” harry hums, a bit louder than the overall buzz of mingling people, grabbing everyone’s attention, and making them turn to look over at harry and ladybug.

she grows nervous again, unsure of what they’ll all think of her, if they’ll like her, if they’ll get along with her, if they’ll welcome her. she’s made it past harry, but she’s not sure that that was the hardest part. in all honestly, a one on one conversation with him was nowhere near as bad as clara described it. but now that she’s faced with all the lovely people she’s supposed to be calling family, now that she actually has to meet everyone and make a good impression, she’s a bit tense.

“harry,” a young woman smiles, accent making her obviously italian, “who’s your friend ?” she asks, nodding towards ladybug.

“everyone, this is ladybug. she’s joining our little family. gonna be drawing caricatures of our guests. let’s all welcome her, yeah ?” he hums, patting her on the shoulder. “now, i know you’ve met clara,” he murmurs in thought.

“hi, i’m tom,” he cuts harry right off, offering ladybug a large smile, and extending his even larger hand.

she takes it, shakes it kindly, eyes flicking over tom’s frame. he really is tall. taller than she remembers from hours ago. she notes the slight chuckle from him, “m’7ft. 6inches. it’s pretty impressive the first time innit ?”

she laughs, nodding, the tense air around her seemingly deflating, as she can’t help herself but banter, “surprised you even fit in these cars.”

that manages a laugh from everyone, tom’s smile stretching wide, “s’better than curling up under a bridge.”

she giggles, nodding, “yeah, i’ll give you that one.” her eyes do linger for a moment though, because really, how many people can say they’ve been in the presence of someone so tall ? it really is a sight to take in. harry seemed fairly tall to her, but he doesn’t even reach tom’s shoulders.

and then, like the largest stroke of whiplash, she meets adriana, a lovely lady from romania, standing at only 2ft 4inches, a sight her eyes struggle to adjust to after having just laid their gaze upon tom. she can’t help but think it’s some kind of show trickery, keeping them side by side so that the overall shock factor is that much larger.

next, she meets a group of young women, not much older than her, if at all. women from all over europe. maria and vittoria from italy, louise, jeanne, and catherine from france, and marta from germany. they make up the group of burlesque dancers, if their leotards were anything to go by.

finally, she meets jose and javier, two spanish boys that couldn’t be much older than 8, twin heads, sharing only one body. jose’s neck has been growing out of javier’s left shoulder since they were born. the complications of raising conjoined twins, with only one body mind you, was a struggle that their parents could not continue with. she learns that they were left abandoned in toddlerhood. a piece of information that was not easy to obtain seeing as they seem to love bantering and poking fun, making up riddles and playing games, not many serious sentences coming out of either of their mouths. although, really, what was she to expect ? they were so young after all.

sergey introduced himself a moment later, almost cutting off the twins, “if nobody jumps in, they’ll just keep babbling,” he laughs, getting up to shake her hand. sergey was born in russia, just a few years before her. she doesn’t seem to note any deformities just by looking at him, but she’s also not one to pry. and how could she ? s’not a good question to ask when you’re trying to make the best first impression. she does learn though, that he’s a master card dealer, and that no matter what, he will always win at any card game.

“i love a challenge,” she giggles, noting the glint in sergey’s eyes, as he adds, “can’t wait to see you try.”

“you love when someone new comes along, don’t you ?” adriana giggles.

“love the flash of an exciting challenge that flicks through everyone, yes,” sergey smiles smirkingly.

“we’ve all tried,” maria hums, turning her attention to ladybug, “more times than anyone can count. seriously, nobody can beat him.”

“i’d still like to try,” ladybug shrugs, “what do you do all day anyway ? when the show’s not happening, i mean.”

“lots of travel,” tom hums, patting the spot next to himself, “have a seat, don’t have to stand there all alone, join us for real.”

she furrows her eyebrows, because no she wasn’t alone, harry was right here with her. wasn’t he ?

as her gaze flicks as far back as she could without actually turning around, she notes that at some point, harry’s disappeared. he isn’t in the room at all anymore. she never heard him leave, never heard the door click, never noticed that his presence was missing. he never said goodbye, never excused himself. maybe he just needed a wee and he’ll be right back ?

better question, why is she so caught up in the fact that harry stepped away. he didn’t owe her anything, didn’t owe her an explanation. didn’t owe any of them an explanation. so she shakes the feeling out of her body, plopping herself down between tom and clara.

“we sleep mostly during the day,” catherine hums to answer her question, french accent present but fairly subdued, “s’a bit of an adjustment at first, but you do get used to it. it’s just easier that way since we’re usually rolling down the tracks while the sun is up.”

“we do all of our set up at night time,” clara jumps in. “it’s a nice way to surprise the town with our presence in the morning. then we sleep and prepare during the day, and do our show the next night. and so on, and so on,” she chuckles.

“it’s a lot more fun than it sounds when she lays it out like that, i promise,” louise smiles wide, significantly stronger accent than catherine. or was it jeanne ? fuck, she’s already unsure. she thinks those 6 burlesque girls will be incredibly difficult to differentiate. they all look so much alike. especially in their matching show outfits. she hasn’t really had the chance to hear them speak yet, but she’s betting it’ll be the only way to truly tell them apart. they all have brown eyes, more on the rounded side, their hair, also brown, slightly wavy and very long. honestly if it weren’t for their accents, she’d be ready to bet that they’re sextuplets.

“oh, no, it is fun !” clara laughs, “it takes a bit of adjusting at first, like catherine mentioned, switching your days with your nights and getting used to the constant travel, never really knowing where we are.”

“gotta listen to the accents,” sergey hums, “we’re in france tonight, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he adds playfully, earning a smack to the arm from clara.

“so, how was the meeting with harry ?” clara turns her attention to ladybug, everyone sporting different levels of smirks and sympathetic eyes. “was he an asshole ? i told him to tone that shit down.”

“actually, no,” she shrugs, “he was really sweet. i don’t know what you’re talking about at all. we just had a really nice, quiet chat. he kind of seemed to feel bad for me from time to time. really wanted to help me find my talent.”

“WHAT?” “fuckin guy” “THAT’S NOT FAIR, i want a redo” “what are you ? a witch ?”

“woah, woah,” she laughs, eyes growing wide, hands coming up in surrender, as everyone starts shouting at her.

“think our little harry has a crush on someone,” sergey smirks, everyone’s attention turning to him.

mental note, they might be a lovely bunch of respectful misfits, but they are not immune to gossip. in fact, they seem to be thriving on it right now. a little glimmer of fun and excitement in their otherwise fairly mundane lives.

adriana gasps excitedly, one of the french girls doing so as well, “it’s about time someone catches his attention. poor lad seems really lonely, doesn’t he ?”

the room buzzes with a simultaneous sad hum, a few people nodding along. marta breaks the silence, “it’s not like we haven’t all tried to make him less lonely,” she snickers playfully, suggestively, the ladies giggling along as if it was some kind of inside joke.

“c’mon love, you can’t be that blind to his charm,” sergey nudges her, “i’m not interested in men but i can say with complete certainty that harry’s absolutely gorgeous.”

she huffs out a laugh, feeling a slight blush rising to her cheeks, “well, i do have eyes.”

as people keep mingling around her, she takes a moment. a moment to absorb. a moment to appreciate. a moment to examine. a moment to come to terms with her new life. something she randomly stumbled upon. something that she joined on a whim, with the promise of family and love and belonging and caring. a judgment free zone for the rejects of the world.

for the first time in weeks, she feels a sense of normalcy. the adrenaline of being on the run, finally at bay. fuck, when did she become so tired ? her brain feels slow, heavy almost. with the threat of danger waning, her alertedness is no longer needed, her body understands that it can sleep again.

“the first night sleepies,” vittoria giggles, catching everyone’s attention, as she nods towards ladybug. “you’ve gone quiet, the excitement is over.”

her eyes grow wide, “n-no, it’s not like that,” she stammers, feeling bad for a moment. she should be more lively with them, make a good impression and all that.

“we know,” clara smiles, patting her thigh, vittoria jumping in quickly to add, “i didn’t mean it like that. we’ve all been there, on that first night, we know exactly how you’re feeling right now. we would not be offended if you wanted to sneak off to your space and sleep. don’t have to be shy around us.”

she contemplates that for a moment, because they really all are just understanding people. they don’t sweat the small stuff, the annoying societal rules, the stupid little formalities that make you miserable. like forcing yourself to stay awake because it would be the polite thing to do. it’s a breath of fresh air really. she thinks she’ll really like it here.

“oh, okay, yeah,” she shakes her head, “i don’t have a space yet though. nobody’s shown me anything. m’not really sure where to go from here.”

“christ, did harry not explain anything ?” tom asks, shaking his head.

“probably too busy making heart eyes at her,” javier laughs, the others joining, clearly enjoying a bit of playful fun at harry’s expense.

“c’mon, i’ll show you,” clara stands with her, both of the girls waving their goodbyes at everyone, clicking the door shut behind themselves.

“it’s down this way,” clara smiles, heading down the line of cars, “it’s the last one for now, hope that’s okay. when we reach the next destination, we’ll reorder the carts, have yours up with everyone else’s.”

“it’s fine, really,” she nods, “you’ve all gone so out of your way to make me feel welcome. comfortable.”

clara stops in front of the last cart, resting her hand softly on ladybug’s shoulder, “we’re not doing anything special. and i’m sorry that your life so far has made you believe that we are. but really, we’re just showing you the same respect that we got when we first joined, the same respect we’ve been waiting to feel all our lives.”

“it’s so easy. why can’t the world be like this ?” she ponders out loud. why couldn’t harry just be the leader of the world ? seems like it would be a pretty nice place for everybody.

“the world isn’t ready for it,” clara shrugs. “or that’s what i tell myself. that maybe we just have this different way of seeing things. but one day, in the far far future, i like to believe that people will be more understanding, more caring.”

“it’s definitely a nice thought,” she nods, biting her lip, “i like to think that maybe we’re all different because we’re meant to show them something. maybe they have a lesson to learn. one that can only come from change and differences.”

at that, clara smiles, a warm loving smile, one that almost feels sister like, “m’gonna like having you around. but for now, rest,” she hums, nodding towards the door. “it isn’t much yet, just a bed and a dresser bolted to the floor. but it is yours, and you can do what you please with it. it’s always fun to pick up little things wherever we go. make it more your own with time.”

“thank you clara,” she smiles wide, reaching out to wrap her arms around clara’s shoulders. a hug quickly received and reciprocated, a promise of home, locked into the arms of her new sister. “thank you for everything.”

as they pull away from the hug, clara gives her a playful shove towards the door, “right, now go, before you make me cry.”

ladybug laughs, wrapping her hand around the door handle, taking a deep breath, before opening it. upon looking around, clara was right, it wasn’t much. but it was hers. the first time she has a space.

she makes her way further into the small room, eyes gazing around each and every corner, her brain working tirelessly on overdrive, imagining all of the little things she wants to do with her space.

she’s not sure how long she’s been looking around, picturing brightly coloured curtains over the small window, drawings and paintings and art pieces of every kind lining the walls, trinkets from her adventures around euro-

“here.”

“fucking-“ she feels herself being jolted out of her body, startled into reality, noting harry standing in her room, holding out an envelope for her to take.

“sorry,” he murmurs quieter, eyes growing concerned for her, clearly in a state of distress, “did i scare you ?”

“christ, harry,” she puffs out between ragged breaths, hand on her chest, “how do you do that ?”

“do what ?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing, his hand dropping down to his side.

“you’re so quiet,” she exclaims. “never hear you coming or going.”

“i’m sorry,” harry laughs softly, face tilting down slightly, in a bashful way, “i’ll try to be louder for you.”

she breathes out a chuckle, shaking her head, “are you like a ghost something ?”

and at that, harry laughs louder, his turn to shake his head, “m’not a ghost, promise,” he smiles, stepping closer to her, patting her arm, as if to say, i’m very much here, “see ? m’as real as you are.”

“i’ll figure you out eventually,” she hums, raising her eyebrow, never having shied away from a challenge.

“or you could just ask,” harry smirks, raising his eyebrow right back at her.

“alright then,” she nods, “how do you do your trick ? how do you not show up in photos or in mirrors ?”

“s’something i’ve practiced for a long time,” he explains. leaving it at that. no real explanation. something that frustrates the living hell out of her.

she squints at him, nose slightly furrowed, “s’that how you answer all your questions ?”

harry takes a moment, eyes roaming her face, his heart somehow growing at the expression she holds. how was she so fuckin cute ? and why on earth does he think so ? hasn’t thought of anyone as “cute” in longer than he can remember.

“you’re feisty aren’t you ?” he giggles. actually giggles, and he wants to kick himself for it. but it’s when he sees her grow shy, gaze flicking down, blush rising on her cheeks, that’s when he really wants to kick himself.

harry’s finger tips reach out tentatively for her cheek, grazing her skin so delicately, giving her every chance to pull away if she’s uncomfortable. in contrast, he can feel her leaning into his touch, his fingertips gliding down to her jaw, to her chin, lifting her face, eyes stuck on his, “don’t ever lose that,” he murmurs.

and for a moment, they just stare at each other, his thumb softly strokes her skin, fingertips pressed under her chin. he can’t stop looking at her, and frankly he doesn’t want to. a feeling he doesn’t remember ever feeling. it wasn’t like she was going to complain, harry was breathtakingly gorgeous to look at. he was fairly pale, but really they all were, spending little to no time in the sunlight has its effects. his eyes were a piercing emerald green, chocolate curls atop his head, hair so shiny, she was dying to run her fingers through it.

and then harry’s hand left her chin, and his eyes flicked down, and the moment was over when he remembered his reason for being here in the first place, “brought you this,” he explains, holding out the envelope for her.

“what’s this ?” she hums quietly, still not fully recovered from her little stare down, voice a bit croaky.

“whenever someone new comes along, whoever can donate a little money, does so. s’just a bit to get on your feet before your first show. get yourself some food and some drinks, maybe even a little something for your room. s’real gloomy at first,” harry emphasizes by looking around the dark cart, placing the envelope in her hand.

her eyebrows furrow, because really ? she was content with waiting, just having a roof over her head was more than enough. but then she remembers her little talk with clara, about how different things were here, and she figures it’s something she’ll be able to pass along to another new comer some time. and that will feel nice. and honestly, so does this. the fact that they all already care about her enough to donate a little bit of what they have, just to help out, is incredibly heartwarming in itself.

“wow, yeah,” she nods, a bit agape, “that’s so sweet, thank you.”

harry smiles, “s’what family’s here for,” he hums, adding, “we’ll be moving soon, probably arriving at the next destination around nightfall. will you be okay until then ? do you need anything else ?”

“no, no, you’ve all been so great already,” she sighs happily, “i’m good, don’t worry about me, i’m exhausted anyway.”

he nods, knowing all too well about the first night sleepies as they’ve all started calling it, “right, well i wont keep you,” he smiles, heading for the door, “there’s a joke to be made about beg bugs, but instead i’ll just go with, sweet dreams, little bug.”

and before she even has the time to respond, he’s gone, the door shut behind him. with a little chuckle to herself about the joke, rolling her eyes and laying in bed. in her bed. she did it, she made it.

Part 6

……

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

tags : @daphnesutton @niallthebadboi @gorlsinmultifandoms @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @cc-horan28

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