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siriusleee · 7 months

Text

shot through with gold

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

tags: coming back home, implied torture, capture, smut, riding, reader is afab, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of blood word count: 7.7k author's note: This was a commission by the best and brightest @gazs-blue-hat. If you'd like to commission a fic, visit my ko-fi for more information. Also, I refuse to disgrace the good country of Scotland by attempting to do the full Scottish accent. Readers call sign is Sparrow, but it's only used once.

The room is heavy with dust; small puffs cloud around Johnny’s boots as he pads across the plush carpet. The summer’s oppressive heat makes the walls sweat - you’d be worrying about the mold forming in the drywall if you could see it. But Johnny doesn’t think of the way his handprints smudge on the paint you spent weeks agonizing over or the way your perfume lingers in the still air even after all this time.

His singular mission - to grab a few shirts he needs and leave - is the only thought he allows himself to think about, hands combing through the dressers and eyes trained downward, away from all the pictures hanging on the wall. He avoids your side of the dresser, avoids the lace that still peaks out from your top drawer.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, Johnny ignores it as he pulls the shirts he came to look for out of the dresser drawer, tucking them beneath his arm. He follows his tracks in the dust back out, eyes cast down at the carpet. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes; he doesn’t let himself look up until he’s slamming the passenger door of Simon’s truck shut behind him.

“Got everything?” Simon asks, shifting the truck into drive.

Johnny sits ramrod straight in the seat, eyes avoiding Simon’s as he buckles in.

“Yeah, got everything.”

Your fingers trace over the marks you’d carved into the soft stone wall. You’d tried to keep a tally mark of days, but time slipped by in odd increments within your cell. Some days you’d watch the sunrise from the cracks in the ceiling and after just a blink, the inky blackness of night would be seeping in. Sometimes the sun hung in the sky for months before finally falling to the full moon. No matter how hard you tried to decode the pattern, the moment you had it everything would reset.

The guards were in on it; they had to be. They’d bring your meals at odd times - sometimes you’d still be full from the moldy slop they shoved in between the cell bars, spilling it out onto the floor like you’re an animal in a cage, and sometimes you’d be so hungry that you could barely crawl to eat.

It was supposed to be someone else - you were pulled for guard duty after another soldier slogged off and broke his foot doing something stupid while training. You’d finally been pulled to work with Johnny, three days away from being a full transfer to the 141 when your C.O. had appeared at the door of your bunk, new orders in hand.

A simple guard duty: get the guy to where he was supposed to be going, hand him off, and fly home. Your transfer could wait an extra forty-eight hours. But your plane was shot down somewhere over the middle of nowhere - you had told your C.O. that flying that low was a risk, but the desert was empty and the plane was old. They’d been making the flight for weeks, ferrying men back and forth with no hiccups. Your flight should have been no different.

It should have been someone else.

You couldn’t remember what had hit your small passenger plane: but the ground was David, and you were Goliath. You’d hit the ground beside the pilot’s head, his mouth formed in a soundless scream, and after a quick flash of black, had woken up to a bucket of water being poured across your face.

Whatever language your captives screamed at you, you didn’t know it. And if they knew any of the ones you screamed back at them: Spanish, Arabic, German, they didn’t let you in on it. You couldn’t figure out what they wanted until they’d ripped the Union Flag from the breast of your vest, a quick picture on a Polaroid camera snapped above you before you realized what they wanted.

Blood dribbled down your chin when you laughed at them: the government didn’t even pay for soldiers who got captured at war. What would they pay for your half-broken body to get shipped back in a wooden box? A simple mistake that could be written off as a plane malfunction.

The anger had come first, feet and fists slamming into the men when they appeared at the cell doors. Nails ripped from their beds when you tried to claw at the seams in the walls. It had cost you a few teeth and a pound of flesh. And then, when you were tired of the endless beatings and anger that went nowhere, you begged them to kill you, to do something to end the torment. By the marks on the wall, it took months before you first asked to be killed, and only weeks later for that to end, each request met with silence and a sneer. Now you lay in the corner, waiting for the few moments when they’d let you out to see the sun glinting off of the mountain ranges, the clouds threatening to storm in the distance.

Those quick trips seemed to come with less frequency as time slipped by.

You trace the tattoo on your thigh; they’d cut through it once after you kicked one of them in the chest, his ribs caving beneath your feet, but even beneath the dried viscera and matted dirt that covered your skin, you could still see Johnny’s name there.

You wonder if he’s picked a gravestone for you yet.

The two of you had talked about it, once. It was the nature of your jobs - to be prepared for everything that could come your way. Your wills were done: 75% to Johnny, 15% to your sister’s kids, and the rest to a local charity. Johnny wrote in that you were to get 100% of everything he owned, and you had chided him about it.

“What about your mom? Your sisters?” You had asked across the steam from your cup of coffee. Johnny had shrugged, dropping the black pen onto the table with finality.

“Already taken care of, birdie.”

After that had come the talk of headstones and burial plots. Of missing bodies and cremation. You had told Johnny that whatever he thought you’d like, to pick out. You weren’t picky about it.

You wonder if the military let him put his last name on the stone.

A decidedly male voice shouts from around the corner, and you pull back into the stone wall. Seconds later, fetid food falls through the bars. The man shouts at you, pointing at the food on the ground. Lazily, you turn your head towards him, watching the way he sneers at you through the bars.

They must be getting angry then. No ransom came through after all these months.

You bare your teeth at him.

You’d rip his throat out if you had the strength to do so anymore.

Johnny’s fingers don’t shake like they used to when he buckles the strap of his helmet, the night vision goggles weighing him down. He’s tired - exhausted. The entire convey smells of cigarettes and sweat. Heavy men in heavy gear press around him; across from him Gaz’s eyes shine terribly bright in the darkness. They press in on Johnny, forcing him back into his seat heavily.

Price’s voice is loud in his comms, intermingling with the sounds of the Marines and the whir of the mechanics beneath his feet. Johnny can’t make out the details over the sound of the truck rumbling beneath him.

“Steady Soap?”

Gaz knows - Johnny doesn’t know how Gaz can do this kind of job with the way he fucking oozes empathy. Or sympathy. Johnny could never remember which one was which, he always had to ask you which one to use. Gaz had been the only one who’d asked him if he was alright; Simon had lingered at the edges of rooms Johnny was in to keep an eye on him, and Price tried to give him an extended leave. Johnny had refused.

But Gaz had been waiting until Johnny was sitting outside of some bar a group of Seals had taken them to - a celebration for a job well done months after you were gone, after Johnny's failed attempt to find you.

“You good?” Gaz had asked, fingers twirling a cigarette he would never light.

“O’course.”

It had made Johnny feel like shit to lie to Gaz, and the same feeling washes over him as Gaz’s eyes linger on Johnny.

The warm summer air washes over them; sweat is starting to coat his lower back, his fatigues keeping him too warm. The smell of the desert, of warmed sand keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is - what he’s doing here.

In the glint of the moonlight, the mountaintops shine at him.

The first few missions had been difficult: he’d fought like hell to try to search for you, fuck the regulations. He’d resign if it meant finding you. The rest of the fucking government didn’t care: no one on the plane was as important as anyone else, not to the officials anyway. Johnny had done just that, his resignation had landed heavily on Price’s desk, only to land in the trashcan a moment later.

Gaz volunteered to follow Johnny, but Price had cut that off quickly. It was to be Johnny and Simon only. They had five days, a week at most before they had to be back home.

The farthest they got was the plane wreckage, a little burnt-out village miles away, and sheep that stared at them from the sides of the mountains. But he couldn’t find a trace of you or a singular person who even recognized the photo of you he kept tucked inside his gear. Even after Simon had disobeyed Price’s orders to return home now after weeks had passed. They didn’t find anything.

Johnny knew that’s why Price had volunteered the 141 for this mission - a small-time terrorist cell hiding out in a country they didn’t belong to, a small promise of the bodies of missing soldiers hidden somewhere.

It was something.

The guards are panicking; the dirt walls shake around you. You can’t guess what it could be: American pilots doing a blind bombing, Russians pretending to send help only to rain down hell on the perceived innocent. Maybe God’s here to level the land and flood it. Try again. Do something different this time.

He could start with your cell, you think, scraping at the dirt on your leg. Underneath the sun-starved skin is paler than it should be. If you ever leave, you think, the first thing you’re going to do is eat a fucking steak in the sunshine. The bones that refused to set correctly ache beneath your bruised flesh.

The sound of gunfire pierces the inescapable silence. Your captors yell, screams punctuating between the bursts of firepower. Good, maybe they’ll tear each other apart and leave you here to die in peace.

Maybe it was a poker game gone extremely wrong. Someone asked to strip when they should have been ponying up the cash.

Smoke pops in the hallway outside, you don’t run from the white creeping in on you, just pull the rags that were your shirt over your mouth to try and keep breathing. It overtakes your cell; you watch as the smoke creeps through the cracks in the ceiling.

The sounds of war flood the small cell - the taste of blood and gunpowder in the air around you. You can taste the iron when you breathe in. It coats your tongue. You run your teeth across the chipped and broken enamel, mixing the taste of other’s blood with your own.

Someone shouts so close this time you can almost make out the words - American accent thick and heavy in your ears - and it stirs something inside of you. You try to navigate the cell through the smoke, rolling painfully off of the pallets your captors had so kindly turned into a bed for you. Crawling across the excreta and mud you try to make a sound, but you haven’t spoken in months.

Your throat is raw, and the sounds that come from you are barely human. You’ll be surprised the men even hear you, let alone notice you there on the ground. You try to pull yourself up at the bars, but the fracture in your ankle that healed up wrong weeks ago keeps you on your knees.

“Hey-” you finally croak out loud enough for one of the men to cast his eyes down at you. “Please.”

He’s so familiar, the softness in his eyes tugging at something familiar inside of you, the sharpness of his shoulders calling to you. You pull yourself up, leaning heavily on the bars and the one ankle that doesn’t scream at you, hands slipping through the bars to try to reach towards him.

His gun drops, swinging loosely on its strap as he steps towards you. His fatigues are filthy, and his nose wrinkles beneath the cloth mask covering his face. You know you smell terrible, and you want to apologize for it, but you can’t make the words come. He looks so tired as he steps towards you, hands reaching out to grip the bars between the two of you.

“Sparrow?”

“Johnny?”

It takes days for you to make it home: IVs from field medics who barely know what they’re doing, anti-viral meds, shots, stitches. They don’t even let you take a real shower until you’ve landed at a base you barely recognize. It’s a painful process, a female nurse wiping at you gently, but still peeling away layers of skin with each pass of the washcloth, your sobs muffled by the shower.

Johnny waits for you on the fringes of all the people that press around you, poking you, prodding you painfully until finally, you find yourself slammed into a British hospital bed.

Johnny comes in the moment they let him, hands held behind his back in a mock parade rest. You barely recognize him, his mohawk almost completely grown out and bags under his eyes. You know you don’t look much better; you’d caught sight of yourself in a mirror before they’d forced you into bed. Ruined was the only word to describe what you saw. Too thin, too broken. Too torn apart to be stitched back together. At least not without all the types of therapy a military doctor listed out to you: hydro, occupational, physical, mental.

Neither of you know what to say, so you start with the last thing the doctor told you.

“They’re going to rebreak my ankle tomorrow,” your voice is still thin, full of isolation. You’d tested it out on everyone who’d been in to work on you, but it didn’t sound right at all. Johnny shuffles nervously where he stands, and then rushes forward to sit in the chair beside your bed. He’s moving wrong, you think, like a wind-up doll. Too slow and then all at once, too fast.

“Why?”

“I healed up wrong.”

Johnny’s hands play with the edge of the blanket that dangles off of the bed, eyes trained on the fabric. He’s not going to look at you. At the ruin you’ve become. You press yourself down harder into the thin mattress, hands tucked beneath your thighs to keep them still.

“Is it going to hurt?”

You can’t help but smile at his question, your toes twitching beneath the blanket that feels so out of place across you. How many months had they had you? A year? No one had told you yet.

“They said I’d be fucked up on medicine. But probably, yeah."

Johnny’s hands aren’t still against the blanket, instead reaching out towards you. The movement startles you, and you jerk to the opposite side, nearly pulling your IVs out. Johnny pulls his hands back, crossing them across his chest.

“When you -” his voice breaks, just a moment before he put it back together, eyes finally meeting yours, “when you come home I’ll bring the bedroom downstairs so that you don’t have to walk far.”

You have the nagging suspicion that he changed what he was going to say at the last moment.

"Are you going to sleep on the couch with me?" You try to tease, but your voice falls flat, unpracticed. But it still makes Johnny smile, sharp incisors digging into his chapped lips.

"I'll sleep wherever you tell me."

The two of you are surrounded by the sounds of the hospital: the beeps of the heart rate monitors, the sounds of the nurses' quiet conversation outside of your room. You trace your hands across the blanket, grasping Johnny’s whenever your fingers collide with each other.

For a moment, neither of you move, just languish in the feeling of each other’s skin; you’re too busy tracing Johnny’s palm to notice him pushing himself closer to you until he kisses you, softly but with a tight undercurrent of desperation, his hand tightening almost painfully on yours.

The feeling of someone touching you so gently after weeks of rage and anger nearly stops your heart. The monitor goes crazy; Johnny pulls back, just the hint of a smile on his lips.

It takes four weeks for Johnny to get the go ahead to bring you home. Each day you were in the hospital he would come for a quick chat before work, bringing you breakfast he picked up. Every day after, he would collapse in the chair beside your bed, smelling of sweat and gunpowder.

The smell made you recoil when he tried to kiss you, and he didn't try again after that, even after you tried to stutter out a why. But the day the doctor tells Johnny that you can go home, you awaken to Johnny outside of the hospital room, arms crossed as he speaks to the head doctor - Johnny looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him off the battlefield.

Everyone rotates around you as if you’re not there, packing the room up, pulling your IVs out, fingers prodding and poking you until a nurse aide wheels a wheelchair into the room for you.

”Ready?” She asks, locking the brakes. She looks at you from across the room, and you know what she wants. Starting the day after they rebroke your bones, they made you get up and start walking, and you push yourself off of the bed, walkable cast heavy against the tile floor.

Johnny’s in the room in a second, catching sight of you whenever he sees you stumbling over your cast across the room. The aide lets him push her out of the way, his hands gripping the wheelchair as you lower yourself down.

“I can walk out, you know.” You grumble at Johnny as he tosses a heavy folder into your lap.

“Hospital procedure, birdie.”

Simon’s truck is waiting for the two of you in the parking lot, Simon in the driver's seat. He throws a glance at you as Johnny helps you clamber into the backseat, crowded around by grocery bags.

“Hello, Luv.”

“Hello, Simon. Thank you for the ride.”

Simon opens his mouth to speak, black hospital mask sliding up, but he’s cut off by Johnny clambering into the passenger seat.

You watch Johnny from the backseat, foot propped up beside you. His hair has grown out too long, the Mohawk nearly disappeared and his beard has started to grow in. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him anything other than clean-shaven; even in the field, he'll butcher himself with a knife before he lets it grow in.

He’s thinner than he should be, too. You wonder if he’d been eating like he was supposed to.

The drive home is disorientating, Simon taking turns too sharply, too quick for your still queasy stomach. By the time Johnny helps you climb down from the truck, dropping your hands quickly when both of your feet are on the ground.

The house is clean, too clean for Johnny to have been here alone. Like he can sense you'd skepticism, Johnny speaks from ahead of you.

“I’ve hired a cleaner,” Johnny says, holding the door open for you. “So don’t worry about anything.”

It’s odd to be back home; you trace your fingers across the knick-knacks you’d collected throughout the years, the furniture you’ve spent years picking out. You have memories of sitting here with Johnny, memories of Simon and Gaz laughing from the kitchen. But now all you feel is lost, a bottle floating in a foreign ocean.

You wander into the kitchen, fingers trailing against the wall - there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no food in the cabinets; Johnny wasn’t living here.

The only dish you recognize is sitting on the counter, you pick it up, feeling the unfamiliar weight in your hand.

“It’s called Kintsugi.”

The Japanese word rolls heavily off of Johnny’s tongue, your fingers pause tracing the golden lines that cut through the mug. It was your favorite, a gift from when you and Johnny had first met. The two of you met at a diner, out with mutual friends. You’d thought it was cute, the name of the diner printed across the front in vintage lettering. Johnny had swiped it for you, hiding it beneath his jacket until the two of you parted ways at your doorstep.

“What happened to it?”

“I broke it,” he admits, dropping the grocery bags onto the counter. Your fingernail can’t find any snag in the glaze, any sign that the mug has never had the golden lines cutting through it.

Johnny busies himself with unloading the bag, speaking without looking at you as he confesses.

“After you were taken, I spent weeks searching for you until Price forced me to come home. I was angry, and I smashed it.”

You can feel the frown sketched onto your face; you don’t look at Johnny as you set the mug down on the counter.

You lean against the counter and watch Johnny busy himself with the groceries.

“He was right,” you admit, feeling silly over the sadness that fills you over the broken cup, “but maybe that’s something Simon has a lot of experience with broken things ya’know.”

You and Johnny orbit each other for weeks: he’s there every day until you begin to question if he’s gotten himself fired to stay home with you. He drives you everywhere, and if he can’t, Simon waits for you just out past the front gate, no doubt on Johnny’s orders.

“I had a lot of time off,” he says one day, elbow-deep in the laundry that he dumped between the two of you, eyes cast on the television. “Never had a reason to take it before.”

Your hands smooth the wrinkles out of one of Johnny’s shirts, fingers picking at the loose string. Today had been talk therapy, recommended by the SAS doctors. They were strict about all the requirements you had to meet if you ever wanted to go back, and laying on a shrink’s couch for two hours a week was one of them.

The graying doctor had asked you if you had spoken to Johnny about the anger that still wells up in you, the dreams you have of tearing your captives to pieces with your hands, the internal self-flagellation you went through every night when you thought about the career you’d worked so hard for, and have now lost.

You had spent the rest of the day thinking about what he said, even when it meant not paying attention to the medical doctor’s order when they were cutting your cast off, but Johnny took in every word.

You almost say something then, tossing Johnny’s shirt onto his pile, but the wrong words come out.

“You need a haircut.”

“Yeah?” Johnny’s hands still around a pair of your shorts, you feel him watching you in his peripheral vision. “You want to cut it?”

Of course, you did; you spend more moments than not thinking about how his hair must feel like long if it’s still soft. But every time the two of you tried to touch each other, the other pulled away.

So when Johnny takes your hand, and pulls you up the stairs, you let him - hand heavy and warm in your own.

Johnny lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat; you feel unsteady as you approach him, clippers in hand, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the weight of your cast being removed.

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” You ask again; since you’d come home your fingers had been a kind of clumsy they’d never been before.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Johnny keeps his eyes trained on you, fingers tapping against the tight denim stretched across his jeans.

“I can scalp you bald,” you admit, switching the clippers on, “and then you’d look like a Q-Ball for eight weeks.”

“I’ll be the best damn Q-Ball anyone’s ever seen,” Johnny says, beard twitching as he smirks at you. If he notices the way your fingers tremble when you take his jaw in your hand, he doesn’t say anything.

His eyes close at the feeling of the clippers cutting through his hair, no doubt the feeling of the weight being removed was comfortable for him.

“You didn’t do this while I was - while I was gone?”

Your therapist says you shouldn’t shy away from calling your kidnapping what it was, but you still can’t form the words in front of Johnny.

He hums at your words, never opening his eyes as he speaks.

“I don’t let anyone else touch my hair, birdie.”

“What about your beard?”

Johnny snorts, eyes meeting yours as you maneuver his head to the side.

“You don’t like it?”

You like the way he feels against your skin, you want to tell him. But you can’t make the words form, can’t spit them out. Johnny watches you chew on them for a moment before he lets out a sigh. His hair is scattered on the floor around the two of you, more than you’d thought he’d had.

You swap the guards to shorten his mohawk, pressing yourself in between Johnny’s knees so that you can reach the nape of his neck.

His hands wrap around your thighs, light and warm against the skin that peeks out beneath the shorts you hadn’t taken off since you’d left your cast removal this morning.

Your skin is on fire at his touch, you try to ignore it as you clean up his neck; Johnny buries his face in your shirt, breath warm against your stomach. His fingers trace light patterns on your thigh and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep the clippers from straying.

His fingers trace the scar that covers his name, and you jump back like you’ve been shocked. Your back hits the wall, knocking the decorative towels you’d spent days choosing to the floor. Johnny’s hands linger in the air between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you pant out with a heavy swallow.

Johnny pushes himself up, eyes watching you like you’re a wild animal ready to run.

He reaches out and brushes some of his fallen hair from your shoulders, electrifying your skin again. His touch is hesitant as he traces up your shoulder, fingers cupping the back of your neck.

He’s fire as he presses himself against you, lips brushing over yours just quick enough to light something up inside of you before pulling away with an apology. He loosens the clippers from your hands and shoos you out with a promise he’ll clean the hair up himself.

A storm rages outside, threatening to cut the power at any moment. You watch it throw around tree limbs and leaves through the front window. Behind you, the television casts soft shadows on the walls.

“Still pouring out there?” Johnny asks from his spot on the couch. Your answer is the curtain falling back into place. You pad back to your spot beside Johnny; he holds the blanket up for you to slip underneath.

His bare leg rubs against yours, but his hands stay firmly in his lap. He hadn’t tried to touch you since that day in the bathroom - even when he dropped you off at therapy, you’d wait for him to stretch across and kiss you, but he’d just send you off with a wave.

You knew it was partially your fault: you couldn’t get the words out to explain how much you wanted him to touch you, how sorry you were for every jerk away. Every time you tried to tell him how much you wanted him, the words curled into your throat and refused to budge. You had even asked earlier for him to take a shower with you, to no avail.

The movie - some family flick Johnny picked because it didn’t have any violence, you know - cast shadows across Johnny’s face. His stubble is starting to come in again; you reach out and trace your finger across the five o’clock shadow creeping onto his jawline.

Johnny doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen, but he leans his face into your touch. Your fingers trace upwards, lacing through the Mohawk you’d trimmed just two weeks ago. Johnny nearly purrs when you tug on his hair, pulling him down so that he’s lying across your lap.

You have to take it slow, you know or you and Johnny both might break apart. So you just settle beneath him, fingers tracing patterns onto his scalp, eyes trained on the television, but not really watching.

“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” you whisper, voice nearly drowned out by the storm outside. Johnny rolls, doing his best not to dig painfully into your thigh to look up at you.

“To work?”

You nod, still refusing to look at him.

“I talked about it with the therapist today; I just - I think it would be best if I just cashed in my retirement. I’ve got a lot saved up: hazard pay and all that. The corporal offered me a job as a trainer. So I could still be around."

Johnny’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist, forcing you to look at him. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you don’t like that. He’s always your open book. You try to keep your heart rate steady at the feeling of him tracing patterns on your wrist.

“I’m sorry, birdie.”

And you know he’s not just apologizing for your ruined career, for the nearly year you’d spent locked away in some disgusting cell, for the still broken teeth in your mouth, or the screws that hold most of you together now. He’s still apologizing for not being able to find you earlier, to be there months earlier.

“It’s not your fault Johnny - I should have told them no. I should have been smart enough to just tell my commanding that I couldn’t do it. I should have-“

Hot tears start to fall; Johnny pushes himself up, fingers brushing them away gently. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin, and pulling you so tight you think you might break beneath his touch. And you would let yourself shatter beneath him, if it meant he could put you back together, shot through with gold.

Johnny lets you cry on his shoulder until the fabric of his shirt is soaking wet; after a while, the smell of him, the softness of the way he caresses your back,and the feeling of his jean-clad thigh between your own stirs something else inside of you. You need something else, something more desperate, something to push away the feelings of failure. Of the fear that still lingers in you of heights, and darkness, and men who smell of sweat and gunpowder.

So when you kiss him, softly, Johnny doesn’t push you away like he can feel how much you need him to touch you. Even as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you don’t break the kiss. It stays superficial, and soft, neither of you breaking apart or deepening it. You expect him to carry you to the spare bed he brought downstairs for you, but instead, he cradles you up the stairs, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there will be a thumb-shaped bruise there tomorrow.

Johnny doesn’t stumble as he carries you.

In the bedroom the two of you shared before you were lost, Johnny collapses on the bed, his smell enveloping you, hands never leaving you. He buries his nose in the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“Are you here with me birdie?”

Johnny’s voice is muffled on your skin, his hands pausing at the hem of your shirt.

“I’m here Johnny.”

You rest your hands on his biceps and feel the way his heart is in your own chest. His weight presses down around you, the mattress sinking down beneath the two of you. The wind rolls in through the window, gooseflesh erupting on your skin where Johnny isn’t touching.

Johnny’s hands don’t move from the hem of your shirt until you slide your own down to his wrists, a bravery you hadn’t felt in weeks taking over you.

“Please, Johnny.”

Johnny shifts, knees spreading your own apart, but he still doesn’t touch your bare skin until you tug on his wrists, trying to slide them underneath your shirt, instead, he traces your arms - the area you know he thinks is safe.

The feeling of his calloused hands on your soft skin makes you shiver; Johnny presses a kiss to your pulse point. You know he can feel the way your heartbeat picks up quickly, and he bites down on the sensitive skin lightly. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way you buck your hips upward into his.

“Birdie.” It’s a warning and a promise rolled into one, and it makes you press your knees together, trying to slow yourself down.

You let your own hands start exploring Johnny. Once, you’d had his skin memorized - every scar and freckle committed to your own memory. But there are new scars there you’ve never seen before, new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes he didn’t have before.

It’s like the first time again, both of you exploring each other slowly. Johnny pauses every time you make a noise, eyes searching your face to make sure you’re alright. You push him away just long enough to pull his shirt off of him, hands instantly reaching out to pull him back down. His own hands slide your shorts down until you can kick them across the room.

Johnny kisses you, full of the same desperation he’d had that day at the hospital. Your teeth click together as the two of you suddenly move frantically, hands grasping at each other. Johnny shakes as you run your nails down his back, pushing until he realizes what you want.

Johnny rolls, hands still wrapped around your waist until you’re on top of him. The thin material of your panties is already wet; you can feel it when you grind down on him. The rough material of his blue jeans has enough friction to send lighting bolts through you.

“Is that what you want birdie?” Johnny’s voice is low and rough in his throat; his hands rest lightly on your hips as you grind down. Your hands reach back to rest on his thighs, more leverage for you to move.

You can’t answer him, already biting down on the moans that start to build in the back of your throat. Johnny’s grip tights as you speed up; you can feel his erection pressing tightly against his zipper as you grind faster.

You feel yourself start to tremble, hands moving to brace yourself against Johnny’s chest. He wraps one hand around your wrist, the other still at your waist; you can’t look away from the hungry glint in his eye.

Outside the storm lashes, the cool air rolling in across you and Johnny.

“Let it out,” he whispers, voice ragged and panting. He’s bucking his own hips in time with your grinding; he’s holding back - you know he doesn’t want to scare you, so you loosen the knot inside of you, moaning loud enough that a blush starts to creep up your chest. At the sound, Johnny bucks up harder.

You can’t help the way you come undone, nails digging into Johnny’s chest, leaving half moons on the sensitive skin. Johnny lets you ride him until the waves of your orgasm finish rolling over you, his hands not leaving you until you finally still, thighs shaking on each side of him. You can feel your drenched underwear, feel yourself soaking into his blue jeans.

Johnny is so hard beneath you, a red flush across his chest. Outside the storm rages harder, and the lights flicker momentarily. Johnny pushes himself up onto one elbow, the hand that has refused to move up your shirt sliding up just an inch. His fingers play with the edge of your underwear, the lace snagging on his callouses.

“Why don’t you want to touch me?” You can barely hear yourself over the rain lashing against the window; Johnny’s eyebrows knit together, and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting up, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep from falling backward.

“I want to touch you,” he tries to reassure you, hands tracing patterns across the back of your shirt. But you shrug his hands off, catching his wrists in your hands before he can fully withdraw away.

“You won’t touch me beneath my shirt,” you slide his hands down to the bare skin of your thighs, moving them until the hem of your shirt falls over his fingertips. “You wouldn’t take a shower with me.”

Johnny chews on his lips, they’re too chapped, you think. The silence stretches in the sound of the storm, and the flickering lights. Before Johnny can speak lightning and thunder crash outside, and the house goes dark - the sound of the electricity powering down cutting him off. Neither of you moves in the sudden blackness.

“I’m not broken, Johnny.” You don’t want to sound so pathetic, but you do.

“I know you’re not, hen.”

“Then why am I having to beg, Johnny?”

Johnny’s hand slips up so that he’s holding your hips beneath your shirt.

“I’m not going to hurt you too.”

It’s a tough confession for him to make, you know. He’d done his best not to talk about the whole ordeal, he never asked what you went through. This was his way of keeping you away from it.

You roll your hips across his again, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Please Johnny; you’re not going to hurt me.”

You don’t know if it’s the whine in your voice or the way you trace your fingers across the hard plane of his chest, or if Johnny is just as tired of holding back as you - but he rolls you over, gentle and quick until his chest his pressed against yours, his mouth finding the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

You’re horribly out of practice, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, getting stuck when Johnny pulls your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t let his lips leave you; your teeth clip together as Johnny deepens the kiss he refuses to let end until your gasping for breath beneath him.

It’s electric in the best and worst ways - Johnny’s calloused fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear, pushing them further down each time.

The current running through you makes it difficult to breathe; you can’t even warn Johnny, can’t beg him to slow down what you were just begging him to speed up. But there has never been anyone who’s known you the same way Johnny has, and when his hands slow you know he can feel that it’s too much. Just for a moment.

“Still with me?”

“Still here.”

Johnny’s hands don’t speed up, but he doesn’t slow either - pressing open-mouth kisses down your neck, between your breasts, across the planes of your stomach until he finally stops at the edge of your underwear. He darts his tongue out to lick the sensitive skin peeking out above the hem, and the feeling makes you gasp out, hips pressing harder into the mattress. His fingertips brush just over the wetness you’ve soaked through and you grind your teeth together, painfully.

“Too much?”

Yes.

Too much for you at this moment; you’re not sure if your body will hold together if Johnny even tries to eat you out, tries to stretch you with his fingers, you can hardly keep together at the feeling of him touching you anywhere after so many months of nothing but dirt, and maggots, and feverish longing for-

You didn’t notice Johnny crawling back up your body until he presses a soft kiss on your temple, fingers wiping away your hair that’s plastered with sweat there.

Johnny’s whispering in your ear: how much he missed you, how he had thought about you every day, how he’d tried to scorch the earth to look for you; he pulls you until you’re back on top of him. You can feel how hard he is, how wet you are as you grind down against the hard planes of his lower stomach, searching for him.

Johnny’s hands squeeze at your hips, shifting the both of you until you feel the tip of him catch against you; a shudder rolls through you both, but Johnny doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is pulled taunt, pulled against fucking into you at a frenetic pace. You recognize the set of his jaw, the way his hands wrap around your forearms. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you control him.

You wait for just a heartbeat before pressing down onto him; your vision whites out from the almost uncomfortable stretch of him as you sink down slowly. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were here, the last time the two of you fucked. Johnny’s nails dig into the underside of your forearm, yours into his chest until you finally reach the hilt.

You hold there for a moment, feeling the way he fills you up - so much so that you don’t think there’s room for anything else besides Johnny - there never has been. You can’t even think between the feeling of Johnny filling you up and the feeling of not trying to cum so fast. Finally, when your heartbeat slows incrementally, you rock yourself against him, slowly, using his chest as leverage.

Beneath you Johnny is coming undone; he’s biting his lip so hard you think he might draw blood, so you trace your fingertips across his bottom lip. His lips part beneath your touch, and he takes your pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around it.

The feeling makes your hips move faster, stuttering against him. Johnny moans, muffled around your finger. The sound is horribly erotic in the darkness, and it spurs something inside of you to move your hips faster, rougher against Johnny. But he doesn’t move beneath you, still holding himself back. The sound of skin on skin, of how wet you are for him drown out the storm.

Johnny’s hands are everywhere: in your hair, cupping the supple flesh of your ass, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thick fingers; one hand sneaks across the flesh of your hip, dipping between the two of you to circle your clit. The feeling makes you crumple against him; Johnny takes the opportunity to roll you over, pressing you into the mattress.

Johnny presses one of your knees up, hooking it over his elbow so that he can fuck into you, still gentle even when he’s deeper than you think he’s ever been before, his other hand still circling your clit, slowly enough to keep you from falling apart, but fast enough to bring you to the edge.

His pace grows rougher; you claw at him, drawing red welts across his skin, but Johnny doesn’t slow down. You keep your eyes closed tightly, back arched to try and get him in deeper, to get more.

“Look at me.”

Johnny’s voice is rough, a gentle command you have to follow. His eyes never leave yours, even when his pace increases, the finger on your clit still rubbing tight circles until-

Until you’re breaking apart, shattering beneath him. Your orgasm makes you arch, back nearly leaving the mattress. Johnny’s hands move to cup your face, pulling himself down until he can kiss you as you ride through your orgasm, gasping in his own mouth. Your nails draw thick red welts across his back, but Johnny doesn’t stop pounding into you, your moans drowned out by the way he kisses you.

Not long after, Johnny’s pace starts to stutter, his lips never leaving yours until he plunges in deeper than he had before, and you can feel his warm release spill out inside of you.

Even when he’s completely spent, Johnny doesn’t pull out of you, instead fucking into you once, twice, three more times until you know you can’t take anymore, hands pressing on his chest to push him away.

Johnny’s fingers smooth your twitching thighs as he pulls away. In the darkness, you can just see his outline as he shifts between your legs, but he doesn’t move from there.

He caresses you until you are finally still and your panting finally slows. His fingers trace across the cracks you can still feel, stitching you back together, shot through with gold.

“Still here?”

“Still here.”

#my fics #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish #cod soap x reader #cod imagines #cod smut #soap mw2 #soap mactavish #cod x reader #johnny mactavish

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 month

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Meatspace twiddling

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me next weekend (Mar 30/31) in ANAHEIM at WONDERCON, then in Boston with Randall "XKCD" Munroe (Apr 11), then Providence (Apr 12), and beyond!

"Enshittification" isn't just a way of describing the symptoms of platform decay: it's also a theory of the mechanism of decay – the means by which platforms get shittier and shittier until they are a giant pile of shit.

I call that mechanism "twiddling": this is the ability of digital services to alter their business-logic – the prices they charge, the payouts they offer, the particulars of the deal – from instant to instant, for each user, continuously:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

Contrary to Big Tech's own boasting about its operations, the tricks that tech firms play to siphon value away from business customers and end-users aren't very sophisticated. They're crude gimmicks, like offering a higher per-hour wage to Uber drivers whom the algorithm judges to be picky about which rides they'll clock in for, and then lowering the wage by small increments as a way of lulling the driver into gradually accepting a permanent lower rate:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

This is a simple trick. The difference is that tech platforms like Uber can play it over and over, and very quickly. There's plenty of wage-stealing scumbag bosses who'd have loved to have shaved pennies off their workers' paychecks, then added a few cents back in if a worker cried foul, then started shaving the pennies again. The thing that stopped those bosses was the bottleneck of payroll clerks, who couldn't make the changes fast enough.

Uber plays crude tricks – like claiming that a driver isn't an employee because the control is mediated through an app – and then piles more crude tricks on top – this algorithmic wage discrimination gambit.

Have you ever watched a shell-game performed very slowly?

https://www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-do-penn-tellers-famous-cups-and-balls-trick-in-12-steps

It's a series of very simple gimmicks, performed very quickly and smoothly. Computers are very quick and very smooth. The quickness of the hand deceives the eye: do crude tricks with superhuman speed and they'll seem sophisticated.

The one bright spot in the Great Enshittening that we're living through is that many firms are not sufficiently digitized to to these crude tricks very quickly. Take grocery stores: they can get up to a lot of the same tricks as Amazon – for example, they can charge suppliers for placement on the most prominent, easiest-to-reach shelves, reorganizing your shopping based on which companies pay the biggest bribes, rather than offering the best products and prices.

But Amazon takes this to a whole different level – beyond simply organizing their product pages based on payola, they do this for search. You ask Amazon, "What's your cheapest batteries?" and it lies to you. If you click the first link in a search-results page, you'll pay 29% more than you would if you got the best product – a product that is, on average, 17 places down on the results page. Amazon makes $38b/year taking bribes to lie to you:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

Amazon can do more than that. Thanks to its digital nature, it can continuously reprice its offerings – indeed, it can simply make up each price displayed on every product at the instant you look at it – based on its surveillance data about you, estimating your willingness to pay. For sellers, Amazon can continuously re-weight the likelihood that a given product will be shown to a customer based on the seller's willingness to discount their products, even to the point where they go out of business:

https://www.businessinsider.com/sadistic-amazon-treated-book-sellers-the-way-a-cheetah-would-pursue-a-sickly-gazelle-2013-10

Twiddling, in other words, lets digital services honeycomb their servers with sneaky wormholes that let them siphon value away from one kind of platform user and give it to another (as when Apple silently began spying on Iphone owners to create profiles for advertisers), or to themselves.

But hard-goods businesses struggle to do this kind of twiddling. Not for lack of desire – but for lack of capacity. Jeff Bezos, owner of Amazon Fresh – an online grocery store – can change prices and layout millions of times per day, at effectively zero cost. Jeff Bezos, owner of Whole Foods – a brick-and-mortar grocer – needs a army of teenagers on rollerskates with pricing guns to achieve a fraction of this agility.

So hard-goods businesses are somewhat enshittification-resistant. It's not that their owners are more interested in the welfare of their customers, workers and suppliers – they merely lack the capacity to continuously rejigger the way their business runs.

Well, about that.

Grocers have been experimenting with "electronic shelf labels" in order to do "dynamic pricing" – that means that prices change quickly, in response to circumstances:

https://www.npr.org/2024/03/06/1197958433/dynamic-pricing-grocery-supermarkets

This doesn't have to be bad! As @planetmoney points out, it's a little weird that grocers don't discount milk whose sell-by date is drawing near. That milk is worth less to shoppers, because they have to use it more quickly lest it expire. Instead of marking down the price of perishable goods – day-old lettuce, yesterday's bread, etc – grocers put them on the shelves next to fresher, more valuable products, leading to billions of dollars' worth of food-waste and and unimaginable quantities of methane-producing, planet-cooking landfill.

In Norway, ESLs are pretty well established and – at least according to Planet Money's reporting – they are used exclusively to offer discounts in order to reduce waste. They make everyone better off.

But towards the end of the story, they note that Norway's grocery sector – which alters prices up to 2,000 times per day – has been accused of using ESLs to rig prices, hiking them and blaming them on pandemic supply-chain problems and loose monetary policy. Greedflation, in other words.

Greedflation is rampant in the grocery sector, all around the world. Remember when the price of eggs doubled and they blamed in on bird-flu, even as the CEO of the one company that owns every egg brand you've ever heard of boasted about how he could hike prices and suckers would just pay it?

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/23/cant-make-an-omelet/#keep-calm-and-crack-on

In Canada, grocers rigged the price of bread, the most Les-Mis-ass form of corporate crime you can imagine (do you want guillotines, Galen Weston? Because this is how you get guillotines):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bread_price-fixing_in_Canada

EU grocers – another highly concentrated industry – also collude to rig prices:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

Which is all to say that while these companies don't have to use the twiddling capabilities that come with ESLs to enshittify their stores, we'd be pretty fucking naive to assume that they won't.

And here's the bad news: US grocers like Whole Foods (owned by Amazon, the company that wrote the enshittification playbook) are already experimenting with ESLs. So is Alberstons/Safeway, the massive, inbred conglomerate that has already demonstrated its passion for using twiddling to fuck over their workers:

https://knock-la.com/vons-fires-delivery-drivers-prop-22-e899ee24ffd0/

Economists love "price discrimination" – where prices change based on circumstance, trying to match the perfect price with the perfect customer. On paper, that sounds plausible: if I need a quart of milk for a recipe I'm making tonight and I get a 50% discount on some about-to-expire 2%, then everyone's better off. I get a discount and the grocer gets some money for milk they'd have to throw away at the end of the day.

But these elegant, self-licking ice-cream cones only emerge if the corporation offering the deal is constrained. Perhaps they're constrained by competition – the fear that you'll go elsewhere. Or perhaps they're constrained by regulation – the fear that they'll be punished if they use twiddling-tech to cheat you.

The grocery sector, dominated by a cartel of massive companies that routinely collude to rip us off, is not constrained by competition. And for years, regulators let them get away with ripping us off (though finally that might be changing):

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/21/us/politics/grocery-prices-pandemic-ftc.html?unlocked_article_code=1.ek0.t2Pr.g4n2usbxEcoa

For neoclassical economists, the answer to all this is "caveat emptor" – let the buyer beware. If you want to make sure that ESLs are only used to offer you discounts and not to gouge prices, all you need to do is note the price of everything you buy, every time you buy it, and triple-check it every time you go back to the grocery store. Just be eternally vigilant!

Thing is, the one thing computers are much better at than humans is vigilance. With ESLs and other twiddling mechanisms, you're a fish on a hook, and the seller is tireless in giving you a little more slack, then a little less, until you finally drop your guard.

Economists desperately want these elegant models to work, but "efficient market hypothesis" is a brain-worm that always turns into apologetics for fraud. Dynamic markets sound like a good idea, but they are catnip for cheaters. "Just be eternally vigilant" is miserable advice, and no way to live your life:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

In his brilliant novel Spook Country, @GreatDismal describes augmented reality as "cyberspace everting" – that is, turning inside-out:

https://memex.craphound.com/2007/07/31/william-gibsons-spook-country/

The extrusion of twiddling technology from digital platforms into the physical world isn't cyberspace everting so much as it is cyberspace prolapsing.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/26/glitchbread/#electronic-shelf-tags

#pluralistic #fraud apologetics #caveat emptor #twiddling #competition #groceries #price discrimination #norway #electronic shelf tags #planet money #enshittification #constraints #greedflation #efficient market hypothesis brain-worms

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spideyhexx · 3 months

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billy himself better do an apology with tears right NOW!!!! or he'll regret it

he really should!!!!!!! :)

fem!reader; apart of saccharine

The next few days that follow this are very confusing for Billy. You avoid him like the plague, almost as if he's a ghost that's unseen to you. You've come to terms that you pushed him too far, but you were too stubborn to approach him first. So you ignore him.

He called you a pest. His words replay and your mind is smart enough to recognize that he snapped and spat out words without realizing, but that never disregarded how much it hurt.

Billy went through multiple different stages since he snapped at you. He felt bad at first, then later at night, the thought that you deserved to be put in your place crossed his mind, but he hated himself for it, so he wrote it off. After getting a good night's rest, his mind clearer, Billy assumed the day would go on like normal and you would tease him like normal.

He was looking around his vicinity the whole day, wondering where the hell you were and why you weren't trailing around him. A missing place was next to him and it followed him around like an invisible ghost. Billy doesn't realize you're ignoring him until dinner that night when he walks right up next to you to make his plate and you don't give him a glance. No look, no smile, no twinkle in your eye. You gather your own food and turn heel to find a place to sit.

He's nonexistent to you. His stomach builds up with nerves as this continues, his fingers anxious, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt and picking at the old leather of his belt as he watches you converse with Jesse and the other boys. Is he actually longing for your sweet voice? The way your lips curve in the most devious of smiles when his brow furrows or his jaw clenches, knowing you've got him angry.

Billy pays attention to you that night, how you pick apart your bread and eat it in small increments. The way your men's shirt is half untucked and the glint in your eye when you near the campfire. That glint. He wanted it directed at him. Did he? Yes. No. He doesn't know anymore.

The next day, Billy is mustering up the courage to apologize. The guilt within his body is at a high when he keeps thinking about how much he missed you. He knew he couldn't say that to you, but an apology should be enough, right? He regrets his words. You may bother him a lot but he crossed a line and Billy is not proud of it. He tries to speak with you after dinner, but you're going to your cot to sleep the moment he decides to get up. His muscles freeze. He feels the lump in his throat. He gives up. He thinks himself a coward. Billy has pushed himself to do some scary things in his life, but he can't even approach you with an apology. It was pathetic, to him.

Billy can't sleep that night. He doesn't think he can speak to you. He knows he should, but what if he just can't? He lays out in the grass instead of his cot, staring up at the stars and the moon as he racks his brain for something he can do so you stop ignoring him. The grass is cool, tickling at the back of his neck as though its tendrils trying to attach to him, give him the guidance he needs in this moment. He reads the stars, asking them silently if there is any way to remedy the situation. Billy can't take it, even if his thoughts reject the fact that he wants you, his subconscious was all for it, rooting for it. Right before his eyes got too heavy to stay awake, there was a click in his brain.

Your day runs smoothly, avoiding Billy was a hard task as you felt yourself itching to just give in and confront him about the whole situation, but the fact that he hasn't spoken a word to you either made you bitter. You miss him still, so you let yourself watch him occasionally when he gets on his horse and rides off, but for the most part, you focus your attention elsewhere. To people who do like you.

As you wind down for the evening and head back to your cot, there's a small bag near your pillow and a piece of paper tucked beneath it. With a cautious step, you sit down and take the paper in your hands.

"I'm sorry for what I said. It wasn't right. You're not a pest. Maybe a pain in my ass sometimes, but that's okay. I promise. I know this might not be enough to say and what I bought might not be enough, but it's for you. It's not a way to bribe you for your forgiveness either. You don't need to forgive me. This is just for you. Thought you'd get a kick out of it. Figured you needed one of your own, cowgirl."

Your eyes quickly scramble to where it ends with, "Bonney," his sloppy handwriting that looks rushed makes your own head feel in a rush, rereading his words two or three more times before you set the paper down and open the bag.

It's a hat, a genuine cowboy hat. A dark color akin to Billy's own hat, but still different, still unique for you. You think about how this must have cost him a good deal of money, but it's hard to think about that when your heart is swelling abnormally large. How many times had you mentioned to him how badly you wanted your own hat? How you never had the funds to buy one for yourself and when you did have the money to, it was always going to more important purchases. He was actually listening?

You feel yourself smiling, not able to stop it as you place the hat on your head, the fir near perfect and your hands find the note he wrote. You reread it and then fold it neatly, tucking it beneath your pillow with a soft sigh, the airiest of grins plastered to your face for the rest of the night to come.

let's chat about billy, here :)

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luveline · 1 year

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a hotch baby blurb along the lines of spontaneous phenomena where she works at the fbi or bau but not as a profiler and is a bit shy and quiet but he always notices her and thanks her for all her hard work ?? maybe he comes back from a case w a black eye or injury and she frets and they kiss ?? i love u mwah

I love you, thank you for your request! fem!reader

When people ask how someone as quiet as you ended up working in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you love to say, "I just slipped in. They haven't found me yet to fire me."

For the most part, you aren't lying. You'd worked your way up by accident, and with no intentions on moving any higher you're happy in your cushy little desk job filing paperwork and typing up reports.

It also gives you a strange sort of happiness to help people out. Not for praise, though praise is nice, but just to see a usually sombre breed of people uplifted. It's why you're in Hotch's office so often. He has an abundance of paperwork. You have time to file it, or if not filing, sorting. If not sorting, tying up loose ends. You figure, why not?

You wouldn't enter his office if he hadn't given permission. He knows it's you because you always leave the door open, and you know it's him because he sighs tiredly in the doorway.

"You're here late. Go home."

"It's only…" You check your watch. "Five twelve."

More tired sighing. You quickly finish up what you'd been doing at the chair in front of his desk (which, a few times, he's told you to sit behind rather than in front, because apparently his chair has better lumbar support) and click a lid back onto your pen.

"How was– oh no, what happened?"

Your lilting tone makes him smile.

"Nothing happened."

Standing from your seat, you tilt your head to get a better look at him. A shiner stains the skin around his left eye wine dark, and the sclera is bloodshot. It looks painfully sore.

"Hotch," you say softly.

"It's alright. I've had worse."

You know he's had worse. You know he's been stabbed like a pincushion and stitched closed again, know all about his perforated eardrum, his bad shoulder. That doesn't make it any easier to swallow this injury.

Somebody as kind as he is, how's it fair he hurts this often?

You move forward in an act of brazen self-indulgence that is completely unlike you and stop just shy of his shoes, looking up into his face.

He obliges you, looks down.

You picture the violence without meaning to, the hand that had hit him.

"Are you alright?" you ask.

"I'm fine." His brows lower and he winces, but they're lowering in fondness. The corners of his dark eyes crease with it, and his tone is sweet. He sounds younger than he is when he speaks to you like this, and he's been doing it more and more. "You worry more than you need to."

"I just think that… if somebody hit me like that, I'd be upset, so…" You meet his eyes and feel intimidated, not by him, though he's imposing and tall and handsome in the worst of ways, the way that's making professionalism impossible to maintain, but because you're staring your feelings I'm the face at the same time. You really care about him.

"I like my job," you say, filling a small silence he hadn't bothered to fill, his expression suddenly unreadable, "but sometimes I wish I'd been a profiler."

"Well, it's never too late."

"No, it is. And it's not because I want to do what you do, I don't even think I could, but it's–"

You cut yourself off with a nervous huff of laughter. He takes the smallest step closer, his face dipping down incrementally. "What?"

"I wish I was so I could be there."

"Yeah? What would you do?"

"I'd take care of you," you say honestly. Your face burns with heat, and you realise how corny and out of place you'd sounded instantaneously. You turn your face to the side, grimacing so hard it hurts. "I'd defend you." You attempt to save face. "I mean, I'd try to. I'm not saying the other profilers don't do that."

"I knew what you meant," he says, and lifts a hand to your cheek.

You hold your breath as he steers your face to his.

"You do take care of me," he says. "In your way, honey. You do." His thumb skips over your cheek. He seems, for once, out of order. Unsure. "Could I kiss you?"

Your fingers find their way to his shoulder. You don't know how to say yes to that, your tongue a leaden weight in your mouth, your brain a useless mess of neurons that refuse to fire.

You close your eyes and hope he gets the memo. You lift your chin. You stay very still.

Hotch kisses like a gentleman. Chaste, completely, a firm and sweet press of the lips. Then, like he's losing a handle on it, his nose pushes into yours and his lips part just slightly, and you remember to kiss back only a second before he pulls away.

You raise a hand to his face, a mirror. "You're sure it doesn't hurt?" you murmur.

"It stings, but," —he closes his eyes again, resting his forehead on yours— "I'll be okay."

#aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds

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chrollohearttags · 10 months

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i just feel like influencer y/n really healed rapper eren's inner child. like she's just so sweet to him and so lovey dovey and goofy to him. he loves her so much and is grateful to whatever superior being for bringing her into his life. idk just thinking about that makes me smile. 🤭

ughhh!! No like you do not understand the smile this brought to my face bro 😭 when i tell you that this is literally my all time fav ship…like thank you for this 🥹

content warning: mentions of anxiety, lore for reverb, angst (?), fluff

because in all honestly, even though he loved music more than life itself, EJ still had a big void in his life. He had Mika and Armin for a little while and his family but there wasn’t a single person in his life that he truly felt completely and wholly connected to. That he could let his guard down with. He struggled with social anxiety and cues bad. His mom worried about him constantly worry about him and if he’d be okay. Sometimes, when he was younger, he’d get so overwhelmed trying to express himself that he’d either get angry or become hysterical and cry. Music seemed to be the only way he could truly let it out; with anger, happiness, sadness..he really couldn’t convey his message through words or even actions. So it came as no surprise that he grew up to be emotionally void. He hated long conversations, idle chit chat and being around people that didn’t match his energy. Even with his own friends, he can only take them in small increments.

it wasn’t until he met (y/n) that he finally had someone who understood him. Somebody that, despite all that you had been through always smiled and done what you could to help him do the same. Even on your first official date, you ran barefoot across the beach at night, hand in hand because you’d never been allowed to do that as a kid. You didn’t care who saw or how you looked, you were happy as could be. Ironic considering that most of the girls from Instagram were so snobby and stuck up, all they could do was stand in the club with scowls on their faces. You on the other hand would dance around with him as if no one was watching. You didn’t judge him when he became upset that a project wasn’t working out in his favor. You’d simply give him a hug, tell him to take a break and try it again. “Stop being so hard on yourself, okay? You can do this.” Always affirming and reassuring him. Even when the two of you would stay up having late night talks and he’d confide in you about aspects of his life that no one else knew. About things he had to go through to get where he was or how he sometimes felt like he wasn’t enough. You’d notice the faintest hint of sadness in his tone or eyes and reach for his hand, holding it to comfort him. He’d never experienced the unconditional love that he’d heard people talking about until you came along. Beforehand, he felt as though nothing was left for him…he felt hollow and lonely. Wondering if anything existed for him outside of his raps and work. Now? He was free to loosen up, laugh and do everything that he’d missed out on while trying to make his dream a reality. Like going to the roller rink on Saturday night, skating along to some love song or going on late night drives and stargazing. Or even just cracking childish jokes on each other or playing little pranks. There’s never a moment where he’s not smiling when you’re around. He’s the happiest he’s ever been 🥹

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h0rnyauth0r · 1 year

Text

ghost gets really jealous of how touchy you and soap are, so he decides to show you who you belong to :)

dni if you’re super young!

word count: 1.8k

tws: reader w/ vagina, unprotected sex, cumming inside, possessiveness and jealousy, pussy eating, fingering

you’ve never had bad intentions towards ghost and soap’s friendship. in fact, you love how they get along well despite ghost pretending to dislike the scottish man.

with soap, your heart has never been in a place that expands past friendship, but you will admit that you and him are very affectionate with one another.

it’s mostly because ghost is hardly ever affectionate with you, and from what is obvious he’s not too mad about it. openly, that is.

you began noticing it in small increments, the glare usually sent towards enemies in battle being delivered to soap. you asked, but were told that it’s not anything to be concerned with.

it faltered your normal routine for a time, deciding to be less touchy with the other man. but you still enjoyed laying against him from time to time during movie nights or any sort of free time.

all in all, things got better after that. and here you are in the present, the feeling of ghost’s hand barely touching your own as you stand in the training area.

your eyes are gazing down at where your hands meet, a tiny smile grazing your lips as you teasingly squeeze one of his gloved fingers. he grunts and looks to you, cold heart melting at the sight of your happiness.

it doesn’t last though. the moment, in his eyes, is ruined once soap comes in and it’s time for your sparring session. he knew you’d planned it and he’s spent several hours dreading it.

you hardly notice his anger though, approaching your friend and letting his hand go in the process. you walk up to soap with a grin, giving him a small hug before deciding to pull back.

“you ready to eat the floor?” you ask teasingly, preparing yourself and overhearing the loud laugh that escapes his lips.

“why are you speakin’ to yourself?” he asks you obnoxiously, your eyes finally meeting as your session begins.

the two of you struggle for a time, his legs trying their hardest to find an opening to knock you down. his arms reach out and try to restrain you but you’re able to dodge and avoid his moments fluidly, smirking at him as you watch him grow more and more tired.

as he tries finding another opening, you kick his feet out from underneath him and send him down onto the floor with an ‘oof’. he looks pissed as he quickly gets back up, grasping onto your arm and quickly lifting and smashing you into the padded flooring.

you roll your eyes as you get back up, backing away as his arms reach out to touch you and tripping on your own foot for a moment. you find your footing once more, reaching your foot out and smashing into his ankle.

his hands grasp onto you and you both end up tumbling down onto the floor, awkwardly sitting on top of him as you burst out laughing. your thighs are around his waist as he looks up at you and shakes his head.

“guess you-”

you feel a hand lift the fabric of your shirt up, causing your body to raise off of soap’s. you look and notice ghost glaring heavily at you, feeling his arm grasp onto your waist tightly as he pushes you into a walk.

you decide not to say anything as he leads you out of the sparring room, down the narrow hallway, and into a random room with nothing but a desk left in it.

he slams your body against the desk and stares down at you disappointedly, hands clenched into fists. you raise an eyebrow, not quite understanding what the issue seems to be.

“what’s your problem?” you ask him, hearing him suck in a deep breath as he continues to glare at you. he’s practically shaking in anger, not knowing how he’s supposed to react in the moment.

“my problem? you’re an attention whore, you need to be reminded that you’re taken.” he says in a low tone, stepping towards you and slipping a hand around your neck.

your lip quivers as you struggle to maintain your confidence. the way he squeezes down, sending flames to your core. you clench your jaw though, refusing to give in so easily.

he notices this and his eyes narrow, pushing your body into the metal desk. it’s cold against your back and you shiver, noticing the way he leans in close to you.

you can feel his breath against your lips through his mask, the desire to feel his lips on yours beginning to bubble up. he’s feeling your body up as he stays close to you, listening to every small noise and sharp breath that escapes your lips.

when his hands find your breasts and squeeze softly, eventually tugging at your sensitive nipples and causing you to gasp out a tiny moan. you hear him let out a satisfied grunt, hands detaching from your tits and moving lower.

as his hand cups your core, he finally decides to speak up. “this? is mine. got it?” you feel your face burning hot as you nod, panties officially soaked with your arousal.

he shakes his head as you, hand moving as he backs away. “use your words, love.”

“i’m yours, simon.” you say quietly, feeling your heart beat harsh as he decides to lift your body up, placing your hips onto the desk. his eyes are full of lust, hands tugging at and successfully removing your pants and panties.

you feel exposed as he forces your legs open, dropping to his knees and looking up at you from in between your thighs. “close your eyes.”

you immediately squeeze them shut, leaning your head back as an extra measure out of fear of somehow seeing him with closed eyes. after moments of fabric moving about, you feel his soft lips brush against your thigh.

he leaves a trail of kisses up your thigh, noticing the way your hips twitch once his breath hits your drooling cunt. the anticipation kills you as he blows gently at your skin, biting back a pathetic moan.

when his tongue finally reaches out and licks a stripe up your folds, you gasp out and grasp onto the desk. his tongue begins lapping against your clit in fluid motions, a single finger circling your dripping hole.

it enters as his lips and mouth move against your clit, your eyes rolling back as you moan out his name. you decide to reach out for him, fingers curling into his hair and tugging as you push your hips against his face.

he moans against you as you tug on his hair, which sends you reeling as you choke out another moan from the vibrations. you’re struggling to breathe from the pleasure, toes curling as your peak begins building up quickly.

when his lips begin sucking on your clit, you know you’re going to cum fast. the pressure built up in your stomach is only intensifying as he curls his fingers that have been inside of you.

“i’m gonna cum.” you say softly, moaning out afterwards and feeling his movements quicken.

when you cum, your toes curl and your hips desperately grind against his face as your mouth falls open in pleasure. your moans are probably loud enough for others to hear but you couldn’t care any less in the moment.

once you come down from your high, you keep your eyes closed and feel his mouth pull away from you, fingers pulling out with a squelching noise. you’ve just had an orgasm, but your thighs are already rubbing together for friction as you hear him tug at his belt.

when his cock strokes your folds, your body jumps a little but you still find yourself chewing on your bottom lip. the tip hits against your clit and you’re already dripping again as you moan out, feeling him move it up and down.

he falters for a moment, and you’re about to ask why when his lips meet your own. as his lips move against yours, he pushes his cock into you slowly. the stretch makes you cry out against his lips, thighs squeezing against his hips.

as he bottoms out, you can feel the tip against your cervix. it’s almost painful, but so good. his hips pull back and slam back in, making you grunt as his tongue slips into your mouth and caresses your own.

eventually he pulls back from your mouth, his mask sliding back over his face. “look at me.” he says in a gruff voice, hips moving against yours at a slow but rough pace.

you do, opening your eyes a bit hesitantly before staring into his. they’re barely open, filled with so much emotion as his speed picks up, “you’re mine.”

you nod along to his words, eyes rolling back when his cock hits deep inside of you. “fuck- all yours.” you cry out, pushing against him desperately as your second orgasm begins to approach.

“he could never make you feel this good.”

as his speed picks up, you’re nodding again. “never, nobody could.” you say, the sounds of your sex echoing off of the walls and filling your ears intensely.

one of his hands, formerly resting on your hip, reaches for your throat and squeezes softly as he pushes up against you more. you can feel yourself ready to tip over the edge, getting ready to speak but not feeling able to.

his fingers start circling on your clit fast and rough, “cum on my cock.” he growls out, having noticed the sensation of your walls fluttering against him.

you cum again, much more intense than the first as your walls pulse against his thick cock. tears are streaming down your face from the overstimulation, gasping and moaning as his cock completely wrecks your guts.

he knows he’s going to cum soon, feeling his own movements falter against the clenching of your pussy against him. it feels so fucking good as he fucks into you more roughly, loud slapping sounds now echoing harder than before.

“gonna fill you up.”

his words send heat up your spine, nodding along. “please cum in me. i’m yours, simon.”

your words tip him over the edge, cock twitching and releasing inside of you. you can feel the warmth of it as he fills you up, biting your bottom lip from the feeling.

his hips come to a slow stop, his breathing heavy as he pulls out. his cum drips out of you and onto the desk below, your thighs shaking as you try to relax and adjust yourself so you’re more comfortable.

“simon…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“i just don’t like how close you and johnny are sometimes. i’m not very physical, but i’d rather you come to me than him for that kind of stuff.” his voice is soft as he grabs onto one of your hands.

you smile at him. “you could’ve just said so. not that i’m complaining about us fucking or anything.”

before either of you can comment, you hear footsteps walking down the hallway and a concerned soap calling out your name.

talk can be done later, but now you’ll need to quickly get dressed.

taglist: @kovieky

#ghost x reader smut #ghost smut #ghost x reader #ghost #cod smut #cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty smut #call of duty #x reader #female reader #smut

2K notes · View notes

jahayla-parker · 4 months

Text

Closure : Kaz Brekker x Reader

Description: 5.7k wc, Kaz’s wife seeks help from Nina to allow Kaz to get some closure surrounding Jordie’s death. Hurt-comfort, fluff, slight angst (turned fluff), healing.

Warnings: typical Six of Crows and Grishaverse warnings, mentions of death and funerals and related topics, mentions of trauma and injuries, etc. Again, typical SoC warnings.

Out of the corner of her eyes, y/n watched Kaz closely. She could tell her husband was trying to act as if it wasn’t impacting him. But y/n knew better. She could see the distant look in his eyes as he tried to focus on the numbers for the Crow Club’s books.

Kaz owned his family’s farm back in Lij; under an alias, of course. He’d always had eyes on the land even while he stayed in the Barrel. But once y/n was informed of the existence of the property, she had begun to take the occasional trip to the area to check on it for herself/themselves rather than relying on Kaz’s intel. Y/n often did these trips as part of a journey to visit the other crows. Y/n would always update Kaz to the state of the property once she returned home. Over time, she also began tending to the land in small increments; planting the seeds from Kaz for her favorite flower in the planter boxes she bought from a market in Ketterdam, sweeping the wind blown debris from the rooms of the little house on the property, etc.

Kaz had made the occasional trip back as well, but primarily relied on y/n’s detailed descriptions, stories, and analysis of their place in Lij. It was hard for him to go back; for many reasons. But, he couldn’t deny he missed it. He also couldn’t -though he certainly tried- ignore the way he felt when he and y/n were on the farm in Lij. It was uncomfortable in the sense that it was unfamiliar. But it was otherwise peaceful and homely. Not that it mattered. Kaz’s life was here; in Ketterdam, in the Barrel.

The couple had talked about moving at some point, but the conversation would always fade out when it came to what they’d be leaving behind. While most of their closest friends had all parted from the Barrel and Ketterdam entirely, there was still something -or someone- they’d be leaving behind. Jordie. Kaz’s late older brother who was resting under the cold harbor of Ketterdam.

While Kaz felt guilty for not being able to leave the area, he knew y/n more than understood his reasoning. Yet, that didn’t stop him from having to face his racing thoughts on the matter tonight. He felt as if his head was spinning. He wanted to offer his wife a comfortable life, a life in his childhood town, where she would be safe and free to do as she wished, where he might be able to put his past behind him. After all, he’d gotten his vengeance on Rollins. The only thing keeping Kaz here in the grungy streets of the Barrel -other than the easy influx of Kruge, which he could surely find a way to continue if he left- was his brother. It was foolish. Jordie was dead. He’d died long ago and he wasn’t coming back. Kaz’s staying here wouldn’t change that. Yet it felt wrong to leave the place his brother was, even if it was the same place that had taken that brother from him.

“I’m off to see Mila Jandersdat,” y/n said, breaking the silence.

Kaz smirked at the unnecessary use of Nina’s undercover name. “Is that so?” “Well, tell Ms. Jandersdat that she still owes me a new hat,” he commented lightly, referencing the one the Grisha had stolen on her last departure from Ketterdam.

Y/n laughed. “I’ll be sure to let the Fjerdan Prince know that their spouse is still indebted to you,” she teased, leaning down. Upon noticing Kaz didn’t react in a way that told her stop, she placed a kiss to his cheek.

Kaz looked up from his desk as y/n turned to move towards the door. He grabbed her hands in his bare ones. “Take my coat,” he instructed.

“It’s not that co-” y/n protested futilely.

“Take my coat,” Kaz echoed.

Y/n huffed lightly but nodded. “I’ll be back after the bakery, you’ll sure you don’t want to join?” She waited patiently for Kaz to answer. For the first time ever when asking that question, she actually hoped he’d say no. He usually did, and she hoped that was the case again today as she wanted to talk to Nina alone.

Kaz rewarded y/n’s kindness with a small but appreciative smile. He shook his head. “The ledger needs work,” he mumbled vaguely. In reality, he was just too in-his-head to handle anything else. He squeezed his wife’s hands faintly as he watched her depart.

Y/n swallowed another sip of her lemonade as she prepared to switch the tone of the visit she was having with Nina. She’d let her friend catch her up on everything she had done since they last saw each other. But now, y/n needed to ask her for a favor. “Okay, so…,” y/n began with an audible shift in her tone.

“Mmm?” Nina questioned knowingly as she glanced up from her plate.

“I need a favor,” y/n explained cautiously. She bit her lip as she waited for Nina’s reaction.

Nina sighed. “I don’t do Brekker favors anymore,” she reminded y/n.

“He’s not asking, I am,” y/n clarified. “Although he does want his hat back, or a new one in place of it,” she added to break the tension.

Nina laughed loudly. “Okay, if it’s for you, sure,” she accepted.

“I haven’t even asked,” y/n pointed out, “you don’t know what it is I’m asking you to do”.

“Doesn’t matter,” Nina winked.

Y/n giggled and shook her head with a timid smile gracing her lips.

“What is it?” Nina questioned, taking another bite of her cinnamon waffle.

“It involves your newly acquired skill set,” y/n mumbled quietly.

“Go on,” Nina urged, waving her fork at her friend.

Y/n bit her lip nervously and sighed. “I need nothing more than help to locate someone…” she explained, hoping to minimize the weight of her request.

“Someone deceased,” Nina clarified knowingly.

“Yes,” y/n acknowledged.

“Why?” The Grisha questioned as she swallowed another large bite.

“Closure…” y/n explained vaguely. She knew Kaz was needlessly embarrassed that he didn’t even know the exact placement of his late brother’s body in Ketterdam. Y/n had once suggested he visit Jordie to help him heal, even if he didn’t believe that kind of thing. Only, that was when she learned how deep Kaz’s guilt went. He didn’t know Jordie’s exact location and he blamed himself for that.

Y/n didn’t feel like she was crossing any boundaries. Nina already knew of Kaz’s brother; they all did by now. Plus, Y/n had asked Kaz before if he would want to know where Jordie was. In doing so, she learned he did want to know, just hadn’t initiated the process; an area where he often needed a push or assistance with.

It didn’t take long for y/n to explain to Nina what she needed from her. Nor did it take long for Nina to put her new skills to work in locating Jordie’s body. Y/n had of course gone with her, and she was pleased Kaz didn’t have to experience that part. While Nina’s skills were impressive, they were also a bit disturbing when you knew the deceased person she was calling out to. Nevertheless, Nina succeeded. Meaning y/n could now offer her husband the chance for more closure when it came to his past.

Y/n and Kaz were donned in matching black overcoats, walking with their elbow linked, as they made their way through the streets of the Barrel. Y/n had informed her husband of her discovery and offered for him to go alone or for her to go with him, leaving it up to him. Kaz didn’t directly ask her to go with him, but he made it clear that was what he wanted. So, the couple had departed from the Crow Club and were now watching as people parted to make way for the Barrel’s most powerful couple.

Y/n silently waited beside Kaz as he stood staring out at the water in the exact place Nina stated she located Jordie. It was clear he was trying not to get emotional, his eyes twinkling as he fought back tears. “You don’t have to do this,” y/n whispered supportively, “or we can break it up, I just thought maybe-”.

“No, it’s fine,” Kaz muttered shortly. After a few seconds of silence, he sighed. “You…” he began, trying to find a way to properly thank y/n for bringing him this chance. “I need to do this,” he admitted. “I should’ve years ago”.

Y/n shook her head. “That’s not how this works,” she defended.

The tears slowly trickling down Kaz’s face softened the intense sensation of drowning that filled his chest as he stared silently at the water where Jordie’s body allegedly was. The flashbacks that played in his mind were powerful, but less severe than they had been when he first started getting them years ago. And the now-comforting feeling of y/n’s hand in his kept him tethered to reality, to the moment; keeping him from succumbing to the feeling of drowning.

Y/n watched as Kaz kept his eyes closed for awhile. She didn’t say a word. She just watched his facial expression, listened to his breathing pattern, and kept a close eye on his overall state.

When he was done standing on the shore before his brother’s sunken body, Kaz turned to his wife. “Thank you,” he whispered shakily to her.

“Course,” y/n said, squeezing Kaz’s hand. She could tell he was still fighting off the rising water in his chest so she moved her hand to his jacket-covered elbow. “Let’s get you home,” she suggested warmly as she guided them back to the Slat.

“Th-” Kaz cleared his throat as he looked up from his dresser to make eye contact with y/n through the mirror. “Thank you,” he whispered gruffly. He took a long deep breath before adding, “for having me go”.

“Of course,” y/n hummed softly. She watched Kaz’s facial expressions in the mirror as she pushed her boots off with her feet. “So, it helped then?” She asked, trying to confirm she’d read through his faux stoic expression properly.

Kaz shifted his gaze back to his dresser as he stripped his outer layers off. “I know he’s gone,” he stated simply. But, his shoulders loosened and lowered as he nodded slowly. “But… yes, it did.”

“I’m glad,” y/n said and smiled tenderly as she crawled into their bed. She scooted under the covers as she analyzed Kaz as he prepared for the night. She could see that while it would still take time, today’s adventure had initiated a healing journey that hadn’t truly begun before now.

“You can tell Ms. Jandersdat that I don’t need a new hat,” Kaz mumbled as he approached the bed. He noticed y/n’s grin and small chuckle. He smirked and took a deep breath before he carefully slid into his side of the bed. “Goodnight, y/n/n,” he whispered as he uncharacteristically let his left hand cross the space between them under the sheets and rest atop y/N’s.

Y/n sighed as she searched the last possible place in the Slat that Kaz might have been. She’d already searched the Crow Club before she headed here. Yet, she still hadn’t located him. As she thought about where else her husband might have snuck off to, she thought back through what had transpired in the first place.

They had been sitting together in Kaz’s office this evening when he got word that there’d been an incident. One of his lead Dregs had informed him that this young orphan boy had somehow managed to find himself getting mixed up with Kaz’s crew. He hadn’t reacted well. The young orphan would be fine, but Kaz had set clear rules for his Dregs and this was a violation. He had stormed off to chew out his crew over the mistake. Y/n had been beside him as he lashed out at the Dregs and informed them of the sanctions for such an incident. Meaning she was there when he announced that as part of their consequences he was going to be taking their wages for the week. He’d grumbly whispered to her as he requested that she take the sum of their wages and ensure the boy’s hospital stay was paid for (and give him the remainder as compensation). When y/n had returned from doing so, she noticed Kaz’s disappearance.

Y/n knew as soon as they heard of the incident what Kaz would feel and how he’d react. She also knew why. The situation was far too familiar and personal for him. So, it hadn’t surprised her when he was not in the Slat nor the Crow Club when she arrived. However, it wasn’t until she remembered his behavior over the last several weeks that she realized where he must be.

Y/n buttoned her coat as she made her way to the harbor. She knew Kaz had to be there. It made sense when she recalled how often he’d been coming here since the day two months ago when she and Nina located Jordie. She had made a makeshift generic headstone (knowing Kaz wouldn’t want people to know the meaning or significance of the place much less connecting it to him) for the site so that if Kaz wished to return on his own he could do so easily; even if he was distracted by the emotional turmoil in his mind upon doing so. She and Kaz had went to the site together multiple times. And in the last few weeks he’d even gone by himself. It would make sense that today’s triggers would bring him back to the site that he now found some kind of connection and healing at.

Y/n saw him instantly. It didn’t matter that Ketterdam was pitch black at his hour and that Kaz was dressed head to toe in coal black clothing. She’d recognize Kaz’s silhouette and shadow no matter what. She watched him closely as she approached. He’d been getting better at opening up to her and even to himself since first coming here. But there was only so much he could do while staying stoic and keeping up his menacing image for the public. So it was no surprise that even tonight he was still keeping a wall up. He was shaking slightly, his breathing sharp and fists clenched. She could see he was still furious over what had happened, but the shine of the moon highlighted the fact his eyes were more moist than normal. It was progress, he was letting himself grieve finally. She debated about whether to approach or just say back and let him have his space. But, before she could determine what the best option was, Kaz answered it for her.

“You do not need to spy on your husband from the shadows,” Kaz muttered, his fists unraveling as he pictured the bashful expression that was likely gracing y/n’s face over his teasing comment. His back was to her as he stayed looking out at the harbor, but he heard her approaching. He extended the hand not holding his cane to the side, taking hold of her hand when she reached him. His eyes flickered over at her as he quickly scanned her to ensure she was dressed properly for the cold weather and had brought her weapon with her. After his eyes took in that she was wearing the thick winter coat he’d gotten her last year, long pants, boots, and saw the outline of her weapon in her coat pocket, he let out a silent sigh of relief. “It was a joke,” Kaz muttered as he watched y/n’s face.

“What?” Y/n questioned, her head turning to face Kaz.

“My comment, when you arrived,” Kaz explained. “It was a joke”. He squeezed her hand as he interlaced their fingers. “I mean, you don’t have to spy, but-”

“I wasn’t spying,” y/n argued.

Kaz lifted his brows teasingly as he gazed knowingly at y/n.

Y/n chuckled and shook her head. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be alone,” she explained.

Kaz hummed. “I always want to be alone,” he admitted, looking back at the water. “Especially when… feeling like… well… feeling,” he simplified. He shook his head as his gaze returned to his wife’s presence. “Unless it’s you,” Kaz confessed, his cold cheeks thawing briefly as he blushed madly.

Y/n grinned at Kaz and squeezed his hand. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised. It was an indirect vow to fight off any uncertainty on how to proceed when Kaz was dealing with something. But, they both knew what it meant. Kaz was healing, he was being more open and honest, more needing of and seeking out his wife’s love and support when he needed it instead of shutting down and trying to push her away.

“What do you think would help you get closure?” Y/n questioned once she saw the faint calmness take over Kaz’s face.

“This helped,” Kaz admitted, referred to y/n having gotten Nina to help find Jordie’s body.

“I know, I can see it,” y/n hummed as she tenderly smiled over at Kaz. “And, I’m glad”. Y/n rubbed her thumb over the back of Kaz’s hand. “I know you don’t have faith or a religious belief of any kind, but,” she hesitated briefly, continuing only as Kaz squeezed her hand, “do you think a burial might help?”

“What?” Kaz croaked out in confusion and shock. He wasn’t sure what he expected y/n to say as a possible solution. But, he’d never anticipated that.

“Burying him,-” y/n began cautiously.

Kaz stiffened as he glared out at the water before them. “He is buried,” he pointed out.

“Right, yeah, no I know, Kaz,” y/n agreed sympathetically. “But, you hate the harbor, and well, water,” she frowned, “even outside of this, it’s distressing for you”. She sighed as she gazed out at the water as well. “So I thought maybe… I’d suggest that you think about an underground burial for him”. Y/n knowingly moved her hand around in Kaz’s hold when he tensed so that he wouldn’t feel as if he was holding a cold & stiff hand. “You’d still have a place to visit him, and-” she explained slowly.

“I can’t,” Kaz told y/n, cutting her off.

Y/n analyzed her husband’s face as she thought over her next words. “You wouldn’t have to see anything,” she promised. She knew he’d never admit such a vulnerability out loud while they were out in the public, but she knew it was likely one of his hesitations; Kaz already had Jordie’s dead body engraved in his mind, he didn’t need to see it again. “It would be done in secret, in the background, just Nina and I, we’d handle the-” y/n elaborated.

Kaz suddenly sharply turned to face y/n. His anxious eyes scanned her face as he tried to read if she was lying. “You’d do that?” He asked.

Y/n nodded affirmatively. “If you wanted, yes,” she promised. “I’m not expecting you to want to see, touch, or otherwise deal with any of this, Kaz”.

Kaz nodded slowly. He turned from y/n as he thought about her proposal. After a few moments of silence, he shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” y/n replied, squeezing Kaz’s hand. “That’s fine,” she assured him. “I knew you might not want to, I figured I’d offer but-”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want that,” Kaz spoke sharply. He closed his eyes painfully tight and sighed as he regretted his tone. His regret increased as he noticed the way his wife paused. Kaz took a deep but shaky breath before continuing. “It’s just…” he sighed, “Lij”.

“What about it?” Y/n questioned delicately as she scanned her husband’s profile.

Kaz’s eyes flickered off the water and towards his feet. He sighed and shook his head. “That’s where we should be.” He lifted his gaze up to meet y/N’s as he added, “you love the house and-”.

“Kaz,” y/n sighed.

Kaz shook his head softly, a silent signal for y/n to wait for him to explain before trying to confront him. “I want to be there too,” he confessed, watching his wife’s face for her reaction. “For us to be there. Together.” He tried not to cringe at how broken his words were coming out. “Not just for a trip. But for our…h-ho-….” Kaz murmured in a hushed voice.

“Our home?” Y/n clarified. When Kaz nodded stiffly, she smiled softly. This too was a big step for him, in many ways. “I love that idea, you know that.”

Kaz broke his eye contact with y/n as she looked back out at the water. His face took on a saddened expression. “I can’t ignore what happened here or move on,” he said remorsefully.

“No one says you have to forget or ignore it,” y/n commented, squeezing Kaz’s slightly trembling hand. “If you wanted to do the burial,” she began carefully.

“If we did the burial,” Kaz sighed, “we’d still be stuck here or I’d have to come back”. He shook his head. “I mean not have to, but-”.

“Kaz,” y/n spoke tenderly in order to stop his rambling. “He could come with us,” she suggested.

“What?” Kaz whispered.

Y/n rubbed the back of Kaz’s hand with her thumb. “Nina and I could get him back to Lij,” she offered. “He could have a proper burial”. She hesitated but continued with her thought, “a funeral even”.

“No mourners, no-” Kaz griped.

“Kaz,” y/n giggled lightly. She smiled faintly as her giggle made Kaz’s lip curl. “This is different,” she explained.

“No funeral,” Kaz replied firmly. Despite his gruff voice, he squeezed his wife’s hand as a silent thank you for the offer.

“Okay,” y/n accepted easily.

“But…” Kaz trailed off.

“But?” Y/n pressed gently.

Kaz took a deep breath and sighed. “Perhaps.. I do owe it to him,” he began slowly. “To finally get him out of these waters”.

“Kaz-” y/n frowned.

Kaz sighed but nonetheless accepted y/n’s unspoken response. He revised his wording as he knew why he was being scolded. “I owe it to him… to let him rest,” he rephrased quietly. “Even if just his body”.

Y/n’s lips curled minutely. “Okay,” she nodded. “We can arrange that”.

Kaz’s grip on y/n’s hand tightened unconsciously as he thought about the arrangement more. “I don’t…. I can’t see his-” he mumbled.

“You won’t,” y/n promised. She knew he meant he couldn’t face seeing his late brother’s body. And she had never intended for him to. It was an easy promise. She and Nina would get Jordie to Lij for Kaz without Kaz having to be further traumatized in the process.

Y/n’s eyes flickered between the wooden door that lead down to the cabin of Inej’s ship and the wooden casket that was being loaded on board.

Everything from their home was already packed and ready to depart via Inej’s ship to travel to the other end of Kerch; to Lij. Everything but Jodie. Y/n had sequestered her husband Kaz below deck with Wylan and Jesper to keep him company. Meanwhile, Nina, Inej, and several clueless Dregs, loaded Jordie’s coffin onto the ship. The engraved dark mahogany casket with elaborate metal hinges and personalized engraved metallic plating that was now encasing and hiding Jordie’s body had been made by Jesper and Wylan at y/n’s request. She and Nina had seen to getting Jordie’s body from the harbor to the casket undetected. Well, Nina managed Jordie’s body and ensured there was no lingering contagion nor decaying smell. While y/n had been on lookout in the immediate vicinity of the scene. And now Inej was helping them transport the unlabeled casket to Lij. It had been a full team effort and y/n was beyond grateful that her friends were so willing to help her with this.

Once the casket was secured, hidden from sight, and covered with a weather proof sheet, Y/n dismissed the clueless Dregs. She thanked the girls as she made her way down to the cabin below deck. She gave Kaz a small supportive smile in greeting as his eyes snapped towards her upon hearing her enter. She made her way over to the boys and sat down beside Kaz.

Kaz watched y/n fight her visible exhaustion as their friends chatted about their respective experiences in their new lives. He stared expectantly at her profile, waiting for her to glance his way in a silent question as to if she could rest against him. Only, she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, Kaz watched her eyes blink at an absurdly slow pace as she tried to fight a yawn. He stifled a chuckle, the suppressed desire to grin showing up as a faint smirk. He shook his head and nudged y/n. Kaz gave her a knowing look, pleased when she quickly comprehended his request and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Ready to give all this up?” Y/n asked in a whisper as her friends listened to Inej informing them of her latest adventures.

Kaz seemed to falter in shock. But, as he looked over at his wife, he nodded confidently. A smirk graced his lips as he murmured, “I’m always ready”.

Y/n giggled and playfully rolled her eyes. She leaned into his shoulder further as she smiled around at their friends. “Hey guys,” she whispered, quietly interrupting the conversation. When they turned to face her, she was greeted with several grins and knowing smirks given her current positioning with Kaz. “Thank you all for coming to help us move,” y/n hummed.

“You both helped us during ours,” Wylan commented with a smile.

“Well, y/n did,” Jesper corrected smugly, “Kaz just stood around”.

Kaz shot Jesper a light glare. “I was supervising,” he stated.

Y/n laughed loudly, covering her mouth with her hand when Kaz’s gaze snapped down at her questioningly. She giggled behind her hand as she tried to stifle her laughter. She lowered her hand and gave Kaz an innocent grin, making the corners of his lips curl up as he playfully shook his head at her.

———

Y/n made her way back down to the lower deck of Inej’s ship. She’d just gotten back from checking on the burial site. Earlier she’d arranged for one of the workers who’d been tending to the farm while they were away due a grave site prior to the crows’ arrival. Y/n had ensured that it was completed and was now returning to her husband as he waited below deck.

Y/n’s eyes met Kaz’s and she then glanced arrived the room in silent communication with him. She watched as Kaz nodded in understanding and acceptance that the others in the room, namely Jesper, was going to hear whatever she was about to say. She nodded back and walked to his side. “He’s in a casket, Kaz,” she explained tenderly. Y/n spared a look at Kaz’s hands and realized he must’ve caught on to her uncertainty as he randomly flipped his palm up and extended his hand towards her. She gave him a small smile and took his hand in hers. “We’re going to move him to the burial site,” she explained slowly, rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. Y/n had a feeling she knew the answer to her question, but she didn’t want to not offer him the chance. “Did you want to come up and,-?” She began quietly.

“No,” Kaz replied stiffly as his body tensed.

“You don’t want to watch him go into,-” Jesper began to ask, not noticing the look y/n was giving him.

“No,” Kaz repeated gruffly. His hand tightened in y/n’s hold and he shifted his jaw. He managed a deep breath when her warm hand squeezed his lovingly.

“I know it’s hard,” Wylan said sympathetically. “But, it’s the only time-,” he argued, squinting in confusion at the realization y/n was shooting daggers at him.

“That’s enough,” y/n stated firmly. She shot her husband a subtle sympathetic look. She squeezed Kaz’s hand again, her thumb grazing the back of it as she went to move. She nodded her head at the others in signal for them to follow her.

———

“That was really beautiful, y/n,” Inej commented supportively as their group made their way back to the farmhouse.

Y/n smiled appreciatively at her friend. She and most of the other crows had all gone with her to help her bury Jordie’s casket and body. She intentionally buried him beside this one specific tree she recalled Kaz previously telling her a childhood story about. It was one of the few childhood memories Kaz actually had. While it was likely a story Jordie had passed down to Kaz, given Dirtyhands would’ve been too young to recall anything from his time here on his own, that almost made the location even more sentimental.

While y/n and the other crows respectfully buried Kaz’s late brother, Jesper had stayed behind to keep Kaz company. Not that Kaz would ever admit to needing or wanting such, even now. But his crows, his found family, knew him well enough.

As the group entered y/n and Kaz’s new home, Y/n greeted Jesper with the same appreciative grin she’d given the others after they helped with the burial. “Alright, so,” she murmured as her black boots echoed on the tiled flooring under her feet. “I say we unpack the bedroom stuff first?” Y/n asked, looking at her husband for his input, knowing Kaz wouldn’t want to talk about what she had just finished doing.

“That’s important,” Inej agreed, quickly picking up on y/n’s intentions.

“I’d say so,” Jesper smirked smugly as he winked over at the couple.

Y/n rolled her eyes. “Not like that, you degenerate,” she laughed. “I meant so that we would have something to sleep in. We can unpack over time but I kinda would like something to lay on,” she joked as she took her husband’s left hand in hers.

“Lay on… while wearing what?” Jesper teased as he wriggled his eyebrows.

Kaz used his unoccupied hand to smack Jesper upside the head as he also shot him a look.

“Whaaat?” Jesper whined as he held his head. He looked between y/n and Kaz as she parted from Kaz as she made her way over to the moving boxes.

“What do you mean what?!” Kaz remarked, his eyes scrutinizing his friend.

“Wylan doesn’t care,” Jesper defended, rubbing the back of his head. “He knows I’m joking,” he laughed with a shrug.

“I don’t care,” Kaz remarked simply as he waved the comment off dismissively. “Don’t talk about my wife like that,” he ordered. From his periphery, he saw the grin that formed on y/n’s face as the title ‘wife’ left his lips. But his scolding gaze never left Jesper.

Y/n walked back over to the bickering boys and rubbed Kaz’s back through his coat. “You heard him,” she said as she smirked at Jesper before she passed by them with a box in her hand.

“Y/n,” Jesper groaned loudly. “Help me out, it was a joke,” he whined with a dramatic pout.

“You’re on your own, Jes,” y/n chuckled from the hall.

Kaz continued to stare as Jesper turned back around hesitantly. He stifled a chuckle as the sharpshooter gave him a faux innocent expression. Kaz shook his head as he brushed past him on his way to help his wife with the boxes she had been carrying.

———

“If you keep smiling so much Brekker, you might erase your hard earned scowl lines,” Nina teased with a smug grin as she watched her friends who were snuggled up on the couch in their new place.

The group had all been making playful comments about how happy Kaz looked. But, it hadn’t caused the man to part from his wife’s side. Instead, he just teased them back or lightheartedly glared at the remarks throughout the evening.

As Kaz turned to face Zenik, his eyes caught sight of window and he realized that it was now after dusk. “On that note, I think you should be on your way,” he murmured.

“Kaz,” y/n scolded with a laugh. She shook her head and tugged on his arm she had linked with hers.

Kaz chuckled as he gazed down at his wife. “What?” He questioned with pretend confusion.

“He’s just playing coy, we know he loves us being here,” Nina winked. “But, we probably should head out before it gets too late,” she acknowledged.

Y/n smiled at their friends as they gathered just outside of her and Kaz’s front door for final goodbyes. She quickly parted from her place at her husband’s hip as she went to give everyone a hug. “Thank you all, again,” she smiled. “Please feel free to come visit, anytime,” y/n offered, returning to Kaz’s side.

Kaz gently set one of his hands on y/n’s far hip once she was back beside him. “But, write first,” he said stoically, despite the playful glint in his eyes. “Otherwise, you risk finding yourself staring down the wrong end of a barrel,” he warned.

“We know, we know,” Jesper smirked. He and Kaz exchanged knowing glances as the group all said they goodbyes.

———

Y/n watched from the window of their new home as Kaz sat beside Jordie’s burial site marker. If he’d visited before today, she hadn’t seen it. But, she was proud of him visiting the area after having only been here less than a week.

The tree and connected burial site were far enough away from the house that y/n had to squint to see much of anything from this far away. But she didn’t need to. She was simply proud he was finally allowing himself to grieve the loss of his brother after all this time.

Y/n wasn’t naive. She knew there still had a long way to go. That Kaz still had a lot to work through. She knew it might be difficult along the way but she was happy they were here. Kaz could now rest. He’d exacted his revenge on Pekka and now he’d helped his brother find rest back home. So, while they’ll still earned some income from the club, Kaz could finally have a life that wasn’t not so hard on his injured leg or traumatized mind; one where he could find closure and peace. And he deserved that.

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aurumacadicus · 16 days

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stony ficlet number ask 113

Steve dropped to the ground where he stood, shield clattering to the broken cement at his side. He was exhausted. He could fight for hours, but he really hated it. He couldn't tell if that was just physical, though. Sometimes the emotional toll was worse than the physical one, based on who they were fighting.

He heard the whirr of repulsors, the dull clank of metal hitting the ground and the whirring of the gears of armor whining under the effort of movement. Steve sucked in a deep breath, then blew it out through his lips slowly, tipping his head back so he could catch sight of Tony in the armor.

"How are you feeling?" Tony asked, flipping his mask up. "You're sitting down. That bad, huh?"

Steve managed a faint smile. "Oh, I don't know. I was thinking I might lie down and die for about a half an hour, okay?"

"Oof," Tony answered, unable to keep from wincing at least a little bit. It seemed like it was instinct, though, rather than actual worry. He stepped a little closer, left leg giving an alarming little squeak with each step. "Well, as long as it's only a half an hour. Anything longer and I'd just take a nap in the armor."

"Absolutely not," Steve retorted. Sure, the armor could cradle his body and keep it safe, but sleeping upright was difficult on the body. Tony smiled, mischievous and sweet all at once, and Steve couldn't help but smile back, smitten. He motioned at Tony's leg. "Something is squeaking."

Tony flipped his face plate shut, and Steve took a moment to just take him in, watch how the armor shifted in minute increments to test every bolt and joint. It was always a marvel to see. Tony had designed the armor all by himself, had checked every piece with his own hands. He was so incredibly smart. So incredibly clever.

"Quick fix once we get home," Tony said, face plate popping back open. His hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, and there was a little swelling on his left cheek. It would probably bruise. But his eyes were bright at the idea of tinkering with the armor later, and his smile was wide with pleasure at his armor having worked with only a small malfunction.

So incredibly beautiful, Steve sighed, leaning his chin on his hand.

"Well, I'm hungry, so finish being dead, and--what?" Tony asked when he noticed the way Steve was staring at him. He blinked, lifting a gauntleted hand to his face. "I didn't get more than a glancing blow to the face, is it bad? It doesn't feel bad, I--"

"It's so unfair that you can still be so handsome after a fight," Steve said, trying to sound like he was complaining, but he could feel the goofy smile crossing his face. "I think I should kiss you all over."

Tony let out a surprised little huff, eyes crinkling with amusement. "Well, that could be arranged, maybe, after you eat something."

"You?" Steve asked hopefully.

"Maybe something with more carbs," Tony suggested instead, holding his hand out to him.

Steve took it, forcing himself not to drag Tony down for a kiss. He'd learned his lesson the last time when he'd lunged up and gotten cut by the edge of the face plate. But once it was removed, he was kissing Tony wherever he could reach.

#aurumacadicus answers #ravynfyre #1-161 stony ficlet challenge #stony

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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year

Text

Read Supportive Uncle Wayne Series Part 1 first :)

————————————————————————

Eddie and Steve slept for hours, while Wayne sat waiting. He kept a few crossword puzzles by his designated chair for the times he sat with Eddie, but this time, he couldn’t focus on anything but the way Steve and Eddie kept moving closer to each other in small ways in their sleep.

He’d considered waking Steve up a few times just so he didn’t have to watch his back and neck bend at such an impossible angle.

But god, he was resting.

Wayne wasn’t interrupting any sleep that boy got.

But he watched them both curl into each other incrementally, barely moving, yet always closer together every time Wayne looked at them.

Steve’s face was almost completely buried against Eddie’s “good” hip. If you asked Wayne, he didn’t have a good hip, he just had less stitches on one side.

Eddie’s right hand was placed in Steve’s on the bed, and his left hand was holding onto Steve’s hair for dear life. Like if he let go, Steve would disappear entirely.

From what Wayne knew of Steve so far, he wouldn’t be going anywhere unless he was physically forced.

Eddie’s body was relaxed, the drugs constantly flowing through the IV probably keeping him from experiencing any major pain. He had more stitches in his body than a sweater, and Wayne had no idea how he would heal physically or mentally from any of what happened.

But Wayne was honestly more worried for Steve.

Steve, the boy who had been exhausted since he was a small child, the boy who had refused medical care to make sure Eddie wasn’t alone or scared, the boy always secretly ready to let someone down.

He knew Richard Harrington. He knew how much of a showboat he was, how he never did anything unless it benefitted him personally or led to financial gain. Wayne even remembered shortly after Steve was born, he took an ad in the newspaper for a nanny who was willing to work ‘most days of the week and some nights, minimum wage, cooking and cleaning expected.’ Within a week, Richard and his wife Anne, were gone more than they were home.

Wayne wasn’t much for socializing or he probably would have caught Steve out and about with the nanny often. God knows Richard and Anne weren’t going to run errands.

But looking at the young adult in front of him, he had to think maybe it was a good thing Richard didn’t dig his claws in too deep. He knew if he had, Eddie would have been sitting alone right now, and Steve would be at some Ivy League college becoming something he didn’t even realize he didn’t want until it was too late.

Eddie visibly tensed, his body suddenly going rigid.

Steve was awake and fretting over Eddie before Wayne could even stand up from his chair.

“What hurts? Is it your side? I was hurting you wasn’t I? I’m sorry, Eds, really. I didn’t…”

“Steve. Please shut up. I wanted you there.”

Wayne noticed when Eddie spoke, his voice was raspy from disuse. He was still tense, but he was forcing a smile for Steve’s sake.

Wayne wasn’t having that. No matter how much Steve cared about Eddie, and Eddie cared about Steve, he wasn’t about to let either of them lie about their health.

“I’ll go get the nurse.”

Steve and Eddie both turned to look at Wayne when he spoke, cheeks red with embarrassment.

“Oh, didn’t know you were here.”

Eddie was still forcing a smile, but now it was pointed at Wayne like he wouldn’t see how fake it was.

Like he didn’t know all of Eddie’s tells since he was 13 and trying to hide how scared he was about living with him.

Wayne didn’t respond, just left the room to grab Janet, who sat alone at the nurse’s station during calmer periods in the chaos.

He hurried back in while she got the doctor on staff to see that Steve was helping Eddie adjust himself a bit in bed.

“Damn bats, Jesus Christ!”

Eddie let out a loud yelp and Steve froze.

“What was that?”

“What wasn’t it at this point?”

Eddie was breathing heavily, and his heart monitor started beeping more frantically.

“Son, you need to sit still until the doctor gets in here.”

Wayne wasn’t about to watch him hurt himself more and it didn’t seem like Steve knew how to make it better or stop him on his own.

“My side hurts like this.”

“I think your side will hurt any which way you try to be.”

Steve placed a hand on Eddie’s cheek, gently turning his face so he was looking at only Steve.

“You can be still for a minute, right? For me?”

Wayne’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“Yeah.”

Wayne’s jaw was practically on the floor.

He’d been in charge of Eddie for 7 years and had never once been able to get him to listen the first time. Not a single time.

Before he could say anything, the doctor came in, followed by a handful of nurses, including Janet.

Janet sent him a smile, but hurried over to stand next to the doctor at Eddie’s bed.

“Well, Mr. Munson. You sure are lucky.”

“I’ll feel a lot luckier when I’m not in pain.”

“Where does it hurt?”

Eddie glared at the doctor. Steve glared at Eddie.

“Mostly my side. My chest hurts a little and my left hip and leg are sore.”

“Your left side is in pretty rough shape. You’ve got about 298 stitches holding you together.” The doctor checked his pupils and his heart rate before continuing. “Go ahead and start another morphine drip, same dose as before.”

The doctor turned to Wayne.

“He’s probably going to sleep the next dose off over the next 24 hours, so you can head home. We’ll call if he wakes up earlier.”

The doctor turned to Steve, deep frown on his face.

“You, too. He needs rest.”

Steve was refusing to make eye contact with anyone at this point and Wayne was almost certain he knew why.

Steve’s father wasn’t known for being a particularly kind or loving man. One wouldn’t have to think too hard to come to the conclusion that he was harder on his son than anyone else. The doctor was speaking to him in a way that would have made Wayne’s hackles rise for Eddie, and they did for Steve too.

“I think Steve should stay.”

Wayne wasn’t going to let either of his boys go without each other if it meant they’d get some sleep.

“We do recommend that Eddie have very limited visitors.”

“If I may,” Janet spoke up. “Steve’s been here the entire time and it hasn’t affected Eddie’s sleeping. We can’t be everywhere all the time so it would be nice for someone to stay with him and come get us if he wakes up again.”

The doctor gritted his teeth together but gave a single nod before exiting the room. Most of the nurses followed behind while Janet made herself busy playing with the buttons on Eddie’s IV pole.

“Thanks Janet. What’s that doctor’s problem?” Wayne asked as he made his way to the bed.

“He came in while you were downstairs and saw the um, sleeping arrangement. He wasn’t too fond of you seeming so close.”

“We can be more careful,” Eddie mumbled, body slowly relaxing into the bed.

“Or he can just deal with it,” Janet shrugged.

She sent a wink to Steve, then turned to Wayne.

“He should be feeling a lot better now. Right Eddie?”

“This is way better than the stuff I have.”

Wayne shook his head, but couldn’t help but smile at his nephew’s antics.

“I won’t ask questions I don’t want the answer to,” Janet said as she walked out of the room. She turned to wave and then closed the door to give them all some privacy.

Wayne looked down at Eddie.

He was so pale. He’d lost so much weight in the last week, and he barely had any to give to begin with. His hair was dirty and greasy, and despite Steve and Janet giving his face and arms a wipe down, he still had dirt under his nails.

Wayne didn’t know the details of what happened. They said it was earthquake related, but he knew better. He knew if this was just an earthquake, Steve wouldn’t have stood guard by his bed for days on end.

He was just glad Eddie was alive and awake.

He placed a hand on his right shoulder.

“I’m glad to hear your voice, kiddo.”

Eddie’s eyes were glassy and his smile was much brighter than before when he responded.

“Glad you hear my voice, too. Have you met Steve? He’s my boyfriend. Or maybe not? I want him to be though. Do you think he likes me?”

Wayne looked over at a bright red Steve, then smiled down at Eddie.

“I think he likes you a lot, kid. You get some rest. Steve will still be here when you wake up, alright?”

“You too?”

“Sure.”

So Wayne stayed, and Steve stayed. Wayne watched them both as Eddie slept.

Steve didn’t fall back asleep. He looked like he needed to, but any time his eyes started to slip shut, he shook his head and widened his eyes trying to fight it.

“Steve?”

“Yes, sir?”

Wayne watched as Steve’s body curled in on itself defensively.

“None of that. You can call me Wayne.” When Steve nodded, Wayne continued. “Whoever you are to Eddie, I hope you know you’ve got me, okay? I know Eddie must like ya a whole lot for him to say any of what he did regardless of the drugs in his system. And you must like him a whole lot to not leave his side this long. But you gotta get some rest, son.”

“I take naps in the chair sometimes.”

“A nap ain’t rest. Especially not if you’ve been through war.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m sure I shouldn’t know. But I been there. And I’m not lettin’ ya suffer the way I did when I came home.”

Steve’s eyes were watering and Wayne knew if he watched this boy cry, he’d be done for.

So when Steve’s first tear fell, Wayne got up and joined Steve on the other side of the bed, pulling him out of the chair and into his arms.

Steve was injured, and hadn’t had proper medical attention or pain medication, but he ignored it to fall apart in Wayne’s arms.

“That’s alright now. Let it out, son. Let it out.”

Wayne felt a tear fall down his own cheek. He couldn’t have possibly predicted this moment, but he knew he was meant to be in it.

He was meant to be here with Steve, providing something the boy needed for a long, long time.

He was meant to be someone for Steve the same way he was meant to be someone for Eddie.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #stranger things #ao3fic #headcanon #tumblr drabbles #part two #Wayne is a good uncle #and he’s officially adopted Steve

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