#casually adding new muses again

[stayliquid]

open to. f/nb. muse. matthew 'matt' burke, 29, high school football coach. connection. ex, girlfriend, fwb, wife, anything along those lines. it also doesn't necessarily have to follow this cheating narrative.

"are you sure that's the excuse you want to go with?" a sarcastic chuckle emitting from his lips, followed by a shake of his head. "that sounds like one of those 'oops i tripped and fell on his dick' type excuses."

[girlrotterr]

But I'm a lesbian!

ellie x abby x dina x fem!reader a/n: inspired by the movie, "but i'm a cheerleader" !! Did my own little spin on it. (This may have a part two!)

→ Part two! → Part three! → Part four! → Part five!  → Part six!

Forced to a camp known as "True Directions," your arrival was no choice of your own. Your parents, upon discovering your sexuality, had made the decision to send you there. As you followed your guide towards the dormitories, someone caught your eye—a girl with auburn hair, casually puffing on a cigarette.

Noticing your presence, the girl glanced up and rolled her eyes. Your guide gestured towards her, prompting her to approach you. Extending her hand, she introduced herself, "Ellie."

"Hello," you responded, your voice betraying your nerves as you shook her hand, noting its soft yet firm grip.

With a sigh, Ellie remarked, "they sent new meat here again, huh?" She took another drag from her cigarette, casting a judgmental gaze in your direction.

"I’m sure to be out of the way," you said, trying to sound confident. "I’ll pass every trial here to get back home."

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “Uh-huh..." she mused. “You’ll be here a while then."

“Ahem," the guide cleared her throat towards Ellie, who responded with an eye roll before retreating to her pink bed.  

"Very well then, I will leave you to unpack your things. This will be your dorm. You will share this space with three other roommates, feel free to report anything back to me," she said, her tall and commanding presence by her bouncing blond hair as she talked.

"Especially anything involving this one," she added, shooting a glance at Ellie. 

"Well," the guide grasped your arms, giving them a squeeze, "welcome to 'True Directions,' we'll fix you right up, dear!”

You gave a hesitant half-smile, trying to hide your discomfort. 

Returning your gesture with a bright smile, the guide nodded happily before leaving, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Silence. 

Clutching onto your suitcases, the silence became increasingly awkward, and you debated whether to speak up. Should you ask where to put your belongings? But the fear of annoying or bothering Ellie made you hesitant.

Fuck it.

"Um, excuse me, where can I—"

"There," Ellie interrupted, her tone nonchalant as she pointed toward a corner of the room, her gaze still not meeting yours.

Your eyes followed her gesture to an empty white dresser tucked away, starkly different from the others that were already occupied. Making your way towards the dresser, you took in the room once more. The overwhelming femininity was hard to ignore—pink walls, beds, and shelves adorned with stuffed animals. Setting your suitcase down with a thud, you unzipped it, the sound of the zipper echoing loudly in the silent room.

Opening the drawer, the scent of brand new furniture wafted across your nose, tickling it and nearly causing you to sneeze.

Ellie got up from her bed, pulling open her drawer with a tug. In it were an assortment of items—makeup, hair accessories, and jewelry jumbled together. Rummaging through it, Ellie let out a sharp exhale, finally finding something from the depths of the drawer.

Without a glance in your direction, she held out a ribbon and a few hair clips. "Here," she muttered.

Your eyes widened at the adorable accessories as she tossed them over to you. "Put your hair up or something. It's better not to have it in the way, especially during our routines.”

"Ah, thank you," you expressed, catching them. "Are these.. yours?"

"Yeah... unfortunately," Ellie responded dryly.

With a nod, you started to arrange your hair with the clips.

As you styled your hair, the weight of Ellie's gaze pressed against your back like a physical force. Every subtle movement you made was studied, from the way you lifted strands of hair to the careful twisting of the ribbon around the ponytail. Even the simple act of tucking a stray lock behind your ear felt intense.

What’s this girl's deal?

The intensity of her stare became almost suffocating, leaving your hands trembling slightly as you worked. Despite her focus only on your hair, the sensation of being under her gaze felt like she was peering into your soul.

Finally, Ellie broke the silence with a quiet, husky voice, her words cutting through the tension. "You need a mirror?"

Her gaze remained fixed on you, relentless.

"No," you managed to reply, attempting to be confident.

But the moment her voice echoed throughout the room, heat began rising to your cheeks, and you couldn’t help but hesitate. Her presence felt overwhelming, a mix of nerves, fear, and desire swirling within you, all under her attention.

“Hm..” Ellie replied, seeming more curious now. She uncrossed her arms and slowly walked over to you. You could hear the way Ellie’s footsteps made the floor creak as she walked.

"Hm?" you managed to utter as Ellie closed in on you, her presence surrounding you with every step she took. The breath from her lips brushed against the nape of your neck as she leaned in.

"You're missing a strand," Ellie said, her voice softer than before.

The sensation of her being so close, her breath teasing your skin. You wanted to turn around and face her.

Her closeness was so overwhelming.

As Ellie's hand brushed against your hair, a sharp shiver coursed through your spine, setting your heartbeat into a quick rhythm. Her touch lingered, fingers twirling strands of your hair, as she leaned in even closer, so suffocatingly close. It felt as though Ellie was on the verge of whispering something, her breath agonizingly near-

"Yo, Ellie!"

The tension in the room broke as Dina and Abby burst in, causing Ellie to let go of your hair and step back.

Their expressions shifted abruptly from excitement to surprise as they noticed you. Dina's curious gaze looked over, her head tilting in confusion, while Abby's cold stare pierced through you.

"You must be the new one," Abby remarked, her tone icy, her eyes never leaving you as if dissecting your very being.

"Y-yeah.. I am," you responded, finally finishing your hair.

Abby simply nodded in acknowledgment, while Dina chuckled to herself.

"Aw, the new girl is all nervous!" Dina's teasing remark was followed by a smirk and a playful wave of her hand. She shifted her attention to Ellie, observing her growing annoyance. Dina seemed to catch on to something, finding the situation amusing.

"Ooooh! Ellie was hitting on ya!" Dina's snickering only added to Ellie's frustration as she clenched her jaw tightly, arms crossed.

Abby, maintaining her silent observation, continued to stare at the both of you.

"Ah! no..she was just helping me with my hair," you replied, attempting to stop the teasing.

"Awh. Is that so?" Dina's teasing tone persisted as she continued to giggle, her gaze towards Ellie who remained annoyed.

Abby's gaze suddenly shifted as she walked towards you, gently pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Her touch was surprisingly tender.

"There," she remarked softly, a smile gracing her lips, the gesture catching you off guard. It was so unexpected. "You had missed a strand."

Abby looked back at Ellie, a smirk on her lips, her eyes flickering as she made a mocking glance with her.

Suddenly, the camp director barged in, her authoritative voice vibrating throughout the room. "Ladies!" she commanded, making all the girls snap their attention towards the door where the camp director now stood.

Ellie groaned as soon as she heard that familiar voice.

"All of you, get out for morning exercise," the director ordered, her stern gaze scanning everyone. "Now."

With a swift turn, the camp director walked out of the room, the echo of her clicking heels fading as she left. Abby, Dina, and Ellie all groaned in unison, knowing what was to come. They made their way to their designated dressers, preparing to change into their gym clothes.

Amidst the shuffling of clothing, you voiced your confusion. "W-what are we doing?"

Abby scoffed at your question, a smirk on her lips. "Did Ellie not go through the routines and rules with you?"

You shook your head.

"Not surprising," she remarked before chuckling, "she always seems to get distracted-"

“We're doing morning cardio and stretching routines,” Ellie cut in, her voice clear and assertive, pulling out her sports bra and short shorts. “Your gym clothes are in your dresser.”

Abby bit her lip, suppressing a laugh. "Well, there you go.”

You nodded in understanding, “thanks..”

Walking to your dresser, you pulled open the top drawer, revealing a variety of outfits and uniforms, all varying shades of pink. The sight left your head spinning a bit as you realized this would be your life for the next couple of months.

As you began changing, you felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over you. With hesitant movements, you peeled off your shirt and skirt, the fabric slipping from your skin with a soft rustle. All the while, you were aware of Abby and Ellie's eyes lingering on you.

 Abby's gaze, though subtle, was sharply observant, her eyes tracing up and down your body with an almost predatory glare. It was as if she was memorizing every curve and contour. Meanwhile, Ellie's attention was more focused, her gaze lingering on specific areas of your body, like your hips and chest. There was an intensity in her stare, a curiosity that was borderline intrusive.

Slap! 

With a sharp sting on your ass, a sudden jolt of surprise chilled through you, causing you to yelp. "You'll make us late at this pace!" Dina's voice rang out, her arm wrapping around you protectively, shielding you from the view of Abby and Ellie.

"Ah! You're right," you exclaimed, quickly slipping into your gym clothes.

Dina gave you a quick grin before turning her attention towards Abby and Ellie. Squinting her eyes playfully, she shook her head slowly, teasingly disappointed in the two of them. Abby hurriedly looked away, pretending to be preoccupied with tying her shoelaces, while Ellie rolled her eyes.

───

As you and the other girls made your way to the track, you found yourselves walking together in a small group. Ellie and Abby led the way, showing no signs of slowing down despite your struggle to keep up. Meanwhile, Dina’s pace was slower, occasionally glancing at you.

"So, how'd you get caught?" Dina asked slyly, a mischievous look in her eyes.

You turned to look at her, taken aback by the sudden question. "What?"

"You were sent here for a reason," Dina said curiously, making Abby and Ellie turn their heads, intrigued to hear your response.

"I..don't think I want to share," you said, avoiding eye contact from feeling a bit nervous.

"Oh, come on!" Dina urged, now walking next to you, realizing your hesitance. "Don't be so shy. How about we tell you ours? Will that make you less embarrassed?"

"Hmm..alright," you agreed. Maybe learning about their experiences would help get to know them.

Excitedly, Dina clapped her hands together. "Okay, okay! I'll go first." She moved closer to you, her shoulder practically bumping into yours. "I got caught watching lesbian porn."

A snicker escaped Ellie's lips as she tried to hold back her laughter.

Dina shot a playful glare. "You have no right to laugh, El's."

"Doesn't make it any less funny," Ellie retorted.

Dina scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Since it’s sooo funny, you go then."

Ellie's eyes locked onto yours, her voice embarrassed. "I ordered a strap online, and it got delivered to the wrong address. To my fucking neighbor, Seth. Dude went ballistic and sent me here, said I needed to be controlled."

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks as Ellie's words sank in, full of curiosity and intrigue. The mere idea of her wearing a strap sent a flow of sensations that pulsed throughout your body. Your throat became dry trying to visualize it. 

"Ab's! Your turn!" Dina interrupted excitedly, Abby's story was always her favorite.

Abby smirked, turning her gaze towards you. "Unlike Ellie, I got to use my strap," she remarked mischievously.

Ellie groaned at Abby'scomment, clearly unimpressed.

“I got caught fucking my father's assistant nurse with it.”

Dina squealed as she shook your arm excitedly. "Now THAT'S a coming out story!" she exclaimed.

Ellie shot Dina a glare, clearly annoyed by her reaction. With a scoff, she turned her head away, facing in the opposite direction.

Abby, on the other hand, smirked at Ellie's and playfully hit her back. "Aw, it's okay, El's," she said reassuringly.

"Okay, okay, tell us yours now," Dina urged eagerly, her and Abby's curious gazes fixed on you,

“Well..” you began, your hands fidgeting nervously as you mustered up the courage. “My parents walked in on me and my cheer captain…” You hesitated for a moment before continuing “...69’ing on the kitchen counter.” 

Ellie quickly snapped her head back to look at you. Dina and Abby’s eyes widened, completely startled.

“Y-yeah…” you confirmed, meeting the girls' shocked gazes. “Mid-squirt too…”

Ellie’s eyes widened as if they were going to pop. Dina’s jaw dropped, with her mouth slowly curving into a smirk, “You fucking win.”

───

"Alright, ladies," the head director announced, her voice carrying across the track, “forty-five minutes around the track, as per usual. Afterward, we hit the showers in preparation for cooking classes."

"Remember, ladies," she continued excitedly, "these skills aren't just beneficial, they also attract men! It's just another step closer to becoming 'normal'."

The moment the word "normal" left the director's lips, you noticed the collective eye rolls and groans from the other girls. Ellie's jaw tightened as she stared away, grumbling under her breath. Abby crossed her arms, completely unamused, while Dina couldn't help but snicker, lowering her face to hide her giggle.

With a sharp blow of the whistle, the director signaled the start of the morning run.

As you began your laps around the track, you couldn't help but notice the effortless speed and stamina of Ellie and the other girls. They seemed to glide around the track with ease.

Struggling to keep up, your legs began to burn. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as you pushed yourself onward.

"Hey, you doing okay?" Abby asked.

"Ye..yeah..." you managed to reply between heavy breaths.

Abby arched an eyebrow, clearly seeing through you. "You do know we have about 20 more laps to go, right?"

Before you could respond, a sudden stumble sent you tumbling to the ground. Abby instinctively reached out to help, but her attempt only resulted in her losing her balance, causing her to trip and accidentally pull Ellie down with her.

Ellie hit the concrete hard, her knee taking the force of the fall. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her jaw tightly as pain shot through her scrapped knee. With all three of you on the ground, the sudden scene caused a chuckle from Dina. "Holy shit, you guys fell like bowling pins," she remarked.

"Shit, sorry El's-" Abby began to apologize.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” Ellie yelled, her tone cold as she glared up at Abby.

Abby glared back at Ellie, her expression tense. "What-"

“Watch where you’re fucking going. It’s not that hard,” Ellie snarled, gritting her teeth as she noticed the large scrape on her knee.

“T-that was on me-" you added, feeling guilty for the accident.

Abby suddenly got up, her face contorted with anger as she looked down at Ellie. “I didn’t mean to, I-"

Ellie suddenly stood up too, her height making her have to look up at Abby. “I’m so fucking sick of you trying to assert something. It’s fucking annoying.”

Abby scoffed, “Yeah? I’m tired of your pussy fucking attitude.” She then moved closer towards Ellie, the sudden bump causing Ellie to sway a bit.

Ellie chuckled, tilting her head to the side before locking eyes with Abby. “Pussy, huh?” 

“You are what you fucking eat,” Abby snapped back, her tone sharp.

You got up from the concrete floor, every inch of your body feeling the lingering sting from the sudden impact. “She didn’t mean to, I tripped and-” you tried to explain, but before you could finish, Ellie raised her fist. Her initial target being Abby, who managed to step back just in time to avoid the blow. Unfortunately, you stepped further, positioning yourself between them, but before you could react, Ellie's fist mistakenly met your nose.

“Holy shit!” Dina yelled, her hand covering her mouth in shock.

You felt the impact jolt through your body as you stumbled back, finding stability in Abby's embrace as her arms wrapped around you from behind.

“Fuck, I am so sorry-" Ellie began to apologize, her voice filled with remorse.

“Fucking really?!?” Abby yelled, frustrated as she stepped you to the side. “You fucking hit her!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Ellie yelled back, her tone defensive as she tried to explain herself.

“Didn’t mean to? You punched her!” 

“G-guys, I’m fine-" you said, your voice strained through the pain, attempting to step towards them again, holding your throbbing nose.

“I was clearly trying to punch your bitch ass!” Ellie yelled.

“Oh yeah?” Abby raised her fist, aiming for Ellie, her knuckles clenched as she intended to give her a piece of her mind for hurting you and being such a brat. However, as you stepped in between them once again, Abby's fist accidentally hit you, the impact shocking you and causing a blur in your vision.

“Oh my god!” Dina yelled, her eyes widening in horror as she flinched.

You stumbled backward, the world blurring around you as you tripped over your loose shoelace, your body rushing towards the concrete floor once again, jarring your senses and sending a wave of pain through your body.

Abby took her hands to her chest, her mouth covered in disbelief.

“fuck, fuck, fuck! Are you okay?” Ellie exclaimed, her voice filled with concern as she quickly knelt down beside you.

Your nose was now bleeding, droplets of blood scattering across the concrete floor like raindrops. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mixing with the scent of sweat. You winced as pain shot through your face, throbbing relentlessly.

“I think my nose is broken…” you managed to say, your words muffled by the blood dripping down your face.

“Now nobody can sit on her face,” Dina groaned.

[peachsukii]

stitched muses ꒰ tangled hearts series - kiribaku x fem!reader ꒱ ⇢ bakugo's stumped on inspiration for his upcoming fashion line, the deadline fast approaching as he's working day and night to meet it. he's frustrated at his lack of ideas, stuck in his home office while you and kirishima are enjoying your weekly movie night. he's pacing the house, putting too much pressure on himself to excel. little did you know you'd be the solution to his temporary dead-end creativity.

꒰ content ꒱ bakugo's a grumpy goose, fluffy domestic goodness, bakugo has that little "eureka!" moment, kirishima is cute & cuddly, mitsuki asks reader to lunch cross posted to ao3 // wc; ~1.4k ✿ tangled hearts masterlist ✿ ↶ | previous entry (sweet like honey) ↷ | next entry (one-way ticket)

The rain pattered against the Bakugo-Kirishima household, echoing as the droplets bounced of the roof in an off beat rhythm. Spring has truly sprung, the rainy season coming in full force over the course of the week.

“Goddammit!”

Bakugo’s frustration traveled from his office and through out the house, accompanied by the sound of his chair forcefully retreating from his desk. He despised the rain, the miserable storm only adding an unnecessary layer of irritation to his long work day. He trudged out of his office, shoulders slumped as he makes his way into the kitchen.

Kirishima and yourself are sitting on the living room couch, snuggled under a blanket and watching a romcom on tv for your weekly movie night. Bakugo was supposed to join you two, but he’s been shackled to his laptop all day long. He’d step away for a minute, thinking he could take a break, and then shuffle right back to his desk to pace like a caged animal.

“I’m gonna check on him,” you whisper to Kirishima, giving him a quick peck on the cheek as you peel the blanket from your lap.

Sauntering into the kitchen, you see Bakugo making himself tea, silently staring at the countertop and tapping his fingers against the laminate. His gaze shifts sluggishly from the tea kettle to you when you approach his side.

“Hey sweetheart,” he sighs, turning to pull you into his chest. “Sorry for workin’ late. I know you and Ei have been waitin’ for me.”

“It’s okay, Kats, we know you're working hard. Here,” You break away from his embrace and take his mug from the counter, using your hip to playfully bump him out of your way. “Let me finish this and make you something to eat.”

"S'fine, baby, I can—"

"Katsuki," you interrupt sternly, followed by a sweet smile to soften the bite in your tone. "I made dinner for all of us earlier, I'll get you a plate with your tea and bring it to you."

Bakugo grumbles under his breath, not having it in him to fight your stubbornness. He leans down and meets your lips for a brief kiss before moving to the living room, hovering behind the couch for a moment.

"Hey babe," Kirishima says, flashing his toothy grin backwards toward him. "Try and call it a night soon, yeah?"

Bakugo bends over the couch, cradling Kirishima’s jaw in his hands and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. “M’tryin’. This deadline is killing me.”

“Mom hounding ya again?”

Hearing Kirishima call Mitsuki “mom” made your heart flutter from the kitchen, such a simple sentiment making you melt. Watching your boyfriend’s love for one another naturally flow will never get old, even though they’ve been married for years, it still was new to you to witness casually.

Bakugo rolls his eyes. “She’s been bitchin’ at me all week.”

“She loves ya and knows she can push your buttons to get you to succeed,” Kirishima assures, kissing the tip of Bakugo’s nose. “Anythin’ we can do to help?”

He releases Kirishima’s face from his grasp and steps back from the couch, shaking his head with a frown on his face. “Unless you suddenly have a knack for fabric and textiles, don’t think so.”

You round the corner of the island in the kitchen, a plate in one hand and cup of hot tea in the other, making your way to Bakugo’s office. Kirishima sighs contently as he watches your silhouette disappear down the hallway.

“That woman is a damn goddess,” he swoons, deflating back into the couch cushions. “Go eat and wrap up. We can start another movie when you're done.”

Bakugo nods his head and turns to head back to the office. He peers in the doorway to find you mesmerized by the designs scattered across his desk - multiple sketches of clothes, scribbled notes about fabric choices and design suggestions on every page. You glance toward the door, catching him staring.

"These all look great, love. What's got you stumped?" you ponder aloud while organizing the papers back into their proper piles.

Bakugo crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "It's too bland, shit's been done a thousand times. Need somethin' that'll be versatile."

"Maybe you're thinking too much into it."

He blankly stares at you for a moment - you can see the wheels turning in his head while he processes your statement.

"...Do y'know who you're talking to?"

You can't help but laugh, walking around his desk and to the doorway. "I do, hotshot. You're an incredible designer, but not everything needs to be fashion week quality. Most people would just walk around in a t-shirt if they had the option."

Something in his mind clicks the moment you mention 't-shirt,' immediately sending him bolting upstairs and to the bedroom without another word. Bakugo comes barreling back down the stairs with a few t-shirts in hand moments later, tossing all but one onto the back of his office chair.

"Strip," he demands, hands on his hips impatiently.

You quirk your eyebrow at him, but discard your sleep shirt and sweatpants as ordered. Once you do, he shoves the shirt he grabbed over your head, threading your arms through the sleeves and taking a step back to analyze it in full.

"...this is one of your shirts? What does that—"

"Gimmie a sec to think."

The t-shirt is worn out, heavily loved over the years with a faded band logo over the chest and spotted with bleach stains. It was slightly too big for you, cascading over your figure and ending around your mid-thigh area.

Bakugo clicks his tongue while pushing up his glasses back into place. "Turn around."

You obey, turning your back to him. He cinches the back of the shirt with one hand and pulls at the hem by your thigh with the other, as if he's fitting you into his imaginary garment.

"Think ya just solved my problem, sweets," Bakugo says with excitement, letting the t-shirt fall back into its natural state before scooting past you and sliding into his office chair. He turns to the screen, opening a new e-mail and begins furiously typing, paragraphs flowing from his fingers in the matter of minutes.

"Don't forget your dinner and tea," you remind him, turning on your heel to head back to the living room. "I'll leave you be."

"Don't let Ei finish the popcorn without me."

Returning to the couch, you plop down next to Kirishima and fold your head into his lap. He looks at the shirt your wearing, noticing it's definitely not the one you were in 15 minutes ago. And that you're not wearing pants.

"Ah, so he needed that kinda motivation," he snickers, ruffling a hand through your hair.

You chuckle and wiggle in his lap. "No babe, not this time. He should be done soon."

Half an hour later, Bakugo comes into the living room, sighing dramatically as he falls onto the couch, head landing on Kirishima's thighs.

"Made it with three days to spare," he rasps, putting up a victory fist with exhaustion. "Ma approved it, too. S'goin' to be expedited to production tomorrow."

"Way to go, superstar!" You exclaim, bending down to kiss his forehead. "Knew you could do it."

"Good work, Kats! What did you end up going with?" Kirishima asks, a hand massaging Bakugo's shoulder to help him relax.

"She was right, I was thinkin' too hard about it. You'll see it when it's released next month."

"Aw, you're not even gonna tell us after all that?!"

Bakugo snickers, turning to face the TV. "Nah, you two can wait like everyone else. S'nothin' out of this world, but I'm proud of it."

───

Later that night, your phone pings a few times with multiple messages while you're getting ready for bed back in your apartment - they're from Mitsuki.

How did she even get your number?

"Hey sweetie, it's Mitsuki. Thanks for being patient with my brat. Even at 30 he's still a pain in the ass sometimes! He's lucky to have one, let alone two, people tolerate him long enough to stick around." "Are you free for lunch sometime? I'd love to get to know you better. Katsuki and Eijiro talk about you a lot."

Mitsuki wants to meet for lunch? You've met her a handful of times, but she doesn't...know about you guys yet.

Right?

You respond with a simple "Sure, I'd love to!" and leave it at that.

You're not sure why, but there's a bundle of nerves knotting in your stomach over the thought of having to impress Katsuki's mother.

No, it's not like that...yet.

mitsuki's always been perceptive...you think she knows about you and the boys? and what'll happen when you celebrate katsuki's new fashion line with friends in a few weeks and you tag along? 😉 ⇢  wildflowers; @maddietries @smolbeanzzz @camila2201 @lik0 @pixel4ffecti0n @moonlight-dreamer04 @lumi-cent @pastelbakugou @hannahk @camryn-ciel67 @c4prisuna @perfectsukii @screechingpeachdelusion @lightsgore @cuntpiercedprincess @aphrodite-xoxo

[cod-dump]

Nikpricegraves thoughts, special delivery!

Nik getting more grey in his hair, and neither Price or Graves wants to bring it up, because they don't know how Nik feels about it. They dom't want to make him feel self-conscious.

So they wait. And Nik finally brings it up, very casually (fronting like hell) musing aloud that he might color the grey so people don't think their evac pilot is too old.

And maaaaybe Price and Graves wanted their responses to be a liiiittle more restrained, a little more level-headed. But they weren't.

Price: You are not TOUCHING that silver--

Graves: Like HELL you're--absolutely not!

Price: Anyone lucky enough to have you picking him up has no right to complain about that!

Graves: And it's sexy as hell anyway!

Price: Exactly, you're fuckin gorgeous.

Nik: ... Thank you?

Nik was a very confident man. He was sure of himself, comfortable in his own skin and almost never doubted himself. But seeing the thin stripes of silver in his hair… he wasn’t too confident on it. The reality of him being old was setting in and he wasn’t very happy about it.

Nik never gave the thought of him getting old much thought considering he didn’t think he would get this far, especially not with his constant flirting with death. He never thought about how he would feel about growing grey, and now that it was here, highlighting his temples? Nik felt his heart squeeze, uncertainty making his chest tight.

Worse part was that neither his husband or boyfriend had mentioned anything about the grey, which just added to his uncertainty about it. He’s caught them whispering about it, both immediately cutting themselves off upon noticing him. He’s caught them staring, again no comments about it. Nik knows they had noticed it, of course they did. They notice everything new or different about him, most of the time even before he’s noticed it.

He didn’t like their silence and was choosing to assume the worst. But he kept quiet, just like how they were choosing to stay quiet. The topic of greying hair wouldn’t come up until one night while they ate dinner. He couldn’t help but stare at their own hair, how he would’ve noticed if John had started to grey (surprising he hadn’t by this point). The silver would’ve been noticeable amongst his dark brown hair, within his beard. It would be undeniably attractive.

Phil greying would been less noticeable considering his golden hair. There would’ve needed to be quite a few grey hairs before it was obvious and even then it would blend nicely with the gold strands. It would add to the American’s charm. Both would carry silver has crowns yet… Nik couldn’t determine that about himself. Couldn’t see himself with it, even as it took residence within his hair.

“I think I need to start investing in hair dye.”

The speed in which Phil turned his head to look at him made Nik fear he would break his neck. John just froze mid bite, eyes looking up to stare at him. Nik kept his usual level of smug confidence about him even though he wasn’t feeling anything remotely similar. Phil swallows his food, taking a deep swig of his water before he glares at him.

“Over my dead body.”

Nik blinked in surprise, his facade cracking.

“Nik, my love, if you do that you’d break my heart,” John added, staring intensely at him.

Nik looked between his partners before he cleared his throat, “Right-“

“Nikky, I’m serious,” Phil said firmly, “That silver is so fucking hot and if you dye it I’ll probably cry.”

“I second that,” John said very seriously.

Nik couldn’t help but laugh at their seriousness. Phil stood and walked behind him fingers going into his hair which of course caused Nik to lean back and practically melt. John stood as well and walked over.

“Should’ve known something was up when you hadn’t said anything. Big, bad Nikolai, insecure over some grey hairs.”

Nik huffs, closing his eyes as Phil continued to play with his hair, “I am not insecure.”

“You just said you wanted to dye it.”

Nik huffs, he could hear Phil’s smirk. He mustered up an unamused frown, which was immediately chased away by a well placed kiss from John. Nik was choosing to be annoyed in order to hide how relieved he felt about their approval. The two would probably pry that confession out of him later when it wouldn’t add onto their smugness over his unusual lack of confidence.

“You might want to prepare for when we return from leave, the boys are definitely going to say something when they notice.”

Nik snorts, “If they have a problem with their transport getting grey then they can cry about it.”

“Cry and complain, with bad jokes on the side.”

By the time they returned from leave, Nik would regain his rock solid confidence. And some jokes of his own because what is an old man without his jokes?

[gliphyartfan]

@yanderelinkeduniverse @stars-for-thought @imprisioned-in-the-hole @screaming-until-god-hears-me @crestfallenmermaidan @ice-cream-writes-stuff @linked-heroes @eternadreeblissa

Hey look! New stuff that isn’t a rewrite!

A thanks to Yandy for inspiring me! It was fun adding something super goofy to Mafia Au!

Teeechnically there’s nothing Yandere or mafia in this but, it’s in the Au so it counts! Consider this a filler!

(The named OCs (minus the Dean of course.)that are connected to (y/n) belong to Yandy so if you got questions about them, ask thaaat lovely lass.)

Anywho, enjooooy!

———

————-

———

It’s a warm afternoon, the sun lazily stretching its rays across the bustling college campus. Students crowd the quad, gathered around a hastily assembled stage.

A buzz thrums through the air, fueled by the promise of an announcement that has everyone on edge. (Y/n) stands with her back against one of the quad’s large trees, arms crossed, looking relaxed yet curious.

Beside her, Tess lounges on the grass, her knees pulled up.

Nic leans against the tree trunk beside her, arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd.

“It’s a shame Jack’s still helping out mom and dad,” (Y/n) muses, glancing at the chaotic crowd. “She’d love this, but she won’t be back in time.”

Tess chuckles, “Lucky for us you mean. She’d probably destroy all of us in whatever madness they’re cooking up.”

(Y/n) smiles, nodding. “True. It’s probably for the best.”

The day seemed too calm, almost as if the entire campus was waiting for something to happen. Tess tilts her head towards (Y/n), her hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Think it’s going to be good?” she asks, barely containing a grin.

(Y/n) shrugs, trying to stay casual but the tension is starting to crawl into her posture.

“Depends on the prize. If it’s another pizza party, I’m not losing a limb over it.”

Nic, who’d been pretending not to care, finally speaks up.

“If they’re gathering this many people, it’s not gonna be a pizza party. You don’t rally the entire campus for cheap cardboard and cheese.”

The trio falls into a watchful silence as the Dean finally steps up to the microphone, looking far too pleased with himself.

The guy had the aura of someone who believed he’d found the next viral college stunt, like this one genius idea was going to get him written into school legend.

The Dean, in a suit just a little too tight, beams at the students, raising his hands like a conquering hero.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming! Today we have an announcement that will change the next two weeks for ALL of you!” He pauses for effect, and it’s clear he’s basking in the suspense.

Tess, with a casual smirk, mutters, “Hope he’s wearing something waterproof. This crowd’s gonna riot if he says ‘raffle tickets’.”

Dean Farrow clears his throat and grins like a man about to drop a bombshell.

“As you all know, it’s time for our annual campus-wide paintball tournament!”

There’s a faint murmur of excitement, but it’s restrained. Paintball was a yearly thing, fun, but nothing that would send the campus into a frenzy.

(Y/n) raises an eyebrow. “Paintball? Again? That’s it?”

“As you all know, last year’s paintball tournament was canceled due to the campus renovations.”

Disgruntled murmurs were heard throughout the crowd. (Y/n) could relate. No one had been happy last year.

The Dean cleared his throat. “But this year… it’s back!”

The murmurs grew louder, anticipation rising. Nic raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but trying to play it cool. Tess was already bouncing on the balls of her feet.

The Dean continued, oblivious to the rising storm in front of him. “Now, let’s talk prizes! For the runner up, an all expenses paid spa weekend!”

A few cheers and claps sounded, but nothing too enthusiastic.

“Better than a pizza party!” Tess chirped.

But the Dean wasn’t finished.

“This year, though, we’ve decided to up the stakes. The grand prize for the last person standing—” He pauses again for dramatic effect. “Will be priority registration for next semester and the option to skip one final exam!”

For a second, the world seems to stop. Everyone in the quad freezes. The trio looks stunned. It’s the kind of silence so intense you could hear a pin drop on grass.

“Now students, the tournament will begin—”

A single scream tears through the air as some random student, no doubt acting on pure instinct, whips out a hidden paintball pistol and shoots his friend square in the chest. Bright yellow paint splatters across his shirt as he stumbles back, but the action sets off a chain reaction.

Hell breaks loose.

Students dive for cover, pull paintball guns from their bags, jackets, and God knows where else. Some bolt for the bushes. Others start forming alliances on the fly. The crowd disperses like wildfire, everyone scrambling to avoid being the first casualty as the Dean attempts to control the sudden chaos he unleashed.

“S-Students wait! The tournament won’t be for another-!!” He ducks as several paintballs were shot at him.

Tess, cackling like a madwoman, is already on her feet, using her bag to knock down a student that tried to sneak up on them.

“Now that is a prize worth fighting for!”

Nic, already frowning but with a glint of anticipation in his eyes, pulls a small paintball gun from his satchel.

(Y/n) blinks. “Why do you—”

“I’m not flunking a final because I have to memorize another 400 pages of economics.”

Just as Nic grabs Tess and (Y/n) by their arms, dragging them toward the nearest set of bushes, Tess glances at (Y/n) and says, “Actually, it’s a good thing Jack’s not here. She’d win this in a heartbeat, and we’d all be toast.”

(Y/n) nods, ducking as a paintball whizzes past them. “Yeah, she’d mop the floor with us.”

Nic, who was now crouched behind the dense greenery, adds with a smirk, “You’re not wrong. We’d all be out before we even got started.”

As the chaos erupts around them, (Y/n) peeks over the top of the bench, watching the pandemonium unfold in the quad. Paintballs fly in every direction, splattering students left and right.

A couple of nerds are already hiding under the admin building’s steps, shouting something about regrouping.

“What the hell is happening right now??” (Y/n) gasps, trying to catch her breath.

“Natural selection,” Nic answers, crouched beside them, his eyes darting around like a man possessed. “Okay, here’s the plan.”

Tess grins. “The plan is: we win.”

Nic, already firing at a group of art students rushing them, gives Tess a look. “That’s not a plan.”

“It’s all I need,” Tess retorts, shooting at two students passing by.

Nic rolls his eyes. “The real plan is: we find a safe place, avoid the jocks, they’ll be in full attack mode, and stay clear of the chess club. Those guys play dirty. Trust me.”

“The chess club?” Tess asks, raising an eyebrow.

Nic nods gravely. “They’re organized, strategic, and ruthless. Don’t underestimate them.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Shut up.”

(Y/n) groaned, leaning back against the bush. "Nic, we don’t even have enough paintball guns!"

Tess grinned, pulling a paintball gun from seemingly nowhere and handing it to (Y/n). "Here, you’re gonna need this."

(Y/n) blinked at her in shock. "Where did you—"

Tess jabbed her thumb in the direction of a guy lying on the ground a few feet away, struggling to get back up. “Borrowed it.”

Nic smirked. "Nice work, Tess."

“Alright,” he continued, his voice lowering as he glanced over the quad. “We need to move. Now.”

Just then, Nic froze, his eyes narrowing. “Crap. Chess club. Twelve o’clock.”

They all whipped their heads in the direction Nic was looking and sure enough, several members of the chess club were efficiently taking people out with precise shots, their strategy impeccable.

“RUN!” Nic shouted, and the three of them bolted from their hiding spot, sprinting across the quad, ducking behind anything they could find.

——

——

——

The manor was unusually quiet, save for the idle hum of conversation among the Chain. The air was thick with the smell of wood polish and the faint echo of footsteps across the hardwood floors.

Warriors leaned back in his chair, wiping a stray smear of blood off his gauntlet while Sky whittle away at a small block of wood , the room basked in the rare moments of calm they were afforded between missions.

“Ugh,” Warriors groaned, tossing the rag onto the table. “I swear, grinding bones after severing limbs is such a hassle. I’ve said it a hundred times, it’s way easier to just grind the body as a whole. Saves time.”

Wind, lounging nearby with a playful smirk, chimed in, “Or, you know, you could just feed the whole bodies to pigs. That’d solve your problem in no time. Pigs’ll eat everything.”

Time, who had been writing a report across from Sky, didn’t even look as he calmly spoke to Wind, his voice measured and even. “Wind is not allowed to assist with body disposal for a month.”

“What?!” Wind protested, sitting up straight. “Again?!? Come on! I’m being punished just for making suggestions now? It's a good idea! The pigs back home could-“

Twilight chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re weird about the pigs, Wind. You use them like you use those seagulls, way too much enthusiasm for… clean-up.”

“That’s different!” Wind huffed, crossing his arms. “Pigs are just… practical.”

"Uh-huh," Four muttered sarcastically, raising an eyebrow as he turned the page of his book.

Meanwhile, Hyrule sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone with a vague smile, half-listening to the chatter around him. Time, however, was only pretending to read the report in front of him. His blank expression hid the mental whirlwind after he decided to check on how (Y/n)’s paintball game was going on his phone.

The screen in front of him showed what could only be described as a literal war zone on campus, students running, screaming, and paintballs flying in every direction like some kind of apocalyptic battle.

Time’s eyebrows rose. How had it devolved into this so quickly? He knew about the prize, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of chaos from a bunch of college students. He forced himself to remain outwardly calm, though his blank expression became more strained with each passing second.

Just then, Hyrule’s phone buzzed. He blinked and frowned slightly at the unknown number, hesitating before answering. “Hello?”

There was a brief moment of silence, then (Y/n)’s frantic, breathless voice exploded through the phone.

“SEND DUDES! AND NOT TIME, CAUSE I DON’T TRUST HIS DEPTH PERCEPTION!”

Time’s eye twitched sharply at her comment, and for a brief second, the other Links swore they saw a vein pop on his forehead. He grunted quietly in annoyance but remained silent, though his expression was growing more strained by the second. He was still distracted by the chaos unfolding on his screen-paintballs flying everywhere, students diving behind cover, and… was that someone wearing a trash can as armor?

“What-” Hyrule started to say, but before he could get a full sentence out, there was another crash on (Y/n)’s end of the line.

“NIC, BEHIND YOU! NO, NOT THAT WAY-“

(Y/n)’s voice came back, still chaotic but trying to sound cheery. “Anyway, gotta go, good luck! See you soon!” And with that, the call abruptly ended.

The room was silent for a beat, everyone waiting for Hyrule to explain. Time didn’t seem to notice the stares, his eyes still glued to his screen, watching the unfolding mayhem with thinly veiled fascination and horror.

“What was that about?” Four asked, leaning forward, his face a mixture of concern and confusion.

Hyrule pocketed his phone and glanced around the room. “Uh… (Y/n) needs help. She said they’re in the middle of something, and-” he paused, glancing awkwardly at Time, “-she, uh… doesn’t want you to come. Something about your depth perception?”

Time’s eye twitched again. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he stayed silent, though the tension radiating off him was palpable.

Warriors snorted. “She’s never gonna let you live that down.”

Time’s expression remained unreadable, but his fingers twitched as though he were imagining the penal he’d perform on her. He forced himself to exhale through his nose slowly, pretending to look calm.

Twilight, chuckling, grabbed his bag. “We should head out. Sounds like she’s in the middle of some chaos.”

Wind slung his bag over his shoulder with a grin. “What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a tournament, right?”

Four rolled his eyes as he followed Wind. “Yeah, because ‘just a tournament’ always ends in a disaster with us.”

Twilight laughed and nodded in agreement.

As the Chain started heading toward the door, Time remained seated, his expression still unreadable. The others gave him a curious glance, but he waved them off. “I’ve got other matters to handle.”

Once the door clicked shut behind them, Time let out a long, slow exhale, his carefully constructed calm mask slipping. His eyebrow twitched one last time before he muttered under his breath, “I’ve got half a mind to go down there myself and put a paintball between her eyes…my depth perception is fine.”

He stared at the screen.

. . .

Chaos continued.

. . .

He sighed.

——

. . . . . . . . . .

——

The group arrived at the college, their boots barely making a sound on the eerily quiet campus.

The air was unusually still, lacking the lively hum of students that Hyrule had described. Warriors narrowed his eyes as they walked further in, his instincts kicking in immediately, scanning the area for any sign of trouble.

“This is… strange,” Four commented, his gaze sweeping across the empty grounds. “Shouldn’t there be more…people around?”

“Yeah,” Hyrule agreed, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting (Y/n) to pop out from behind a tree. “Way too quiet.”

As they ventured further down the pathway, their pace slowed when they began to notice the state of the campus.

Banners hung torn and ragged, some barely fluttering in the faint breeze. Tables and chairs were scattered across the walkways, overturned with legs bent at odd angles. Posters were ripped apart, their remnants littering the ground like confetti after a storm.

“Looks like something went down here,” Wind muttered, eyes narrowing as he nudged aside a crumpled banner with his foot.

Warriors crouched near an overturned chair, his expression unreadable. “Stay on guard.”

They moved toward the heart of the campus, the atmosphere tense. The quad, once vibrant and bustling with students, now resembled a battlefield. Tables and chairs were toppled over, barricades had been hastily thrown together, and the occasional smear of paint marked various surfaces.

“I’ve seen war zones cleaner than this,” Four remarked, both baffled and somewhat impressed as he took in the chaotic scene.

“Where are all the students?” Twilight’s voice was tight, his eyes scanning every corner of the quad.

Warriors’ eyes flicked to the closed doors of the cafeteria on the far side. “We’ll find out.”

The group approached the doors cautiously, the silence growing heavier with each step. Warriors reached out to open the door, his hand mere inches from the handle when-

BAM!

The doors flew open, and a student tumbled out, barely managing to roll to their feet. More students followed, sprinting out after them, eyes wide with panic. They ducked behind cover as a barrage of paintballs zipped through the air from inside the cafeteria.

The heroes barely dodged as a few stray paintballs whizzed past, hitting the walls behind them.

“What the-” Wind exclaimed, jumping aside to avoid being hit.

They all exchanged glances before cautiously peeking into the cafeteria. What they saw inside was chaos in its purest form.

Students were ducking behind upturned tables and hastily constructed barricades, some scrambling for cover while others fired paintball guns from behind makeshift shields.

However, the level of paint on each participant varied, those with more splatters were lingering on the outskirts of the room, making their way to designated “out” zones where they waited with mild frustration. Others, still largely untouched, remained deep in the fray, determined to emerge victorious.

Hyrule, crouching behind the door frame , stared at the scene in disbelief. “Is this… is this what school is like now?”

Four, beside him and inspecting a large splatter of paint on the wall, furrowed his brow. “It’s like a battle… but with paint? Why are they taking it so seriously?”

Warriors squinted, scanning the room for any familiar face. “This has to be the tournament (Y/n) mentioned… and it looks like she’s in the middle of it.”

Wind, eyeing the students who had just bolted outside, grinned. “Well, I guess we’re jumping in.”

“Let’s find (Y/n) and get her out of this,” Four added, already strategizing their next move.

With determined expressions, they pushed into the cafeteria, weaving through the mayhem while dodging the constant splatter of paintballs. Whatever mess (Y/n) had found herself in, the Chain was about to find out.

——

——

—

Warriors, Twilight, Hyrule, Four, and Wind ducked low as they weaved through the chaos of the college campus. Paintballs whizzed past them, splattering on walls, floors, and the occasional student who didn’t move fast enough.

The paintball guns they had snagged from fallen participants were a welcome relief, helping them fend off incoming attacks and maintain some semblance of control in the ongoing mayhem.

The campus felt like a war zone, desks and chairs overturned, students screaming and shouting as they dove behind cover. Paint splattered walls lined their path, but the group pressed forward, dodging fire and returning shots when necessary.

“How do they even have this much ammo?” Four muttered, pausing to reload his paintball gun as they moved deeper into the school.

“I don’t know, but I’m running low,” Wind grumbled, shaking his gun and checking the chamber. “Why do I always end up in these situations?”

Warriors chuckled, eyes gleaming as he fired a few shots in return. “It’s not so bad. Good practice, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, but no one’s actually dying,” Hyrule muttered, sounding a little uneasy as he ducked behind an overturned desk for cover.

Twilight fired off a few quick shots, covering their retreat as they dashed into another hallway. “Stay sharp. We still don’t know who’s controlling this madness, and we haven’t found (Y/n) yet.”

The echoes of paintball guns firing filled the corridor as they navigated through the chaos.

The action was intense, but it wasn’t long before things took a turn. Wind and Four, distracted by the onslaught, suddenly found themselves separated from the others, their backs pressed against a wall as two paint-splattered club members (mountain climbing club by the logo on their shirts) approached with fresh guns at the ready.

“Wind! out of ammo?” Four asked, quickly assessing the situation as the two club members drew closer.

“Yeah, I’m tapped,” Wind muttered, glancing nervously at the pair stalking toward them. “And these two look like they mean business.”

The club members raised their paintball guns, smirking as they prepared to fire.

Just as things looked bleak, a rapid series of shots rang out, and both club members were hit from behind, neon paint splattering across their backs. They yelped in surprise, stumbling forward before dramatically collapsing onto the ground, “defeated.”

Wind and Four blinked in surprise, staring at the paint-covered students for a moment before turning to see Tess standing a few feet away, her own paintball gun held confidently in hand. Her combat getup, though splattered with paint, gave her an air of authority.

“Come with me if you want to live!” Tess shouted dramatically.

One of the downed students groaned weakly from the ground, raising a hand. “No one’s actually dying…”

Tess immediately shot them again, causing the student to flinch and scramble for cover. “Shut it!” she barked, not missing a beat.

Wind and Four exchanged glances before quickly deciding to follow her. They dashed forward, Tess leading them through the chaos with expert precision. Her eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, ever vigilant.

“Good timing!” Wind called out as they caught up.

Tess glanced over her shoulder. “You’re the guys who know those other two! The one with the scars and the other with the pink streak in his hair. What were their names again?”

“That’s Wild and Legend,” Wind replied.

“Weird names,” Tess commented with a grin. “I love it.”

“Where’s (Y/n)?” Four asked, narrowly dodging a stray paintball as they rounded a corner.

“She’s with our friend Nic,” Tess answered, never breaking stride. “I’m Tess, by the way. But listen, this paintball tournament has gone way past fun.” She paused for a moment, “Ok not really, but it’s turned into a full-blown warzone! The clubs are taking this way too seriously. Especially the book and bird-watching clubs. You guys ready for a real fight?”

At that moment, Warriors, Twilight, and Hyrule rejoined the group, their paintball guns still at the ready as they surveyed the situation.

Wind glanced around, assessing the chaos with a smirk. “This is more like it.”

Twilight shook his head, though a smile tugged at his lips. “Lead the way, Miss. We’re ready.”

And with that, they charged deeper into the fray, ready to rescue (Y/n) and see just what kind of madness she had gotten herself into this time.

———

——

—

Tess led the group through the chaotic halls, her hazel eyes scanning the area with the precision only someone used to leading tactical maneuvers during a paintball battle could have. The sounds of paintball fire echoed off the walls, students darting between cover in a frenzied battle for supremacy. Warriors, Twilight, Hyrule, Four, and Wind followed closely, keeping low and exchanging quick shots with other competitors to keep them at bay.

As they rounded a corner, Tess abruptly stopped and raised her hand, eyes widening. “Get down!” she hissed, diving behind a set of overturned benches. Without hesitation, the Chain followed her lead, crouching down just as a group of paint-covered students sprinted past, panic clear on their faces as they were still being shot at despite their clear disqualification.

One student, a guy with a brightly colored scarf, slowed down just long enough to shake his fist at them. “You think you’re so clever, huh? Wait until we unleash the library cart rampage on you! You won’t stand a chance!”

Another student, lagging behind, called out, “Yeah! And I’ll bring the staplers next time!”

Before Tess could respond, a barrage of paintball grenades was lobbed in their direction. “Move!” she barked, grabbing Wind by the back of his shirt and pulling him aside just before the grenades exploded in bursts of color. The group narrowly dodged the splatter, the paint hitting the ground where they had just been standing.

Once the danger passed, Tess motioned them forward, leading them toward a nearby building. She pulled open a door, and the heroes rushed inside, eager for some semblance of safety.

Tess let out a sharp, and practiced birdcall as they entered.

After a moment, another bird call was heard as Nic popped out from a teacher’s closet, looking alert but mercifully paint-free. “Thought you were goner for a sec,” he said, smirking at Tess.

Then, with a loud thunk, (Y/n) pushed the lid off a trash can and emerged, blinking as a crumpled piece of paper slid off her head. “Tactical hiding,” she said with a grin, though she was trying (and failing) to shake off some lingering bits of trash.

Warriors raised an eyebrow, taking in the scene. “Really?”

(Y/n) shrugged. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

Twilight chuckled as Four shook his head, clearly amused by the unorthodox tactics.

“Nice timing,” Nic said, still standing by the closet door. “You’re the cavalry, right?”

Warriors nodded, already assessing the situation. “Something like that.”

Tess handed out extra ammo, moving with the calm efficiency of someone who had done this many times before. “Alright, listen up. We’ve been holding out here, but things are escalating. Some of the clubs are pulling out their weirder strategies.”

Four, catching his breath, glanced at (Y/n). “You okay?”

(Y/n) nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Nic’s been keeping me out of trouble.”

Tess gave Nic a nod. “You can thank him later. But for now, we’ve got a tournament to win.”

Before anyone could respond, (Y/n)’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and froze. “Uh, one second…” She quickly answered, her voice suddenly a bit tense. “Hey, Jack! Hi! What’s up?”

On the other end, Jack’s voice was sharp, cold. “What the hell is going on?”

(Y/n) fumbled for an answer, glancing nervously at Nic and Tess, both of whom had gone pale. “Oh, uh, it’s really nothing- qjust, you know, a paintball tournament! Totally normal college stuff, no big deal!”

There was a long pause. In the background, they could faintly hear Jack speaking to someone. “Tell me exactly what’s happening,” she demanded, her voice firm and commanding. A student’s voice, trembling and intimidated, responded, “It’s the prize, ma’am’ first priority registration and to skip out on one final! That’s why everyone’s going crazy.”

The line went dead. (Y/n) stared at her phone in disbelief, “She hung up on me.” As the others in the room exchanged horrified looks.

Tess groaned, her face paling even further. “Oh no. This is bad. Really, really bad.”

Nic ran a hand through his hair, clearly panicking now. “Jack is on a warpath. We are so dead.”

Warriors furrowed his brow. “Who’s Jack?”

(Y/n) let out a small sigh, trying to hide her amusement at the whole situation. “My baby sister,” she said casually, though there was no missing the tension that had gripped the room.

“You remember she’s a year younger than you right?”

“Still my baby sister.”

Hyrule blinked in confusion. “Why is everyone so scared?”

(Y/n) shook her head with a grin, clearly unaffected by the dread that had spread among the others. “Because Jack’s… well, Jack. She’s a force of nature when she gets involved in something like this. But don’t worry,” she added, her tone light and teasing. “She’s terrifying, but she’s family.”

Tess let out a nervous laugh, clearly still shaken. “Yeah, ‘terrifying’ is an understatement.”

Nic looked between Tess and (Y/n), his expression grim. “We’ve faced some tough competition, but if Jack’s on the move now, we’re in for the fight of our lives.”

Wind, bouncing on his feet, cracked a grin. “Sounds fun! I’m ready for anything!”

Twilight crossed his arms, his lips twitching in amusement. “I think we’ll manage.”

“Yeah,” Warriors said, his voice calm and resolute. “We’ve handled worse. Let’s just make sure we’re ready.”

With Jack now in the mix, the stakes had been raised to an entirely new level.

But despite the panic in Tess and Nic’s eyes, (Y/n) couldn’t help but smile.

Warriors suddenly frowned, glancing around the small hideout. “Wait a second, have any of you seen Legend or Wild? I’ve no doubt they’d be involved.”

At his question, (Y/n), Nic, and Tess exchanged uneasy looks.

Warriors narrowed his eyes. “…What are those looks for?”

“Weeell…” Tess started, scratching the back of her head, “they were helping us for a while.”

“Yeah,” Nic added, “they joined up with us earlier. Legend, Wild, and (Y/n) completely demolished the competition.”

Tess nodded, a grin creeping onto her face. “Took out the cheerleaders too!”

“Absolutely wiped the floor with them,” (Y/n) said, her pride evident. But then she hesitated. “At least… until things got a little complicated?”

Twilight raised a brow. “Complicated? What do you mean?”

Tess sighed, shooting (Y/n) a look who smiled sheepishly before answering. “Let’s just say their, uh… desire for the prize kicked in.”

The heroes stared at her in disbelief. Four folded his arms. “There’s no way they turned on you for something as ridiculous as—”

Suddenly, a paintball whizzed by (Y/n)’s head, splattering bright pink paint across the wall behind her. She quickly ducked behind cover with Nic and Tess, all of them trying to avoid the shots being fired in their direction.

Out the window, Wild crouched a short distance away, peering over the edge of a table as he adjusted his aim. “Sorry, (Y/n)! But I’m not dealing with that physics final!”

(Y/n) peeked out from behind the barricade, glaring at him through the window. “Seriously?!”

Before Wild could shoot again, Legend appeared, leaping down from a nearby shelf with a paintball pistol in each hand. He pointed one at Wild and the other at (Y/n)’s group. “Only person who’s gonna win is ME!”

Wild glanced at him, his eyes narrowed in a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You’ve got, like, two classes! You don’t even need priority registration, you damn hoarder!”

“And YOU need to be more dedicated to your studies! Ever heard of ‘testing out’ early?”

Wild rolled his eyes, ducking down as he dodged a few incoming paintballs. “Oh, come on! Skipping any final sounds good to anyone, okay?”

Twilight, still crouched behind a barricade, finally spoke up, unable to believe what he was seeing. “You two need to stand down! This is ridiculous!”

Wild shot back, “You don’t understand how bad exams are!”

One of the non-student heroes chimed in, shaking his head. “It’s just a stupid prize!”

At that, every student in the area turned to him as if he’d just proclaimed the most foolish thing imaginable.

As the standoff continued, chaos erupted. A random student, spotting the madness, shouted out to their teammates. “Hey! Look! They’re at it again!”

With the distraction, everyone began shooting and dodging, paintballs flying everywhere as (Y/n) sprinted out of the room with Nic and Tess hot on her heels, the rest of the group following closely behind.

Warriors, Twilight, Four, Hyrule, and Wind quickly regrouped with them, ducking and weaving between overturned tables and makeshift cover.

The next hour was a whirlwind of action. Every time (Y/n)’s group thought they’d gained the upper hand, Wild and Legend would pop up, guns blazing, trying to take down (Y/n) and each other with relentless determination.

“We’ve got to take them down!” (Y/n) huffed, crouching behind a row of tipped-over chairs. “They’re too good at this!”

Twilight popped his head up to fire off a few paintballs, only to duck again as Legend’s retaliatory shots whizzed past his head. “That’s easier said than done! These two are treating this like a battlefield!”

Warriors snorted from his position behind a tree. “Typical. We’re stuck in a ridiculous tournament, and they’re acting like it’s a warzone.”

Wind, who had joined the fray with glee, shouted, “I can’t believe they’re going all out over this! I love it!”

As they weaved through the chaos, (Y/n) caught a glimpse of the aftermath of the art club’s paintball rampage. Warriors commented on the terrifying efficiency of it all. “Look at the way the paintballs hit those students! They’re making it look like an art installation gone wrong.”

“That’s probably Jackie’s doing, probably took out the art club afterwards” (Y/n) said, with a grin. “Come on guys! Even if we hate it, if we don’t join forces, we won’t stand a chance against her!”

“She’s right and I hate it!” Tess chirped.

“Tess, I love you, but the shut t he FU-“

“I found more enemies!”

“Crap! The photography club! RUN.”

“Avoid the camera flashes!”

——

————

——

The paintball tournament was reaching its intense final showdown, and the field was nothing short of chaos. (Y/n), Wild, and Legend stood at opposite ends of the battlefield, their eyes narrowing as they sized each other up.

“(Y/n), just give it up,” Wild said, holding his paintball gun at the ready. “We’re not backing down, not when we’re this close.”

Legend gave a cocky smirk. “You think you can cute your way out of this?”

Before (Y/n) could even answer, Tess, who was covered head to toe in splattered paint and grinning like a madwoman, shouted from her hiding spot, “Don’t listen to them! Keep pushing! You’ve got this!”

Wind, equally paint-splattered and grinning like it was the best day of his life, chimed in. “Yeah! No standing down! This is war!”

Nic groaned from where he lay on the ground, covered in paint and utterly defeated. “Can someone please just finish this? I’ve been out for ten minutes…”

Meanwhile, Four leaned against a wall, his face twisted in frustration as he wiped paint off his cheek. “I swear, when we get back, I’m throwing an axe at Time for letting us walk into this mess.”

Twilight, looking equally as worn, nodded in agreement as he dusted himself off. “Seconded. And I’m helping you.”

Nearby, Warriors was struggling to free himself from the netting that had somehow been shot at him by the taxidermy club. “A little help here? I’m not going down like this, ugh, this is embarrassing.”

(Y/n), sensing the tension and not wanting to be the one to lose, decided to try one last tactic. She pouted, puffing out her cheeks and widening her eyes as she stepped forward, putting on her most innocent expression. “C’mon, guys… do we really have to do this? I mean, you could just let me win. I promise I won’t rub it in or anything. Pretty please?”

Wild and Legend exchanged a look, completely unconvinced. Wild raised an eyebrow. “Are you seriously trying to pull that on us?”

Legend rolled his eyes, loading another paintball into his pistol. “Come on, (Y/n). We know you better than that.”

(Y/n)’s pout quickly turned into a smirk, her eyes glinting mischievously as she dropped the act. “Oh, please. Like I’d waste real charm on the two of you. I just thought you’d appreciate a challenge before I mop the floor with your sorry asses.”

Wild and Legend both aimed their paintball guns at her, ready for the standoff. But before anyone could pull the trigger, a shadow loomed over them.

Suddenly, there was a loud clink as a paint grenade was tossed right into their midst. The entire group barely had time to react before a massive explosion of colorful paint detonated around them, splattering the entire field. (Y/n), Wild, and Legend were instantly covered in a mix of pinks, blues, and greens.

Stunned, they looked up to see none other than (Y/n)’s sister, Jack, standing in front of a window on the second floor with her perpetually deadpan expression. She was still wearing her paintball gear, yet somehow looked spotless compared to the absolute mess everyone else was in.

Nic groaned, wiping paint from his face. “Great. Her.”

(Y/n) shook her head, squinting up at her sister. “Jack! How the hell did you even find us?”

Jack, her face unchanging, pointed her paintball gun at a tall student standing at her side, who was visibly trembling. His wide eyes darted nervously between the group and Jack, whose sharp, unyielding will practically radiated from her as she stared him down.

“He told me,” Jack said flatly.

The poor student, clearly regretting every decision that had led him to this moment, seemed to shrink under the weight of her expression. He looked like he was about to pass out.

(Y/n) sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Jack, if I have to pay for someone’s therapy because of you, I’m telling Mom to take your phone.”

Jack’s usual deadpan expression broke for a second, her brows knitting slightly. “What did you want me to do? You weren’t telling me anything. I had no clue where you were!”

(Y/n) threw her arms up. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d show up and cause chaos—like you always do!”

“I had to cause chaos! How else was I supposed to find you?” Jack shot back, still not showing much emotion, but the sibling bickering undertone clear.

The poor student, caught in the middle of this sibling spat, looked like he was about to collapse from stress. Jack’s gaze flickered briefly to him before (Y/n) rolled her eyes.

“Jack, if this kid needs therapy because of you, I’m telling Mom, and I’ll make sure she takes your phone for a month.”

“Wouldn’t stop me,” Jack shrugged again.

Warriors, still trying to free himself from the netting, snorted. “Sounds like sibling love at its finest.”

Jack glanced at him briefly before shooting a few more paintballs at the retreating student, who yelped and darted into a nearby building.

“Yeah, he’s gonna need a lot of therapy,” Tess chirped up, her expression cheerful now that she defeated.

(Y/n) groaned again, glancing at the paint-covered battlefield. “Well, great. Now that she’s here, we’re definitely screwed.”

Jack blinked, her paintball gun lazily resting on her shoulder. “You’re already screwed.”

(Y/n), Wild, and Legend exchanged glances, all three of them covered in paint from the grenades.

She was right.

It was clear as day.

They lost.

…

The trio sighed in defeat.

——

———

——

The paintball tournament had finally reached its conclusion, and the aftermath was nothing short of apocalyptic. The once clean field was now littered with paint splattered walls, overturned barricades, and exhausted students. The Dean stood near the podium, nervously adjusting his tie as he surveyed the carnage with wide, horrified eyes.

In the center of the chaos stood Jack, spotless as ever, calmly accepting her victory. The Dean, still clearly shaken, stepped forward to shake her hand.

“Uh… congratulations,” he said weakly, his voice barely carrying over the nervous murmurs of the audience. He glanced around at the mess, his face pale, clearly unable to hide his dismay. “W-Well played…”

The crowd clapped politely, though the sound was uneven. Many of the students who had been taken down by Jack’s unrelenting assault looked terrified, their eyes wide as they cast anxious glances in her direction, as if half-expecting her to take them out again.

In contrast, those who hadn’t had the misfortune of crossing paths with Jack wore expressions of annoyance or irritation. Legend, Wild, and (Y/n) stood off to the side, sulking with arms crossed, paint still dripping from their clothes.

Tess and Wind, on the other hand, looked like they’d just experienced the best day of their lives. Tess was still beaming, chatting excitedly with Wind about their earlier antics. “I told you! Absolute chaos, just like I said!”

Wind laughed, wiping paint from his hair. “Yeah, that was insane! I wanna come here when I’m of age.”

As the rest of the defeated students began to shuffle out of the arena, the Dean stepped up to the microphone, clearing his throat nervously. “A-And now, before we conclude this… uh… event, I’d like to announce the runner-ups, who will receive the spa weekend prize…”

Just as he was about to continue, he leaned a bit too close to the microphone and muttered under his breath, “This wasn’t even supposed to happen for another two weeks…”

The microphone, unfortunately for him, picked up every word, and the arena went dead silent for a split second before one confused student in the crowd stood up and yelled, “Wait, does that mean the prize is doubled?!”

The Dean froze, his eyes wide with panic as he waved his hands frantically. “No, no! That’s not— I didn’t mean—”

Before he could fully explain, another student shouted from the back, “So there’s still a chance for victory?!”

The tension in the air shifted immediately. Students began to stir, eyes lighting up as they processed what had just been said. In unison, almost like they had rehearsed it, the crowd roared to life, pulling out their paintball guns with renewed energy.

“Wait! No! Stop!” The Dean pleaded desperately, stepping back from the podium as students began to scream and charge across the battlefield once more, paintballs flying in every direction.

Pandemonium erupted. Paint splattered across the field as the chaos reignited, louder and more out of control than ever. The Dean tried to shout orders, but his voice was drowned out by the roars of students launching into the fray.

(Y/n)’s eyes widened in alarm as she ducked behind the nearest barricade. “Everyone, hide!” she screamed, motioning frantically for the others.

“Run!”

Hyrule dove behind a crate as paintballs zipped past his head. “Not again!”

Four, still drenched in paint from earlier, groaned as he took cover beside (Y/n). “I swear, if I get hit one more time…”

Warriors looked panicked as he dodged another net that had been shot in his direction. “I JUST GOT FREED FROM THE FIRST ONE!”

Twilight ducked from a few paint filled water ballon’s.

As paintballs flew through the air and the field descended into complete anarchy, (Y/n) peeked over the barricade just in time to see the Dean running for cover, shouting into his microphone, “Please! This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

But no one listened.

She quickly caught sight of Jack, still pristine and untouched by a single drop of paint. That deadpan expression only made (Y/n)’s paint-covered form itch for some petty revenge.

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, (Y/n) stood up and cupped her hands around her mouth, shouting over the noise, “How about a kiss from your big sister as a second prize?!”

Jack, who had been calmly observing the mayhem with her usual unreadable expression, blinked in surprise. Her gaze locked onto (Y/n) just as her older sister started sprinting toward her, arms outstretched with paint-covered hands, ready for vengeance.

“Come here, Jack!” (Y/n) yelled, grinning wildly. “You can’t escape my love!”

For the first time that day, Jack’s expression faltered ever so slightly. She narrowed her eyes and immediately turned on her heel, sprinting away from (Y/n) at full speed, her paintball gun still bouncing on her shoulder.

“Get back here!” (Y/n) cackled, chasing her sister through the battlefield.

“Welp there she goes.” Tess comments.

“And leaves us here.” Nic adds.

“…”

“…”

Hyrule looks at the nervously. “Guuuys..?”

The two pull out their reloaded paintball guns.

“Guuuuuys…!”

Without another word, the two ran off to follow their cackling friend.

Warriors groaned, having had a third shot at him.

“Gods damnit, AFTER THEM!”

And so the chaos continued.

———

———

Time had been seated at his desk when everyone returned home, he hadn’t so much as looked up from the paperwork in front of him as he greeted them. “Welcome back.”

Time then tilted his head to the side, just as a throwing axe embedded itself into the wall right where his head had been. His only reaction was a faint sigh.

Four stood across the room, hand still raised from the throw, glaring daggers at him. “You knew. You knew about the paintball tournament, didn’t you?”

Hyrule, Twilight, and Warriors joined in with exasperated complaints, all looking equally disheveled and covered in remnants of paint. “Seriously?” Hyrule groaned. “You couldn’t give us a heads-up?”

Warriors crossed his arms, his normally immaculate hair and outfit still splattered with streaks of paint. “Worst prank you’ve ever done to date,” he muttered, shaking his head in frustration.

Twilight, still wiping paint from his hair, grumbled under his breath. “I had to crawl through two miles of paint-covered mud, Time. Two miles.”

Time, still unfazed, leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking up to meet theirs. “You didn’t ask,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Meanwhile, Legend and Wild slunk into the room, sulking miserably. Both of them had clearly taken their defeat in the tournament hard. Legend scowled as he dropped into a chair, crossing his arms. “I can’t believe we lost.”

Wild, equally as sour, nodded in agreement. “It was rigged. I swear, Tess and Jack must’ve had inside information.”

Sky, who had been noticeably absent from the tournament, offered them a sympathetic look as he sat down nearby. “At least you got to spend time with (Y/n),” he said gently, his voice full of good-natured empathy.

For a moment, the room went quiet, the rest of the group collectively turning their attention to Sky with a suspicious squint. They exchanged a glance, each silently wondering why Sky hadn’t joined them in the chaos.

Noticing the stares, Time finally broke the silence. “Sky didn’t know about the tournament. He volunteered to handle everyone’s duties while you were gone,” he explained, his tone entirely matter of fact.

Then, with a slight pause, he added, “And regardless, I would’ve forbidden him from going. We all know he wouldn’t have stayed calm if he saw (Y/n) getting shot at. Paintballs or not.”

The others blinked, as if suddenly imagining the apocalyptic expression Sky would’ve worn had he seen (Y/n) in the line of fire.

The thought alone was enough to make them collectively shudder.

Sky pouted in response, his lips twitching in mild protest, but he remained quiet, clearly knowing that Time had a point.

As the conversation continued, Wild’s Sheikah Slate buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, his eyes scanning the screen for a moment before his lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Oy, Legend,” he muttered, nudging his fellow hero. “You’ve gotta see this.”

Legend, still sulking, glanced over at the screen, and his own pout immediately transformed into a smile. The two exchanged a knowing look, their earlier misery now replaced with something else.

Though no one noticed as they continued to complain to Time.

——

—————

——

The school had been closed all week, the aftermath of the chaotic paintball tournament still lingering like an unspoken legend amongst students and faculty alike. It was now the weekend, and the Chain had enjoyed the peace and quiet, until the sound of shuffling feet broke the serenity.

Legend and Wild were at the door, both looking rather pleased with themselves as they pulled on jackets and shouldered small bags, ready to head out. The rest of the group, scattered around the living room, looked up curiously.

“Where are you two going?” Twilight asked, leaning back in his chair.

“We’re cashing in on that runner up prize from the tournament,” Legend answered smugly, adjusting his bag strap.

Wild grinned. “Yep. Spa weekend, here we come.”

The room fell silent for a moment as everyone processed the information. Time, sitting at his desk nearby, glanced up with an annoyed but resigned expression. His face wore the look of a man who knew the full details but, for once, was powerless to stop it. He sighed and waved them off. “Just… don’t cause any trouble.”

Legend smirked as he opened the door, Wild close behind. “No promises.”

And with that, they were gone, leaving the rest of the group in a confused silence.

An hour passed in relative peace, until Hyrule, who had been absentmindedly flipping through a book, paused and frowned. “Wait a second,” he muttered, “Wasn’t (Y/n) also a runner up? She got taken out at the same time as Wild and Legend…”

The room froze.

Twilight and Four slowly exchanged glances, Warriors straightened in his seat, and Hyrule’s eyes went wide as realization set in.

The only sound in the room was Time’s heavy sigh as he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, and Sky let out a pitiful, resigned noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sad groan.

Within seconds, chaos erupted.

“Those bastards!” Wind growled, reaching for his phone.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Warriors shouted, already typing furiously.

“They took her with them?!” Four’s voice cracked as he sent out his own frantic text.

Phones buzzed and pinged as the Chain began bombarding Wild and Legend with messages. Some sent text after text, while others left scathing voice messages, each more demanding than the last.

Twilight’s voice was barely coherent as he left his message: “Explain yourselves. Now.”

Warriors was no better, his tone sharp: “You’ve got five minutes to respond, or we’re coming after you.”

Sky, looking utterly heartbroken, didn’t even bother typing, he just stared at his phone screen, looking like someone had kicked a puppy.

Meanwhile, Legend, Wild, and (Y/n) were lounging comfortably on cushioned chairs in an upscale spa.

A warm breeze carried the scent of flowers and fresh water, and the trio were perfectly relaxed. (Y/n) sat between Legend and Wild, the three of them surrounded by refreshments and snacks on a small table between their chairs.

Legend stretched with a contented sigh, taking a sip from his drink. “See? This is exactly what we needed after all that.”

Wild grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Best prize. No distractions, no one nagging us… just peace and quiet.”

(Y/n), her eyes closed as she relaxed, hummed in agreement. “We should do spas more often.”

Legend chuckled softly, his arm casually resting along the back of her chair. “Well, I won’t complain about that idea.”

Wild’s phone buzzed on the table, but he didn’t even glance at it.

The buzzing continued, both of their phones lighting up and vibrating with increasing frequency as message after message poured in.

Still, neither Wild nor Legend made any move to check them. The grin on Wild’s face only grew as the sound became more insistent.

“Think they’ve figured it out by now?” (Y/n) asked with a smirk, eyes still closed.

Legend gave a nonchalant shrug, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Oh, definitely. But we earned this.”

Wild snorted, popping a snack into his mouth. “Let ’em suffer.”

And with that, they ignored the incessant buzzing, eventually muting it, soaking up every second of their hard won spa weekend, leaving the rest of their companions in a frenzy of unanswered questions.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 7: Heart Attack]

A/N: Hello all! Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥰 Thank you so much for loving this fic and giving all my eccentric AU ideas a chance. I’m currently in Washington DC visiting one of my best friends, so if I’m a little bit tardy replying to your comments/messages then that’s why. Don’t fear!! I will check in as soon as I can, and I am still amazed by and will forever cherish your support. 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, Shelby being a bigger plague than the locusts of Egypt, mental health struggles, references to violence and abuse, New Jersey, pregnancy, mini golf, lots of content for the Cregan girlies.

Selected Chapter Quote: “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ @seabasscevans​ @tsujifreya​ 

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

You type into Google as you hide in the public bathroom stall, pink tile walls and mint green porcelain, very 1950s, phantom drips of water and humming florescent lights: Can Plan B make your period late?

You scroll through the results, clutching your iPhone with both hands. Faintly, you can hear the rest of the band outside, chattering, laughing, slurping on Slush Puppies, smacking trees and rocks with their golf clubs. Yes, the consensus seems to be; Plan B can delay your period. Incidentally, so can pregnancy.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You peer down at your panties, as if you can force bloodstains to appear: sparce rosy threads of warning, dark red splotches like rust, you aren’t particular. You’ll take anything. “Fuck,” you say again, defeated. You get dressed, wash your hands, and head back out into the cloudless afternoon sunshine.

“Stargirl, it’s your turn!” Aegon shouts as you trot over to them: tenth hole, shaped like an L, featuring an intimidating loop de loop. The course is dinosaur themed; Rhaena picked it. Aegon points to Jace. “This deformed bastard wanted to skip you.”

“I told you,” Jace moans. His speech is garbled and lisping, his face comically swollen, bruised yellow-emerald-indigo and drooling blood, stitches above his left eyebrow. He just had his dental implants placed yesterday; the four teeth that he lost at Club Camelot could not be readily located for reattachment. “I can’t keep track of who’s next. I’m on like four different opiates.”

Baela frets over him. “Shh, shh, baby. Try not to talk.” There’s something about watching someone get almost-murdered that makes you want to forgive them, you suppose.

You grab your club and golf ball, dark blue, from where you left them by a tree. Rhaena gives you a covert little thumbs up and raised eyebrows. Everything good? You smile—too widely, insincere, a liar—and nod. Technically, you have yet to obtain concrete evidence to the contrary.

You take your turn, somewhat awkwardly due to the splint that still encumbers your dominant hand. You are thinking about anything but mini golf. Your ball goes halfway through the loop de loop and then comes rolling back. How many strokes? Four, five, you lose count, it doesn’t matter. Aegon is snickering, though not in a mean way, never in a mean way. Aemond is watching you. He does this constantly; you can feel his eyes—river water, otherworldly atmosphere—on you all the time, you can see him on the periphery of your vision. But when you glance at Aemond, he looks away. You’re wearing flip flops, a black NSYNC t-shirt, and bright pink shorts that Baela insists are of the very short variety. Aemond is staring a little extra hard today. Shelby alternates between glaring at him and at you.

Jace putts next. He misses the ball twice. On the third try, he hits it into a nearby pond. Golden koi fish scatter beneath the rippling sheen of the water.

“Loser,” Aegon declares mildly. “Criston, why the fuck are we in New Jersey?”

“Because you’re playing three shows at the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford,” Criston says as he putts; his green golf ball sails through the loop de loop, bounces off a wall, and then rolls straight into the cup, a hole in one. “One Direction did it, Taylor Swift did it, and now you’re going to do it too. And if you don’t make it too unbearable for me, I’ll even take you to the beach while we’re here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees. He slurps on his Slush Puppie. “Oh, Aemond, I need the Netflix password.”

“You forgot it again?!” Daeron says. Jace, groaning softly, lies down on the ground in a patch of shade. Baela gets a bottle of Orajel rinse out of her purse and starts pouring it into his mouth.

“Get your own account,” Aemond snaps at Aegon. “I think you can afford it.”

“Bruh, that’s not the point! I don’t know where I left off in Grey’s Anatomy!”

They keep bickering. You stop listening. You can only hear the sounds of rustling leaves, squawking seagulls, the whistling of the warm August wind. You can only feel the weight of Aemond’s half-fascinated, half-resentful gaze on you. He wouldn’t believe me, you think. If I really am pregnant, he would never believe that it was an accident. He would never believe that I was that guilelessly, unambitiously stupid. Hell, I did it and I barely believe it.

You steal a glimpse of Aemond—black shirt and black sunglasses, white shorts, Adidas sneakers—and he turns away, pretending to pick dirt off his golf ball. Interestingly, he will talk to you about things not related to that night in Tokyo; perhaps it would be too suspicious not to, a neon sign for the rest of the band to read. But he never allows himself to be alone with you. And he never touches you, not even a grazing of hands or an absentminded bump as he passes you in aisles or hallways.

Bump, you think miserably. An inauspicious choice of words.

“We should watch Se7en,” Aegon is saying now. “Comet fam movie night.”

You mutter: “We’re not watching Se7en.”

“What’s Se7en about?” Rhaena asks.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“What’s in the box?!” Aegon shouts dramatically—quoting the beautiful yet doomed David Mills, a name he once borrowed to schedule a Zoom meeting with you—and then cackles. It’s his turn. He clobbers his golf ball and sends it flying through the loop de loop; it pops over the barrier and disappears into a bush. Startled squirrels dart out of the leaves.

“Loser!” Jace slurs as he lies sprawled across the ground, vindicated.

“Stop spitting blood everywhere,” Aemond says. He putts next, and badly: poor depth perception. “You’re getting it on my sneakers.”

“Watch it, cyclops.” Jace points to his own stitches, bruises, surgically replaced teeth. “I let you have this one. Now we’re even. But next time I won’t be so charitable.”

“You’re not even,” Aegon tells Jace, abruptly severe. He whips off his aviator sunglasses, crouches over Jace, glaring and thunderous like a storm. Baela observes this warily. “Not even close.”

Jace is intrigued. “No?”

“No. Your face will heal.” Then Aegon pokes him in the jaw and Jace screams, tears slithering down his puffy, mottled cheeks. Cregan yanks Aegon away before Baela can scratch his eyes out. Criston repossesses Aegon’s blue raspberry Slush Puppie as punishment. Luke wins the game, five under par.

Comet’s first shows in the United States this tour start just like the last few in Asia: Jace is iced, painted with concealer, thoroughly medicated, numbed into semi-consciousness. He does lines of coke in the bathroom under Cregan’s supervision. He can’t perform without it. Criston tried to negotiate a month off for Jace, but the label’s message was clear: get him on stage, we don’t care how you do it, we don’t want to know about it, here’s a blank check, figure it out or we’ll find another manager who can. Now Criston watches Jace with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes wounded and anxious, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of what he believes is failure.

The story released to the press is that Jace fell down a flight of stairs but is recovering smoothly. He can barely sing; his mic is turned up, and during Jace’s verses Cregan or Luke layer their voice with his. He wobbles and flubs his way through Night 1 in East Rutherford. You spend the show staring up at the stage without seeing it. Baela and Rhaena are with you, but you aren’t really with them; you feel like if they reached out to touch you, their hands would find only translucent emptiness like a mirage. Shelby is flocked by fellow influencers that she’s invited in from New York City. Aemond is somewhere, somewhere: lurking in shadows, brooding, avoiding, musing, suffering, jotting down starlight-colored judgments in his black-paged notebook.

Per tradition, the band and their entourage coalesce in Jace’s suite after the show. Jace himself, the gracious host, promptly collapses on a couch and lies there senseless as the party spins around him like the planets of a solar system. Baela is perched dutifully beside him, holding ice packs to his jaw, wiping away drool the color of one of Aemond’s Brambles. A tattoo artist is inking a goldfinch, New Jersey’s state bird, to the top of Jace’s right foot. Criston is across the room and speaking—rather tensely, it seems—with cigar-smoking label executives. Shelby is snapping photos with her friends; they take turns posing each other out on the balcony, adjusting elbows and wrists and knees, swiping away stray flecks of mascara, rearranging hair, recommending plastic surgeons. Aegon is typing WhatsApp messages—mostly emojis, from what you can see—to Miley Cyrus. At Luke’s prompting, Aemond begins sharing his comments to the presently sentient members of Comet. He puffs on one of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes as he reads aloud. He kindly skips over any criticisms of Jace’s performance.

You can’t stand hearing Aemond’s voice; not because there’s anything wrong with it, but because there isn’t, because you can’t stop remembering what he said to you in that florescent-white bathroom at Club Camelot in Tokyo, because he uses his words on so many people who aren’t you, because sooner or later your time with Comet will be over and you’ll only ever hear him again through Spotify songs and YouTube clips from before the accident, because he will one day be a ghost who haunts you, rattling doorknobs and chilling pockets of air but never speaking. You escape to ask the bartender: “Can I get a Coke?”

“A rum and Coke?”

“No.”

“Like…white powder coke?”

“No, a Coca-Cola. With nothing else in it.”

“Okay, whatever,” the bartender says, perplexed. He fills a glass with ice and dark liquid that pops and fizzes with carbonation, then slides it across the counter to you. You meander out into the hallway where you can be alone, where you don’t have to pretend to be okay.

The carpet is gold but frayed, the walls adorned with faux marble columns and scuffs from recklessly handled suitcases. Even the hotels are worse in New Jersey. You sip your soda—nonalcoholic, huh? you think, then push it aside—and roam past suite doors and vending machines until you reach the cove of elevators. There’s a full-length mirror hanging on the wall there, gilded, gaudy. You frown at yourself, a reflection that suddenly looks a bit like a stranger. You’re wearing a short seafoam green dress, gold earrings and sandals, and an eerily vacuous expression. You turn and move your hair aside so you can peer over your shoulder at what’s been indelibly penned there since Rome: the tiny comet, the lyrics that encircle it.

I wanted to remember this band forever. To remember Aemond. You can feel your stomach drop as it grows heavy with dread. The pulsing music from Jace’s suite has followed you down the hall, Sugar by Robin Schulz and Francesco Yates. I think I might just have more than a tattoo to remember him by after all.

One of the elevators dings and opens. A man lumbers out, towering, broad, monstrous. You gape up at him: brown threadbare coat, heavy boots, unruly dark beard, grey eyes like a bleak winter sky. There is a miasma that colors the air around him with smoke and alcohol, sweat and earth.

“Hello there,” he says, politely enough. His voice is such a baritone rumble that it’s difficult to understand. He has a British accent, but not like Aegon’s, not like Aemond’s. He reminds you of someone you can’t quite place. “I’m looking for a certain young gentleman. I’m hoping you can point me in his direction.”

“Sure,” you reply, trying to disguise your shock so you don’t offend him. He could be someone important. He could be an eccentric producer or a consultant. Or a drug dealer. “Who…uh…who was it you were hoping to speak with…?”

He smiles: sharp canine teeth yellowed by nicotine, glinting eyes like silver coins. “Cregan Stark.”

“Okay,” you stammer. Drug dealer?? “Okay, okay, I’ll…uh…I’ll go get him.”

You hurry down the hall and into Jace’s crowded, smokey suite, clinking glasses and flirtatious titters in dim lighting like late twilight. You return your empty drink to the bartender, then tap Cregan on the shoulder and inform him that someone out in the hallway is asking for him. He doesn’t seem surprised to hear this. Drug dealer, you think confidently. Cregan gulps his vodka shot and follows you out of the suite. He steps through the doorway. He turns towards the stranger. And then he stops dead. His eyes go wide. The blood drains from his face. And Cregan—immovable, inscrutable, unflappable Cregan—shrinks until he is a child again.

Immediately, you know you’ve made a mistake. You reach for him. “Cregan, wait—”

“My son,” the monstrous man sighs. And of course now you’ve realized exactly who the mirrorlike grey of his eyes reminded you of. “My son.”

You can’t stop him. How could you stop him? Faster than you can think, he has crossed the space between you and entombed Cregan in a stifling embrace. Cregan stands paralyzed, his eyes shifting, searching for escape. Tentatively, appeasingly, his hands slowly rise to hug the man in return.

“Criston?!” you shout. But within the suite, he cannot hear you over the music and the berating of smoke-veiled, bejeweled label executives.

“Did you forget about me, huh?” the man asks Cregan gruffly. And as he steps back he grips one of Cregan’s shoulders: not like Criston would, not like a father, like a vice, like a bear trap. He shakes Cregan once, not too hard. “You can fly your private jet all over the world but you can’t call your own father back? Huh? Huh?!” He shakes Cregan again, harder.

“Criston!” you scream. “Security! Somebody!”

Nobody can hear me. Nobody is coming.

You sprint into Jace’s suite, seize Criston by one hand, drag him out into the hall. On the blurry periphery of your vision, you can see Aemond getting up off the couch to follow you. The second he spots the monstrous man, Criston is roaring. “No no no, get away from him!” He pushes between Cregan and the giant, terrifying, wrathful. The man dwarfs him. Criston doesn’t seem to know it. “You can’t be here. We’ve been over this, you’re not allowed to be here—”

The man tries to reach around him to clutch at Cregan’s shirt. Aemond pulls you away from the scuffle. Criston hits the man in the solar plexus; he is momentarily stunned, wheezing. By the time he straightens up, Criston—louder than you, bellowing and fierce—has summoned security. They are swarming the man and escorting him back down the hallway towards the elevators. Aemond goes to Cregan. Criston looks at you. You’re quivering, penitent.

“I had no idea…he asked for Cregan…I would never have…I thought maybe he was a friend of the band…”

“He’s on our no fly list,” Criston says. His voice is tired yet patient. “But you wouldn’t know that.”

You try to apologize to Cregan, but he isn’t listening to you. He’s listening to Aemond. Aemond is speaking to him, low and calm, too quietly for you to hear. “I’m okay,” Cregan says unsteadily. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright if you’re not,” Aemond tells him.

And you know that right now you are unnecessary, intrusive. Criston goes downstairs to figure out how Comet’s security guards in the lobby didn’t catch this and—presumably—to ensure that the invader is properly dealt with. Aemond slings an arm across Cregan’s shoulders and leads him back to the party where he is cared for, welcome, valued, safe. You hide in your own suite and try not to think about the dates on the calendar—missing blood, summer days ticking down towards zero—as you steep in a hot bath and attempt to scrub everything you’ve done wrong, today, yesterday, ever, off your skin. Then you change into an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants.

You try to sleep but of course you can’t, surrounded by a silence that only gets louder. When you hear the swipe of a keycard and the creaking of your door, you don’t know who to expect: Cregan, Criston, Rhaena, Luke, Baela, Jace, Daeron, Shelby, Aemond, ghosts. The clopping of his Crocs gives him away, neon pink to match his tank top. “I’m really not in the mood for anything resembling sex.”

Aegon replies as he kicks off his Crocs: “Did I ask, succubus?” He crawls into the bed, throws an arm casually across your waist, rests his head on your belly as your fingers thread through his chaotic blond hair, fond and tender. He burrows into you, into your softness and your warmth and your truth and your mysteries. Sometimes you feel like you’ll give until he falls into you like a trapdoor, the bones of his hands tangling around your spine, his blood vessels spilling into all of your rage-scarlet cavities, hollows of the flesh, hollows of the soul. “You’re sad.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. That’s the strange thing. Usually I can tell.”

“You’ve been gone.”

He looks up at you, confused. “I’ve been right here.”

“You know what I meant.”

Aegon doesn’t argue with you, doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t make promises both of you know he could never keep. He only lays his head down on your belly again and pulls himself closer to you, closer, closer, melting into your melancholy, dissolving into dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I was eleven when he broke my arm. Thirteen when he cracked my skull for the first time. Then I got big enough to hurt him back.” Cregan looks out over the waves: blue currents, white froth, sunbeams like glinting blades. As Criston promised, Comet is spending an afternoon in Seaside Heights. You and Cregan are sitting on the sand together twenty yards from the others. “I grew up in a two-bedroom cabin with no electricity or running water. We had a metal wash tub outside, ate deer and squirrels and rabbits, never had clothes that fit, never saw a doctor except when what was wrong might kill us. We had a woodstove and chopped down trees to burn in the winter. I had eight siblings, six of whom are still alive. Barnett overdosed. Courtland drove his friend’s Nissan into a brick wall. I’m not sure it was accidental.”

Your words are soft like a whisper, like gentle hands. “Cregan, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not…” His voice breaks. He stops for a while, composes himself, begins again. “It’s not something I talk about. Not because I’m trying to forget it. I can’t forget it, I’ll never be able to, I understand that, believe me. There’s just nothing to be gained from talking about it. I never feel better afterwards. I always feel worse.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?”

You wait, watching him. There’s something he needs to say. Down the beach a ways, Baela is doing yoga, her bare feet sure and agile in shifting sand. Rhaena, Luke, and Aemond are flying kites in the breeze: black dragons, green dragons. Shelby is, predictably, filming them from where she stands on Aemond’s good side. Aegon and Daeron are swimming so far out that you’re beginning to worry about sharks. Criston is parked under an umbrella with an unconscious Jace, reading Memoirs Of A Geisha and eating a sandwich full of something called pork roll.

“After Comet happened, I got all of them out,” Cregan continues. “My mum, my siblings. Good houses in safe neighborhoods. Security in case Dad makes an appearance. He does, every once in a while. He’s locked up, he’s free, he’s locked up again. He has nothing else to do but haunt us. I’ve been waiting for him to die since I was old enough to understand what a graveyard is.” Cregan looks at you. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

“The thing is…” He holds out one large hand, palm down, like he’s resting it on a table. Then he shakes it. “Nothing ever feels stable. Nothing ever feels safe. No matter how much money I see stack up in accounts, I lie awake at night wondering what I’ll do if it disappears. So many people rely on me. I can’t stop worrying I’ll end up back in that cabin somehow. I can still hear drops of rainwater seeping in through the gaps in the roof. I can still smell burning wood.”

“The fact that you feel this way, given your history, is completely logical…even if the fear itself is not. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Cregan says. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you think it would help if we sat down and looked at the numbers and did some math? Because I suspect that even with a hundred dependents, you’d easily be able to float them for the rest of your lifetime just using the money you already have. And there will be royalties from Comet’s songs forever. Maybe if we can show you exactly how improbable your worst case scenario is, that fear will begin to fade a bit. Not go away, not completely, maybe not ever…but I think you’ll be able to quiet it down.”

“I’ll give it a try. If you recommend it.” Cregan lights a cigarette and takes a drag. Criston glances over and then pretends he didn’t notice. “I have a daughter,” Cregan says; and you can’t stop the shock from hitting your face like a fist. He smiles faintly, wistfully. “I know. I’ve worked very hard to make sure she is kept away from…” He gestures broadly. “All of this.” Fame. Debauchery. Tabloids. Reddit threads. “I was way too young. And her mother and I…we were never really together. It was contentious for a while, but we’ve sorted through things. I support them financially, obviously. And when I’m not on tour or in the studio, I disappear up to Lancaster for a few weeks at a time and no one is the wiser.”

You study him as wind tears in off the Atlantic Ocean, as seagulls swoop and screech overhead. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate how you’ve protected her once she can understand.”

“I don’t know how to be a father. Not a good one. But I try. I don’t just show up for movie nights and birthdays. I take her shopping for school supplies. I put her back to bed when she has nightmares. I take her to the dentist, to the park, to the library. She really likes pigs, so I adopted a few from a farm animal rescue and we learned how to raise them together.”

“You caring about being a good parent puts you ahead of a lot of people already,” you say. “Nobody in Comet knows?”

“Just Aemond. Once, years ago, her mother needed something and I was out of the country. I had to let somebody in on the secret, somebody I could trust. I chose Aemond. I chose right.” Now Cregan is amused. “He’s the one who suggested the pigs.”

“Of course he did,” you say; and you can’t help but smile. “How old is she?”

“Six and a half. Do you want to see a picture her?”

“Absolutely. If it’s alright with you.”

Cregan pulls his iPhone from his pocket, swipes around for a while, and then turns the screen so you can see. She looks like him, a lot like him, but with round cheeks and long dark lashes. And Cregan is beaming as he says: “Her name is Iris.”

“So you didn’t have to do the Maury paternity test thing.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I knew from the second I saw her she was mine.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Cregan shrugs, pensive, evasive. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” And he believes that you mean it; you can see it on his face. Aemond is watching you and Cregan, you notice now. He glances over, pretends he didn’t, glances again. You gesture to the crashing waves and say to Cregan: “If Aegon gets attacked by a shark, will you jump in and punch it or something please?”

Cregan chuckles. “Yeah. That’s my main job here, I think. Stopping people from dying.” And then, seriously: “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything that warrants it.”

“No. Really.” Cregan reaches out, takes your uninjured hand, squeezes it briefly before releasing you. “Thank you, Stargirl.” Then he stands and walks to the water’s edge, letting the surf rush up over his ankles, for just a moment feeling nothing on his shoulders but the sunlight.

Aemond gives Shelby his kite and, as she glares bitterly, makes his way over to you. He takes off his sunglasses so he can see you better and hooks them on the waistband of his swim trunks: black, of course, his usual color. You’re actually wearing black today too, a flowing coverup over a pink swimsuit. You feel very much like hiding. When Aemond speaks, there is perhaps a hint of envy, green like leaves of poison, gleaming like snakeskin. “What were you and Cregan talking about?”

“Fatherhood.” And then you realize how it might sound.

There is a split second where Aemond looks startled; then he remembers Iris. “Right. Not so easy for people like us to navigate.”

People like us. Celebrities, boy band members, haunted men. You scramble for a nonchalant way to feel out the subject with him. “How does Louis Tomlinson handle it?”

“He’s a saint,” Aemond says. And you think: Patron saint of baby daddies? “Freddie was very, very unplanned. The mother was a nobody, a rebound. And a lot of people assumed she did it on purpose to try to keep Louis. Or to get eighteen years of a luxury lifestyle out of him. Or to just get fame in general. Personally, I believe it was all of the above.”

“Right,” you say, sweating heavily beneath your coverup.

“But none of that is the kid’s fault, and Louis is a good enough guy to realize it. So he plays nice with Freddie’s mother and they don’t go to war through tabloids anymore.”

“So, uh…” How can I put this? “You’re good with kids too. Cregan told me you had the pig idea.”

And the look that crosses Aemond’s face, the look: caustic, incredulous, night-dark, self-loathing. “Are you insane? Have you met me? I terrify kids. And I should, but not just because of the eye and the scar. What the hell do I know about being a decent father? What do I know about being a decent anything? I’d have no idea where to start. I’d fuck it up even if I tried desperately not to. I’d end up with kids like Aegon: addicts who hate themselves, people who are irrevocably lost.”

You say meekly: “I think Criston is something like a father to you. He could be a role model.”

“I’m not half as good a man as Criston is.”

Change the topic, change the topic, before Aemond gets suspicious. And there’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask him. “Aemond…after you almost murdered Jace…when we didn’t know if or how he was going to be able to perform until he healed…did anyone ask you to come back to Comet and fill in for him?”

“No,” Aemond says. And he’s thunderstruck by the thought, appalled, petrified.

“You don’t think that it might have been a good idea? That it might make sense?”

“No,” he says again instantly.

“But…in Tokyo…when Daeron made that speech at the last show…I think the crowd’s reaction was pretty powerful, don’t you? People still care about you. They love and respect you. And I think…maybe…it might help you with what you’ve experienced. To get back on stage—even just one last time—and prove to yourself that you still have what it takes. To know that if you do leave Comet, it’s your choice, not anyone else’s.”

“They love who I was,” Aemond says. “Not who I am now. And that’s easy to do. They don’t have to look at me.”

“Goddammit, there’s nothing wrong with how you look, Aemond!” you burst out. “You look fantastic. I never get tired of looking at you. I want to look at you all the fucking time. I’d hang life-sized portraits of you on every wall in my apartment in Kansas City. That’s how much I enjoy looking at you.”

He thinks you’re joking, he thinks you’re trying to make him feel better. You can’t stop him from thinking these things. And yet still, as he turns away, he is smiling: just a whisper of a curl at the corner of his lips, secretive, fragile.

As Comet is leaving the beach, you stop at a souvenir shop on the boardwalk to buy your keepsake for this tour destination. You settle on a pink frisbee that has I love the Jersey Shore! embossed on it in large, abrasive letters. You think your parents’ Australian cattle dogs will enjoy fetching it when you get home. Home feels so much closer—both literally and figuratively—than it did just a few weeks ago.

Criston is browsing through the t-shirts. “Hey, what size is your mom, Aegon? Medium?”

“How the hell would I know? Probably.” He holds up a pair of red, white, and blue bikini bottoms that say Firecracker across the ass. “You think my dad would mind if you sent her these?”

Criston is blushing. “Aegon, stop.”

“You could get her a bikini top too. Oh look, that one over there is red, it matches. And it says MILF across the tits. So that’s pertinent.”

“Stop!” Criston cries, distressed, and flees the store.

Halfway through the hour-long drive back to the hotel, Aegon insists that Criston stop the Escalades so he can get a hoagie from a Wawa. Aegon has never had a hoagie before. He says he cannot truly experience America without one.

At the ordering counter, Jace—slightly less bruised and swollen today, and thus in better spirits—taunts Aegon: “Are you sure you need all that bread? You’re going to be wearing a muumuu on stage by the time we get to the Midwest.”

“You know, just because you said that, now I’m going to get two hoagies…”

On the television mounted inside the Wawa, CNN is reporting on a group of tornadoes that just struck Wichita. And it occurs to you that tornadoes don’t have trajectories to calculate like hurricanes or airplanes or comets; they are climatological sharks. They strike quickly, indiscriminately, and then they’re gone again. They aren’t named. They aren’t enshrined. They don’t even have a belly to cut open and retrieve pieces of your loved ones from. If they take someone, they’re just gone.

While the rest of the band is in line to order their food, and Aemond is scrutinizing the dried fruit and nuts selection, you sneak through the other aisles.

It’s time. I have to find out eventually. I have to know.

You pluck a pregnancy test—cute, pink, nausea-inducing—off a rack, purchase it with truly impressive speed at the checkout counter, and race to the bathroom. It’s surprisingly difficult to piss on a tiny stick of doom, especially when your primary hand is in a splint and only partially useable. Eventually, you manage. You put the cap back on the pregnancy test, set it on top of the toilet paper dispenser, and stare at the metal door of the stall. The Wawa speakers are playing The Fray’s Over My Head.

It won’t be positive. It can’t be positive.

You think of pregnancy test commercials you’ve seen: happy couples rejoicing, happy single women getting negatives. How are you supposed to react to bad news? Nobody ever tells you. Do you scream, sob, beg for forgiveness, schedule an appointment at Planned Parenthood? Do you kick the bathroom stall door down in mindless feminine fury? Do you throw yourself off a balcony?

There’s no way it will be positive. It was one time. Just one goddamn time.

And who knows if that will ever happen again with Aemond. This does not improve your mood.

You pick up the pregnancy test. It is unequivocally positive.

You shove it into the small rectangular trashcan for pads and tampons, things you won’t be needing in the immediate future. You get dressed, leave the stall, go to the sink and wash your hands. Then you grip the cool, slick, white porcelain and gaze at yourself in the mirror under nowhere-to-hide florescent lights. What do you feel? Everything, nothing, things you can’t name yet. You’re a raw nerve, you’re completely numb.

The bathroom door swings open. Shelby enters. She squares up with great purpose. Your eyes roll to her, slowly, with no tolerance left, not a drop of it. “Stay away from Aemond,” she demands.

“Make me.”

She is in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?”

You turn all the way towards her. “Fucking make me, Shelby.”

“I knew you wanted him,” she says, she seethes. “I saw you in those paparazzi photos from Reykjavik and I knew you were already twisting your claws into him.”

You hold up your hands to show her; your thoughts are fuzzy, dazed, without inhibition. “I have no claws whatsoever. If I did, you’d know about it. Believe me. You’d be able to look down and watch your heart beating through the gashes.”

“You don’t belong here. Some Midwestern farm girl running around in flip flops and Cookie Monster pajama pants? You’re trash. You’re a user. You’re a nobody. And if you’re trying to steal a taken man, then you’re a whore too.”

“I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

“I can make them hate you,” Shelby says indignantly. “Comet. The world.”

“Good luck with that, Malibu Barbie. Nobody even knows I exist.”

“Stay away from Aemond,” she says again, trembling with her futile bleach-blond rage. “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

“And yet no future.” You smile sweetly, breeze past her, step on one of her perfectly pedicured feet with a thoroughly unpretentious flip flop. By the time you return to them, the band is almost ready to leave Wawa.

You’re not hungry, but Aegon coaxes you into taking a few bites from his hoagie. You’re not able to focus on what people are saying, but you hear Aemond mention that he wishes Comet had time to visit a planetarium in some nearby town called Toms River. You think about what it would be like to lie side by side with him under the stars, under the sky where comets appear again after vanishing for centuries. You wonder if there’s anyplace where you and Aemond could ever be truthful with each other.

At night you can’t sleep. There is no shortage of reasons why. You wander from your bed to the gold-carpet hallway to the vending machines, where you stare brainlessly at the options. Am I supposed to not be drinking caffein? Did I get any Vitamin D today? How much sugar is too much? You buy a bottle of apple juice—surely a safe bet—and head back to your suite.

As you walk by Aemond and Shelby’s door, your steps slow. Some nights you can hear them in there arguing: Shelby reiterating all the reasons why they’re perfect for each other, clearly a rebuttal to an accusation you weren’t privy to. Some nights you hear muffled casual conversation or episodes of Cosmos. Some nights you hear nothing at all. Some nights your imagination colors in the gaps before you can stop it: his hands on her, his mouth on her, things you know you have no right to dread and yet you do. But tonight, Shelby is momentarily removed from the scene. You can hear the distant pattering of the shower, and then Aemond alone in the living room gathering up plates and glasses. He’s singing something very quietly, so quietly it takes you a while to recognize it. It’s not even a Comet Donati song. It’s Through The Dark.

You sit down in the empty hallway, your back to his door. And you lean your head against it as you listen to Aemond singing softly to himself, doubt sinking into you the same way that trapped blood fills a bruise: Maybe it wasn’t as good for him as it was for me. Maybe he doesn’t talk to me because he doesn’t want to. Maybe I don’t belong here anymore. Maybe I’ve invented a history that we don’t really share. Maybe he didn’t mean it when he said he loves me.

“What am I going to do?” you whisper, scalding tears brimming in your eyes, shivering hands settling on your belly. In a few months, you’ll be showing. “What the hell am I going to do?”

[irisintheafterglow]

HAND THREE - TWO PAIR

summary: in a season where you're determined to fly under the radar, newly-returned crown prince!touya todoroki has other ideas. in this hand, a date is had.

wc: 2.5k

cw/tags: royalty!au/regency!au, fem!reader, some swearing, banter and dialogue driven, fake dating, pining and tension, todoroki enji jumpscare LOL

note: the two wolves living inside me is one wanting to rush the hell out of slow burn and the other telling me to make it painfully slow. however, i broke a little and made the pining a little obvious in this chapter oops. one day i will achieve the emotional release of s2 bridgerton bee sting scene. hope you enjoy !!!!

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated <3

“Show.” 

“You first.”

“I’m royalty.”

“And I have the higher stack. Now, show,” you repeat and he scoffs, the corner of his mouth tugging upward and creasing the deep purple scars on his cheek. He turns his two cards face-up and, sure enough, you’d snatched another victory from the self-proclaimed Prince of Calculation. “I win again,” you smile and he begrudgingly pushes the pot to your side of the table, an amalgamation of garden pebbles, stray buttons, and a few gold coins you managed to produce. You were using whatever you had to gamble and the prince didn’t seem to mind. Touya, you remind yourself. You were supposed to call him by his first name throughout this whole charade, but it seemed as foreign on your tongue as a protruding third set of teeth. 

“You’re a much more dangerous woman than you give yourself credit for,” he muses with a clever glint in his eyes. Over the course of the last month or so, you’d accumulated an immunity to his unwavering stares and scalding eyes; lately, it actually seemed you found a certain affinity for his intense nature, even when you were its only target. His sweetly poisonous words were the latest test to your composure. “If we dressed you as a man for the night, we could relieve an entire club of their purses before the clock strikes ten.” His pretty fingers dealt another two cards and you peeked at them from the bottom of your vision. Queen of hearts and two of clubs. Not the best hand. 

“Hmm. How much of the pot would you use to bail me out for invading said club?” You lay out the first three cards, the flop, and flip the first over before betting a conservative amount. Four of diamonds. 

“Who ever said anything about bail? I’d just sneak you out. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time,” he answers, calling your bet, and you can’t tell if he’s kidding. It was another piece you were still trying to solve of the puzzle that was the prince of the Todoroki family, how he joked so casually about breaking laws and dodging authority. The nonchalance of his recklessness made your stomach turn, sometimes, but you couldn’t tell if it was from fear or intrigue. You flip the second card of the flop. Two of hearts. A pair, if all else failed. You just had to hope he didn’t have anything either. 

“For a royal, you seem to know a concerning amount about rule breaking. Do you have any intent to corrupt me?” 

“By the end of our courtship, possibly.” Jack of diamonds. Not what you were hoping for as the third card, by any means. A flash of excitement lights up behind your opponent’s eyes, too purposeful to be genuine. You mentally added his poker tells to the never-ending list of things to figure out about him, right under the number of crimes he’s committed against the government. Tossing in a few medium-value flower petals, you’re unsurprised when he matches your bet again. 

“Our courtship which, I’ll remind you, is causing quite the stir in the ton,” you point out while revealing the turn. Seven of hearts. You try not to let your disappointment in your current hand show on your face. The prince, you notice, looks like he’s trying a little too hard to contain his excitement. “You know, I suspect they might be rooting for us.”

“That’d be a new experience for me. Never received too much support in my endeavors before.” He places a high bet and you have no choice but to match it. If you were right about him lying, you would learn something new about his poker strategy; but, if you were wrong, you wouldn’t hear the end of it for the rest of the day. You flip the river and your heart stutters. Two of diamonds. You’re careful with your next bet, knowing that three of a kind wasn’t the best or worst hand you could create. The prince, however, pushes his entire hoard into the pot with a challenge in his eyes. He was trying to force you to fold. 

You match the bet and reveal your hand. 

Two pair versus three of a kind. The prince was bluffing, and you won again.

“At least this time, you’re not alone.” The admission is obvious but still catches both of you off-guard when you say it. You’re about to apologize for being too sentimental when that unreadable look passes over his face again, sudden as a lightning strike and gone just as quickly. 

“I guess you’re right,” he murmurs, relinquishing the remaining pot of knick-knacks to you. “Though I will say, having my ass handed to me in a card game was not a part of my plan.”

“A woman with intellect is never part of a man’s plan, yet she prevails all the same,” you conclude and he hums in agreement, collecting the remaining cards and slotting them back into their box. A concerning thought occurs to you and you glance around the secluded palace courtyard with new-found suspicion. His eyes follow your own, watching you keenly in a way that was both comforting and unsettling. 

“What is it?” 

“Will the servants not whisper about a woman playing a man’s game?” 

“They will whisper that you won, and that is what matters,” he states like a well-known fact. “Why? Is something bothering you about them?” 

“No, I’m just mulling over this whole arrangement again.” You wave him off dismissively and take another sip of lemonade from your teacup. A drink which, when you’d finally agreed to meet the prince at the palace for a day, he ordered presumably because you both shared a distaste for tea. “How odd it is and how people gossip so.”

“A lady beating the prince at poker is hardly a scandal compared to what transpired last week,” he recalls with terribly-hidden amusement, breaking off a piece of scone and smearing a glob of berry preserves onto it. “Wouldn’t you agree?” Your cheeks heat when you think of the memory and you snap your fan open to cool yourself and hide your burning face. It certainly wasn’t your proudest moment, to say the least. 

“Would you like me to retrieve a stick to keep your competition at bay?” You had jokingly asked, following his distracted gaze. It was your third ball of the season and your third public appearance with the prince; both you and your co-conspirator were forced to acknowledge the increasing number of interested suitors trying to pry you away. Dances, you found, were one of the few moments where other men weren’t climbing over each other for your attention. The only problem was being forced to share breathing space with him for an extended period of time. “Your Highness, why are you glaring like that?”

“I said to stop calling me that, and I’m not glaring,” he mumbled, very obviously glaring and avoiding your eyes. His hand stiffens around your waist, making your already-awkward distance from him more uncomfortable. It didn’t take long to notice that he was a fine dancer when he was with any other partner but you, and you figured it was because being in such close proximity was not part of your agreement. You raise a skeptical eyebrow, finally making him look at you when the silence indicates your displeasure. “Pay me no mind. I am only–”

“Moping like a kicked dog, that’s what you’re doing,” you interject and, in a blink, you’re back in another standoff with his intense stare.

“I don’t recall when you gained the right to comment on my behaviors so crassly.” Your eyebrows pinch, taken aback by his sudden hostility. His eyes were always burning, like embers in a fireplace, and it felt like the longer you looked at them, the less likely you’d be able to pull away. After a few moments of staring him down, you back off with a frustrated huff. You think you feel some of the tension leave him, too. 

“If we are to keep up this ruse in a believable manner, I suggest you confide in me from time to time, especially if it causes you to act in unfavorable ways,” you state simply, your irritation obvious. 

“You know nothing of my unfavorable ways.” The venom in his voice makes your heart sink, against your own judgment. His expression doesn’t soften, but his voice does. “Trust me. It’s not your burden to bear,” he says in a low tone and goosebumps spread across your arms, despite the fabric of your gloves and the sleeves of your dress. He meets your eyes and you could have sworn his gaze flickers to the neckline of your gown, but the action, like so many of his movements, is too quick to comment on. “So, let’s keep to our sides of the street, shall we?” 

“You’re insufferable,” you hiss, letting your politely smiling face slip as the strings conclude the dance. “Enjoy the rest of the evening. I feel a bit faint.” The muscles in his jaw clenches and you turn on your heel to beeline for an exit when a strong hand grabs you by the wrist and pulls you backward. Before you can register where you’re moving, your hand is placed firmly on his forearm and you’re a split-second from slapping him when–

“Touya.” Shit. With a blank mind, you remember to curtsy from pure muscle memory, dipping deeply toward the ground while the prince bends at the waist.

“Good evening, Father.” Touya’s voice becomes empty, devoid of all sarcasm, teasing, and charm. A glance at his face tells the same tale, blank and emotionless. The only indication of his true thoughts came the slight shake in his arm and how he unconsciously tugged you closer and closer to his side. You let yourself be pulled in and your free hand moved on its own, coming to rest on top of his and running your thumb over his knuckles. He exhales shakily. “Father, this is–”

“I know who you are,” he says before you could be properly introduced, making your nostrils flare. The man besides you bristles and you wonder how such a hard-faced, stoic man could make such a reckless and carefree son. You’d never seen King Todoroki except in victory parades and newsprints of his alliance with King All Might, but you could recognize the family’s flaming eyes from miles away. You decided that, no matter how irritating the prince was, his father was lower on your ranking of the Todoroki royals. “Should you marry, are you aware of the responsibility of being the wife of a king?” 

“I believe she is called a queen, Your Majesty,” you hear yourself say before you can stop yourself. From beside you, the prince makes a noise somewhere between a choke and a snort, and you direct your attention to the floorboards in hopes of surviving the king’s scathing reply. Despite the chatter of the party around you, it feels like your words were echoing off the gilded ceilings. The reprimand, however, never comes. The king turns back to his son with a look of suppressed wrath before turning and stalking away, a crowd of nobles crowing for his attention. 

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he whispers in disbelief as he hurriedly guides you out of the hall and into one of the manor’s gardens, still within sight of nosy mothers but out of their earshot. Your hand hasn’t left his arm, nor has he tried to pry it off. If anything, you click into his side like a missing puzzle piece, and you’re confusingly reluctant to let go. “That was the worst possible way you could have answered that question,” the prince continues and your stomach turns. 

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” you reply with poorly masked shame, lowering your head and letting him walk ahead. Your hand detaches from his arm and you’re struck by the sudden lack of warmth. He turns sharply to look at you, looks back at his empty arm, and then back at you before closing the few feet between you. His eyes were burning into you again but he said nothing, watching you watch the blades of grass surrounding your shoes. Your voice is as quiet as the swaying summer wind. “If I have jeopardized our plan, I understand if you–”

“Stop,” he commands, and it takes a moment to register his gloved fingers under your chin, gently but firmly tilting your head to look at him. Your eyes trace the jagged lines of where his skin meets his scars and the world around you quiets. “I am…the opposite of angry with your actions.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not an easy task, talking back to my father. Yet, you performed it as easily as breathing,” he explains with a soft awe in his expression that made your breath catch in your chest. 

“I guess I’ve had good practice, countering your arguments for the better half of the summer,” you agree hesitantly. What the hell was this feeling? For whatever reason, the world around you temporarily faded to static noise and blurred paintings, with the only decipherable images being the man in front of you. “So, you’re not unhappy with my behavior around your father?”

“I have never been prouder to be seen with you,” he reassures you and you finally crack a smile, his hand leaving your face and his feet stepping back to a respectful distance. “On another note, can you recall what we were arguing about before we were interrupted?”

“I can’t, unfortunately. I believe I was about to leave you alone on the dance floor to mingle with other suitors,” you joke and, though his expression remains relaxed, his eyes darken subtly. 

“I wouldn’t let them so much as breathe in your direction,” he declares, your breath becoming stuck in your lungs again. “Plus, you were saying that you required a stick to fight them off.”

“I did not say I required a stick,” you counter, lightheartedly bumping your shoulder against his while you make your way back into the manor. He merely smiles, a rare, genuine smile. “Though, I would like to apologize for my brash observations.” 

“You are forgiven.”

“Thank you,” you exhale, following him to the refreshments table.

“And…”

“Nevermind,” you backtrack, but he continues nonetheless.

“As reparation for insinuating that I act like an abused animal–”

“Which you do,” you retort quietly and he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Next week, you will accompany me in receiving a visiting ally prince,” he says. “As it would be dreadfully boring to do alone and you, thankfully, bruised my ego, I will be dragging you with me on his guided tour of the kingdom’s market district.” 

“Must I really attend?”

“Who’s acting like the kicked dog now?” He smirks and you have no choice but to go along with his plan. Now, after several rounds of beating his royal ass in poker, it was time for you to leave and prepare for the social night between the Takami and Todoroki kingdoms. 

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Close Shave

[A/N: What up homies, it’s me, ya girl, steadily adding to my Honorable Men-tions while my husbands watch me like 👀 bitch?

This fic is inspired by the scene & song from Skyfall- I hope you like it :) Feedback is always appreciated, as well as requests for fics or new characters to explore!]

007 glides silently through the doorway, a jungle cat on the prowl for his next meal. He eases the door shut with a soft click, then moves stealthily down the hall in search of his target. A single lamp illuminates the modest London flat casting wicked shadows on the walls surrounding a small feminine figure. He creeps forward, ready to pounce, the next phase of his plan already formulating in his brain.

“Hello, James,” you murmur, not even sparing him a glance as you casually flip to the next page of your novel.

His warm chuckle caresses your skin like a lover’s gentle touch, his honeyed voice stoking the fire in your belly spurred to life by his mere presence. “How is it that I can sneak up on assassins but not a museum curator?”

Your mouth turns up in a smile and you offer your cheek in greeting, scrunching your nose at the feeling of coarse stubble against your skin. “I can smell the cologne I bought you for Christmas from a mile away.“

“Hm.”

“And I may have pestered Q into telling me when you’d be home.”

“Pestered?”

Folding your legs under your body, you swivel to meet his steely blue gaze with a grin. “Bullied,” you concede. “Only so I didn’t almost accidentally kill you with a fireplace poker.”

“Again.”

You wag your book in his face with a raised eyebrow. “That’s what you get for breaking and entering at four in the bloody morning with no prior warning!”

He grunts in concession before easily lifting you off the couch, only to take your seat and tuck you against his body. You hum in delight at the prospect of having him home, however short lived his visit may be, placing your book aside before nuzzling into his chest and pressing kisses to the underside of his strong jaw. Scraping your nails along his cheek, you muse, “You need to shave.”

He gives you an indignant look, carding his fingers through your hair. “Some women happen to like a beard, you know.”

“Then go break into one of their homes,” you fire back, letting your teeth graze along the path forged previously by your lips.

He lets out a throaty laugh that dissolves into a soft moan as you work your way over his jaw to press your lips to his. You share a few innocent pecks before your longing takes over, and you shift to straddle his lap as James’ tongue slips past your willfully parted lips. His fingers work their way under your shirt, trailing along your ribcage before settling on your hips with a gentle squeeze. You release a contented sigh into his mouth, all of the tension leaving your body and allowing you to relax against him.

Running your nose over the sharp planes of his jaw, you murmur, “Let me. Please?”

“Let you what?” He nibbles at the spot just south of your ear and you gasp, rocking against him and feeling him growing hard beneath you in response. Static fills your mind as your senses are overwhelmed by everything that is James, but you press on valiantly. “Help you shave.”

Calloused digits knead the soft skin of your thighs as he hums, contemplating. “Is this another attempt on my life? Replacing the poker with a razor?”

“James!” you admonish, laughing before growing serious as your fingers dance across his handsome features. “You know that my expertise lies in handling art delicately. What kind of curator would I be if I allowed any harm to come to my favorite exhibit?”

He turns his head to press a kiss to each of your palms, then meets your gaze with a cheeky grin. “That’s all I am to you, hm? A specimen to be ogled?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” you retort with a roll of your eyes. Climbing off his lap and taking his hand to lead him to the master bathroom, you tack on, “You conveniently double as a bodyguard.”

You slide the cushioned seat from your vanity over to the sink and tap it twice with a coy smile. James settles into his spot obediently while you hunt through the cabinets for his straight razor and shaving cream, placing them on the counter before moving to stand behind him. You study your reflections in the mirror as you run your fingers through his hair, your body growing warm at the sight of him subtly shifting his hips when you tug on the short strands. You walk your fingers down his neck and over his broad shoulders, kneading the taut muscles along the way to the apex of his dress shirt. “May I?”

He opens his eyes to meet your gaze in the mirror, ocean blue eclipsed by a sea of inky black. “Always, my love.” His voice has dropped to a low growl that sends a thrum through you. Deft fingers hastily unbutton his shirt with the promise of exploring his body after too many days and nights spent apart. You tug the fabric off and toss it aside, kissing his neck while your hands glide along his muscular chest. “Darling,” he rumbles out through a laugh to get your attention, and you look up to find several marks blooming across his previously unadulterated skin. With a bashful smile, you respond, “I just can’t help myself around you.”

Rounding the chair to squeeze yourself into the space between his legs and the counter, you lower yourself to your knees. He watches your every move with rapt fascination, his breathing picking up ever so subtly when you reach forward to release him from the confines of his fitted slacks. You tug his pants and underwear off before delicately trailing your fingers over his length, marveling at the weight in your hand and how responsive he is to your touch. Peeking up at him from beneath your lashes, you lean in and swipe your tongue over the head, a needy whine escaping your lips at the taste of him. “Darling,” he calls out again, now with an edge to his voice, cheeks flushed and chest heaving with forced restraint. He threads his fingers through your hair and gives a gentle tug, guiding you forward once more. You wrap your lips around him in earnest, gliding down his length while one hand comes up to massage his balls, the other resting on his lower abdomen. With each swirl of your tongue and pull of your lips, the toned muscle beneath your fingertips ripples and liquid heat pools between your aching thighs.

Replacing your mouth with your hand, you look up at James with nothing short of utter devotion in your misty eyes. “I missed you so much, my love,” you rasp out, an involuntary shudder racing down your spine when his fingertips brush over the apple of your cheek.

Tucking his hand under your chin, he directs you to stand and pulls you close for a tender kiss. You continue twisting your wrist along his length as his tongue slides against yours, a sharp gasp punching out of you when he unceremoniously rips your underwear off and runs his middle finger along your slit, the useless lace now pooled on the floor.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he rumbles lowly, slipping his finger inside you and groaning in appreciation at how greedily you clench around him, “you really did miss me, hm?”

“More-” You whimper into his mouth when he adds a second finger, and then a third, lovingly preparing you for his thick cock. “More than I can even describe.”

He draws his fingers out, caressing your sensitive walls as he does so, before replacing your hand with his own at the base of his cock. The obscene sound of your spit and slick gliding along his length as he draws his hand over himself has you clenching around nothing, a desperate whine of “James,” falling past your pouting lips. He soothes you with sweet words, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth while his free hand comes up to your hip to guide you down onto him. You cry out at the exquisite stretch, nails digging into his shoulders as you circle your hips to sheathe him inside of you as deeply as possible.

Tucking your face into his neck to pepper his glistening skin with kisses, you beg, “Don’t move. Just let me feel you.”

He hums in concession, gently tugging your oversized sleep shirt off before running his fingers along the column of your spine. The tingling sensation has you rolling your hips against him, moaning when the movement presses the head of his cock against just the right spot.

“Now, darling,” he mumbles against your hair, his large hand possessively cradling the back of your neck, “I do believe we came in here to accomplish something.”

“Can’t remember,” you sigh out. “Too full.”

His ensuing chuckle warms you from the inside out, and you gasp when he leans forward to reach the countertop, shifting his position inside you. He presses something cold into your hand, and you blearily open your eyes to find his razor glinting at you in the muted bathroom light.

With a sigh, you relent, “Fine,” but his firm grip on your hips stops you from rising. “But then how will I-” Your line of questioning comes to an abrupt halt when you spot the smirk playing on his sinful lips. “Oh.”

“Go ahead, love,” he croons, inclining his head toward the shaving cream while his hands come to settle on the globes of your ass. You gather some of the foam between your fingertips, then trace two delicate lines on his cheek in the shape of a heart. Glancing at your work in the mirror, he questions, “How can you be so damn adorable while full of my cock?”

You answer him with only a wink, then get to work coating his stubble with the shaving foam. Once he’s sufficiently lathered up, you ease the blade out and plant your non-dominant hand firmly on his shoulder. “Don’t move, James,” you instruct softly.

He tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear, smiling at the way your tongue peeks out between your lips in concentration, and murmurs, “I won’t.”

You run the blade down James’ face in precise, delicate strokes, mewling in delight every time you stretch to rinse the razor off and he pulses inside of you. Several minutes into your ministrations, he arches his hips against yours with a ragged sigh, moving impossibly deeper as he cranes his neck to look in the mirror. “Halfway there. Doing well, sweetheart.”

“I feel like I’m going to explode,” you attempt a laugh, but it morphs into a strangled moan.

“That would certainly be less than optimal.” He runs his index finger down the side of your neck as you take your next swipe of the blade, your breath hitching when he wraps his hand around your throat and adds the smallest bit of pressure.

The razor stills on his cheek, momentarily forgotten, and you shiver in delight. “What are you doing?”

“Focus on the task at hand,” he chides softly, and you obediently return your attention to the remainder of his beard even as his other hand comes up to massage one of your breasts. You clench around him reflexively, and the hand on your throat squeezes in kind.

“James,” you growl out, this time purposefully flexing your walls around his throbbing cock. He answers your show of defiance with one of his own, both hands tightening their grip and eliciting a whine from you.

“Tit for tat, darling,” he mutters softly, the corners of his mouth ticking up in a wicked smile.

With every movement, every precise flick of your wrist, every droplet of water running down your arm and dripping onto your thigh, your walls squeeze around James’ cock and his fingers press deeper into your skin, and your vision starts going blurry around the edges with need. Finally, mercifully, your lover sits before you clean shaven once again, and you smile proudly at your work.

Nuzzling your nose against his, you sigh at the idea of having to separate yourself from him. “I forgot a towel.”

“Top cabinet?”

“Mhm.”

Tucking his hands underneath your thighs, James stands and settles you on the counter, still sheathed in your warmth. He pulls back to open the cabinet and collect a towel, and you keen at the loss of the fullness until he slots himself back between your thighs.

“Christ,” you hiss, digging your nails into his biceps and arching your back.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs smoothly in response, hiding his smirk behind the cloth as he pats his face dry. You lock your ankles together behind his back, shifting closer and trying to entice him to move. “This is turning downright torturous.”

Dropping the towel on the counter, he shifts his attention back to you and lovingly squeezes the pillow of your thigh. “I always take care of you, don’t I?”

“Sooner rather than later would be preferred in this instance, Bond,” you sass back.

“Patience is a virtue,” he hums with an infuriating calmness to his voice even as he draws his hips back and drags his cock along your sensitive walls.

“I wouldn’t- oh god- consider what we’re doing to be entirely virtuous,” you answer through a moan, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in an attempt to quiet the noises spilling out of your mouth.

“Darling girl,” he tuts softly when he recognizes you’re trying to muffle your cries, fingers ghosting over your cheek before he grips your face and his hips pick up speed. The pressure has you releasing your lip from beneath your teeth, your mouth falling open and allowing wanton moans to escape. James tucks his other hand behind your knee, tugging you closer and letting him sink deeper with each stroke. He smiles down at you when you call out his name and rake your nails down his back, cooing, “That’s it, love. Let me hear you.”

Ever obedient, you moan unabashedly, your cries competing with the sinful sound of skin slapping against skin echoing throughout the marble bathroom. “James! Oh god, James,” you keen, clawing at his shoulders for purchase as your consciousness threatens to leave you, “I can’t- I’m going to-”

He hungrily mouths at your skin, soft pants falling past his lips between kisses as he makes his way up the curve of your throat. Moving his hand to grip the back of your neck, he draws you close to his body and grits out, “Cum for me, my darling.”

You feel your body shudder with the force of your orgasm washing over you, every nerve alight and buzzing as the sound of James’ beautiful moans fill your ears. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out, your eyes rolling back when you feel the warmth of his release painting your walls. Holding your waist firmly, he presses his hips against yours as his cock twitches inside you, claiming your body completely.

“Good girl,” he pants in your ear, and you whimper at the praise.

“Yours,” you sigh out, completely spent. You turn your head to dot lazy kisses along his cheek, your lips curling upward at the feeling of his freshly smooth skin.

He notes your self-satisfied smile and chuckles warmly against the shell of your ear. “Pleased?”

“Mhm,” you respond sleepily, nuzzling his face and emitting a sound dangerously close to that of a purr.

“I’m glad,” he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. “Shower?”

“Can’t,” you mumble. Swinging your legs, you clarify, “Jelly.”

“Bath, then.”

James guides your arms around his neck and you latch on obediently as he lifts your sore body off the countertop. He slips out of you when he hitches you higher up in his arms, and you mumble out a protest despite the aching between your legs.

“What, darling, haven’t had enough?”

Fighting sleep, you tighten your hold on him and nip at his ear. “Never.”

“Naughty thing,” he chides playfully, landing a light pat on your ass before setting you on the edge of the tub.

“You know,” you begin, trailing your fingers along his back while he adjusts the water temperature, “it’s your fault for being so utterly irresistible.”

He grumbles out an undoubtedly unamused response under his breath before climbing into the tub and beckoning you to join him. Carefully maneuvering your shaky legs, you settle back against James, resting your head in the crook of his neck and sighing as the warm water caresses your sore muscles.

“Wet your hair for me.” You stifle a yawn, barely opening your eyes to fix James with a quizzical look. Always a man on a mission, he holds your gaze, unrelenting. “Humor me, darling, will you?”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, you grip the sides of the tub and scoot your body forward until you can lower your hair below the waterline. After a thorough soak, you sit up and nestle yourself back between his legs, closing your eyes once more.

You hear the telltale snap of a bottle being uncapped, and then James’ expert fingers are massaging your scalp as the scent of vanilla and honeysuckle pervades your senses. You let out a hum of pure content, thoroughly enjoying being pampered by your love.

“I can’t explain,” he peppers your shoulders with delicate kisses between words as he works his fingers through your hair, “just how much I missed you.”

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual,” you sigh, responding to the pressure of his fingertips by tilting your head to grant him better access.

His silky smooth voice settles like a warm blanket on your skin as he runs his nose along your neck, and you shiver in delight. “You are absolutely exquisite.” He splays one hand possessively across your belly, the other dancing over the curve of your hip. “Divine.” Moving to grip your chin, he turns your face towards him and you feel his warm breath mingling with your own. “My own personal masterpiece.”

Drawing a trail of water down the column of your throat, between the valley of your breasts, and lower still to the apex of your thighs, he eases your folds apart once more and sheathes himself inside of you. Your mouth drops open wordlessly and he takes the opportunity to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

“You took such good care of me, my love,” he murmurs, delicately threading his fingers through the soapy strands of your hair as his hips press up against yours. “Now let me take care of you.”

[fountainpenguin]

Riddle watches New Wish - Post #19

Riddle's Extremely Specific FOP Problems

Just came from looking at screenshots I'd saved of Dev, like these ones from "A New Dev-elopment":

I don't think I've said this yet, but the funny thing about Dev is that his hair reminds me of how I draw Happy Peppy Gary, who's been one of my main doodle muses since 2016. They both have ginger spikes:

This week I actually redesigned Gary's hair by letting it grow longer and more curly in the back, so I'll keep Dev's short in the back and only spiky in the front.

They have different skin and eye colors, etc., but it is funny that like, 6(?) years ago, I put Gary in a zipper hoodie.

I do a lot of traditional art, and I'm really gonna have to do a sketchpage nailing their designs down so they look different in pencil.

My current Gary design does have a spiral in his hair since I do that for all my witches, and I don't think that'll ever come up for Dev, especially if Dale Dimm really is Dev's ancestor - the one person who's extremely UNlikely to be a witch - so... there's that.

Some old Gary sketches where he IS in his Learnatorium clothes:

I feel like I could redraw any of these poses with Dev, lol. The freckles do a ton of heavy lifting here.

....... I've been writing Ed Leadly and Gary as rivals for YEARS and this is once again adding a cruel layer of irony to my "Ed Leadly as Dev's grandpa" situation.

Every time I see this kid, I see My Boy in him.

They are the same person to me...

The Haunting of Wells House

I like how Marcus keeps calling his daughter Hazelnut. It's cute. I'm glad to see him ready to hunt the "apartment ghost" he's been after since Episode 1.

Hooray for Cosmo and Wanda acting like neighbors!

I feel like they shouldn't be giving a horror movie to a child if they haven't seen it themselves and then walk back to their room, especially since their line of work is about trauma recovery (or at least... helping kids avoid hurt). They should know better than that.

I'm so glad you can see into their apartment from the hall. Literally nothing stops you or hides their magic stuff. You can just do it...

Marcus sniffing the video while fancy dinner music plays is my everything. They're BOTH silly.

I like how Cosmo and Wanda poofed up a TV for the apartment and included cobwebs and spiders on it. I guess that makes sense; they were giving Hazel a horror movie.

Ooh, ghostly lightning spirit of the actress trapped in the video?

Hazel has learned nothing from her last experience of wishing to be part of a TV show. She's 10.

Wait, so... Cosmo and Wanda can hear Hazel's casual wish from across the hall? And poof over?

Uh, maybe we don't tell that to Dev, who just flipped out last episode when Peri didn't show up despite Dev whisper-calling for him when Vicky was putting him to work...

She... Also, I can't believe Marcus left his daughter under a heavy machine for 4 hours.

So far, our only canon fairy death fits the OG series' implied canon that only non-magical items can kill Fairies [i.e. "magic doesn't affect magic" from "Abra-catastrophe"], so I like that.

I don't have much to say. Pepper seems interesting I suppose, and I can probably have her be a friend of Blonda's in 'fic.

I enjoy Jorgen grumpily cleaning up magic messes. That feels right.

... Unclear if Jorgen is keeping a bunch of fairies locked in the basement or if he just has a shelf full of similar-looking items.

[slowdive1994]

*edit: i have decided if you requested partner in crime, venice bitch, or waiting room yours will be done last just for efficiency so i can get through the quicker ones first <33*

hii i just wanted to share some of my new year’s resolutions as preparation for 2024😭😭

 learn guitar, read at least (!!!) a book a month, improve my drawing, improve my cooking skills, eat healthy, make the most of term 2, be so alive it aches, be more open and engaged with people and connection, laugh lots, cry hard, be present, be a bit less bitchy to my parents learn to crochet, care less about what other people think, study hard and try to be passionate about what i’m learning, go for walks in the nature, etas lots of strawberry sorbet and ice cream and dance in the rain :)

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

~dandy’s 200 celebration!!~

ahhh first of all thank you so much for 200 followers! thats actually insane i love you guys so much <33

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

silk chiffon - i give you a list of things that remind me of you!

ribs - i make you a (small) playlist!

waiting room- i make you a moodboard based on your blog or personality!

not strong enough - i write you a letter (mutuals only)

you’re so fucking pretty - i guess what you look like based on ~vibes~! no longer available i got bored lmao

lacy - you ask me to listen to a song and i tell you what i think!

all i wanted - i make you a small drawing of your choice (preferably people i suck at drawing anything else)!

casual - i give you music recs! edit: i think i’ll use this one to recommend smaller artists so would love if anyone asks for this!!!!

american teenager - i give you book/tv show recs!

partner in crime - i design you an outfit using pinterest!

venice bitch - i design you a room using pinterest!

not a lot, just forever - you tell me a problem and i give you advice!

coming of age - i give you an artist, album, and song that reminds me of you!

false god - i shuffle my playlist until i find a song that gives your vibes + give you my fave lyric from it!

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

followers only

send requests in asks please

limit of two requests per ask

there’s no overall request limit

this will probably end by february bc that when i start school again

<3333

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@astraeasparrow @literatureisdying @leaskisses444 @zzzzzzzzzee @tellme-o-muse@xgirlidiotx @lalallorona @crowgenius @my-cages-were-mental @none-of-it-was-accidental @imswimmingback @a-portal-to-nowhere @emailsicntsend@5ducksinatrenchcoat @recklessandyoung @waitingforthesunrise @radio-silencepdf@pho3b3-tayl0r-luvr @ineedibuprofen @emilybrontesghost @moonartemisandstar@gayoticbeing @photogenic-strawberry @maxdamax @august-taylors-version@svnflowermoon @the-turtle-fan @dcfcyay @mandythedino @holdmyteaplease@strawberryloveyyy @imperpetuallylost @bookscorpion73 @skeelly @swiftieannah@channnnnieee555 @strats-blood @vams225 @the-smiley-blue-axolotl@mushroomcarrotstick @waiting-down-the-hall-for-me @niallermybabe @pazoo-underscore@personifiedgoldenretriever@thebestieyoureinlovewith@electric-sheeeep @if-i-could-give-u-the-moon@fire-but-ashes-tootoo @trying-to-be-cool-abt-itit @brenninthetaylorverse@shortgaything @cc-horan28 @isitoversnowtvs@my-mind-is-frozen@giveuthemo0n @evazlana @someones-name-inserted-here- @the-stars-sing@aaalixaf@photogenic-strawberry @qwerty-keysmash @coco6420 @evermore-4-life@eden-crowley-fellfell @trashmeowcan@parasite-2-2 @folklore-girlgirl @urbanflorals @nqds @judeisthedude @returnofthecabbageman @thats-the-power-of-love @stvrlighhttt @enchanting-grom-fright @imslowlydisintegrating @loving-the-marauders @loveisaseriousmentaldisease @dicklesssswonder @bassguitarinablackt-shirt

uhhh that’s a long list of most of my mutuals i think ahh sorry if you didn’t want to be tagged please tell me if you want to be added/removed

omg i’m insane why’d i tag that many people IM SORRYYY (it’s the notes app list istg)

[taciturntraveller]

Spine

What Laswell sees as an asset, Price sees as a liability. Lacking confidence in her abilities, the Captain puts Corporal Fairford to the test, pushing her strength and her morals to the very limit.

(A/N: So this one... is quite a bit longer than my previous fic, but I had fun writing it. I did consider breaking it down into multiple posts, but I decided to keep it as one cohesive unit because I felt like it flowed better. I hope you understand, and I hope you enjoy!)

Word count: 8,482

Warnings: Implied character death, threats of torture but no actual gore, swearing, canon typical violence

30th September, 2020 - Verdansk, Kastovia

In the quiet of the early morning, the Coalition’s makeshirt medbay is sparsely populated, with only a few patients and medical personnel milling about. Even so, the sharp smell of antiseptic still somehow lingers, causing Captain Price to wrinkle his nose in displeasure every so often, along with squinting his eyes in the bright fluorescent lighting. The facility that they’ve taken over in Verdansk is hardly a proper hospital, with darker concrete walls rather than clinical white ones, but the brightness is uncomfortable regardless.

He stands just in the doorway, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, as he eyes two of his teammates on the other side of the room. One is Gaz, who sits on a collapsible bed with one knee raised and a bandage being wrapped securely round the area underneath it. He’d caught a bullet to the leg during a skirmish with Al-Qatala, but fortunately he was otherwise in one piece. Gaz himself seems to be taking it in stride, smiling easily as Price watches his mouth move to converse with his present company.

Said company, who is their other, and newest teammate. Corporal Maria Fairford sits in a chair next to the bed, carefully wrapping the bandages and smiling as she listens to Gaz talk. At one point she lets out a laugh, light and free, at something he says. She must be saying something chastising back, because Gaz promptly looks mockingly offended.

Price tilts his head and frowns slightly as he watches. Fairford is hardly what he expected, and admittedly not what he had wanted. When Laswell had approached him about the idea of adding a medic to the team, he had initially refused, citing the team’s ability to perfectly take care of themselves, thank you very much. But then Ghost had caught wind of Laswell’s musings, and had apparently found an old friend stationed in Verdansk while they searched for Zakhaev, and all of a sudden Price’s opinion was being challenged on two fronts. Two very stubborn fronts.

So here they were, giving a medic a chance.

Fairford is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, of course - she went through basic training the same as any other soldier. He knows she was in Verdansk during Makarov’s attack back in April of last year, and despite receiving several burns, she persisted in taking care of both soldiers and civilians, her determination to help the wounded not held back by her own injuries. Or, at least, that’s how her previous Lieutenant so eloquently put it.

But Price is a man who prefers to see things for himself, and it’s not her skills that he’s questioning. It’s her heart.

“Ye wanted to see me, sir?”

Speaking of which. Price turns his head to glance towards a familiar Scottish accent, and watches Soap settle beside him, his eyes briefly tracking Fairford before turning his full attention to his Captain. It’s hardly a secret that Soap has been paying a little more attention to their new medic than his other teammates, and as long as it isn’t compromising the mission, Price has been content enough to ignore it. Now, however, it poses an opportunity.

He motions with his head towards the scene at the other end of the room. “What’s your opinion on Corporal Fairford?” He asks plainly, as if it’s nothing more than casual conversation and not a means of reading the situation.

Soap looks back again at the Corporal, and Price sees something soft flicker briefly in his eyes, before he promptly steels himself. He shrugs nonchalantly, “She’s… capable,” he offers.

Price raises an eyebrow at the simplicity of the statement. “Capable?”

“She’s a good medic. She’s calm under pressure, she knows what she’s doing, and she knows when not to take our shit. I think she’s a good fit.”

“That all?”

Soap looks back at him, his expression narrowing, knowing what he’s implying and silently challenging him to say anything. “Don’t know what ye mean, sir,” he states flatly. His demeanour then changes to one of curiosity, raising an eyebrow of his own, “Ye got doubts?”

Oh, he has doubts alright. Fairford has already expressed a lack of desire to do anything harmful to their enemies - the only reason she carries a gun is for last resorts, and he knows damn well the only reason she let Ghost teach her how to properly use a knife was to help the Lieutenant feel better. She ensured the survival of an interrogated Al-Qatala operative back in June, although he’s not sure how long that worked out for the guy. The point was, despite her skills, she thought with her heart more than her head.

Price built the 141 to do what others couldn’t, or wouldn’t do. He needs to be sure that his team can work effectively in any situation. More importantly, he needs to be sure none of them will become a liability of any kind.

He needs to test her.

And using his team as imagined consequences will have to do. He did consider using a family member of hers, but that had turned out to be harder than expected. Her father is out of the question - Admiral Fairford is a force to be reckoned with on a good day, and Price knows with confidence that the old man would sooner take his own life than allow himself to be captured, if he was kept in the dark about the plan. And if he wasn’t, there was no way he’d ever agree to traumatising his daughter like that. Not to mention the annoyance that would rain down on them if he found out she was associating with them at all.

Another laugh draws his attention back to reality, as he watches Gaz animatedly tell a story of some kind, and Fairford listens with a soft look in her eyes.

She’s already attached. That’s good enough for him.

“I need you to do me a favour,” Price tells Soap.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The helicopter flies low over the centre of Verdansk, as Maria looks out of one of the small windows at the metropolis below. The city has long since been evacuated, and the silence is filled only with the sounds of distant gunfire and explosions, and now the echoing, rhythmic beat of the rotors. Things look generally clear for now, but she knows full well that everything can change in a split second.

She glances away from the window and back to the rest of the 141, watching over them curiously as they ready themselves. With the temperature starting to lower, soldiers have taken to wearing thicker gear in an effort to stay warm, so they’re all clad in thermals and padded clothing. The extra weight across her body is taking some getting used to, but she figures it’s a lot better than hypothermia.

Gaz gives her a warm smile, soothing her nerves slightly, as Soap concentrates on his ammo count and Ghost watches the terrain pass by outside. Price, fortunately, has finished with the cigarette he’d been smoking for the duration of the flight, and focuses now on the fast approaching mission.

“Zakhaev’s been using the underground metro to avoid us,” he explains over the helicopter’s internal radio. “Farah’s reactivated the trains, so now we’re flushing him out. We’ll be working with the Marines to hit multiple stations at once. We start with the airport, then keep moving clockwise until we get lucky or regroup with the Demon Dogs.”

Maria takes a sharp intake of breath, but otherwise doesn’t respond. The last time she was at Verdansk airport, she ended up in the middle of an explosion, and almost got fast-tracked back home with a discharge. She still feels the prickling of a phantom pain on the right side of her body, the memory of flames clinging to her gear and skin seared into her brain. She subconsciously links her fingers together, trying not to draw attention to herself as Price continues.

“We’ll split into two teams. Gaz and I will head down to the station, Ghost and Soap will check the airport itself for any activity. Fairford, you stick with Ghost.”

“Copy.” She agrees, not entirely sure which option was worse - the memories that the airport would give her, or the enclosed environment of the underground station. At least she had someone covering her this time.

The helicopter tilts sharply as it drifts over the landing site, and eventually touches down with a much softer thud. The 141 are on their feet instantly, marching down the ramp with purpose and hitting the ground running. Maria makes sure to keep up with Ghost and Soap while Price and Gaz split off, heading towards the entrance of the metro. Eventually, the helicopter pulls away, its noise slowly disappearing into the distance, and quiet settles back into the area.

The group of three comes to settle on a small hill overlooking the airport, and Maria can see that once again, the runway and the buildings are in ruin, with smoke trailing up into the sky from multiple places. Evacuations had initially been focused on using the planes to ferry people away from Verdansk, but that hadn’t lasted too long in the wake of the Al-Qatala attacks. They did everything they could to help who they could, but sometimes she can’t help but feel it wasn’t enough.

“Looks clear so far,” Ghost mutters, lifting the scope of his rifle to his eye to get a better look at their surroundings.

“Might be out of luck here,” Soap laments, “Might be more action at one of the other stations.”

“Stop hoping to get yourself into trouble,” Maria chastises him quietly, leaning into distracting herself from the past. Soap glances back at her, the corner of his mouth raised.

“What, you don’t fancy patchin’ me up?”

“Let’s move,” Ghost interrupts before she can give Soap any backtalk. She frowns slightly, noting his lack of snarking right back at them like he normally would, but she figures he’s just particularly focused on this mission. It’s not an unusual thing.

They move across what remains of the runway, passing broken planes and abandoned airport vehicles, making their way closer to the main terminal building. Soap covers the rear while Ghost makes his way towards a fire escape, slowing down as he reaches out to grasp the handle and slowly edge it open. He leans inside, checking the hallways, before moving further in.

“Clear,” he notes, and they make their way inside.

As they come into the centre of the check-in area, now lifeless compared to the usual hustle and bustle, Maria finds that she remembers these surroundings vividly as she slows down slightly and looks around. They had set up a triage area here, assessing the wounded from the stadium attack and evacuating as many as they could. Even now, she hears the cries of pain and distress echoing, smells the faint scent of burning flesh and medical chemicals.

She remembers the orange flash of light, the shockwave slamming into her chest and knocking her to the ground, the searing pain on her arm and leg-

“Ye alright?” Soap’s voice cuts through the noise, and Maria blinks, focusing on his concerned expression. She takes a deep breath and nods.

“I’m good,” she assures him. He doesn’t look too certain, but he doesn’t continue the discussion further. 

Ahead of them, she sees that Ghost is also glancing towards her, but she knows he has more of an idea of what’s affecting her. Still, they can’t let it compromise the mission.

“We need to sweep through this building and make sure Zakhaev isn’t here,” he determines, looking down the hallway towards the East wing of the building. “We’ll start this way and-”

Everything happens far quicker than Maria can process. She only just registers the crack of a bullet slamming through the large glass windows that look out onto the runway, and cannot comprehend the sight of Ghost crumpling to the floor in a heap, his eyes now out of focus and staring up at the sky. 

In an instant, the whole world has lost meaning. Her body seizes and her thoughts vanish. Nothing else exists apart from the depiction of her own failure that lies in front of her. She stares at his body with wide, horrified eyes. 

She broke her promise. She failed him. He’s dead. He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead-

“Get down!” Once again, it’s Soap’s voice pulling her back into focus, as he slams into her and pushes her down to the ground, moving her towards the nearby waiting area seats as a form of cover. Confronted with the reality of the situation, Maria’s training kicks in, and she looks past the seats as much as she dares to get sight on Ghost again.

“I need to get to him!” She cries out, already grabbing her medical pack and looking for bandages to try and stem the bleeding, adamantly pushing away the gnawing truth.

“We can’t move until we know how many there are!” Soap tells her firmly, raising himself up to lean his own weapon on the back of one of the seats to look through the scope and find himself a target. 

But she can’t sit here. She can’t leave Ghost to lie there and rot. She has to try something. Scrambling to lower herself, she army crawls across the floor towards him, praying to God that whoever is shooting at them isn’t able to get a good sight on her.

“Maria! Christ-!” She hears Soap yell at her, but he’s interrupted by another shot piercing the glass, the bullet whizzing through the air above them. His footsteps sound against the marble flooring as he moves to catch up with her, firing out of the window in the direction of the shots to cover her. She edges closer to Ghost, reaching out to drag herself closer to him…

The sound of a door slamming open sends a chill down her spine. Another, much closer gun fires, and she hears Soap cry out and drop to the floor. She looks back in panic, watching him grasp at his side. From the left, she sees a man clad in all black, with his face hidden by a balaclava, stalks towards him, gun raised to fire again.

“No!” Maria launches up from her stomach, trying to make her way towards him, but someone grabs her from behind, locking their arm around her neck and restraining her. “Get the hell off me!”

“You fuckin’ bastard, I’ll-!” Soap snarls, but is cut off by the butt of the man’s gun slamming into the side of his head, causing him to fall to the ground again. Maria desperately struggles to free herself from the grip of whoever is behind her, but she can’t get loose. 

Something sharp then pierces the side of her neck, and for one horrific moment she thinks her throat’s been sliced. She is quickly proven wrong, however, when the world starts to blur and her body feels heavier than usual. Sedative, she manages to think as her thoughts become sluggish and her resistance slows. She tries to cling to consciousness, tries to focus on Soap and Ghost. She can’t leave them here like this. She can’t…

But she’s not strong enough, and everything fades away into darkness.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing that hits her is the cold. Even before Maria is fully conscious, her body starts shivering, dragging her quicker to her senses. She blinks slowly, trying to process what had happened and what was going on now.

After the cold, she notes the tight feeling of rope around her wrists, binding her to the chair she’s now sat on, with her ankles tied to the wooden legs. She feels bare - she’s been stripped of most of her gear, leaving her in her thermal under-layer, which offers little protection in the face of the bare concrete room that she’s found herself in. She has no idea where she is, but she knows immediately that it’s nowhere good.

Her eyes widen as she’s hit with the memories of earlier. The surprise attack. Soap being knocked to the ground. Ghost. So many things had happened in such a short amount of time, and she feels her chest tightening as she tries to comprehend them. How could something like this have happened? How could everything have gone so wrong so quickly?

What would happen next?

As her vision clears, Maria catches a welcome sight - Soap, seated opposite her and tied up just the same, is leaning towards the back of the chair, presumably trying to free himself. She scans him quickly for injury, seeing no initial signs of the bullet he’d caught, and feels relieved that he’s  at least still alive.

“Soap,” she breathes.

He glances back immediately, his eyes wide in concern. “Maria!” he exclaims quietly, “You’re alright?”

“I think so.” She doesn’t feel any kind of soreness that would indicate a wound, so she assumes she’s in one piece. She moves on to taking stock of their surroundings. “Where are we?”

“Not sure,” he admits with a frustrated growl, shifting his arms to try one last time to free himself before accepting temporary defeat, “but Price and Garrick will know we’re missin’. We just need to hold out until they figure out where we are.”

Maria grimaces at that. Neither of them know exactly who had taken them, whether it was Al-Qatala members or someone else entirely. They also didn’t know if these people knew who they were, or what knowledge they had. Regardless of the intel they’d gathered, they would probably want more, and from what she’s seen of the 141’s work so far, there was only one way that that went.

She had no idea if she was ready. Or strong enough.

Soap seems to register her reservations, because he leans his head forward and talks to her quietly and gently. “Listen, just let me do the talkin’, alright? Don’t say anything.”

“Soap-” she protests, but he shakes his head.

“It’s what we train for. Let me handle it.”

Maria may not like it, but he’s right. Resistance to interrogation is part of the process for the SAS, so he’ll be a lot more resilient than she is. She links her fingers together behind her back, fidgeting nervously. All they have to do is hold out until Price and Gaz find them. The two would be looking high and low, and they wouldn’t stop. Everything would be fine. Unlike…

Her face screws up in sorrow as she remembers the one they’d left behind. “Ghost,” she whispers desperately. “Did you… is he…?”

But Soap’s expression is uncertain, his lips pressed together. “I don’t know,” he tells her softly. Maria squeezes her eyes shut and lowers her head, still trying to deny what her eyes had seen.

She had promised him, in a run down hospital in Urzikstan, that she would be there if he needed her. She had told him, from a makeshift medbay in Verdansk after the airport explosion, that he needed to look after himself.

And suddenly he was gone.

Her grief is cut short by the sound of the door to the room slamming open, causing her to jump in surprise. Three men walk into the room, all clad in black with balaclavas covering their faces. One closes the door behind them and remains standing guard in front of it. The second moves to lean against the right side wall, standing at an equal distance between her and Soap with his arms folded. The third approaches from her left, strolling as if contemplating the situation, then throwing his hands up in greeting.

“Look at this!” He declares, a thick Russian accent lining his voice. “Two guests from afar, out for a walk in Verdansk.” His arm lowers as he casts his gaze between his two captives, and Maria tenses in discomfort at recognising how he looks at them like pieces of meat. “Is a little dangerous, no?”

Soap doesn’t say anything, only glaring at the man in response, and she keeps her mouth shut too, as per his request. The man paces a little closer to Soap, tilting his head at him.

“I know you,” he remarks, pointing a finger casually, “from the Taskforce that has been sniffing at Zakhaev’s trail. The explosive one. The wild one. Did Captain Price let you off your leash?”

“Fuck yerself, ye scum,” Soap growls, and the man tuts in response. He then turns his head to Maria, causing her to stiffen further. Fortunately, his eyes seem to narrow in confusion.

“You, I don’t know,” he admits. Well, thank God for small mercies. “We found little red cross on your gear. A medic, да? Did the 141 go so soft so quickly?”

She scowls at that, a comment of her own on the tip of her tongue, but she keeps it to herself. She needs to stick to whatever Soap is planning, although she suspects there’s not too much there right now. Her eyes cast briefly to the other two men in the room. She would say it was two against three, but it’s basically one against three with her lack of proper hand to hand combat training. Ghost’s knife training only worked if she could actually get hold of a knife, and that was unlikely right now.

Undeterred by her silence, the man straightens to his full height, and withdraws something from the back of his waist. Maria swallows thickly as she sees the silver glint of a revolver, the man regarding it for a moment before opening the chamber, giving it a quick spin, then slamming it shut again.

“This is very simple,” he tells them, “You will tell me what Captain Price knows about Zakhaev and Al-Qatala, and you will give me his whereabouts… and I will let you both go.”

… And that was just as unlikely. Maria exchanges a glance with Soap, and he narrows his eyes in determination. He’s not going to give anything up. She has to do everything in her power to make sure that she doesn’t either.

But the man then strolls towards her, just as casually as he’d made his entrance. “Let’s start with you, Sergeant.” And then, the cold of the room is immediately outmatched by the shock of the muzzle pressing against the side of her temple. She can’t help the barely restrained hum of terror that escapes despite her firmly closed lips.

Soap’s reaction is immediate, pulling against his restraints as he speaks, “Get the fuck away from her!”

“I will count to three,” the man answers without remorse, and she hears the click of the hammer as the weapon is armed. Maria’s eyes widen, her breathing quickens, and despite everything she struggles desperately with her wrists, hoping that somehow the ropes will just drop loose.

“I swear to God, I’ll rip yer fuckin’ throat out!” Soap snarls, though through his anger she can see the hints of uncertainty starting to emerge.

She can’t let him do that. She’s terrified, she doesn’t want to die, but she can’t let him break. Not for her.

“One.”

“It’s okay,” she assures him, though everything is quite the opposite.

“Two.”

Soap presses his lips together, a mixture of frustration and regret colouring his face. “I can’t…” he starts, but she shakes her head.

“I know,” she whispers, “It’s okay.”

“Three.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping that Soap will look away, hoping that he won’t see what remains of her-

Click.

Suddenly the world shifts back into focus, and her eyes snap open, frowning in confusion. The man laughs, removing the muzzle from her skin and walking away from her.

“You are familiar with Russian Roulette, yes?” He asks, and she blinks, taking a moment to comprehend his words. After a moment, she releases the breath she was holding, trying to focus on getting oxygen back into her lungs and calming herself down.

But this isn’t over. Now, the man has his sights set on Soap, and a pit falls in her stomach. “Well, if you don’t have anything to say,” the man continues… and then raises the gun to press against Soap’s head instead, “perhaps the little bird does.”

Maria’s eyes widen in horror, rendered motionless at the sudden reversal of the situation. Everything had been far more simple when it was her life on the line. Now, she had Soap’s life in her hands. A far contradiction to how quickly Ghost’s life had been taken from her. She looks between the two men, unable to think clearly.

“Don’t say anything,” Soap says firmly, but that only causes the man to push the muzzle harder into the side of his head.

“If you don’t speak, he dies,” the man states.

Maria shakes her head rapidly. She can’t tell him what she knows, but she can’t stay quiet and let Soap take all of the heat like that. “I don’t know anything,” she protests.

“One.”

“I don’t, I swear! I’m just a medic, they don’t tell me anything!”

“Two.”

Flashes of Ghost’s body hitting the ground plague her mind. She can’t handle that happening again, not to another member of the team that she’s supposed to be looking after. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, trying to think of something that will pacify the man.

She can’t say anything. She can’t. But she can’t watch him die-

“Three.”

Click.

Oh Christ. Maria inhales a breath of relief. Even if they’re still going, at least Soap remains alive for a little longer. The longer they can hold out, the better chance Price and Gaz will have of finding them.

Price and Gaz will find them. Everything will be fine.

“Think yer so tough?” Soap berates the man as he walks back towards her. “Let me out of this fuckin’ chair, I’ll tear ye a new one!”

The muzzle is back against her temple again, but Maria is calmer this time. As long as the gun is on her, then it’s not on Soap. If only one of them can walk out of here today, she needs to make sure that it’s him. Her job is to look after them, whatever that results in. She straightens her back, furiously blinking away the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

She will not look weak in front of these men. 

“Once more,” the man sighs, looking towards Soap, “tell me what Price knows about Zakhaev’s operations. Tell me where he is.”

Soap presses against his restraints. The scowl on his face is angry but desperate. All of his training is keeping him in check just as much as the ropes binding him, and it’s clear that he’s struggling with the weight of what’s required. 

“One.”

She offers him a smile, trying to reassure him again that it was okay. He needed to stay quiet. He needed to let her go.

“Two.”

“I’ve got nothin’ to say to ye-”

Click.

Maria jumps as she hears the trigger being pulled, and Soap’s eyes widen in surprise at the action. The man stands up straight, stalking towards Soap with a new sense of annoyance. Her smile falls as she watches him, panicking again. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

“I am tired of this,” the man growls out, and presses the revolver to Soap’s head again as he looks at her, “You only have a few chances left, little bird. Tell me what I want to know.”

She’s hyperventilating now, acutely aware that the more the trigger of the revolver is pressed, the higher the chances of Soap dying in front of her. For months, she has gotten to know the 141, gotten attached to each of them in their own unique ways. Now, she has lost one and is potentially about to lose another. Confessing all she knows might save him…

“One.”

… but there’s a higher likelihood that it won’t. Either she will die and the 141 will be put in danger, or Soap will die with the same result, and the added consequence of Price viewing her as a traitor, and whatever punishment will come with that declaration.

And Ghost…

“Two.”

She can’t forsake Ghost’s memory like that. She can’t break Soap’s trust like that. She has to be strong. She has to be brave.

“I don’t know anything,” she says at last, barely a whisper, “I don’t know anything-”

BANG.

Maria feels her chest crack open, but not from any bullet. She watches as a flash of white explodes from the muzzle of the revolver, and Soap’s head drops, his entire body going lax in his restraints. She stares at the scene before her, everything else fading into nothingness. He’s just… gone. Executed without a care. Two of the people she valued, ended without remorse.

Air barely manages to make it into her tightened lungs as she sobs brokenly, “No! No!”

Her head falls as she closes her eyes tightly, crying loud as her shoulders shake with every desperate breath. In the span of a day, it feels like she has lost most of her life. The people she cared for, the people that trusted her to look after them… she’d failed them. She hadn’t protected them. She hadn’t brought them home. 

She never should have been assigned to this team. Without her presence, they wouldn’t have had more to worry about. They might still be alive.

Footsteps echo closer towards her, slow and purposeful. A hand grasps her chin and points her head back upwards, forcing to stare into the eyes of Soap’s killer. He looks… curious, as if considering her. What more does he want? She has nothing to offer him anymore. Of the two of them, he killed the one that would actually have the answers he wanted.

Maria scowls at him through her teary vision. She has nothing left to say. She has nothing left to lose.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

Everything comes screeching to a halt. She knows that voice. Her eyes widen and her jaw drops as she registers the man that’s leaning against the wall, who has just spoken in a very distinct and familiar British accent.

The man stands up straight, pulls off his balaclava… and sure enough, reveals the impassive expression of Captain Price.

Maria stares at him, unable to comprehend what’s happening. The man in front of her releases her chin and takes a step back, and the man by the door steps forward, pulling off his own mask to reveal the much less impassive, much more trepid expression of Gaz. He puts his hands up in surrender as he approaches her.

“For the record, this wasn’t my idea,” he confesses, before moving behind her to start untying the ropes that are still restraining her. 

She doesn’t have anything to say, bewildered by everything, even when the third man pulls off his mask to reveal someone she doesn’t recognise - a man with slicked back black hair and a nervous expression of his own.

Price motions towards the man, “Corporal Fairford, meet Nikolai,” he introduces, as if they’re merely meeting at a social gathering, and nothing in the past 24 hours has happened, “He’s our pilot, and a very good friend.”

“It is good to meet you, Corporal,” Nikolai says carefully, “I am sorry about the… circumstances.”

Maria finally closes her mouth, shutting her eyes to take a long, deep breath to calm herself and rearrange her thoughts. She stays silent for a moment, replaying everything over in her head, and coming to the slow realisation that everything had been a lie. Everything had been an elaborate setup. A game, almost. Once she feels the rope fall slack, she brings her hands to her lap, balling her fists.

“This was…” she starts, but is unable to find the words.

“This was a test,” Price clarifies, “I needed to know how you’d do in a situation like this.” He pauses, tipping his head in apparent acknowledgement of her performance. “To be fair, you did well. Kept your mouth shut. Passed with flying colours.”

A test. Being sedated and kidnapped was a test. Being strapped to a chair and stripped of her gear was a test. Being threatened with a gun to her head was a test. Watching her teammates die was a test-

Wait a minute.

Maria’s gaze promptly snaps towards Soap… who is now sat up straight again, perfectly alive, and looking at her with a guilty expression. She stares at him, just now realising that in her state of grief, she hadn’t even noticed that there was no blood, no gore, no hole in the side of his head.

… Had there been blood when Ghost had been shot? Had she been so blindsided by the situation that she hadn’t even looked for something so basic?

Her breathing threatens to quicken again, but she steels herself. Part of this is shameful - she’s a goddamn medic and she didn’t even register the lack of blood from either Ghost or Soap. She’d been so swept up in her failures that she’d missed all the little hints that something wasn’t right. The lack of emblems on the masked soldiers. Sedating her, rather than just killing her since she was only a medic and couldn’t possibly be of interest. Bits and pieces come together to paint an entirely different picture.

She wants to tear them a new one. She wants to drop to her knees and sob. She wants to throw the stupid chair at the wall and shatter it to a million pieces. But her father’s words echo through her mind, and she sees him standing proudly on the bridge of his vessel as he tells her about his way of life.

Never let them see you break.

Maria takes another deep breath, and moves to stand up. “Am I dismissed, sir?” She asks, glancing over at Price.

He seems briefly surprised by her statement, perhaps expecting more of an outburst. His expression quickly switches back to impassive, however, and he nods. “Affirm, you’re dismissed.”

Without missing a beat, Maria stalks towards the door. Soap’s gaze follows her, and he opens his mouth as if to say something, but she doesn’t give him chance. Fortunately, the door is unlocked, so she’s able to rip it open and then promptly slam it shut behind her, as she starts to head down the outside corridor.

She has no idea where they are. It looks like a warehouse of some kind, but clearly it hasn’t been used in a while - a thin layer of dust coats the desks that she passes, and cobwebs shift gently in the breeze that slips through broken windows. Her own footsteps are the only sound that echoes through the building, until eventually she forces her way through the main entrance.

She’s immediately greeted by a forest, with no other hints of civilisation nearby. So they’re not in central Verdansk. Great.

Maria raises her head to the sky, trying to focus on her breathing, but she can’t keep it steady. She lets out a desperate gasp for air, sinking to her hands and knees and gulping oxygen, her eyes wide and briefly unseeing. Everything kept replaying in her mind - Ghost, the revolver, the threats, Soap… and all of it was fake. All of it was made up and orchestrated by Price, as a means of testing her resolve and her commitment to the 141.

And he looked so goddamn passive about it.

Her fists clench, but she forces them to relax again as she brings herself up to her knees, taking in slow, purposeful breaths. Today had been awful… but it also hadn’t been real. She had been brought to the edge of what she thought she could handle, and she surpassed expectations, both Price’s and her own. That was what she needed to focus on - she had found strength she didn’t know she had. There was no reason to linger on things.

Bringing a hand to her face, she uses her thumb and finger to clear her vision of moisture, and as she refocuses on her surroundings, she notices a grey van parked a few metres away from where she had landed. That must’ve been what they used to bring her and Soap here. A thought occurs to her - if Soap had been in on this, had he been conscious the whole time? Had he sat in the back with her, watching to see if she woke up from her sedation?

Waiting to subtly alert Price?

She frowns slightly, considering the vehicle for a few moments.

… It would be petty. She’s not normally a petty person. But to be fair, they did put her through hell.

Mind made up, Maria pushes herself up to her feet, and walks straight towards the van. Her fingers reach out for the handle, and she’s pleasantly surprised to find that the vehicle is unlocked. Pulling the door open, she slides into the driving seat, closes the door behind her, and turns the keys in the ignition.

The engine fires to life, and she can feel the barest hints of the heater starting to kick into gear. She lets out a sigh of comfort, relishing the warmth even though she knows it’ll take some time to really warm up. Adjusting the gear lever, she puts her foot on the accelerator, and the van lurches forward, moving down the makeshift road that she can see ahead of her.

The surrounding trees are uniform, and there’s no obvious landmarks. How she’ll make it back to Verdansk, she doesn’t know, but for the moment she just needs to get away from everything that has happened. She needs to feel like she’s getting her own back somehow, even if it’s in a stupid way.

She’s been driving for only a couple of minutes when a low, gravelly voice sounds from the back of the van.

“So where are we going?”

“Jesus fuck.” Maria curses as she nearly jumps out of her skin. From behind her, the familiar presence of Ghost leans against her seat, his arm wrapping around the headrest leisurely. She briefly glances at him with a glare before returning her focus to the road. “So you’re fine, as it turns out.”

“Price figured you’d recognise me too easily, so I was the emotional trauma,” he remarks, sounding just as impassive as Price had. It irks her.

“I’ll trauma you in a minute,” she mutters darkly.

Ghost snorts in amusement, and she feels the motion of his shrugging against her seat. “This was always going to happen eventually, Maria. We needed to know how you’d handle it. You’re not trained for it like we are, so we need to know your limits.”

Part of her, begrudgingly, knows that he’s right. But she can’t help but protest anyway. “You didn’t need to do it like that.”

“That’s how things are. One of us could die today, or tomorrow, or next year. You can’t keep us in one piece forever.”

Maria’s grip on the steering wheel tightens at that suggestion. Keeping them in one piece is her job. Just because it can’t last forever, doesn’t mean she shouldn’t keep trying. It certainly doesn’t mean she should just stop caring, like some people seem to want her to. She’s here to patch them up. She’s not here to break them. The least they could do is try not to break her in turn.

“It’s not personal, Maria,” Ghost adds, his voice softening ever so slightly.

She lets out a sigh, her fingers relaxing and her eyebrows lifting back to a less frustrated appearance. For as much as she hates it all, this fiasco has taught her valuable lessons. It’s shown her the truth of what she’s signed up for, and it’s taught her that she’s still able to handle it regardless. She won’t admit that to Price, of course, but the guy definitely knows how to bring out a person’s real self.

They continue to drive in silence for a few moments, before she feels him leaning closer to her.

“Did you like my acting?”

The corner of Maria’s mouth twitches, but she refuses to allow it to show. “No,” she answers flatly.

Ghost tuts, “Everyone’s a critic.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ghost had eventually persuaded her to let him drive, and soon enough they had made it back to Coalition headquarters in Verdansk. Now, Maria sits in the canteen, hiding in one of the back corners, nursing a mug of peppermint tea, breathing in the fumes of the drink and basking in the silence. She has picked her moment well - most of the operatives have cleared out to do some hunting within Verdansk itself, and she has this place to herself. She has time to think.

She replays the events once more, this time addressing what she had failed to do in certain moments. Not realising that there had been no blood was one thing, one incredibly basic thing. She had let herself be overwhelmed in the moment and had forgotten her training. She needed to make sure that didn’t happen again. 

And perhaps next time, she can be a little more observant in other things, like checking their surroundings for enemy activity. She had put far too much reliance on Ghost and Soap for that.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and she looks up, surprised to see the approaching figure of Gaz, holding a mug of his own and looking a little sheepish. It’s been an hour or two since she left them behind at that warehouse, so she figures they’ve pretty much only just made it back.

“Can I sit?” He asks.

Maria regards him for a moment, but then nods, and watches him as he slides into the seat opposite. 

“Hope you didn’t mind me driving back,” she says, with just a hint of spite in her voice.

“We had a spare,” he confesses with a small smile. Well, at least they didn’t end up hypothermic in the middle of nowhere, she supposes.

She doesn’t really hold anything against him. He was just playing a part, and not even a main one at that. The other four men involved had all had roles to play, but Gaz had just been taken along for the ride. As much as his involvement at all should elicit some resentment, she can find none.

Gaz stares at his mug for a few moments, clearly contemplating what to say, before he takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he finally admits, looking up at her earnestly.

She presses her lips together, nodding slowly. “Well, you’re the first one to actually say that,” she tells him, and he lets out a huff of a laugh.

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me.” He raises the mug to his lips, taking a quick sip of what is presumably regular English tea, and then continues once he has lowered it again. “I’m not gonna sit here and try to justify what we did. It wasn’t right… but…”

“It was necessary,” she finishes for him, softly and with an air of acceptance.

Gaz falls silent again, his fingers twitching slightly as he frowns to himself, seemingly grappling with something. Then, he speaks up again. “Last year, when I started working with Price for the first time, we were after a man from Urzikstan called the Wolf.”

Maria tilts her head in recognition. “Omar Sulaman.”

“You know about him?”

“I was stationed in Urzikstan a couple of years before all that went down,” she explains. “That’s where I met Ghost.”

He nods in understanding, “His second in command was Jamal Rahar. The Butcher.” He then narrows his eyes. “I watched him murder a kid, without remorse, in the US Embassy in Urzikstan, and I wanted to put him down for good. But we needed him alive because Al-Qatala had planted a bomb in Russia. So we caught him, and we brought him for interrogation.”

Maria watches him as she listens intently, noting the way the grip on his mug tightens before he carries on speaking, “Price and Nikolai… They brought in his wife and son. To persuade him.”

She stiffens at that, her eyes widening slightly. She’d known in advance that Price was the kind of man to push the boundaries of what was acceptable actions, but… this seemed excessive. To bring in civilians like that? To threaten them?

“Worked like a charm, obviously. I thought about killing him after we got what we wanted, but… after I saw his kid I just…” Gaz shakes his head, glancing away.

After taking a moment to process things, Maria reaches across the table and gently lays a hand across his wrist. He looks back at that, and smiles slightly in response. He then takes another breath, and meets her eyes.

“So believe me,” he tells her, “I do get how you feel.”

She nods slowly in response, and gives him a sympathetic look. “And you stayed.”

Gaz tilts his head in acknowledgement. “I wanted to take the gloves off. I wanted to fight back properly, and make sure bastards like that didn’t get away with anything. And then it happened, and I got blood on my hands. But… I figured I could still do some good here.” He then smiles reassuringly. “I think you can too.”

Her hold on his wrist briefly tightens, before she releases it and draws her hand back, mulling over his words. As morally questionable as the 141 may be at times, she did understand that they were doing some good in the middle of all the bad. As Soap had said a few months ago, someone had to get dirty to keep the world clean.

In spite of everything, she wants to keep looking after them too.

“Corporal,” a voice calls from the doorway. Maria looks up to see Price, once again with an unreadable expression on his face. Time to face the music, it seems.

She takes one last sip of her tea, then gets to her feet, laying a hand briefly on Gaz’s shoulder, which he pats in response. She moves towards Price, regarding him with an even expression of her own.

“Sir,” she greets calmly.

Price moves his hands to grasp at the sides of his tactical vest, taking a moment to breathe in before he speaks, “Listen, I know you’re upset, but this wasn’t personal-”

“I’m not upset, Captain,” she interrupts, keeping her tone steady, “I understand your point of view perfectly. You had concerns, and you addressed them.”

He raises an eyebrow at the simplicity of her words, clearly expecting something else. He then nods slowly, “Well, as long as we’re clear on that-”

“I do think you have an expectation of how things are going to go, however, and I would like to address that.”

That’s definitely more in line with what he expected, and he folds his arms as both his eyebrows now raise. “Oh?”

“I know the kind of team that you run, and the beliefs you have in yourself, in them, and in the world,” she states. “You’ve taken promising individuals and you’ve made them into something more. But I am not here to be anything more than I am. I am a medic. I am here to fix your injuries and ensure you make it home in one piece. I am not here to do any breaking, and I am certainly not here to be broken down and made anew. You can try your best, but all you are going to be is disappointed, and I will still be here patching you up, whether you like it or not.”

There is a lengthy, tense pause, and for a moment Maria thinks she has severely overstepped. She had tried to keep her composure, but she needed to get her point across, regardless of whether it was a breach of the chain of command. The consequences did not weigh as much as her determination.

Then, Price’s lips form a smirk, his eyes sparkling with something like mirth. He nods in approval. “Keep that spine, Corporal,” he tells her, “You’ll need it in this business.” And with that, he turns and walks off down the corridor.

She releases a breath of relief, glad that she’s cemented her opinions and still maintained her place. But as Price walks away, she catches sight of another man further away, looking at her with a familiar mix of uncertainty and regret.

Soap.

Price seems to mutter something to him as he passes, and Soap’s expression tightens. He clearly wants to say something, but he isn’t quite sure how to go about it. Maria doesn’t move as he locks eyes with her again and strolls forward carefully, as if approaching a frightened animal. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then tries again.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, and she softens slightly, until he then goes and ruins it, “It wasn’t personal-”

She sighs, shaking her head. “God, if one more person tells me ‘it wasn’t personal’, I’m gonna lose my mind,” she hisses, and starts to turn away.

“No, wait,” Soap protests, and she feels his hand grasp hold of hers. She pauses, surprised at the contact, looking back and seeing how their fingers interlock together. This is the first overt kind of move he’s made. She’s upset with him, yes, but… she finds herself liking the way his hand feels in hers, gripping gently but firmly. His skin is rough, calloused, but reassuring.

She could get used to it. Someday.

He follows her gaze, and blinks at the sight of his own actions, releasing her and instead gripping his tactical vest, as if to keep his hand distracted. He does eventually get back on his train of thought. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” he huffs in frustration, struggling to find the right words. “It wasn’t meant to hurt you. I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

Maria frowns at him, wanting to forgive him for going along with Price’s orders but unable to get the image of his dead body out of her head. It still feels like a personal failure, even if it wasn’t real. It feels like she lost something, even when she’s not sure if she had it to begin with.

“I thought you were dead,” she explains quietly, “and I don’t think you understand that.”

Soap looks down guiltily. The silence stretches long enough, with neither of them able to properly express what’s on their minds. She can’t stand here like this. She turns away from him, walking in the opposite direction, seeking something to take her mind off things.

In truth, she will forgive him. Eventually. She’ll forgive them all, really.

That’s just who she is.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tagging: @socially-awkward-skeleton

[sealofarchives]

Oneshot scenario: Merfolk!reader with the turtles (separate)

Just something for a mermay themed prompt while trying to think of other stuff to write

Warnings: the slight mention of drowning (just a brief topic again nothing too graphic)

(I forgot the exact concept art picture from one of the scrapped episodes where Mikey went all out for a mermaid costume for a distraction but, surprisingly it helped while trying to brainstorm ideas for the other scenarios lol)

Soupful Confessions

In the lair, close to the living room...

You were about take another spoonful of clam chowder soup. While your fish tail sat on one of the steps a surface level in a large aquarium tank filled with water. You placed the soup bowl by the makeshift table beside you. Then swam towards the box shell turtle pacing around a few distance away from the tank.

Before you could ask, Mikey immediately squeaked startled by your sudden appearance.

"Oh (Y/N)! Was the soup okay?"

"Mikey, I'll pretty much eat anything you make. Sorry for scaring you."

"Is something on your mind? You almost made a lap walking around my tank."

"Well... Despite that short-staffed situation during a surf and turf event near the Run of the Mill pizzeria..."

"I'm still excited that I made friends with you and a few other merpeople!"

You winced with a fake smile before going back to the soup filled bowl.

"I mostly tagged along with that group for a discount on seafood pizza."

"I couldn't stomach the idea of eating turtles, let alone ones who were brave enough to serve an angry mob of hungry merpeople."

"Yeah... I still think we were pretty lucky that we based off the menu from a few of dad's old movies. Clam chowder being one of those."

You blinked surprised at the soup then back to Mikey.

"Any clue why he doesn't like talking about clam chowder?"

"Because I tried bringing it up and he just avoids the question with something else."

Mikey only shrugged while playing around with his orange bandana tails.

"He told us only criminals like that movie but, Cassandra turned over a new leaf because of his words of wisdom."

"Maybe, something terrible happened during the making of the movie so, it might have been that..."

You hummed understanding that reasoning. Then held the bowl to drink what's left out of the almost empty soup. Mikey gulped as you perched your arms content with the meal.

"Hopefully its not too weird to ask but, are you free to be a muse?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I had a few sketches for some disguises especially with the mermaid theme in mind but..."

"I didn't want to offend you if some of the designs are in poor taste..."

You couldn't help but, giggle at Mikey as you placed the bowl on his head.

"So you want feedback from me? Sure, I don't bite."

"But, take it easy when you decide to use said distraction in action."

"I wouldn't want that cute face of yours getting hurt."

Mikey blushed as you winked at him and hurried off to get dessert. Unfortunately for him, his brothers also saw the incident and appeared with teasing grins, casually hanging around the kitchen like nothing happened.

Old and New Memories

In the turtle tank...

Donnie spoke up with a sigh.

"You know its impolite to stare at someone for a long period of time..."

"Oh sorry, a while ago, I got stuck with helping one of my classmates for something in Witch Town."

"That place still mentions you-"

"Being the infamous scientist turtle who scoffed at anything magic related and destroyed the center piece statue during an important ceremony."

Donnie felt an imaginary arrow hitting his head as he winced while you continued to talk.

"But still, you made a long way from being stubborn about mystic magic."

"And gained some understanding of it through your way of approaching things."

You fidgeted one of the charms added to the custom made backpack (courtesy of the purple turtle himself) to avoid the tedious process. Carrying a large jug of water when there's no aquarium tank around.

Donnie faked cough now regaining his composure as you looked back at him.

"Accidental destruction of property was the more correct term to describe it..."

"At that time, I was more focused proving April wrong that she didn't need help from those witches."

"Also, there is no way I'm setting foot near that place if they still talk about me in that matter."

"I was already greeted with the angry mob gathering pitchforks and torches when I tried to apologize for my actions."

Donnie crossed his arms as you lightly puffed one of your cheeks.

"On a lighter note, I found out some of my classmates grew up with parents who are big fans of Splinter's movies."

"And..."

You held up a conch shell device and played a recording from its string.

"Do you think we'll turn heads if we change the purple one's wanted poster in a light tone similar to the splitting image of Lou Jitsu?"

"I already heard stories how the former star dedicates his life to raising four turtles and..."

"The purple one can easily get away with anything for having such dashing looks-"

You immediately held the string down with blush surfacing an annoyed look on your face.

"It slowly started an argument on which of you was the best Lou Jitsu look-a-like."

"So the fan club forgot to start the project..."

"But still, at least you have me and a few other fans by your side."

Your fish-fin ears fluttered a bit taking notice of Donnie's smirk.

"While I'm flattered by that girl's comment, I only assume you haven't thought of the idea towards a surprise meet and greet."

"Or you don't like the thought of her dating me..."

The blush deepened your face as you looked away.

"I think she'll be more disappointed that you aren't into pda and hugs."

You felt Donnie's arms pulling you into a hug now sitting on his lap.

"Given the nature of my happy go lucky family members, I just give in to the hugs. However, for you."

"I'm willing to make some amends towards my soon to be partner's needs..." On the back of Donnie's mind was slight panic. With the realization that you look really cute sitting there. And how, he got a closer look at your face.

A Merfolk That Can't Sing?!

Near a rooftop pool close to 10 pm... (Totally not trespassing says the red slider turtle)

Your face sank halfway into the chlorinated water. Attempting to hide the embarrassed feeling as Leo immediately sat up.

"Wait, for eel? I always thought it comes naturally that most merpeople can just lure anyone in by a wonderful singing voice."

You laid on your aquatic back, letting the water glide you across the lightly dimmed pool. With a whine at Leo's fishy oneliners.

"Not me, my parents tried to get help and it didn't even work."

"I already don't like the thought of it being associated with drowning..."

"I almost forgot about that part but, the reason I brought the singing was more towards..."

"Donnie was playing a game where sirens sang during a boss fight."

"I don't know much about metal but, the song surprisingly blends well with the siren singing."

"Okay? I still don't get what you're trying to say."

"I don't want to sound like Dr Feelings but, if you have a favorite song you'd usually like to hum to."

"Maybe try that, since you don't seem happy trying to fit into the scary siren image.

Leo saw you hesitated for a bit but shrugged, now lazily laying on your stomach.

"I'll think about it but, thanks for the brief pep talk."

"Well if you feel up to a small karaoke battle, you know who to call!"

You held back laughing at him in an attempt to hide the blush on your face.

"You almost fell off the turtle taxi proudly winning the previous karaoke battle during a late night beach party."

Leo's confident smile quickly faded into embarrassment. As he immediately placed one of his beach hats on your head. Causing you to sit up to avoid damaging the hat.

"It still counted as a victory for me. We weren't expecting anyone to be up around that time."

"Let alone a surprise visit from a merfolk."

You blushed at the water's reflection, wearing Leo's straw beach hat. A tiny bit of regret deepened the blush as you caught sight of his slow smirk.

"Did my singing actually lure you in?~"

Your fish fin lightly splashed water near his face as you looked away.

"The turtle tank caused a tiny rumor about a turtle with a taxi on its shell"

"I don't think Donnie would be happy about making his prized vehicle open to the public."

Leo wiped the water off his face with a spare towel as he got off the chaise lounge chair.

"I still think I lured you in."

"It just happened to be in good timing, with Donnie making small tests to the turtle tank."

Your fish tail sat by the pool step ladders as you sighed.

"Just don't add any love songs to the playlist or I might curse you for a week."

"I can probably handle whatever hex you throw at me but, I'll still give you dibs on picking the first few songs.

"Just so I have somewhat an idea of what songs you're into."

Ever since he got you to laugh at some of his jokes, the red slider turtle believes you have that merpeople charm in you.

Early Morning Seaside Chit Chat

Close to early sunrise by the Hidden City beach.

The turtle tank was parked a few distance away from the volunteer vendor booth that usually helps with clean up, trash, and protecting wildlife. However, the daily weekend event usually starts in around 9 or 10 am.

Raph could see the groggy eyebags on your face as you struggled to stay awake, resting your arms above the aquarium tank.

"We brought some snacks that should last until lunch."

"So try to eat something so you don't accidentally chomp on a seagull."

You snatched a family sized bag of chips from the snack pile. With a brief thanks as Raph sat across from you.

"I scared off some birds from last year's sea turtle hatching tour."

"I'll be fine."

Raph bit into a piece of jerky as he rolled his eyes.

"That one pink heron almost knocked you into the sea if we didn't step in to help."

"Mikey almost saw a baby turtle getting pecked to death."

"That's the only time I pick fights with any of those birds."

Raph muttered a sigh under his breath as you pouted.

"Okay I'll admit, we didn't want to see that but..."

"I'm surprised how you convinced Donnie and the volunteers to set up a eco friendly barrier for those baby turtles."

You smiled a bit biting into another chip as you spoke.

You guys still helped, spreading the word through cute flyer posters and a tiny fundraiser for a good cause."

Raph lightened up with his toothy grin as he chuckled.

"So, no secret plan to get revenge on that bird."

"I mean Donnie was almost thinking about it, until he got praised with so many compliments displaying his work to the staff."

"Oh, so Donnie didn't have some speech with how cruel nature is and just went with your idea."

You accidentally yawned with an annoyed expression on your face.

"He did but, life is already like that sometimes."

"And not to bring down the mood but, you four would have been just regular turtles if it weren't for Splinter stepping in to protect you guys from being Draxum's super soldiers..."

Raph hummed briefly looking down at the half empty plastic bag.

"I don't think I could fit in with the other alligator snapping turtles."

"I had a lot of weird moments not realizing its a solitary thing and its just not for me."

Raph looked up after hearing you chuckle.

"You could easily win a few over just from your gentle smile."

"Showing off your strength is one thing but, your level of honesty."

"Its almost too sweet that it could blind the competition."

The alligator snapping turtle blushed at your compliments.

"If this is your way of wanting that expensive seafood buffet for lunch, I'm not budging..."

"Awww, but I saved up enough money for a really good couple's discount~..."

Raph eventually caved in to the offer after most of the baby sea turtles safely made it to watery shore. However, to your surprise, the two of you sat in one table alone. With the blush beginning to appear on your face as the waiter took his order.

[weevil-wallflower]

The Empire's Most Wanted

Cal Kestis & the Mantis Crew

Summary: From fugitive to celebrity.

Warnings/Tags: SFW, crack fic (kinda lol), humour, canon-typical violence, during Jedi: Survivor, no spoilers for Jedi: Survivor.

A.N.: So a discussion began when I shared a screenshot of Cal in the outfit as shown below. The discussion ended with him having so many admiring fans in the Galaxy due to being an infamous ‘Jedi terrorist’. From that discussion, spawned this fic ^_^ Gif by me!

Also on AO3!

Word Count: ~2700

Cal Kestis lounged in the Mantis’s common area, flicking through various channels on the holo-TV. BD-1 sat perched on his shoulder, beeping curiously as the channels zipped by. Suddenly, a flashy advertisement caught Cal’s attention, causing him to pause.

“The Empire’s Most Wanted!” boomed a dramatic voice. “The Galaxy’s hottest new talk show featuring exclusive interviews with the most notorious outlaws. Tonight, we delve into the life of the Jedi terrorist himself; Cal Kestis!”

Cal’s eyes widened in surprise. “BeeDee, did you hear that? They’re talking about me!”

BD-1 beeped excitedly, his optics flashing as he absorbed the information. Cal couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of being discussed so openly on a talk show. He quickly called out to the rest of the crew.

“Merrin, Greez, Bode! Get over here, you’ve got to see this!”

Merrin and Greez emerged from their respective quarters, while Bode appeared from the cockpit. The three of them gathered around as Cal rewound the broadcast and played it again.

“Cal Kestis, the Galaxy’s most elusive Jedi, will be featured on the next episode of ‘Empire’s Most Wanted’!” the show host repeated, the holo-screen flashing with dramatic images of Cal in action.

Greez’s jaw dropped. “Kid, when did you become so popular? And how’d they get those photos of you?!”

“The Galaxy is a strange place,” Merrin mused with a raised eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “You go from fugitive to celebrity overnight.”

Bode chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “I guess all those close calls with the Empire finally paid off in the fame department.”

Cal shrugged, a playful glint in his emerald eyes. “Hey, I can’t help it if I’m a big deal now.”

BD-1 beeped in agreement, clearly excited about the possibility of seeing his favourite Jedi on a galaxy-wide holo-show.

Over the next few days, the buzz surrounding the talk show became impossible to ignore. Every corner of the Galaxy seemed to be talking about the ‘Empire’s Most Wanted’ and its upcoming episode on Cal Kestis. Then, one evening, Cal actually received an official invitation to appear on the show.

Greez read the invitation aloud, his voice tinged with disbelief, as the rest huddled around him. “Dear Cal Kestis, we cordially invite you to be a guest on ‘The Empire’s Most Wanted’. Your presence would undoubtedly make for an unforgettable episode.”

Merrin sighed, exasperated. “Cal, this is not a good idea. If you attend, the Empire will know your location. It is too risky.”

"It's a trap, kid. You know it's a trap.” Greez added, sounding sure of himself.

“Wait, how did they know where to send the invite…?” Bode mumbled to himself, his question going unnoticed due to Cal’s excitement. The redhead seemed undeterred as he glanced at the invitation and then back at his friends, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Come on, guys. It could be fun. Besides, I could use a little excitement.”

“Excitement?” Merrin repeated, her eyes narrowing. “Cal, this is not some adventure you should just dive into without consequences.”

Bode placed a hand on Cal’s shoulder, his expression just as serious. “Look, scrapper, I get it. You want to face them head-on, but this is too reckless—even for you. You’ll be giving the Empire a clear shot at you by flaunting yourself like that.”

Cal simply shrugged off the warnings with a casual wave of his hand. “I appreciate the concern, but I’ve got a good feeling about this. Trust me.”

Greez threw all four of his hands up in the air, grumbling, “Why do I even bother? You’re gonna get us all killed one day, kid.”

BD-1 beeped reassuringly, seemingly siding with Cal on this one as his little heart seemed set on enjoying the limelight as well. The little droid’s optimism was contagious, and despite their reservations, the crew reluctantly prepared for the trip to the talk show’s studio.

When the day finally arrived, the Mantis landed discreetly on the on the planet which housed the talk show studio. For this occasion, Cal had dressed in the only formal attire he owned; a dark grey high collared shirt paired with high-waisted and well-pressed black trousers.

The jedi, ever confident, strolled into the opulent studio, taking in the grandiose exterior with neon lights and towering banners displaying past episodes.

The interior was a bustling hive of activity. Camera crews rushed about, adjusting microphones and lights, while makeup artists fussed over guests and hosts. The studio audience, a mix of curious civilians and die-hard fans, buzzed with anticipation. The air was filled with excited whispers about the infamous red haired Jedi. It all created an almost surreal atmosphere.

As Cal was led onto the stage, the bright lights momentarily blinded him. The host, a charismatic man by the name of Xenn Garroz, greeted him with a wide smile.

“Welcome, Cal Kestis! Or should I say, the Galaxy’s most elusive Jedi?” Xenn’s voice boomed, echoing through the studio.

“Happy to be here, Xenn,” Cal returned the smile, trying to keep his cool. Having never been in front of such a large audience before this moment, he was finding out for the first time what stage fright felt like.

The interview began with standard questions about Cal’s adventures, the Mantis crew and his status as a Jedi. Everything appeared normal until Xenn’s expression suddenly shifted, taking on a sinister appearance.

“Cal, we have a special surprise for you,” Xenn announced, his tone dripping with malice. “But first, let’s met our real guest of honour.”

Suddenly, the studio’s backdrop transformed to display the Imperial insignia. Hidden doors burst open and stormtroopers poured onto the set, blasters at the ready. Much to the camera crew’s surprise, Xenn Garroz revealed himself as an undercover Imperial agent, his triumphant grin gleaming under the stage lights.

The audience present at the studio gasped, a mixture of shock and confusion spreading through the crowd. Cal ignited his lightsaber, the blade humming with energy and ready for the impending battle.

In the middle of the commotion, BD-1, who had sneakily found his way onto the set, scuttled to the guest chair meant for Cal and enjoyed the front-row seat to the action.

Back on the Mantis, the crew watched the live broadcast, their faces a mix of exasperation and disbelief. Greez sighed, shaking his head. "Why am I not surprised?"

Merrin rolled her eyes. "Cal and his flair for theatrics."

Bode, unable to stand idly by, decided to join the fight. With his blasters drawn, he dashed out of the Mantis, determined to help Cal.

But before Merrin and Greez could follow, a squad of stormtroopers had surrounded the ship, blasters pointed menacingly at them.

“Merrin, we’ve got company!” Greez shouted, his voice tinged with panic.

Merrin glanced out the cockpit, assessing the situation. “We need to defend the Mantis. Cal and Bode can handle themselves.”

The Latero nodded, gripping his blasters tightly. “I hope you’re right. Let’s make sure they have a ship to come back to!”

As Merrin and Greez prepared to defend the Mantis, back on the set, Cal fought off the stormtroopers with grace and efficiency, his lightsaber a blur of intense light. The studio audience watched in stunned silence, unable to tear their eyes away from the live battle.

Just as the number of stormtroopers threatened to overwhelm Cal, Bode burst onto the scene with his blasters at the ready. "Need a hand?"

Cal grinned. "Took you long enough!"

“Time for a real show now!” The mercenary shouted, taking aim at the closest stormtroopers.

Further chaos erupted as Cal and Bode fought side by side, their movements a blur of deadly lightsaber strikes and blaster shots. BD-1, perched peacefully on the guest chair, watched the action with a beep of delight, his lenses recording every moment.

The camera crew, despite the obvious danger, avidly recorded the entire fight. Blaster bolts zipped past them, narrowly missing the staff and equipment. One cameraman ducked behind his rig, shouting, “Keep rolling, keep rolling!” Meanwhile, the studio audience, initially frozen in shock, began cheering for the Jedi and his ally.

Cal deflected blaster bolts with fluid precision, his lightsaber dancing through the air. He vaulted over a group of stormtroopers, landing gracefully to deliver a sweeping strike. Bode, covering Cal’s back, fired shot after shot, each one finding its mark with flawless accuracy.

“Nice shot, Bode!” Cal shouted over the din.

“Right back at you, scrapper!” Bode replied with a grin.

The entire brawl was broadcast live to the entire Galaxy, turning what was meant to be an Imperial trap into an unforgettable spectacle. The audience who watched in their homes were in awe, their holo-screens filled with the dramatic and exciting scenes.

Finally, the last of the stormtroopers were defeated, and Xenn Garroz lay subdued at Cal’s feet. Cal deactivated his lightsaber, breathing heavily but triumphant. Bode holstered his blasters as well, shaking his head in amusement.

“Well, that was something,” the mercenary said.

The redhead glanced around the studio, noticing the camera crew was still filming. He grinned and walked back to the guest chair, where BD-1 was perched.

“Looks like our little droid is enjoying the spotlight,” Bode remarked, joining Cal.

The Jedi chuckled, before noticing a pile of fan mail on Xenn’s desk. In a moment of whimsy, he decided to read a few letters on live holo-TV. “Why not?” He said, flipping open the first envelope. “Might as well see what the fans have to say.”

The ratings for the show skyrocketed as viewers tuned in, eager to see what would happen next. Cal read the first few letters, which were innocent enough—praises for his bravery, admiration for his lightsaber skills, and heartfelt gratitude for his efforts against the Empire. But as he continued to read through the letters out loud against his better judgement, his face turned various shades of red. Because while many were simply messages of admiration, a few bordered on the overly affectionate, if not outright steamy.

"Dear Cal," he read one aloud, hesitating slightly as he scanned the rest of the letter. "Your... intense... lightsaber skills aren't the only thing I'd like to see in action. If you ever find yourself on Coruscant, I'd love to show you a few moves of my own."

Cal felt his face burn, and he quickly moved on to the next letter, only to find it even steamier. "Hey, Cal," he read, his voice cracking a bit. "Ever thought about using the Force for something... other than fighting? Let's just say I'd be more than happy to be your padawan for a night."

By now, Cal's face was a deep shade of crimson, almost matching his hair. He could hear the live studio audience snickering, and the holo-camera zoomed in to capture every embarrassed expression. Bode, who had been catching his breath from the fight, burst into laughter.

"Well, well, well, Cal," He teased, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Looks like you've got quite the fan club. Never knew you had such... admirers."

Cal shot him a glare. "You're not helping, Bode."

Bode just chuckled, clearly enjoying Cal's discomfort. "Oh, this is too good."

The Galaxy watched in rapt attention as Cal, blushing furiously, continued to read the fan mail live on holo-TV. BD-1 beeped happily, capturing every moment on holo-video for posterity.

Back on the Mantis, after having dispatched of all the stormtroopers, Greez and Merrin watched the broadcast with mixed emotions. Greez shook his head, muttering, "I can't believe he's doing this. He's reading fan mail. On live holo-TV. That kid is gonna be the death of me."

Merrin sighed, a small smile playing on her lips. “Of all the things Cal could be doing, this is certainly not what I expected. Well, at least he keeps things interesting.”

As Cal continued to read, the letters only grew more explicit. He stumbled over suggestive language, each one making him blush harder. The viewers couldn't get enough of it, and the ratings continued to soar.

Cal finally put down the last letter, wiping sweat from his brow. "Okay, I think that's enough fan mail for today," he said, his voice shaky. "Thank you all for your... support. Really."

Meanwhile, BD-1, perched proudly on the set, beeped cheerfully as he continued to record every moment. The little droid even made several backups, ensuring that even if the Empire managed to take down the episode, he could put it right back up.

Cal sighed, knowing that BD-1 would never let him live this down. As the broadcast ended, he glanced at the little droid. "You really enjoyed that, didn't you?"

BD-1 beeped enthusiastically, displaying a holo-image of Cal's reddened face during one of the steamier letters. The droid's optics seemed to twinkle with mischief.

After they returned to the Mantis, they were greeted by Merrin and Greez's exasperated faces. Greez shook his head, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and amusement.

"Kid, you never cease to amaze me. Or worry me. Next time, just stick to fighting stormtroopers, okay?" The Latero said, crossing his arms.

Merrin smirked. "You managed to turn an obvious trap into a galaxy-wide spectacle. Impressive, but utterly foolish. Also, you do realise that BeeDee will be sharing that footage for the rest of your life, don't you?"

Bode, still chuckling, slapped Cal on the back. "And I'll make sure to remind you of it every chance I get."

Cal groaned, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, I figured as much."

BD-1 beeped proudly, displaying snippets of the most embarrassing moments on his holo-projector. Cal couldn't help but smile at the little droid's enthusiasm.

"You really know how to put on a show, though.” Bode said. “Looks like you've got more admirers than just the Rebellion."

The Empire, of course, was not amused. The show became a viral sensation, and the footage of Cal and Bode's battle, along with Cal's fan mail reading session, spread like wildfire across the holo-net. Desperate to quell the growing admiration for the ‘Jedi terrorist’, the Empire ordered the episode to be taken down. But each time it was removed, BD-1, with his usual determination and tech-savvy skills, managed to put it right back up.

Imperial officers were left baffled and infuriated as the footage reappeared time and time again. BD-1's persistence turned the episode into a symbol of defiance, and it became a rallying cry for the Rebellion. More and more recruits flocked to join the fight, inspired by the Jedi who had not only fought bravely but had also become a symbol of hope and resistance.

The popularity of the episode even spilled over to Bode, who found himself with a growing fanbase of his own. Admirers sent letters and holo-messages praising his sharpshooting skills and his unwavering support for Cal. Bode took it all in stride, often teasing Cal about their newfound celebrity status.

"Looks like you're not the only one with fans, Cal," Bode said with a wink, showing off a particularly flattering fan mail addressed to him.

Cal rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help but laugh. "Great, just what we needed. Two galactic heartthrobs on the run from the Empire."

The days turned into weeks, and the holo-show episode continued to circulate. Despite the Empire’s continued efforts to take down the episode, BD-1 ensured it stayed on the holo-net. Each time it was removed, the clever little droid re-uploaded it, much to the Empire’s confusion and frustration. Cal Kestis had become the galaxy's most notorious—and unexpectedly, the most popular—Jedi, all thanks to one very memorable holo-show appearance.

On a distant desert planet, a young blonde boy sat glued to a holo-TV, his blue eyes wide with awe as he watched the red haired Jedi valiantly fight the stormtroopers. The boy’s small frame was perched on the edge of his seat, his expression one of pure fascination.

“Cal Kestis is so cool,” he whispered to himself, captivated by the action unfolding on the holo-screen.

Just as the battle reached its peak, a woman’s voice called out from the other room. “Luke, it’s time for dinner!”

The boy groaned, not wanting to tear himself away from the holo-TV. “Aww, Aunt Beru, the show’s just getting good!”

“Now, Luke!” Beru’s voice was firm but loving.

Luke Skywalker reluctantly stood up, casting one last glance at the holo-screen where Cal Kestis and Bode Akuna were fighting side by side. He sighed and headed towards the door, mumbling to himself about how he couldn’t wait to be a hero like Cal someday.

As he left the room, the holo-TV continued to play, showing the fearless Jedi and his resilience, inspiring a new generation even in the most remote corners of the Galaxy.

A.N.: The reason why Cere isn't here is because she's busy on Jedha. And also because if she was present, it wouldn't be much of a fic as I believe she's the only one who can and will stop Cal from doing something stupid and/or ground him for like a week for doing something stupid x3

[strvwdere]

He's been on my mind and my dash today. Uploaded from the dox archive, briefly edited, and still doesn't have a title! Taking suggestions in the tags <3

Edit: title added!

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"Unannounced"

Aki Hayakawa x gnc!Reader drabble (~1k words)

CW!s: Fluff, brief mention of blood, suggestions of violence and hookup culture, one (1) use of profanity, no pronouns or anatomy descriptions for reader, JP urban life context, Aki is a sweetie pie, **note at the end if u care to read!

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Thinking about the first time you ever put your lips on Aki Hayakawa.

It was far more innocent than others might suspect. With your jobs and daily lives entrenched in spectacular horrors, it was practically expected for those in your position to blow off steam with one another. You'll admit you'd had a brief tryst or two, but now you had a new partner. And Aki didn’t seem like the type.

It's 02:37am and the train car is blissfully empty, not a sloshed up salaryman in sight. Aki had offered you a seat but chose to stand himself, claiming that he'd likely fall asleep if he took a moment to rest his long legs. You could see the truth of it on his face, but also knew he looked most comfortable staying on guard. Frankly, you wouldn't be surprised if the man slept with one eye open, literally.

He's got one hand on the baggage rail above you, the other fiddling with his lighter in the pocket of his suit pants. He catches you staring down at his sneakers, scanning them with casual curiosity, when he prompts,

"What?"

You blink, "They're clean."

“Huh?”

Aki thinks you must be blind, but he’s not rude enough to call you on it. Today’s shift had been your first time patrolling Shibuya together, so it was brutal, naturally. There’s not one article of clothing between the two of you without blood smeared on it somewhere. Standard rite of passage.

“The department chair said you like to stay busy. You a sneakerhead? There’s not a single scuff on those.”

“Not sure what the state of my footwear has to do with anything.”

“Sorry.”

You glance off to the side, not wanting him to presume scrutiny any further.

One thing about Aki- 90% of the time he’s vaguely dismissive and the other 10% he’s shy. 100% of the time you’re dogshit at reading him in the moment.

The ambiance of the train rattling down its track settles over you both. Stops coming and going, announcements crackling through the speakers and flashing on the overhead digital monitors as you pass through. Your lids are about to slip shut when he speaks, almost mumbling to himself.

“I like to take care of things.”

You roll your head along the back of the seat to look placidly in his direction again.

“Come again?”

He clears his throat. 

“I like to take care of my stuff. Is that a bad thing?”

“Not really, just surprising to me.”

“What’s so different about it?”

Your eyes follow the long column of his tie from the barely loosened knot at his throat, down his slim torso, to the pointed end that meets perfectly at the top of his belt buckle. Meticulous, you think. Meeting his eyes again as a wry smile tugs faintly at your lips, you state, 

“You’re a serious guy, Aki Hayakawa.”

“Yeah, guess so.”

He turns away, shielding his face with his arm still resting on the baggage rail, and casting his gaze over his toned shoulder. You’d assume he was dismissing you again, were it not for the visible tip of his ear tinted the lightest shade of pink. Look at that, you muse internally. The other 10%.

-The next stop is Ueno, G16. Please change here for the Hibiya line, the JR lines, and the Keisei line. This train is bound for Asakusa.-

You uncross your legs preparing to stand, semi-accidentally brushing your boot across the width of his shin as you do. He doesn’t flinch, but continues to avoid eye contact.

“Your stop, right?”

“Yep,” you quip, pulling the strings in your limbs against their will. Exhaustion is hitting you more fully now as you gather yourself. You’ll test Aki’s buttons another time, you decide. A time when a hot shower and your mattress aren’t demanding your presence so immediately.

-Arriving at Ueno, G16. The doors will open on the left side.-

“Don’t forget we’re touching base at HQ first tomorrow, and bring your report. They’ll want one from both of us since you’re an internal transfer.”

“Sir, yes sir.” 

You rise carefully to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder and steeling yourself for the next leg of your commute.

You’re mid-reach for the strap above when the train activates its breaks, rocking you forward and directly into Aki’s firm chest. An arm comes up to steady you against him while your outstretched hand aims for the baggage rail, landing on top of his own instead.

His voice is as rigid as the rest of him when he asks,

“You good?”

You tilt your head up sheepishly to reply and are struck by the fine architecture of his flexing jawline. Here you are hip to hip, eye to eye, and he’s still avoiding your gaze, burning holes into the wall of the train car behind you.

Whether it’s impetuousness or sleeplessness, something overcomes you. Rising onto the balls of your feet, arm pulling yourself up and in, you plant a soft, fleeting kiss to the underside of Aki’s chin.

-Ueno. This is Ueno station. Please watch your step.-

“Take good care of me, partner.”

-The next stop is Ueno-hirokoji, G15. Please transfer here for the Toei Oedo line.-

His arm leaves your waist and your hand uncovers his as you step away, dashing onto the platform just before the doors begin to close.

As the train pulls away, you’re left with a lingering sense of frustration and the impression of his body heat still ghosting your skin.

What you didn’t catch behind those doors was Aki, collapsed on the seat with his head in his hands, blushing bright red all the way down to his collar. 

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©strvwdere.tumblr.com; est. 02/2023; no quotes, reposts, or translations 🍓

**Note: I really wanted to make a cute reference to the way the phrase “yoroshiku onegaishimasu” is used in Japanese. One of its many meanings is “please treat me favorably” or “please take good care of me” and is often used in introductions and establishing coworker connections. That said, there is no direct translation to English so I’m afraid it came out a little clunky here (in my head, the reader essentially says “Please take care of me, Hayakawa Senpai). Lmk if you guys have any ideas! This was a quick bit I thought up while in the middle of my JP studies in preparation for going abroad. Had a lot of fun toying with our favorite Devil Hunter and looking through Tokyo-metro's website- that level of organization is A1!

[captainschmoe]

So I don’t have full-blown written-out supports but here’s a summary of how I would like Lucina and f!Morgan’s supports to go:

C-Support: Lucina finds Morgan passed out at her desk, drooling on her tactics notes. She wakes her, and tells her that Robin has been looking for her, and also that he and Chrom have been concerned about her tendencies to stay up so late studying. Morgan then says that she still lags behind Robin’s genius and needs to study this much if she wants to be a worthy tactician to Lucina; the latter finds the prospect unnecessary, especially if it’s what is driving Morgan to nod off. She urges Morgan to go speak to Robin, then briefly muses to herself how Morgan can’t see that being Lucina’s tactician is a useless position.

B-Support: Morgan approaches Lucina, firm in her belief that she ought to be her tactician because that’s the relationship between their fathers, and they both really want to be like their fathers. Lucina reminds her that there’s no point in her having a tactician because, unlike Chrom, Lucina doesn’t command an army nor rule a halidom, and she never will because Grima ripped that away from her. Morgan remains adamant, assuming that she must have been Lucina’s tactician in the future and getting offended at being refused the chance to continue the role. Lucina goes suspiciously quiet and the discussion peters out there.

A-Support: Morgan approaches Lucina to ask why the latter seemed so upset about last time. Lucina comes clean: the Morgan of her future disappeared shortly after both Chrom and Robin were lost, believing that Robin may still have been alive as his body was never found. Many years later, the two of them met again as enemies, Morgan having been somehow manipulated into joining the Grimleal. Hearing this, Morgan is briefly upset, but declares that this only strengthens her desire to be Lucina’s tactician, even if they can only role play the parts, because it’s almost certainly what the other Morgan would have wanted had she not gotten brainwashed. Lucina finally concedes, admitting that she should be grateful for the chance to spend time with a friend she’d thought lost forever.

S-Support: Morgan approaches Lucina (again) and asks her what she plans to do in case Grima is defeated. Lucina says she doesn’t know, just that she needs to leave her family behind since no one outside the Shepherds will believe her to be Chrom’s time-traveling daughter. Morgan remarks that that sounds incredibly lonely, then tells Lucina that she’ll stick around for the rest of their lives, very casually and bluntly adding that she loves her. Lucina is highly flustered and half-correctly surmises that Morgan’s whole “tactician” thing was just a ruse to get them hooked up, though she also admits that she greatly enjoys Morgan’s company and carefree attitude. Upon Lucina confessing, Morgan starts yelling for Robin and Chrom to tell them the good news and runs off before Lucina can say she isn’t ready for that yet.

[thiefbird]

Hey hey! Hope you're having a great night! How about an Anders x Anyone prompt? “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” Hope the muse is helpful tonight!

I am, it's good to be back!

Have a cheeky Nanders for your @dadrunkwriting tonight, my friend! With a side of established Sigrun/Velanna

Maker, but they made a pretty picture together, wresting in the dusty training ring. Anders wasn't the only one to have noticed, either; everyone from the scullery maids to Sigrun to even Justice were watching as Cousland and the Howe duked it out.

He did have to assume the Spirit had less... earthly reasons for his interest, though.

The two men separated, panting and grinning, wild-eyed, at each other. Anders made eye contact with Sigrun, cuddled up against Velanna across the ring from where he leaned against a post. The little elf, of course, scowled at him, but he'd learned not to take it personally by now. Sigrun was about the only person she didn't glower at.

His attention switched back to the sparring men, who appeared to now be taking a break for water and discussing tactics. He pushed himself fully upright and hopped the fence, triggering a wolf-whistle from Sigrun.

"Hey, Howe," he called, adding a little wave to catch the older man's attention. He'd been flirting with more intention recently, not just his usual, low-level constant, and Nathaniel had undoubtedly been reciprocating his attentions.

Nathaniel turned at his name, eyebrows raised in question. "Yes, mage? We were about to start again; did you need the Commander?"

Oh, Maker, he was hot. Stripped down to nothing but a pair of sinfully tight, dark leather breeches, skin shining with sweat, he looked good enough to eat. "Oh, no, just thought I'd come wish my favourite archer luck, " he replied, swaying his hips dramatically as he stepped closer.

Nathaniel's lips pursed, but his eyes glittered with amusement. "I am, in fact, the only archer among us Wardens, so that ranking hardly says much about our friendship, now, does it, healer?"

"Oh, but even with another, they'd be hard-pressed to win my favor, " he tossed back with a cheeky wink. "No, your place in my affections is sealed, Howe. Best resign yourself to it!"

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, but chuckled despite himself. "If you are not here to spar, step back, healer. You are a distraction." He gripped Anders' shoulder with one hand, and his waist with the other, spinning him in an easy motion and sending him back to the stands with a gentle shove.

Anders felt his cheeks flush at the manhandling, mind immediately dropping into the gutter, as he stumbled back over to the other Wardens. Sigrun beamed at him, laughing at his flustered expression, and she tugged him to sit between her and Justice.

"Creators, shem, but you are embarrassing. Either bed the man or move on," Velanna complained. "I am tired of watching you two."

"Some of us wish to be wooed, and I am one of them," he responded haughtily. "Excuse me for having standards."

"You fall into bed with a new maid or soldier weekly," Velanna scoffed.

"Not recently." He'd given up his more casual trysts the moment Nathaniel had shown the slightest hint of interest. He still flirted, of course, he wasn't dead, but he hadn't acted on it in weeks.

"Hmmmph," was all Velanna deigned to reply with.

Sigrun elbowed her. "I think it's sweet,Lannan. Our Anders is in love!"

Anders flinched away, completely involuntarily, only playing it up after the fact to disguise the truth of the reaction; he threw himself into the dirt in pretend horror. "Don't slander my guys name like that, Sigrun! I simply realized the second most attractive man in the Vigil was interested in me, and am acting accordingly."

"Let me guess: the most attractive man being you?" Velanna sneered, and Anders winked at her.

"But of course, my lady."

"You're wrong on both counts," Sigrun corrected, as he knew she would; they'd had this argument countless times now. "Aedan is much more attractive than Nathaniel. Or you, sorry sweetie."

Grateful for the change of subject, he let his attention drift back to his Commander and Nathaniel. "You just like beards, Sugrun," he said distractedly.

He hopped up again the moment they called it a draw, trying his best to look casual as he once again approached the shorter man. "Maker, Nate, you don't know what you do to me, do you?" he asked once he got close went for a veneer of privacy.

Nathaniel, already flushed from exertion, turned a deeper shade of red at Anders' words. "I certainly have an idea, with the way you look at me, healer," he muttered, wiping his face dry on a scrap of linen.

"And how do I look at you?"

"The way I look at you. Only I have the sense to wait till the whole Vigil isn't staring."