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wickedapollo · 3 years

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This is going to become a Saint-14 blog you watch. Everything is going to be become Saint. Everything. Oh my God, I love that man. I can't. I can't even.

Anyways, this is a Dawning gift for my friends [@lady-efriyeet @galexion @nyllius ]! It may come out before then, I have no idea currently, as I write this. I am very motivated for this one, unlike my promised Shiro oneshot... Oops. I'll get to that one in due time I swear.

Saint-14 x Hunter! Reader

Warnings : angst and [reads smudged writing on hand] flurf

The wind nips at your unarmed arms, snaking up your biceps and brushing against your throat. Your fingertips are numb with the chill, you flex them but it is all for not. They aren't frozen just cold. You sigh, closing your eyes and hanging your head.

You can't remember the last time you had a day off, it seems all you do is move about the system, killing things, saving people, and then you move on. Move on as though a leaf upon the wind who's only motive is to please such that hurries you. It is a sad existence, you think to yourself, that I am only something used to fight the battles that everyday people cannot. The mere idea that you are useless makes your heart sink in your chest. Perhaps if it sinks lower it may fall through you and hit the floor, shattering with all your prizes, all you hold dear.

Your eyes wander back to the silent bazaar. It is, after all, only two A.M. and most sane people are asleep. Your thoughts and insomnia keep you awake, brushing at the fingertips of sleep while your body falls more and more awakened. You hate nights like these, when sleep is scarce and there is no one to talk to.

If only your prayers could talk back.

You wrap your arms around your ribs as you straighten to look up at the traveler. The pristine machine god offers you no solution. No end to your sleepless night. Only the same silence as it has always treated you.

"Голубь?" It is a small, almost whisper-like voice. Scratchy and groggy from sleep. Like what you had once imagined dark chocolate would sound, not that you had imagined voices for the food you ate, that was preposterous, but it was a way to describe it. "What are you doing awake?"

"I can't sleep." You murmur, more to yourself than to him. You watch him rise groggily onto his metal forearms and squint into the darkness of your bedroom. His optics adjust in brightness, much like eyes adjusting to the dark. He sits there for less time than you expect before he pushes himself up and looks around slowly.

"It's twenty-five til three." He states, and for a moment he seems amazed by the time. Perhaps the fact that it is so late and you are still up? Who knows. He pulls the blankets off of his lap to stand, boards creaking under his feet as he does so. He easily towers over you, optics blinking as he adjusts to the lighting.

You can’t help but shrink further into the linen curtains. You know Saint means well, he always does, you don’t feel like being berated for not sleeping. Not that Saint would do that, but you know he’s going to ask questions. It’s his way of looking after you, you know. You appreciate it sometimes.

However, he doesn’t, instead he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You would expect, like most metal things, Saint would be cold to the touch. He never is, and no matter how many times you’ve touched him, you are always surprised at how warm he really is. You hope all exos are this way, though you could never truly be sure, and are too afraid to test your new theory.

“Perhaps I can help?” He offers, in the soft tone that only he can have. It reverberates throughout his chest as his hands gently smooth over your back. Truthfully they don’t have to go far, Saint’s hands are huge. You barely have enough room for one, let alone both of them. You don’t complain though, only pressing your face into his chest with a nod.

You’re moving before you can truly process it. Being pulled towards the bed with little protest, in no hurry to leave your titan’s embrace. He seems in even less a hurry to let you go. Though that is Saint, always has been, always doting and encouraging.

Strong hands lift you up, and though he doesn't say it, what he wants is as clear to you as the night sky. You sluggishly wrap your legs around his waist and wrap your arms around his neck. He moves his hands under your thighs and sets his chin on your shoulder as he walks. There's something soothing about it, perhaps it is why babies are rocked to sleep.

His warmth is intoxicating, like sitting by an open fire and reading. Like being curled in a fuzzy blanket while the wind and rain howl outside the window, something so natural and peaceful that it may have lulled you to sleep right there- If you were not so keen on staying awake to avoid the nightmares. Though your eyes droop and your limbs are heavy, you force yourself to stay awake.

If you wait long enough, Saint will let you load up on caffeine and give you disappointing looks. You could handle that, you hope. It's just that you are so tired, it's almost criminal. It's to the point you feel like crying- for no reason- at anything.

Soon enough your ambition falters, you close your eyes. They were just so heavy, you argue to yourself, not even Atlas could have held them open.

Soon your arms relax around Saint, hands falling limply from his shoulders to hang lifelessly. Your fingers rest against the warm metal of his arms, twitching as he moves. It's only then you notice, somehow, he's humming.

You try to count his tune, as a last resort of staying awake. You lose it at six, arguing over what number you had missed to not get an eight count- and you pass out then and there. Slipping into the dark, like a warm blanket.

Saint, in all honesty, isn’t ready to put you down. He’s afraid you’ll wake up if he stops moving, it’s happened before. Though that was about a year ago, and he had unceremoniously tossed you on the bed, thinking nothing of the fact that you were human and very, very fragile.

He sighs, looking over at the clock on the bedside table. You really didn't use it, never had need for an alarm, that's what you had your Ghost for. But he used it periodically, like now, seeing that it read three a.m even. The titan finally lays you down, pulling the covers over your chilled body and up to your chin. When he's satisfied he kisses your forehead, metal lips lingering along your warm brow. You could be coming down with a cold, he thinks, one more thing to worry about…

You resituate to hug a pillow close to your chest, burying your face into it's softness. It makes Saint smile. You may be Saladin's Young Wolf, who fights with honor and Valor. A god killer. However, you are also his. His guardian, his love, and his inspiration. And he is soft for you.

The large titan moves to the window, glancing out into the empty street with contempt. There is a light on across the street, with shadows moving to and from in front of the window. He smiles, someone's wrapping presents for the Dawning still. He watches them move back and forth until the light goes out.

He leans back into the apartment and shuts the open window without question. It's late, he should sleep, too. He draws the curtains and pads back to his side of the bed. You've already stolen most of the blankets, but he can't find it in him to take them from you.

Instead he lays there, quiet as he listens to you breathe and snore softly. What a beautiful way to spend tonight, he thinks, when the room is warm.

However, now it is his turn not to find sleep. He tosses and turns for nearly twenty minutes. He sighs tiredly at the white ceiling. Perhaps if he counts the popcorn bits he can sleep. So he starts, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…

No dice.

An arm snakes around his waist sleepily and you pull him close. You're nowhere near fully conscious, just awake enough to be a sleepy, cuddly mess. He turns his head to look at you in surprise as you nestle into his side and nose along his jugular vein, or coolant tube… either way.

"Did I wake you, Love?"

"Mmm?" You reply, eyes falling closed as you wrap a leg around his thigh. You still as you have found comfort in the position. Saint can't hide his smile, accepting the exchange and wrapping his arms around you. You're warm, and rightfully so, you're swaddled in blankets like a fluff tortilla.

His fingers sneak into your fluffy, messy hair. Carding through it and watching it fall back into place again and again. He lets out sigh, sounding more like a purr than an actual breath. His optics dim in the lighting, and he yawns.

"Sleep tight, Моя любовь."

#destiny hunter #destiny #destiny 2 #Saint-14 x Reader #saint 14 #Saint #Hunter #X reader #reader insert #happy dawning

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sssrha · 5 years

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Complications || Naruto Fanfiction

Everyone is dead except for Team Seven, and Naruto considers time travel a viable option. So, of course, his teammates ruin it for him. [au, oocness, one-shot, crack-fic, dark humor, gen]

[You can also read it on AO3, FFN, and Wattpad]

Begin:

Today was not a good day for Sakura Haruno. Actually, most days haven’t been good for Sakura, nor for the rest of Team Seven. One couldn’t blame them, though, seeing as the whole world was kind of wiped out and they were probably the last humans left. Well, maybe some remote tribe off in the Land of Whatever was still thriving, but as for the rest of civilization—poof! Gone in an instant.

Try as she might, though, Sakura couldn’t really bring herself to care. True, she felt sad but it was kind of a detached sadness. Occasionally, she would look around the dark cave that she and her teammates had holed up in and think, Huh, I used to have a house.

As of right now, however, she was oddly fascinated by the little spider in front of her. It climbed up the wall, its legs somehow finding a grip on the slippery surface. Carefully, Sakura prodded it with a nearby stick, and the spider started to climb up the wall faster. Resilient, then. Determined. Sakura’s smile grew. He’s the perfect friend! Absolutely convinced that Sasuke would be as excited as she was, she yelled, “Ke, look who I found!”

Sasuke, who had been devouring the leg of some animal or another, looked up. He squinted, wiping some of the blood off his cheek. Maybe I should cook it next time. Nevertheless, he called back, “What is it, Ra?”

“A spider!” Sakura turned to look at him, smiling. “You know, To told you to not eat raw meat anymore,” she said offhandedly.

Sasuke scowled and took another large bite from the chunk of meat in his hands. “To’s paranoid, and I don’t care about the spider unless I can eat it.”

Sakura got a thoughtful look on her face. She took her stick up and once again prodded at the arachnid. “I mean, you could theoretically eat him. He’s not poisonous.”

Sasuke paused. He looked up and squinted at Sakura. “Really?”

“He probably wouldn’t fill you up very much…” She stared off into space, lost in her own head.

Sasuke, meanwhile, looked back down at the unfortunate creature that had wandered into the cave. It was a little larger than his abdomen; he could probably finish it in a few more minutes, and it definitely wouldn’t fill him. A spider might help. And so, Sasuke Uchiha stood up, walked right past a contemplating Sakura, grabbed the spider on the wall, and swallowed it whole.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence in the cave. Then, Sakura let out a horrified screech. “Ke, you ate him!”

Sasuke swallowed a second time, satisfied when the spider finally stopped trying to scurry back up his throat. Then, he gave Sakura a confused look. “You said I could eat it.”

“Theoretically!” Sakura snapped. “We had a friend, Ke, and you ate him!”

Sasuke scowled. “It was a spider and I was hungry.”

“You don’t just go around eating your friends!”

“I don’t,” Sasuke agreed. “I go around eating food!”

“Friends aren’t food!”

“My friends aren’t, I don’t know about your’s!”

“You don’t have any friends!”

“Neither do you!”

They both glared at each other, full of venom. Nearly in unison, they both pulled their arms back, hands fisted, ready to throw a punch, when a voice yelled, “Not again! I swear, you two will be the death of me!” Naruto Uzumaki stomped into the cave, his shirt missing and nearly every visible inch of skin caked in mud and blood. He stared at them, scowling. “I left for twenty minutes and you two are already ready to kill each other!”

Immediately, Sasuke and Sakura pulled back. Sakura hung her head in shame but Sasuke just looked away, not making eye contact. “I’m sorry, To,” they chorused, and Naruto sighed.

“Yeah, whatever, I guess I should have—” Naruto froze, eyes zeroing in on the bloody carcass in the middle of the cave. “Sasuke! I thought I told you not to eat raw meat! Either cook it or wait for me to cook it!”

“I could cook it,” Sakura said.

“Yeah, I don’t trust you with fire.” He turned back to Sasuke. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Sasuke scowled. “I was hungry cooking it would take too long.”

“You’re always hungry. Sasuke, you could have gotten salmonella—is that what it’s called, Sakura?”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “It can be deadly.”

“See, Sasuke? You could have died!”

“I’m not going to die.”

“Says who?”

“No one.”

“Exactly—no one because everyone is dead!”

Sasuke waved his concern away, flushing a bit when he realized that his hand was still stained red. Clearing his throat, he said, “You’re exaggerating.”

“Exagger— Oh my god, Sasuke, you’re insufferable.” Sighing, he sat down on the floor. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is this!” He pulled something out of his pack and placed it on the floor, smiling. “It changes everything.”

Sakura examined it closely. Her eyes widened. “It’s a scroll!” she said, delighted. “I can keep all my friends in there now—”

“No,” Naruto interrupted, “you cannot. This is not a storage scroll, it contains a jutsu.”

“You mean it’s storing a jutsu?” Sasuke muttered.

Naruto ignored him. “The jutsu...is a time travel jutsu!” There is a bit of silence, and Naruto took that as a cue to continue. “We can go back and save everyone! Sai and Yamato and Kakashi—”

“Kaka-sensei’s fine,” Sakura interrupted.

Sasuke nodded, though Naruto noticed him eyeing the rotting carcass again. “Yeah, he’s over there, like always.”

Against his will, Naruto turned toward the corner of the cave. There sat a skeleton, propped up against the wall. Its legs were folded, in its arms was an orange book, and a hitai-ate was slanted over one of its eye sockets. More importantly, though, a rusty kunai was jammed into its rib cage. Naruto glanced at it, then glanced back at Sasuke and Sakura. Flatly, he said, “Oops. Sorry, easy mistake.”

Sasuke snorted. He turned to Sakura and muttered, “And he calls us the insane ones.”

“Yeah,” Sakura agreed. She turned to the skeleton and called out, “Hey, Kaka-sensei, how are you?” The skeleton’s head promptly tumbled off of its body and shattered into a hundred pieces. Naruto stared, wide-eyed, but Sakura just nodded. “See, he’s fine.”

“...I’m not having this conversation with you two. Look, let’s get back to the scroll. We could...we could save Itachi! That’s great!”

Sasuke tilted his head, considering. “How would we do that?”

“We could kill Danzo!”

“But wouldn’t that create another complicated slew of problems?”

“But we can survive them!”

“No, I really don’t think we could.”

Naruto scowled. “You just said that you weren’t going to die!”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“Sa— Ugh, whatever. Look, this scroll is a good thing. Let’s do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go back in time!”

“We could,” Sakura agreed, “but what if we cause some kind of rip in the space-time continuum?”

“That won’t happen.”

“How do you know?” Sasuke asked.

“I just...what’s the point of having a time-travel jutsu if it just destroys everything?”

“Then how come we didn’t know that it existed before?” Sasuke said. “If someone has a time-travel jutsu, then they could go back in time. They could sell it and make millions.”

“They might want to keep it a secret.”

“But wouldn’t they fix everything?”

“I...maybe they fixed things for themselves.”

Sasuke rolled his eyes. Sakura hummed. “What if we end up in each other’s bodies by accident? What if we end up in someone else’s body?” A pause. “What if we end up in the body of a sea slug?”

Naruto stared at her. “I...whoever made this probably—”

“And what would happen if we were shoved into the body of a dinosaur right before the meteor hit Earth?” Sasuke asked. “Because that would be bad. Do you know how to control how far back we go?”

“I’m sure—”

“What if,” Sasuke continued, “we ended up in one of our parents’ bodies while they’re having se—”

“Stop it!” Naruto snapped.

Sasuke shrugged. “It could happen.”

“But—”

“It could.”

“Ke,” Sakura said, “stop it. You’re ruining it for To!”

“I’m sorry, I’m just laying out all the possibilities.” He sighed and turned to Naruto. “Sorry, To, you can do the jutsu.”

Naruto, however, was just staring down at the scroll in his hand. “I don’t think I want to go back anymore…”

Sasuke shrugged. “Fair enough.” He grabbed the scroll out of Naruto’s hand and threw it to Sakura. “Here, use it for your friends.” Sakura squealed in delight. Naruto stared blankly as she opened it, scratched out the jutsu that was written on it, and started to draw a storage seal. After a few moments, Sasuke awkwardly patted him on the back. “Don’t feel too bad, To. It was doomed to fail.”

“...yeah.”

Realizing that he hadn’t really cheered him up, Sasuke sighed and rummaged through his pack. Finally, he pulled out a deck of cards and said, “You want to play Crazy Eights?”

Sakura’s head snapped up. “I do!”

Flatly, Naruto said, “I refuse to play cards with you two.”

Sakura smiled. “You can play with Kaka-sensei. You haven’t been talking to him much lately—I think he’s starting to get worried.”

Naruto stared at her, then looked back at Kakashi’s skeleton. Well, I could get some peace and quiet for once. “Give me the damn cards.”

And that is how Naruto found himself sitting in front of the headless skeleton of his dead Sensei. A bit too late, he realized that he forgot how to play Crazy Eights. Hey, Kurama, do you remember?

There was a low growl followed by a groggy No, and Naruto’s head was once again filled with loud snores. Normally, Naruto would kick and scream and do everything in his power to get the fox to wake up—and it would never work—but he didn’t really care at the moment and, quite frankly, he was tired of being the sane one. So, he looked up to where the skeleton’s skull would have been and asked, “You got any twos?”

.fin.

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quillingyousoftly · 7 years

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I have good ideas, don't I? So anyway, is like to offer you the chance to destroy me with a number 18.

18. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve everseen.”

I’m grinning. Trust youto choose the creepiest one.

A warning is probably inorder. Really dark themes ahead. Tread lightly.

Team Alpha is a gem of STRIKE, every exceptional membercarefully picked by its commander out of the crowd of mediocrity.

When Pierce hands him a file with a name on it and says, “He’snow on your team,” Brock’s fucking pissed.

–

The new guy isn’t half bad. This is not a compliment. Brockis still pissed, but he’s not disappointed. It’s hard to be disappointed if youdon’t expect much in the first place.

–

The new guy is irritating in the way his eyes are alwaysglued to Brock, like there’s nothing else interesting in vicinity he’d ratherlook at. It’s especially unnerving when he’s holding a sniper rifle.

“See something you like?” Brock snaps.

“I do,” he replies unashamedly, and continues to stare.

Brock’s hands are clammy and he tightens his hold on arifle. Not many people manage to overawe him, but Jack Rollins’ strongconfidence does.

–

Rollins’ house is dusty and cluttered with sculptures. Wallsare decorated with reproductions of known paintings like da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine and artful picturesof architecture. Furniture look like antiques, and remind Brock more of agallery display than a living space. He doesn’t know an awful lot about Rollins,but his house tells him two things. One, he’s not exactly neat. Two, he likespretty things.

Brock touches a mounted owl, his fingertips running alongher feathers. He senses Rollins’ presence behind, smells his rich cologne.

“Real?” he asks, staring into the owl’s dead glassy eyes.

Rollins rests his hands on Brock’s hips, leans in to tease hisneck with his lips. He doesn’t respond. They didn’t come here to talk.

–

There are more sculptures in the bedroom. The mounted wildcat Brock doesn’t know the name of serves well as a shirt hanger.

–

“You’re so beautiful,” Rollins whispers wide-eyed as he’sburied deep inside Brock.

Brock smiles and closes his eyes. Yes, Jack certainly likespretty things.

–

Brock tells himself it was a one-time thing, and one timetoo many. He doesn’t sleep with his subordinates, and he certainly doesn’t wantto make a habit out of it.

It doesn’t end up being a one-time thing.

At first he tells himself it’s because he spends more timeat Jack’s – he prefers his beautiful house to his own stuffy apartment heshares with Westfahl. Jack has good whisky, and a comfortable bed, so it’s notdifficult to coax Brock into staying the night.

But if he’s honest with himself, it’s not the whisky nor thebed. It’s the way Jack looks at him, like Brock is his most prized possession.It sends Brock’s blood rushing, just like when he’s fighting, or under fire, orrunning away from an explosion. It’s unsettling. Exhilarating. Addictive.

And it helps Jack’s easy on the eyes, too.

–

One room is always locked. Brock asks Jack about it once.

“Renovations,” Jack says with a shrug.

–

Jack spends a lot of time in the locked room. He usuallywalks out of it when Brock comes, and sometimes, when Brock looks through thewindow on his way to his car after he leaves, he sees Jack enter it.

It doesn’t look like he’s renovating anything.

Brock tries not to think too much about it. It’s nothingweird, and not that important.

–

Sometimes, Brock wonders who Jack even is. Why Pierce put aguy who wasn’t SHIELD on STRIKE.

He wonders where Jack got all his money from. He wonders ifthe “reproductions” of his paintings aren’t, in fact, the real thing. He wonderswhat’s he doing when Brock isn’t there for him to stare at.

He wonders if Jack really means it when he tells Brock heloves him. He wonders if he feels the same.

Perhaps all Jack loves is Brock’s body.

Perhaps all Brock loves is the mystery, and not the man thathides behind it.

–

Brock arrives a little early, but the front door is open, sohe enters Jack’s house. He calls his name, but doesn’t receive an answer. There’san empty glass and an open bottle of Glenfiddich on the dining table, so hehelps himself. He’s about to drop on the chair and wait for Jack to emerge fromwherever’s he’s hiding, when his eyes land on the door to the locked room andhe stops in his tracks. It’s ajar.

Brock sets the glass back on the table. He’ll just take apeek. There’s probably nothing to look at, anyway, if the room’s beingrenovated.

The room certainly isn’t being renovated. The walls arepainted light orange, the floor is carpeted. It’s filled with fashionablydressed mannequins.

Intrigued, Brock walks in. He approaches one of themannequins, a realistic looking woman with long, curly hair in a haute couturedress. He smiles in amusement as he touches the delicate dark red fabric. DoesJack lock this room from him because he’s ashamed of being into fashion?Fashion makes sense for him – clothes can be beautiful just like any other formof art.

He looks up at the ornamented corset, and then higher, atthe mannequin’s unusually pretty face. Glassy blue eyes stare back at him.Brock’s skin crawls.

It’s not a mannequin.

He throws a feverish look around, wide-eyed, before slowlyretreating.

Those are not mannequins.

He’s not running. His muscles feel oddly stiff as he makeshis way through the corridor. His heart thumps hard against his chest, his mindfeels blank.

He almost reaches the door when it opens and Jack walks in.Brock halts. Jack studies him. Surprise, and then understanding cross his face.

Brock often finds himself in terrifying, dangeroussituations. It’s his job. But never before has he been so paralyzed with fear.

When Jack advances on him, his jaw set, the only thing Brockcan do is to back away until he hits a wall and there’s nowhere to run. Hetries to fight, but his limbs are heavy, his reactions slow. Jack has notrouble to grab him by the neck and bash his head against the wall until heblacks out.

–

When he wakes, he’s surprised he’s still alive. His head’spounding, and the smell of antiseptic that fills his nose isn’t helping.Neither is the bright light that hurts his eyes when he cracks them open.

“Oops,” he hears Jack’s quiet voice. “You weren’t supposedto wake up.”

He tilts the lamp above Brock’s head, so it doesn’t shinedirectly onto his face. Even before the dark spots in his vision fade, Brockknows he’s strapped to something similar to an operating table. The sight ofJack wearing a surgical gown and an apron confirms that.

“It’s okay.” Jack’s gloved hand caresses Brock’s cheek. “It’llbe more fun that way.”

He’s holding a scalpel in his other hand. Brock becomesaware of his bare skin, cold from the antiseptic. His thoughts are running.

“I won’t tell anybody,” he blurts out, his voice high andtrembling. It feels like it’s somebody else talking. “You don’t have to dothis. I’m not gonna tell anybody a thing.”

Note to self: never trust a guy with a love for taxidermyagain.

Jack smiles at him brightly and for a moment Brock believesit’s gonna be okay. That Jack will listen and let him go.

He said he loved him, didn’t he?

“That’s lovely, but I’m afraid I still have to do this.”Jack’s hand cups the side of Brock’s face, his fingers brush his hair back.

“Why?” Brock’s voice is barely a whisper. He tests the strapsbounding him, but even before he does, he knows he’s not strong enough toescape. His body feels weak from shock.

“Because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jack lets go of his face and looks down on his chest, hiseyes turning cold and calculating. Brock’s heart leaps, like it knows it’ll beforced to stop in a matter of minutes.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Brock says in that weirdhigh voice. “You want to keep me, fine. I’ll move in even. You’ll have me. Howdoes that sound?”

Brock’s body jolts when Jack presses the scalpel between hispecs. He wasn’t given any anesthesia. His eyes shut close on their own accord.

“Come on, Jack. I bet this scalpel leaves really ugly scars,huh? Let’s not do this. Let’s just… talk about this, okay? I’m sure we can reacha compromise we both like.”

His whole body is shaking by the time he finishes talking.He thinks about his team, how unimpressed they’d be with him if they saw him. It’snot like he can control his reactions though. Right now, he’s not in control ofanything.

Jack’s hand is in his hair again, his fingertips massaginghis scalp, trying to soothe him.

“You’re right. The scars aren’t that pretty,” he says, andBrock opens his eyes again. “But you know what else makes you ugly? Aging. Andthat can’t be hidden as easily. The older you are the less beautiful you become, andI’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, dear.”

Brock folds his sweaty hands intofists. Tears build behind his eyelids.

“Aw, don’t make that face.” Jack offers him a smile, butthere’s nothing consoling in it. Nothing sane, either. “You’re gonna be thebest piece of my collection.”

“You’re mad,” Brock whispers, turning his head away.

“I’m mad about your beauty. Hell, Brock, I might even getrid of all the others, they all pale in comparison.”

Brock shouts and struggles against the straps in a lastdesperate attempt to save himself. Tears are running down his face when heslumps back on the stretcher, but he doesn’t even care at this point.

“I thought you loved me,” he says, facing away from Jack.

“I do love you.” And if he wasn’t about to gut him alive,the sound of his voice would make Brock believe him.

“Then don’t kill me.”

“I’m not gonna kill you,sweetheart. I’m gonna immortalize you.”

The scalpel drives into Brock’s body, and he screams soloud, somebody has to hear him. Somebody has to barge in. Somebody has to save him.

The scalpel cuts him in half, the pain blinds him and anycoherent thought is gone.

–

Jack smooths out the fabric on Brock’s chest. He touches thesoft skin of his cheek, adjusts his flossy hair.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs.

Brock stares back with dead eyes.

#hydra husbands #brock rumlow #jack rollins #carpecerevisiam #my writing #request #sappyprompts

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