#i point to the wall on the south side of the building

[fisheito]

i literally have your notifs on-

?! what in the u can get NOTIFIED when i post?! well that's more attention than i was expecting to get, ever. uhh...... LOOK THAT WAY

[loveliluc]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ⋅ not so gentle gentlemen ᡣ𐭩 ་༘࿐

— ft. ayato, diluc, neuvillette, zhongli

synopsis — they’re respectful, eloquent, and dignified. they are gentlemen in every sense. but when it comes to how they have you? well, let’s just say there’s nothing gentle about it; 2.2k words.

— minors do not interact! unprotected sex. rough sex. orgasm denial. hair pulling. dacryphilia. choking. breeding. size kink. neuvi has two cocks cuz ya know, dragon. cockwarming. double penetration. public sex. fem!reader. sub!reader.

— ayato 𝜗𝜚

there’s a firm hand in your hair and then an ever firmer tug. it’s accompanied by a sharp, deep thrust and all you can do is wail into the sheets. a toned body hovers above your back. you feel the textures of his attire and all its embellishments; it’s rough against your skin. “oh? are you crying, my darling?” ayato’s voice is silky soft on your ears, but there’s a sharp edge that makes you writhe underneath him. the little crystalline beads pour from your eyes in a flood, soaking the sheets. you hear him chuckle coolly. “my, after all of your confidence from earlier, here you are shedding tears. can’t you handle it? is this not the outcome you were so diligently seeking?”

you release a shaky breath. “ayato,” you plead with him, but you know it’s pointless. there’s no use in attempting to change the yashiro commissioner’s mind once he’s set on something, and right now he is set on making a mess of you. “i’m —” a hiccup, “— sorry!”

“sorry?” another ruthless plunge of his cock. your ass feels raw from all the slaps of his pelvis against you. you can’t see him, but you know there’s a goading smirk on his face. “this is quite rich coming from you, my darling. you were creating such a scene, and in public of all places. did you forget we have a reputation to uphold?”

you pout and from the way your face is turned, ayato can see clearly how your bottom lip juts out. your ayato, your kind, patient, loving ayato has transformed into the menace behind you. how he is now and how he is to the public is a night and day difference; you feel simultaneously blessed to witness this exclusive side of him and exasperated. he’s robbed you of countless orgasms at this point — to teach you a lesson, he said — and your body aches. he tugs at your hair again.

“now you’re so quiet. oh goodness, that won’t do.” ayato sets a brutal pace and all you can do is clamber at the sheets and take it. his mushroom tip kisses your cervix and it’s a pleasurable pain. the coil in your tummy is building momentum again and you hope it won’t be torn away from you again.

“ah! ayato!” you sob and it’s shrilled and raspy. one of your hands reaches behind you and clasps at his long sleeve; you’re fully ridden of clothing while he still wears his. it’s a little humiliating, and it’s a sign of his power over you, but you can’t deny the way it makes you leak all over his length. “p-please!”

ayato chuckles, knowing what you’re after but determined to deprive you until you can communicate your need. “please what, darling? i cannot supply your need if you do not tell me what it is.” his cock throbs at the pitiful cry of his name and the squeeze of your walls around him. you’re close, very close.

he’s playing dumb, you know he is. you know what he’s after but what you don’t know is whether or not your poor, muddled brain can put the words together. “ayato, please! let me cum! i need it so bad!”

“is that it?” ayato drags his lips against your ear, pace still ruthless. you’re about to fall apart. “hmm, i suppose you are deserving of it. have you learned your lesson?”

“yes!”

his hand reaches south to pinch at your clit. “very good. you’ll do well to remember what you’ve learned, my darling.”

— diluc 𝜗𝜚

“d-diluc…mmh!” your body is folded in half when your legs are thrown over his shoulder. the weight of his body is heavy and it traps you against the mattress; you’re helpless to the ruthless pace of his hips. he’s able to reach so much deeper like this, and it’s maddening and overwhelming to the point you feel like you can’t catch a breath. your knees being pushed into your chest certainly isn’t helping either, though.

your plea falls on deaf ears as diluc continues to batter your insides, resilient in his efforts to mold you to the shape of his cock. you’re clawing at his biceps and he grunts at the sting, but your efforts do nothing to deter him. his vermilion eyes take in the sight of you scrunched and crowded underneath him, eyes glassy and brow dewy with sweat. your hair splays out over the pillow in a wild mess, and drool is at the corner of your lips. “look at you,” he pants. “such a mess. you look so dirty, my love. already so fucked out for me.”

your lover is a sight to behold above you — red mane falling down his shoulders, eyes alight with a burning passion, and his mouth hung open as continuous grunts spill out. he’s like a wildfire in this moment, so opposite to the cool, stoic persona that he displays to the rest of the world. and he respects you always, but right now he’s fucking you so insanely disrespectfully it makes your head spin. there’s nothing elegant in the way he’s taking you. “deep! you’re so, so deep!”

one of diluc’s large, calloused hands wraps around your neck. he chuckles lowly when your tiny hands wrap around his wrist, your pretty eyes blinking away tears as you gaze up at him. “you feel me deep inside, hm? ah, you’re taking me so well. you were fucking made to take my cock like this, my love.”

you feel him knocking against your womb. he’s so big it’s hard to handle him, your gummy walls struggling to expand enough for him. and when he fucks you like this, so hard and fast, you feel as if you might break like porcelain against the hard floor. “s’too much!”

diluc shushes you with a sloppy kiss. “no, no. you can take it. i’ll make you feel so good. i promise. just keep taking me like a good girl, okay?” you’re close and he can feel it from the vice like grip around his shaft. he knows you’re only a few strokes away from falling apart, and he groans because so is he. “and you’ll take all my cum, right? let me breed this pretty pussy. breed it so well, my love. i’ll fill you up so full.”

his voice is low and gravelly and rough against your ears. you whimper as he continues his brutal pace; you’re on the verge of breaking, and just like always, you’ll shatter into a million pieces so beautifully for him. and he’ll be there to pick up every piece of you to put you back together, just to make you fall apart all over again.

— neuvillette 𝜗𝜚

“oh, neuvillette,” you breath, or rather, you try to. your basic functioning seems almost impossible right now when you’re being stuffed so incredibly full. it’s borderline too much, and normally you could appeal to your lover’s tender heart for some reprieve, but not tonight.

neuvillette’s palm that rests against your tummy tightens, pushing against you and forcing you to be even more aware of how far he’s nestled into the depths of you. he’s two cocks deep, stretching both of your holes tautly. you hear his grunt from behind you and feel it on the back of your neck. “hush now,” he commands softly but firmly. “sit still and take it. i wish to continue my work in peace without anymore of your distractions.”

you want to slump forward against his desk, but his grip keeps you from doing so. and you try, really you do! you try to be still, to be good, to be content with the stillness of his hips and the way his cocks remain idle inside of you. they make you ache, just sitting on them is insufferable. you need him to move, to bend you over this large desk and fuck you into it. this is the whole reason you decided to visit him at the palais mermonia this late, after all. a longing for him so great you had to come to him directly, only for him to sit you on his cocks and do nothing more. you grind your hips and try as you might, there is no stopping the moan that slips out of you. the iudex under you tenses.

“did i not make myself clear, my love?” neuvillette has now left the task at hand in favor of holding you with both hands. he exhales heavily at the grip of you around him; you’re maddening and prancing on his very last shred of composure. he likes to pride himself on his self control, especially when at work, but you make him feel insane, like he’s capable of nothing more than his most basic and carnal instincts. “i told you to be still, to not be a distraction, yet you’re so intent on misbehaving.”

you shriek when you’re sent flying forward into the wood desk, your lover now standing behind you, cocks still lodged within. you open your mouth to speak his name but only a choked moan can be heard when he suddenly snaps his hips into your rear. your body is jolted and the documents underneath you are crumbled, though neuvillette doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. “f-fuck!”

neuvillette sets a brutal pace, but not before pulling at your shoulder to bring your back flush against his front. your spine arches when his cocks hit those perfect spots deep inside. long gone is the calm chief justice, replaced by the old dragon that you’ve so successfully provoked. “you will take everything i have to give, and you will be content. then you will let me finish my work. do you understand?”

you try to respond, but your ability to speak is lost as you succumb to his bruising pace. there’s a firm squeeze on your shoulder.

“my love, answer me.”

you croak. “i understand, n-neuvillette.”

a kiss to your temple, another bruising thrust. “good girl.”

— zhongli 𝜗𝜚

you probably should think twice before making fun of your lover; as patient as he is, even he has his own limits. you never really see his calm demeanor break, if ever, but after being with him for some time, you know certain ways to get under his gold laced skin. he can only take your teasing for so long before you’re quickly being reminded of the god of old that lies within him. and one of his most favorite ways to corral you back into your place is by reinforcing the sheer difference in size between you both.

“zhongli, hah!” you shriek when he brings your hips back down, his thick girth forcing itself back into your tight hole. archons, you feel so overloaded, so full you feel you might burst at the seams. but there’s nothing you can do about it now, not when he’s holding you in his arms, your body suspended in the air with his arms hooked under your knees. you’re completely at your lover’s mercy. “s’big! it’s too much!”

and he’s resembling more of his divine form than the human like form you’re familiar with, and you swear he feels even thicker inside you this way. zhongli grunts when he slams you down onto him again, using gravity to his advantage as well as his otherworldly strength. you release a broken sob but you get no sympathy. “breaking so soon, dearest?”

your arms are tight around his neck. with each powerful thrust you feel as if you might be sent flying; but zhongli has you locked in his secure hold. he won’t let you fall, ever. you want to reply with something, to prove yourself, but how can you when his cock hits your womb in such a way that turns you brainless? a mess of syllables that slightly resemble “please” and “zhongli” tumble out of your mouth and into his neck as you bury your face.

zhongli chuckles into your ear and the sound of it only emphasizes the pleasure he’s obviously taking from the state of you. you’re so small in his hold, so easily malleable and pliable to his will, and he so eagerly takes advantage of it. “you will take it, all of it. everything i give you. it’s only fair, yes?” he lifts you until just his swollen tip remains within before thrusting upwards hard, filling you abruptly with his entirety. your whole body shakes. “your actions have consequences. you couldn’t possibly think you’d get off so easily.”

you’re a weeping mess at this point, and your pussy is no different. your battered cunt leaks all over his cock, on his thighs, and even onto the floor below. you can’t deny the effect he has on you when he takes you this way. he’s unyielding and formidable as stone. no one but you could ever know about this side of the illustrious mr. zhongli. you gasp when your back meets the wall. you look up at your lover through glassy, tear rimmed eyes.

zhongli is impossibly close, golden eyes piercing through you. he grinds his hips to make you feel every last incredible inch of him. “but i suppose this is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?”

nat’s notes — just wanna take this time and say thank you so much for all the love on my last post! i’m pleasantly surprised how well my first fic did :’)) i hope everyone can enjoy this one, too!

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[matan4il]

The other day, I went with my rl bff to the Jerusalem branch of the Museum of Tolerance for an exhibition on the Hamas massacre.

This is the sight that greeted us. "Esthers of the world, rise up!"

It's a poster celebrating two women whose families had lived in Iran, one is Jewish, the other is Muslim, and both women ended up being murdered due to the Islamic regime of that country, even though the Jewish woman's family had escaped Iran and fled to Israel after the Islamic revolution. The face of each girl is actually a composite, made from many smaller pictures of her people who have lost their lives because of the Islamist regime of Iran.

I knew this right away, because I have shared a piece that was done about the poster and how it came to be almost 2 months ago. 

"You don't understand!" my bff (who works as a teacher) said, all emotional, "She," my friend points to the Jewish girl on the left side of the poster, Shirel Haim Pour, "is the cousin of one of my students."

There is zero distance in Israel between us and the Oct 7 atrocities. 

We go in and join the tour of the exhibition. The guide tells us it was built jointly with Malki Shem Tov, who is a well known name in Israel, if you work at a museum. Malki founded a "creative visual solutions" company with his brother Assaf, through which among other things, they helped build many Israeli exhibitions over the years. "His son..." the tour guide starts to say and I don't need more than that for something to click in my head. I know so many of the names, faces and stories of the hostages, and so Omer Shem Tov pops right away into my mind. I didn't make the connection before, but now I can only imagine what it meant for this father to work on an exhibition that recounts, among other stories, how his son was victimized and robbed of his freedom during this massacre.

There is zero distance in Israel between us and the Oct 7 atrocities. 

The opening wall has a huge time stamp, 6:29 in the morning. 

The tour guide doesn't have to explain this number to Israelis, or why it's designed to look like an alarm clock display. We were all woken up on that fateful Saturday morning by the alarm clock of Hamas' rockets. And it doesn't matter what we thought or believed the day before, as the full scale and horror of the attack were starting to become known along Oct 7, we were all woken up.

There is zero distance in Israel between us and those atrocities. I know this, and still it strikes me, again and again.

There's an area dedicated to the pictures of one photographer who went to the south soon after the massacre. I knew some of them already, like the pic showing the bodies of 13 elderly Israelis, who were on their way to a tour of the Israeli south on that Saturday.

Some are new, like the pic of the door handle in one bomb shelter. I stop for a second, because now that I've moved into my new place, it hits me that the bomb shelter door was made by the same company. Suddenly, I feel like I'm inside the picture in a reality where the terrorists took a slightly different route on Oct 7. The door was photographed from inside the bomb shelter, and the bullets that pierced it, they had to have hit the personal holding it shut. The handle has blood stains on it, and it's broken off. I can only imagine how many hours this person held, and how much force they had to use, for that to happen. I know one thing, even without knowing exactly who this bomb shelter belonged to... If this person was on their own, they would have probably ended up surrendering rather than keep fighting to hold on to the handle this desperately. This was likely someone trying to keep their family safe. 

One note retrieved from the body of a terrorist is on display. It says everything about the motivation of the monsters who committed these atrocities, and every word is purely motivated by antisemitism and religious zeal. The note is actually not in Arabic, as it may first appear, it's in Farsi, the language spoken in Iran, hinting at the source, the Islamist regime there, which doesn't care about the liberation of anyone, it aspires to create a global network of fanatic terrorism.

The translation: "You must sharpen the blades of your swords and be pure in your intentions before Allah. Know that the enemy is a disease that has no cure, except beheading and uprooting the hearts and livers. Attack them!"

There is a section dedicated to women's stories. The exhibition visitors spread out to watch the testimonies, each on a separate screen. It's a not like a forest, you can't really see it for the trees, and it's another moment of feeling overwhelmed because we can't truly get it. It's just not comprehensible, facing so many stories about intentional, face to face cruelty, brutality, sadism and joy in it. Mali Shoshana tells the story of how she tried to play dead while lying shot in a pool of her own blood, but her body wouldn't stop shaking, so she somehow turned on her side to the wall and knocked her injured knee against it, causing herself to pass out from the pain. It saved her life. Ricarda Louk tells the story of the last message they got from her daughter Shani, trusting she was right and there was nothing for them to worry about. Then Ricarda's son started screaming and crying, because he saw the same vid many of came across on that day, of his sister being dragged into Gaza stripped down, mutilated, abused, molested and humiliated, while Gazan civilians were celebrating the public degradation of her body. And there's more and more and more. "You can come back and continue to listen," the guide promises as he moves us to the next segment, but the truth is no matter how many stories I've listened to and absorbed, it still doesn't feel like enough.

There is a wall with the head shots of the victims in Israel who lost their lives due to this war, whether they were murdered on Oct 7 or since, but it's only been updated up until Mar 27 of this year. Even so, no matter what angle I tried, I couldn't fit in all of the pictures.

Interactive screens allow a geographic telling of the massacre's story. They show maps of Israel's south, with dots on them, red for the murdered, dark blue for hostages, bright blue for hostages who have been returned, grey for the injured. You can tap a dot and read a story. Or you can zoom out and try to comprehend how is it possible for there to be that many dots on the maps.

"From darkness to light," reads the exhibition title. That's the perception of time in Judaism. We always move from darkness to light. And there's a section for the light, for stories of resilience, of bravery, of rehabilitation, of mutual support and caring. Filmed interviews that do their best to summarize an incomprehensible amount of good we've seen in response to an incomprehensible amount of evil. It features people from every demographic in Israel, and in that way also serves as a reminder of just how diverse we are as a society.

This part, I think to myself, was included for visitors from abroad. We Israelis, we know.

There's one story I know already. Tomer Greenberg, an Israeli officer, rescued on Oct 7 baby twins from the carnage. He was later killed fighting in Gaza. Like a puzzle, I've heard this story from several angles, including from Tomer before he died. This movie features an interview I hadn't heard yet, with the volunteer paramedic that Tomer handed the twins to. Shalom, this medic, talks about how they clung to him desperately as they got to be fed and feel safe and cared for again for the first time in what's estimated to have been 14 hours. I'm sitting there, thinking of those babies crying, not understanding why their parents aren't coming to feed them, and I don't know how to deal with this.

Shalom shares that the experiences of Oct 7 have inspired him to try and become a combative soldier, something that wasn't on the cards for him before that. I wonder again at people who can act like subjecting an entire (already traumatized) society to a sadistic massacre can liberate anyone.

And I understand Shalom fully. When your family is in the pits of hell, there's nowhere you want to be other than there, with them, doing what you can, rather than sit and watch helpless from afar. Most people would say he did a lot on that day. Shalom must have felt like that still wasn't enough.

At the very end, visitors are invited to add their own little piece of light, through neon notes and pens on which they'd share their thoughts. Nothing feels like it can sum everything I'm thinking and feeling up, but not writing anything feels worse, so my bff and I add a few of our words to the notes.

I don't have any profound conclusions for this post anymore than I did for my note. I just know that this still hurts, that we're still losing people daily, that we can't begin to heal, because we're still in the middle of the wound being inflicted. But I also know that we WILL heal, that even if the wound can't be closed yet, our collective immune system kicked into action on Oct 7 already, that we will continue to share the pain and the comfort and the care, and this massacre and war will probably never stop hurting, that we'll never be the same, but eventually we will be alright. Where people choose to care, there's just no other option.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[omgellendean]

“It was the first time I had seen an Israeli soldier in real life,” Ahmad told Mondoweiss.

The army separated the women from the men and forced the women to flee south to Rafah. The men were kept zip-tied and would remain in the army’s custody. [...]

The next morning on January 23, the Israeli soldiers ordered Ahmad, his father, his brother, and the rest of his cousins to move outdoors and instructed them to move horizontally in front of the armored military cars.

“As they ordered us to stop and stand still, I found myself again a few meters away from the resistance military base,” Ahmad said. “ That was the moment I realized that we were being used as human shields.”

Soldiers forced them to kneel in the middle of the street as they took cover behind Ahmad and his male relatives.

They were forced to wear thin clothes in the winter cold, and their hands were zip-tied so tightly that they couldn’t feel their fingers. The soldiers at several points fired bullets next to their feet in an effort to terrorize them, perhaps to make them amenable to following orders.

“Every time they shot at us, I instantly poked my back to check if I was still alive,” said Ahmad, recalling the soldiers’ giggles at how scared he and his family were.

At other times, a tank would rapidly move towards them, then drift back, less than a meter away from them. Ahmad realized the soldiers were toying with them.  

At one point, soldiers picked Ahmad’s brother, Saeed, and tortured him, breaking his jaw. They kicked him in his genitals like they were “hitting a football,” according to Saeed. They beat him so severely that he blacked out at one point. [...]

Before sunset, the exchange of gunfire broke out again. Three Israeli soldiers rushed towards Ahmad and the rest of the men and pulled them toward a large sand dune, which they forced them to stand upon so that they were visible and exposed to the line of fire. As they stood atop the dune, they looked down and on the other side of it was a large ditch in the sand underfoot. 

The soldiers forced them to stand there on the dune, exposed to the line of fire and with the ditch looming below. [...]

After the exchange of fire was over, the Israeli soldiers forced Ahmad and the rest of the men inside a building. The building was all dark except for the room Ahmad and his family were forced into. The southern and eastern walls of the room were destroyed, which made those inside visible to anyone in sight from the resistance base.

Every once in a while, a soldier would come and point a red laser towards them for a few minutes, and then go away.

“I think he was trying to make it clear to the resistance fighters that we were also inside that building, as they were using us, once again, as human shields,” Ahmad explained.

Moments later, soldiers took them one by one to another room. It was the first time in more than 18 hours of being held as hostages that they began to interrogate them.[...]

After about two hours, the soldiers set Ahmad and his family free and ordered them to move south by making them follow a laser beam in the dead of night.

Fumbling through the roads, Ahmad and his family were finally able to reach a UN school about a mile away sheltering a number of displaced people. 

[nadvs]

Would you ever write reader and rafe running into ty at a frat party or something a few years into college and how that would go down? Or just what would ever happen if they saw him again?

omg yes!! rafe is so protective that he doesn’t even give ty a chance to see her 😭

set in the home before dark universe

she would be unable to erase the date ty’s set to be released from prison from her mind. at that point, she graduated and is working and engaged and living with rafe and every time she sees the date on her phone even weeks leading up to when he’ll be let out, she feels like she’s just as scared as she was the night he broke in.

the day before, she mentions it to rafe. he remembered. he hoped she didn’t. he can see the emptiness in her gaze. it’s the same look he saw when she went to the police to file the restraining order, the same look he saw throughout the trial. it’s like she gets so scared that her mind goes blank to keep her from losing it.

he loves her too much to allow her to relive any of it.

rafe calls the lawyer who helped her through the case, asking what to do if ty tries to contact his fiancée. she tells him the protective order has lapsed at this point and ty technically can be in her vicinity, can even talk to her, and he wouldn’t be breaking any laws.

rafe is fuming. but he’s not surprised. he always found the law to be senseless. and he knows he’ll have to take matters into his own hands.

within a day, rafe tracks him down. night has just fallen as he pounds on ty’s front door, in a rundown dingy apartment building on the south side of the island, purposely covering the peephole.

when ty opens the door, he wavers in fear, trying to swing the door shut but rafe already has a foot in the space.

ty shuffles backwards, clearly terrified of the man who shot him years ago.

“what do you want?” he asks rafe, trying to sound steady. “what are you doing here?”

“you need to leave town,” rafe tells him. “do you understand? go wherever the fuck you want. i don’t give a shit where. but leave.”

rafe feels the side of him he hasn’t felt in a long time coming out. pure rage boils through him. he could kill this man for the mark he left on the love of his life. he could do it with his bare hands.

“you think i don’t want to?” ty says, up against a wall now. “my parents cut me off after… listen, i don’t want to be here. everyone knows me. they know what happened. i’d love to get off this fucking island. but this is all i can afford right now.”

rafe considers him, his fists clenched at his sides. and he realizes things are different now. he can’t just give into his aggressive impulses whenever he wants. his choices affect her. he’s building a life with her.

he could kill ty. honestly, he would. but to put her through the consequences of committing a crime like that isn’t worth it for rafe. no matter how much he loathes the person he’s looking at right now.

“how much?” rafe asks through gritted teeth. “how much for you to be gone for good?”

he wants to die at the thought of giving anything to ty, but really, he knows he’s giving something to her.

ty mutters a price, more than enough for transportation to the mainland and presumably a few months of rent, but it’s hardly pocket change to rafe. he tells him he’ll wire it to him and that he needs to be gone by tomorrow night.

then, rafe steps closer to him, grabbing his collar, staring at his frightened eyes.

“if i see you around here,” rafe threatens, “if i even hear about you around here, and i swear to god, if you try to get near her, i’ll kill you. do you understand?”

“yeah,” ty says shakily. “yeah. i understand.”

rafe gets home to his fiancée that night, finding her in front of the tv. she’s still not entirely herself, clearly on edge.

“hey,” she says. “where were you?”

rafe leans down, sitting next to her.

“you never have to worry about him again,” he says.

“rafe…” she says, face dropping in worry, immediately knowing who he’s talking about.

“i didn’t do anything to him,” he says. “but you won’t see him around. he’s leaving the island.”

“h-how?” she stammers.

“how about this?” rafe says, shifting closer to her. “how about i promise you that he’s gone and we never have to talk about him again? it’s like he never existed, alright?”

her eyes sweep over his face, her breathing suddenly fast.

“okay,” she finally whispers. she trusts in him wholeheartedly.

rafe confirms that ty is gone the next day, his apartment already up for rent.

for the next few weeks, he doesn’t let his girl out of his sight. he hires a private investigator, who finds ty on living in the mainland like he said he would be.

eventually, rafe can breathe easy. and when he sees her slowly acting like herself again, unafraid to go out into public, he knows he did his job.

he has always wanted to take care of her. even when they were just a couple of kids. he’ll keep her safe until his last day on earth. and by the way she falls asleep curled up to him every night, he can tell that she knows she’s protected.

as they lie in bed, her hand is on his chest, and he wonders if she knows that every one of the heartbeats she’s feeling is for her.

[cheriladycl01]

Better than me - Charles Leclerc x Reader P10

Plot: You are a rookie in your first f1 season, adding to the ever-growing amount of Brits performing in the grid

As things went, the dinner Charles promised to take you out on went really well. You guys spent the whole night out talking in a small local restaurant in Saint-Tropez that he’d privately rented for the night before walking along the harbour wall.

The conversation never actually stopped, and despite knowing of Charles for a while and having met him a few times before you got into F1 yourself you guys found out more about each other in those 4 hours at dinner than you’d known about any of the drivers in the time you’d been driving with some of them.

“Come on then, tell me something you’ve never told anyone else” he asks and you think for a second.

“When I was younger, in karting and moving up into F4, I nearly said yes to two teams wanting to take me on because I thought the other was a dream” you chuckle amused at the memory.

“No way! That would have been funny, I remember actually seeing you in the awards ceremony I must have been in F2 at that point” he sighs thinking back to when there wasn’t as much pressure on him and he had a lot more freedom.

“Tell me about your family, I bet you love having them at race weekends” you asked after taking a bite of the delicious food that was on your plate.

“Well, there’s Arthur, obviously you know him coz you’ve raced with him. Then there’s my older brother Lorenzo but we all just call him Enzo and of course my maman” he smiles and you think for a second looking up at the ceiling.

“Nicknames are bizarre right? Like you shortener that to Enzo, but why did nobody start calling him Lore?” The random questions spills from your mouth easily.

“I’ve never thought about that” he laughs.

Your connection was undeniable and you guys just fit together. It was so sweet, nothing could ruin this moment apart from one conversation.

Which of course had to be had.

“So where do we go from here?” Charles had asked you.

“What do you mean?” You ask with a slight tilt of you head in confusion.

“You know we can’t be together right? The media would tear us to shreds” he offers and you look down sadly.

Tonight showed you what a life with Charles alongside you could be like, his attentive side and how his words made you feel like the only girl in the world.

“We don’t have to tell anyone it could be just between the two of us” you smile.

“We’re in different teams … it would never work” he reasons and your eyes are starting to glass over in frustration.

“Then why bring me here!” You raise your voice.

“W-what do you mean, you asked me to bring you here?” He says looking over your disgruntled facial expression.

“No, no I didn’t! Don’t try spin this. I said you had to take me out to dinner, that didn’t mean, taking me out and renting out a whole intimate restaurant before taking me on a walk through the south of France. That’s mean” you say stepping back as he tries to reach out for you.

“I didn’t mean for you to get upset” he says, there were undertones of him genuinely feeling a little bad, but it was more blunt than usual. Like he didn’t really care how you felt but he was obliged to.

“Charles why do you keep doing this to me, I thought we just got past the rough patch!” You say, remembering everything he had put you through since the start of the season.

You thought maybe today was the day you were building a bridge with him that would be better for both of you in the future.

“Y/N im sorry but please let’s not let this stop us being … friends” Charles interjects stepping closer to you so he’s practically against you.

“I’m too embarrassed to do this right now Charles. I’m going home” you say crossing your arms wrapping the cardigan you were wearing tighter around you.

“Y/N no please don’t we can…” he starts but your ready to interrupt him.

“There’s nothing you can say right now. I’ll see you at the next race” you say before walking through the streets of Saint-Tropez on your own. You manage to get back to the hotel you’d originally had and begged the receptionist for your old room.

The next races went by and you didn’t attend any of them. However this time you did keep in contact with the select few people you knew had your back. You didn’t tell them why you weren’t coming to anymore races, just that you needed more time to heal.

Not exactly a lie.

You spent your time with your personal trainer getting your muscles and bones to slowly recover from the race. You really were having a speedy recovery and Silverstone was looking like a definite for you to be back in the car now which made everyone happy.

You traveled back and forth between, Monaco, Germany and the UK while you weren’t at the races, getting data from Audi and how the car been performing with a different driver now that your out for the last few races. And spending time with your family, in the UK.

By the time Silverstone came around you were deemed ready to be back in the car.

On the Thursday you walked through the car park, fans lining up either side screaming for you. You walked over to where they were fenced off and started signing as much as you could.

“Y/N are you all better now?”

“Y/N are you excited to drive again”

“Y/N are you scared to drive after your crash?”

“Y/N do you feel like you might be a bit rusty today?”

Floods of questions came your way, but with a smile on your face you answered whatever was thrown your way. You stayed there for around 20 minutes before crowds became too big and security politely asked you to move on and into the paddock.

You scanned in, loads off people coming up to you for pictures who had VIP and Paddock passes. You stayed walking with your PR manager who’d met you at the entrance.

“How are you feeling about the weekend?” They ask you and you turn your head in a cocked manner.

“Fine?” You admit.

“Okay, great! Well you are on the Drivers Press conference with Liam, Lando, Carlos and Pierre. Please try and keep up team moral yeah? We don’t want any undue attention” she admit, knowing Audi haven’t had the best time in public relations recently thanks to the crash and the scandal before that.

The rumours around your crash were kind of insane. Some people were saying you did it on purpose to prove a point, some people think your team were sabotaging you. Some people thought the grid were out to get you, some even went as far as to think you’d faked your drug test and were doping.

“I know, racing only. How excited I am for this weekend” you nod towards her as you guys get to the motorhome of Audi.

“Well I need to brief the team, but I’ll be sure to come grab you before the press conference” she smiles running of with her clipboard pressed tightly to her chest.

“Oh my gosh! Y/N! Alex and I have been waiting on you forever” Lily exclaims as she sees you step through the glass doors.

She grabs you into a tight squeeze that you immediately sink into. If Alex wasn’t careful you’d steal Lily from him in a heartbeat, she gave the best hugs.

“Hey, how are you guys! It feels good to actually be back here with you guys knowing I’ll be driving tomorrow” you smile softly.

“Yeah i can imagine it’s been far too long” Alex says rubbing your shoulder before offering you to take a seat with them in the booth they’d currently reserved.

“How are you feeling about the race, you definitely feel like your ready to get back in the car?” Lily fusses, like always.

“Yeah, i mean the physio said I was good to go”

“Okay, but are YOU good to go?” She pushes and you can’t help but think for a little. Physically you’d been cleared but with everything that’s happened your mind, we’re your reflexes going to be up to standard, would you be too emotional in the car and not think straight?

We’re you ready?

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @viennakarma @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[disco-archetypes]

SHIVERS - All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and floods the gutters, washing the filth away.

SHIVERS - Winter's grip on the city is loosening. The spring thaw is here.

YOU - Finally. What now?

SHIVERS - Your shirt sticks to your chest. The shoulders of your disco blazer grow heavy. The cold finds its way in under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

YOU - What is in the west?

SHIVERS - Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.

SHIVERS - The ruins of a half-sunken seafort crumble on an inlet. Beyond the Bay of Revachol, ghosts rise into the sky.

YOU - Who are you, ghosts?

SHIVERS - The skyscrapers of La Delta, the financial district. Faint golden light seeps from the office windows.

YOU - What is down the shore?

SHIVERS - Urban coastline, rain dripping off eternite-covered roofs. Cinder blocks left over from half-finished construction. A defunct research and development building once seized by revolutionaries. An old wooden church stands on stilts above the water.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - Coal City, end of all lines.

YOU - Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

SHIVERS - Your hair is an oily mess flecked with ash from neighbouring coal plants. Smoke stacks rise somewhere in the distance.

YOU - What's in the east?

SHIVERS - The great gates of the industrial harbour are locked. A chill runs down your back. You shudder like an animal trying to shake water from its hide.

YOU - Clench your teeth to stop shuddering.

SHIVERS - Behind the gates -- heaps of supply crates. Red and blue metal shipping containers slick with rain. The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour is an artificial mountain range. Immense wealth resides within, and immeasurable poverty in its shadow.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La Drisienne, King Dris's Passenger Harbour. Cruise ships flanked by dock arms. Cranes watching over the mouth of the river distributary.

YOU - What is across the distributary?

SHIVERS - Couron, the lower middle class. Distributary after distributary cuts the city blocks in half. Seven-story buildings trail off into the rain.

YOU - What is beyond the Couron?

SHIVERS - A silvery curtain of rain over the houses. The class divide.

YOU - What's in the north?

SHIVERS - Capeside apartments -- tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls.

SHIVERS - Hallways collapsed from the mortar hits of a war that was lost long ago. Clotheslines go to waste in the rain. Radios play.

YOU - And closer to here?

SHIVERS - A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. Filthy water pools around a body. Droplets of rain slip from the dead man's cold cheeks.

YOU - What's in the south?

SHIVERS - A traffic jam. Rain thrumming on the roofs of motor vehicles. Inside, drivers watch water streaming down their windshields. The statue of a king shudders, he too is cold. The canal bridge has been raised.

YOU - What's on the other side?

SHIVERS - The road ascends; a raised motorway loops above the ghetto. Beneath its concrete columns -- a sea of rooftops, woodwork, and tar stretches northward. Four-story buildings as far as the rain can fall. The snows melt in Jamrock.

YOU - Why am I not there?

SHIVERS - To be in Martinaise, where no one goes. At the run-off point of a long-forgotten canal, in the whitest part of town. In the shadow of the day the Revolution failed.

YOU - What am I doing here?

SHIVERS - Standing in the rain, looking north, where Jamrock Rock City stretches inland.

YOU - Where do I live?

SHIVERS - On a street there that flows like a muddy river in the snow, with fire traps rising on either side. A film rental opens its doors to the rain, an armoured motor carriage rushes past the corner where you used to walk together... Suddenly, the hair on your back rises.

SHIVERS - YOU CANNOT RETURN.

YOU - Shudder, look further...

SHIVERS - In the rain-swept distance above the rooftops of Jamrock, a re-purposed silk mill stands perched above the motorway exit. Precinct 41 hunches in the rain.

SHIVERS - Your vision blurs. You wipe your face with your hand. The rain stings your eyes, making you look up and blink.

YOU - What's above?

SHIVERS - More coalition aerostatics. Way up there -- where rain forms -- rotors flutter silently. Your sight clears.

YOU - What's below?

SHIVERS - Collapsed storm drains. Old sewage systems flooded with rainwater. Hidden weapon caches from the Revolution. Doors leading down to Le Royaume -- the catacombs to which, for three centuries, they delivered the blue-blooded dead.

YOU - "Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

SHIVERS - These spring thaw will not last. The winter will return to Revachol.

[trashytummies]

Swallowed Pride (DC vore fic)

a/n: have a protective Nightwing ft. unwilling Jason prey vore fic. lil batfamily vibsey <3. oh and jason also has some not fun memories of dying. I adore vore fics with swapping perspectives so I'm sorry if this is confusing ;_; word count: ~4100?

_____

Jason groaned, a low rasp slipping out of his throat. His surroundings pulsed with a damp, oppressive heat that clawed at his skin, slicking his gloves and making it almost impossible to catch his breath. His ribs ached, and every inch of him felt trapped in this unrelenting, humid vise. He tried to shift, to get his back against something solid, but every motion was swallowed up, met with a suffocating resistance.

"Alright," he muttered, voice hoarse. “This is… new.”

The taste in the air was wrong. A grimace twisted his face as he tried to shift, finding no space to move, wedged between layers of damp, fleshy walls. Not rock. Not exactly wet stone, either. Just too soft. Too warm.

Not rubble. Nothing jagged. Smooth. 

The sound of his own breathing grew louder, rasping in and out as he tried to twist himself free. But all he managed was to slide further down this bizarre chute. A flicker of panic flashed across his mind, sharp and unwelcome. It tugged at something buried deep, something he didn’t let himself think about, ever. But it was there now; the sensation of heat, tightness, the press of earth and smoke. Like that day. Like-- 

No. Nope, he wasn’t doing that. Not thinking about that, not now.

His mind buzzed, digging through memories. He’d been with the team; Red, Nightwing, and yeah, of course, Bats. The mission had gotten a little out of hand; Tim needed backup, and -- then what? Everything between then and now was a haze. A big, dripping, burning haze.

Jason tried to focus, replaying the moments just before; the alley, then that abandoned office building, and then… nothing. And now this cave-like, sweltering pit. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, smearing against his mask as he twisted, trying to plant his knees against something solid. Every breath felt like he was sucking down steam, heat pressing on him from every angle.

"Okay, Todd. Get it together. Think.” He glanced around --or tried to, anyway, but there was no way to tell which way was up or down. Just that same smooth, slimy pressure squeezing in on all sides, his own breaths coming back hot against his face.

“Hey, anyone out there?” he called, the words half-lost in the wet slap of whatever lined this... place. But all he got was a soft, rhythmic groan surrounding him, almost like a heartbeat, steady and smothering.

Another wave of pressure tightened around him, shoving him further into the suffocating darkness. His heart pounded, thoughts scattering like shrapnel, sharp and fast. Buried alive. That sick, clawing sensation washed over him, dredging up memories he had no intention of revisiting. Explosions. Dirt pressing in on him, the weight of concrete and metal trapping him, his own voice screaming for help, and--

No. Not now.

He gritted his teeth, frustration biting deep. “Red? Wing? I swear, if you two left me in a sewer pipe or something...” He twisted his head, grumbling to himself, but everything came out muffled, absorbed by this pulsing, humid space.

_________________________

Rewind 

Rewind

Rewind

The scene swirled back into focus, through the last thirty chaotic minutes that landed on the exact moment Dick realized something was really wrong.

Jason was supposed to be covering the south side, running point with Tim across the courtyard. But when Dick looked back after clearing a corner, he’d caught sight of Jason crumpling, mid-swing, into the pavement. Jason wasn’t just down; he was tiny. Like, two inches max, knocked out cold, and sprawled out on the ground.

Dick’s jaw had practically hit the rooftop. “Holy shit,” he hissed, blinking hard like maybe he’d just taken a hit to the head himself.

Nope.

That was definitely Jason, definitely bite-sized, and lying defenseless in the middle of Gotham’s grimiest alley. He barely had time to process it, and he was not about to leave Jason sitting in the gutter like some abandoned Happy Meal toy.

Okay, Grayson. Think.

He glanced down at his suit, mentally running through every hidden pocket and compartment. Utility belt? No way -- too much jostling. The pocket lining would probably suffocate the guy, or worse, turn him into shrunken pulp if Dick took a hit. Same with any of his stash spots. Then the next best thought crossed his mind -- and immediately died a fiery death.

But hell, with the goons doubling back, any hesitation could leave Jason vulnerable, or worse. He had seconds to act.

So he did something that, in his defense, seemed like the only solution in the moment.

One quick breath, and he scooped Jason up, tipping him carefully onto his tongue. Jason’s tiny body felt solid, almost surprisingly weighty, considering his new size. Dick hesitated, the reality of this insane decision finally hitting home. He closed his eyes, steeling himself, and with the gentlest nudge, he swallowed.

It was, well, uncomfortable didn’t even start to cover it. Jason slipped down in a slow, thick slide, an odd pressure that made Dick grit his teeth. Each inch felt painfully deliberate, his throat constricting around Jason’s shape until he finally, mercifully, settled in place. Dick coughed, trying to compose himself just in time to hear Tim's footsteps against the concrete as he caught up.

“Dick!” Tim called, eyes scanning him over, then narrowing. “What the hell was that?”

Dick barely managed to suppress another cough, swallowing hard. “What was what?” he choked out, voice barely steady.

Tim’s brow arched, skeptical, like he’d seen through every bullshit excuse Dick had ever tried in his entire life. “I saw you cough up a lung. And you’re still flushed. Look, if you’ve got something going on with your suit tech or whatever--”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Dick cut in, waving it off, trying to play up his usual charm. He gave Tim a reassuring, if slightly strained, grin. “Just--went down the wrong pipe. Happens to the best of us, right?”

Tim looked at him for a long second, head tilted, the gears clearly turning. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Dick cleared his throat one more time for emphasis. “Trust me, if I had something important to tell you, I’d tell you. Now, can we focus? There’s still three of them left.” He jerked his thumb toward the next building. “I’ll take the high ground. You flush them out?”

Tim still looked at him sideways, but he gave a reluctant nod, his gaze flicking down to Dick’s throat once more before turning back to the mission. “Fine, but if you pass out mid-jump or whatever, I’m telling Babs.”

Dick barely restrained a wince, waving Tim off as he darted toward the next alleyway. One hour, tops, he told himself. Just get the job done, clear out the area, and get Jason out safely before he has a chance to do more than mumble a few pissed-off words.

“Hang tight, Jaybird,” he muttered under his breath.

_______________________

The tight, slick walls squeezed in around him, pressing at his shoulders and ribs, forcing him to push forward just to breathe. Every inch he gained seemed to make it worse --the stifling heat, the reek of rot, like old food left out too long. Jason sucked in a shallow breath, trying to steady himself, only for the sour stench to claw at his throat. He grimaced.

"Great," he muttered, voice muffled and weak in the humid dark. "I get to suffocate and smell like someone’s garbage disposal. Just my luck."

He shoved forward, the cramped space finally loosening just enough for him to wriggle through, half crawling, half dragged along by whatever was coating these walls. He pushed his hands out and found --thank god-- something resembling open space. Not by much, but he could almost stretch out his arms, which had to count for something.

Except it didn’t. If anything, it was somehow worse in here.

The stench punched him square in the gut, stomach-churning in a way that brought back memories he’d worked pretty damn hard to bury. The heat. The way it pressed down on him, cloying, sticky, unyielding. The dark was so thick it was like he could feel it pressing in on his skin. Too close to those old memories. Too close to the kind of helpless that made his chest feel like it might cave in.

Jason let out a low, shaky breath, pressing his palm to the wall for some semblance of stability. "Come on, Todd. Focus. Think." He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to training, his instincts settling in. What the hell even is this place? The entire thing was soft, slick, like… flesh.

“Okay, no, that’s insane. I’m not…” He swallowed, panic prickling at the edges of his mind. But the clues pieced together too neatly, each one sliding in like a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. The walls, the cramped squeeze, the pulsing, muffled beat that droned around him like a heartbeat. His mind filled in the blanks faster than he wanted, and all at once, the truth slammed into him, cold and hard.

I’m in a stomach.

A stomach. A literal fucking stomach.

The idea hit him with a nauseating kind of clarity that almost made him laugh. He’d been trained by the world’s greatest detective, could read Gotham’s dirtbags better than most, and now he was trapped here, in someone’s gut, like the punchline to a twisted joke he never asked for.

He blinked, swallowing down a rush of bile. “So that’s it, huh?” he rasped, pressing his back to the fleshy wall, the whole setup feeling like some cruel rerun of a life he’d already lived. “I got blown up once. Came back, just to get tossed down the gullet. Nice. Really nice, universe. I appreciate it.”

The walls around him pulsed again, contracting in a slow, smothering rhythm, dragging his thoughts to that dark corner of his mind he tried to keep locked away. Buried alive. Alone. Left for dead. Panic tried clawing its way up his throat, but he shoved it down, clenching his fists until his gloves squeaked against the slick wall. Not like this.

No way he was letting some freak’s digestive tract do him in.

________________________________

Dick ducked under a swinging fist, pivoting out of the way with practiced ease. But the moment he twisted, a sudden sharp scratch clawed up from the pit of his stomach. He doubled over, a hand instinctively pressing against his abdomen, muttering under his breath.

“Oh, so you’re awake,” he grunted, voice low enough to avoid Tim’s ears but sharp enough to keep his irritation real. “And apparently pissed off.”

Jason gave another few furious kicks --or punches, maybe a full-body tantrum-- against the walls of Dick’s stomach, which only made him wince harder. Man, this is… Well, it was something. Distracting as hell, actually, when he was in the middle of a brawl with some of Gotham’s least creative henchmen.

Tim’s eyes zeroed in on him, skeptical, a hard squint as he landed a punch and sidled up. “Uh, you good? ‘Cause you’re making faces like you just ate bad sushi.”

“Yeah, yeah, just a little… stomach thing,” Dick managed, breath catching as Jason squirmed again. He leaned into his strikes, using the motion to cover a particularly sharp jab coming from inside.

Tim just kept staring, a brow arching. “In the middle of a fight? You’re usually more… I dunno. Here.”

“I am here,” Dick muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing the last thug by the collar and slamming him into the nearest wall. Jason gave one last pointed kick that nearly knocked the wind out of him, and he couldn’t help it -- his hand went to his stomach again. He tried to school his face, look normal, like he wasn’t dealing with a very angry, very miniature Jason Todd wreaking havoc from within.

The final goon dropped, and before Dick could so much as take a breath, Tim was right there, narrowing his eyes in that too-perceptive way he always did when he suspected something was up.

“Alright,” Tim said, crossing his arms, his usual calm replaced with the full-blown Red Robin glare. “Mind telling me what’s going on with you tonight? I’m standing there, fighting for my life, and you’re out here rubbing your stomach like you’re at a bad buffet.” He tilted his head, lowering his voice. “And where the hell is Jason? He just up and left us? Doesn’t strike me as his style.”

Dick stifled the urge to cough again, glancing away to avoid Tim’s piercing gaze. Damn it, he’s good at this. “Maybe he had somewhere else to be,” he said, attempting casual. “You know how he is. Doesn’t tell us everything.”

Tim’s eyebrow crept higher, skepticism practically radiating off him. “He doesn’t tell Bruce everything, but he doesn’t just disappear mid-mission with no heads-up. I get he’s Jason, but this is Gotham. And you’re… weirdly calm about it.”

Dick forced a quick shrug, looking anywhere but Tim’s face. “Maybe I just trust him to handle himself.” He winced as Jason scratched at him again, pressing his hand to his side as subtly as he could. “Ow-- I mean, what? You know, he’s--he’s Jason.”

Tim folded his arms tighter, a smirk quirking at his lips. “And you’re stammering like you’ve got a guilty conscience. What gives?”

Dick could feel his cover slipping fast, and he knew he’d have to come up with something, and soon. For now, he just put on his best carefree grin, hoping it was enough to get Tim to lay off.

_______________________________

The reality of his situation settled in slowly, like the world's worst punchline unfurling in slow motion. Inside a stomach. He could practically feel the bile rising. Yeah, Jason Todd had been through his share of nightmares, but this was a new low even for him. Of all the places to wind up, he’d somehow managed to get himself swallowed. Just phenomenal.

"Just where I always wanted to end up," he muttered to himself, voice barely a whisper against the damp walls pressing around him. "A one-way ticket back to near-death, and for what? One more brush with the great beyond? Because dying was just such a blast the first time.”

He took a breath, trying to steady himself against the rippling walls, feeling the clench and pull of the gut as it tried to drag him deeper. He stifled a gag, the acrid stench of half-digested food coating every breath he took. Focus, Todd. Don’t think about the smell. Or the rotting mush sliding under his feet. Or that disgusting, rhythmic gurgle echoing in his ears like a twisted lullaby.

Alright, let's see if he could at least figure out who this idiot was. He couldn’t tell much by sound -- the voice was muted, a low vibration rumbling around him like he was underwater, though he could at least pick out a male inflection. But he couldn’t just be in some random guy’s gut, right? There was someone out there with a reason to swallow the Red Hood, and… actually, nope. Scratch that. He couldn’t think of a single person willing or twisted enough to get him into this mess.

Well, almost no one.

The last thing he remembered was dealing with Clayface’s thugs, swinging punches alongside Nightwing and Red Robin. He’d been right there with them, taking out the stragglers and rounding up the goons. And then… well, then things got fuzzy. Had he been teleported? Knocked out? Honestly, being devoured alive was just insane enough to be one of Joker’s sick stunts, but no—it didn’t feel… Joker-y enough. Even he’d probably keep Jason alive just to laugh in his face.

Jason sucked in another breath, fighting the nausea clawing up his throat. “So, let’s recap,” he mumbled, digging his nails into the slippery wall. “Stuck in a guy’s gut, no memory of how I got here, no idea who the hell ate me, and oh--right. I’m literally going to die in here. Just peachy.”

The stomach lurched suddenly, sending him sliding down, only to be shoved back up again by another ripple of muscle. He grimaced, trying to brace himself. And then, through the muffled tones and the heavy, distorted beat of the stomach around him, he caught something he’d recognize anywhere--a voice. And not just any voice, that same light, upbeat cadence that he’d heard a million times, the one that used to ring in his ears with the kind of brightness that could only belong to one person.

“No way,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing in the darkness as the realization hit him like a sucker punch. It couldn’t be. He’d never be stupid enough to do something like this. But the voice, the stupid cadence, and the sheer insanity of it all were enough to make it click. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Nightwing. Dick freaking Grayson.

Jason clenched his fists, the weight of his current humiliation settling like lead in his stomach. “Of all the stupid, reckless--” he muttered, barely able to believe it. Out of every sadistic nutcase in Gotham, he’d somehow ended up inside Dick. If it weren’t happening to him right now, he’d actually laugh.

Great. Just great. Buried, literally, in the “Golden Boy.” There was something sickeningly poetic about it, and he almost hated how much it fit. The guy he’d spent years trying to measure up to, fighting to be worthy of the role, who he’d half-convinced himself Bruce could never replace. And now here he was, trapped in the one guy he’d always felt himself shadowed by. Life had a real sense of humor sometimes.

“Grayson,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his chest to keep himself from dry-heaving, “you better pray I don’t get out of here.”

Because the dark, cramped, disgustingly hot pit was a nightmare Jason wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. The fact that it was Dick’s stomach? Oh, that just made it all the worse.

Jason shifted, grimacing as his fingers slid against the slick, half-digested remnants of… falafel? He gagged, pressing his hands against the walls as best as he could to brace himself, feeling another wave of that foul, acidic slosh roll over his boots.

“This is the absolute last time I team up with Grayson,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as he shoved his way up, the sour smell sticking to him, burning his throat with every breath. “And when I get out of here, I swear to god, I’m gonna make him regret every single inch of it.”

Of course, it couldn’t be anyone else’s stomach, right? Oh no. This whole thing was practically a sick joke. Here he was, stuck inside the guy he’d spent years trying to compete with, the guy who --whether Jason wanted to admit it or not-- always seemed to have it together. Meanwhile, Jason Todd was three inches tall, covered in stomach acid, and stuck in Grayson’s gut. Story of his life.

Just then, he felt a jolt, followed by a shift that had him sliding, face-first, right back into the half-digested slush at the bottom. He clenched his teeth, fighting back a wave of frustration. “Of all the idiotic, harebrained ideas, this was the best he could come up with?”

______________________________

Outside, things were deceptively calm. The last of the thugs had been cuffed and loaded up for the GCPD, and Tim and Dick were strolling down the street toward one of Gotham’s all-night fast-food joints. Tim was keeping pace beside him, shooting glances at Dick every few steps.

“So… we’re not going to talk about how Jason just vanished?” Tim asked, giving him a look that was a few levels below ‘judgmental’ but still in ‘I’m not buying this’ territory.

Dick shrugged, a bit too casually. “He’s Jason. Vanishing is half his style.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tim muttered, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. “Except usually, he at least gives us a heads-up, or a ‘screw you guys’ wave before bailing. And you’re weirdly chill about it.”

Dick held back a sigh, trying not to squirm under the scrutiny. Just play it cool, he told himself. “I’m telling you, Tim, he’s fine. He probably just needed a minute. You know him. He’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy regroup type.”

Tim’s frown only deepened, and he looked one small mental step away from phoning Bruce for a full-scale intervention. “Fine, you’re not gonna tell me. But if he’s actually in trouble, I’ll drag his ass back here myself.” He glanced at Dick. “You’re acting weird tonight, just so you know.”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” Dick muttered. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look casual as they stepped inside the fast-food joint. After ordering, he gave Tim a quick pat on the shoulder. “Hey, I’ll be right back -- gotta hit the bathroom.”

Tim didn’t even try to hide his suspicion. “Yeah, sure. Take your time,” he muttered, watching him disappear down the hallway like he was mentally cataloging every weird thing Dick had done that night.

________________________________

The bathroom was barely cleaner than the streets outside, but Dick didn’t have time to be picky. He closed the door behind him and took a breath, steadying himself as he braced against the sink. He could feel Jason still squirming, punching and scratching against the walls of his stomach.

“Alright, here goes…” he muttered, hoping to hell this wasn’t about to go from weird to grotesque.

With a few deep breaths and a not-so-gentle cough, he felt the painful push as Jason finally slid up and out, spilling into his hand. Dick exhaled heavily, trying to shake off the discomfort as he looked down at the soaked, very, very irritated mini-Jason sprawled out in his palm.

Jason wiped the gunk off his helmet with a grimace, barely glancing at Dick as he dragged himself to his feet. “Well, that was disgusting.”

Dick forced a grin, trying to keep things light. “Hey, I got you out, didn’t I?”

Jason’s glare could’ve cut through concrete. “In your stomach, Grayson. I spent the last hour drowning in… whatever the hell that was!” He flicked another glob of half-digested falafel off his jacket. “Didn’t exactly help that you ate before deciding to pull that little stunt.”

Dick winced. “I mean, it’s not like I planned on eating you, Jay. Just… improvised.”

“Yeah, well, next time, how about you don’t improvise by swallowing me whole?” Jason shot back, crossing his arms and bristling like a wet, angry cat. “Who even thinks swallowing someone is a good idea? Couldn’t just carry me around in your pocket or -- oh, I don’t know, figure out literally anything else?”

Dick shrugged, still trying to play it cool. “I was out of options. And I kept you safe, didn’t I?”

“Oh yeah, thanks. Real safe, Grayson. Look at me.” Jason held his arms out, dripping, his jacket half-eaten by stomach acid. “I look like I got tossed in a blender with a lunch special.”

Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. Maybe it wasn’t my best idea. But hey, you’re not too worse for wear, right?”

Jason let out a laugh, bitter and biting, eyes narrowed. “Right. Well, good to know that I rank just below ‘half-eaten falafel’ on your list of things that matter. Just toss me in the garbage while you’re at it.”

Dick’s face softened, a flicker of guilt creeping in. “C’mon, Jay, that’s not--”

Jason held up a hand, cutting him off. “Save it. And for the record? Releasing me in a fast food bathroom? Way to show the love, Grayson. Real classy.”

Dick pressed his lips together, barely holding back a smirk. “Well, next time, maybe try to stay regular-sized, and we won’t have this problem.”

Jason shot him a look that could freeze lava. “Next time, Grayson, I’m shoving you into a sewer pipe and seeing how long it takes for you to complain about it.”

Dick raised his hands in mock surrender. “Noted.” He glanced down at the tiny, furious figure in his hand and gave him a soft, almost apologetic smile. “You, uh, need a rinse or…?”

Jason rolled his eyes, wiping another layer of gunk off his boots. “Yeah, try a hundred. And maybe a therapist on standby after all this.”

Dick grinned, finally letting out a small chuckle. “Fair enough. Remind me not to tell Tim about this?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to remind me,” Jason grumbled, crossing his arms. “Now, can we please get me out of this hellhole? And, for the record, if you ever pull this crap again…” He trailed off, fixing Dick with a hard glare. “Let’s just say I know exactly where to aim the next time I get a crowbar in my hands.”

Dick just shook his head, chuckling as he carefully tucked Jason --dignity shot, pride thoroughly bruised-- into his jacket pocket. “Alright, Red. I owe you one.”

[barefoothighlander]

Hi! I hope you're well.

I have a request that may not be achievable and thats okay! Really, its just a thought.

What if the reader is a new recruit to the team and has the nickname 'Reaper' due to her skull Balaclava and skill (https://www.tumblr.com/men-wearing-masks/652072573328392192/skull-mask-week-day-47?source=share) from her other teams.

They're mainly a sniper but are amazing at everything. They're smaller than the rest of the team (I'm picturing an afab) but they're silent and bring death with them.

For example; Ghost is noticeable by his naturally intimidating presence but Reaper cannot be noticed unless you're actually looking for them, and when they pass, it feels as if a cold shiver has gone down your spine.

I picture this being a Ghost x reader because they're just as good as ghost, if not better, and everyone teases him about that. Making jokes about how reader is on top because a Reaper is higher up the chain than a ghost. Then I feel like on a mission reader gets sick of it, but in an attempt to be 'part of the team' they make a joke that's sexual in nature about her being on top which just sets ghost off.

If you don't do anything with this, totally understand, hope this wasn't just a silly rant though 'xD

Much love,

🔳

ok, sorry this took me so long to respond to I was trying to flesh it out but I hope it fits what you imagined

warnings: typical violence, death

“Hostiles are taken care of, you’re clear for entry” You call it in through your comms, you’re sat high on a hill, hidden from view by the dark as the team infiltrates.

“Copy Reaper, moving in”

You walk as Ghost and Soap make their way into the building, changing your sight to check in on windows.

“I’ve got eyes on two, south east window”

No response

“Alpha team I’ve got eyes on two, how copy?”

The comms are silent, you don’t think you just move, sprinting down the hill before you’re in front of the target building, you can hear the echoes of gunshots.

“Soap I’m at the entrance, what’s going on in there”

You hear someone inside yell, deciding to rush in to cover, you make your way through the rooms, clearing them before heading up the stairs to follow the noise. You see muzzle flashes at the end of the hallway, you slowly make your way down before turning into a room, Soaps backed against a wall struggling with one of the men, you raise your gun to fire but your arms are quickly pushed away,

“Reaper, on your left”

You struggle against the man in front of you, using your foot you kick at his knee knocking him down, your knife raising to plant in his neck before you pull it out, throwing it across the room, it lands in the shoulder of the man strangling Soap, he screams in pain and Soap is able to push him off to kill him.

“Thanks”

You nod your head, “Where’s Ghost?”

“We split down a hallway, comms went dead a few seconds after”

“Why do these always turn into rescue missions”

“Maybe he likes being saves by you”

You roll your eyes at him, picking up your gun and advancing around the building, there’s no sign of Ghost in the rooms.

“Stay inside, I’ll search the perimeter” You say

“Stick to the shadows” Soap winks

You make your way outside, creeping around the dark spots of the yard as you slice through the few remaining hostiles, you come across Ghost in the garage, he’s focused on some computer as you approach.

“Thought you went missing”

Your presence surprises him,

“Clear the building?”

“No thanks to you”

“I did my part” He gestures towards the two dead men on the opposite side of the room, “Got what we came for, let’s go”

You meet back up with Soap at the front of the house, making your way to the rendezvous point,

"You better thank your God that Reaper was here to save your ass LT"

"I was fine"

"Not counting the hostiles swarming you" You jump in

Ghost glares at you as the three of you make your way onto the heli for evac. Arriving back at base Ghost is practically silent, sparing you few words during your ride while Soap talks your ear off, there's something off about Ghost but you can't place it, you decide to leave it be.

The base is bustling when you arrive, people running everywhere, your attention being drawn all around until Price shouts for you,

"Reaper, need you on the next car out"

"Just me Sir?"

"Just you, need the best" He nudges your shoulder, you turn to see Ghost standing behind you, fists clenched at his side,

"You've got competition LT" Soap jokes running past you, Ghost walks away without a word, leaving you standing alone.

Your mission was a success, in and out, just you with Price covering from the sky. You managed to clear the building without being detected, sticking to the shadows as you dropped hostiles one by one.

Your muscles ached arriving back, simply wanting to shower and sleep except Soap had forced you invited you to join the team for a drink, figuring it was an easy way to fit into the team you accepted.

The team was already a few drinks down when you arrived, Ghost catching your attention as he sat in the corner, leaned back in his chair.

"There ya are" Soap shouts from across the pub, hollering you over to their table, you sit and he hands you a beer, you feel the cool glass against your warm palm, eyes darting around the room.

"So is there something about the masks that the rest of us don't get?" Soap asked, pointing between you and Ghost, you tilt your head in question,

"No, no correlation"

"Just coincidence?"

"Just coincidence" You nod

"Well just seems that LT's been knocked down a peg since you showed up, no longer the scary lad in a mask compared to you"

You glare to your side, you can see how Ghost's face contorts under his mask, fumes practically coming from his face,

"Ghost is just as good as me"

"Ghost can't do what you can believe me," Soap laughs, taking another sip of his drink

"That'll do Johnny" His voice booms in your ears,

"You think you're better than me Ghost?" You say, suddenly filled with courage, he doesn't afford you a response, he simply stares back at your masked face.

"You do" Your words are cut off by Johnny

"Is it that mask?" He turns to Ghost,

"What?"

"S'that why you're always buggin' Reaper, you like them, some sort of mask kink?"

Your eyes go wide at his words, your chest suddenly feeling tight,

"You like a strong woman LT?" Soap laughs

Ghost's next movements are quick, he stands from the table practically knocking over everyone's drinks before his hands are at Soap's throat, Price jumps to pull him off but it's no use.

"Keep your fuckin mouth closed Sargeant"

Soap sobers up instantly, nodding under Ghost's grip before being released, there are murmurs around the pub as Ghost exits, the air is thick with tension.

The rest of the night was quiet, the men keeping their jokes to themselves out of fear of Ghost somehow hearing. The next day on base was even more awkward, strange tension between the team had unfolded as Ghost barely spoke a word to anyone all day.

A few hours later you make your way to the gym, completely surprised to see the Lieutenant there you eye him as you enter, setting up on the large mat in the centre of the room.

You watch as he moves to stand in front of you, his stare pinning you down,

"Ready?" He asks, you nod before lunging at him, your arms wrapping around his waist as you dig your feet into the mat trying to push him backward.

You grapple for a few minutes, both of you refusing to tap out, intent on proving you are better than the other, you manage to trip him and he falls with his back flat on the mat. Your legs move to straddle over his torso, your arms pinning him down as you cover his form, your heavy breaths filling the air.

"Guess I really am on top" You laugh

Without a second thought, he thrusts his hips, throwing you off him so he can flip your form, pinning you against the mat, you're caged under his form as he pins you flat, there's no chance of getting out. You writhe against his grip but he doesn't falter, simply staring you down,

"Give up?"

"Not a chance" You continue to struggle against his grip,

"You're just gonna tire yourself out"

"Using weight against your opponent is cheating"

"It's smart, you're small but quick, and I'm more than double your size"

"Get off" You huff

"Tap out"

"Admit I'm better than you"

He laughs at your words, releasing his grip before standing, he lets you get up, your hands rubbing at your wrists as you move across the room, you turn around and he's in front of you. He forces you back his strides pushing you back until you collide with the wall, you tilt your head from him, his mouth inches from your ear, you can feel his breath ghosting over your skin.

"You may be better in the field" He pulls back to face you, his dark eyes glued to yours as your body stands still, "But I'm always on top" You can see his smirk under his mask as he leaves, you're frozen in your spot, his words replaying in your head.

[hunnysnoops]

˗ˋ𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤ˊ˗

Chapter Nine: Take Me Out

Kyle Broflovski x fem reader

So if you’re lonely, you know I’m here waiting for you and if you leave here, you’ll leave me broken. Shattered I lie.

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: Over the course of days and eventually weeks you grow closer with Kyle as feelings begin to shift.

Warnings: crude language and humour

MASTERLIST

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

June 29

You and Kyle rush through the park, the world around you blurring as your feet pound against the pavement. The sun filters through the canopy of leaves overhead, casting dappled shadows that dance along the path. You feel the wind in your hair and the exhilaration of the run in your chest, your breaths coming fast but steady.

Recently, you had been looking forward to your runs with Kyle. You had always hated doing it with others, either too slow, stopping too often, or talking too much but there was a sweet spot with Kyle that you didn't mind in the slightest. 

There are several children playing soccer to your left, and you can hear their enthusiastic yells as they play. A couple walks their corgi to your right, the dog is so obscenely fat that his stomach almost scrapes the ground though he seems happy. 

You match his stride by the pond, where the water reflects the clear blue sky and the swarms of ducks gliding across its surface. Kyle slows down, and you equal his pace, both of you breathing heavily but smiling wide. "You're getting faster."

You laugh, the sound light and relaxed. "Maybe you're getting slower," you tease back. He rolls his eyes, but there's a twinkle in them that shows he enjoys the banter.

"Can you ever just take a compliment?"

"Uh, nope," You grin turning for the exit of the park. Your lungs burned in the perfect kind of way. 

The energy shifts instantly as you break away from the still park and enter town, the quiet rustle of leaves replaced by the hum of human life. Cars honk, people chat as they pass by, and the air is filled with the scent of food from nearby cafes and food trucks. Hanging in the air is the strong smell of liquor from a smashed bottle of tequila that crunches beneath your sneakers. 

Kyle is still ahead, his pace unwavering as he navigates through the crowd. You follow close behind, weaving through pedestrians and occasionally bumping shoulders. The buildings loom tall around you, their glass facades reflecting the afternoon sun.

As you turn a corner, something catches your eye. You come to an abrupt stop, causing Kyle to glance back, curious. There, plastered on a wall among a collage of posters and flyers, is an advertisement for an upcoming concert. The bold, colourful design grabs your attention, but it's the picture of the band that really makes you pause. The heading reads 'Suburban Wasteland' one of the hidden gems you listened to almost on a regular. They sang to your edgy little middle school self who went through an emo phase and claimed you would be that way forever. 

The lead singer stands front and center, his eyes smouldering and his messy hair perfectly tousled. He's cute, undeniably so, and you find yourself staring at the poster, your heart beating a little faster for reasons other than the run. "Oh my god," You mutter.

Kyle halts to a stop and walks to your side, staring at the poster. His eyebrows knit together as he takes in what he's seeing "What?"

You hadn't heard him, expression softening as you focused in on the tour dates. "Look!" You point at one of the dates, eyes lighting up "They're coming to South Park!" 

"You actually listen to these guys?" He looks at the four men on the poster 

"Yes!" You grab his arm and shake it, swaying his body in doing so. You were almost screaming the pure excitement that was running through you like lightning causing passersby to cast you judgmental glares. You weren't sure you had been so thrilled about something since you started high school. "They're here in July, we should go!" 

"Is he wearing eyeliner?" Kyle narrowed his eyes at the poster. At first glance, they looked like some corny screamo boyband from the early 2000s, brought to life by ripped skinny jeans and deep side parts. 

"He's so hot," You mutter, hands still gripped onto Kyle's arm without even noticing how tightly you were holding him. 

 "That's the kinda guy you're into?" He abruptly swerves his head to look at you. His eyes widen for a brief moment before they narrow in at you, his lips downturned in a slight frown. 

Your hands drip from where they rest on his arms "Yeah, I guess." Your near shaking with elation at the thought of the band you played on loop daily coming to your little bumpkin town. "Do you wanna go with me?"

He rubs the back of his neck "Don't you want to go with Red or something?"

"Red's going to Alaska at the end of July."

"Why is Red going to Alaska in July?"

"Doesn't matter," You answer "They're really cool, I think you'll actually like their songs-

"I'm sure they're fine. But I'm not really into that type of stuff?"

“What do you mean that type of stuff?"

"Like angry thrashers pushing each other around and breaking necks in a mosh pit," He says, sweat still glistening on his brow, only accentuated by the blaring sun overhead. 

"None of my friends like this thing, please?" Your eyes go wide, silently pleading with him.

He bites the inside of his cheek for a second, staring you down, his thoughts bouncing back and forth like a game of ping pong "I don't really like it either."

“I know you don’t really listen to that genre but-

“I’m not going,” He says, firm.

You give up, rolling your eyes. Your shoulders slump a little, disappointment washing over you. Taking one last longing look at the poster before resuming your pace, you resume your run, pushing aside the lingering let down "You're boring," You call back to Kyle "And slow."

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 4

As you sit at the back of the dimly lit restaurant, the clatter of plates and the murmur of the last few lingering customers fade into the background. The cold, metallic touch of cutlery presses against your fingers as you roll knife after fork into napkins, your movements mechanical and practiced. 

You were nearing the end of your shift though there were still bins of cutlery left for you to roll into little place sets before you could go home. This wasn't exactly how you wanted to spend your fourth of July, especially when all your friends were out and about, living it up while you developed blisters on your feet from countless hours jetting around a restaurant.

The fourth of July seemed like a good cash grab to make good tips but you were proved wrong by the amount of rowdy tourists who talked a big game but tipped you very little if anything at all. You had ended the night with less than you came in with, the tips were so poor you had to use your own pocket money to tip out the house, bartender, and kitchen.

There was the same awful 80s playlist reverberating through the speakers. It was the same 60 songs over and over again, you knew them so well you could recite every lyric and the more you heard them, the more you hated them. You were almost tempted to take two steak knives and shove them into your ears.

Some shifts were so bad that you just needed to sit in silence, this was one of them. The fourth of July was one of your favourite holidays and your evil manager had coerced you into missing it. The worst part for you was the fact that you didn't get to see any of the fireworks, you just heard them faintly outside along with the sounds of people actually enjoying their night.

You wore your little black dress in the hopes of racking up more tips but instead, you had another server knock their customer's drinks onto you, drenching you in the smell of red wine and ceasers. There were little bits of the ceaser spice still visible on your dress while you continued rolling cutlery and biting the inside of your cheek to avoid screaming.

Outside, the sky is dark, with only a faint glow from distant fireworks that you can't quite see. You missed them again this year, the bursts of colour and the laughter of friends and family. The fourth of July has come and gone while you served tables, refilled water jugs, and plastered on a tired smile. 

You think of the sparklers you loved as a child, the barbecue smells, and the warmth of being surrounded by your family. Tonight, the warmth comes only from the overhead lights the persistent hum of the kitchen appliances and the cursing coming from the remaining staff. It didn't help this overwhelming feeling that your dad dropped you off on your way to work, meaning you didn't have your car or a ride home.

Checking your phone only made you feel worse. No new messages. The majority of your friends were at Clyde's party while you hummed along to old rock n' roll songs you've grown accustomed to hate. His party was long over, you had seen through Snapchat stories that the cops showed up. It was nearing twelve am, it was almost the fifth and you had wasted your day.

You weren't sure you could hold your tears back for another minute until your co-worker poked her head into the backroom "Your boyfriends here," Brooke says, walking in and grabbing her phone off the table that had cutlery sprawled out over top. 

"I don't have a boyfriend," You say, furrowing your eyebrows.

"I don't care," She says while tapping around on her phone "Someone's here for you."

Quickly, you tie off your last napkin roll and poke your head out of the staff room door to see Kyle awkwardly standing by the host stand. You bite back a smile, diving for your locker and snatching your bag from it. You hurriedly throw your hoodie on over your dress and spritz some body spray in an attempt to mask the smell of liquor soaked into your dress. 

"Wait, you didn't clock out," Brooke looks up from her phone, watching you as you walk out of the staff room.

"You know what really hasn't clocked out?" You ask and continue without waiting for an answer "Racism, bullying, soap brows, maybe you should get on that first."

You walk down the corridor towards the front door, tugging your skirt down and pushing hair away from your face as you approach Kyle. He looks up from his phone and spots you.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite your tiredness.

"Your dad told me he dropped you off today, I'm taking you home."

"Oh," You keep a smile on your face despite the urge to let it drop. 

As the two of you leave the restaurant and step into the dry heat, he shoves his hands into his pockets "How was work?"

"Fucking shitty," You answer, feeling no urge to sugarcoat "Just a bunch of asshole tourists who smell like cavities."

"What does a cavity smell like?"

"Like plaque build-up and sour breath," You answer, wrinkling your nose at the thought alone. "Uh, how was Clydes?"

Kyle shrugs "Fine, I guess, nothing special."

"You didn't drink?"

"Nah," He opens the door to his car, flicking the light on and waiting for you to climb into the passenger seat. "I left early, actually."

"What? Why?" You shut the door as you get in, dropping your bag to the floor of the car "I wanted to go so bad."

"Just felt like I could've been doing something better with my night," As you and Kyle settle into the car, the familiar scent of his aftershave mingles with the cool night air. The engine hums to life, and the car glides out of the parking lot, leaving behind the warm glow and the remnants of another awful shift. 

You worried if he could smell the liquor on you or the steak sauce but he gave no indication, eyes focused on the road as he drove. "Were the fireworks cool at least?"

"Yeah, they were."

The streets are mostly quiet now, a subtle contrast to the earlier hustle and bustle of Fourth of July celebrations and drunk partygoers, roaming the streets decked out in patriotic accessories from the dollar tree. Streetlights cast elongated shadows, flickering as you pass beneath them. The rhythmic click of the turn signal is a comforting sound, a steady beat that matches your slowly calming heartbeat as your eyelids begin to grow heavy.

You notice the little details as you drive: the way the trees sway gently in the wind, their leaves rustling like a whisper; the soft glow of porch lights in the distance, each one a silent witness to the night's festivities, air running through them like whispers. You pass a park where sparklers flicker in the hands of teenagers, their laughter carries through the now-hushing night.

Kyle glances at you, a smile playing on his lips as he sees you taking it all in. He doesn't rush, allowing you to soak up every moment. The radio plays softly, a nostalgic tune that seems to fit the sleepy mood perfectly. You hum along absentmindedly, despite the disappointment you were coming to terms with it all.

"Where are you going?" You ask as Kyle turns onto a narrow, gravel path leading up a small hill. The car bumps along the uneven road, and your eyebrows furrow at the sound of animals rustling mingling with the crunch of gravel under the tires. "Please don't kidnap me, I'm too tired to fist fight but I do have a corkscrew in my bag," You say, waiting a beat and then filling the silence "Fine, you got me, I stole the corkscrew from my manager." That was true. You were so angry and fed up that you went into her purse and stole the corkscrew her husband gave her for her anniversary, it even had her initials carved into it. You figured she drank enough and you were doing her a favour.

"I'm not kidnapping you, Jesus," His eyes are steady on the beaten road "Just wait." He looks at you for a second "And give that corkscrew back."

"I dunno, sounds like something a kidnapper would say," You tap your fingers on the dashboard. “And the really Kyle would never tell me to give something stolen back.”

“Yes, he would.” He pulls up to a small hill overlooking the town, yanking the keys out of the ignition. Wordlessly, Kyle gets out of the car and gestures for you to follow him. You decide against the idea of him kidnapping you and trail him to a grassy spot that overlooks the town.

Kyle looks down at his watch before looking back up at the sky. He stands beside you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. The inky black sky is punctuated by the sudden, brilliant explosions of light. Like a gigantic chrysanthemum, a flash of red blooms, each flower trailing shimmering flames as it dies. Then there's a silvery waterfall that shimmers as if it's trapped in midair. With each fireworks being more spectacular than the last, you watch, transfixed, as the colours change and intensify.

The air smells faintly of smoke and summer, it takes you right back to the last Fourth of July you spent at Bebe's house, watching the show from the roof of her house and downing Dr. Pepper. The fireworks paint the sky with vibrant hues- fiery oranges, deep blues, radiant greens- each of which leaves a brief afterimage against the night sky.

You glance at Kyle, his face illuminated by the bursts of light. His eyes are wide with wonder, and there's a content smile on his lips. The reflection of the fireworks dances in his eyes like a mirror. 

The grand finale begins, and the sky erupts in a riot of colour and sound. Rapid-fire bursts fill the air, overlapping in a dazzling display that takes your breath away. The booms are louder, the lights brighter, and for a few moments, the sky is swallowed whole with chaos and beauty.

As the last firework fades, leaving trails of smoke that slowly dissipate into the night, a peaceful silence settles over the hilltop. The minute passes over and so does the holiday, the last fireworks of the night and you had a front-row seat. The stars, previously outshone, now reclaim their place in the sky, twinkling softly. Kyle turns to face you "Worth it?"

"Could've been better," You tease, sarcasm hanging from your tone. You know for sure this is one memory you will be forever clinging to. 

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 9

Both yours and Kyle's family gathered in your living room for game night, which felt long overdue. The teams were you and Kyle, Weston and Ike, Your mother and Sheila, your father and Gerald. There was hardly even competition between the four groups, you and Kyle were sweeping them. 

"Whose turn is it?" Your mom asks looking around the room. 

"Weston and Ike," You answer, pushing your brother off the couch and taking his spot, pulling your knees to your chest and yanking a throw blanket overtop.

Ike sits on the floor and leans against the armchair his brothers sitting on, watching as Weston digs around into the popcorn bowl filled with prompts. He pulls a slip of paper out and groans when he reads it "Bruh," He draws out "I don't even know this one."

"Just pick another one," Your dad tells him, he's nursing a glass of wine and standing behind the couch like a vulture.

"Dude," Weston crumples up the slip of paper and chooses a new one "I dunno this one either."

"Just try your best," Sheila tells him.

Weston holds his arms out and begins to enthusiastically flail them. "Shake?" Ike asks, face utterly perplexed as your brother lets out another groan and then begins to convulse his body. "Earthquake?" At Ike's second guess, your brother pauses, runs his hands down his face then begins to violently shake again.

"Seizure?" Your dad asks, eyebrows drawing in at the sight of his son "What is this?"

Your brother clenches his fist, taking a deep breath in then he mimes juggling, but his hands flail wildly, and it's hard to tell if he's juggling invisible balls or trying to swat away imaginary flies. His exaggerated movements have everyone squinting and guessing wildly. "Stroke?" Ike asks, mouth slightly agape while he tries to decode your brother's rapid movements. 

Weston shakes his head vigorously and switches tactics. He starts hopping in place, then drops to all fours, pretending to be an animal of some sort, but it's not clear which one. He growls, then stands up and begins doing it deep lunges back and forth, switching legs.

“Furry?" Ike asks "Gym? Exercise?" 

"Bruh, no," He then stands still and makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arms, as if presenting something spectacular.

"Circus?" Ike guesses again to which Weston shakes his head. 

Weston balls his hand up into a fist and cracks it through the air like he's whipping something. Everyone in the room awkwardly glances at one another, waiting for it to end.

"Cat woman? Batman?" Just for a moment, Ike thinks he is close and then Weston shakes his head once again. Weston starts jumping in place and moving his hands in tight circles like he's skipping rope. Your eyes shift to Kyle, both of you too confused to laugh "I give up!" Ike throws his hands up in defeat "You're awful at this."

"It's the Great Gatsby, bruh," Weston exasperated like it was obvious what he was trying to portray. 

"What was great about that?" Your mom asks, only half joking. 

"I'm gonna lie," You say "That was really good." The second the parents look away your brother sticks up his middle finger for the briefest moment before wedging himself between you and your mom on the couch. You stand up walk to the spot in front of the TV and pull out the slip.

You hold up three fingers on each hand, looking at Kyle "Six words?” He asks and you nod. You hold out one finger to symbolize the first word, Kyle's deep in focus as he watches you. You begin to draw out an infinity symbol in the air with your finger. "Infinity? Forever? Always?" His eyebrows draw in deep and you can see the gears turning in his mind "Eternal!"

Holding up a quick thumbs up, you move on to the fifth word, pretending that you're spraying the air with cleaner and wiping it off.

"Clean? Maid? Tidy? Spray? Wash? Scrub?" 

You shake your head, continuing to do the motion. After thirty more seconds of him not getting it, you move on to the sixth word and start pointing at your head, tapping it and eventually patting it with the palm of your hand.

"Brain? Head?" He stares at you trying to piece together the other clues and muttering to himself "Mind?" He asks and you nod enthusiastically. He slaps his knee, shooting to stand up "Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!"

"Yes!" You exclaim, immediately rushing over to give him a high five. "Eat it shrimps!" You shout at both of your brothers "Being illiterate isn't so funny now, is it?"

"I miss when they were screaming at each other," Weston mutters to Ike.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 13

You and Kyle hurried into the dimly lit theatre, the screen already glowing with the opening credits as you scanned for empty seats. The hushed murmurs of the audience and the faint sound of dialogue filled the air, punctuated by the occasional burst of chatter from those already settled in.

"Over there," Kyle whispered, pointing to a row near the middle of the theatre. You nodded and followed him, trying to tread lightly as you squeezed past knees and feet in the dim light. Each step felt like an intrusion into the quiet atmosphere of the theatre.

As you reached your row, you realized it was already almost full. A couple gave you a disapproving look as you attempted to slide past them, their eyes narrowing in annoyance. Kyle muttered a quick apology, but you could feel the tension in the air as you squeezed into your seats.

Trying to settle in quietly, you fumbled with your jacket and bag, the soft rustling seeming to echo loudly in the stillness. You exchanged a sheepish glance with Kyle, both of you acutely aware of the eyes on you from nearby patrons who were less than pleased with your tardy arrival.

You didn't expect to find yourself so caught up in the movie, it was an incredibly corny action film and kept finding yourself making faces at the cheesy bots which was almost the entire thing.  Kyle kept stifling sniggers whenever you would mock the movie.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?" The lead protagonist turns around to see his enemy behind him. He pulls a large rifle from his trenchcoat and the two enact in an overly acted fight scene.

"Jeez, he's dressed like someone's imaginary friend," You utter under your breath.

"Sh!" You hear from behind you. You turn to see a large man, his greasy hair tied into a ponytail and a stringy beard that made its way down his neck. You mouth a sorry and look back at the screen. 

The movie got worse the longer you watched, they had managed to pull out every single cliche and implement it into a plot with stiff dialogue and flat characters. Your boredom only grew, the only thing entertaining was a little whisper passed between you and Kyle. 

However, every time you leaned over to share a quick remark with Kyle, you felt a sharp "Shh!" from the man seated directly behind you. His voice was low but firm, cutting through the air like a disapproving whisper.

Startled, you glanced back, catching a glimpse of his stern expression and raised finger before turning back to the screen, cheeks tinged with embarrassment. Kyle stifled a chuckle beside you, clearly amused by the unexpected scolding.

During another action scene, Kyle ducks his head into his elbow and sneezes "You know, if you're sick, just stay home," The man from behind you speaks again, his jaw clenched tight in irritation. 

"You know, if you reek of body order, just stay home," You retort. 

"Excuse me?" He says.

"Yeah, excuse you."

"Calm down," Kyle puts one hand on your shoulder to steady you then looks at the man "We're sorry."

"Oh, of course. The boyfriend steps in to play peacemaker," he sneered. "Put a damn muzzle on your girlfriend," The man says to Kyle. He turns his attention back to the movie but you've already turned around, knees on the seat while you hang over the back and glare at the man. 

"Put a muzzle on yourself, that way you might not look like you ate the ham burglar." You whisper-shout. 

"Don't talk to her like that, man," Kyle adds, also turning around to face him. 

The man's face grows red "You better watch-

"Sh!" You say, watching the man look stunned. Silence stretches between the three of you and when the man opens his mouth to speak you do it again "Sh!"

"Okay-

"Shhhh," You draw out putting a finger over your mouth. "How many pubes did you have to steal from motel shower drains until you had enough to glue on your chin?" You point at his scruffy neck-beard, staring him dead in the eyes. 

"Are you done?" The man asks, huffing.

"Yeah, sure," You snap, turning back around, sinking into the chair and trying to focus on the movie despite the grimace-shaped man behind you.

"Stupid bitch," He mumbled. 

Kyle's entire demeanour changed in an instant. He turned around, his face red with anger. "What did you just say?" His body tense, muscles visibly tightened.

"Leave them alone," Another man from the row above says "They're just kids."

"Y'know what man? I'd be pissed off if I looked like that too," You seethe, eyes narrowing at the guy behind you. 

"Whore," He said in a mocking tone, a proud smile on his face as he did so.

Before Kyle could react, you reached forward to grab the drink sitting in his cupholder and hurled it at the man. The liquid splashed all over him, drenching his face and clothes. The theatre erupted in gasps and murmurs as the man sat there, stunned and dripping. Not one person was still paying attention to the movie.

"What the hell?" the man yelled, wiping his face with his sleeve. His shock quickly turned to rage, and he lunged forward, raising his hand to hit you.

Kyle was quick to grab his wrist, holding his arm midair before it could land on you. Other moviegoers scrambled out of their seats, some trying to pull the man away while others called for security. You could see the fear consume the man's face as Kyle held tightly.

Within moments, the usher returned with a security guard, their faces stern and ready to intervene. You hadn't seen them come in when you bent over the back of the chair, one hand pointed at the man accusatorily while you screamed at him. "Yeah, try to hit me, biggie!" 

The security rushed over to you, trying to put space between you and the man. When you refused to cease, he grabbed the back of your shirt to pull you away, his free hand was held out in front of Kyle, he balanced on one foot while his other was in the air in front of the man. 

"Stop," He said, trying not to lose his balance "Out, now, all of you, out!" 

A manager rushes into the scene, a blue button down and a name tag that reads Hailey. The large man lands a solid slap across your face and you retaliate by throwing a right hook. "No, no!" Hailey shouts, frantically trying to keep you all apart while the man grips your hair and pulls it with what little force he can muster, you grab hold of his wispy neck beard, pulling it until hair rips out. "Stop!" 

Tensions only continue to escalate rapidly. After the man tries to wrap his hands around your neck Kyle hits him, this time everyone freezes as the sound of Kyle's fist connecting with the man's cheekbone sounds through the theatre.

The security guard comes up behind you, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you off the chair. He continues to drag you out while you yell "You smell like a yeast infection, wash your damn rolls!" 

Kyle looks at the man and then at you, following you out of the theatre and into the lobby. The manager comes out with the man walking behind her, shamefully, he drips Diet Coke onto the floor. "Stand against the wall," Hailey says and you oblige like you're getting your mug shot taken.

She snaps a picture of each one of your faces "Banned," She says "For life!" 

"For life?" The man asks, his voice rising.

"Yes!" Hailey says, gesturing to the wall behind the concession where there were several pictures of people taped up for everyone to see, above each of their profiles was a piece of printer paper, the words 'banned 4 eva' written in red Sharpie "Or do you want me to call the police?"

"No, I'm cool with being banned," You answer first "Not sure I can speak with Jabba the Hutt though." 

Kyle's eyes never left the man's as he reluctantly stepped back, his chest still heaving with anger. "Let's go," he said, turning to you and grabbing your hand.

As Kyle trudges to the exit and you follow behind, hand in hand, you stick a middle finger up behind you as you push through the doors and into the daylight. "What a fucking asshole," His jaw was tightly clenched, the muscles visibly twitching with the effort to contain his anger.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 19

Tolkien sets up his phone on a nearby table, adjusting angles and checking lighting, while Kyle starts brainstorming ideas. You and Red find yourselves sitting by the sparkling blue waters of Tolkien's pool, feet dangling in while you watch the pair.

"What about this one?" Kyle asks, playing an audio. 

Tolkien bites his lip for a moment, deep in thought before he shakes his head "Nah, trends over."

You and Red exchange amused glances, she huffs on a blue raspberry ice vape, occasionally giving you a hit. Her hair is tied up into a ponytail, an old Mötley Crüe shirt thrown over her blue bikini. 

"Let's do this one," Kyle huddles next to Tolkien showing him a video on his phone. The audio replays several times before the two of them begin to practice, going through the motions in little segments to remember until they have it down. 

Tolkien takes the lead, attempting to mimic the choreography he just watched, his movements almost too precise. He kicks off with a series of dramatic arm waves and hip sways, trying to sync his steps with the beat of the short song. 

You lean onto Red, burying your head into her collarbone while you laugh. "That's it, boys, you've made it to the big leagues," She calls out between giggles.  

"Can we get less input from the fog machine over there?"  Tolkien turns around before walking back to his phone and restarting the video. You lift yourself off Red to watch Tolkien start from the beginning; he moves almost exactly the way he did before like it was a formula.

Tolkien dances his part and then Kyle comes into the frame and they begin a synchronized dance routine, exaggerated and goofy, their attempts at coordination often ending in laughter and playful nudges.

It was nice being friends with Kyle even though it was difficult for you to admit. You liked being able to hang out in a group with him and not trying to murder each other even though the thought still passed through your head on occasion. Both of you promised that you wouldn't tell a soul about the movie theatre fiasco and would swear up and down that your pictures weren't posted up next to crackheads. 

When Kyle starts doing his bit of the dance you can't hold back your cackling, clutching your stomach while you brace yourself on Red who herself is shaking from laughter. The boys ignore you but you keep laughing to the point you need to stand up and walk over to the side of Tolkien's house to brace yourself against the wall. 

Tolkien finally manages to nail a sequence, and Kyle lets out a triumphant cheer, their joy infectious despite the cringe you and Red felt watching them film TikTok's, they seemed unbothered. "You won't be laughing when I get famous," Tolkien says to you, Kyle's standing next to him watching the video they just finished filming.

"I'm sure it'll be super unfunny then," You say in a mocking tone.

"Yeah, whatever, nice lungs," He says, briefly looking up from his phone.

"Woah, woah, woah," you put a hand out "Where did all of this hostility come from?"

"Where do you think?"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," You get the last of your giggles out, straightening up. "Tolkien, show me how to do one of those dances," you suggested with a playful grin.

"Seriously?" Both Kyle and Tolkien say in unison. 

"Yeah," You walk over, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing "Show me."

"Uh, okay," Tolkien says, his expression softening "Which one do you want to do?" 

"I dunno," You answer, leaning over his shoulder while he scrolls through his saved folder. 

 He began to break down the steps of a popular dance trend, his movements fluid and precise. His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon you found yourself mimicking his steps, albeit with a hint of hesitation. "Okay, so it's like this," Tolkien explained patiently, demonstrating the footwork and hand gestures slowly. "And then you add a little spin here..."

Kyle leaned casually against the poolside, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched you. The way you focused intently on learning the steps but couldn't move without laughing- it all captivated his attention. He admired your willingness to throw yourself into the dance, your laughter mingling with Tolkien's as you both enjoyed the moment.

"You look so ridiculous right now," Red said, holding her phone up to film you and Tolkien while you danced 

"It's kinda fun!" You admit, eyes on Tolkien while you mirror his motions. 

"I told you!" Tolkien says, a bright smile on his face. You followed along, stumbling at first but gradually finding your rhythm. Tolkien's encouragement spurred you on, his gentle corrections and cheerful demeanour made the learning process enjoyable.

You were beginning to think you might've been too critical over Kyle's constant filming of TikToks, while you didn't understand how someone could make a career off it you could confess that you were enjoying yourself despite feeling more than stupid. 

"We should film one and I'll post it," He props his phone up on a lawn chair, setting up the timer.

"What?" You ask but the timers already nearing it's end and Tolkien is in his place. The music started, and you launched into the routine. He was by far more comfortable than you but you still tried your best. 

Your arms swung out to the side in unison, followed by a sharp clap above your head. The song itself was sped up and incredibly annoying, you had a feeling it would be stuck in your head in the following days and you would regret playing it on a loop while you did the choreography. You glanced over at Kyle, catching his eye with a smile.

 Just as the music reached a crescendo, Tolkien swept you off your feet, spinning you around in a dramatic flourish. Your laughter echoed across the poolside, an elated sound that filled the air as Tolkien's unexpected move took you by surprise.

The spin was exhilarating, and your laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, your legs kicking playfully in the air as you struggled to regain your balance. Tolkien caught up in the moment and the infectious joy of the scene, couldn't contain his laughter either. As he tried to set you down gently, the combination of laughter and the slick poolside caused both of you to lose footing.

While Tolkien sprawled out on the ground, you tumbled backwards into the deep end of the pool. Red was laughing even harder, the camera still trained on you, she wasn't sure if your cartoonishly dramatic fall was funnier or Tolkien's face plant.

"Are you okay?" Kyle asked, unable to bite back the smile on his face as you resurfaced. You pushed your hair away from your face and wiped chlorine water from your eyes. 

"Yeah," You laugh wading over to the edge of the pool where Kyle was standing. "Help me up," You held your hand out.

"You're gonna pull me in," he says, inching backwards just the slightest. 

 "No, I won't," You said like his accusation was incredulous "I swear," You outstretch your hand even further. 

"I don't trust you."

"Why not?" You smiled, feeling a flutter of warmth in your chest at his attention. "Just be cool," you replied, reaching out to grasp his hand.

At last, he gave in and as his fingers wrapped around yours, a jolt of electricity seemed to pass between you. The warmth of his hand was a stark contrast to the cool water, grounding you in the moment. Kyle's grip was firm and steady as he carefully pulled you up, his strength evident as he helped you find your footing.

The air grew thick with unspoken tension. Water droplets glistened on your skin, catching the last rays of sunlight, and Kyle's gaze softened as he took in the sight of you. The playful banter from earlier seemed to fade, replaced by a deeper, more intense awareness of each other.

As you stepped out of the pool, you stumbled slightly, your wet feet slipping on the smooth surface. Kyle reacted instantly, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The closeness sent a shiver through you, your heart racing as you looked up into his eyes, which were now only inches away.

"Are you good?" Kyle asked, his voice low and filled with a mix of concern and something more, something that made your pulse quicken.

You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment. The way he held you, his touch gentle, made it hard to focus on anything else. "Yup, fine," you pry yourself away from him. 

Neither of you moved immediately, the moment stretching out as the world around you seemed to blur. Kyle's eyes flickered to your lips for a brief second before meeting your gaze again, his expression hesitant.

The moment was broken by the distant sound of Tolkien and Red's laughter as they rewatched the video, reminding you both of where you were. Kyle takes a step back "I can't believe you actually didn't pull me in."

"Yeah, I would never do something like that," You say, casually walking past Kyle and shoving him into the pool as you do so. 

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 25

The sun had long set, leaving the kitchen bathed in the warm, soft glow of overhead lights. Your family and Kyle's had come together for a shared meal, full of far too much wine consumption and brain-rotten jokes made by your little brothers. 

As the adults moved to the living room for more conversation and the younger kids dashed outside to play, you and Kyle volunteered to handle the dishes. You both stepped into the kitchen, where the soft light illuminated the scene of culinary aftermath: plates smeared with the last bits of sauce, glasses smudged with fingerprints and lipstick, and serving dishes still holding crumbs of the evening's feast. Even a disgusting concoction your brother had made, water mixed with white wine, rootbeer, ketchup, and relish. He had dared Ike to drink it and then drank it himself when Ike chickened out.

Kyle rolled up his sleeves with a mock-serious expression. "Good god," He mutters at the sheer amount of dishes. 

"Get to work, ginger." 

The sound of running water and the clinking of dishes filled the space, creating a rhythm as you and Kyle fell into an easy routine. He washed, you dried, and the banter flowed as naturally as the water from the faucet.

"So, how does this thing work again?" Kyle asked, holding up a sponge as if it were a foreign object.

"Just like that," you replied, mimicking his exaggerated movements with the dishtowel. "It's a highly specialized technique, you see."

Kyle chuckled, passing you a clean plate to dry. "Ah, I see. Years of training."

As you dried the dishes, you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, his hands moving efficiently through the soapy water. There was something undeniably attractive about the way he approached even a mundane task like washing dishes.

You thought back to those massive sleepovers where all of your friends would pile into one bedroom and talk about everyone and everything. How they gushed about how cute Kyle was and you always went quiet, wrinkling your nose like the name alone was poison. 

"Achoo," Kyle feigned a sneeze, taking water from his hands and flicking it onto you. He kept his eyes down on the sink like he hadn't done anything. You retaliated by whipping the wet dish towel at Kyle a little harder than intended, there was an audible snap when you hit him and your eyes widened. "Jeez, are you trying to take me out?"

"Obviously," You deadpan "That's been the plan for the last seventeen years."

The dishes didn't seem to let up, pan after pan, utensils piling higher than mountains. While your brothers played video games and your parents laughed obnoxiously in the living room, you were still stuck on dishes until your fingers wrinkled to prunes. 

The entire time Kyle kept skittishly glancing at you and then glancing away while you pretended not to notice. He didn't know when was the right time to ask you or if you'd even want to hear him out. 

Kyle leaned casually against the counter, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. He cleared his throat, drawing your attention from the last few utensils you were drying. "Hey, I've got something for you," he said, his voice holding a note of anticipation.

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Oh? What is it?" You wiped your hands on a cloth to dry them before settling them on your hips. 

Kyle reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out an envelope, holding it out towards you. You took it, your fingers brushing against his, sending a small thrill through you. Carefully, you opened the envelope, revealing two concert tickets inside. Your heart skipped a beat as you read 'Suburban Wasteland' printed at the top above the seating and date information "I don't know if you still want to go with me. I was kinda a dick about it so you can give the other ticket to Bebe or something and I won't-

Without thinking, you let out a joyful scream and began jumping up and down, the sheer exhilaration bubbling over. Face lighting up as you looked down at the tickets, re-reading them over and over again. "Oh my fucking god!" 

He wasn't sure he had ever seen you so happy, not even when your soccer team placed first in regionals or when your parents took you on vacation. Despite his own indifference towards the band, seeing you so elated made it all worth it for him."You like it?"

"Yes!" You jumped around in a little circle, hands holding the tickets shaking as you looked back up at him "I thought you didn't want to go?"

"I listened to their stuff and I changed my mind," He said nonchalantly. That was only half true. He felt bad watching you go through the month, trying to find someone who would go with you and being turned down every single time. 

"Eeeek!" You shout again, jaw almost sore from the uncontrollable smile. Kyle thought that in seconds you would be bouncing off the walls. In a very impulsive moment for you, you throw your arms around him in a spontaneous hug. It's the first time you've ever hugged Kyle, and the warmth of your body against yours sends a shiver down his spine. 

His frame is taller and more solid than you expected, and you find yourself nestled against his collarbone, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against you.

For a split second, neither of you move. His arms hesitate before tentatively wrapping around your back, his hands lightly resting on your waist. You can sense his surprise, his body slightly tensed with uncertainty, yet there's a warmth in the way he holds you. Your own hands, holding the tickets, press against his shoulders, and you feel the firmness of his muscles beneath his shirt. 

"Stop fighting!" Your mom rushes into the kitchen at the sound of your shrieking, panic across her face which quickly turns into confusion as she sees you clinging to Kyle. 

You break away from him, clearing your throat awkwardly as you stare at your mom, trying to still yourself. You quickly gather yourself, smoothing down your clothes and clutching the concert tickets a little tighter. "Can I pay you to pretend that never happened?"

A/N: So excited for the next chapter 😽

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter warnings: Allusions to drug use, allusions to prostitution, violence (man on woman)

(All chapters going forward will be Y/N)

“I ain’t so sure ‘bout this, man.” Daryl pushed open the door and climbed out of the small sedan. He had to take a moment to stretch, his joints popping and cracking in protest. He just wasn’t made for cars. If he couldn’t have a bike, he’d even take a truck.  He gathered his crossbow out of the backseat and strapped it across his back, the familiar weight of a gun on one hip and a knife on the other. 

“What choice do we have?” Rick checked his own gun and placed it back in the holster, briefly meeting the archer’s skeptical gaze. With a nod, he closed the door and made his way across the street with Daryl not far behind. 

The building appeared to be an old strip joint if the broken signs and tinted windows were anything to go by. It wasn’t the sort of place Rick would have gone before the world went to shit, much less after. Daryl, on the other hand, had been to his fair share. His brother only enjoyed one thing more than his drugs and that was women. It was a ritual to end his night with his head buzzing and a woman on his lap. Unfortunately, that usually meant Daryl had to come along. 

“Just find out whatcha need to know so we can get the hell outta here.” The bowman snapped as he checked out the sides of the building, ensuring there were no surprises in case a quick getaway was needed. He had no desire to stay longer than necessary. The hum of a generator was muted behind the walls, thankfully quiet enough to not draw any walkers. The former sheriff nodded and pounded a fist against the door once Daryl had joined him. 

A small window opened. It reminded Daryl of the ones at the drive up tobacco shops or the local McDonalds. A burly man, shorter than both Daryl and Rick, leaned into view. The area behind him was pitch black and silent. The archer had a bad feeling. 

“What can I do you for, boys?” 

“We heard that the man running this place has had run-ins with the Governor.” Rick spoke quietly, standing too close to the opening and would be in Daryl’s way for a clean shot should things go south. With practiced ease, the bowman sidestepped to the ex-sheriff’s right. 

“And if he has? What of it?” The fellow narrowed his eyes in wait of an answer, spitting tobacco juice right in front of Daryl’s boot. The archer curled his lip. 

“Look, man, he either has or he hasn’t.” 

“Daryl.” Rick looked over this shoulder with a raised hand. “We’re just trying to look out for our own. If we could just talk—”

“Wait here.” The window slammed shut. Rick stared at it for a moment with raised brows before turning to Daryl. 

The archer shrugged and pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his vest. It was down to the filter by the time the door opened, the same little man waddling backwards to allow them inside. The cigarette was flicked away before Daryl fell in behind Rick, the outside door closing to shroud the three of them in darkness. It was eerily quiet. That alone made Daryl’s teeth itch. 

He opened his mouth as light and sound filtered through the door opening in front of them. A lot of light and sound. The place had been soundproofed. 

Much to their surprise, it actually was a strip club inside. Scantily clad women were dancing, some on tables. Some on the bar. Some on the stage. There wasn’t much money to be seen, but the tables and floor were littered with ammo, pill bottles, and food. Given the positions and lack of clothing of some of clientele, a lot more than dancing was being offered.  

The man led them inside and pointed to the bar. “You wait here.” He barked at Daryl. “You, come with me.”

“Nuh uh, he ain’t—”

“It’s alright, Daryl.” Rick nodded. 

“Whatever.” He grunted, leaning on the bar. He had to admit that he was shocked their weapons hadn’t been confiscated but with another look around, it appeared that was the going currency. 

“What can I get for ya?” The man behind the bar admittedly startled the archer, but he waved him off with barely a flinch. 

Daryl felt oddly comfortable in the place, probably from his escapades with his brother. He never really partook unless a lap dance was offered to keep him busy so Merle could shoot up or do a few lines with the entertainment. This was never his thing. 

“Hey, tall, dark, and dirty. The name’s Roxxy. Why don’t you and I—”

“No.” Daryl didn’t even spare her a glance. Putting her hands up with a sneer, she walked away, on to the next potential client. Regardless of the familiarity, he began to feel antsy the longer Rick took, itching to go through the doors he saw them lead the former sheriff through in search of the man. To curb his anxiety, he picked up a coaster from the bar and turned it over repeatedly. Just something to keep his hands moving. 

“Hey, um—”

A featherlight light touch on his bicep had him spinning, throwing his arm out to deflect the person. Wild blue eyes searched the space he turned to, finding no one standing, but the small, curled up form of a woman on the floor. Shit. 

He hadn’t meant to knock her down; should probably help her up and apologize. He had taken no more than a step toward her when a large man appeared from behind the curtain that was draped at the back of the bar. He wasn’t dressed fancy by any means but his button up and slacks were clean. He wasn’t the type to usually get his hands dirty. 

“What have I told you about touching the customers without asking?” He shouted at the woman, roughly yanking her to her feet by her upper arm. She barely made a sound and kept her head down, obviously accustomed to the treatment. 

“Hey, man, she—” Daryl tried but was cut off by the sound of the man’s hand connecting with her face, sending her right back to the floor. The archer stared, wide-eyed, hearing Rick’s voice somewhere nearby and the placating tone of the man who had just leveled that poor woman. What they were saying was lost to him, his entire focus zeroed in on the jagged scars covering her back, buttocks, and thighs. 

“Daryl.”

The music and voices came back at an alarming volume, causing Daryl to flinch out of Rick’s gentle hold. “What?”

“We got what we came for.” Rick shot a distasteful glare at the other gentleman. “Let’s get outta here.”

Daryl nodded slowly, beginning to absently follow his friend toward the door when another man dragged that same woman up by her hair. She was trying so hard to shield her face, to make herself small. No one was looking twice. No one was batting an eye. No one seemed to care. The other women, they seemed happy to be there. Whether it was a well played act or not, they seemed to be enjoying themselves. But not her. It would most likely bite him in the ass later but god help him, he needed to know why. 

Just as the little man from before reached for the door, Daryl stalked back toward the scene. 

“Hey!” All eyes fell on him, and he felt his sudden bravado slipping. “How much for her?”

“Daryl.” Rick said carefully from the door. 

“For a dance, it’ll be—”

“Don’t want no dance. How much for her?” The archer corrected them with an almost growl. He felt Rick’s hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off. 

“Brother, let’s talk about this.”

Daryl ignored him. 

“You don’t want her. She obviously needs some more training.”

“Want her.” He stated matter-of-factly. The girl in question was still hiding her face behind her hands and a curtain of long, disheveled hair. Yer bein’ a idiot, Dixon. Wha’ the hell are ya doing?

The two men shared a look, the shorter one— the one Rick had been meeting with— nodding. 

“What are you offering?” 

Daryl licked his suddenly dry lips, knowing Rick was going to have a stroke. He pulled his gun from the holster and placed it on the bar. 

“Daryl.”

“What else?” Tall dickhead asked with a smirk. 

Daryl’s eye twitched, as much as he tried to maintain stoicism. He pulled the clips of ammo from each back pocket and placed them next to the gun. The man raised an eyebrow, obviously expecting more. 

“Daryl.” There was a clear warning in that one but the archer pressed on. 

His knife was next. When it was clear that still wasn’t enough, he ran his fingers over the strap of his crossbow, eyes flickering over to the trembling form between the two men. 

Fuck.

He pulled the car keys from his front pocket, but was barely clear of his hip when he felt his friend snag his wrist. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Rick hissed in his ear. Daryl paused for a moment, gaze sliding over to Rick’s worried face and then back again. He snatched his arm away and tossed the keys onto the bar. 

“Car’s outside. S’got half a tank.” 

The two men looked at one another again before shoving the small creature unceremoniously into Daryl. “Sold.”

What the hell had he just done?

[allthingsfangirl101]

Should've Been Me – Timothy McGee

The case went south fast. We were made and soon under gunfire. McGee and I were tucked behind one wall while the gunman shot at us. We took our time, taking shots when we had a chance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something moving across the other side of the room.

"McGee, I think there's. . ."

I gasped when he pulled me back around the wall. I looked up to see that I was in his arms.

"You good?" He asked.

"Yeah," I said, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

Our window opened up so we shot off a few bullets before running and ducking behind a different wall. That's when I saw it again. This time it looked like a shadow running by.

"Where are Gibbs and Tony?!" I yelled over the gunfire.

"They're on their way," McGee yelled back. We ducked back down when someone got close. "I'm gonna call them again."

As McGee called Gibbs, I kept cover. That is until I saw it again. This time, the shadow had a gun. And it was pointed at McGee.

"Tim!" I yelled as I jumped up. I didn't think before pushing him out of the way.

"Y/N!" McGee yelled as I was hit. I fell to the ground, pain flooding my body. I heard a few more gunshots before someone ran to me. He tried to move me but I let out a pained scream.

"Y/N! McGee!"

I looked over to see Gibbs and Tony running toward us. "Y/N's been hit," McGee rushed out the second they got to us.

"Where?" Gibbs asked as he knelt next to me.

"My side," I whimpered.

"DiNozzo, cover us. McGee, we got to get Y/N out of here," Gibbs instructed as he tore off his jacket.

Gibbs helped me sit up. He threw my arm around his shoulder and wrapped his arm around my waist. I gasped in pain when he used his hand to hold his crumbled-up jacket over the bullet wound. McGee wrapped my free arm around his shoulder and wrapped his other arm around my waist.

I bit my lip to hold in the pain when they pulled me to my feet. My legs instantly gave out causing Gibbs and McGee to tighten their hold on me.

"Hang on, Y/L/N," McGee said as they started carrying me out of the building. Gibbs and McGee instantly covered me when the gunshots got closer. When they had an opening, Gibbs and McGee continued to rush me out.

Soon, we got to the car. McGee and Gibbs slowly lowered me into the backseat.

"Go back and help DiNozzo," Gibbs instructed.

"But boss. . ." McGee stuttered.

"Go," Gibbs cut him off.

"She needs to get to the hospital," McGee finally got out.

"And I will take her," Gibbs sighed. "Go help DiNozzo."

* * * * *

McGee and DiNozzo ran into the hospital waiting room. They searched the room and finally found Gibbs.

"How is she?" McGee asked as they ran over to their boss.

"She's in surgery," Gibbs said. "They promised to give me an update as soon as they have one."

"So what?" DiNozzo scoffed. "We're supposed to just sit here and wait for any news about Y/N?"

"Pretty much," Gibbs shrugged. DiNozzo sat next to Gibbs with an annoyed grunt. McGee tried to sit down but he was too antsy.

"She tried to warn me," McGee mumbled.

"What do you mean?" DiNozzo asked.

"When we were under fire, Y/N noticed something behind us," McGee shook his head. "She kept trying to warn me, but I was focused on something else."

"What were you focused on?" Gibbs asked even though he knew the answer.

"The gunfire coming from in front of us," McGee sighed. "At one point, I pulled Y/N back under cover but. . ."

"You were focused on keeping your coworker safe," Gibbs cut him off. He sat back as he added, "Seems like a good reason to not hear her warning."

The team sat in the hospital waiting room for three hours before they got any word on Y/N's condition.

"Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs, DiNozzo, and McGee instantly jumped up.

"How is she?" Gibbs asked.

"Things started off rough," the doctor said honestly. "The bullet hit one of her kidneys and caused internal bleeding. We, unfortunately, had to remove her kidney but we stopped the bleeding. We are moving her to the ICU until the anesthesia wears off. When she wakes up, there are some tests we need to run before we can move her out of ICU."

"But she's okay, right?" McGee stuttered.

"Yes," the doctor smiled softly. "She'll be here in recovery for a week, maybe two. After she goes home, I would suggest she take it easy for at least a month. I know she's a federal agent but she needs lots of rest."

"And we will make sure she gets it," Gibbs nodded. "Thank you, doc."

"I'll have a nurse come get you when Agent Y/L/N is settled in her room and awake."

The team waited another two hours before a young nurse finally came and got them.

"She's awake," the nurse smiled at the worried NCIS agents. Gibbs, DiNozzo, and McGee instantly jumped and followed the nurse to the room where they were keeping Y/N.

* * * * *

My head was pounding and my side was on fire. I slowly turned my head when the door opened.

"There's our girl," Gibbs smiled.

"Hey, boss," I said weakly.

"How are you feeling, Y/L/N?" DiNozzo asked me.

"I'm okay," I tried to shrug but instantly gasped in pain.

"Take it easy," Gibbs said as he helped me lay back down. "Relax, Y/N. Just rest."

"Did you get them?" I asked through my teeth as the pain slowly subsided.

"We got all shooters but. . ."

"The one who shot me," I sighed.

"What can you tell us about your shooter?" Gibbs asked.

"Boss," McGee stuttered. "She just woke up. Don't you think she should rest?"

"It's just a few questions. I can handle it. The shooter was a sniper, Gibbs. I didn't see his face. Just the gun pointed at McGee." I paused when the image popped back into my head. I cleared my throat and forced myself to continue, "Abby have the bullet they pulled out of me?"

"She does," Gibbs said, letting out a small chuckle. "She's running it and will call when she gets a hit."

"If she gets a hit," I mumbled. "This wasn't your average gang shootout, boss. I keep going through it in my head. If I hadn't pushed McGee out of the way, it would've been a kill shot. Right through his heart. But I also thought that McGee shouldn't have been the target."

"What do you mean?" McGee asked.

"You had no idea the guy was there," I continued. "But I did. He should've shot at me, not you. I could've given away his position."

"The point, Y/L/N?" Gibbs asked.

"He's a sniper, Gibbs," I explained, "but he didn't notice me notice him. So let me ask you; what sniper isn't aware of his surroundings?"

"An amateur," he said slowly.

"That's good news, right?" DiNozzo asked hesitantly.

"No," Gibbs sighed. "It's not. DiNozzo, I want you to put extra agents outside Y/L/N's room until we figure out what's going on. McGee, dig deeper into this so-called gang. I want to know everyone they talk to and everything they talk about. Y/N, you get some rest and if anything happens, you call me and I will be here as soon as possible."

Gibbs kissed me on the forehead before he and DiNozzo left. My heart sank when McGee stayed behind.

"I'm okay," I said softly.

"Are you sure?" He asked, his voice barely audible.

"I'm sure," I chuckled. We sat like that for an awkward beat before McGee cleared his throat.

"I should get back to work," he said. "Call if you need anything."

"Hey," I said as I grabbed his hand and pulled him back. "Go find this son of a bitch."

My breath got caught in my throat when he leaned in and kissed my cheek.

"I promise."

* * * * *

As the team hunted down the sniper, I stayed at the hospital. I eventually was cleared to leave the ICU and get settled in a normal room. The team kept me updated and under guard. I sat up a little straighter when I saw McGee talking to the agents outside.

"Did you just send away my security?" I teased him as he walked in.

"You don't need it anymore."

"You caught the guy?"

"We did," he nodded.

"That's wonderful," I said, letting out a sigh of relief. I paused when I saw the look on McGee's face. "What's wrong?"

"It should've been me," McGee sighed.

"What?" I stuttered. "Tim. . .

"The sniper should've shot me. I should've taken that bullet and been rushed into surgery. Not you," he said.

"Agent McGee," I tried to get him to look at me. "I don't regret taking that bullet, Tim."

"But. . ."

"To be honest, I didn't even have to think about it," I shrugged. "I saw a gun pointed at you, so I reacted."

I gasped when McGee grabbed my face and pressed his lips gently to mine. I reached up, grabbed his wrists, and kissed him back. When he broke the kiss, he leaned his forehead against mine.

"Please don't ever do that again," he begged.

"What?" I teased as we leaned back a little more. "You don't want me to save your life?"

"Not if it means risking your life," he said softly.

"Tim. . ."

"I mean it," he gently cut me off. "I don't want you risking your life to protect me."

"But that's what we do, Tim," I shrugged. "We have each other's backs. We watch out for each other."

"That doesn't mean you have to put my life ahead of yours," he sighed.

"I put your life ahead of mine and you put my life ahead of yours," I teased. "It balances out."

"That's not how it works, Y/L/N," he said, giving me a teasing glare. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. He grabbed my face, deepening the kiss.

"Fine," he broke the kiss. "But next time, at least get yourself out of the way too."

[nomie-11]

Chapter 25 - When Death Waits Just Beyond The Horizon

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It’s more than tense as the eleven of them walk beneath the open portcullis and into the outpost. It’s empty and the atmosphere is off, off beyond the fact that Genevieve walks a solid ten paces to the right of the rest of the group, her hand protectively clamped around Violet’s wrist as if one of them will snatch her out from behind her and drag her down to lying, venin hell. 

“What the hell?” Garrick strides across the courtyard in the center of the structure, looking along the gathering spaces that should line the interior just like they did in Montserrat. 

“Stop,” Xaden orders, and Genevieve pauses with the rest of the group, her eyes still narrowed. “There’s no one here. Divide and search.” He glances over at Genevieve. “You don’t leave my side. I don’t think this is a War Game.”

There’s no point in arguing, the whip of the wind through the open gates does nothing to quell the anxiety in Genevieve’s throat. The only sounds in a fortress that should house more than two hundred soldiers are the footsteps they fell on rocky ground—and Xaden’s right. It feels off. 

“She stays with me.” There’s a finality in Genevieve’s tone that he’s never heard before as the rest of the squad—minus Liam, who has become Genevieve’s shadow once more—split into groups of two or three, climbing various staircases. Xaden nods, not bothering to argue. 

“This way,” Xaden says, beelining for the southeast tower. They climb and climb until they’ve finally reached the top of the fourth floor, where the door leads them to an open-air observation point that overlooks the valley below, including the Poromish trading post. 

“This is one of the most strategic garrisons we man,” Violet says, looking for any sight of the infantry and riders who should be here. “There’s no way they’d abandon it for War Games.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” Xaden looks out over the valley, then narrows his eyes on the trading post a thousand feet below. “Liam.” 

“On it.” Liam moves forward, leaning on the stone battlements as he focuses on the structures in the distance beneath them. The trading post is just a few roofs hiding several buildings that just poke out above the circular stone wall of its defenses, a drift of gryphons and their fliers approaching from the south. 

Xaden turns his eyes to Violet, and the look in his eyes is anything but welcoming. “What did Aetos say to you before we left? After Gen- Genevieve decided you would be coming.” 

She blinks trying to remember. “He said something like…” She searches her memory. “I’ll miss you, Violet.” 

His body goes tense. “And he said Genevieve was going to get you killed.” 

“Yes, but he always says that.” She shrugs. “What would Dain have to do with emptying an entire outpost?” 

“I have something!” Garrick calls from the southeast tower, holding what looks to be an envelope as he and Imogen cross the thick rampart, coming in their direction.

“Did you tell him about my trips here?” Xaden’s attention is back on Genevieve. She rolls her eyes, placing a hand on her hip. 

“I told you already, I can keep a secret when I’m trusted with it,” She drawls, her tone venomous. “And besides, I hate the guy. Why would I ever tell him?” 

He draws back, his gaze shifting left and right as he thinks before settling on Violet again and widening. “Violet,” he says, his voice low. “Did Aetos touch you after Liam told you about Athebyne?”

So Violet did know. Violet knew about the weapons and Violet knew about the supply runs. 

“What?” Her brows furrow, and she shoves an errant strand of hair out of her face as the wind swirls around us. 

“Did he touch you?” He asks one more time, leaving no room for lying or hiding anything. 

“Yes, but I would know if he read my memories,” She sputters. “He would never…”

“No, Violet, you wouldn’t,” Xaden’s face falls, and his words hold a resignation that hurts what’s left of Genevieve’s shattered heart. 

Genevieve holds Violet’s hand tight, her thumb running over Violet’s knuckles, her shoulders thick with tension as she stands silently, watching. 

“It’s addressed to you,” Garrick says, handing the envelope. Xaden drops back and breaks the seal. Genevieve can see the handwriting as he opens the missing. 

War Games for Xaden Riorson, Wingleader of Fourth Wing. 

Genevieve recognizes the handwriting. How could she not, that handwriting was on the report of Quinn’s death. The only handwriting on the report besides General Sorrengail. “That’s from Colonel Aetos.” 

“What does it say?” Garrick asks, folding his arms over his chest. “What’s our assignment?” 

“Guys, I see something just past the trading post,” Liam says from the battlement. “Oh shit.”

Xaden’s face drains of all color, and he crumples the missive in his fist before looking at Genevieve. “It says you failed your mission,” he pauses, then turning to the rest of the squad. “And our mission now is to survive if we can.” 

Genevieve’s stomach twists as Xaden’s words hit her like a punch. You failed your mission. It was as if every moment she spent bearing the secrets was finally crashing down on her all at once. It was her mission to report what was going on in Athebyne, the supply runs, the weapon drops. And Violet had unknowingly told Dain, which in return told Colonel Aetos and General Sorrengail that Genevieve was double-crossing them. 

Xaden and his squad may be being sent to their death, but she’s being executed too, all because the leadership knew Xaden would rather die than leave her behind and not have her in his squad. Now, staring at the crumpled letter in Xaden’s hand, Genevieve realized the magnitude of her failure. 

She hadn’t reported a single thing, and never spoke a single word of what was going on underneath their noses. Hadn’t returned the favor of information for her freedom. 

“That’s not…” Garrick shakes his head. 

“Guys, this is bad,” Liam shouts, and Imogen races to his side. 

“This isn’t your fault,” Xaden says, and Genevieve can’t tell if he’s assuring Violet or reminding Geneiveve, and then he rips his gaze from hers and turns to his friends, who are running down the ramparts to join them. “We’ve been sent here to die.” 

Xaden hands Garrick the missive, and the rest of them rush to the battlements to see what they’re up against, but Genevieve can’t spot any threat in the valley below or in the plains that stretch beyond for miles before the Cliffs of Dralor. 

“Something is off,” Tairn says. “I felt it at the lake, but it’s stronger here.” 

“Can you pinpoint what it is?” Panic has already flooded through Genevieve’s entire body. If Dain’s dad knows Xaden and the others have been supplying weapons to the gryphon fliers, there’s every chance this is their execution, too. 

“It’s coming from the valley below.” 

“I can’t see shit down there” Bodhi says, leaning over the edge of the masonry. 

“Well, I can,” Liam replies, “and if those are what I think they are, we’re fucked.” 

“Don’t tell me what you think they are—tell me what you’re sure of,” Xaden orders. 

“The letter says this is a test of your command,” the section leader reads behind them. “You have the choice of abandoning the village of our enemy or abandoning command of your wing.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Bodhi reaches back and takes the letter. 

“They’re testing our loyalty without saying it.” Xaden folds his arms over his chest, going to stand beside Genevieve who immediately moves backwards, taking Violet with her. “According to the missive, if we leave now, we’ll make it to the new location of headquarters for Fourth Wing at Eltuval in time to carry out our orders for War Games, but if we leave, the trading post of Resson and its occupants will be destroyed.” 

“By what?” Violet asks. 

“Venin.” Liam responds. 

“You’re positive?” Xaden asks. 

Liam nods. “As sure as I can be without having actually seen them before. Four of them. Purple robes. Distended red veins spidering all around bright red eyes. Creepy as shit.” 

“Sounds about right.” Xaden’s weight shifts. 

“I liked it better when we just delivered the weapons,” Bodhi mutters. 

“Oh, and one guy with a giant-ass staff,” Liam continues. “And I swear to Dunne, one second the plain was clear and the next they were just… there, walking toward the gates.” His eyes are wide, his pupils blown as he uses his signet to see the bottom of the valley. 

“Red veins?” Imogen asks. 

“Because magic corrupts their blood as they lose their souls,” Violet murmurs, looking at Genevieve, wondering if she remembers what that book on the first Life Weaver had said. “Nature likes everything in balance. It’s why Genevieve has such big drawbacks.” 

Every head turns in her way, except for Liam, who is too focused on the ground below. 

“If the fables and books are true, at least.” 

“Seven gryphons have landed next to us,” Tairn tells Genevieve, and everyone else stiffens, no doubt receiving the same message from their dragons. 

“The guy with the staff just—“ Liam starts. 

An explosion sounds, echoing up the sparsely treed valley, followed by a plume of blue smoke. 

“Those were the gates.” 

“How many people live in Resson?” Bodhi asks. 

“More than three hundred,” Imogen answers as another boom cracks through the valley. “That’s the post they do the yearly trades at.”

“Then let's get down there.” Genevieve says and turns, but Xaden steps back, blocking her path with an arm outstretched. “Are you seriously stopping me?” 

“We have no idea what we’re walking into.” Xaden’s voice is the same as the first day after Parapet. He’s commanding right now. 

“Genevieve’s right. You're saying we should just stand here while civilians die?” Bodhi questions, and everyone tenses. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Xaden shakes his head. He has to choose. That’s what the missive said. He can abandon that village or his command. “This isn’t a fucking training exercise, Bodhi. Some—if not all—of us are going to die if we go down there. If we’d been assigned to an active wing, there would be far older, more experienced leadership making this decision, but there aren’t. If we weren’t marked with rebellion relics, if we hadn’t been aiding the enemy,” his gaze darts briefly to Genevieve’s. “We wouldn’t even be here with this choice. So, all command structure aside, what are your thoughts?” 

“We have the numbers,” Soleil says, narrowing her brown eyes on the field and tapping her bright green nails rhythmically on the stone of the battlement. “And air superiority.” 

“There are four venin and eleven of us,” Garrick says, walking away from the edge of the battlement. 

“And the book on Life Weaving mentioned that nothing can survive the pull of a Life Weaver, so neither can venin. They’re still alive.” Violet points out. “At least there aren’t any wyvern.”

“Uh. What?” Bodhi’s eyebrows rise. 

“Wyvern. Fables say venin created them to compete with dragons and, instead of channeling from them, they channel power into them.” Violet explains, hoping that the fables were wrong and wyvern don’t actually exist. 

“Yeah, let’s not borrow trouble,” Xaden says, shooting a sideways look at Violet. “And let's not bank all of our man-power on Genevieve either. We haven’t tested how many lives she can take before it overwhelms her.” 

“We have the weapons to kill them,” Liam says, turning his back on the valley. “And Deigh told me seven gryphon fliers—”

“We’re here,” the older brunette from the lake says, striding down the battlement from the southeast corner. “I left the rest of the drift outpost once we noticed your outpost seemed to be abandoned.” She glances over at the rampart at the clouds of smoke rising from the valley beneath with a look of resignation, her shoulders dipping. “I’m not going to ask you to fight with us.” 

“You’re not?” Garrick asks with a raised eyebrow, and Genevieve can no longer remember which of the three of them—Xaden, Garrick, and Bodhi—are actually related. They all have the exact same mannerisms. It’s almost creepy. 

“No.” She gives him a sad smile. “For of them is a death sentence, even with a Life Weaver. The rest of my drift is making peace with our gods.” She turns toward Xaden. “I came to tell you to leave. You have no clue what they’re capable of wielding. It only took two of them to bring down an entire city last month. Two of them. We lost two drifts trying to stop them. If they’re four down there…” she shakes her head. “They’re after something, and they’re going to kill every single person in Resson to get it. Take your riot and go home while you can.” 

Genevieve’s heart squeezes in fear, but she knows at her core there is no way she is leaving. It goes against everything she stands for. These are innocent people, defenseless, oblivious to what is coming for them. 

“We have dragons,” Imogen says, her pitch rising. “Surely that has to count for something. We’re not afraid to fight.” 

“Are you afraid to die? Have any of you seen combat?” the brunette’s gaze sweeps over them, and suddenly Genevieve feels young as they reply with their silence. Only Xaden and Garrick have seen combat. “Thought not. Your dragons do count for something. They can fly you far and fast. Dragon fire won’t kill them. Only the daggers you’ve been bringing, and we have those.” She looks at Xaden. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. You’ve kept us alive these last couple of years and given us a fighting chance.” Her gaze shifts to Genevieve. “And I’m truly sorry about the death of Quinn, she was a formidable ally.” 

Genevieve cannot bear to look the woman in the eye. She just learned how Quinn died. For all she knows, this older brunette may have known her sister better than she ever did. 

“You’re going down there to die,” Xaden states. 

“Yes,” she nods as another explosion goes off in the distance. “Get your riot out of here. Fast.” Pivoting on her heel, she strides back down the rampart, her head held high as she descends the tower and disappears into the distance. 

Xaden’s jaw clenches, and Genevieve can feel an unbearable heaviness settle in her stomach. 

If they leave, they’ll all die. Every civilian, every flier. She wouldn’t have been guilty in their deaths, but she’ll be complicit all the same. She has the power once more. She could give these people a fighting chance at seeing tomorrow. 

If she fights, she’ll likely die with them. 

But she cannot back down. In no world would Genevieve Hale live as a coward rather than dying a fighter. 

Xaden’s shoulders straighten, and the rock in Genevieve’s stomach turns into cold, hard determination. He’s made a decision. She can see it in the lines of his face. But even if he says they’re turning back she will not leave. She will stay and fight.��

“Sgaeyl says she has never run from a fight, and today will not be the first. And I’m not going to stand by while innocent people are dying, either.” He shakes his head. “But I’m not going to order any of you to join me. I’m responsible for all of you. None of you crossed that Parapet because you wanted to. None of you. You crossed it because I made a deal. I’m the one who forced you into the quadrant, so I won’t think less of anyone who wants to fly for Eltuval instead. Make your choice.” He tears a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you in harm's way.” 

In a perfect world, that would be everything Genevieve needed to hear. But she’s too stubborn for her own good. “If the others get to make a choice, then so do I.” 

His jaw flexes. 

“We’re riders,” Imogen says as another explosion sounds. “We defend the defenseless, that's what we do.” 

“You saved every single one of us here, cousin,” Bodhi says. “And we’re thankful. Now, I’d like to do what we’ve trained for, and if it means I don’t go home, then I guess my soul will be commended to Malek. I wouldn’t mind seeing my mother anyway.” 

“I’ll tell you the same thing I did after War Games our first year when we decided to start smuggling out,” Garrick says. “You kept us alive all these years; we get to decide how we die. I’m with you.” 

“Exactly!” Soleil says, drumming her fingertips just above the dagger sheathed at her thigh. “I’m in.” 

Liam steps forward so he stands at Violet’s side once more. “We watched as our parents were executed because they had the courage to do the right thing. I’d like to think my death would be just as honorable.” “Agreed.” Imogen nods. 

They all do. One by one, everyone agrees, until there’s just Genevieve and Violet. Xaden captures the Sorrengail’s gaze first.

“I’ve been defenseless,” She tells him, lifting her chin. “And now I’m a rider. Rider’s fight.” 

He nods, and then his eyes lock with Genevieve’s, pleading for her to run, pleading for her to back away and never return, fly to safety and away from this place where he saw a mirror image of this exact girl die not even two years prior. 

Genevieve’s voice is steady, but her heart pounds in her chest as Xaden stares at her, pleading with his eyes, begging her to turn back, to leave the death that waits below. His expression hardens, a muscle twitching in his jaw but he doesn’t speak. His silence is louder than the explosions echoing from the valley. 

“We’re born free,” she says, each word laced with defiance. “All of us.” she shakes her head, determination blazing in her eyes. “If you win, you live. If you lose, you die. But if you don’t fight—you never have a chance to win.” 

Xaden’s gaze darkens, the weight of a thousand unspoken fears hanging between them. He knows. He knows what awaits them down there. She can see it, he just told her—he’s seen this all before. The battlefield, the blood, the bodies. He’s seen people just like her die for causes just like this. And he’s not ready to watch it happen again. 

But Genevieve was raised to not back down. Not now. Not ever. 

“I will never back away from a fight,” she declares, her voice rising with a fierce finality that cuts through the air like a blade. “Not when innocent lives are at stake. Not when I can make a difference.”

The others shout in agreement. A thousand emotions cross his face, but Xaden only nods as he walks toward the battlements. “Liam. Give me a report.” 

His foster brother moves to his side, and focuses. “The fliers are engaged, all seven—six of them. Looks like they’re trying to draw fire away from the civilians, but damn, the Venin are wielding a kind of fire I’ve never seen among riders. Three surround the city and one is making his way toward a structure in the middle. A clock tower.” 

Xaden nods, then divides the eleven of them according to objectives. Garrick and Solene will do a perimeter sweep for reconnaissance while the rest of them target the Venin on various sides of Resson, keeping an eye on the advance on the clock tower as they near it on each pass through town. “The only way to take them out is by dagger.” Xaden states, finalizing their positions.

“That means we’ll have to dismount and fight once we get the townspeople to whatever safety we can find,” Garrick finishes, his face set in grim lines that make him look far older than he is. “Don’t throw your only weapons unless you’re certain of your aim.” 

Xaden nods. “Save as many people as you can. Let’s go.” 

They make their way down the steps and through the silent courtyard, Xaden leading the way. When they emerge from the outpost, their dragons wait, all perched on the edge of the ridge line, shifting their weight in agitation as they survey the trading post below. 

Genevieve walks to directly to Tairn, not glancing at Sgaeyl or her rider. 

“I knew that despite your anger at Xaden, you would make the right choice.” The blue dragon says, glancing towards where he approaches with Liam, their footsteps dangerously close to the cliff side. “He did, too. Even if you hate him, he doesn’t like you putting yourself in danger, but he knew you would.” 

“Well, he knows me a great deal better than I know him.” Genevieve lifts her brow at him. 

She blinks, tilting her head to the side. “You’re a far cry from the imprisoned child you once were. I approve.” 

“I wasn’t asking for your approval.” 

She chuffs, and nudges Tairn’s head with hers, but he’s solely focused on the trading post. The rocky terrain crunches under Violet’s boots, but every step of Genevieve’s is masked by the new growths of grass, a testament to the stress and anxiety that exudes from her body with every moment. 

A screech rends the air, and an enormous gray dragon emerges from the valley two ridge lines to the South across the Poromish. It tucks its… two legs under its massive body as it flies away from the group, heading straight for Resson. 

“Violet, that dragon…” Genevieve starts. 

“I know,” She whispers back. “I saw.” 

“Do we have a riot nearby?” Liam asks. 

“No,” Xaden answers. 

The dragon shrieks again, spewing a streak of blue fire down the mountainside, setting some of the smaller trees on fire before it reaches the plains of Resson. 

“Violet!” Genevieve says one more time, her voice rising in panic. That was not a dragon. 

“Wyvern.” Violet’s heart launches into her throat. “Xaden, it has two legs, not four. It’s not a dragon. It’s a wyvern.” 

Holy shit, Violet was right. This was what leadership has been redacting. This is what—

“Well, there went out our air superiority,” Imogen says across from them, and then shrugs. “Fuck ‘em. They can die, too.” 

“They have created abominations,” Tairn growls, a low rumbling in his chest. 

“Did you know about this too?” 

“I suspected. Why do you think I’ve been so hard on you during flight maneuvers?” 

“You and I are going to have a long chat on our communication skills if I survive this thing.” 

“Guess we know all the details now,” Liam says. 

“Anyone want to change their minds?” Xaden asks down the line, no one responds. “No? Then mount up.” 

Genevieve strides toward Tairn’s shoulder while Xaden approaches. 

“Turn around, Gen,” He orders, and she pivots looking up at him with indifference on her face. She looks like there was never anything between them, and this time it’s his heart who feels like it may be shattering in his chest. Not when she threatened to kill him, or said that she hated him, but now, knowing that in the face of death, she would rather keep her mask of emotions firmly planted than look at him with honest emotions. He unsheathes one of his daggers and slides it in the empty spot at her ribs. “Now you have two.”

“You’re not going to lecture me about staying close to Liam or staying safe in the outpost?” She asks, her emotions rioting at the look of hurt on his face. This was not his time to feel hurt. He was the one who lied. 

“If I asked you to stand behind, or hide behind Liam, you would put me six feet under.” His eyes bore into hers. “I try not to pick fights I know I can’t win.” 

Her eyes flare. “Speaking of knowing you’ll win fights, General Melgren will know what’s happened here. He’ll be able to see the outcome of the battle even now.” 

He shakes his head slowly, and points to his neck, to the rebellion relic snaking around his throat. “Just trust me—because of this, Melgren can’t see a fucking thing.”

Her lips part, and she remembers Melgren saying he liked to lay eyes on Xaden once a year. “Any other secrets you’ve been conveniently hiding from me?” 

“Yes.” He cups her neck and leans into her space, his mind racing at the fact that she hasn’t pulled away or punched him in the nuts yet. “Stay alive, and I promise I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

She clenches her fist, suppressing the fact that no matter how angry she is, she knows that if push comes to shove she will trade her life for his. “I need you to survive this so I can beat your ass when this is all over.”

“I can live with that.” A corner of his mouth lifts, but the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The weight of the moment crushes any lightness he tries to force. Xaden’s hand lingers a second too long on her neck, as if he’s memorizing the feel of her skin, the pulse that quickens beneath his touch. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, are clouded with an emotion he refuses to name. 

Genevieve swallows hard, fighting the overwhelming urge to close the distance between them. But she can’t—she won’t. Not when he’s lied to her, deceived her, kept things from her when trust was the only thing keeping them from splintering completely. Yet here they are, moments away from charging into battle, side by side as they always are. As they always will be. 

Her face is unreadable, like one beneath the battle-weary surface, and it sends a painful twist through his chest. He wants to say something else—anything that will make her stay for just a moment longer. But the words sit heavy on his tongue, unmoving, just like her gaze that no longer meets his. 

Genevieve pulls away and turns back to Tairn, who rumbles low in his chest. His scales glint against the sky, and what seem like clouds roll in from the south, matching the turmoil swirling inside her. As she reaches for the pommel to mount Tairn, her hand shakes—just barely—but she forces herself to still. There is no time for second guessing, not with the wyvern shrieking and the venin purging the life around them. 

“Genevieve,” Xaden’s voice comes from behind her, rougher now, as if he’s barely holding something back. 

She pauses but doesn’t look at him. “What is it?” 

His silence stretches out long enough that she almost mounts Tairn just to escape it. But then he speaks, and the words he says feel like a dagger plunging into her chest, and twisting with each syllable. “I don’t need you to forgive me,” he says, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “But I need you to know that I never stopped caring about you. No matter how much you hate me, I never stopped.” 

Her breath hitches, and before she can stop herself, she blurts, “Then why did you do it, Xaden? Why keep things from me when you knew—” She bites her lip, stopping herself from saying too much. 

“When I knew you’d hate me for it?” he finishes for her, his voice thick with regret. “Because I didn’t want you to carry the weight of it. You carry enough. And because I’m a selfish bastard who couldn’t stand the thought of losing you completely. Even if it meant keeping you in the dark.” 

Genevieve’s chest tightens at his words, a mix of anger and sorrow swirling within her. She wants to scream at him, to hit him for being so infuriatingly noble and so devastatingly broken. But she can’t. Not now. Not with everything hanging by a thread. So instead, she just nods, her jaw clenched. 

For a split second, her hand tightens on Tairn’s back. Her pulse quickens, but she refuses to let him see that his words have any effect on her. Not when everything between them is broken, perhaps beyond repair. She takes a deep breath, her throat tightening. “That’s not what matters anymore, Xaden. You made your choice. Now you deal with the consequences.” 

His footsteps crunch closer. She can feel his presence, the warmth that he always radiates a comforting presence behind her, and for a fleeting moment, she wants to turn around, to let herself lean into the hurt and the love and the confusion that tangles between them. She wants to fall into his arms and let the sun warm her, and to feel like she’s the world in the center of his gravity. But that’s not who she is—not anymore. 

“I know,” he whispers. “But I couldn’t go into this battle without saying it.” 

She closes her eyes, fighting the sting behind her eyelids. He always knew exactly when to push, to dig under her skin and pry her emotions from the cold, dead hands of fear that fester in her chest. She wants to scream at him, to tell him that his feelings don’t matter when everything else is at stake. But her heart, traitorous as it is, doesn’t agree. 

After a long pause, she finally turns to face him, her mask cracking just enough to show the glimmer of pain she’s buried deep. Her voice is low, barely more than a warm breath on a cool winter day. “Don’t make this harder than it already is, Xaden.” 

But Xaden can’t let her go like that—not without saying the one thing that’s been clawing at him ever since his entire world crumbled to ashes. He grabs her arm, and when her eyes meet his again, there’s a desperation hiding behind his deep, black eyes she’s never seen before. 

“Gen, if we don’t make it—” he starts, but she cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head. 

“Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you fucking dare.” her voice cracks, and she feels the hot sting of tears threatening to spill. She blinks them back furiously. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not without—”

Her words falter, and Xaden’s hand tightens on her arm. He pulls her close, so close that their foreheads nearly touch, and for a moment, the world around them fades—the wyverns, the dragons, the venin, the impending battle. It’s just them, standing on the edge of a cliff, with everything and nothing between them. 

“I love you, Genevieve,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the wind. “I’ve loved you for longer than I’ve had any right to. And I know I’ve messed up, I know I’ve hurt you time and time again, but if this is it—if this is the last chance I have to remind you, then I need you to remember that I do.” 

Her breath catches in her throat, and for a second, she can’t move, can’t think. She stares at him, wide-eyed, as his words sink in. They cut through every layer of her porcelain mask. 

And then, without thinking, without caring about the consequences, she surges forward, closing the space between them, her lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s as desperate as it is bittersweet. It’s a last goodbye, holding everything that neither of them want to say. A kiss that holds all the pain, all the anger, all the love they’ve been drowning in. 

As they pull apart, their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the tense silence between them. 

“I hate you,” she whispers, but there’s no venom in the words. It’s a lie, and they both know it. 

“I know,” he replies, his lips brushing against her forehead. “I love you too.” 

The truth is written in the way his hand trembles against her skin, in the way his breath catches when she leans in just a little closer. The truth is in the silence that stretches between them, heavy with all the apologies the two of them are leaving unsaid. 

“You need to remember, to know, that even if we die today, you were always more than a soldier to me. More than just a spy.” 

Her throat tightens even more. Damn him. Damn him for doing this now, for making her feel when she needs to be numb. When she needs to be focused. “Stop.” her voice trembles, and she hates it. “Just stop. That kiss was a mistake.” 

“I can’t.” his voice is a broken whisper, and his eyes search hers as if he’s looking for something, anything, to hold onto. “I can’t stop.” 

Her breath catches. She feels the pull, the temptation to fall into him once more, to let herself believe in something other than duty and survival. But there’s a forest of lies and secrets between them, and her ax is dulled. 

“You should have thought of that before.” Her voice is cold, harsher than she intends, but it's the only line of defense she has left. “Before you kept things from me. Before you made choices for me.” 

His jaw clenches, and the hurt in his eyes intensifies, but he doesn’t argue. He knows she’s right. 

Another screech splits the sky, and they both turn to see the wyvern in the distance, circling closer now, its massive form blotting out the sun for a moment. The world snaps back into focus, the impending battle rushing in between them like a flood. 

She takes a step back, severing the threads that she left tying them together. “We have a fight to win, Riorson. Focus on that.” 

He nods, though his expression remains haunted. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “We do.” 

With one last glance, she turns and mounts Tairn, her body tense as she settles into the crook of his back. She can’t afford to look back. She can’t afford to care about the way Xaden still watches her as if she’s the only thing keeping her anchored to this world.

Tairn shifts beneath her, sensing her turmoil. “We are not at our best when distracted, little soldier. Please try to keep yourself alive.” 

“I’m trying,” she mutters under her breath, her gaze locked on the horizon where the dark shapes of wyverns begin to close in. The sky is painted in hues of gray, the dust and smoke from blue flames covering the glow of the sun, casting an eerie glow over the ridge. There’s a chill in the air, the kind that settles in your bones and doesn’t leave. 

And somewhere, just beyond the horizon, death is waiting.

--------

hey everyone! holy shit, what a long week (for me at least. what do you mean its wednesday, i need sleep.) My first quarter of the school year just ended and term grades are due friday so I am grinding to get everything done. omg.

so, what did we think about this chapter? Xaden and Genevieve having their moment, saying their last goodbyes? and what about Genevieve acting like how xaden was around violet in the original fourth wing and iron flame. girly will not allow violet out of her sight and I love that.

anyways, i've started writing the second book at this point, up to my own chapter three, which is about chapter 4~5 ish in iron flame, and I've started to write my own original story called Regalia Forge, so i'll keep you updated on that!

as always, if you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, or kudo, and I'll be back on saturday with chapter 26!

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Taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix , @glaciuswduo , @wolfbc97

[onechicagolife]

ABSENTIA | JAY HALSTEAD

Detective Jay Halstead is a senior member of the Intelligence Unit, where he is partnered with Detective Hailey Upton after his former partner went missing undercover. While he never wanted to give up hope, the CPD assumed her dead and he was resigned to accept it. Now, two years later, Jay gets a sudden phone call with news that changes his life forever. Avery Clarke is alive. want to be tagged? link in bio <3

Chapter 12

Kim bursts into the gym, her breaths uneven, her words rushed. “There you are!” She freezes, eyes catching on Avery’s blood-streaked knuckles as she finishes wrapping gauze around her hands, red already blooming through the white fabric. Her expression is sharp with worry, but there’s no time to question it, “We got a location. Come on, we’re rolling out.”

Avery is on her feet before Kim finishes the sentence, grabbing her jacket and gun in one motion. She doesn’t speak as they head to the cars, the blare of lights and sirens filling the air.

The team gathers in front of the industrial building as Voight lays out the plan, his voice gruff and commanding, “The front has surveillance cameras. So, Kim, you and Rojas hold the perimeter. Kev, you and Hailey take the south side of the building.”

Kim gives a tight nod, pulling Vanessa with her, while the rest continue on. Adam stops at the door while Kevin and Hailey keep walking. Avery steps forward instinctively to follow, but Voight’s voice halts her.

“Clarke. Stay with me and Ruzek.” The words are a command, not a request. He doesn’t trust her right now—not with the fire burning in her eyes, not with how close to the edge she’s standing. Avery bites the inside of her cheek so hard she tastes blood but doesn’t argue. She falls into step behind Adam, her body vibrating with impatience as he works at the locked door with a crowbar.

“Sarge, no entry point on the south side,” Atwater’s voice crackles through the radio.

“Just keep looking,” Voight responds, the clipped edge of his tone mirroring her growing frustration.

Adam grunts as he wrenches the crowbar against the bolt. It gives only slightly, the groan of metal dragging out the seconds. She steps in beside him, grabbing the end of the bar to add some torque. They work silently, sweat beading on their brows as the first bolt gives way.

Kevin’s voice suddenly comes through, louder this time, “Upton’s inside, Sarge.”

Her head snaps up. “Adam,” her voice is sharp, urgent, cracking under the pressure.

“I’m working on it,” her partner bites back, the second bolt loosening with an agonizing creak.

But it’s taking too long. Hailey’s in there, and if Hailey got in, so could she. Before anyone can stop her, Avery takes off at a sprint, her boots slapping against the pavement.

“Clarke!” Voight’s voice booms behind her. “Clarke, get back here!” He watches her disappear around the corner, futilely calling out her name.

She doesn’t stop. She can’t.

She finds Atwater on the sidewalk, glancing up the wall. She follows his line of sight, narrowing in on the small window. “Kev, help me up,” she orders, no room for argument in her tone.

Kevin hesitates only for a second before bending to cup his hands, “You ready?”

Avery nods, and with a grunt, he lifts her up. She hooks her arms over the window ledge, her muscles straining as she hauls herself through the narrow opening. The rough concrete scrapes her skin, but she barely registers it. With a final push from Kevin, she squeezes through and crawls across the dusty floor inside.

“All right, Hailey, you got your ears on?” the sergeant’s voice comes through the radio, cutting in and out. Silence.

Her heart slams in her chest as she moves forward, gun drawn, steps calculated but fast. “Hailey, I’m in. I’m right behind you.”

“We got entry on the west side. We are moving in. Do you copy, Hailey?” Voight asks again.

“I think she shut down, Sarge. Avery just landed. On my way,” Kevin runs to meet up with the others as they rush in.

Jay moves with hurried, deliberate motions, his body aching from exhaustion. He searches the unconscious man’s body, looking for something—anything before their other captor returns. Eventually, he finds a knife and flicks it open with shaking fingers, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light. He moves to Angela, kneeling in front of her.

“You did good, okay? You did real good,” he murmurs, working to untie the zip ties cutting into her wrists. Her eyes are barely open, her skin tinged a sickly grey as blood seeps from her wounds.

“Okay. All right,” Jay finishes untying her. He grabs the pipe he’d used earlier and places it in Angela’s trembling hands. “Stay here. Stay here.” He forces her fingers closed around the metal, “Take this, I’m going after the other one. Okay?” He squeezes her hand tightly to make sure she understands, waits for her weak nod before rising to his feet.

Every step feels like wading through water as he moves towards the stairs. His vision swims, and his head pounds, one eye nearly swollen shut. He can hear the man’s voice above him, shouting angrily into a phone, growing louder as Jay gets closer. Gripping the knife tighter, his knuckles turn white around the handle as adrenaline starts to dull the pain aching through his body. He pauses at the top step and waits for the man to turn his back before he rushes him, blocking a hit and grabbing him by the shoulders.

The man struggles against him, wild and desperate, but Jay keeps the knife steady, driving it into his stomach with a grunt of effort. The gun is knocked from his hand, flying over the railing with a clank but he doesn’t stop fighting. Jay twists the blade, shoving the man back into a beam before they collapse onto the concrete floor in a tangled heap.

“Jay!”

The voice—her voice—cuts through the haze, sending a jolt through him. For a split second, Jay swears he’ll look up and see Avery standing there. But when his gaze snaps up, it’s a blonde ponytail that catches his eye through slightly blurred vision. Exhausted, his breaths come out in ragged pants as he rests back on his heels. Hailey rushes to him, kneeling in front of him with watery eyes.

“Jay, are you okay?” she asks frantically. Before he can answer, she leans in, pressing two quick, desperate kisses to his lips. Hailey lifts a hand to prod at the bleeding cut above his eye, “Hey, are you okay?”

Jay doesn’t respond. He can’t stop his eyes from drifting over her shoulder, expecting—hoping—to see someone else. Just hang in there, okay? Avery’s voice reverberates in his head. He forces himself upright, swaying as he does. “I’ve got to go help Angela,” he says hoarsely, staggering toward the steps. “She’s downstairs.” He ignores the silent plea in his partner’s gaze and mumbles, “Stay here.”

She gives a reluctant nod, voice betraying her as it cracks, “5021 Henry, we’ve got an offender down and an officer injured. Roll two ambulances.”

Avery bursts into the room moments later, wild eyes taking in the scene before lowering her weapon. “Where is he?” she demands.

“He’s okay,” Hailey says breathlessly, tilting her chin toward the stairs, “He’s getting Angela.”

Jay rounds the corner, his steps faltering as his eyes land on Angela. His chest tightens at the sight of her, blood-streaked and trembling, the gun shaking in her hands as it points directly at him. He raises his hands slowly, his voice calm despite the thunderous pounding in his chest. “Angela,” he breathes, his words measured, “Angela, it’s okay. My partner’s here, okay?”

Her eyes flicker, a sliver of recognition cutting through the fog of her terror. The gun wavers, lowering an inch. Relief blooms faintly in Jay’s chest as he takes a cautious step forward, his hands still raised. His voice softens.

“You’re safe. It’s over,” he assures her, trying to project the calm she so desperately needs. But something isn’t right. He can see it in the way her face shifts, in the way her gaze hardens suddenly, becoming unreadable.

Jay freezes, confusion flashing across his face, “Angela—”

The word dies in his throat as her arm jerks up again. His body moves instinctively, too slow to stop her as she pulls the trigger. The gunshot shatters the air. The force of the bullet slams into his upper chest, just below his shoulder, with a fiery, searing pain that steals the breath from his lungs. The momentum sends him staggering back into the wall and for a second, everything tilts. His brain is scrambling to process what just happened, and then gravity yanks him forward. He collapses to the floor, landing hard before flopping onto his back with a strangled groan.

The pain is overwhelming. His chest feels like it’s on fire, every breath a jagged knife slicing through his ribs. Jay has been shot before. More than once—in the shoulder, in the side. But it never felt like this. The bullet seems to have taken something vital with it, and his vision swims as the room tilts around him. He stares up at the ceiling, the cracks blurring as his body grows heavier and he groans with the increasing effort it takes to take in air. His limbs won’t move, and the cold concrete beneath him seems to reach up and pull him under.

Panic claws at his mind, but another voice rises to drown it out.

Just hang in there, okay?

It’s her face that flashes in his mind, not Hailey’s. Her sharp, determined gaze. Her teasing smile. The way she always seemed to know what he was thinking before he did.

He’s thought about Avery every second since she came back—every second since he learned she wasn’t dead. He tried not to. He tried to respect her boundaries by setting his own, not allowing himself to dream about her. But now, in the haze of pain and desperation, she’s all he can see. The way she looked at him that day in the hospital. The fire in her eyes outside of Molly’s. The sound of her voice, just hours ago, that he clung to like a lifeline.

But it’s not just those memories. No, something older claws its way to the surface—something that plagued his nightmares for too long.

Jay leaned his forearms against his thighs inside the surveillance van as he listened over the wire. Avery’s voice came through steady and confident, her tone laced with the easy charm that had earned her a place at that table. She was always good at this—too good, if he was being honest. She had a way of slipping into her cover like a second skin, convincing everyone around her that she belonged. But even now, hearing the playful lilt in her voice, Jay couldn’t shake the knot tightening in his stomach. He tried to dismiss it as being a worried partner, an overprotective boyfriend, but something about this op didn’t feel right.

Her words back at the district played in his head, the way she smirked as he helped adjust the transmitter in the button of her jacket. “That’s why you have back up, right?”she teased before stealing a kiss, lips lingering with a promise of more to come when they got home that night.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Nik,” her voice came through with a laugh, the faint clink of glass punctuating her words.

His jaw clenched as he listened, picturing her sitting there, surrounded by men who wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if they found out who she really was. They’d been opposite each other undercover dozens of times, but it didn’t make it any easier to stomach. Avery was fearless, and he hated how much he admired that about her. Hated how often it put her in situations like this one. But that was the job, and she was damn good at it.

Adam chuckled at the thinly veiled flirting from Volkov, making Jay roll his eyes. “Can we get down to business now?” she said, her tone shifting slightly, her words sharp and direct.

He couldn’t see her, but he could hear the subtle change in her tone as she pushed back, negotiating like her life depended on it. Maybe it did. His brow furrowed as the faint sound of movement crackled through the wire. Jay strained to listen, every nerve in his body on edge. It was a sound he’d heard countless times before—someone moving, stepping away—but this time, it seemed strange. A low voice in the background caught his attention.

“Something’s wrong,” Adam shook his head, shifting closer to the monitors.

Jay lifted a hand to stop him from grabbing his radio, “She’s got this.”

Until she didn’t. They could feel it—something shifting, like a wave pulling back before a storm.

“Someone is wearing a wire.”

He froze. The words were sharp and guttural, spoken in a thick accent. His heart slammed into his ribcage as the sound of chairs scraping against the floor filled the line. For a moment, there was nothing but static in his head, a rising panic that threatened to drown out everything else. Then he heard Avery’s voice again.

“What?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. She was stalling. He knew that tone, knew she was trying to buy time. “C’mon, Nik, you know me.” And then she said it. “You know I’m trustworthy.”

The safe word. The one they’d carefully chosen as just inconspicuous enough, the one that meant she was in immediate danger.

Jay shot to his feet, his heart racing as he grabbed his radio, “That’s the safe word! She’s blown, everybody move in!”

He was already moving, slamming open the van door and sprinting toward the building. He could hear the team mobilizing, their footsteps pounding behind him, but it wasn’t fast enough. It never felt fast enough.

The sounds coming through the wire were chaos—voices overlapping, chairs scraping, and then a muffled thud. His chest tightened as he heard Avery’s voice rise, still calm but laced with urgency.

“Nik, you know me! This is ridiculous!” she said, her words sharper now, strained. “C’mon, Nik!”

His mind raced. He could hear the struggle in her voice, the desperation she was trying to mask. Then, the sickening sound of something hard slamming against wood, followed by silence. A static, suffocating silence.

Jay had never felt so powerless. They’d stormed the location within minutes, but it was already too late. She was gone. Disappeared without a trace, leaving behind only a bloodstain and a hollow ache in his chest. For two years, that moment haunted him. The sound of her voice, the way it cracked in fear. The knowledge that he hadn’t gotten to her in time. He’d relived it a thousand times, wondering if he could’ve done something differently. Reacted sooner. Run faster. Anything to stop what happened. To bring her back.

He’d thought she was dead. Buried her in his heart. Tried to move on, even as every part of him ached for the partner he thought he’d lost forever.

And now, lying on the floor, bleeding out, Jay feels the same helplessness creeping in. The same regret. The same crushing sense of failure. The thought of losing her forever.

But he didn’t lose her. She came back.

His vision blurs, his breath hitching as he fights to stay conscious. Footsteps echo in the distance—faint but growing louder. His mind races as he hears voices shouting his name, but all he can focus on is one.

The gunshot echoes through the building, a deafening crack that freezes every muscle in Avery’s body. Her breath catches in her throat as the sound booms in her ears, each second stretching unbearably long. Breathe in. Hailey doesn’t hesitate, her face pale and steps frantic as she descends the stairs. Breathe out. Avery stands rooted to the spot, her mind screaming at her to move. Breathe in. Her body feels heavy, paralyzed by a sickening wave of dread. Breathe out. Then something snaps inside her, and she forces herself into action, her boots pounding against the concrete as panic coils tighter and tighter in her chest.

When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, the sight steals what little breath is left in her lungs. Jay is splayed out on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, his face pale and glistening with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths, each one more labored than the last. Angela lays slumped a few feet away, the gun still loosely gripped in her trembling hand.

“No,” Hailey chokes out, her voice breaking as she drops to her knees beside him. Her hands fly to his chest, pressing down on the wound as blood gushes between her fingers. “Jay, look at me,” she pleads, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation.

Unable to look away, Avery remains frozen for another heartbeat before her gaze shifts to Angela. Realizing what she’s done, she draws her weapon in one fluid motion, her voice unnaturally loud. “Chicago PD! Drop the gun! DROP IT!”

Angela flinches, her grip faltering. The gun slips from her fingers and clatters to the floor. Whether she dropped it by choice or out of sheer weakness, Avery doesn’t care. Her pulse roars in her ears as she stalks forward, kicking the weapon out of reach with more force than necessary.

“Get on your stomach! NOW!” her voice is raw, trembling with anger as her finger hovers over the trigger, fighting the urge to pull. Angela doesn’t move, her body too weak, her eyes unfocused. Avery clenches her jaw, wrestling with her fury. She knows what she should do—what her badge demands of her—but she’s overwhelmed with vengeance, the sight of Jay’s bloodied form flashing behind her eyes.

But then she hears it—his ragged gasp behind her—and it grounds her. Forces her to remember who she is. Avery holsters her weapon, crouching down and rolling Angela onto her back. Her hands press against the wound in her stomach, a bitter satisfaction blooming as the woman grunts in pain before her eyes flutter closed.

The sound of heavy footsteps draws Avery’s attention as Voight bursts through the doorway, his eyes scanning the scene. His gaze lands on Jay, and his expression hardens into grim determination as he reaches for his radio. “10-1,” he snaps, “10-1, officer down.”

Adam rushes in with wide eyes, hesitating for a second before rushing over to his best friend. He places his hands atop hers, adding more pressure as he mutters her name. She ticks her eyes up to meet his, unshed tears clouding her vision, bottom lip quivering. After he sends a stiff nod, Avery slowly removes her hands to let him take over completely.

“Jay,” Hailey demands. Her hands remain on the wound, sticky with blood, while the other feels for his pulse, “Stay with me. Stay with me, Jay.”

His head lolls to the side, eyelids fluttering as Jay mutters something under his breath. His voice is barely audible, a slurred whisper, “Ave... Aver…”

Hailey’s face falls, the hurt flashing in her eyes, but she says nothing. Avery shuffles beside him, her breath hitching as she forces a smile through her tears. “Hey,” she chokes out, bringing a hand to stroke his cheek. “I’m here, okay? Listen to me. You are not allowed to die on me, Jay. You’re stronger than this, you hear me? You don’t get to quit. You don’t get to leave me, not like this.”

His eyes flicker toward her face, struggling to focus. Hailey clears the emotion from her throat, looking over her shoulder at the approaching paramedic, “His vitals are dropping. He’s losing too much blood.”

Voight’s voice booms over the chaos, “Set up an Officer Down detail to Med. Get those cars here now!”

One of the medics moves in, placing an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth while the other sets down a backboard. The paramedics lift Jay onto the stretcher, his body limp and pale. Avery grabs his hand, gripping it tightly as they begin wheeling him out. His gaze flickers between her and Hailey on either side, his lips moving in silent effort. His vision blurs, their faces melding into one as he struggles to stay conscious.

As the team moves with the stretcher, Jay catches flashes of his friends, their voices anchoring him to reality. Everything is moving so slowly, their words lagging as they reach his ears. He tries to focus on something—anything, but it’s all he can do to not let the darkness swallow him whole.

The stretcher bursts through the doors, and the outside air feels like a slap to her face. Avery stumbles slightly as the sight of the waiting ambulance brings everything into sharp focus. Voight shouts at the gathered officers, his tone sharp and commanding, “Move it! Clear the way! Let’s go, now!” The crowd parts instantly, officers scrambling to make a path.

Avery tightens her grip on Jay’s hand, unwilling to let go. But then she has no choice because the paramedics lift the stretcher just as Hailey steps around, her movements rushed and frantic. “I’m going with him,” the blonde’s tone leaves no room for argument and her shoulder accidentally bumps Avery’s as she climbs inside the ambulance, jarring her just enough that Jay’s hand slips from her grasp.

She freezes, staring as the doors slam shut with a resounding finality, and all she hears is that gunshot. Avery stands motionless in the street, her bloodied hands hanging at her sides as the ambulance roars to life, lights flashing. The wail of the siren fades into the distance, leaving behind an empty ache.

Around her, the team tries to process. Adam watches her with concern. Kevin paces nearby, his fists clenching and unclenching. Kim stands still, her lips pressed tightly together as she fights to hold back tears.

But Avery doesn’t move. She doesn’t hear Hank barking orders or the screech of tires as squad cars pull away. She’s rooted in place, her eyes fixed on the spot where the ambulance disappeared. Blood drips steadily onto the pavement from her fingertips, hands trembling as the adrenaline drains from her body, leaving only fear in its wake. Fear that the last thing Jay said might be the last thing he’ll ever say.

And all she can hear is his breathless gasp of her name.

The waiting room is a prison. The air is thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears and the quiet prayers of officers who line the walls. The room buzzes with nervous energy—pacing footsteps, whispered conversations, the constant hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Every time the automatic doors slide open, heads snap toward them, hope flickering and fading in an instant.

Avery sits motionless in the corner with her elbows draped over her knees, her bandaged hands clasped tightly. Her gaze is fixed on the pale blue wall in front of her, unfocused and unseeing. The blood on her hands—Jay’s blood—still feels warm and sticky, no matter how many times she’s scrubbed them raw. Her knuckles throb beneath the fresh gauze, but the pain barely registers. She feels… nothing. Empty.

Adam’s worried gaze burns into the side of her head, but she doesn’t look at him. She can’t. She knows what she’ll see—the pity, the quiet sorrow, the hint of fear over what she’ll do next—and she can’t handle that right now. Not when she’s barely holding herself together. When she woke up in this very hospital just weeks ago, she thought she was broken. She had no idea that there were still thousands of pieces left to shatter.

Time stretches endlessly. The clock ticks in her periphery, each second dragging like an eternity. When the automatic doors finally slide open again, the sound feels louder than it should. Will steps into the waiting room, his face pale but composed. The room shifts instantly, officers rising to their feet, the quiet hum of conversation dying as everyone turns to face him.

Will’s eyes scan the crowd, pausing briefly on Avery. Something flickers across his face, something she can’t quite place, before his gaze moves to Hailey, and he clears his throat. “Hey, everybody,” he begins, his voice surprisingly steady. “I just talked to Dr. Marcel. The bullet grazed an artery. They’re still trying to repair it.”

The words hang heavy in the room. No one moves. No one breathes.

Voight steps forward, his expression controlled but his voice an octave lower than usual, “Will? Is he gonna be okay?”

Will hesitates, his careful mask slipping for just a moment. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” he admits, his voice quieter now.

The silence that follows is suffocating. Avery’s stomach churns, her fingers digging into the bandages on her hands as she stares at the wall. Her mind spins with worst-case scenarios, images she can’t push away no matter how hard she tries. Blood pouring from his chest, breaths stuttering, the light leaving his eyes.

Kim strides into the room, heading straight for Voight, “I got an update on Angela Nelson.”

“Okay,” he replies gruffly, turning toward her.

Her lips press into a thin line, “Doctors removed the bullet. She’s gonna be fine.”

Avery’s head snaps to the side at those words she most likely wasn’t supposed to overhear, her blank expression twisting into something dangerous as she rises on unsteady legs. “Where is she?” she demands.

Kim glances at Voight, who gives her a nod, and she leads the way.

The officer stationed outside Angela’s room steps aside at Voight’s approach, opening the sliding door for them, and they enter without hesitation.

“Angela Nelson,” Voight begins, his voice cold and unrelenting.

Angela stirs in the hospital bed, her face wan but her eyes sharp as they flicker open. She looks around the room, her gaze catching on the handcuff securing her wrist to the bedrail before she tugs experimentally.

“You’re being charged with the attempted murder of a Chicago police officer.”

Lips curling into a sneer, she practically spits out her next words, “He got what he deserved.”

Her control snaps. Avery steps forward, her voice a low, threatening growl, “What did you just say?”

The other woman’s glare doesn’t waver, “It’s karma for what he did.”

Hank’s voice cuts through Avery’s rage, stony and deliberate, “I don’t know much about karma, but I do know if Jay Halstead dies, you’re gonna wish you never lived.”

“You can’t silence me,” she says through grit teeth. “People are gonna know what that cop did to my husband. This whole damn city’s gonna know.”

Not wanting to listen to anymore of her vitriol, the three of them turn to leave. Avery manages a few steps, her fists clenched at her sides, but Angela’s voice stops her in her tracks.

“You his partner?”

The question makes her pause mid-stride. She turns her head just slightly, her tone clipped, “What?”

“Your voice,” Angela says with just a hint of curiosity. “You were on the phone.”

The detective ignores her and keeps walking, but Angela isn’t done. “He said you wouldn’t stop until you found him,” she calls after her, mocking. “Lotta good it did him.”

The words hit Avery like a slap. She moves to the bed in hurried steps, her fury boiling over as she grabs the chain of the handcuff, yanking it sharply. Angela gasps, her face twisting in pain as the metal bites into her already torn skin, but she doesn’t let go. Her other hand clamps down on Angela’s jaw with bruising pressure, forcing her to meet her eyes.

“You shot the man I love,” Avery growls, her voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “And if he dies, no one—not your doctors, not the cops guarding this room, not whatever God you might believe in—is going to save you from me.”

Angela winces but doesn’t speak, her defiance fading under Avery’s burning threat—no, her promise.

“Clarke,” Hank’s voice cuts through the tension, calm but firm. Avery holds Angela’s gaze a beat longer before releasing her hold with more force than necessary.

She walks past her sergeant without a word, her chest heaving and hands shaking. The hallway feels too bright, too sterile. She rounds a corner and leans against the wall, sliding down until she’s sitting on the cold tile floor. The adrenaline that had carried her through the confrontation is gone, leaving behind a crushing weight in her chest. Tears sting, but she doesn’t let them fall. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, massaging the dull, throbbing headache as her mind replays Angela’s words over and over.

He said you wouldn’t stop until you found him.

Lotta good it did him.

Eventually, Avery forces herself back to the waiting room, her steps slow and heavy. Most of the team has been called out to another case, leaving behind a cluster of officers she barely knows. She stops in the doorway, scanning the room. She feels untethered, adrift, and then her gaze lands on Hailey. The blonde is slumped in her seat, head in her hands as her shoulders tremble slightly. She looks so small, so unlike the confident, composed detective that she has seen in the field. It sends a pang through her chest, but she doesn’t know if it’s empathy or jealousy—or some toxic mix of both.

For a moment, she considers leaving. Thinks about finding some quiet corner to wait out the agony in peace. But her feet betray her, and she moves toward Hailey before she can think better of it. She sinks into the chair next to her. Neither of them says anything at first. Avery stares ahead, her fingers curling and uncurling in her lap. Hailey doesn’t look up, but she can feel the tension radiating off her.

When Hailey finally speaks, her voice is hoarse, “He said your name.”

She stiffens, but does her best to keep her face carefully neutral, “What?”

“When he was…” Hailey pauses, swallowing hard. She finally lifts her head, blue eyes rimmed with tears. “When he was laying there, bleeding out. He didn’t say my name. He said yours.”

Avery doesn’t know what to say. Her throat tightens, and for a moment, she can’t breathe. She peers down at her hands, the blood still staining her skin like a cruel reminder.

Hailey seems to contemplate her next words, “He hasn’t been the same since you got back.”

Head snapping up, Avery narrows her eyes at the blonde, “What are you trying to say?”

She shakes her head quickly, “I’m not blaming you. I’m not. I just…” She sucks in a shaky breath, unable to meet her gaze as she smooths a hand over her ponytail. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. And I can’t—I can’t compete with that.”

“You’re his girlfriend. His partner,” Avery says, her voice sharper than she intends. Because there’s nothing to compete with when you’ve already won.

Hailey lets out a bitter laugh, quickly swiping at the tear slipping down her cheek, “It’s not that simple. And we both know it.”

She bites back a retort, her jaw clenching as she leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. The truth is, the words sting because they’re too close to what she’s been desperately trying to ignore. Avery knows she and Jay have unresolved feelings—knows that every time she sees him, it’s like a wound reopening. But he’s not hers anymore. He chose Hailey.

Except, in his weakest moment, he didn’t.

“I didn’t come back to ruin his life,” Avery says finally, her voice low and raw. “I didn’t come back to hurt you, either. I didn’t come back for anything, Hailey. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t choose any of this.”

But she did… Didn’t she?

Nodding, Hailey rubs her forehead, though her expression remains tight, “I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Silence settles between them again, but this time it feels heavier. Avery feels the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on her, suffocating. She glances at Hailey, taking in her tear-streaked face, the way her hands tremble as she clasps them together, and it’s like looking in a mirror.

“You love him,” Avery says softly, the words more of a statement than a question.

Her breath hitches, and Hailey nods, “Of course I do.”

Avery looks away, blinking rapidly to keep her own tears at bay. She lets out a broken, resigned sigh, “Yeah. Me too.”

The confession hangs in the air, both of them waiting for it to explode. But it doesn’t. Instead, the weight of their shared anxiety settles over them, binding them in a way neither of them expected. For the first time, Hailey’s voice softens. “He’s been worried about you, you know—that you’re spiraling.”

She sits up straight, her walls going up immediately, “I don’t need a lecture.” Not from him, and sure as hell not from her.

“I’m not lecturing you,” Hailey says, her tone exasperated. “I’m telling you that he still cares. More than you probably realize. And if he—” Her voice breaks, and she takes a moment to steady herself. “If he doesn’t make it, you’re going to have to live with that. Just like I will.”

The words are a punch to the gut, stealing her breath. She glances down at her hands again, her vision blurring as tears spill over. For the first time since she walked into the waiting room, she lets herself feel the full weight of her fear. “I can’t—” she chokes on her words, closing her eyes tightly. Breathing in through her nose, she tries to steady her racing heart. “I’m afraid,” Avery sucks in a sharp breath, “of what I’ll do if he doesn’t pull through this.” Afraid of what she's capable of.

Staring at her profile, images flash in Hailey’s mind—of Jay’s concern that Avery shot a suspect in cold blood, of Avery standing in the cage with her gun in Silva’s mouth. She scoots closer, nudging her thigh against the other woman’s leg until she meets her gaze. “That’s why we have a team,” Hailey gives a weak smile.

That’s why you have back up.

“You just have to let them help you.”

The air outside the hospital is cold, biting against her skin as Avery sits hunched on a bench just outside the main entrance. The faint hum of Chicago traffic in the distance mingles with the occasional murmur of hospital staff passing by, but she barely notices. Her arms rest on her knees, her hands clasped tightly together as her mind churns, skin pulsing beneath the gauze. She flexes her stiff fingers a few times, the ache finally making itself known.

The bench is cold beneath her, grounding her in its discomfort. The emotional roller coaster of the last 72 hours finally came to a rolling stop with the news. Jay is alive. He’s okay. But the relief she should feel is buried under the weight of everything she has been running from—fear, anger, guilt. And the overwhelming, suffocating love that Avery doesn’t think she’ll ever get over. Pushing him away was supposed to be for the better. It was supposed to keep him away from her self-destruction, keep him away from the truth of her disappearance and whatever dangers came with it. To let him be happy.

She tilts her head back, staring at the sky, unsure of how long she’s been sitting outside. When Will told them that Jay was out of surgery, she’d taken a step back. Hailey’s face had crumpled with relief, and she couldn’t be witness to it anymore. Her heart twisted as she watched the blonde disappear through the waiting room doors without hesitation, and she immediately turned on her heel, in desperate need of fresh air. Avery had told herself she wasn’t ready to face him, but the truth was, she didn’t know if she even deserved to.

The sound of approaching footsteps makes Avery glance over her shoulder. Her eyes land on the man who raised her, and she quickly looks away, staring back at her hands, knowing that if anyone can break through her mask, it’s him.

They sit side by side, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. Hank glances at her from the corner of his eye, taking her in. For a moment, he sees the fifteen-year-old girl she used to be—broken, angry, and lost. “Jay’s awake,” he eventually supplies, knowing she’s unable to find the words to ask.

Avery nods, still not meeting his eyes, “That’s good.”

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” Hank says carefully. “We’re cutting Angela Nelson loose.”

The declaration has her shoulders stiffening, her jaw clenching tightly as her head snaps towards him with a glare. “She tried to kill him,” she spits out, the words like acid on her tongue.

His eyes soften just slightly and if she hadn’t been raised by the man, she probably wouldn’t have noticed. “If she goes public with what she knows, it’s not just the department that goes down. They’ll crucify him. I know you know that.”

Avery stares at him, balling her hands into tight fists. She wants to fight him, wants to scream at him for even suggesting this, want to go in there and drag that bitch to jail herself. But deep down, she knows he’s right. She hates it, but she knows it’s the only way to protect Jay. She shakes her head with a slight scoff, looking away and focusing her eyes on anything else.

“You haven’t gone in to see him,” he says, his voice low but pointed.

She drags a hand over her face with a sigh, taking a minute to collect herself before responding. Her voice is tight, “Hailey’s in there. He doesn’t need me.”

Hank lets out a quiet huff, shaking his head, “That’s not true, and you know it.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, she sits up straight and finally meets his eyes, voice betraying her complete and utter exhaustion, “What do you guys want from me?”

Everyone is always watching her with careful concern. Avery knows they mean well, but they look at her like she should just be able to come back to her life the way they want her to. To be the person she was, the person they lost. But she isn’t that person anymore. She’ll never be that person again. And if the last few days have showed her anything, it’s that she needs to be selfish here. The distance she’s put between her and Jay has done nothing to stop her from loving him, and she can’t love him. She doesn’t deserve to. Not when she chose to leave him for two years, chose to let him think she was dead. Not when she killed Cam, someone innocent. Not when she has no idea what else she may have done. What else she was capable of doing.

You just have to let them help you.

She doesn’t deserve any of them.

Hank doesn’t respond immediately, giving her words the space to hang in the air as he studies her. He leans back, his voice dropping into something softer, “We’ve been here before, kid. After Nadia.”

The weight of the words has her looking away again, closing her eyes and dragging a hand through her tangled, unwashed hair.

“You think I’m not seeing what’s going on with you?” he asks rhetorically. “Coming in late, shutting everyone out. You almost lost everything back then. Your career, your relationship. I get it. You’ve been through hell, and you’re angry and probably scared. But instead of dealing with it, you’re burying yourself in all the wrong things. Again.”

Her throat tightens with the truth of his words, shooting him a withering glare, “If you’re going to accuse me of using again, Hank, just say it.”

He raises his eyebrows in silent question, though there is no real meaning behind it. He doesn’t think it’s gotten that far, not really. Not yet at least.

Avery’s shoulders sag, and her voice drops to a whisper, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He takes her in, considering what to do. He knows her too well—knows that if he pushes her before she’s ready, it could send her tumbling over the edge. Hank has seen her at her absolute worst, and he’s still never seen her like this. He still can’t shake the look on her face when she was lying in that hospital bed, or when Agent Lang told her that she’d chosen to stay under. But he can’t shake the way she so easily put her gun in Silva’s mouth or threatened Angela, either. It reminded him of himself, but she isn’t him.

“Whatever’s going on, I know you think you need to do it alone,” Hank tilts his chin, searching for her eyes, “But you don’t. You never have.” He waits until she finally meets his gaze, her eyes full of unshed tears. Reaching out, Hank rests a hand on her shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, “I’m here for you, kid. I’ve always been here for you. But you can’t keep running.”

She swallows, exhaling shakily with realization, “I don’t know how to stop.”

The hospital room is too bright, too sterile, and Jay’s head pounds as he stands from the edge of the bed and moves over to his bag. His movements are stiff, his body still aching from the gunshot wound that almost took him out. The past few days are a blur—flashes of pain, faces swimming in and out of focus, words spoken to him that he can’t quite remember.

The sling across his shoulder feels like a noose, awkward and restrictive, and he struggles to adjust it one-handed. He’s been cleared to go home, but his body still feels foreign, heavy and slow. His mind drifts, unbidden, to the moment he was lying on the floor, bleeding out. The haze of pain, the panic, and the one thing he’d barely managed to speak. Ave. It slips through his mind like a ghost, bringing with it a wave of guilt.

He remembers Hailey’s face when she’d leaned over him, begging him to stay with her, and how the only thing he could think of was Avery. The sound of her voice, her name on his lips—it felt so real, so right, even as everything else blurred into nothingness. And he remembers the fleeting moment of relief—the hope—when he saw her face. Felt her hand in his. But the memories are fractured, and now he doesn’t how to make sense of it all.

Footsteps bring him from his thoughts, and he looks up, eyes landing on Hailey in the doorway. She smiles warmly, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he nods, managing a weak quirk of his lips.

She steps into the room, showing him the plastic bag in her hand before setting it on the bed, “I got your badge and undercover phone from before.” She keeps her tone light, casual, but Jay notices the tightness around her eyes. She’s trying. Trying to act like nothing happened. Did she hear it—the name that wasn’t hers falling from his lips like a prayer? Was it even real?

He sighs, giving up on adjusting the sling—it’s as comfortable as it’s going to get—and grabbing his hoodie with his free hand. “Before it all went to hell?”

“Yeah,” she breathes out with a pained smile, the image of him bleeding out flashing through her mind. Hailey watches as he struggles, “Here, let me give you a hand.” She helps him, carefully pulling the fabric over his uninjured shoulder and smoothing it into place. Her movements are gentle, her touch familiar, and he gives a tight-lipped smile in thanks. Because it feels wrong.

“Listen,” Hailey begins, her voice soft but strained. She takes a small step back, meeting his eyes, “When you were in surgery, no one knew what was gonna happen… And it made me realize that I wanted to tell you something.”

His chest tightens, and he forces himself to nod, “Okay.”

Before she can get the three words out, the words on the tip of her tongue, a sharp ringing cuts through the moment. Jay hesitates before going against his better judgment. He grabs the phone, looking at the screen with a frown, “It’s Bobby. Angela’s son.”

Her expression hardens, her voice tight, “What are you doing?”

His internal struggle is clear form the way he glances back and forth between his phone and his partner. “I want to make sure he's okay,” he tries to justify himself.

“Jay, he’s with his mom. He’s fine. You just caught a bullet for this. You gotta let this go.” Her voice cracks slightly, “Please.”

Jay exhales, setting the phone back on the bed, “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He looks at her, his face etched with guilt before arching a brow, “What were you gonna say?”

Her lips part, but the words falter. Hailey shakes her head, forcing a taut smile. “I just… It was really scary. And I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice hollow as he manages a tired smile. “Me too.”

She steps closer, her hand brushing his cheek, thumb grazing over the butterfly bandage. Her touch is soft, hesitant. She leans in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that’s meant to reassure but only deepens the ache in his chest. He kisses her back out of habit, out of obligation. When she pulls away, she wraps her arms around his neck, resting her head against his good shoulder.

His free arm comes up to hold her, and for a few moments, they stay like that. When he pulls away, his gaze drifts past her shoulder, and fin an instant, the air seems to leave the room. Avery is standing in the hallway, a few feet away from the sliding door. Her hair is messy around her face, the bags under her eyes betraying how drained she feels. She looks hesitant, pained, like she knows she doesn’t belong here. Their eyes meet, and Jay forgets to breathe.

For a second, he wonders if he’s imagining her. She hasn’t been by once, not since he woke up. He tried not to let it bother him, telling himself she was busy with the case with Atwater’s brother. But now, seeing her here, he feels a pang of something sharp and painful.

Avery offers a small, tentative smile that doesn’t meet her eyes, her expression soft but guarded. It’s the kind of smile that breaks his heart. It’s the same smile she gave him when she was lying in her own hospital bed, and every smile she’s forced since then—a ghost of the woman she used to be. A smile that said everything and nothing at once.

“Jay?” Hailey’s voice pulls him back. She’s standing close, her eyes searching his face, but his focus is still on the hallway.

Avery had told herself she wasn’t going to come. He was alive. He was going to be fine. He didn’t need her to come check on him. But no matter how much she tried to avoid it, her mind always drifted back to Jay—to the sound of his ragged breathing, the blood pooling beneath him, the way he’d whispered her name as he clung to consciousness.

It has been haunting her, pulling her back to this place despite everything in her screaming not to. She told herself she was just here to make sure he was okay, but deep down, she knew it was more than that. She needed to see him. She needed to know if there was still something left between them. If there was still a chance that she was drowning herself for nothing.

You can’t keep running.

Her steps are slow as she approaches his room. She pauses just outside the doorway, her heartbeat pulsating inside her head. Her hands tremble slightly as she tucks them into the pockets of her jacket, steeling herself. But when she finally looks in, she stops cold.

Jay standing, alive, whole—and Hailey there with him. The sight sends a pang through her chest, sharp and unforgiving. She watches as Hailey leans up, kisses him, wraps herself around him in a way that feels too intimate, too permanent. Too familiar.

Her heart clenches, and she can’t help the wave of déjà vu that crashes over her. The memory is vivid, painful—a mirror of this moment. When she’d been lying there, broken and scared, waiting for Jay. But instead, she’d seen him in the hallway with Hailey. Hands entwined. Smiling. She remembers how her hope had crumbled in an instant, replaced by the crushing realization that he was no longer hers.

And now, as she stands in the same spot, watching them, that feeling washes over her again. Her chest constricts, her heart painfully beating against her ribs as it fractures.

Her breath catches when Jay’s eyes meet hers. The world seems to fall away, the noise of the hospital fading into nothing. His expression shifts—surprise, relief, something she can’t quite name. It’s the way he always looked at her, like she was the only person in the room. And for a moment, it feels like the distance between them doesn’t exist.

Avery forces herself to smile, though it feels like a knife twisting deeper and deeper. She takes a step back, breaking the spell. She doesn’t look back as she walks down the hallway, her footsteps echoing in the quiet space. Her vision blurs, tears stinging her eyes, but she blinks them away. She doesn’t have the right to cry over him. Not anymore.

Hailey blinks up at him, her smile slipping for just a moment. “Ready to go?” she asks, her tone forcedly cheerful.

Jay’s eyes linger on the now-empty hallway, his chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with the bullet wound. His mind is still on Avery, on the way she looked at him, the way she smiled despite the distance she always seemed to keep. “Yeah,” he says quietly, letting Hailey grab his hand.

Even as they leave, he can’t shake the feeling that he should’ve said something. That he should’ve called out to her, stopped her from walking away. And as Hailey leads him toward the elevator, he can’t help but wonder if Avery will ever stop running—or if he’ll ever stop letting her.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, Adam’s photo flashing across the screen. Avery answers without thinking, letting his familiar voice pull her away from the ache deep in her bones. As she walks out of the hospital and into the crisp evening air, she can’t help but glance back, hoping—just for a second—that he’ll come after her.

But he doesn’t. Because she told him not to—that it’s not his responsibility to save her anymore.

And she tells herself it’s better this way.

prev . . . next

[lilyofporcelain]

DWC - 20 Nov - Day 4 - Surrender / Tranquil

“You simply hold it flat... and whichever direction the arrow points, is the direction of north. You need only consider a simple acronym for remembering the cardinal directions. Never. Eat. Soggy. Waffles.”

Afternoon sunlight stretched through the canopy of tall, looming deciduous gold, red, and orange trees above her. Around her, the scent of peacebloom, a soft field of white petals. Beneath her, a pool of dark hair like twilight in soft, light waves. In her left hand, a compass. She’d used it when she was down south, remembering what Andaeros had told her when she admitted she had no idea how to use one. And she remembered as she traversed clearings and rocky cliff sides that she still wasn’t wholly certain she knew how they worked.

Was there a compass for life? If so, then she certainly could have used it. Maybe she wouldn’t have taken so many awkward turns. Thinking about it like that, however, made her feel as if she was trying to escape responsibility. And to be fair… she wasn’t lost. Questioning herself without doubt, but not lost.

“I mean, is it because nobody has ever believed in you before. … Is it because you don't believe in yourself like we believe in you.”

Laeynna looked thoughtful as she turned Junarra’s words over in her head. The goblin had no way of knowing it at the time, but the words were more accurate and striking than Laeynna wanted them to be. It was one more thing for her to confront. One more thing for her to contemplate. Combining it with everything else she was trying to hold in her hands, it felt like it was the last thing she could endure before breaking. And she certainly… had broken. In one way or another, at least.

But Andaeros had weathered it. She wasn’t accustomed to that. Perhaps because she hadn’t allowed anyone to ever do so before. She kept replaying their conversation in her head.

“Let me help you, in some small way. If not for your sake, then for mine. To feel put to use.”

She’d always kept him at a distance. Proverbial arm lifted to keep a certain space between them. Some things she could handle. Sharing his bed, she realised, had been somewhat easier than the other things. Sharing her heart. Letting him into hers. Exposing herself. Revealing her secrets. Facing his judgement. Those had been so much more difficult. Many of those hurdles she had managed to clear with time, patience, and circumstance. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t supposed to be.

Laeynna had never wanted it to be.

Eyeing the compass she clutched in her hand, she gently shut it, deciding that it was likely not going to help direct her. Lowering her hand, she held his compass atop her heart and stared through the leafy branches above her thoughtfully. It wasn’t just her in a relationship. She couldn’t keep the same approach. It wasn’t fair or right to Andaeros. It wasn’t how she wanted it to be either. Once, he had reminded her that their relationship was based on mutuality. Mutual sentiments. Mutual needs. Where she had argued the concept of relying on him, he’d corrected her.

Would… it have been such a terrible thing to depend on him? To let him help her? Scraping her teeth along her bottom lip, the furrow in her brow was deep. It wasn’t just for her. It was for him, as well. If she wanted to be useful to him, then it made sense that he would feel the same way. If she forever made it seem as though she would face everything herself, then she would only succeed at building a wall between them.

“...I love you, Laeynna…”

Love. There was that, too. It still played repetitiously in her head. The first time he’d said it on a golden, sunny morning, it had nearly petrified her with fear. At least, a part of her. There was the part that had been extremely overcome with emotion, which was, in her opinion, not very like her at all. Days had made it a little easier for her to digest and to accept. Thinking it had been one thing. Saying it had been another entirely. Claiming the words. Committing to them. Letting herself accept them. Acknowledging that he was the one offering them to her.

Laeynna still had complications with it. The kinds that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her perception of self. He knew about some of it. How she viewed herself. And she had admitted to him relatively early on that she was always so much kinder to others than she was to herself. As to whether he knew how deep all of that went, however, she wasn’t certain. It was not a subject she really wanted to dive into, and convinced that he might eventually come to perceive her as an imposition, a burden, she’d struggled to say anything.

If she accepted his invitation, would it be too much? For him? For her? For them? Would she break everything? Was their love so fragile that she thought she could snap it so easily?

Shaking her head, Laeynna huffed out a breath. No. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Not when it took them as long as it did to get to where they were. For her, it wasn’t some trivial concept. Andaeros wasn’t… some passing fancy, and her feelings had never been trivial or meagre sorts when she actually started accepting she had them. If that was the course she had charted for herself, then it was the one she intended to travel. She would have to adjust how she thought about things. All things. Not just her deepened relationship with the disgraced spellbreaker, but also with herself.

Something had to give.

With a soft little sigh, Laeynna lifted the compass again, standard make. Durable. Steel alloy. Glass. As she carefully opened it, she flattened her palm, watching the arrow in red remain in the very same spot that it had been the last time she opened it. No. Maybe she still didn’t know how they worked, after all.

“...So,” she said aloud, mostly to herself, though in part to the compass in her hands. “Mister Ross’ compass, how do I tell him that I accept?”

— @daily-writing-challenge — Mentions: @andaerosdawnflare