#a sprint but it was a good one look at him!!!

[rafecameronssl4t]

When in Charleston || Drew Starkey x fem!reader

Summary: you have a horrible encounter with one of Drew’s fans out in public.

Warnings: none!

Word count: 1,060

MASTERLIST

You and Drew stroll through the streets of Charleston, the cobblestones beneath your feet felt comforting and gave you a sense of familiarity. You had just arrived in South Carolina to support Drew whilst he was filming the next season of Outer Banks. Layla and Freddie, your lively dogs, bound ahead, their enthusiasm contagious as they sniff at every tree and shrub in their path.

Your arm was wrapped around Drew's waist as his arm rested around your shoulder making you closer to him as the two of you talked about anything and everything, just enjoying each other's company and the quietness of the street. Your peaceful stroll is interrupted when a young woman, probably in her early twenties, catches sight of Drew from across the street.

Her eyes light up with recognition, and she all but sprints towards you, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. You exchange a knowing glance with Drew—this isn’t your first encounter with a fan, and you’ve learned to take these moments in stride. “Hi, Drew!” she exclaims breathlessly, her excitement barely contained. Drew, ever the gentleman, offers her his signature warm smile. “Hey, how’s it going?” he asks, his tone friendly but measured.

The woman doesn’t seem to register his response, already fumbling with her phone. “Oh my god, can I take a picture with you?” she blurts out. Without so much as acknowledging your presence, the woman thrusts her phone into your hands. “Here, take this,” she says bluntly, her tone leaving little room for negotiation. The abruptness catches you off guard, and you hesitate for a moment before muttering, “Uh, okay.”

Drew’s eyebrows knit together slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face, though he masks it quickly. As you position the phone, the fan moves closer to Drew, looping her arm around his waist with a familiarity that makes your stomach tighten. Drew, ever respectful, keeps his hand hovering lightly on her back, his body language stiff. “Make sure it’s good,” she instructs sharply, glancing at you with a dismissive look before focusing all her attention back on Drew.

Drew shifts uncomfortably, clearly irritated by her lack of manners. Her tone is enough to make your cheeks burn, but you force a polite smile and frame the shot, snapping a couple of photos quickly. When you hand the phone back, she snatches it without so much as a “thank you,” her attention already fixed on the screen as she inspects the pictures. Satisfied, she offers Drew a quick, “Thanks!” before walking off, leaving you both standing there in an awkward silence.

Drew lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. “She seemed nice,” he mutters, his sarcasm biting. You can’t help but laugh, the tension easing slightly. “Yeah, a real sweetheart,” you reply dryly. “They’re not usually like that, trust me,” he says, his irritation still evident. “It’s fine,” you reply, brushing it off, though the encounter left a small sting. Drew notices, of course, because he always does.

Sliding his arm around your shoulders, he pulls you in closer. “Don’t let it get to you,” he says, his tone softening. Then, with a cheeky grin, he adds, “I didn’t even really smile in the photo. So, joke’s on her.” You can’t help but laugh again, his humour cutting through the awkwardness of the moment. That’s one of the things you love most about Drew—his ability to make you feel better, no matter what.

Later that evening, as the two of you relax at home with Layla and Freddie curled up on the couch, Drew pulls out his phone. Typically, his Instagram is a mix of work updates and occasional behind-the-scenes shots, but tonight, he decides to share something more personal.

drewstarkey

Liked by yourusername, madelyncline, brooke_starkey, oliviajade and 2,937,180 other

I don’t usually post things like this, but it feels important to say. I absolutely love meeting you all and am always so grateful for your support—it truly means the world to me. That said, let’s remember to approach these moments with kindness and respect, not just towards me but also to the people who are important in my life. Being demanding, shoving phones in someone’s hands, or disregarding others isn’t the way to go. Let’s keep these interactions positive and memorable for all the right reasons. Much love to every one of you!

view all comments

yourusername: 🐶❤

↘️ drewstarkey: love you!

madelyncline: Always so proud of you for standing up for yourself and the people you love. You and Y/n deserve all the respect. imu guys!

↘️ yourusername: miss you more 🥺

alexademie: preach.

hichasestokes: Couldn’t have said it better myself, brother. Love you and your crew! 🙌

user1: You shouldn’t even have to say this, but I’m glad you did. You and your loved ones deserve all the respect in the world 🫶

user2: I seriously don’t understand people who call themselves “fans” and do disrespectful shit like this

user3: Is this about the incident that happened today??

↘️ user4: yup. It’s all over Twitter and tiktok rn

↘️ user5: the “fan” is getting slandered so hard rn

user6: wait I’m so confused. What happened?

↘️ user7: basically a “fan” came up to Drew and Y/n and demanded y/n to take the photo for them and she was just overall rude

user8: so funny how Drew isn’t even smiling in the photo 😭

↘️ user9: HAHAHAHHA I WANNA SEE THIS PIC

↘️ user10: it’s on TikTok!!

[cuntyji]

Heyo!!

Loved all the writing so far! Had this random idea. Like Gojo and the puppy but imagine one of the jjk men that reader chased down their new kitten that ended up cozying up to said man of choice.

Again just my random mind LOL.

You got me as a supporter of your works.

BONGO'S GUIDE TO LOVE ౨ৎ VARIOUS JJK X (GN!) READER

summary: naming your cat bongo seemed fun at first—until he started treating every man in your orbit like his personal enemy. from perching smugly on the shoulder of your tattoo artist mid-ink session to single-handedly (or single-pawedly?) trashing your neighbor's bakery, bongo is on a one-feline mission to ruin your life. or maybe, just maybe, he’s actually trying to fix it? because amidst the chaos and claw marks, there might be a paw-sible chance he’s onto something you’re not.

content warnings: gender neutral reader (no use of y/n, specific pronouns or gender mentioned). 100% sfw and crack, unestablished relationship, meet-cute. bongo cat's breed is not mentioned, only descriptor is that he is chonky. drabbles of various characters, including: stranger! sukuna, tat artist! choso, bakery owner! nanami, moving helper! toji, actor! gojo. — ( full length cat dad! geto fic here )

— RYOMEN SUKUNA  ₍^. .^₎

you watched in absolute horror as bongo, your self-declared king of bad decisions, flung himself at the most terrifying human in the park. his fur fluffed up like some sort of possessed cotton ball as he darted straight for the man’s massive combat boots. the man—ryomen sukuna, as you'd later learn—looked like he moonlighted as a death metal frontman when he wasn't out intimidating random park-goers. tattoos spilled down his neck, across his face, and from what you could see, probably over most of his terrifyingly ripped body.

“bongo, no!” you shouted, but the little menace had already committed.

sukuna's brow furrowed as he crouched, grabbing bongo by the scruff of his neck like some kind of annoyed parent dealing with a particularly unruly toddler. bongo dangled mid-air, his expression entirely unbothered, his tail swishing lazily as if to say, this is fine. you froze, half expecting sukuna to punt bongo into the stratosphere. but instead, sukuna tilted his head. 

“the hell is this?”

“oh my god, please don’t kill my cat!” you blurted, sprinting towards him with all the dignity of a car alarm. sukuna glanced at you, his crimson eyes narrowing. “why the fuck would i kill your cat?”

“i—uh,” you stammered, gesturing wildly at his tattoos like they were some sort of official cat murder license.

bongo, clearly bored of dangling, chose this exact moment to lick sukuna’s face. one looooong, obnoxious lick, from his chin to his cheekbone, leaving a trail of cat slobber behind.

you winced. “oh no—”

but sukuna just blinked. then let out a low chuckle that sounded like a chainsaw revving. “bold little shit, huh?” bongo purred louder, smushing his entire face into sukuna’s jaw like they were old pals. sukuna, to your utter disbelief, reached up with his free hand and gave your traitorous cat a solid scratch behind the ears.

“what’s his name?” sukuna asked, his tone entirely too casual for someone covered in dark tattoos and holding a cat like a teddy bear.

“…bongo,” you muttered, now questioning every life choice that had led to this moment. he smirked, finally lowering bongo to the ground, though your little idiot immediately flopped onto sukuna’s boot like it was a throne. “bongo, huh? fitting. looks like a troublemaker.”

you stared. “yeah, well, he usually doesn’t go around licking strangers.”

“good taste,” sukuna said, smirking wider. “smart cat.”

smart? your cat had the brain cells of a soggy sponge and the survival instincts of a lemming.

“right, well,” you said, attempting to scoop bongo off sukuna’s foot, but the cat clung like velcro. “sorry for… all this. he doesn’t usually—”

“don’t worry about it,” sukuna interrupted, crouching again and giving bongo another scratch that sent your little demon into a full-body wiggle. “might be the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”

“…seriously?”

“yeah.” sukuna’s grin turned sharp, teasing. “most people just run the other way.”

you raised an eyebrow. “wonder why.”

he laughed, low and deep, then stood, towering over you in the most obnoxious way possible. “guess bongo knows a good guy when he sees one.” bongo chose this moment to leap back into sukuna’s arms like some kind of feline rom-com lead, rubbing his cheek against sukuna’s chest. “traitor,” you muttered under your breath.

“looks like he’s mine now,” sukuna teased, shooting you a grin that made you feel uncomfortably warm. “not a chance,” you shot back, but your tone lacked conviction.

ryomen sukuna: terrifying, tattooed, and apparently now your cat’s best friend. god help you both.

— CHOSO KAMO  ₍^. .^₎

it was a bad idea, you knew that from the start. but bongo’s separation anxiety had you by the throat, so there he was, your chunky feline menace, perched on a folding chair like a judgmental little gargoyle as you prepared for your tattoo session. everything was fine until choso kamo walked in.

your tattoo artist was the living embodiment of a rain-a-sauce—uh, renaissance painting. his long black hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, his dark eyes framed by perfectly smudged eyeliner that made him look both mysterious and mildly intimidating. his loose black tee hung just right, accentuating broad shoulders and strong arms that you were definitely not admiring. and then bongo decided to ruin your life.

the cat launched himself like a furry cannonball straight onto choso’s shoulder. not his lap, not a nearby table—his actual shoulder.

“bongo, no!” you hissed, half-rising from the tattoo chair. but choso, calm as a goddamn monk, didn’t even flinch. instead, he turned his head slightly to glance at the literal furball now draped across him. “he’s fine,” choso said, his voice low and smooth, as if this was a completely normal occurrence. “guess he likes me.”

you gawked as bongo, the little traitor, made himself comfortable, kneading choso’s shoulder like it was a deluxe memory foam pillow. “i… i can get him off—”

“don’t worry about it,” choso interrupted, grabbing his tattoo gun with one hand while his other casually scratched behind bongo’s ears. you stared. he was petting your cat. while holding a needle. meant for your skin. “uh, are you sure that’s… safe?” you asked, your voice pitching higher as choso began inking the outline on your arm.

“he’s not bothering me,” choso replied simply, his focus entirely on his work. bothering you? you were the one about to be permanently marked while your fat, smug cat played parrot. bongo purred like a tiny chainsaw, rubbing his cheek against choso’s jaw. “great,” you muttered, clenching your teeth as the needle buzzed against your skin.

as if sensing your tension, bongo stretched out one paw and lightly bopped your cheek. “oh my god, bongo, stoopp!” you whined, glaring at him. choso chuckled softly, his lips quirking into the faintest smile. “looks like he’s trying to comfort you.”

“he’s mocking me,” you shot back, but choso’s quiet laugh was almost enough to distract you from the pain. almost. “you’re doing fine,” choso said after a beat, his voice soothing in a way that made your stomach flip. 

“thanks,” you muttered, your face heating up for reasons that definitely had nothing to do with him. meanwhile, bongo continued his reign of chaos, now swiping at choso’s dangling ponytail like it was his personal cat toy. “you’re really just gonna let him do that?” you asked incredulously. choso shrugged, completely unfazed. “he’s keeping himself entertained. and you, apparently.”

“entertained is not the word i’d use,” you grumbled, but your mouth twitched despite yourself.

“well, at least one of us is having fun,” choso said, his tone light.

and maybe it was the distraction of bongo’s antics, or the way choso’s calm presence made the pain a little more bearable, but by the end of the session, you were almost… relaxed. as choso finished up, he finally plucked bongo off his shoulder and held him up, his strong hands making your cat look oddly small. “you’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, though there was no bite to his words.

“you have no idea,” you said, shaking your head. choso handed bongo back to you, his lips curving into that faint smile again. “next time, maybe leave him at home.”

you glanced down at bongo, who was purring smugly in your arms. “yeah, not likely.” choso chuckled, wiping his hands clean. “figured.”

as you left the shop, you couldn’t help but think that bongo might’ve been onto something with his whole shoulder-sitting act. maybe your chaotic little furball had better instincts than you gave him credit for.

— NANAMI KENTO  ₍^. .^₎

it’s always the quiet moments when bongo chooses chaos. you were mid-face mask, your skin glowing with the kind of self-care that influencers would kill for, when your furry menace decided to bolt out the backdoor like he had urgent business. “bonggoooo!” you screeched, stumbling after him in your ratty pajamas and slippers that definitely weren’t made for running.

the scent of the bakery hit you like a brick wall. god, how does it smell expensive? buttery, sugary, and somehow elitist all at once. you didn’t have time to contemplate the metaphysics of aromas because bongo had already darted through the bakery’s back entrance like he owned the place. by the time you caught up, panting and slightly disheveled, you were greeted by the sight of nanami kento, the bakery’s perpetually composed owner, standing in the middle of his flour-dusted kitchen. and in his hands, like a prized artifact, was bongo.

kento held your cat aloft like some kind of culinary simba, his perfectly pressed apron dusted with flour. bongo, with his chubby belly and utterly unrepentant face, dangled there like he had no idea he’d just stormed into someone else’s livelihood. “this,” kento said, his deep, even voice somehow more judgmental than any glare could be, “is yours, i presume?” you swallowed hard, your face mask cracking slightly as you plastered on a smile. “yes! uh, that’s bongo. my cat. um, i’m so sorry—”

“he ran across my counter,” kento continued, his tone unchanging as he gently turned bongo to show you his flour-dusted paws. “he stepped in the dough. twice.”

“oh my god,” you groaned, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. bongo, ever the villain, reached out a paw and batted at kento’s tie, smearing it with a bit of leftover flour. “i’ll… i’ll pay for the damages,” you stammered, mortified. “or, uh, write an apology letter. from bongo. he’s very articulate.”

kento raised a brow, lowering bongo but still holding him like he was a particularly troublesome baguette. “a letter?”

“yeah, uh, he’s got great penmanship,” you blurted, because apparently, when embarrassed, you just doubled down on ridiculousness. kento sighed, setting bongo down on the floor. your cat immediately started rubbing his face against kento’s leg like they were old friends. “he’s lucky he’s cute,” kento muttered, though his tone softened slightly.

“he’s really not,” you mumbled, scooping bongo into your arms. “he’s a menace.”

“i’ve noticed.” kento crossed his arms, eyeing bongo like he was calculating the exact amount of havoc the cat had wreaked. “next time, maybe keep him indoors.”

“yeah, definitely,” you said, clutching bongo tighter as he squirmed. “and, uh, if you ever need… cat-signed apology letters, i’m your person.”

kento gave you a long, measured look before sighing. “just keep him out of my kitchen.”

as you backed out of the bakery, clutching your flour-covered feline, you couldn’t help but wonder if bongo’s next target would be a crime that didn’t involve you humiliating yourself in front of absurdly attractive men. unlikely.

— TOJI FUSHIGURO ₍^. .^₎

moving to new york was supposed to be your fresh start. concrete jungle where dreams made of, blah blah blah. instead, you found yourself battling overpriced rent and a cat who had zero respect for personal boundaries.

toji, the moving guy, had been an unexpected lifesaver. with his messy scrawl of a name tag and a physique that screamed, “i bench press refrigerators for fun,” he made quick work of your moving boxes. it was almost comical how easily he hefted bongo’s cat tree—like it was a baguette instead of a glorified jungle gym for your chunky feline. you tipped him with cookies because that’s just who you are: a sucker for baked goods as a currency. and as toji waved goodbye and headed off, you gave yourself a little pat on the back for surviving the first day in the big apple. until you noticed bongo was missing.

cue the meltdown.

“bonggggoooooo!” you hollered, tearing through your barely unpacked apartment like a madwoman. every cupboard, every box, even the bathtub—it was all checked twice, thrice, and then some. no bongo. by the time you collapsed onto the floor, tears welling up, you were already planning the world’s most dramatic cat funeral. there’d be violins, speeches, and a photo slideshow of bongo’s finest “this idiot just ate plastic again” moments. then, a knock at the door.

you practically threw it open to find toji standing there, his enormous frame taking up most of the doorway. in his arms was bongo, looking about as offended as a cat could possibly look, his fur slightly ruffled but otherwise unscathed. “found him in my van,” toji said, his gravelly voice tinged with amusement. 

“oh my god,” you gasped, reaching for bongo, who—of course—refused to leave toji’s arms. “he’s such a menace, i’m so sorry—”

“don’t be,” toji interrupted, smirking as bongo nuzzled against his chest like a lovestruck teenager. “guess he’s got good taste.”

“good taste?” you repeated, incredulous. “he literally jumped into a stranger’s van. he’s one step away from being catnapped—i mean, kidnapped.”

“looks like he wouldn’t have minded,” toji quipped, scratching behind bongo’s ear and earning an annoyingly loud purr in return. you groaned, crossing your arms. “great. my cat’s in love with the moving guy.”

toji chuckled, finally setting bongo down. the traitor immediately twined around toji’s legs, shooting you a look that said this man is mine now. “guess i’m unforgettable,” toji teased, leaning against the doorframe.

“yeah, well,” you said, scooping up bongo before he could claw his way back into toji’s arms, “don’t let it go to your head.”

toji gave you a crooked grin, his scarred lip tugging slightly. “welcome to new york,” he said, turning to leave. as he walked away, bongo let out a mournful meow, his paw swiping at the air like he was starring in his own rom-com goodbye scene.

“ugh, big boys,” you muttered, carrying bongo back inside. but as you closed the door, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, new york wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

— GOJO SATORU  ₍^. .^₎

you knew gojo had a flair for theatrics, but the day he decided to charm everything with a pulse—including bongo, the cat cast for your shared scene—you realized just how far he was willing to go. bongo, a seasoned feline actor with a resume longer than yours, had been nothing but professional. meanwhile, gojo? not so much. “who’s a handsome boy? you are, aren’t you?” gojo cooed at bongo during a break, crouched low and ruffling the cat’s fur like they were old pals.

“you know he’s supposed to like my character, right?” you deadpanned from your chair, sipping lukewarm coffee. 

“it’s called method acting, babe,” gojo replied with a wink, scratching under bongo’s chin. “gotta make sure he’s comfortable with me too.”

“yeah, by stealing my scene partner.”

gojo just grinned, letting bongo climb onto his lap like a tiny, furry king surveying his kingdom.

fast-forward to the final day of shooting, and bongo had developed what could only be described as a toxic attachment to gojo. 

“aaaand that’s a wrap!” the director called, the crew breaking into applause. you were ready to celebrate—finally free of gojo’s antics—until chaos erupted.

bongo’s trainer approached to retrieve the cat, only for bongo to hiss dramatically and latch onto gojo’s designer blazer with claws sharp enough to shred through fabric and ego alike. “uh, a little help?” gojo yelped, trying to peel the cat off without damaging what was likely a five-figure jacket. the trainer tugged at bongo gently, but the cat clung harder, his claws hooking into the seams as if his very life depended on staying attached to gojo.

“he’s tearing my clothes!” gojo screeched, his voice hitting a pitch you hadn’t thought possible.

“you’re the one who told him he’s a ���handsome boy,’” you snarked, watching the scene unfold with far too much glee.

“he is a handsome boy! but now he’s a demon!” gojo cried, trying to shake off the cat, who let out a mournful wail and doubled down on his grip. the crew burst out laughing as bongo dramatically clung to gojo’s chest like he was recreating a tragic love scene.

“just let him go, he’s attached to you now,” you teased, crossing your arms and watching the chaos unfold.

“i can’t!” gojo wailed. “he’s got my soul in his little murder mittens!”

finally, the trainer managed to pry bongo off, leaving behind shredded fabric and a very disheveled gojo. “you owe me a new jacket,” he grumbled, glaring at you like this was somehow your fault. “i owe you nothing,” you shot back. “maybe next time, don’t flirt with cats.”

as bongo was carried off set, still yowling dramatically, you couldn’t help but think: if nothing else, that cat had impeccable taste in people to torment.

[axxa-the-allikatt]

Soooooo I finally got some free time 😃✊ here’s your order of bllk characters with their short s/o with a side of some suggestive interactions 🤌. I’m making it a short series since I probably can’t finish so many characters in one sitting, so tell me if there is anyone specific you’re looking for. I’m gonna start off with my favourites, humour me.

***

1. Size doesn’t matter. I mean your height- your height doesn’t matter.

-Isagi definitely, but also anyone else who might fit this category like Bachira, Kunigami and maybe Niko + Any character from other shows that you think might fit, ignoring the mention of the bllk program <3

The first time you encountered him, the two of you were around only 11 years of age. You had been walking by the park, back home after school, when a ball had come flying at your face, knocking you squarely in the jaw. You had two broken teeth because of this, and the boy who had kicked the ball, our little sweetheart, had insisted on taking you to his home, bawling his eyes out all the way for no good reason, while you intermittently spat what blood was spilling from your gums, freaked out by the little crybaby.

Once all that confusion and worry had passed by, your parents had been given his address so that they could come pick you up.

And that was how you’d snatched a place in his life. That and the fact that once you had managed to get your hands on his address, you would randomly drop by his house on your way home, uninvited, scare the living daylight’s out of him, gratefully accept what titbits his mother would humorously provide you with, give his father a salute on your way out and never bring up the visit again.

Over the next three years, the two of you had gained a reputation as a pair, and it was a well known fact that wherever one of you were, the other was bound to be close by. So much so that your school teachers often questioned one of you when the other was absent to class.

You had grown fond of the silly boy you had met by chance and had often made him extremely flustered with your quite direct flirting conquests, while he hid behind his hands like maiden.

This was quite hilarious to due to the fact that over the years you had remained a short, skinny kid, where as the other boy had out grown you and was now both taller and more muscular due to his football training.

Your friendship came to an abrupt pause as you were to move across the world for your father’s job, with only a week’s notice to make the most of your time with the other boy.

In a moment of childish desperation, the boy had confessed to you asked you out on a date which earned him a good thwack on the head. For what joy was he asking when you were moving half way across the world in a few days and were going to return god knows when. But you had agreed nonetheless, admitting that you liked him too and that you wanted to make the most of your time with him. Ah. Young love.

Four years passed as you lived your life abroad, finishing high school, making new friends, having fun, not growing any taller, but most importantly, you had kept yourself up to date on the events happening in blue lock. Since when did your silly boy get so… egotistical? It was concerningly endearing.

Finally, you received news that you would be moving back to Japan, back into your old house, by yourself, to pursue your studies in psychology and you desperately hoped that he hadn’t moved in that time. The Blue lock program had ended a year ago, and he might have been selected for a team somewhere across the world.

Your fears dissolved into confusion then disbelief as you were met with the sight of the same boy waiting for you at the airport, with a stupid grin on his face, which was doing nothing to hide how obviously he was trying not to cry like the way you used to tease him about.

The second he laid his eyes on you he broke into a sprint, crashing into you as you tumbled over the luggage, putting your arms around him and spinning him around, bursting into laughter as his feet dragged around behind him. He had annoyingly gotten taller.

The two of you had somehow managed to get to his car before you gently pushed him against the door, crashing your lips onto his as he slid down against the door, lowering himself to your height.

Like I said, height doesn’t matter in your relationship. He’s more than eager to kneel to you. You’re the boyfriend.

***

Next up- the boys who think that since they’re taller, they’re the man in the relationship. They get put in their place 🪭. I’ll post it by next week. Probably.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 9

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or: A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

Happy New Year!

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

-

Two hours.

It was barely any time at all.

And that was assuming the High Lord didn't cut his meeting short out of sheer impatience.

Feyre sprinted back to the apartment, gritting her teeth against the protests of her aching body. She was sore everywhere, and each slapping step against the cobblestone seemed to lodge a new pain forward—a kink in her neck, a stab in her abdomen, a sharp twinge between her legs. The stone was smooth beneath her feet, but in her mind she pictured she was running over fractured glass, where every stride revealed a new reflection of the ways the High Lord had touched her. Claimed her.

As fast as she pushed her legs, she couldn't outrun the memories. Her mind was fixed on Rhysand's expression in that final, scorching look he'd given before he'd left. Rest. You'll need it when I'm back.

She'd been starving enough times in her life to recognize that kind of hunger. Unfulfilled, it was dangerous. Unpredictable. Her stomach swooped at the thought of what he might do when he returned to see she was gone. Would he check to see if she'd taken anything? Had she remembered to shut his bedside drawer?

Around her, High Fae meandered the pale stone streets, dressed in long coats to ward off the crisp air. During this time of year, when Velaris straddled autumn and winter, it was always the wind that had the final say in the weather. Today, it blew in from the east, carrying the cold of the Illyrian Steppes with it.

Nights were warmer when the wind blew in from the west. Feyre had spent many winter mornings praying that the winds would carry warmer weather, but on this night she was grateful. Even as the air gnawed at her nose and fingertips, she considered it a good omen.

Feyre ran faster. Until her throat was bloodied and her muscles screamed. City-goers scrambled out of her way, some shooting her filthy looks that became blurs of color as she darted past.

Her sisters were already waiting outside the confectionery, their bags packed, eyes scanning the streets. Nesta visibly relaxed when she saw Feyre coming.

"You're late."

Nesta's tone, accompanied by her withering stare, was sharp enough to cut a grown male to their knees. Feyre had seen it happen enough times during their years in the tavern. Even when they were swaying on their feet, the drunken males knew almost instinctively to give Nesta, and Elain by proximity, a wide berth.

The death stare had long lost its luster on Feyre, however. She knew her sister, and though Nesta fought to keep her body rigid, her eyes still darted warily over Feyre's shoulder—checking to see if anyone was following.

"I know." Feyre winced. "I had to add extra time to our bargain."

"Why?" Nesta demanded, extending Feyre's bag as she skidded to a halt in front of them. "Did he suspect something?"

Before Feyre could say anything, Nesta's eyes narrowed on her throat. Feyre didn't have to look down to confirm what her sister noticed. Though she'd stolen one of the High Lord's coats to cover the love-bites on her exposed shoulders and stomach, there wasn't much she could do to hide the marks on her neck.

Rhysand was nothing if not thorough.

"No," Feyre said, feigning indifference as she took the bag from Nesta and slung it over her shoulder.

"You're certain?" Nesta pressed.

As clearly as if she was standing before his portrait, Feyre could picture the High Lord the way the rumors painted him. The way her sisters imagined him. Some dark, imposing figure with stern features and a power honed to near-omnipotence. Outwitting an opponent like that felt impossible.

But she felt that she could smear her thumb over that image to find a second, softer portrait beneath. One that offered a hesitant smile and sounded sincere when he told her, I'd like for you to stay. He'd left her in that bedroom expecting—or perhaps, simply hoping—she would be there when he returned. That wasn't the kind of vulnerability a person would show to a suspected thief.

She felt a pang of guilt pinching her chest, which worsened as she reflected on the moments she swore she'd caught him looking at her with genuine fondness. But fondness didn't equate to much, in the scheme of things. Feyre had seen the Tavernkeeper affectionately pat the hides of pigs before he butchered them in the kitchen and served them for dinner.

It was better this way. There wasn't room for someone like Feyre in a High Lord's life. Not for anything larger than being his novel plaything—a diversion to soothe his unchecked boredom and dust off a treasury too large to fathom.

It was painful to share those thoughts out loud, though. More painful, still, to examine why.

Feyre only nodded.

"Good." Nesta fastened her own pack across her shoulder, tight enough to stay secure if they needed to run. "Then let's get out of the city before he realizes."

Feyre glanced at Elain, who clutched her small satchel close and offered a determined nod of agreement. It was almost pathetic how easy it was to pack up their lives. Anything they had of value fit into one bag each, and it wasn't much. A few new sets of clothes, which would come in handy for the journey, and a handful of sentimental trinkets. What few of them they hadn't pawned off for coin.

"You're certain you don't want to bring your cards?" Elain asked, glancing towards the window above, where Feyre had left them when she'd packed her things the day before.

Feyre shook her head. "I'm certain."

Rhysand would find them when he undoubtedly came looking. They were worthless, and would probably be trivial to him, but she couldn't resist that final way of saying goodbye. To the High Lord, and to a life she'd never truly asked for.

Wherever she ended up after this, Feyre didn't want to be known as a witch or a thief. She wanted a fresh start, and had two diamond cuffs around her wrists that would help her get there.

"Let's go," she said, guiding them back into the crowd.

They didn't run. It wasn't worth the attention it would draw. But their pace was quick, sufficient in roughening their breathing by the time they reached the boathouse.

It was run-down, like many buildings along the docks. The green-stained, mossy overgrowth on the stones caused most onlooker attention to glaze right over the entrance, despite its attractive spires and archways. Though big enough to house one of the cargo ships docked outside the harbor, at present the structure was filled with small utility boats, flipped upside down with oars strapped to their sides. One such boat was floating in the small bay of water in the center of the boathouse, tied up beside a ladder.

Feyre frowned, searching through the dark, dripping space for its owner.

Behind her, Elain yelped.

Before Feyre could react, a gloved hand reached out through the shadows, snapping Feyre around the wrist.

"Did you bring it?"

The quiet cold of that voice licked down her spine.

She shook his grip away, whirling to glare at the sliver of High Fae features visible through the mask and hood. He kept to the darkness, which swelled over him like a cresting wave. Through it, she spied narrowed hazel eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes. Black hair curled against his forehead under the hood, though he quickly lowered his face when he saw her looking, preventing Feyre from studying him any closer.

Still, he was familiar. In a way that made her stomach churn.

"Here," she said, retrieving the velvet box from her pocket to extend it towards him. "It deserves to be buried with your wife."

It was like blinking, how quickly he moved. One second, the box was in her palm, and the next it was gone, swallowed by shadow.

"Thank you."

He didn't sound moved. Not in the way she would expect from the sob story she was given. And he didn't check the ring, either, to make sure she'd found the right one.

An oily feeling settled over her. She'd suspected it was a lie from the moment he'd told her the story. But what did she care why he needed the ring? What mattered was that he held up his end of the promise—and that was part of an unbreakable bargain.

She looked at him expectantly. "And the ship?"

The male nodded towards the front of the boathouse, where it opened to the sea. Docked beyond the harbor, she could see the mast of a great ship, nearly as large the merchant vessels her father used to sail. Its mainsail was furled tightly in the mast, waiting to be loosed and filled with the Illyrian winds that would send it westward.

"That one's set to embark in the hour. The captain promised discretion for a steep fee. You three get to stay in the hold for any inspections."

"Great," Nesta said dryly.

Feyre ignored her. It was going to be a long journey, even with the winds at their advantage.

"Thank you," she told the masked male.

He only shrugged, gesturing toward the small tied up boat. "Better get rowing."

They'd made it all of three steps before he called out to her.

"I'm curious. How did you manage to take this from him?"

Feyre paused. She turned back to the male, studying what limited features she could see through the thicket of shadow. "How did you know it would be in his bedside drawer?"

"Lucky guess."

"Feyre," Nesta warned, pulling at her elbow. "Let's go."

But she couldn't. The compulsion for knowing was too strong, and before she could check herself, she was already drawing the bowstring of her mental arrow and spearing it towards the stranger, one after the other.

Tell me who you are.

Tell me what you know.

Tell me if you're going to hurt him.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Like firing shots into a metal post, each pulse of her magic repelled off the surface of his mind, unable to find a hold.

All fae had an innate mental shield. Some possessed stronger shields than others, depending on a person's power and species and, she suspected, intelligence. But she'd never encountered a shield she couldn't penetrate with a little bit of force.

Until she'd met Rhysand.

The masked fae held her stare, his eyes brighter than they'd been moments ago, as if amused. "I've answered your question. Now answer mine."

She had a feeling if she yanked down the mask, she'd find the makings of a dangerous smile.

They needed to leave. Now. Rhys would be finished with his meeting soon, and she didn't want to risk being halfway between the shore and the ship when he came looking. She also had a curdling suspicion the male in front of her would be selling them out the second they left the shore.

Feyre angled her head in feigned innocence. "Would you believe he gave it to me out of the kindness of his heart?"

"Maybe if you'd asked for it nicely, Feyre."

It wasn't the masked male who spoke. This voice was richer, smoother. Like a cup of melted chocolate. The sound of it turned her blood to ice.

"Though, I'm sure I don't need to remind you that stealing from a High Lord is a capital offense."

Her heart was a tempest, thundering against her chest. Part of her was too petrified to look over her shoulder to confirm who she already knew was standing there. Instead, Ferye looked to her sisters, validating the worst of her fears in their expressions alone. Elain was staring toward the front of the boathouse in unmasked horror. And Nesta—fierce, unruly Nesta—stared with an expression of unflinching stone, hard enough to endure the sharpest blade.

It was her eldest sister's courage that gave Feyre the strength to look.

Her eyes met cold, blackened violet. Just like the day she'd met him, the day she'd witnessed the type of punishment he doled to those who dared steal from him, she could feel his anger radiating, plummeting the temperature of the boathouse. She could see her next breath peel from her lips. It was potentially her last.

Pinned by that gaze, Feyre's mind went spinning at breakneck speeds, mentally sorting through every fraction of knowledge that could help her recalculate their plan:

She knew the Archerons were fighters. Even Elain. Especially Elain. If Feyre took a stand, they would fight beside her to their own detriment, clawing and thrashing until the bitter end;

Rhysand was a proud male, and she'd wounded his ego twice over by stealing from him and snubbing the chance to warm his bed;

And if they tried to run, there was no chance that all three of them were escaping.

So she made a snap decision, the same kind that brought her into this mess in the first place.

She stepped closer to Rhysand, placing herself deliberately between him and her sisters.

Unlike the masked male—who had vanished at the High Lord's arrival—Rhysand didn't shy from the light. He stepped into the sun shaft pouring in from the front of the boathouse, basking in it. Demanding she look upon him to answer for what she'd done. Feyre couldn't help but marvel how someone could be flooded in sunlight and seem colder for it. Like the warmth and brightness emphasized all of his darker elements, his hair and clothes a black contrast against the glowing sky.

"Stealing?" Feyre echoed. "I'm not sure what you mean, High Lord. How can it be stealing if it never belonged to you in the first place?"

"Is that what you were told?"

Rhysand's gaze shifted toward the wall where the masked man had been standing. The fact that Rhys wasn't chasing after him lent merit to her suspicion that this had all been an elaborate trap.

Feyre crossed her arms. "I was told," she said, subtly maneuvering her fingers towards the clasp of her bracelets. "That the High Lord once stole a female from her home. That the ring in that box was once her wedding ring. And you kept it when she died."

"All true, I suppose."

The amusement in his voice sickened her.

"So that really was her husband?" She demanded. "You truly refused to give it back to him?"

Rhys barked a laugh. "Now that, Feyre, is where I feared you've been lied to."

It didn't matter what the truth was. The diamond bracelets were loosened around her wrist. She quickly shoved them behind her back, directing one to Elain and the other to Nesta.

Take them, she urged in their minds. And run. Don't stay together, you'll be easier to catch.

Feyre's hope was that Rhys would focus solely on her, and that by the time he remembered they existed, they'd already be gone.

On my signal, she told them.

"Was this all something you orchestrated?" She asked him. "Some sort of test of loyalty?"

"I suspected there was a reason behind your sudden change in heart. But no, Feyre, I didn't plan for you to steal from me and—what was your plan, exactly? Get on that little row boat and go where?"

Feyre shrugged. "Anywhere but here."

Rhysand's lips pulled back at that answer, flashing his teeth. The blatant display of anger shocked her—even with the sailors, he'd kept his expression neutral. Indifferent. He had to be in a truly terrific mood to let his emotions show this much.

Feyre would ponder at it later, how her dislike of Velaris had coaxed such a strong reaction from him. Did he really think his precious city was so perfect that no one would ever want to leave? Or was it simply one insult too many for a High Lord's supreme, immortal patience?

Either way, she saw her opening.

Go, she urged her sisters.

That was the only prompting needed. Each of them took off in separate directions. Feyre cut the path closest Rhys, hoping he would take the bait and dismiss Nesta and Elain entirely.

As she darted past, a talon scraped her mind, trying to find a hook.

Don't run from me, Rhys cautioned. It will only make me excited for the chase.

Feyre scoffed. Don't you have better things to do?

I did. Imagine my surprise when I came home and found those 'better things' had run off with one of my precious belongings.

He was trying to distract her, but he could try all he liked. Feyre knew these streets. She could trace them in the dark because she had, more nights than she could count. When the attic was too cramped and the tavern was too raucous, she'd walk along the docks and listen to the ocean slap against the harbor.

Rhysand might have been High Lord, this might have been his city. But he wasn't raised by it.

Wooden boards creaked and groaned under her feet as she sped to the other end of the boathouse, hoping he would follow her out and give chase through the harbor. With the sun settling behind the horizon, the fishermen would be coming in to peddle the day's catch. It would be crowded enough to lose him.

There were no thunderous footsteps at her back, causing her to wonder if he was even following, or if she looked half-mad dodging barrels and leaping over fishing nets for the fun of it.

She didn't slow until she'd elbowed her way into the center of the fish market. A glance over her shoulder didn't show any sign of him, only errant market goers balancing baskets on their arms and fishermen carting barrels of their latest catch, some of the fish still twitching.

If would be a fitting end for Rhys to catch her here. When he was done, he could toss her atop one of the barrels and she would blend right in among those hollow eyes and gaping mouths.

That was, if he even bothered chasing her. If he didn't choose to pursue her sisters instead, thinking they were the easier prey and knowing Feyre would trade anything for their well-being.

Because she needed to know that they were safe, she cast her magic in a wide net, hoping he would hear her taunt.

Won't your people think it's strange to see you chasing someone through the street?

Only if they notice, came his immediate response. Try not to make a scene, will you? Bad press for the both of us.

It was impossible to gauge his distance. In their minds, he sounded close, like he was whispering in Feyre's ear, but she was being vigilant in keeping her head on a swivel. She knew he wasn't anywhere in eyesight.

Feyre edged her way to the end of the dock. She could veer off here, take one of the alleyways back into the city center, but that was where Rhys would be expecting her to go. It would be a quieter place for a confrontation, less likely to end up in the papers.

But it was either that, or double back the direction she'd come.

Or… she could swim.

If he wasted enough time scouting the docks and alleyways, she could probably get decently far. Make camp on a quiet shore, then regroup with her sisters and catch a ship out in the morning.

Feyre took one last cursory glance around the marketplace, searching for violet eyes or a general whiff of self-inflated arrogance. When she was certain he wasn't here, she took a deep breath and dived into the ocean.

All at once, the chatter of the market went silent.

She always appreciated that about the ocean. The calm. All she could hear were the air bubbles whooshing from her nose and the rhythmic strike of the waves lapping at the harbor. Everything moved slower underwater, floating so delicately, so compliant to the will of the current.

Feyre had never been very good at letting something else take control. She wondered if it would be peaceful, the way the seaweed rippled to and fro at the ocean bed. Or like the buoy, oscillating slowly with the tide, content in its role of directing mariners in and out of the harbor.

There was something in her, and it was no small part, that longed to stop. To float. To see where the current would take her, so that the weight of survival could rest on something else for a change. But then she thought of those dead-eyed fish in the marketplace. And she started swimming against the current.

She stayed under water as long as she could, until her lungs began to squeeze, demanding she surface for air. She fought that, too, until her throat was on fire and black spots plagued her vision.

Only then, did she swim to the surface, gasping for air and praying she was far enough not to be spotted from the docks. The chatter of the market was dulled to a distant hum, replaced by the squawking gulls overhead. Their shadows swooped past as they scouted for food.

Having a nice swim, darling?

She gasped, whipping her head back towards the docks. It was too far away to make out any person in detail. Could he really see her at that distance?

Do be careful. You can never be too certain what's lurking below the surface.

A dark shape swooped down overhead. One of the gulls, she thought at first, diving for a fish.

She didn't remember that the High Lord Had wings, and that those wings could fly, until she realized the shadow was becoming much too large for a bird. And when she looked up, she saw large, membranous wings and the face of an avenging angel, come to deliver the wrath of the gods.

Panicked, Feyre was about to duck her head back under the surface when a cold, icy touch slithered around her ankle and yanked, dragging her under with an abrupt shriek. Water flooded her mouth and nose, gagging her as she went down, down, down.

Let go of me! She thought, clawing above her head to resist the pull, thrashing her feet to try to break loose.

Me? Rhysand's croon held an air of derision. I'm not touching you, Feyre.

Magic counts.

You should be more careful with your words then. How else am I meant to take them at their true value?

Feyre curled back her lips, baring her teeth into the vast darkness. So this is how you intend to punish me then? Drowning?

There were worse ways to die, she supposed. Better ways, too.

Her lungs were starting to burn, seizing as if constricted by a flaming fist. Black spots dotted her vision, blending with the dark water so seamlessly that at first she didn't notice the rippling darkness.

Not until the High Lord formed from the shadows, violet eyes glowing in the dim light. His smile was cruel as he watched her helpless writhing.

Punishment? Rhys thumbed her chin, drifting closer until their lips were inches apart. Not necessarily. How this goes is up to you.

Feyre would blame her disoriented mind on the lack of breath. It was making her dizzy and vulnerable to absurd thinking, like how warm his body would be if she pressed closer. If these were her last, precious seconds, they might as well be pleasant.

She arched into him, thoughtless, impulsive. A procession of bubbles escaped Rhysand's lips in what she imagined to be mocking laughter as he pulled away. Denying her in her final moments.

Not until you make your choice, he said.

Her eyelids were becoming so heavy. She shut them, reveling in the brief reprieve from the sting of saltwater.

Rhys's fingers tightened on her chin, squeezing until she opened her eyes again. Focus.

What? She snapped.

I'm offering a trade. You can drown and join the other thieves at the bottom of the Mother's Cauldron. Or, I'll provide my help and winnow you to the surface.

Help? At least her mind was sound enough to recognize what a ridiculous notion that was. You're the one drowning me.

You're facing the consequences of your own poor judgment. He corrected. But I'll pardon your crime, in exchange for your service.

Feyre focused on the stone grip he held at her chin, channeling the dregs of her fading energy to keep her eyes open, fixed on the unyielding violet before her. Darkness danced in the corners of her vision, but she couldn't be certain if that was Rhysand's magic or her waning senses.

A life debt. That's what he was asking for.

Would he truly kill her if she denied him?

Her lungs were panicking now, thudding against their cage for the sweet release of air. She clenched her teeth, fighting against ancient instinct that begged her to breathe. To ease the sharp, excruciating burn coiling through her throat.

Rhys stroked her cheek. Softly. The way he'd touched her in the early hours of the morning, when the lust and hunger were finally sated and all that was left was the sweet, aching sensation of warmth. Skin against skin. A pulse beneath her lips, a beating chest beneath her fingertips.

Did he remember those gentle moments as he looked into her eyes?

What will it be, Feyre darling? He asked, in that same voice he'd used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

Go to Hell.

Pity, Rhys mused, brushing his thumb along her lower lip. You could be destined for so much more. And you'll trade it all away for your pride.

Feyre knew better. There was no escaping a life debt. With such ill-defined terms, she'd be agreeing to be little more than his slave. Her will, her life, her desires, no longer relevant. She would feel the restraint of that bond for the rest of her life.

At least in Death, she would still belong to herself.

Her resignation must have been obvious, because Rhysand's mask of arrogance faltered. As her vision blurred, she felt those intense eyes studying her, weighing if this was a bluff.

I never expected to see defeat in your eyes, Feyre Archeron.

Giving in to you would be the defeat, she countered.

There was something pensive in the way he lowered his mouth to hers, murmuring, Are you certain?

This was not how Feyre imagined Death.

There were plenty of moments where she'd been hungry enough and cold enough and defeated enough to think it would finally win, but she always managed to evade its covetous touch. She thought it would be cold. The bitter frost of winter, ensnaring her the moment her guard was down, grinning as she wilted and rotted beneath its inescapable grasp.

But this—this was a sweet, soft surrender.

The burning in her lungs wasn't pleasant, but the pain ebbed when Rhysand's lips met hers, parting slowly. She opened for him, knowing it was her last breath and using it in spite of herself.

Her fingers slid into his hair, their soft waves floating and merging with the water. Easy to slip her fingers into and hold onto something for the last time.

She wasn't aware her magic reached for his until his mind parted, and it was like diving into the ocean anew. Somewhere deeper, darker, quieter.

Peaceful.

Feyre shut her eyes, floating in the warm darkness, letting it caress and soothe every fear, every pain.

A voice asked, strained, Is this really what you choose?

Just hold me until it's over, she said.

There was no response, save for the darkness that curled around her, letting her drift in the cradle of its warmth until that, too, slipped away into nothingness.

[darknight3904]

All Too Well

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: A chat with a stranger has your world turning on its axis as you try to navigate your relationship with Joel.

Warnings: Violence, mentions of SA (not depicted in detail) Language, death.

Word Count: 3.6k

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Useless. It was a certain funny feeling that had always lurked at the back of your mind. 

Everything that’d ever happened to you, be it falling off your bike and scraping your knees or screwing up your relationship with Joel, you were utterly useless. 

Even now as you stared at the clinic doors you felt it. Useless. Worthless. Empty. 

“Y’okay?” 

“Fine.” 

Joel led the way into the clinic. Down a hall, a right, then a left, and then the wood of an old door was staring back at you. 

“Dr. Hill said she was real hostile to Tommy last night.” Joel says softly, “I’ll be right outside if something goes wrong.” 

You nod and take a deep breath. Pushing the door open to reveal the woman that had become the talk of the town. 

The woman was still tied to the small cot the clinic room held. Both skinny arms were tied to one of the bedposts with a piece of rope. 

“Get out.” She hisses, refusing to look at you 

Your eyes sweep over what isn’t being obscured by the blankets that cover her lower half. Long arms poke out of the paper-thin hospital gown Dr. Hill must’ve given her. Discolored bruises litter the skin making it look ugly and thin. Her face, which should’ve had the youthful glow of a woman in her mid-twenties, was gaunt and grey with sickness. 

“Dr. Hill said she was runnin’ a real bad fever, don’t get too close to her in case she’s contagious.”  

Joel’s warning filled your mind as you gestured to a seat about five feet away from the bed, 

“Mind if I sit?” 

The woman, Lana, didn’t speak or make a motion to stop you as you settled into the stiff wooden chair, a small oof leaving your lips when one of your knees popped, you were feeling your 44 years of life right now. 

Lana watches you cautiously. If she were untied, you’re sure she might bolt for the door and sprint out of the clinic. She reminded you of a skittish deer. The look on her face was one you knew well. It was a look you’d worn for weeks so many years ago, one that only one man could pull from a woman. 

Adam. The joining link between the two of you. Even now, a day after his death you shiver like he’s here in the room, staring at you. If you squint hard enough you might see his face painted on the wall, looking at you with that lopsided smirk he often wore when things went his way. 

You wondered how long she’d spent with him. Was it more time than you? Less? How did he treat her? Did he pretend to save her from his comrades? Was The Walrus still breathing somewhere on this Earth? 

The scars that hide under your shirt threaten to burn right through the warm fabric. A sweat breaks out on your skin. Fuck, this was ridiculous. You wanted to leave and go home. 

You take a deep breath, you don’t want to do this. Talking to this stranger, what good could you possibly do? You were always screwing up, why should this be any different? 

You sit in silence, staring at the way the paint is peeling on the wall across from you. Perhaps you could just lie to Dr. Hill and say this lady rejected you too. The older doc wasn’t even here, how would he know if you didn’t try to “connect” with Lana? 

“Who’re you?” 

Lana makes the first move, breaking the silence that you’d been plotting to keep. 

You blink dumbly, you hadn’t expected this. Stuttering out your name you look at her. She has bright blue eyes with tangled blonde hair to match. Long lashes flutter as she stares back, saying her own name quietly. 

“What happened to the man with the mustache?” 

Tommy. He was probably currently across the clinic probably cooing at his new baby and helping Maria wobble her way to the bathroom. 

“He’s not important right now.” You say, deciding not to tell her about something she didn’t need to know. 

She scoffs, shifting beneath her blankets, “So are you the boss then? Sent him in first to get information from me?” 

Your face remains neutral, in what world would you be running Jackson? Surely she didn’t think you were that kind of person. 

“No. I’m not the boss. There isn’t actually one person in charge here at all.” You say 

She shakes her head in disbelief, “There is always someone in charge. Just let me meet him.”  

You explain how Jackson functions to her, its council, how you all share things with each other, trading amongst yourselves. Lana listens intently, you can tell she's impressed by the picture you paint in her head. 

“How do I know you’re not lying?” She asks warily

“You don’t.” You respond, “Just have to trust me.” 

Her gaze drops to her lap and winces when her wrists twist a bit in her binds. 

“Trusting people is dangerous.” 

You nod in agreement, you know that the last time you’d fully trusted a stranger you’d left with more trauma than you could carry. 

“Alright,” you say, “I’ve shared with you, and now I want you to answer some of my questions. Then, if I think you won’t run off, I’ll untie you.” 

She looks at you tentatively, her eyes brimming with apprehension as you ask your first question, 

“What were you doing with Adam?” 

The door to the exam room slams open. Joel jumps as you pace over to where he’d dozed off on a bench in the hallway. Your worried expression makes him panic as he gets to his feet. What had happened? 

“What’s wrong? She hurt you?” Joel asks, his eyes scanning for any injuries 

You shake your head, pulling away from him when he steps closer to you. 

“Where’s Tommy?” 

“With Maria. Said somethin’ about learning to swaddle his kid, why?”

You turn on your heel, legs propelling you towards the direction of Maria’s room. Joel scampers after you, his knees popping when he matches your frantic pace. 

“Slow down.” He huffs, “Tell me what’s goin’ on.” 

Your warpath continues as you reach Maria’s room, your hand lands on the handle and Joel grabs your upper arm, turning you to face him, 

“What’s happening?” He asks he needs to know before you go in there to his brother.

Your mouth gapes as the door opens anyway, a disgruntled Tommy standing in the doorway. 

“Babies sleeping, you two are loud.” 

Perhaps Joel should care more about waking his new niece, but all he wanted was for you to tell him what the hell was going on. What had you so panicked you looked like you might throw up? 

“Tommy,” Your eyes tear away from Joels, “Tommy, we need to get every person who can shoot up on the walls.” 

“What? What’d the girl say?” Tommy asks, disgruntled as he pulls the door shut, shielding Maria from whatever is coming next.

Joel worriedly looks at you, your chest rises and falls as you take a deep breath, eyes still fixed on his brother. 

“Joel and I, we killed the man who came in with her.” 

Tommy’s head swivels to look at Joel, anger settles on his features as he opens his mouth to discipline his older brother. 

“What? Joel, we talked about this, you can’t just kill-” 

“Would you let me finish?” You huff

Joel shoots his little brother a look, he has no fucking idea what Adam had done, who was Tommy to tell him who he could and couldn’t kill? At this point, Joel would gladly kill Adam a thousand times over and it still wouldn’t be enough revenge for what he’d done to you.

“They’re raiders. Well, he was. Adam, he and Lana were sent out to scope Jackson out. Lana’s from a group they killed months ago. She’s…She was his…” 

Joel watches as your voice dies in your throat. Your hands nervously twist together as you stammer over what you’re trying to say. 

Lana was you. Adam had apparently made it a habit to torture and assault the women he came across. Joel felt anger flash through his system. That fucker hadn’t deserved the bullet you put in his skull. Joel should’ve made it longer, for you, for Lana, for whoever else Adam had hurt over the years. 

“She give you a number? How many are there?” Tommy asks, clearly understanding what you’re trying to say. 

You shake your head, “I dunno, she said there were at least over 15. She um…spent most of her time with Adam and-” 

The door is pulled open again, and this time Maria stands there, wrapped up in a big fluffy bathrobe, her hair is messily pulled back, eyes are lined with dark bags from her new child. 

“We need more patrol shifts. Wall security needs to be doubled.” She says, “Tommy, I want you to get the council together for me,” She glances at Joel her eyes scanning his form, “Have Joel lead a group with our best shooters out as soon as possible. Make sure they're not coming for us right now.” 

Joel knows he’s always been on thin ice with his sister-in-law. She’s never quite clicked with him yet here she was putting Jackson’s safety in his hands. 

He gives her a firm nod, “I’ll get goin’ now.” 

Tommy grabs Joel by the arm, his face is serious, with not a smile in sight. 

“Be careful.” 

He gives his little brother a pat on the back, Joel would be fine. Twenty-one years in the apocalypse, he could handle a few raiders. 

There's a warm breeze as he leaves the clinic. Who were Jackson’s best shooters? Tommy was one but he’d be rallying the council and up on the wall all night. That left him, Brett, that Louis fellow wasn’t half bed either. It’d be better to have at least four though, the more manpower the better. 

“Joel!” 

He turns around to see you, racing out of the clinic to catch up to him. What the hell were you doing now? 

“Let me come.” You demand when you reach him 

“What?” He looks down at you, “No.” 

Your brow furrows in disappointment and Joel sighs deeply. 

“Sweetheart, yesterday, we…”His eyes scan your face, you’re not mentally ready for this he can tell, “Yesterday you handled a big piece of your past. I just don’t think you’re cut out for this.” 

Joel isn’t expecting the slap that comes. His face stings from your palm meeting the skin of his cheek.

“Fuck you.” You scoff, “I’m going.” 

Joel watches as you stomp off towards god knows where. His legs pump after you as you huff when he falls into step with you, grabbing you and pulling you off into a narrow alleyway. 

“Didn’t mean it like that, sweetheart. I just meant that you…maybe you should just stay back, and take some time to think about…” 

He isn’t good at this, giving people advice. He’s better at giving orders and letting them carry them out. 

“Think about what, Joel? About what Adam did to me?” 

You take a step towards him, crowding his personal space. 

“I’ve thought about that for years. Every night I’m terrified he’ll show up and rip me out from under the blankets and get on top of me.” 

Joel feels his heart drop. You’d been living in fear of Adam for so long and here you were trying to go right back out there, closer to the men he worked with. 

“Exactly why I want you to sit this out. It’s going to be dangerous.” He says 

You give Joel a hard shove to the shoulders, and he stumbles back. He couldn’t let you go out there, what if you got hurt or they got overwhelmed and you were captured? What the fuck were you thinking, asking him to just let you out of the safety of Jackson. 

“I need this Joel. Why can’t you see that?” 

Anger boils in his chest. You needed this? What you needed to get shot? Taken by those men again? Turned into a slave for their sick pleasures? 

No. Joel couldn’t let that happen. He hadn’t been there to stop it the first time but he could now. He was going to do what he should’ve twenty years ago, and keep you safe. 

“You need to stay put. Here. Behind the walls where I know you’re safe.” 

“I need this.” You beg, tears in your eyes, your voice a whisper, “Joel please…let me feel useful again. I want to stop them. To stop them from taking another me or another Lana.” 

Joel lets out a deep sigh. He understood where you were coming from but he couldn’t let you come. Beyond the walls was unpredictable, he knew that better than you did. You’d spent years here in Jackson and he’d just walked across the damn country with a teenager. 

Your face is set in a hard stare as you look up at him. He can’t tell what you’re thinking as your mouth opens again, 

“I’ll leave without your blessing, Joel. This is me telling you, I’m going.” 

Joel shakes his head, no you just didn’t get it. 

“I’m going. It’s just a matter of if I’m going with you and your group, or alone.” 

Joel reaches out, his hand shakes a bit as he cups your face. A gentle gesture he remembers you used to relish in so many years ago. In another universe he’s sitting on his couch back in Texas, holding you as you giggle and watch a stupid rom-com with him. Instead, he’s standing here, an old man with hands dipped in the blood of so many as he tries to keep you safe and out of the reach of the monsters of this world. What a horrible hand the world has dealt him. 

Joel thumbs away a tear that hovers on your cheek. You whisper another please to him and his heart squeezes. 

Fine, he’ll let you go. Besides he couldn’t keep you safe if you ran off on your own to hunt these men. At least this way you’d have him at your side. 

“You listen to me out there.” He orders, “You understand? No running off on a revenge path.” 

You nod and sniffle a bit, turning your face to nuzzle closer to his touch. 

Joel leans in, his lips meet the warm skin of your forehead. A kiss brushes the skin of your forehead as he pulls you into what is probably a bone-crushing hug from your point of view. Your voice trickles into his ears again, warm as the spring breeze that floats through the town, 

“Thank you, Joel.” 

Three hours later, you ride out of Jackson. Joel leads you and two other men, Brett and Louis out along the furthest patrol route Jackson’s people watch. You grip Pepper’s reigns tight enough that your knuckles go white. 

Brett and Louis are fine. They’re both decent shots from what you can remember. It helps that they’re both young and filled with muscle. You found yourself wishing you had more mass, bigger biceps, and stronger legs. If you were tackled how long would you be able to survive with a man twice your size above you? Surely if any of these men you were after recognized you, you’d be killed. Not that it bothered you. Death was a much sweeter release than being taken by any of them again. 

Lana had said that there were at least over 15 men in Adam’s group. She said they often split up to do recon and patrol shifts, and that some of them had been close to the dam when she and Adam were “taken” in by Jackson’s patrol unit. 

You wondered who was leading them now. Lana said she spent most of her time with Adam and some other man named Paul. The fact this group had grown so much over the years made you shudder, all you knew was that Adam wasn’t at the head of it. Lana said he often mentioned a boss to her, a man she had never gotten the chance to meet. 

Lucky her.

The sun began to set as Joel suggested that they hole up in an old cabin up ahead. The other two men agreed and before you knew it you were sitting in between Joel and Louis eating a sandwich Ellie had made for you. 

Brett and Louis take the first shift of watch and leave you and Joel in the cabin. A single camping lantern sits on the ground, just barely illuminating the room. 

“You can have the bed. I’ll sleep down here.” Joel gestures to the old couch that had been pushed off to the side of the room after Brett deemed it too moth-ridden to sit on without it falling in on itself. 

You shake your head, he couldn’t stay there. He’d done so much for you, even if his rejection the other day had pissed you off, he deserved a bed. 

“We can share. I don’t mind.” 

Joel, as it turns out, snores. 

Loudly. 

You huff and turn onto your side. You wish you had a pillow to stuff over your head so the sound could be muffled a bit. God, he sounded like a fucking lawnmower. You should’ve just let him have the couch. 

You groan and flop onto your back. It’d been years since you shared a bed with him, if only 35-year-old Joel was here, he wouldn’t snore like this. Sure an occasional snort, and maybe a fart or two but at least he was quiet most of the night. 

“What’s wrong?” Joel mumbles from your right 

“Nothing. Go to bed.” You huff 

A beat of silence, had he gone back to sleep? 

“You’re upset,” Joel says, turning on his side to face you. 

The pale moonlight illuminates him as you turn to look at him in the darkness. You face him, scooching a bit closer so your noses are only inches apart. 

“You snore.” You say 

Joel’s brow knits together in confusion, “No I don’t.” 

“You do. You sound like that lawn mower you used to keep in your garage.” 

“You mean the broken one that smoked when it was turned on?” 

“Yeah.” You huff, “You’re that loud, Joel.” 

He grumbles a sorry and you smile softly. He looks pretty like this, his face illuminated by the moon, and his tired eyes staring into yours. Grey hairs litter his beard as you try to imagine what it might feel like pressed against your face. 

“I feel like Ellie would’ve told me I snored.” Joel thinks out loud 

“She’s clearly trying to spare your feelings.” You grumble, your eyes beginning to droop. 

“She’s a teenager. She wouldn’t spare your feelings even if you were dying.” Joel huffs 

You giggle, how right he is. Ellie was the most judgemental little girl you knew. Even that Dina girl who had once told you your shirt was ugly wasn’t as bad as Ellie.  

Joel throws off an impressive amount of heat as you lie there, fighting your drowsiness. You scoot a bit closer to him, craving the warmth he provides. 

“I liked what happened earlier.” You softly admit when your nose brushes his 

“Hmm?” Joel’s eyes lazily pull back open to look at you.

“In the alley. You give great hugs.” You smile, “They’re real bear hugs.” 

“It’s probably all the extra fat I’ve been lugging around. Y’gotta stop sending me cookies.” Joel sighs, his eyes fluttering shut again. 

You scoff, “Please. You’re anything but fat.” 

He rolls onto his back and Joel’s hand comes up and pats his belly from on top of his shirt. 

“This says otherwise, sweetheart.” 

He can’t see it, but you roll your eyes. 

“Went up a size or two on my belt since gettin’ into Jackson as well.”  

You push yourself up onto your elbows and poke your finger into his cheek. His eyes open again and jealousy twinges in your chest. Why was he blessed with such nice eyelashes. Those should be yours, he had no use for them. 

“There’ll be no body shaming on my watch, Mr. Miller.” 

“You’re makin’ me feel a thousand years old, calling me that.” He mumbles 

“Yeah, yeah.” You brush him off, “Just between you and me, dad bods have always been better than six packs.” 

Joel’s gaze flits over to you and he looks at you a bit incredulously. He must think you’re full of shit. 

“I’m serious.” 

You smile and flop back down, breaking the invisible boundary between the two of you but resting your chin on his chest. Part of your body rests on top of his now and he makes no motion to push you away. It’s a familiar position, one you had enjoyed so many years ago. Perhaps yesterday had just been a fluke. 

Joel huffs a small breath as if he’s saying he doesn’t believe you. 

“I’m going to bed.” You mumble into the soft fabric of his dark blue shirt. 

Joel is quiet, still as a statue under you as your eyes flutter shut. Then, his deep voice fills the room again, 

“I’m sorry. For yesterday. Pushing you away like that…You were hurtin’ and I was…well, I was scared.” 

“It’s alright.” You quietly reply, your finger drawing a circle on his t-shirt-clad chest. 

You don’t know what else to say to him. You knew yesterday had been the wrong move. Trying to get him to sleep with you after everything with Adam. You knew that wasn’t what you wanted. You had just been craving love and acceptance, you wanted to be wanted by someone. 

You wanted Joel to want you. 

Next Part

Yummy fluff. Hehe.

I need to figure out wtf I should name Tommy and Maria's kid. I wonder what HBO is gonna name them.

I can't believe Season Two is confirmed for April.

Season Two spoilers in the next little note:

Ugh, I'm so scared...Joel, STAY AWAY FROM GOLF PLEASE I BEG!!

God, Pedro needs a helmet. First Oberyn Martell and now Joel... :(

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter, I carry the tags over to each part.

Tags:

@lunaticgurly  @orcasoul  @snowlycanroc  @freythecrazyfae

@person-005 @greenwitchfromthewoods

@elli3williams @yawnzzzzzzzz @am-3-thyst  @concrete-jungleeee

@cherrypieyourface  @kanyewestest @bambisweethearts

@sarahhxx03 @loveisacowboyyy @amyispxnk @lou-la-lou

[hircines-hunter]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @thequeenofthewinter @pocket-vvardvark @skyrim-forever

Gonna tag @umbracirrus @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @mavariel @sulphuricgrin @theoneandonlysemla @oblivions-dawn @illumiera @madamefluffnstuff @moriche . There’s no obligations and feel free to tag me back. :3c got some more blood moons.

Juniper overwhelmed her sense of smell. Strong arms embraced her as she transformed back. Her stomach lurched as Farkas picked her up and sprinted through the brush. “Where?” She looked around his chest and shoulders. Her fingertips glided across the wound on his shoulder. “I’m sorry Farkas….”

“Don’t. It’s not your fault.”

“It is!” Sifkni cried. “If I hadn’t been so stupid! Gotten that hunt called on me.” She looked over his shoulder. “He’s not following us….”

“Good. But it’s not your fault.�� Farkas’ pace slowed. “Do we go back to the camp?” He stopped and looked around. He inhaled the air.

“I…. I don’t know, Farkas. I don’t know.” Sifkni wrapped her arms around his neck. “I can’t do this to you guys anymore.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Farkas tightened his grip on her. He walked towards the direction of Ilfhil’s camp. “I don’t care if you don’t know what to do. Or how to stop this. I do know I am not leaving you. I made a promise to you when I took that ring. I will protect you. I accepted that ring for a reason, Sif. Please…. Share this burden with me.”

Sifkni nodded slowly. She looked at him and traced the outline of the scars on his face. She leaned over and kissed one of the scars. “I made the same promise. You’re mine to protect. To take care of. I will not lose you.” She rested her head in the crook of his neck and cried.

Tears rolled from her face onto his shoulder. Farkas stopped walking and readjusted his hold on her. “Sifkni. It’ll be okay. We will figure this out.” A soft melody left his lips as he continued to walk. He hummed the entire way to the camp, lulling Sifkni to sleep.

Ilfhil jumped up and ran over to them. “Who…. Whose scent is that?”

[lacydollette]

SUNRISE .ᐟ sam winchester

warnings sam winchester x fem!reader, fallen angel!reader, established relationship, this shit is just fluffy asf, and ik that angels don’t need to sleep in spn but just pretend okay?!

“What are you planning, Samuel?” You teased softly, though your voice full of warmth while you were all cuddled up into one of Sam’s oversized flannels. “You’ll see,” he repeated with a sly grin, glancing at you briefly before turning back to the road, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

The morning had started with Sam gently shaking you awake, his voice low and soft as he told you to get dressed cause he had a surprise for you. You had groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow. You really weren’t an early bird, but once you saw the spark in his eyes and the boyish grin on his face, you were convinced.

Now, as you sat beside him, your curiosity growing with every passing mile, you couldn't help but feel grateful for whatever it was he'd planned. Sam had a way of making you feel grounded, even when everything else seemed overwhelming, making your first time on earth more memorable than you had ever expected.

You didn’t get much peace these days—adjusting to earth was overwhelming for you sometimes—but you were handling it better than anyone Sam had ever met before.

You weren’t just anyone; you were a fallen angel, still learning your way around the human world. You approached everything with childlike innocence—your excitement over simple things like the hum of a washing machine or the sweet taste of maple syrup often left Sam grinning from ear to ear. But one thing you haven’t experienced yet was a sunrise over the ocean. When you first told him that, Sam had promised himself to make it happen. And now was the time.

When he pulled up to the beach, your breath got caught in your throat. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, the horizon glowing in the light of dawn. You stepped out of the car, the cool breeze brushing against your skin, and just stood there for a moment, staring.

“Sam,” you whispered, not really registering the sight infront of you. Sam came around to your side, taking your hand and lacing your fingers together. “I remembered you said you’d never seen a sunrise at the beach. Thought we should change that.”

Your chest ached, but in the best way. You looked at him, eyes glassy. How could someone be so thoughtful, so good? You didn’t deserve him—at least, that’s what you often thought—but he made you feel like you did. “Thank you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He led you down to the sand, where he spread out a blanket for the both of you. You quickly kicked off your shoes, laughing softly as your toes sank into the cool sand. Sam just watched you, his heart doing that annoying little flip it always did when you smiled like that.

As you settled in, the first rays of sunlight broke over the water, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. Your eyes were wide, full with wonder as you watched. You had never seen something this magical.

“It’s more beautiful than I ever imagined,” you said, voice trembling with awe. Sam leaned closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Not as beautiful as you.” You laughed, a quiet, disbelieving sound, but you didn’t argue. Instead, you turned to face him, pressing your forehead against his. “You do too much for me,” you mumbled softly. “Not even close,” he replied.

The sunrise wasn’t the only thing you experienced for the first time this morning. Sam brought out a side of you that you didn’t know even existed—the carefree, playful side. When the sun was fully up, you both ran along the shore like little kids, laughing as you splashed in the waves.

“Catch me if you can!” You called, your laughter echoing as you darted away from him. “Alright, im coming for you!” Sam shouted back, sprinting after you. You felt so free running around the sand, the slight ocean breeze hugging your body.

When he finally caught you, he wrapped his arms around your waist and spun you around, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. You clung to him, your cheeks flushed, heart so full that it could burst.

Being with Sam felt like home.

tags @beausling @sammyluvr @nuemanfilms @rubyvhs @chevroletdean @figthoughts @gibson-g1rl @mxltifxnd0m @angelicjackles @deansbeer

[hirokiyuu]

CON LOOT CON LOOT CON LOOT i went to anirevo for the very first time and it was sooooo nice......... i made perhaps a few unwise financial decisions but honestly looking at all this again. worht it.

if you are curious abt where anything was from lmk!!!! i will have to go dig up business cards for most of it (lol) but all the twst except for stickers + the computer window jamil + the plush (which is official lmao) are from @broh3m3 ! additionally i wont be able to tell you where hexagon akch is from bc he was a gift............ cradling him in my palms tho

[batsplat]

number of sunday race wins per title winner this century (wins/number of races)

2001: 11/16

2002: 11/16

2003: 9/16

2004: 9/16

2005: 11/17

2006: 2/17

2007: 10/18

2008: 9/18

2009: 6/17

2010: 9/18

2011: 10/17

2012: 6/18

2013: 6/18

2014: 13/18

2015: 7/18

2016: 5/18

2017: 6/18

2018: 9/18

2019: 12/19

2020: 1/14

2021: 5/18

2022: 7/20

2023: 7/20

current wins of title contenders this season (out of 9 races, another 10-11 to go): bagnaia - 6; martin - 2

[glacialswordsman-a]

decided to draw a ref for how i view my yaya since i have bunches of headcanons for him

i'll put it in the headcanon masterpost but i'll give him an individual post too

pls DO NOT rb bc i dont want it getting out further than my circle aslkdjaslfj thank yewww <3

[crossbackpoke-check]

Sat politely ankles crossed hands folded please say you have more thoughts about the DC deweys. Lazarus pit cold-eyed stare pristine and bloodthirsty anyway I would love to hear any further thoughts if you have the time + energy + motivation

how i imagine you waiting for me to re-read the resurrection of ra’s al-ghul and hush vol. 1+2:

ALRIGHT. in no particular order, thoughts about the dc deweys

connor fits very well into the mold of a talia al-ghul for me; chip on his shoulder, femme fatale, deadly and precise. he’s not the loudest but he’s got a dry wit that’ll cut you!

“why is connor an al-ghul at all and not batman” well first of all he’s already got the water connection, i’m gonna go dip him into the lake a couple hours north of the pas to make him incredibly long-lived, rejuvenated and beautiful

second of all i want him to be a questionable villain/antihero because he looks evil in those pictures but like beautiful evil. you see him at a multi-million dollar soirée and he’s bored of being there wearing his “heritage” beads and jewels he originally had from a thousand years ago. he and his assassins are only here to murder the head of state who’s planning to lay a pipeline through ancestral grounds

rip brandon duhaime i simply cannot imagine you as any kind of batman. lacks the gravitas, too much of a yapper, loves his wife too much. i curse thee to be green arrow if you’re in this narrative at all

assuming connor stays with toronto, would LOVE to think about toronto as one of the sites of the lazarus pit for many reasons

(a brief aside here to say that for me personally this is interesting if connor goes to winnipeg because i think they suit him better, he’s a manitoba boy, but re: the chip on his shoulder, he’s NOT a manitoba boy. he’s from the pas and very proud of it)

a) the amount of ‘toronto is the center of the universe’ hockey creation myths i can play with & birth/rebirth/reincarnation. if you WANT to feel unhinged trying to blend hockey and comics is an ice rink not just a pool of water?

b) mr. cathal kelly i love your works!!! toronto eats its young!!! thinking about this very literally in the sense of the resurrection arc where players come to toronto and are sacrificed, give up their body, their skill, in service of the demon’s head, and lose themselves.

c) we see echos of the same narratives and styles over and over again—if i can hop over to the flyers for a second, there is of course the curse of the *8s (18 richards, 28 claude, 48 danny b, 68 nolan, 88 lindros) but ALSO the danny brière -> tk -> morgan frost celly chain. every generation a resurrection, emerging clean and new from the pit

can you just briefly hold my hand and imagine wayne gretzky as an evil ra’s al-ghul wanting to possess a new body. gretzky i’m sorry to malign you and i know you never played in toronto but you are the best player in my head to fit the idea, i’m open to other suggestions

coming BACK to green arrow dewey (i did not re-watch arrow or re-read those comics sorry) connor could also be black canary, who takes a brief dip into the lazarus pit (toronto) before getting married to oliver. i do like that narrative but because we were talking about pristine and cold-blooded i figured connor dewar head of the league of assassins was more what you were after

now that i’ve gotten through world building… choose your own adventure narratives?

hockey-ish au: connor chosen as a host for the Next One. i think the lineage of the great one -> next one -> next next one -> next one up of gretzky -> crosby -> mcdavid -> bedard is taken, BUT i can imagine that the league of old boys all have the same intentions. connor gets sent to toronto unknowingly being prepped to get body-snatched by ???? and brandon duhaime of course accidentally stumbles on the plot and they have to fight to stop it

connor assassinating people :) snapshot of the head of the league of assassins delegating which major world events they’re going to change today. would love his shark face from the gifset to have blood spattered across it, ideally.

version 1 as head of the league of assassins: brandon is one of his assassins, big strong bodyguard type. devoted to him, would lay down his life, perfectly designed for connor (lady shiva/cassandra cain-ish). connor orders for something to be done and brandon does it there for him then gently wipes the blood off his face and apologizes for being careless and getting him messy.

version 2 as head of the league of assassins: an actual plot where connor aims to assassinate SOMEONE but brandon gets in the way. they meet at odds as their respective roles (hero, leader of a crime syndicate) but are magnetically drawn together as their alter egos. eventually brandon puts together the pieces of the Big Evil and manages to (legally!-ish as much as vigilante-ism can be legal) take it down and the ending panels show a tentative friendship and recognition of potential shared goals

also, jaromir jágr is immortal. don’t know if this is relevant OR related but he is. personal hot spring lazarus pit?

um. thanks for coming to my 1.5k ted talk (including tags). what a way to moritz seider lore drop that i DID grow up a comic book nerd, lmao. thank you so much for enabling me <3 i'll be here all week thinking about which teams would get what rings in a blackest night au

[fazcinatingblog]

200 chapter fanfiction on what really happened the night of 26th January 2019 at a house party in Richmond

[coloursofaparadox]

>:[

[mostly-imagines]

Careless Accidents

jason todd x fem!reader

aka you get hurt and jason’s pissed

warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed to hard

You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.

You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.

Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.

“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly. 

“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did. 

“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”

“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing. 

“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”

She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.

Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.

What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear. 

What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.

Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.

“Are you okay?” she signs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” 

The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it. 

You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern. 

“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.

“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.

Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”

Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”

Dick paled. 

“No.”

Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”

“No.”

You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.  

“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes, 

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”

⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️

[sunni-stuff]

Part 1 This is part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

With the train ride now over, the sergeants ran, scouring the market for two familiar faces. Their footsteps in sync, crunching delicate mounds of white snow. Soap broke through the crowd first, then Gaz and Gary were right with him.

“Where the hell are they?” Gaz pants out, his breaths misting in the cold air.

“You said the marketplace,” Soap huffs.

“Yeah, I said the marketplace, but it's not like I know exactly where they went!” Gaz snaps back.

While the two sergeants bicker, Roach quietly breaks away, scanning the area until he spots the familiar figures they’d been hunting for. Price and Ghost stand outside a cigar shop, deep in conversation. The satisfied grin on Price's face tells Roach everything—he got what he was after.

“They’re over there!” Roach exclaims, snapping his partners out of their lovers' quarrel.

Gaz and Soap go silent, their eyes following Roach’s line of sight until they, too, spot their Lieutenant and Captain.

In a heartbeat, the three of them are sprinting toward their unsuspecting targets. Soap grins like a madman, practically buzzing with mischief, while Gaz shakes his head, both amused and slightly wary of what might unfold. Roach, meanwhile, is simply thrilled to be along for the ride.

They skid to a stop right in front of the two men, chests heaving as they catch their breath in the biting winter air.

“The hell is wrong with you lot?” Price’s voice cuts through, laced with a mix of annoyance and bemusement as he shifts his attention from Ghost to the winded sergeants.

Ghost, arms crossed, eyes them with quiet scrutiny. His winter coat does little to conceal his bulky frame, a silent reminder of his imposing presence as he stands beside Price.

Price and Ghost waited for an explanation, knowing well everytime those three got together, they were definitely up to no good.

Like how they put semi-permanent green dye in Ghost's shampoo for Halloween.

“We… we saw. A kid with your face,” Gaz manages, still catching his breath, pointing straight at Ghost.

Ghost raises a brow, baffled. A kid with his face? What the hell did that mean? Did they think he looked like a baby?

Soap huffs in mock disappointment, shooting a playful glare at Gaz. “Oi, I wanted to say it!”

Predictably, the two dive into another back-and-forth. Gaz isn’t one to shout, but Soap has a talent for riling anyone up.

Price lets their little show go on for only a moment before his stern voice cuts in, slicing through their bickering. “One of you properly explain, or you'll be walking back to base.”

Roach steps up, eager to clarify. “There’s a kid, probably about two, and she looks exactly like the Lt. Scowl, glare, and all!”

Price and Ghost pause, their expressions twisting as they both try—and fail—to imagine a little girl with Simon’s permanent scowl.

Price shudders, shaking the thought from his head. “That is not a face a kid should have.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Gaz chimes in, nodding emphatically.

Ghost throws him an offended look, his usually hardened eyes showing a glimmer of hurt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” they all exclaim in unison, even Price, who quickly averts his gaze as Ghost’s glare narrows on him.

Ghost huffs, then crosses his arms. “Did you take a picture?”

Soap snorts, leaning against the wall with a smirk. “Aye, right, 'cause that wouldnae be creepy at all.”

Ghost stares daggers Into Soap, rolling his eyes and pushing himself off the wall. “Okay, then where is she?”

The three stooges lead the charge once again, this time with their Captain and Lieutenant in tow. They weave through the crowd toward the train park, where Soap eagerly scans for the woman and kid he’d spotted earlier. But the line they were in is empty, the pair nowhere to be found.

“Shite. I think they’re gone,” Soap mutters, his Scottish accent thickening in his frustration, the words rolling out with a clipped bite. 

“So the imaginary woman and kid don’t actually exist,” Ghost deadpans, unimpressed.

“They exist!” Gaz insists, voice edging on exasperation.

“Sure,” Ghost replies, his tone flat and thoroughly unconvinced.

Roach snickers, then glances over at Price—only to see him staring slack-jawed through the window of a nearby café, his cigar dangling from his mouth, forgotten.

“Cap?” Roach says, touching the older man’s shoulder.

Price doesn’t look away, nodding toward the café. “Found them.”

Everyone turns toward the café, eyes landing on you and Adira. The little girl is happily weaving between your legs, her tiny hands gripping your coat as she entertains herself, all while you order hot chocolates to fend off the winter chill. A soft smile touches your lips as you watch her play, blissfully unaware of the audience gathering just outside.

The barista, with a warm smile, hands over two cups, one with a little extra marshmallows for Adira, her voice bright as she wishes you both a merry Christmas. You take the cups with a grateful nod, handing one to Adira. She immediately takes her drink, sipping eagerly, her small feet bouncing on her heels from the sugar rush.

“Yummy?” You ask, glancing down at her with a soft smile, a wave of motherly pride swelling in your chest as you watch her delight in the simple joy of her drink.

Adira nods eagerly, her eyes lighting up as she pulls away from her straw with a satisfied sigh. “Yummy.”

With a soft chuckle, you both leave the warmth of the shop, stepping out into the crisp air. Hand in hand, you walk back toward the park, the world around you feeling peaceful despite the cold. As you reach the crosswalk, you stop, waiting for the light to turn. Adira looks up at you, her little face filled with contentment as she swings your joined hands back and forth, her sugary energy still buzzing.

Across the way, the team stood frozen, unable to look away from the scene unfolding before them. Everyone but Ghost was struck by how much Adira looked like him—her features unmistakably mirroring his, save for the color of her hair and skin. The resemblance was uncanny, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world had stopped around them.

“She looks nothing like me,” Ghost stated plainly, his voice cutting through the stillness as though it were fact. His expression was unmoving, a wall of stubbornness in his eyes. He was ready to die on that hill.

Then, as fate would have it, a woman walking her dog passed by, and Adira’s cherub-like face hardened into a cold, calculating stare. It was subtle, but unmistakable. 

“Nevermind,” Ghost muttered, his earlier conviction faltering as he watched her shift before his eyes.

“So… you’ve been having fun these past years?” Roach asked, his gaze flicking between Adira and Ghost, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Not that I know of,” Ghost grunted, his eyes still locked on you and Adira, a mix of unease and something else flickering across his face. He couldn’t pull himself away.

“Let’s get closer,” Price commanded, already making his move. Soap and Roach exchanged a shrug, falling in line without hesitation.

“Excuse me?” Gaz sputtered, though his body had already begun moving before his brain could catch up, unable to defy the Captain’s order.

Ghost fell silent, teeth gritted. This wasn’t a situation he was used to, especially not one where he was forced to go in blind. He stood stiffly at the crosswalk, trying to hide his glances, his focus split between the team and you.

Soap ended up the closest, standing just next to Adira. The little girl paused, her big, doe-like eyes lifting from her drink to catch sight of him. The recognition was instant. Her lips pursed into a small line, and her gaze grew heavy with annoyance. 

“Ugee…” she whispered, scooting closer to you.

Soap froze, his mind stuttering for a moment. Did she just—? Did she call me ugly?

Gaz, standing behind him, couldn’t contain himself. A muffled laugh broke through as Soap turned to look at the others, wide-eyed and speechless, completely taken aback.

“Do ye lot think I'm ugly?” Soap asked, his voice thick with disbelief, clearly thrown off by the little girl's words.

“Not the time, Mctavish,” Price said, a tiny laugh tugging at the corner of his lips despite the situation.

The streetlight flickered green, signaling it was time to move. You adjusted yourself, ready to cross the street. Each member of the team started mentally preparing, unsure of how—or even if—they should approach you. Ghost, however, was the first to make a move, determined to intercept you. But Soap, ever the opportunist, beat him to it.

Ghost wasn’t exactly subtle, and having him try anything would probably send you running in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me, aren’t you the lady from the train?” Soap called out, his voice light, though his intentions were clear.

You paused at his interruption, recognition flickering in your eyes. You remembered the man who bumped into you earlier. “Yes? Is something the matter?”

“Do you happen to know where I could find Leslies?” Soap asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice, though he tried to mask it.

“The pub?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Soap confirmed, his face lighting up with a mix of relief and surprise at your easy response.

You look around for a moment, trying to remember and see the street names of your current location. “Uh…it should be about a couple blocks south from here. They have a big sign, you can't miss it.”

Thank God for Soap, because that one question was all he needed to keep you trapped in a conversation, his charm working its magic as you giggled and chatted away easily, the awkwardness of the situation melting away.

Meanwhile, Ghost’s attention shifted to Adira. He looked down at her, and she, almost instinctively, looked up at him. Their eyes locked in a silent staring contest, each of them studying the other. The intensity in their gaze was undeniable, both sets of eyes reflecting the same quiet, unwavering strength. It was like looking in a mirror—a mirror that mirrored back his own hardened stare and no-nonsense attitude.

Adira was, quite literally, his mini me. The resemblance was impossible to ignore.

“How old are you?” Ghost asked bluntly, his voice low as he kneeled down to Adira’s height, his gaze intense but trying to soften.

Adira paused for a moment, glancing up at you for help, but you were still caught up in conversation with Soap. She turned her focus back to Ghost, her small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her coat as she murmured shyly, “Two…”

She was two. Two. Ghost’s mind raced, trying to piece together the details, but nothing clicked. Nearly three years ago… what had he done three years ago? He kept everything categorized, stored in his mind like a well-organized file system, but this was something that didn’t fit.

Then, Soap’s voice broke through his thoughts. 

“You don’t seem like the type of lass to frequent Leslies.”

You giggled, a soft blush creeping up your cheeks at Soap’s question. He wasn’t wrong… at least, not entirely. “I’ve only been to Leslie’s once, and, well… it’s how I ended up with my little blessing.” You glanced down at Adira, the warmth of your smile radiating as you spoke.

Everything shattered in that moment. Ghost’s stomach twisted painfully, his heart skipping a beat as the realization slammed into him like a freight train. Leslie's. Almost three years ago, during that stupid holiday.

His mind began to piece it together, the hazy memories from that night slowly coming into focus. He remembered the bar, the laughter, the way you had caught his attention. You were easy on the eyes, easy to make laugh, and most importantly—unlike everyone else. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry, you just let him lead, let him slip into the night with no strings attached.

But now, as he looked at Adira, everything fell into place. The way she stared at him, those familiar eyes, the resemblance he couldn’t ignore. His breath hitched, and the weight of the truth crushed him—she was his daughter.

A knot formed in his throat as he tried to process the fact. Adira. His daughter. The little girl standing before him was his flesh and blood, the result of a moment he'd long since buried in the depths of his mind.

---

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[beloveds-embrace]

(Poly 141 x medic reader, where you might as well be the sun to them)

The phrase started as a whisper.

It drifted through the base like smoke curling around corners, impossible to pin down but impossible to ignore.

“Here comes the sun.”

It bounced off walls, passing lips in hushed tones, slipping into conversations as a half-joke, half-omen. At first, the 141 didn’t pay it much attention. Soldiers had their quirks, their superstitions- rituals to keep them sane when missions dragged too long and they smelled more blood than earth. But this one stuck.

Price furrowed his brow the first time he heard it. Ghost only tilted his head slightly, filing it away. Gaz grimaced and muttered something about troops getting weird ideas. Soap, though- he took notice.

He’d caught it more than once before a mission, said like a prayer or maybe a warning. He’d asked around, but answers were vague. “You’ll know when you see it.” That’s all they’d tell him. It irritated him to no end.

Then the mission happened.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. A quick in-and-out, but things went sideways fast. Soap had been covering the team’s six when the ambush hit. A sharp crack split the air, followed by the searing pain in his side. He hit the ground hard, blood soaking into the dirt, a familiar, burning ache travelling through his body.

“Soap’s hit!” Gaz’s voice barked through comms, panic threading through the static.

“Pull him out!” Price ordered.

But the line fizzled and died. Soap’s world narrowed- gunfire, shouts, and the taste of copper in his mouth. He couldn’t hear the others anymore. The ground felt colder than it should have. He pressed his hand against the wound, but it was bad. Really bad.

This is it, he thought. This is where I die.

The edges of his vision blurred. He barely noticed the figure sprinting toward him until a flash of bright red and orange, a blazing fire, pierced through the smoke and haze.

Like the sun.

You hit the ground beside him, all motion and precision, your gear unlike anything he’d ever seen. Bright red and orange covered your tactical vest and helmet- colors that didn’t belong in a war zone. Colors that should’ve made you a target, a dead woman walking.

But instead, you looked like salvation.

“Stay with me, Sargeant.” You said, voice sharp and steady. You weren’t panicked- not even a little. It was comforting.

Soap stared, wide-eyed, as your hands worked quickly to stop the bleeding. He should’ve been paying attention to the pain, to the gunfire, to anything else- but he couldn’t stop looking at you.

“What the hell are ya wearing?” he rasped, because that was apparently the only thought his brain could form.

You didn’t look up. “Bright colors make it easier to spot me. Medics don’t have the luxury of hiding- we have to be seen when it counts.”

“It’s bloody ridiculous.” he muttered- and then sucked in a sharp breath as you tightened the bandage.

“Maybe,” you said, finally glancing at him. “But it got me here, didn’t it?”

Soap’s heart stumbled. Your eyes were sharp, focused- but there was something else there too, something warm. Something steady.

Here comes the sun.

It hit him all at once. That’s what the others meant. It wasn’t just the colors. It was you. The way you moved, the way your voice cut through the noise, the way you didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Stay awake, Sargeant.” You ordered, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t have a single smart remark.

Much later, he woke up in the med tent, groggy but alive, and immediately found himself staring at you again.

You were restocking supplies nearby, your bright gear an almost comical contrast to the sterile white walls. The moment you noticed him looking, you crossed the room.

“You’re awake,” you said, checking his vitals. Your voice was softer now, calm and patient. He felt like he could melt. “Good.”

“You’re real.” He blurted out before he could stop himself.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “What?”

“Thought I was hallucinating.” He gestured vaguely at your vest, a grin cracking on his lips. “I mean, look at ya.” Lovely. The sun has never looked better.

Your lips twitched, like you were holding back a smile. “I get that a lot.”

Before he could come up with anything else to say- anything remotely smooth- the tent flap opened.

Price, Ghost, and Gaz stepped in, their eyes immediately landing on you. And for once, Soap wasn’t the only one caught off guard.

Gaz blinked. “You’re… bright.”

“Easy to spot.” You said, beaming.

Ghost stared at you for a few seconds longer, peering, before he spoke. “…You’re the sun.”

Price studied you for a long moment as well, then nodded like something clicked into place with a sigh. “Makes sense.”

You, on the other hand, looked confused and unsure, tilting your head once more in the way kittens do.

Soap couldn’t stop staring. He barely even heard the others talking, answering your confusion. All he could think about was how you’d shown up when he thought he was done for- and how you’d looked like a fiery star in the vast expanse of a cold, dark sky.

You glanced at him again, eyes sharp and warm all at once, lips quirking in a delicate smile while Gaz talked with you.

Here comes the sun, he thought.

(… would it be possible to cradle the sun, such warmth, in his hands?)

Part Two