#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

[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."

[iandarling]

Giving Back

Ian has been feeling lost and a little useless lately. His former work as an EMT is haunting him; he’s no longer saving lives in a blue uniform; instead, he’s out driving weed and money in a black cargo suit.

Now, don’t get it twisted; he loves working with Mickey. He gets to spend every day with his husband, kissing and talking, with some light dry-humping in the car on their break, all while making good money. Really good money.

The problem is that Ian is, at his core, a helper. A giver. He wants to do good and make a difference. That’s why being an EMT was such a great fit for him. Ian doesn’t miss the chaos and the lack of sleep that came with the job, but he does miss making an impact on people’s lives.

Of course, this does not go unnoticed by his husband. Mickey knows him better than he knows himself, and he has been secretly planning on finding a way to make Ian get his spark back.

One Saturday morning, when they’re slowly waking up in a tangled mess, he says, “Wake up, sleepyhead, we’ve got plans for today.”

“It’s our day off,” Ian mumbles into the pillow, his hair a curly mess on top of his head. His fringe was getting too long, he really should get a haircut soon.

“I know, but I’ve got plans for our day so get your ass up, and make us some breakfast husband.” Mickey grins at him, and Ian loves his smile so much he obeys him without question.

The coffee is brewed, the pills are swallowed, and the eggs are scrambled. They sit and eat their food in comfortable silence on the couch, naked thighs touching. Ian wants to ask Mickey about his plans, but he also knows his husband loves a good surprise and that it’s better to leave it be.

Ian holds Mickey's hand all the way to the garage and even as Mickey drives. His big hand swallows Mickey's, and he rubs his thumb into Mickey's skin in a comforting manner.

Ian looks around, confused, as they get nearer the south side. Where were they going? When they stop, Mickey points at a brick building at the end of a street he’s never been to. “See that place.”

It doesn’t look totally rundown, but it's not perfect either. Graffiti on one of the walls with cracked drywall near the surprisingly clean windows. “Shabby chic,” one might say. Or at least Susan in 7B would say so.

“It’s a youth centre thing, ‘specially for boys. I used to sneak into there sometimes; had a deal with one of the adults workin’ there. He would give me bars of soap ‘n shit that Terry never got us, if I gave him some weed for free.”

“I could never go there as myself, too open, too exposed. If one word got out that a Milkovich was begging for stuff, Dad would’ve pistol-whipped me...” He bites his lip and looks over at Ian.

“Why are you showing me this?” Ian asks sadly, as he hated hearing about Mickey's bleak childhood. To think back on the dirty and bruised Mickey he fell in love with, made his heart ache. While Ian and Fiona had their arguments, she always made sure they had soap and clean bedsheets.

“You’ve been all down in the dumps lately, man. Figured this could cheer you up. They take donations, right — we make good money now. We could make this a monthly thing if you want. Stock up on all the shit Frank and Terry never gave us, and hand it to those boys. So they can have the shit we never got.”

He’s clearly nervous, biting his lip and trying to act normal, but as soon as Ian lights up like the sun, he leans over the console and kisses him hard.

“I love you.” Ian mumbles into the kiss, and Mickey sighs happily, “Love you too, Gallagher.” Their tongues meet and Ian grabs the back of Mickey's head, pulling him closer, closer. God knows how much he loves this man.

“Dollar Tree is right nearby, we can go there now. Get a bunch a shit.” Mickey pretends to be nonchalant, but Ian can tell he’s secretly excited. Because this means something to him too. It means something to the dirty south side thug that still lives inside him: the little boy who was never shown any true love until Ian.

“Alright...just no weed, though,” Ian jokes, pretending he can’t see Mickey's internal emotional battle. They both know what he’s thinking, but it’s easier to pretend it’s not there. Mickey will talk about it in his own time. It’s the way they do things, and it works.

Ian goes ham at the store. He fills a shopping cart to the brim with multipacks of protein bars, toiletries, boxers and briefs, deodorants, tubes of toothpaste, and other supplies a teenage boy might need.

3 for 2, half off, buy one get one free. Membership points. Ian has spent hours of his life cutting coupons with Debbie, he knows how to work the system. If he buys five shampoos, he can get two for free with the discount. So he bought fifteen.

Mickey walks behind him, pushing the cart. He will occasionally pick up something from the shelves, bandaids and sports tape, things he believes any teenager might need. He stops in front of a shelf and asks Ian. “Should we get like, condoms and shit?”

“Dunno…the workers there might think we’re creeps if we do…but we both know kids that age fuck so...maybe? Buy some, and then we can ask the workers about it later.” Ian shrugs and watches as Mickey dumps a load of them into the cart.

Ian is enjoying his day as he wanders up and down the rows of the shop. “Look, Uno!” Ian smiles and picks up the card game. “Remember how we used to play this inside?” He teases and laughs at Mickey's exaggerated eye roll.

“Yeah, until it got banned for inciting too many fights.” But Mickey is smiling at the memories. Prison was not a place Ian ever wanted to go back to, but sharing a cell with Mickey made it worth it. He places several packs of Uno into the cart.

“Keep going like that, handsome, and we might need a second cart.” Mickey jokes, but Ian isn’t deterred. They could absolutely afford another cart of goods if they wanted to. “Maybe I will,” He winks back.

They pack all the stuff into paper bags and throw them in the back of the van. It’s only a few minutes' drive back to the centre, but Ian was getting nervous.

What if it was too much? What if they didn’t want their donations, and he inadvertently made the kids feel ashamed for accepting them? Growing up south-side and a Gallagher to boot, he knows all about refusing help. It can be humiliating to admit you need help, especially from strangers.

It was easier to swipe from the store than accept the free stuff from the local church. But he remembers how Fiona would line up at those tables and take whatever she could get her hands on, even if it meant swallowing her shame. Because she knew her kids needed to eat and stay clean.

The Gallagher kids have used plenty of stolen and donated stuff in their lives — truck stop toilet paper, handouts from churches, and out-of-date canned foods. Hopefully, the workers at the centre, and also the kids, would understand their motivation. They were once like them, after all.

Mickey parks the van around the back and looks at Ian. “You ready?” He seems nervous, too. They could absolutely hand over the bags to a worker, leave, and not be seen by the kids if they wanted to. They could probably do all of this anonymously and avoid any nerves.

But Ian has missed the feeling he got from directly helping people. He has missed the chance of making others happy. Perhaps it’s selfish, but he wants to be there when the kids receive the stuff he knows he would’ve loved to have as a kid.

“Ready when you are, Milkovich.”

Mickey rings the doorbell, and they wait anxiously before a thirty-something-year-old man opens the door. He smiles at them and asks why they’re there. Mickey explains, “I used to come here as a kid…figured you might want some stuff or whatever.” He’s nervous, but Ian holds his hand and squeezes it softly.

The man nods happily and invites them in. He helps them carry the many bags of items and takes them into an office room, where they meet some other employees. Volunteers, Ian corrects himself. They look happy to see them and smile ecstatically as they rummage through the bags.

“Oh, the boys will love this!” One young girl says as she holds up the pack of protein bars Ian had picked. Peanut butter and chocolate flavoured. “Got a couple of exercise junkies here, this will help keep them full longer.” She jokes.

Ian smiles as he helps them unpack. Mickey stands back a little, just watching them work. This is what he never had as a kid, and it’s bittersweet to watch others get what he so desperately craved. Still, he smiles at Ian, who is back in full swing, laughing and talking to everyone.

A couple of boys trickle in, curious about the commotion. They’re young, not even teenagers yet, but Mickey recognises the signs of a tough home life. The way they walk and carry themselves, keeping their hands ready at all times, the many layers of clothing because they can’t afford a winter jacket. He nods at them. They nod back.

The tallest of the two swipes a pack of deodorants before leaving the room just as quickly as he entered it. The youngest stays behind, edging around the door, as if he’s unsure of what to do.

Ian, as the gentle giant he is, smiles and introduces himself. He talked nonchalantly about toothpaste and Uno, making the boy a little less nervous. He smiles at Ian, who hands him a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. The boy grins and leaves.

“Every time we went into the system, my sister got us kisses, said it makes everything better.” He explains to the woman. Ian is feeling a hundred times better as he helps the workers organise their giant donation. This is absolutely going to be a monthly thing that they do. He's already mentally planning what he wants to bring next time.

Mickey keeps his distance, just admiring his husband's happy face. His freckles and ginger hair were extra vibrant against his pale winter skin. He looks beautiful and Mickey loves him so much.

Once they get home, Ian orders takeout, and Mickey works his magic on their stolen DVD player. Jaws is on the menu tonight. Ian plates up the Chinese food on their little coffee table near the couch.

“Thanks,” Ian whispers into a soft kiss. “For today, and for always paying attention. For knowing me so well.”

“Mmm, gotta. You’re my husband.” Mickey grins stupidly like he always does when they say that word.

Ian raises an eyebrow at him, levelling a look. “Don’t hide, I know you enjoyed it too, even if you spent most of the time in the corner watching.”

“Yeah, well, someone gotta take care of those kids ya know? They didn’t even have pocket knives. We should get them some Swiss army knives and maybe a couple a nunchucks next time and…” Ian kisses him quiet.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64251175

[cryptotheism]

Lilly: Good morning New Babel, you're listening to Screw Loose, your favorite early-morning exo rig and rig maintenance rig show this side of the white river, I'm Lilly.

The Bear: And I'm the Bear, and you- are on the air. What can we help you with?

Caller: Howdy girls! Togen, from the South Teykile. I've got a bit of a mystery for ya, I was hoping you could help me solve it.

Lilly: Oh lovely! I think we're ready to sleuth.

The Bear: What the problem doll?

Togen: So I'm a boatwright. About a month ago, I'm on the job in a Wylan Mastiff UD-940. I'm lifting a panel of ship-chitin that weighs maybe 1000 kilograms, and I can feel the exhaust channels getting hot.

The Bear: Uh oh.

Lilly: Uh oh indeed.

Togen: I figure I'm overcycling, but the Mastiff can pull 1000kg easy right? So I put down the panel, and suddenly, BOOM! Radiator explodes right out of the chassis! I can hear the I-bolts ping against field tech's facemask!

[Both hosts begin to laugh]

Lilly: Huh!?

The Bear: Okay okay hold on a second-

Togen: I've got an insulated undersuit, but the radiator is just full-on burning at this point. Now, I'm not about to jump into the Occimedian with my rig on, so I slam the emergency kill. So now I'm lyin there, facefirst on the dock, hollerin for the other idiots to put me out!

The Bear: You had an extinguisher right?

Lilly: Maybe someone had a drink?

Togen: Well...Okay so get this. The yard has an extinguisher. That's union. But before someone could grab it, one of the boys uh, relieves himself, on the radiator.

[The hosts are silent for a moment, but can't keep it going. Lilly snorts loudly as she laughs.]

Togen: Hey it worked! Problem is, the damn thing hasn't been running right ever since. I replaced the radiator that evening, but for some reason I'm only getting about 70, 80 percent torque when I lift, but its only from certain positions. I've taken the thing to two different shops at this point, and they both said that everything looked fine. I’m at the end of my rope here ladies, can you help me?

Lilly: Sleuthing hats on!

The Bear: Well sir, I think I know what your problem is. You set yourself on fire, and then someone pissed on you.

Lilly: Yeah! Just tell the boys at your local rig shop, they'll know what to do.

[The hosts pause for a moment, deliberating]

The Bear: Well damn Togen, you've given us two mysteries for the price of one.

Lilly: First, we gotta figure out why your radiator exploded. Then, we gotta figure out why your lift capacity is damaged. Okay, replacing the radiator was the right call, did you have them look at the recycler? 

Togen: Yeah, when the first guy said it was fine, I took it to the second shop, and they said the recycler was probably running cold in the early morning air, you know, building up heat in the radiator. 

[lilly scoffs]

The Bear: That guy didn’t know what he was talking about. The recycler generates a ton of heat. While your rig is live, they’re actually floating in coolant because they generate so much heat. 

Lilly: Hmmm. Did you have any custom work on the Mastiff before it exploded?

Togen: Yeah. Lets see…I had the 8-cell replaced with a 10-cell, added a fluid circulator, and full weatherizing. Tubes, seals, soles, the works. 

The Bear: The weatherizing, synthetic or biosynthetic?

Togen: Biosynthetic ma’am. 

The Bear: Here’s what I think happened. Whoever shopped your rig under-tightened the bolts, and used overripe sealant. See, the biosynth sealant that Wylan uses is self-repairing, and it feeds on heat. I bet that when they replaced your power supply, they left a gap, so the sealant started growing into your radiator channel, sealed it up like a pressure cooker and BOOM. 

Lilly: Okay love, when you try squatting to pick something up in the rig, is there chugging from the leg hydraulics? Or is it more like the force just hits a wall at 70%?

Togen: There’s definitely chugging.

The Bear: Have you checked the tubing rings? You might’ve vented some heat onto them during the explosion, caused a hairline breach?

Lilly: Bearie dear I have a hunch. If he burned the rings he’d know. They’d pop right out as soon as he tried to squat. Follow me here.

The Bear: Uh oh.

Lilly: [starting to laugh] No! Listen! Okay you said you added a fluid circulator right?

Togen: Yes ma’am.

Lilly: Listen! Okay! Love! Here’s what I think happened! So urine has both salt and uric acid in it right? Both corrosive substances. I’d bet my bonnet that when you hit your kill switch, it took a moment or two for the circulator to spin down. There was probably already some urine in your radiator. That urine had enough time to get circulated into your hydraulics, where it’s been sitting, corroding your internal glide sheathes. 

The Bear: [laughing] Oh my lord that has to be it. Yes. Yes! That has to be it! Here’s what you’re gonna do, doll. You’re gonna take it to the local garage. You’re ask them for a total flush. Your biosynthetics should heal within a week. 

Lilly: And while you’re there, have them check the I-bolts on the new radiator chassis! 

The Bear: How’s that sound doll?

Togen: Well gosh ladies, I’m gonna be honest. The boys at the shop yard have a betting pool on just what was wrong with the rig, and I think all of us might owe the two of you some money. Thank you so much!

[The hosts laugh]

The Bear: Good luck doll!

Lilly: Thanks for your call! 

[The show transitions to commercial]

(If you want to read the full novel in this universe, Amber Skies is linked in my pinned post)

[maeintree]

chapter i. | into the hollow

Summary: Your long-awaited vacation is cut short when Bill Randa drags you into a classified expedition. Now, you’re stuck in a room full of military personnel, a photographer, and a quiet but observant tracker, James Conrad. As Randa and Houston Brooks explain their Hollow Earth theory, you start to realize—this mission is more than it seems, and Conrad knows it too. Pairing: James Conrad x Field Medic!Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.2k Warnings: Military themes, strong language, slow burn romance, suspense, mentions of injuries, canon-typical violence Author's Note: setting the stage for the expedition! this chapter introduces key players and builds up the tension before skull island, and it's a little short and i'm sorry! hope you enjoy nevertheless.

Masterlist | ← Previous Chapter ⋆ Next Chapter →

The room is stuffy and thick with the scent of old paper, burnt coffee, and sweat. A single oscillating fan hums from the corner, doing little to push the heat around.

The walls are lined with maps, aerial photographs, and classified documents tacked to corkboards, the kind of place where bad ideas are made to sound reasonable. 

You pause in the doorway, eyes sweeping over the faces gathered inside. Your sweater sleeve covers your nose, shielding you from the foul stench wafting through the room. Fucking smells in here. 

It sucks, you think. All these soldiers (as well as Landsat), just like you, were ready to go home—finally take a break, see their kids, and enjoy some peace after the war with Vietnam. But instead, you’re being sent off again, dragged into a mission with a bunch of maniacs convinced they'll find something on an island that will probably get them all killed.

The projector turns on, and a man starts speaking: "Hello and welcome. I'm Landsat Field Supervisor Victor Nieves." He points to a blond man at the front: "This is my colleague Steve Woodward, our data wrangler."

He continues, "Our expedition takes us to a place every nautical trade route known to man has avoided for centuries. As for our satellites show that the island is surrounded by a perpetual storm system, allowing it to remain hidden from the outside world; but with Colonel Packard's helicopter transport, we will be the first to break through to the other side." 

"We're also pleased to be joined, for the first time, by the resource exploration team led by Mr. Randa and accompanied by biologist Miss San, geologist Mr. Brooks, and Field Medic," he says your name. Heads turn toward Bill, Houston, and the biologist, while you remain at the very back, mostly unnoticed—except for Conrad, who glances back at you.

"Our focus will be on the island's surface, theirs, what lies beneath." He turns his head towards Houston, "Mr. Brooks," signaling for him to go to the front. 

"Simple really, we'll use explosives to shake the earth and create vibrations, helping us map the subsurface of the island." The projector switches to the bombing plan. "We'll fly in over the south shore and strategically drop seismic charges to better understand the earth's density."  

"You're dropping bombs?" Conrad’s British accent cuts through the room.  

Houston nods awkwardly. "...Eh, scientific instruments."  

A soldier chuckles. "You hear that, boys? We're scientists now!" Laughter follows.  

Woodward, a.k.a blond man grunts. "You guys are not scientists."  

"We'll land and set up base camp for ground excursions led by Captain Conrad." Conrad gives a slight nod. The speaker scans the room before calling out, "Major Jack Chapman."  

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a crisp military uniform steps forward, his presence commanding attention. His thick Southern drawl carries through the room as he begins speaking.

"Once on the island, the storm’s interference will cut radio contact with the ship. We’ll be on our own." The projector clicks again.  

"Three days later, the refueling team meets us here." Chapman points to the north end of the island. "That may be our only safe departure window."  

"So, tip for everybody—don’t miss it. Please."  

The supervisor wraps it up. "Alright, back to your places. We fly in the morning. Good luck."  

You’re the first out, escaping the awful-smelling room and into the cold, salty air. The meeting was exactly what you expected—reckless plans wrapped in scientific excuses. Pulling your sweater tighter, you descend the metal stairs, boots clanking against steel. 

"Goddamn suicide mission. Why am I in this? Why, dear Lord, why?" you whisper to yourself. 

You flip through the file Randa gave you again, hoping for some kind of reassurance. The words blur together, refusing to sink in no matter how many times you read them. Everything happened too fast—too sudden for the gravity of it all to truly settle.  

Just yesterday, you had stormed into Randa’s office, furious at him for going back to the senator. And somehow, Senate Willis agreed to this insanity. Jesus Christ. Probably worried about competition, afraid the Soviets would find something first. But still—goddamn.

The ship sways gently beneath you, the deep hum of the engine vibrating through the deck. Around you, soldiers linger in small groups, their laughter and conversation blending with the distant crash of waves.

You weave through narrow corridors, the dim overhead lights flickering slightly with each shift of the vessel.

Eventually, you find your way down to a storage unit, stacked high with crates stamped with military insignias and Landsat labels. Equipment—cameras, geological tools, radios—piles upon piles of supplies meant for an expedition that feels more like an invasion. 

As you scan the room, a faint shimmer of light catches your eye from the far corner. Curious, you step closer.  

Conrad stands near a stack of crates, the small flicker of a lighter illuminating his face in the dimly lit storage bay. Shadows dance across the sharp angles of his jaw as he reads the labels, his expression unreadable. At the sound of your footsteps, he turns, brows furrowed.  

"What are you doing down here?" he asks, his voice low, steady.  

You lean against a crate, arms crossed. "I could ask you the same thing." The air smells of wood, metal, and a faint trace of oil. 

Glancing at the boxes, you feign casual curiosity. "Why does a geological mapping mission need explosives?"  

He tilts his head slightly, watching you. "You weren’t listening in class. Seismic charges for the geological survey."  

You walk past him, fingers trailing over the rough wooden crates, scanning the stenciled labels. Landsat Equipment. Seismic Survey. Your lips press together. "Uh-huh. You believe that?"  

"I didn’t say that," he replies simply.  

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shift gears. "Have you met Colonel Packard yet?"  

Conrad nods. "Yeah."  

You scoff. "The guy's wound pretty tight."  

Conrad shrugs, flicking his lighter open and shut. "Well, the man's a decorated war hero. That’s the package they come in." His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he asks, "And you? Isn’t one field medic on a jungle mission a step down for medical?"  

You narrow your eyes. "I didn’t choose to be here," you say, tone edged. Then, arching a brow, you add, "Are you doubting my credibility? Safe to say, I think I’m a damn good medic."  

He smirks faintly. "And being here doubles the small pay you have."  

You huff a quiet laugh. "Huh. Okay, Captain Conrad, what about you?" You tilt your head, challenging. "How did British Special Forces get roped into this?"  

"Just Conrad," he corrects. "I’m decommissioned."  

"Mhm."  

"They offered me money," he says as if that explains everything.  

"Ah, right. Just like the small pay you mentioned earlier." You mimic his words with a smirk, catching the slight flicker of amusement in his expression. "You don’t strike me as a mercenary."  

He meets your gaze, unreadable. "And you don’t strike me as someone who’s seen war."  

You hold his stare. "Government field medic," you clarify. "I don’t do war."  

The ship creaks, metal shifting with the waves. For a moment, silence stretches between you, something unspoken settling in the air. Then, a sharp click—a sudden flash blinds you.  

"Sorry, documentation," a voice chimes. You blink, turning to see Mason—Weaver, or whatever her name is—grinning slyly, camera in hand. "Also, both of you are being called."  

You clear your throat, glancing at Conrad before nodding toward the stairs. "You coming?"  

He hesitates, flicking his lighter one last time before pocketing it. His gaze lingers on the crates as if considering something. Then, with a small nod, he exhales.  

"Yeah."

You and Conrad barely make it a few steps toward the stairs before the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the storage bay. The dim overhead lights flicker as the ship sways, casting long shadows over the crates.

Turning your head, you spot Bill Randa, Houston Brooks, and San Lin making their way toward you. Randa looks as intense as ever, his gaze sharp behind those thick glasses, while Houston appears more at ease, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

San Lin moves with quiet curiosity, eyes scanning the stacks of equipment.  

“There you are,” Randa says, adjusting his glasses. His voice carries that same urgency he’s had since the beginning of this mission. “We were looking for you both.”  

Conrad tucks his hands into his pockets, glancing briefly at you before replying. “Didn’t realize we had a curfew.”  

Houston chuckles under his breath as he steps past, running a hand over one of the crates. “Impressive setup, huh? Landsat really went all in.” He tilts his head at one of the labels.

Geological Survey Equipment. Seismic Imaging.

“This stuff could map the entire island in incredible detail… or, you know, do a hell of a lot more than that.”  

San Lin examines a set of carefully sealed containers, each marked with biohazard symbols and research tags. “I assume you two weren’t just down here sightseeing?” she asks, her voice calm but pointed.  

“Sightseeing’s not really my thing,” you reply, crossing your arms.  

Randa exhales, clearly uninterested in small talk. “The mission briefing is over, and I need you both focused. There’s a lot you don’t understand yet.” He turns toward the crates, pressing a palm against one as if grounding himself.

“Everything we need to confirm our theory is right here.”  

You exchange a glance with Conrad, who looks just as unconvinced as you feel. “Right,” you say, voice dry. “A theory.”  

Houston gestures toward a nearby set of steel doors at the back of the bay. “Come on, since you’re down here, might as well take a look at the other storage areas.”  

Reluctantly, you follow as he pushes the doors open, revealing another section of the ship lined with rows of metal shelves and stacked crates. Inside, floodlights hum overhead, casting a harsh white glow over the neatly organized equipment.

Maps and geological charts are pinned to a board near the entrance, displaying rough sketches of Skull Island’s terrain. A few scientists are inside, cataloging supplies—mostly radios, first aid kits, and survival gear.  

Near the back, a weapons locker sits against the wall, its steel doors secured with heavy-duty locks.

Inside the mesh barrier, you can make out the unmistakable shapes of rifles, handguns, and stacks of ammunition. Next to it, another container is marked with a bold red symbol—explosives.  

You glance at Conrad, who doesn’t seem surprised.  

“Seismic charges, huh?” you murmur, voice laced with skepticism.  

Randa ignores you, stepping further inside as if absorbing the weight of everything stored here. “We are on the brink of discovery,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.  

Houston, ever the optimist, claps a hand against one of the crates. “Let’s just hope we live long enough to see it.”  

You shiver slightly as a draft creeps in from somewhere, the cold steel walls doing little to keep out the ocean’s chill. Folding your arms, you take a slow step back toward the door.  

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Let’s hope.”

The spare bedroom is small, barely enough space for the two cots squeezed into opposite corners. A single overhead light flickers, casting a dim yellowish glow over the metal walls. You drop your bag onto the cot closest to the wall, exhaling as you finally sit down. The air smells faintly of salt and oil, but at least it’s better than that god-awful meeting room.

Mason sets her camera bag down by her bed, stretching her arms with a tired sigh. “So,” she starts, glancing at you with a knowing smirk, “what were you and Conrad doing down there?”

You huff a quiet laugh, kicking off your boots. “Sightseeing.”

She raises a brow. “Right. Sightseeing in a dark cargo hold full of explosives and classified equipment?”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one with a lighter and a suspicious amount of curiosity,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “Conrad was already there when I showed up.”

Mason hums, clearly unconvinced but amused. “Mm-hmm. You two seemed cozy.”

You scoff. “If by ‘cozy’ you mean questioning the sanity of this mission, then yeah, sure.”

“Seriously, though,” she says, shifting to face you. “What do you think’s really going on with this mission?”

You exhale, staring at the ceiling. “Nothing good. Randa’s desperate, Packard’s got that war-hungry look in his eye, and those ‘seismic charges’ aren’t fooling anyone.”

Mason nods. “Yeah. Feels off.” She fiddles with her camera. “But at least we’ve got front-row seats.”

You watch her adjust the lens, her fingers moving with practiced ease. “You believe in all that—exposing the truth, showing people what they don’t want to see?”

She shrugs. “Someone has to.”

You smirk. “Lucky us.”

A pause lingers between you before you smirk. “Alright, journalist. If we live through this, first round’s on you.”

Mason laughs. “Deal.”

The ship groans as another wave rolls beneath it, but for the first time tonight, the tension in your chest eases just a little.

funny how she said she doesn't do sightseeing then says she does to mason.. kinda weird, anyway that was chapter one! i used most of the script from the movie itself to actually feel like you're in it. hope you enjoyed, lots of love from me! (sorry if it was too short, the chapters will be much more longer later on!)

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

[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.

[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.”

[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.

[tazienimp]

Was looking over the Soleanna map vs the Sonadow Gens map, and i found something interesting.

For reference, the bottom of the Soleanna map is where the castle/church is, and the bottom of the Sonadow Gens map is where Maria and Gerald are. Those are the same areas, and i believe Maria and Gerald being where the castle is, and where Elise and the Duke lived, are significant due to the similarities between Shadow and Mephiles.

For context, Shadow = Mephiles, Maria = Elise, Gerald = The Duke, The Biolizard = Iblis, and if you wanna take it a step further, Black Doom = Dark Gaia. Also take into account the fact that Mephiles and Shadow were both created in labs. Everyone up to speed now? Can you see why Gerald and Maria's placement at the castle on the Soleanna map is important? Good.

Okay here's where the interesting part i mentioned before takes center stage. If you take Shadow, and have him stand at relatively the same points on the map as Sonic in 06, the landscape tends to line up almost perfectly every time, at least at the south side (I'm gonna be playing Sonic 06 today just to access the rest of the map to see if my theory is correct, but the south side is all i have for now.)

In 06, the left gate leading outside and the alcove leading to Wave Ocean. On the Sonadow Gens side, the underground gate leading to Mephiles, and the well also leading to Mephiles (the tiny lil black bar aaaaaaall the way on the right). The shape of the landscape in Sonadow Gens matches up pretty well with the building and cliffs in the same area in 06. The architecture of the ground also matches up pretty damn well in both. And the box on the side matches up with the fountain in Sonadow Gens.

The tower, the flame basin, and the castle/church (hidden by the walkway and the minimap) in 06 match up with the tower, the tall unknown building, and the castle/cathedral where Neo Overlord's boss gate is in Sonadow Gens.

The walkway, arched gates on the far end of the map, and the octagonal structure in 06, match the walkway going up to the cstle ruins, the ornate wall at the far edge, and the box shown in the first set of screenshots in Sonadow Gens.

The octagonal structure, the building with the red rooftop, and the tower in the back in 06, match up with the octagonal piller, the shape pf the wall at the far edge of the map, and the pieces of a tower in the background in Sonadow Gens.

This is all while standing in relatively the same places in both games. I highly encourage you guys to try this if you have both games at your disposal.

The structures and landmarks in Sonadow Gens seem to be broken up and separated into multiple places at the same time, and while not completely obvious that these are the same map, it becomes much more clear when you stand in roughly the same places in both maps. Almost as though the way the map is broken up in Sonadow Gens was intentional, not random, so as to match what you would see if you went to the same locations in 06. Which tbh i find very interesting and very suspect. Imo there's no way this could have been an accident.

I also think that the first castle we run into in Sonadow Gens, the one with the Biolizard, are broken up pieces of the castle where Maria and Gerald are standing, as well as the castle/cathedral that Neo is residing in. All three castles are the same castle, just split into multiple parts. Specifically to match the optical illusion that is the Sonadow Gens map, with the cipher being Soleanna City. That's my running threory. I'm gonna be unlocking more of the Sonic 06 Soleanna map today just to see if the locations continue to match up.

Also big big big thanks to @jadedazemations he was there keeping me sane when i was losing my mind over this and helping me figure out if i was genuinely cooking or just going crazy, so like, thank you dude so very much you are incredible

[parkaplayboy]

75% || Chapter 8

stylenny x gender neutral reader

You're a senior in college during your final semester, but you find out that you're dangerously close to failing a class that you need to graduate. Lucky for you (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it) you get paired up with a tutor.

words: 1.2K

FIRST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

Wednesday at 2:41 PM

The front of the South Park animal shelter looked like any other small-town building— aged brick, sun-faded posters in the window, and a crooked “VOLUNTEERS WELCOME” sign hanging just off-center on the door. You stood just outside it, hoodie sleeved pulled over you hands and a knot of nerves coiled under your ribs. You were five seconds away from texting Stan some excuse—class, headache, alien abduction—when the shelter door swung open.

“There you are!” Stan’s voice was warm, familiar, and easy. “Thought we lost you to the void.” You gave a sheepish smile. “My uber had to circle the block twice. I couldn’t tell if I was about to walk into a shelter or someone's weird taxidermy side hustle.” Stan barked a laugh. “I mean, it depends on the day. Come on, you’re not late.”

The lobby was small but cozy, the walls covered in cork boards pinned with Polaroids of adopted pets and photos of volunteers holding everything from kittens to goats. Before you could look too closely, a large golden blur barreled down the hallway and launched itself at Stan’s legs. “Oh god, Toast is loose again,” Stan muttered, bracing himself as the golden retriever planted its paws on his thighs and began panting excitedly. You blinked. “Toast?” 

Stan pointed to the name tag clipped to the dog's collar. “Resident sweetheart. Also a himbo. Zero thoughts, all vibes.” 

“Kind of like Kenny,” you mused, only half joking. A voice behind you replied. “Excuse you, Toast has way more emotional depth than I do.” You turned around to see Kenny leaning against the doorframe, hair messy under a beanie, volunteer badge already clipped to his shirt. He had a smug little grin like he’d been waiting for the right moment to make an entrance.

 “Kenny,” Stan warned, scratching behind Toast’s ears. “Don’t scare off the new recruits.” 

“I’m not scared,” you said, hands on hips. “Just cautiously optimistic.” 

“About the shelter or about us?” Kenny’s grin widened, and your heart promptly tripped over itself. 

“...Both.”

Kenny mock-swooned. “God, they flirt back. I knew I liked you for a reason.” You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile as Stan handed you a clipboard with the orientation checklist. “We’re starting you easy today,” he said. “Mostly dog-walking and feeding, maybe some light kennel cleanup. No scooping anything horrifying. Yet.” 

“Cool, cool. So like… no angry racoons?”

Kenny pointed at you. “See, this is why we need them around more. Finally, someone with priorities.” 

The three of you spent the first part of the afternoon walking dogs around the small field behind the shelter. You got paired with a pit mix named Moose who decided he loved you more than life itself approximately thirty seconds into the walk. He tugged so hard on the leash when he saw Kenny across the gross that you practically stumbled into him. 

“Hey now,” Kenny said, catching your elbow instinctively. “If you wanted to fall for me, I’d at least make it romantic.” You snorted, trying not to think too hard about how steady his hand felt on your arm. “Blame Moose. He’s the one pulling all the moves.” Stan walked past just then, grinning. “Jealous?” Kenny shrugged, still looking at you. “A little. Moose works fast.”

 After a while, the sun started sliding lower and the sky shifted to the soft, golden color that made everything look like a scene from an inside movie. You found yourself back inside the shelter in the cat room— aka Bean’s Domain— with Stan on the floor beside you and Kenny lounging dramatically in a beanbag chair that had definitely seen better days.

 You sat cross-legged with a chubby tuxedo sprawled out in your lap, purring like a motorboat. “This is Bean?” 

“That’s Bean,” Stan confirmed. “Bean has trust issues and a superiority complex. Which means he’s Kenny’s soulmate.” 

“I’m right here,” Kenny said, flicking a cat toy in your direction without looking. “You can insult me to my face.” 

“I am insulting you to your face,” Stan replied. 

You looked between them, laughing softly. It was strange how comfortable you felt in that room, with these two, surrounded by warm fur and sunbeams filtering in through a dusty window. Something in your chest has loosened in the past hour. You hadn’t even noticed how tightly it had been wound.

 “Hey,” Kenny said suddenly, peeking at his phone. “Ky’s on his way. Said he’s bringing snacks.” You perked up slightly. “Kyle’s coming?” 

“Yeah,” Stan said, smiling over at you. “He wanted to come earlier but had a meeting with his thesis advisor. He said—and I quote— ‘I’m not letting Y/N volunteer for the first time without at least one slightly neurotic red-head present.’” 

You laughed. “That sounds like him.”

“Right?” Kenny grinned. “He’s also probably going to bring enough food for, like, nine people. He stress orders.”

Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Kyle stepped in, slightly flushed from the walk, curls a bit wind-tossed. He was balancing two iced coffees, a tote bag, and a brown paper sack that definitely smelled like fries. “Apologies for the delay,” he said, walking in like a man on a mission. “I got stuck on the phone with my professor about the statistical modeling for— okay, nevermind, that’s not important. I bought snacks.”

You blinked up at him from your seat on the floor. “Are you secretly trying to bribe me into continuing to volunteer?” Kyle handed you a coffee with an exaggerated shrug. “Is it working?”

You took a sip. He’d gotten your order right. “Maybe.” 

Kenny stretched out on the beanbag, arms behind his head. “What’s the verdict, Y/N? Do you hate us yet?” You pretended to consider it. “The cats are cool. Stan’s chill. Kyle brought food. You’re still on probation.”

“Ouch,” Kenny clutched his heart. “Wounded. Utterly.” Kyle handed out the rest of the food, sitting beside you cross-legged, his shoulder brushing yours. He glanced over, voice quieter than before. “Really, though… you doing okay?” You turned to look at him. His eyes were sharp, watching your expression carefully.  You nodded. “I actually… yeah. I think I needed this.” His smile came slow but genuine. “Good.”

 The four of you ended up staying after the shelter technically closed, helping sort some last-minute donations. Someone found an entire box of dog sweaters that Stan tried—and failed— not to model on Moose. Kenny took three selfies with Bean sleeping on his chest and insisted you join him for a fourth, your face half-hidden in your borrowed hoodie and laughter crinkling your eyes.

As you walked outside into the early evening air, Kyle reached for the car keys from his coat pocket. “You want me to drive you home?” he asked. “Stan drove Kenny here earlier, and I’ve got room.” You hesitated, glancing at the other two. “I’m coming too,” Stan added quickly. “We figured we’d all grab dinner afterward, if you’re up for it.” You nodded, heart doing that familiar skip again. “I’m in.” 

“Cool,” Kyle said, unlocking the car. “Also, random, but—” Stan cut in, grinning. “We were gonna volunteer again Saturday. We usually do a morning shift. Wanna come?” You looked between them—Kyle, brushing curls from his forehead and trying not to seem too eager; Stan, leaning against the car with that lazy-casual confidence; Kenny, bouncing on his heels, jacket already halfway zipped. 

It wasn’t even a hard question. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that”

[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."

[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 😽

[oddsandends-dirt-to-dust]

The World Ender

Masterlist - (chapters, link to ao3 post, moodboard, and spotify playlist.)

I’m The World Ender, baby, and I’m comin’ for them

Word Count: 10k

Warnings (for part9): smut, infected, fire, bombs.

Warnings for smut: risky sex

A/N: late post my bad, I was suffering horribly, as usual.

chap’s long asf blame the smut, not me DX

——————————

PART 9 - Making Love On The Edge Of A Knife

You’d won already. 

It hadn’t taken long for you to realize most of the restaurants were empty. Their chairs overturned; their tables scattered. Glass all over the floor, its glimmer muted by dust.  

Glass was everywhere these days – one of the earliest human inventions – because windows were everywhere. People liked watching. They’d left the wild, left nature, and turned to buildings. 

But, still, windows. For watching their old home sway and flutter, watching the things they used to live among – birds and bugs and more – still roaming around the outside, while they sat in their buildings and pretended to be better. Pretended to be smarter, and more important. 

Glass, one of the earliest human inventions, and yet so fragile. So easy to shatter, so easy to turn to sharp edges and brittle points.  

The outside hadn’t liked the buildings, nature hadn’t liked the arrogance. It had shattered the thin, fragile sheet of the windows we watched through, let that plague rush in to reclaim. 

A reminder. 

You’re not so special, nature had said. You’re not so important. 

Your boots had crunched a haunting melody as you tottered through the restaurants that were empty – aside from those wrecked tables and chairs, and that glass, and the pictures on the wall, and the blood stains on the hardwood. 

The important things were all gone. 

But. The Italian place.  

That fancy restaurant was just as wrecked inside. And the kitchen was dusty, decaying, its metal furnishings smothered by muck.  

But the kitchen was full of cans. 

It brought a smile to your mouth, finding cans of pasta, and soup, and vegetables in fancy sauces inside a fancy Italian restaurant. But you were five thousand miles from Italy, in a little rural town – so it made you smile, but you weren’t surprised at the inauthenticity. 

And you’d won, you’d found ravioli, the world had brought the opportunity right to your hands, as usual. 

Then you’d hit the stores. 

And those were empty of important things too. The clothing still hung around, ragged and forgotten. And the children’s toys, the household decor, the meaningless crap still laid in blankets of dust on buckling shelves. 

But the books, the toilet paper, the shampoos, the toothpaste. 

All gone. 

In the hardware store; the tools, the nails, the planks of wood. 

All gone. 

In the pharmacy; the medication, the bandages, the antiseptic creams, the important stuff. 

All gone. 

Either this town had been cleared of people and supplies in the early days. 

Or, someone was here. Someone who really hated Italian food.  

You hadn’t mused for long. First, you’d trailed over to Ellie’s side of the street, sticking your head into shattered windows until you’d found her. You’d told her you were checking out a building in the trees to the south-east.  

“Why?” 

“It’s a surprise.” 

“You know I don’t like your surprises.” 

“Well, that’s why I’m checking it out first. It’s nothing to worry about.” 

Yet – was the part you hadn’t added. 

Then you’d left the street with the carnival and the colors, the light rain shrouding your cheeks in a loving mist. 

You’d checked out a line of houses, eight to be exact. 

And they’d held books, and toilet paper, and toothpaste, and cans of food, and photo albums, and cell phones, and meds. 

Things people would bring with them, even during a sudden evacuation order. 

And you’d narrowed your eyes. You’d finally left to scout the hiding building you’d spotted. 

Because someone was here. 

Someone who shared Ellie’s discomfort of routing through dead people’s belongings. Someone who didn’t share her fondness for ravioli. 

Now your boots crunched on twigs and pebbles and dirt. You’d found the path at the end of a cul-de-sac, marked by a battered wooden post. There was a little sign nailed to the wood, adorned with words and an arrow pointing up. 

Elkwood Library 

It seemed fitting, that the building was a library. 

The someone seemed to like books – one of the reasons you weren’t too concerned by their presence. The other being the undisturbed homes. 

Sickness didn’t greed for art. Sickness didn’t respect boundaries, or the somber sacredness of death. 

The trees around you were alive, not dark and clawed like the statues in the park. Their leaves were soft and fluttering, their bark chocolate brown and lined like a face full of age. They hovered over the path you walked, blocked the gentle rain. 

You softened your footsteps as the path curved to the right ahead, your eyes trailing every little movement they caught. No people, yet, the trees were just alive in the wind. And little bugs flittered around, moving from trunk to branch to grass, buzzing spots of tremulous murk too small to see clearly. 

You stopped behind one of those trunks, peeked around the corner. The path stayed dirt for a while, until it cut off abruptly and turned to ashy concrete. A wide lot that had once held vehicles, but was barren now.  

You heard it then, the groans. The sputtering, wet agony that marked the presence of that iller kind of sickness. The smell came next. 

Infected were in the library. Not the someone. 

You were careful not to let your boots scuff as you approached the end of the path, where the trees ended too – and with them, your cover. 

It had been so long it almost jarred you to see them. 

The figures ambling around behind the wire fence in the distance, jerking and stumbling. Their faces starting to crack apart with fungus, their skin starting to boil with age. Walking around in aimless circles, clothing torn and stained with dark blood. 

You imagined what they’d been thinking as they’d picked their outfits out that final day. Something useless and soaked in false hope, probably. 

Because the library wasn’t a library anymore. 

Of course, it hadn’t been a library for many long, aching years. But there was a faded sign hanging on the fence. A sign that made your chest tighten as you read it. 

“Hope is the thing with feathers  

That perches in the soul 

And sings the tune without the words 

And never stops at all.” 

Safe haven. All welcome. Find refuge. 

There were giant vans towards the back, near the entrance to the brick building. You knew what they held – they were medic vans. And there were giant tents you were sure had once been blue, perched about the concrete. But they were dark and browned now, like most things, and they were ripped, and they were ruined. 

The library was turned a refuge.  

And the refuge was full of infected. 

No need for solemn graves or gloomy headstones. The death walked around the place in clear view beneath the murky sky, still sobbing in anguish, still choking on their premature ends. 

But it was nothing you hadn’t seen before – refuges like this one were as common as windows. As much a reminder as jagged, broken glass. 

Nature’s reminder. Nature’s revenge. Turning the humans into plant as consuming as they had been. Sometimes you wondered if it was the sick already inside them warped and twisted and sprouting into fungus. 

Nature had turned our greed against us. 

Your eyes roved back and forth. There was something wrong with the fence on the furthest side of the building. 

The fence was chain-link, with posts breaking its sleek sheeting every five feet or so. But in the space where one of those chain-link sheets should be, you were met with the rough sight of festering, rotten wood. 

The planks from the empty shelves of the hardware store. 

You wondered how the someone had managed to patch it up without riling the hoard. And why? 

You supposed if they were making this hollow place a home, caging the storms of snapping teeth in one place would be a good idea. 

Though, if it were you, you’d follow it up with a pretty, little bomb. Just to be safe. 

Unless the someone wasn’t making the town a home. It was their home. And the people in the library turned refuge were their neighbors. 

Your teeth grazed your lip. 

You should leave the town soon. Because you were familiar with two reactions that came with encroaching upon sacred territory.  

The ones who didn’t mind. And the ones who did. 

And really, this could go either way. 

The someone was solitary, clever, resourceful, took care in perfecting their little slice of the world. You found that kind of aloofness, that kind of effort, was often paired with fierce paranoia. And paranoia was one of the deadliest kinds of fear. 

But the someone was also sensitive. They hadn’t reaped their neighbors, despite them being nothing more than walking corpses – wearing the mangled and perverse faces of things that used to be. The someone didn’t route through houses, as though they thought them shrines. And the someone was an aesthete. They collected books. They valued the words of their late peers. They valued art. And art was a tool of connection, a precious insight into the very heart of existence and perseverance, one of the most intimate kinds of love. 

So, this could go either way. And you didn’t like taking risks, but you needed to change, so you should leave the town soon. 

Now. 

Just as you turned to leave, your eyes caught something plastered to the side of the brick building. Something big, and flashy. A poster – an utterly irresistible one at that. 

You sighed.  

The truck could wait thirty minutes. 

Because life had done it again. And you had so won. 

You had no doubt that, despite her words, Ellie would like this surprise. 

--  

The library, turned refuge, turned tomb, stared down at you like it was waiting. 

For what, exactly, you couldn’t decipher.  

You supposed it could be mourning. It could be angered. Or, it could be hopeful. 

Because you were staring up at it like it was a library. Like it was full of knowledge, and art. Like despite its decay and the howling things it held, it knew you were entering to run your fingers along blossoms of words, find the one that sparked joy. It knew someone was going to read it, going to value it, it knew you found it important enough to brave certain death. 

Because art was a tool of connection, it was an intimate kind of love, and that was exactly what you were thinking about as your eyes roved over its battered back. Its chipped bricks, its aching roof. Its shattered windows. 

You pulled your mask from your bag, slotted it over your face. The place had fallen in the early days, which left more than enough years for spores to form. 

The fence had been plastered flat to the wall of the library's back, shielding the windows of the ground floor. But the ones a little higher, they were clear. So, you wrapped your fingers around wire, careful not to rattle the fence, and you climbed slowly and silently. 

Eventually you found yourself standing on the top rail, your stomach flush to the brick as you balanced, your mask scraping its rough surface. Your fingers met the lip of the windowsill above, and you felt flat shards of glass beneath them. The window had been smashed from the inside, perhaps in a bid for escape. 

That was the other reason so many were shattered these days. Humans crawling out of the glass they’d created to divide, seeking the ancient safety of the trees to hide away in. Reduced to animals, once again. Reduced to the hunted, the prey. 

You swiped the glass to each side gently, cleared the middle so you could get a good grip. Your next movements were smooth, strenuous but necessary, as you pulled yourself up until your chest was pressed against your knuckles. You used your feet to propel yourself further up the weathered brick, inching your hands forward one by one until your palms were flat against the wood. 

You leaned forward, angling your head and shoulders into the broken window as your feet continued their crawl, eventually heaving one knee beside your hands. You grimaced, barely able to breathe through the tautness of your muscles. 

The library was dim inside, due to the lack of light breaking through the clouds. The second level wasn’t a floor, but an interior balcony, and you couldn’t see much. There were two shelves perched beside the window, like a little hallway leading to the railing ahead. 

And spores, yes. The little floaty things, ugly as ashes, coiling around open air and waiting to bring your lungs to ruin. Crueler than red berries, or poison ivy. You had to admire nature’s tricks. Had to admire its relentless retaliation. 

Nature was a betrayed thing, like you.   

You moved one of your hands to the inner sill of the window and crawled in, careful not to cut yourself on the spiked glass still stuck in the frame. You could hear the footsteps of infected below, staggered and unsure. Low growls made the hair on your arms stand, the sporadic bursts of screams sending your heart hurling. And the clicking. The echoic, chittering clicks that sounded like snapping bones, those made your stomach curl. 

You didn’t like infected. 

Obviously, you’d be hard pressed to find someone who did, but you weren’t a coward. You weren’t controlled by the little voice in your head, as old as the earth itself, that whispered fearful warnings of violent ends, injury, death. 

Actually, you’d ignored that little voice for so long it had been replaced by different whispers.  

You didn’t like infected because of their growling and their sobs, their empty eyes and their bleeding. Their jagged teeth, their stench of decay, their relentless hunger. 

An infected could chase you for miles and never tire. One caress of their teeth and you were done for.  

Maybe that was the part you didn’t like. 

Because though you didn’t have a strong grip on who you were, had been, ever would be – you knew your morals. You knew your truths.  

The thought of being stolen, your body changed but still holding your features – you didn’t like it. The thought of rotting on two feet, the thought of being invaded by the by beast of gluttony. You’d rather chew lead. 

You shallowed your breathing, though it still came out in a hushed hiss through your mask, and slithered through the tenebrous air like you belonged. The shelves beside you didn’t hold what you were searching for, because they held books – their pages beige with age. 

You reached the end of your little wooden hallway, eyes scathing the scene ahead through the film of your mask. The library beyond was huge. The balcony wrapped around three walls, lined with cases and books, dust and rot. The signs above them were decrepit, you were barely able to make out the words. But you were sure none of them had the letters you needed. 

The floor below the railing of the balcony was a living picture of war. 

And the library had lost. 

A few shelves were knocked over, books lay wounded all over the floor, spitting paper that had long crumbled to dust. The other shelves were still upright, lined and organized like a troop, spanning the whole length of the floors. Apart from a large space in the very middle, taken over by sleeping-bags, blankets, empty water bottles and dented cans. And blood. It didn’t look like blood anymore, but you knew blood, knew how it blackened. And it was still shaped like blood, great patches and splatters and pools of it. 

The victors walked their battlefield – though really, the infected stood as both winners and losers. What they truly were, were losers so thoroughly bested that the triumphant side had even conquered their bodies, and paraded them around like gore-smattered trophies. 

It wasn’t an exact science, the thing that dictated when runners morphed to stalkers, stalkers to clickers, clickers to whatever the fuck that thing bumbling around down there like a ballooned ball of goo was. 

Time was a factor, obviously. But there was something else. 

The rough, blooming wreaths of fungus weeding its way across the walls was proof. There were a few outlines of mangled corpses within the bubbled, veiny mess – hosts who’d died, the virus choosing to use the last of its resources to sporulate.  

That was the question wracking your mind as the runners-slash-stalkers, clickers, and the big guy swayed on the floor below. 

Why did some die, some change, and some stay the same? 

The answer could be some winding, twisting fragment of the virus’s DNA.  

But your answer was the winding, twisting fragments of the human DNA, long forgotten within the claws and tendrils of cordyceps – the small fight the people still put up against the relentless rage of nature. 

You thought, maybe, those invaded people were a factor in the evolution. That maybe, the runners were still runners because they were still running. Still trying to fight against the infection, still trying to cling to their bodies, refusing to be changed further by the beast that had stolen them. 

Maybe the dead ones on the walls had given up.  

Maybe the stalkers were hiding, from themselves and the things they used to be. Would rather sneak up on you than make you face the thing they were going to make you into. The thing they’d faced. 

And maybe the clickers had given in. Let the beast have them, let it use their bodies, let it blind their eyes so they didn’t have to watch the world go by without them anymore. 

And the big guy, the bloater, as Ellie called them... 

You didn’t run into many in Wyoming; you’d find the more common strains on patrols. But she’d told you her stories of when she’d battled them in basements with Joel. You’d shared yours, though you didn’t have many. You’d both ended with the same conclusion – they were brutal. 

So the bloaters, you thought, were angry. They wrapped themselves in a hardened shell, and equipped themselves with bombs of toxin, and they raged. They rampaged, they roared, and they ruined. 

You couldn’t decide what you’d morph into. Nothing was the obvious answer, you’d sooner brace a bullet in your skull than turn. But in theory – a runner or a bloater. Those were your options. 

Running or raging.  

By the time your mind had finished its spiraling, your eyes had finished their examination. The comic section was at the back, hidden below the floor you were standing on. 

Your helpful eyes had found a sign in better condition, hanging on the wall next to the open entrance doors, above the messy desk at the front. Your helpful eyes had also found the stairs no infected had bothered climbing, attached to the wall to your right. 

It was simple. Use a trick from Ellie’s stories, one she’d shown you on patrols. Throw a book, distract the lurkers, find the comic, run back upstairs, fly out the window. 

Simple, yes – but weak too. Though, so were most of your plans. 

Could you really call them plans?  

It was one of the parts of you more like a bloater. The part that charged into danger without a thought, just a bag of weaponry and an aim. 

You reached behind you, inched the zipper of your backpack up, so slowly, until a space large enough for your hand to fit through was open. 

Your fingers reached to the shelves for a book, a heavy one, a hardback, before the bloater in your head spoke up again and you paused. 

A fire would be better. 

You reached back into your bag, fingers fumbling awkwardly for the smooth bottle within. You found it, pulled it out. It was small, only half-full, but it’d work. You reached back in to find a scrap of fabric. 

Ellie liked to make sure you each had a bottle for moments like these. 

For Molotov's. Not for drinking. She’d chide. 

You wondered how many of her tricks had been learned from her father. And how many of your own had been learned from yours. 

As you opened the bottle, you wished you could drink some of the liquor within. You cursed the stupid mask on your face, stuffing the rag in its neck instead, let the liquid soak the bottom.  

Then you paused. And you breathed. And you went over your plan, that was more like an aim, again. And you steadied yourself. 

Your hand found your lighter. The lighter found its flame. The flame found the rag. 

Questions swirled your mind as the rag glowed atop the bottle in your palm, sending smoke into the already devastated air. You wondered if the fire would spread through the library full of dried pages. You wondered if the someone would be enraged or relieved if it did. You wondered if the library would be. You wondered if the souls trapped in the cages of fungus and bone would be. Enraged or relieved? 

An annihilation or a mercy? 

You weren’t used to questioning.  

You ducked behind the rail, aimed for the desk way in the distant front, and let the bottle fly. It landed with a crash and a beautiful, flaring bang of warmth and eagerness. The flame waved at you. 

You crawled your way to the stairs. 

And there was one question that didn’t skitter its way across your mind, even as the fire hissed and spat and crawled over the desk. Even as the infected roared to life, their feet thudding into the floor as they made for the light.  

Was all of this worth it? 

You made it down the stairs swiftly, watching as the infected from outside poured in, drawn by the noise. They circled the burning like cultists, at least sixty of them, some catching alight as they tried to grab the flames. 

You disappeared into the rows of shelves, keeping an eye out for bent limbs beckoning from behind their wooden frames. It was darker down here, beneath the balcony’s floor, marred by dust and cobwebs. The smell of ancient death clawed its way into your mask. 

You tread carefully over scattered books, keeping low as you made your way to the shelves against the back wall. 

You found them then, the wood filled with thinner books, their covers bright despite their age. You palmed your knife in one hand and the issue you were here for in the other. Satisfaction warmed your chest as you bent low to stuff the thing into your backpack, the screams of the infected you’d bested fading into the black. Then you stood, slotted your bag onto your shoulders, turned to begin your trek back to the stairs.  

You were halfway there when your boot hit something hard. You froze. 

The someone was smart. They’d used a portable CD player to lure the infected inside while they’d worked on the fence. How had they turned it off? 

No, they hadn’t turned it off. They were probably going to wait for the battery to die. But the battery hadn’t died. The frenzying infected must’ve knocked it off the shelf, jostling the insides just enough for it to shut up.  

Until your foot had jostled it right back to life. 

The thing was old, the music within long forgotten. 

The thing was old, and it was angry. It was screaming. 

The ancient player spewed sound into the air, grating screeches like the ones the truck had made when you’d took your knife to it. It stuttered, like it was pausing to breath. Then it went right back to roaring, it barked like a guard dog faced with an intruder. 

Your foot flew forward again on instinct, kicking the thing away from you. Right to the base of the stairs. 

You cursed, diving sideways – away from the noise and away from the stairs. 

The infected jostled back to life right alongside the player, their mouths matching its raucous screams, their feet finding the wrecked floor once again. You crept through the maze of books, staying away from the open space in the middle, hoping none would take the same paths towards the noise as you were taking away from it. 

If you made it to the doors, you could climb the fence or the vans. So that became your new aim, your body carving mindless turns and your eyes on the floor to prevent any further mishaps. But the library was swallowing you whole, the screeches within so loud you couldn’t tell where they were coming from.  

Enraged then. The library was enraged – because reminders had to stick around to be able to remind, and your fire was rippling up the wall in the distance. Your fire was blocking the entrance doors, it was crawling around the carpet like you were. Your fire was swallowing the library and the library was swallowing you right back. 

But you weren’t going to die. A thing like you could never die like this, with smoke billowing before the film of her mask, and screaming surrounding her, and growling too, and heat seeping through the paths of the shelves so fiercely you were sweating beneath your clothes. 

Even as your mind collapsed in on itself and your body shrank with it, and your heart throbbed and your limbs weakened, you knew. You weren’t going to die here, because if the library couldn’t stand tall as a reminder, then it was going to make one out of you. 

The fire was laughing. 

Oh, hello again, it said. Remember me? 

Your mind answered in pops and bangs, the sound of bullet casings tinkling to the floor. 

Something bony thwacked against your mask, made your head buzz as the hit sank into your skull. You staggered back, gaze catching the screaming thing lurching for you again, and you plunged your knife into the side of its head. It squelched as you tore your blade free, splattering dark red onto sheet of polycarbonate over your eyes, the translucent barrier you’d covered your face with to hide from nature once again. 

But nature had found you, as you plowed forward and came face to face with the fire that blocked the door, your eyes searching for a new escape and instead meeting the empty ones of the stolen. 

YOU DID THIS  

Your body jolted back, the heat of the fire slathering your spine. They were coming, charging back to the front of the library, charging back for you. 

a reckoning – a wrecker and a ruiner. they’re going to eat you alive, consume, cage your soul in a battle of sickness and greed and revenge 

Your gaze locked onto the row of shelves ahead. You broke into a sprint. 

will it make a difference when they do? will it even matter? 

You used the momentum to slam a boot into the first bookcase. It shuddered, books flying free as it toppled over and crashed into the one behind it. You braced your feet on the shelves, climbing the cases as they fell, crooked fingers tearing at your heels and heat tearing at your skin. The cases fell like heavy dominos before thudding against the back wall, the blow reverberating beneath you, and you didn’t need to look back to know the things were chasing – they were howling, they were clawing at the wood.  

The balcony rose above and your legs tensed up before you flew, fingers grappling for the railing.  

you can run all you want 

You heaved yourself up and over, gaze locked on the smoke flowing through the window ahead. You swapped your knife for your gun as you fled forward, jumped onto the windowsill and turned at the mouth of your escape. 

you can run and run and run 

Gnarled fingers curled around the railing, barely visible through the smoke. The world behind glowed like an amber eye, unyielding and resolute. Then infected rose at the end of the bookcases, a clicker with its blindness and the bloater with its rage.  

Loud, a bomb would be loud. 

But you were used to being loud, and you weren’t going to hide from the person in this town. Because life wouldn’t let you, the bloater was amping up to charge and it’d follow you right out this window, and you didn’t have another bottle, or enough bullets. The someone would either be enraged or relieved, and you could stomach either one because you weren’t one to hide. So you shoved your hand into your bag, pushed past the comic, found one of the dwindling, jagged mounds at the bottom. 

You slotted your gun into her holster, tore the pin free, threw your bomb at the bloater's feet just as it sent one of its own for your face. 

Your body launched itself from the windowsill, calves ripping on glass. And then you were falling – you weren’t sure if it counted as falling since you were the one who jumped, but the air rushing past your mask and the ground rushing for your body didn’t seem to care. You were falling, until you landed, your feet hitting the ground first and sending achy lightning through your bones. You bounced onto your side next, but couldn’t feel the impact past the resounding, ground-shaking boom that tore through your body. 

You pulled your hands over your head, curling into yourself as the library spat chunks of brick and wood down at you. It pattered over your back brutishly, made pockmarks in the dirt you were laying in. 

After your senses came back, you felt the shockwaves from your fall shuddering up your legs, and the tingling burn on your flesh from the bloaters final fuck you that had landed when you had. The sickly green mess was lost in the dirt, dust, and smoke clouding the air. 

You rolled over, pulling the mask from your face and blinking up at the dying building. The top floor had collapsed in, little flames poking their heads out from the remains, and a plume of inky smoke rose into the shrouded sky. Your burning and its water fought their own battle as the rain picked up.  

You stood, wiping a hand over your stinging eyes. You pulled your bag off, shoved the mask in, and turned to the trees. 

-- 

You made it to the end of the dirt path before you realized you needed to lie down. 

Your ears were still ringing, your head swaying, and your back hurt. 

is it all worth it? 

You stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac, stooped to the ground, pressed your back into it. The rain hit your face, spattering against your skin and soothing the aches.  

You weren’t sure what had happened in the library, turned refuge, turned tomb, turned ruins.   

A reminder, a reminder, a reminder. 

Of what? 

You went in there to find a gift for Ellie and left reeking of smoke, being jerked around by the crackling of fire and the growls of death and the pops of bullets. The screams in your memory blurred together, writhed behind your forehead until your temples throbbed and you wanted to let out a scream of your own. 

The raindrops tapped on your cheeks like the world was taunting you. They rolled into your hair, into your mouth, into the hollows of your neck. The sky was aching a darker grey now, blotchy and bleak. You couldn’t tell if it was smoke or storm. Your eyelids fluttered against the downpour, collecting drops in their lashes like tears. 

What did it all mean? 

Your body hummed as the adrenaline faded out. You felt weightless. It didn’t matter; everything had worked out. You’d find Ellie, find the truck, find the end of the town, hopefully, without interference.  

you're relentless 

You splayed your arms out, let the rain patter over your throbbing bones. 

“Y/n.” Her voice was loud, full of some kind of deepness you didn’t care to decipher. 

You twisted your head, found Ellie jogging up the street toward you. She’d changed her shirt. She now adorned a ratty graphic tee, and a loose olive-green over-shirt, its sleeves rolled to her elbows. Thrown together carelessly, but it looked good on her. 

Maybe you should find some new clothes too. Yours were in shambles, and they smelled. And the world was growing colder. 

Ellie hovered over you; her face taut. 

“Jesus, I thought you were dead.” 

You narrowed your eyes. 

“What? You saw me sprawled here cartoonishly on the concrete and thought I’d been struck down by God, or something?” 

She scoffed in offence, her eyes trailing up and down your body. 

“Well, why the fuck are you sprawled on the concrete?” 

“I’m enjoying the rain.” 

She stared at you pointedly. 

“Oh, did this need a warning? Should I be holding up a sign that says ‘not dead, just batshit’?” You mocked, wiping a hand over your damp forehead. 

“I heard an explosion.” Ellie said sternly, arching an accusing brow. 

You clambered to your feet, dusting off your shirt. 

“There were infected in the library.” You said. 

Ellie froze before closing her eyes. 

“Tell me you didn’t-” 

“I had to.” 

Her eyes found you again. She splayed her arms wide, shaking her head. 

You bent to your backpack, the zipper cutting through the silence. 

Her face changed as you pulled out your findings, the resignation shifting. Her mouth popped open, her eyes lighting up as they roved over the thing in your hand. 

“You’re fucking kidding.” She laughed, quietly. 

“Worth it, right?” You handed her the comic. 

She took it, head swaying. 

“If you died it would’ve been pretty fucked up.” Ellie twisted her head, a brow arching – the expression teasing now. 

“You’ve been looking for that issue for two years, it was worth it.” You nodded, confirming your own question. Because she was smiling now, as she looked at you. She was smiling in the way that made your stomach warm. 

Ellie pressed her tongue into her cheek, her fingers drifting over the cover admiringly. 

“Okay...” She breathed. “You might be my favorite person again. I’m starting to remember why I like you so much.” 

You hummed through your own smile, her jab bringing calmer memories to your mind. 

The last time the seasons were edging toward their end, when you were just getting to know the girl beside you and she was just getting to know you. One patrol she’d traded her book for a comic, gaze entangled in it as you sat across from her on a fallen log. 

You’d half-felt like you were in a dream. Watching the wild oat grass sway in the breeze, the wilting trees that cradled. The towering things in the distance you weren’t sure were cliffs or hills, and the mirage of indomitable mountains behind them putting them to shame. The blue skies, the endless clouds. You’d never seen anything like it. Never been anywhere so open, so gentle, so effortlessly alive.  

You’d felt like you were something living then, something that could dream. Discovering parts of yourself you thought were long gone – parts you weren’t sure had ever even existed – in that little town that shouldn’t exist, but did anyway. 

Your eyes had kept drifting towards Ellie, reading as always, unable to quell the suspicion that she brought those books and comics on patrols so she’d have an excuse as to why she didn’t talk. She didn’t need an excuse – you were a stranger. And you felt like a stranger. But she was strange too. 

She didn’t seem the same as the others in the town. So, you’d asked what she was reading. And her eyes had flicked up to meet you, and you’d felt like you were on the precipice of something unspeakable and incomprehensible. Something new. Something important. 

Ellie answered your question, her demeanor as cool as the breeze but not as flowing. Then you’d told her about your own collection of brightly illustrated stories, and she’d softened a little. 

And everything had just felt so easy, so different. It was nice to pretend for a while that you were a person who lived, and not a thing who killed. 

It was funny, looking at her now as she flicked through the comic – looking at her now that you knew her. And she was just as incomprehensible, just as important as you’d predicted. You almost felt sick at the weight of it. 

You wondered if Ellie was thinking about that moment too. Her smile was too tender to be one of joy or excitement, even though her eyes were on the pages. She closed the comic, wiped a wrist over its cover, smearing the raindrops that had dampened its surface. 

“Time to bounce?” She asked, stooping to slot the comic into her bag. 

“The houses have some good shit in them, we should hit a couple before we leave.” You said. “Wanna eat first?” 

Ellie nodded as she stood. 

“What’s on the menu?” 

You raised your brows, a coy smile spreading your lips. 

Ellie huffed, her eyes narrowing. 

“You asshole. You found ravioli, didn’t you?” 

You tilted your head. 

“I win.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved a hand, turning to walk down the street. “That’s just what I wanted you to think.” 

“Sore loser?” You followed after her, wiping raindrops from your cheek. It was a pointless action, more were sure to follow, but they tickled. 

“I got a brand-new comic to shut you out with, and my favorite canned delicacy. And you’re the schmuk who went traversing through ghoulish cannibals for them, I didn’t even have to lift a finger.” 

You tutted, bumping her with a shoulder. 

“A sore loser, and ungrateful. Aren’t you a joy?” 

Ellie bit into her smile, eyes roving the town ahead thoughtfully. 

Maybe you should fix up a town. Though there were bigger buildings, easier to fortify – maybe you could find an emptier state and settle down after your trip to the observatory.  

Or maybe you shouldn’t make plans. You were a thing that settled for a simple aim for a reason, this world had a habit of tearing up plans and stomping them into the dirt. And you didn’t like staying in one place for too long, anyway. 

Ellie reached up and put a hand on your head playfully, urged your face to turn to her. 

“I am grateful, thank you. But you’re a fucking idiot.” She said, leaning in. 

You batted her hand away. 

“I’m not, actually.”  

She sighed, quirking her head. 

“Okay fine, you’re super smart but totally batshit.” 

“You know what they say...” You grinned. “There’s no great genius without a touch of madness.” 

Ellie scoffed, gaze scanning the houses around. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She said, walking onto the cracked sidewalk. “Why’d you come all the way out here, anyway?” 

She pushed open the little white gate and walked into the overgrown yard. A concrete path peeked out from beneath the thick brush, leading to a ruby-red door – though its paint was peeling sorrowfully.  

“There’s someone here. The library was pretty detached, I wanted to scope it out.” You said, following her up the path.  

“Wait, what?” Ellie stopped walking, turned to you. 

“Well, I don’t know if they’re still here, but-” 

“You knew there might be someone in town and didn’t think to let me know?” She cut in. “What if the fucker blindsided me?” 

Your flesh went cold. 

You stuttered, before finally landing on a reason. Though it felt like an excuse; it sounded empty and cracked. But it was your reason. 

“I was focused on figuring it out. I was distracted.” You shook your head, nausea swirling. “I’m sorry, I-” 

“Relax.” Ellie held a palm up. “I’m just saying, intel is intel, share it with the class next time.” 

You paused at her impassive reaction. 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“You really think I’d let some fucker blindside me? I’m glad you realized I can handle myself.” 

You stared at her for a moment. Ellie could take care of herself, yes, you’d realized. But... you were also starting to realize that her incessant need to prove herself drove her into worryingly dangerous situations. 

Like following an aggressive, homeless derelict into an aggressive, home-less, derelict city and beyond, for example. 

“I’m- I’ll clue you in next time.” You shook your head. “I just wasn’t sure, and when I was, they didn’t seem like much of a threat.” 

Ellie nodded, turning back to the house. She trudged through the weeds, the grass swaying around her calves, and wiped a hand over an unmarred spot on the cracked window before peering in. Satisfied with her brief check, she made for the front door. 

“Explain.” She ordered. 

And you did, talking her through your findings as you began combing through the house, collecting supplies and trying not to look too hard at pictures or tiny shoes or ominous, long-dried blood spatters.  

-- 

The someone was staring to get on your nerves. Alive or dead, their choices had really fucked you over. Couldn’t they have just let the infected roam the streets like a normal struggling survivor? How nature intended? Did they have to be such a perfectionist, such an idealist?  

You’d stuffed your bags with goods from the houses, and on your way back to the truck you’d stumbled across the town hall. It was a big white building – adorned with pillars and other posh crap. You’d just wanted to see if the inside was more interesting. And it was, you supposed. You were halfway up the grand staircase when infected had come flooding into the foyer. You were cornered, no ammo, had no choice but to run. And you’d made it – though, not without a scare.  

But it was fine. You’d sunk a knife into the face of the thing grappling Ellie, sent it toppling down the stairs. 

The someone would definitely morph into a stalker. So desperate to carve their little slice of life back into some semblance of normality, hiding the infected away in buildings while they sat and read their books and ate nasty non-fancy cans of food. And they seemed to be hiding from you too, hadn’t come running at the sound of your explosion as Ellie had. 

You tapped your fingers on your thigh, blinking through the dark of the little closet you’d stuffed yourselves into. Yeah, you were hiding too, but it wasn’t a choice; it was a necessity. You could hear the infected stumbling around the little office the closet belonged too, yelping and snarling. 

Stuck, for the moment. 

A quiet shuffling muffled the growls, and then a flashlight clicked on. Ellie pointed it to the wall, away from the door. The closet wasn’t much of a closet; it was small, empty – aside from you. Just four blank walls, a carpet, and a shoddy door. The jarring white circle of light against one of those empty walls, and a couple of cans on the floor that Ellie had laid out. 

The infected had lost their lunch, but you hadn’t. 

She shoved one toward you with a foot. You smiled up at her once you’d read the label. She shrugged, sending you a small smile back, but her face wasn’t all hers – there was a roughness to her features. Like the close-call with the infected had shaken her, though she should be well used to them by now. 

You peeled open the can of fruit salad carefully, sipped the juice within. It was tart, but didn’t taste rotten. Ellie followed suit, and you both scarfed down your lunch in silence. 

Then it was back to waiting. Once the room beyond your closet grew silent like you, maybe you could slip out a window.  

Ellie’s eyes were on the carpet, her fingers fiddling with a loose thread hanging from a rip in her jeans. The rest of her body was still. 

The close-call had gotten to you too, the sharp memory of those teeth so close to her neck still rang through your mind – but you weren’t one to dwell, and you thought she wasn’t either.  

Her fingers moved, trailing up her arm and rubbing mindlessly at her tattoo. She’d gotten it to cover a scar, she’d said. Scars were stories, they were trophies, you couldn’t understand why someone would want to cover one up – but you couldn’t deny, the artwork curled around her forearm was beautiful too. 

Ferns – ancient, enduring, represent protection and new life. Associated with healing and good luck. They reproduce using spores which, like their sinister fungal kin, are dangerous to inhale. But the plants are edible, and some types of ferns can be used topically to treat wounds, among other benefits when consumed.  

And moths – vapid little creatures but determined nonetheless. A symbol of transformation. Ugly to most, but most weren’t looking hard enough. 

You wondered what they meant to her. You wanted to ask, but the look in her eyes was far too haunted, stole the words right from your mind. 

Instead, you leaned forward, pushed your hands in front of the flashlight splayed on the floor. You pressed your palms together, snapped your pinkies up and down. Your dog barked silently on the wall. 

Ellie’s eyes shot to it, narrowing slightly. 

You twisted your hands, contorting your fingers awkwardly until the shadow looked like a rabbit. 

She rested her face on a hand, a smile tugging at her lips. It looked more genuine this time. 

Your next move was a little more complicated, took you a few tweaks to master. Ellie’s brows pinched together. 

“Witch.” You whispered. 

Her shoulders twitched with laughter as she scrubbed her hand over her eyes. 

“Those are terrible.” She whispered back. 

You scoffed quietly, dropping your hands. 

“My fingers are magic, you know this.” You smirked, leaning back.  

Ellie threw you a twisted look. She sat with her back pressed into the wall, her legs bent at the knees in front of her, parted slightly. The picture of relaxation now, despite the muffled growls still emanating from behind the door. But it seemed your distraction had worked. 

“Stop pretending you’re so above dirty jokes.” You chided, rolling your eyes. 

She flattened her face as she glared at you, though you could see her mouth resisting the tug of a smile. 

“I am.” 

You crawled forward, standing on your knees before her. You rested your hands on her knees, dragged them down the insides of her parted thighs. You paused at the bottom to squeeze the plushy flesh, your nails grazing denim. Ellie stared up at you, that beguiling smile finally breaking onto her face. 

“Cause you’re just so innocent, right?” You taunted in a breathy whisper. 

“Cause I’m not a nympho like you.” Her lowered voice rumbled. 

You narrowed your eyes, repeating your movements to caress her thighs languidly. She didn’t break your heated stare – it seemed her little bout of flustering had subsided already. You sighed despondently, a smirk following soon after as something warm and tingling rose in your stomach at the challenge in her gaze. 

“So, you don’t want to hear me talk about how I’ve been thinking of you eating my pussy all day?” You whispered, thumbs massaging the crevice of her thighs.  

Ellie still didn’t balk from your eyes, though hers flickered slightly. Her tongue slid out to wet her lips as she shook her head softly. You leaned close into her face, dropping your gaze to her mouth. 

“How pretty you look between my legs? Or how pretty you are between yours?” You stroked a thumb firmly up her clothed cunt as you murmured the words. 

Her breath hitched subtly, and your smirk stretched into a small grin. You left your thumb there, caressing lighter swipes up and down the seam of her jeans, as you brushed your face past hers. You let your nose trail down to Ellie’s jaw, pressed a kiss to the hollow beneath before you hummed against her skin in question. 

“You’re an asshole.” Her tight voice made the flesh under your lips buzz. 

You pulled away from her, dragged both your hands up her thighs. 

“You don’t want to, fine.”  

Your words weren’t bitter – if she wasn’t in the mood, she wasn’t in the mood. 

But you could see her face again. You could see the lust in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks warm despite the cool illuminance of the flashlight. Ellie watched you for a moment before her hands flew up and caged your face. She pulled your lips down to hers, kissed you roughly.  

She opened up and the wet of your mouths met, hot and smooth. The hunger in her touch made your clit pulse and you pressed closer, stumbling slightly as you moved a knee between hers. She straightened her leg against the floor so you could comfortably straddle her thigh. 

Ellie’s hands moved to your sides, fingers rumpling your shirt as she slid her palms up and down the skin of your waist. Her chin bumped yours, her lips clamping down to suck on your bottom one as your hands skimmed up her shoulders, cradling the neck that arched up to meet you. 

Her pulse thrummed beneath your fingers, the dark closet fading away as the heat and corporeal silk of her skin encompassed you. All yours, your tongue sliding between her lips and caressing hers, your breaths mingling, your chests flush and humming.  

Chittering growls seeped into your perfect moment, pulled a question to your mind.  

What would Ellie morph into? 

Her hands tightened on your flesh, lips swirling together before her tongue stroked your top lip. You pushed into her, her head anchored against the wall, sucked your lips around her tongue. Your mouths met again; your fingers tangled in her hair. 

No, the girl beneath you couldn’t be stolen, her lithe body, her finding fingers, her soft lips. You couldn’t imagine her ever being anything but that – anything but her. The heart you could almost feel through her clothes, the clever eyes, the playful smirk. A thing so alive could never die. 

You rolled your hips onto Ellie’s thigh, sighing at the feel of it against your pussy. Her hands slid up your back, fisting in your shirt like she wanted to pull it off. 

The growls grew louder, bounced against the wood of the door. 

Ellie turned her face, her lips dragging against yours. Her breathing was ragged as her gaze roved over the only thing between you and the things, hesitantly. 

You placed a kiss on her cheek, brought your mouth back to her ear. 

“We just have to be quiet.” You murmured, the vitality of her cushioning your worries. “First one to moan loses.” 

Her head leaned into yours as you slathered kisses beneath her jaw. 

“First one to moan attracts a pack of infected that’ll rip us apart.” She mumbled, her voice caught between annoyance and arousal. 

You smiled. The infected didn’t stand a chance. And neither did she. 

“Chance to redeem yourself. Scared you’ll lose?”  

Fingers tangled in your hair, brought your face back to hers. Her other hand roamed up your torso, cupped your tit and squeezed. 

“You’re funny.” Ellie breathed sanguinely, then her lips were on yours again. 

Your hand dropped to her jeans, tugged them open, slipped inside. You smoothed your fingers past the mound of her pubes, down into the folds of her pussy. Her breath trembled at the contact of your cool fingers, her hand lowering instinctively to mirror your movements. 

The first swipe of her fingers against you was reverential, sweeping down to collect your wetness before moving up to the flesh above your clit. The pressure of her fingertips stayed there, her wrist tugging against the fabric of your pants as she dragged her hand back and forth teasingly. You sucked in a breath at the way it made your insides tingle, sliding your own fingers over the silky plumpness of her labia.  

Ellie’s fingers moved lower then, stroking your clit as her other hand moved to your jaw. You sighed against her mouth, had to inwardly remind yourself to be quiet. It felt like she was touching the very soul of you – you could feel every ring of her fingerprint, every caress awakening your body, your blood warming in your veins, your heartbeat echoing, your brain wholly focused on her.  

You brought your fingers to her hole, drew circles around it mindlessly. It was almost impossible to concentrate on kissing her and teasing her with the simmering pleasure rolling from your core.  

Once you felt her growing wetter you circled her more firmly, massaging the slick flesh around her clenching hole and reaching your thumb up to drag a wide ring around her clit. Ellie let out a strained breath, her lips pausing on yours. 

She sped her hand, bumping into your clit in a ravaging rhythm. Your stomach clamped down, your head falling into her neck as you grit your teeth. Your hips bared down against the friction, your nails clawing at her shoulder. 

You moved your glossy fingers to her clit finally, working light circles over the swollen bud. Ellie’s breath hitched, her thigh shifting beneath you as she parted them, her hips bowing up. Even as sparks flashed beneath your eyelids, even as the muscles of your abdomen coiled up, you didn’t speed your fingers. You stuck with the feather-light touches, sucking at her neck as she shuddered below you. Your teeth grazed her skin. 

“Are you even trying to win?” Ellie mocked; voice thick with prurience. 

You resisted the urge to grin, detaching your mouth from her neck. 

“It just feels so good.” You lied. 

Her fingers rubbing over your swollen clit did feel mind-numbingly amazing, but that wasn’t why you were toying with her. You were playing the long game, knew how to make her need it so bad she’d crumble. So, you stayed with your crawling pace, light caresses. 

But you nearly lost it when Ellie started trailing her fingers up and down your neck, the ones on your pussy grinding down harder. You shivered, biting down on your lip until it hurt, anything to distract from the torturous pleasure of her hands. 

She was starting to crack. Her hips rolled into your hand, her breaths quivering. She wanted more. You didn’t give it to her. You dropped your fingers back to her hole, resumed your teasing movements.  

“You’re so wet.” You whispered, the creamy gloss of her arousal coating your fingers almost too much to bear, the slick sound of her pussy so loud in the quiet. You squeezed your thighs around her hand, couldn’t even trust yourself to breath without giving in to the groans threatening in your chest. God, she was ruining you. 

“Yeah, you think?” Ellie bit out, her hand wrapping around your thigh and pulling you open again. 

A shaky sigh slipped from your lips as you drew a single finger over her clit, achingly slow. Her body trembled, a breath stuttering from her lips. You let your finger trace her in lingering, delicate circles until her hand tightened painfully on your thigh, her hips pushing up against you. 

Without warning you quickened your pace, felt Ellie’s head fall back, a gasp breaking from her throat as her muscles tensed up beneath you. You whirred your fingers faster, pressing hard, and her body jerked, hips bucking up. Her free hand flew to your bicep, fingers curling in. A guttural moan curled from her chest.  

You panted a laugh, lifting your lips to her ear. 

“I win. Again.” 

She didn’t respond – the hand in your underwear faltered, fingers twitching, stuttering. You pulled back just enough to watch her.  

Her neck arched against the wall, those heady brows knitted, blush lip caught between her teeth. The dim light carved shadows along her face, pooling beneath the jut of her freckled cheekbones. She was trying to hold it in – you saw it in the way her breath stalled, the sharp exhales that broke free in uneven bursts. The way her eyes screwed shut, lashes trembling. The way her body jolted subtly with your movements. 

“This what you needed, baby?” 

Her stomach spasmed, hips arching into your hand as a low, desperate hum caught in her throat. 

“Like being spoiled, huh?” You murmured, delighting in your victories but delighting even more in the euphoric set of her features, how she crumbled for you. 

You were the spoiled one, the ruined one, the stolen one – the one pressing pecks to her sallow neck, the one making her shiver with rapture, the one haunted by her hallowed hues and sonorous voice, morphed by her presence into a thing you didn’t recognize. 

Ellie pressed a palm into the floor to steady herself, her mouth widening – little breathless uhs falling out. You rocked your hips into her hand, chasing an answer to the swell threatening in your core at the sight of her, the feel of her delicate flushing skin beneath your fingers. 

You looked down to the bulge of your hand in her jeans, stretching the fabric, revealing her toned v-line, the auburn hair in its midst trailing to the mouth of her wanting. Your fingers roamed down again, prodding into her pussy, her hips swirling as you teased. Her wetness leaked onto your fingers, a kiss of warmth, a beckoning promise.  

You slid yourself inside finally, her tight walls swallowing you to the knuckles and clenching. Her eyes rolled, blissful white between dark, fluttering lashes. 

“Shit...” Ellie choked out lowly, resting a forearm over her face as you curled your fingers and massaged the puffy flesh within. Her lips pulled into an inviting parted pout, her voice higher now, more desperate, with a whispered, “h-holy shit.” 

You pounded your fingers harder at that, the length of your thumb slipping between her lips, up and down over her clit with the movement. Ellie was writhing now, her chest heaving and vibrating with cut-off moans. 

You pushed her arm off her face, tipped her chin until that pretty pout was flush with your own. Her hand shifted to cup your pussy, dragging back and forth lazily like it was more for her own pleasure than yours. You ground into her palm, letting hushed moans of your own spill into her mouth. 

Her thigh squeezed in as her viscid walls shuddered, eyes opened half-lidded to meet yours – blown-out and needy. Her wetness soaked your fingers, dripped down your hand. You applied more pressure with your thumb, flicking over her clit with vicious precision. Her eyes flicked to the door as she shivered. 

“Oh... God. Fuck,” Ellie’s hand wrapped around your arm, “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.” Her rumbling voice shook with urgent plea, her restraint fracturing. 

Your own need made your head swim, hips rocking faster into her hand as the pleasure coiled up in your stomach. Your hand slid to her jaw, forced her gaze to stay on you. 

“I got you, baby, go ahead.” 

Her face scrunched with the ache of trying to stave off the ecstasy her body was so carnally craving. Her pussy clamped down around your fingers, hips twitching. 

“I can’t-” She trembled, mouth widening, brows knotting together as her muscles locked up – the thigh beneath you straining – so clearly on the edge. “I can’t, I’m gonna...” 

“Just look at me,” you breathed, “focus on me, I got you, I promise.” 

Her glazed eyes on you, her palm pressing up into your pussy, your teeth snagging your lip. Your skin burned, that ardent swirling flooding your gut so good. Nothing else existed but the girl below you – hauntingly lodged in your mind – and your fingers lodged in her.   

“Good fuckin’ girl, Els.” You purred, thrusting through the tautness of her walls and knocking into that gummy spot that made her eyes roll from you again, her clit pulsing under your thumb. Ellie shuddered, sucking in a sharp gasp as the weight of her head lolled into your hand. 

“Oh my... god.” She mewled, perhaps too loud, but you’d ignored her warning. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

She was babbling now; half-formed, whispered words spilling from her lips. tangled with gasps and curses. Her abs tensed beneath the fabric of her shirt, muscles flexing as she came, her thigh jolting into yours in a desperate, involuntary motion. Her hand found your back, clutching, pulling, needing you closer. You pressed soft, adoring kisses to the corner of her mouth, tasting the syrup of fruit on her heavy breaths, feeling the shudders wracking her body as her orgasm ebbed and abated. 

Ellie slumped against the wall, spent and boneless, her cheeks flushed. A contented sigh ghosted past her lips as you finally freed your fingers, the heat of her still lingering on your skin. 

Her attention – hazily, hungrily – shifted back to the hand in your underwear, her fingers fondling through your swollen folds.  

Then, it was her turn to spoil you. Her digits on your clit, back to their lewd caresses, dragging tear-jerking bliss through your veins. Your body curved into her, hands roaming her chest and kneading the perky flesh of her tits. You panted into her skin, her other hand skimming up and down your back. 

You felt her pause. 

“Wait, you hear that?” She whispered, her hand slowing, face turning to the door. 

You didn’t care if the things were halfway through it – the tension wracking your body was so close to snapping you were dizzy with it, your hips moving instinctively, chasing the tug. 

“Don’t stop, Ellie, please.” You whimpered. “I’m so close.” 

She sighed, that familiar resignation or awe, you couldn’t decipher. 

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, you know that?” Were the words that followed, purred low and raspy, awe abundant for sure. 

“Uh-huh,” you sobbed as her pace accelerated back to an eye-rolling rhythm. Your nails tore into her clothed shoulders, dampened forehead resting fitfully on her neck. “Uhh, you love it.” 

An amused huff warmed your hair, her hand trailing up to cup the base of your skull. 

“Love this pussy, wish I could eat it like you been wanting.”  

Your thighs clenched, her words flaring the sparks of ardor flickering through your core. 

“Maybe I’ll let you.” You huffed out. “Next time’s my call, you lost.” 

Ellie’s chest buzzed as she hummed. 

“You cheated.” 

“No, j-just smarter.” You sighed. 

The side of her face pressed into yours, pinning your head in the crook of her neck. Her voice came honey-smooth, yet edged with something rougher, something possessive. 

“Well, I like you better like this. All dumbed-out and making a mess on my fingers.” 

The tone hit like a spark to dry kindling. White flickered behind your eyes, carnal heat snapping through you relentless, washing the fight from your brain. Your lips parted in a silent cry; whimpers muffled against her sweat-slicked skin. 

Your release crashed into you, ecstasy barreling through your body, the knot of your muscles unraveling in deep, pulsing waves of throbbing pleasure. You tremored atop her, wracking with after-shocks, thighs twitching where they pressed into her own.  

Ellie worked you through it, fingers teasing, coaxing, milking every last shudder. Her free hand slid up, cradling the back of your head, thumb stroking soothing circles against your nape as you sagged into her. 

And then, with that familiar cocky drawl, she chuckled.  

“Do I at least get a consolation prize?” 

She pulled her hand from your pants, fingers glistening, smug satisfaction etched across her face. 

“The things I do to you when next time comes will be your consolation prize.” You promised breathlessly, still catching your bearings. 

Ellie’s gaze roamed your face – interest piqued and thoughts surely wondering. 

You gave her a slow, taunting smile in return, rising on unsteady knees to zip your fly. She reached for your hips, fingers digging as if to pull you back down, but something in her expression shifted. 

Her gaze flicked to the door. 

“What?” 

Her lips flattened, eyes flickering with something sharp like suspicion. 

“It’s been quiet.” 

You broke out of her grasp and turned to your bags, made sure everything was tucked safely inside – ready to sling over your shoulders. 

“Good, they must’a got bored and went back downstairs. Now we can bounce.” You said, handing Ellie her backpack. 

“Yeah, I guess.” But she shook her head, wet her lips. “It’s just – earlier I thought I heard...” She squinted. 

“What?” 

She shushed you, eyes still on the door, her head twisting as she strained to listen. 

A second passed. And then another. 

Your ears caught it then. A noise, soft, muffled – but there. 

The hair on the back of your neck rose as footsteps thudded on the carpet outside the door. Slow. Unhurried. 

Your spine prickled with ice. 

“Heard what, Ellie?” You urged. 

She glanced at you, and in her expression, the same apprehension you felt curling in your chest.  

“Music.”  

The apprehension fled your lungs, chased away by a surge of adrenaline. You stood, eyes latching onto the door just as the handle began to turn. 

“It’s not infected.” You snapped. 

The door creaked open an inch, and you were waiting. Stepping back, you lifted your knee and slammed your boot into the wood, hard. The door crashed open, knocked something flying backwards into the office beyond. 

Your someone thudded to the carpet like his boots, with a resonant groan and a hand splayed on his face.  

You were already moving – gun in your palm, aimed at the face beneath the aged hand, finger twitching on the trigger as you stalked forward. 

Deep brown eyes peeked from behind a finger before he dropped his hand. His face was aged too, lined and scarred like the tree trunk, worn but not menacing. Even as he drew his gaze up, scanning the length of your body, he seemed more amused than alarmed – or hungry. 

“Shoot first, ask questions later,” that dulcet voice chirped, his chin dipping, “I like it.”

[lovesickheroreader]

Baby? Baby Stay With Me 3/4

Pairing- Sam Carver x fem!reader

Next Chapter

Read on A03

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Truck 81, Squad 3, Engine 51. We got a possible fire on South Jefferson Street. Let's move.” Kidd's urgent voice sounded throughout the firehouse speaker. You abandoned your lunch along with the rest of 51 and ran out to the apparatus floor into action.

You noticed Boden and Casey getting into the Chief's car to assist the call. As Mouch pulled out of the firehouse, you looked over at your lieutenant, who seemed more tense than usual.

You shared a look with your boyfriend as you both came to the same conclusion.

This was the Homeland threat.

When house 51 arrived on the scene, there was a maintenance worker waiting and part of an electrical unit in sparks.

“That transformer's overheating, and I don't know why,” the worker said when Boden asked what was happening.

“Chief, you see the damage to the cooling fins? Looks like a large-caliber gun,” Casey pointed out, making you smile slightly. It was nice having him back for a call. You missed your former captain.

“I got dry chem and foam suppression units en route. They're about 20 minutes out,” Boden told the worker.

The worker shook his head gravely. “We don't have minutes. If that fire spreads to the other banks, the whole substation could go down. We're talking 8 million people in the dark,” he informed.

“We cannot spray water while that transformer is energized. Can your people shut it down?” Boden asked.

“I can do it manually from the inside,” the worker answered.

“Then do it,” Boden instructed. The worker nodded and walked over to the electrical unit gate.

Boden turned and addressed you all. “Okay, charge the hose line. Get ready on the deck gun. We're gonna wait for the…”

The Chief was cut off by a gunshot that hit a wall close to you all. Immediately, everyone ducked down.

“Get down! Get down! Take cover! The shooter is still on the scene!” Casey yelled out. As the rest of your crew moved behind the fire engines for safety, you saw the poor maintenance worker cowering by the gate.

You instinctively rushed over and grabbed him, ignoring the slight sharpness of pain that radiated from your side. You pulled the man with you behind truck 81, flinching as a bullet landed right behind you.

“What the hell is going on here?” Herrmann screamed from behind Bodens car.

Boden radioed in to dispatch, “10-1 10-1, we are under fire. There's a sniper in an elevated position. Respond with caution.”

“Everyone stay down!” He called out his firefighters.

“Shots are coming from the east,” Casey informed Boden, looking upwards at a building located east of you all.

“Hey, I can pull the engine forward, shield that gate. That way, we can get in there,” Herrmann suggested. He moved to get to Engine 51 only to slide back towards cover as a bullet nearly hit him. Another shot took out a wheel on Engine 51.

“I said, stay down!” Boden shouted authoritatively. “We have to keep the rigs in between him and us!” He said to Casey, who was beside him.

“Chief, these are massive, armor-piercing rounds. Even the rigs might not protect us,” Casey warned.

“That's all we got. We stay put, wait for PD,” Boden said calmly.

Using Truck 81's side mirror, Casey angled it and spotted the shooter. “I see him. He's on a rooftop about a block away.”

Another bullet penetrated the electrical unit, sending the part that was sparking now into flames.

“That's the cooling oil. It's gonna go up fast now,” the maintenance worker said to Boden.

“Chief, I can get to that rooftop and put an end to this. He can only fire one round at a time. If I can make it to that corner, I can get to him. Then all I have to do is keep him distracted until the police arrive,” Casey pitched, selfless as always.

Boden immediately shot down the idea. “No, you are not armed.”

“Chief, we need to get that fire out. All due respect, Chief, but I don't answer to you anymore. I'm going,” Casey stated strongly, already moving from his crouched position despite Boden calling after him.

“Chief, he's right. And we can't let him go alone. I'm going with him,” Kidd spoke up, with you and the rest of 81 volunteering to accompany her.

“Gallo, Carver, bring your irons. Mouch, you gotta stay and work the aerial for me. L/N, I want you to stay as extra support,” Kidd ordered.

As Boden grilled your lieutenant about keeping safe, you looked over to your boyfriend to find his gaze already on you. “Be careful,” you told him, hoping he got your true meaning.

Sam didn't have a chance to respond as Kidd and Gallo were already cautiously moving towards Squad with Joe, who volunteered to move the engine to give them longer cover.

You could only watch helplessly as he, Casey, Gallo, and Kidd ran around the corner in the direction of the shooter.

Minutes passed as you and the rest of 51 waited for any radio response from the others. Feeling a bit lightheaded, you dropped into a sitting position, taking a deep breath in to regain your bearings.

“Carver's gonna be okay, L/N, they all will,” Mouch comforted. You gave him a shaky smile, hiding the throbbing pain you were starting to feel as your adrenaline wore off slowly.

You couldn't focus on whatever you were feeling as Kidd's voice came through the radio. “Gun is down. Gun is down!”

“Kill that power now,” Boden ushered to the maintenance worker who quickly ran over to the electrical unit. Just then, two CPD cars pulled into the lot, sirens blaring.

“Herrmann, get ready with that water,” Boden instructed the lieutenant.

“Got it. Let's go!” Herrmann called out to his crew.

“The shooter is on that rooftop!” Boden yelled out to the officers, pointing to the building a block away.

Using Truck 81 to support yourself, you wobbled onto your feet. A burning sense of pain flared from the side of your abdomen. You gasped, crumbling against the fire engine.

“L/N? You alright?” Mouch called out to you in concern as everyone got to work putting out the electrical fire.

You placed a hand on your side and then peeled it away. It was covered in blood.

You looked over to Mouch with wide eyes full of fear. The shock sent your knees buckle, and you collapsed.

“L/N!” Mouch cried out and rushed over to you. He placed pressure on your wound as you continued to stare at your blood covered hand, paralyzed.

“We need an ambulance! L/N's been hit!” Mouch called out to Boden frantically. He called out your name repeatedly until you finally looked at him.

“Breathe Y/N, you gotta breathe,” Mouch instructed. You didn't realize you weren't. Every breath felt like a stab.

“Chief,” you whispered fearfully, tears brimming as Boden crouched down next to you and took your other hand in his, squeezing it.

“Ambo is on its way. You're gonna be just fine, L/N,” he assured. You nodded, tears falling down your cheeks.

You wanted- no, needed Sam by your side. You needed him to call you sweetheart and say everything was gonna be okay because he was the only person you could believe.

As if reading your thoughts, Boden radioed over the frequency everyone at 51 was on. “Mayday, mayday, firefighter down, L/N's been shot. Ambo's on its way. Carver, get your ass here right now.”

“Thhhannnks Chief,” you slurred, your vision growing hazy for a moment. God, you were so tired.

“Carver's on his way, L/N, you need to stay awake for him. Don't close your eyes,” Mouch instructed, seeing how droopy your eyes were becoming.

You swallowed and barely managed to nod. Everything around you became a blur. You heard the ambulances' sirens growing louder and felt Mouch and Boden help you up. You heard yelling, and before you knew it, you were being loaded onto a stretcher.

One of the paramedics placed hard pressure on your wound, causing you to cry out. You were in and out of conscience about to pass out when Sam's voice filled your ears.

“Y/N! Honey?.... I'm riding with you to Med….. She's my girlfriend, I'm not leaving her!”

You felt his hand slip into yours as he called out to you. “Y/N, open your eyes for me, come on, sweetheart,” Sam encouraged softly.

It took a lot of effort, but you managed to open your eyes, making Sam smile weakly. “That's my girl. I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here. Stay awake for me,” he pleaded.

“I love you,” you whispered so quietly Sam almost didn't hear you. You wanted to caress his cheek and were sad you couldn't. If you were going to die, at least you were with the man you loved with all your heart.

A sob tore out from your boyfriend, “I love you too, so much sweetheart,” Sam whispered back, choking up.

And with that, you let go and fell into the eerie comfort of darkness.

[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?