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urdreamydoodles · 1 month ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are clumsy and hurt yourself all the time

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter notices before you do. His eyes are sharp, trained to pick up the smallest of changes, the faintest of shadows blooming beneath your skin. He doesn't just see the bruises; he maps them, cataloging each one like constellations he wishes he could erase from your body. Every time he catches you wincing, biting your lip to muffle a yelp after knocking into yet another corner, he sighs. "Again?" he teases, but there's worry threading through his voice, twisting between the syllables like spider silk.

- He starts to hover, though he tries not to. It's instinctive—he's always been the protector, the boy who runs into burning buildings without thinking twice. But with you, it's different. It’s not just about keeping you safe; it’s about keeping you whole, unmarked by the world’s cruelty—or your own clumsiness. So he starts catching you before you fall, pulling you out of the way just in time, reaching out without thinking. Sometimes, you swear he moves before the accident even happens, like he's learned the rhythm of your missteps, predicting the inevitable before it can bruise you.

- When you do get hurt (because of course you do), Peter is relentless in his care. He’s crouched in front of you in an instant, thumb tracing the new bruise with reverence, an almost desperate tenderness in his touch. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, but his hands are so impossibly gentle as he presses a cool compress to your skin. His lips ghost over the hurt, as if he can will it away with a kiss. Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes he could wrap you in webbing, cocoon you in safety so that the world—and your own two feet—could never touch you again.

- He starts making excuses for why he needs to hold your hand. "Crowded street," he'll say, even when it's not. "Slippery floor," even when it's bone-dry. The truth is, he just wants to anchor you, to be the tether that keeps you upright, steady. And when you trip anyway—because, of course, you do—he laughs, shaking his head as he catches you. "You just like falling for me, don't you?"

- But late at night, when you're half-asleep and curled against him, he traces over your skin like it's something sacred. His fingers brush against every fading bruise, every place you've been hurt, and he whispers, "Wish I could take these for you." His voice is raw, aching with the helplessness of loving someone breakable. And you, tangled in the warmth of him, only smile. Because you know that, in every way that matters, Peter has already caught you.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony notices, but not in the way you expect. He doesn’t gasp or fuss the first time he sees you sporting a fresh bruise on your knee. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as if considering a puzzle. "So, what was it this time? Rogue chair leg? Malicious doorframe? Did a coffee table rise against you in rebellion?"

- But beneath the teasing, there's a flicker of something deeper. A calculation, a quiet kind of concern buried beneath the bravado. Tony doesn’t do helplessness well. He can build suits that defy physics, craft weapons that could level cities—but he can't seem to keep you from bruising yourself on the furniture. It frustrates him, gnaws at the edges of his mind, so he does what Tony Stark does best: he finds a solution.

- At first, it’s little things. He adjusts the lighting in your shared spaces, claiming it’s for "ambience" but really so you can see obstacles better. Then come the AI sensors in the furniture, making tables shift slightly if you’re about to walk into them. At one point, you find yourself nearly colliding with a moving bookshelf that, at the last second, scoots out of your way. "What the hell?" you gasp. Tony only grins. "Self-adjusting furniture. Stark tech. You’re welcome."

- But for all his technological fixes, it’s his hands that surprise you the most. Because Tony, for all his arrogance, is delicate with you. When you come to him with a fresh injury, he tuts, shaking his head dramatically—but his touch is careful, reverent. He traces over the bruises like he’s memorizing them, pressing a kiss against each one as if sealing them with something stronger than science. "Y'know," he murmurs against your skin, "if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways than body-slamming a desk."

- And at night, when you think he’s asleep, you feel his fingers drifting over your skin, tracing every hurt like he’s trying to rewire you, make you something invincible. He’s never been good at loving things that break, but with you, he’s learning that maybe some things—some people—are worth protecting, even if he can’t build them indestructible.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve doesn't laugh. Not at first. The first time he sees you stumble, his reflexes kick in before his brain does, hands catching your waist before you hit the ground. "Careful," he says, voice steeped in quiet concern, but there’s something else there too—something deeper, a weight that lingers in his gaze.

- You realize quickly that Steve doesn't see bruises as just bruises. To him, every mark on your skin is a reminder of fragility, of the world’s ability to harm. He carries the weight of lost battles, of friends who weren’t fast enough, strong enough, and something in him aches at the thought of you being hurt—even by something as simple as a misplaced step.

- So he becomes your shadow. A quiet, steadfast presence at your side, always an arm’s length away. He doesn’t smother, doesn’t hover—but he’s there, a constant, an anchor. When you trip, he catches. When you stumble, he steadies. When you crash into a table, he’s already pressing a gentle hand to your arm, checking for injuries before you can brush it off.

- "You need to be more careful," he tells you, voice soft but firm. You roll your eyes. "Steve, I’ve been like this my whole life." His lips press into a line, but instead of arguing, he takes your hand, thumb sweeping over your knuckles. "Then I’ll just have to keep catching you."

- And he does. Every time. Even in sleep, his arm drapes over your waist, protective even in unconsciousness. You don’t tell him, but you think it’s fitting—because Steve Rogers has always been the one to hold the world together, and now, he holds you.

Thor

- Thor booms with laughter the first time you walk straight into a doorframe. "By the gods, you fight invisible battles, my love!" he declares, pulling you into his chest as if you’ve just won a war. You grumble against him, but he only kisses the top of your head, eyes gleaming with amusement.

- But for all his laughter, Thor is not careless with you. When you trip, his hands are always there, warm and unyielding, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. "The world trembles before you, yet you are felled by a mere step!" he teases, but there is no mockery—only adoration.

- He carries you more often than necessary, sweeping you into his arms at the slightest provocation. "You are too precious for the ground," he says, as if that explains everything. When you protest, he only grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Indulge me, my beloved."

- He takes to inspecting your bruises like battle wounds, solemn as he traces them. "A warrior bears their marks with pride," he says. But then, softer, "Though I would gladly take them for you."

- And when he holds you at night, it is as if he cradles the most precious thing in all the realms. Because to Thor, you are not just beautiful. You are his most cherished treasure, and even if you stumble, even if you fall—he will always be there to catch you.

Loki

- Loki watches you with an expression caught between amusement and exasperation, his sharp green eyes tracking the way you stumble through life as though gravity itself is your greatest adversary. He does not rush to catch you—no, he prefers to observe first, to let you flounder, to let the world trip you up just enough to be entertaining but never enough to truly hurt you. “It is almost an art form,” he muses one evening as he traces his fingers over a fresh bruise blooming along your arm. “How you manage to battle furniture and lose so spectacularly.”

- But beneath the teasing, there is something else—something darker, more possessive. Loki is not a man accustomed to powerlessness, and watching you mar yourself on the mundane sends an unfamiliar frustration curling in his chest. He is not mortal, not fragile, and neither should you be. If he could enchant your very skin to be impenetrable, he would. Instead, he does the next best thing—subtle spells woven into your jewelry, charms hidden in the fabric of your clothes. Nothing too obvious, nothing you would notice. Just enough to slow a fall, to dull an impact, to ensure that when you inevitably crash, the world is kinder to you.

- He does not hover, not the way a lesser man might. No, Loki’s interventions are quieter, more insidious. A flick of his fingers when you’re about to knock a glass off the table. A shift in the air that redirects your fall just enough to keep you from truly hurting yourself. He plays it off as coincidence when you point it out, though the smirk curling at the corner of his lips betrays him. “Perhaps Midgard itself has simply decided to stop punishing your carelessness,” he offers smoothly, tilting his head. “Or perhaps, darling, you’ve finally learned some semblance of grace.”

- And yet, for all his feigned indifference, his hands are gentle when they trace over your bruises, long fingers ghosting over each mark as though committing them to memory. “Such delicate skin,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. You think, sometimes, that he looks at you like a paradox—something fragile and untouchable, something he wants to protect and break in equal measure. He presses his lips to each bruise, his voice silk-soft against your skin. “If only you would let me make you indestructible.”

- At night, when you think he is asleep, he holds you closer than necessary, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other draped possessively over your thigh. His fingers find the bruises even then, absently tracing them, as if even in sleep, he cannot stand the marks of a world that does not know how to handle something as precious as you. And if, in the morning, your injuries fade just a little faster than they should—well. Loki has never been one to play fair.

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint takes one look at you, covered in bruises from yet another misadventure with an unassuming coffee table, and snorts. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s like you’re in a fight with the furniture and losing every damn round.” He teases, because that’s what Clint does, but beneath the dry humor, there’s a glint of something softer, something close to concern.

- He’s got quick hands, calloused and steady, and they catch you more often than not. He doesn’t even think about it anymore—it’s instinct, muscle memory, the same reflexes that let him shoot arrows with inhuman precision now redirecting themselves to keeping you upright. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re falling before he’s got a firm grip on your waist, pulling you against him with a smirk. “I should start charging for this,” he muses. “Professional girlfriend-wrangler. Gotta make a living somehow.”

- But he’s not always fast enough. You take your hits, your bruises, your scrapes, and Clint swears every time he sees a new mark on you. He cups your face in his hands one evening, tilting your chin up so he can inspect the latest damage—a dark bruise along your cheekbone from where you’d misjudged a doorway. His thumb brushes over it, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “Y’know, for someone so damn beautiful, you sure spend a lot of time brawling with inanimate objects.”

- He starts carrying a first-aid kit just for you. Not the standard SHIELD-issued one—this one is filled with little things he knows you’ll need. Cooling gel for the bruises, tiny bandages that come in ridiculous designs (because he knows they’ll make you smile), painkillers for the inevitable aches. He patches you up with a surprising gentleness, his hands rough but careful as he works. “I should just start wrapping you in bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Or at least get you some damn kneepads.”

- And in the quiet hours of the night, when you’re tangled together in bed, he presses absentminded kisses to every bruise, every scrape, every mark. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just lets his lips linger against each injury like a silent promise, like a prayer. Because Clint Barton knows better than most that the world is unforgiving, that sometimes you don’t get there in time. But here, now, with you—he can at least make sure someone’s always there to catch you when you fall.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha doesn’t panic when you fall, doesn’t gasp when you hit the ground, doesn’t rush to your side with frantic worry. She simply raises an unimpressed eyebrow as you groan, flat on your back after tripping over absolutely nothing. “You’re unbelievable,” she says, crossing her arms. “A trained assassin would have heard that floor coming.”

- But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. She does—deeply, fiercely, in the way only Natasha Romanoff can. She just doesn’t show it in obvious ways. Instead, she adjusts her stride so she’s always close enough to catch you, casually offering an arm when she senses you wobbling. She never draws attention to it, never makes a big deal of it, but you notice. You always notice.

- When you inevitably end up bruised and battered, she clicks her tongue but says nothing, simply sitting beside you with an ice pack in one hand and a knowing smirk on her lips. She presses the cold compress to your skin, her touch deliberate, precise. “You should let me train you,” she muses. “At least teach you how to fall properly.”

- Natasha never coddles, never fusses, but she is always prepared. She has a quiet way of making sure you’re okay—subtle, effortless. When you stand up too quickly and nearly topple over, her hand is already on the small of your back, steadying. When you stumble, she catches you before you even realize you’re falling. It’s instinct to her, the way protecting you has become second nature.

- And at night, when the world is quiet, she pulls you against her, her fingers ghosting over every bruise like a whisper, like a secret. She does not apologize for the world’s cruelty, does not wish you were stronger, does not sigh at your clumsiness. She only holds you tighter, her lips brushing against each mark in silent reverence. Because Natasha Romanoff knows what it means to hurt, to endure, to survive—and if she cannot keep you unbroken, then at the very least, she can be the place you fall.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky notices before you do. His eyes, trained by war and decades of violence, catch every shift in your body, every wince, every faint hesitation in your step. At first, he thinks it’s something worse—that someone put hands on you, that danger came too close. But then he watches you slam your hip into the corner of the counter, trip over absolutely nothing, and he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he mutters, but his hands are already on you, steadying, checking.

- He doesn’t hover—not exactly. But suddenly, he’s always there, always within reach. If you stumble, his hands find your waist before you even realize you’re falling. If you misjudge a step, his arm is already around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest with a sigh. “Y’know, most people walk without gettin’ into a fistfight with the air,” he teases, but there’s something softer beneath it, something like worry.

- When you come home with fresh bruises—scattered across your arms, darkening your knees—he’s quiet. Too quiet. He sits you down, metal fingers unnervingly gentle as he rolls up your sleeves, brushing over each mark like he’s memorizing them. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, and there’s something heavy in his voice, something weighted with history. He’s seen too much damage in his life, inflicted too much of it himself. He hates seeing it on you.

- But Bucky Barnes is a man who prepares, who anticipates. He starts keeping a first-aid kit on hand, not that he needs it much—he’s better at easing your pain with his own touch, the press of his lips against your bruises, the warmth of his palm smoothing over sore muscles. He doesn’t say much when he does it, just presses kisses against every darkened patch of skin like he’s willing them away. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper, “Wish I could take ‘em for you.”

- And at night, when the world is quiet, he wraps you in his arms, tucking you close as if that alone will shield you from harm. His metal arm rests heavy over your hip, protective, unyielding. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” he murmurs into your hair. And you—smiling, safe in the warmth of him—only kiss his jaw and whisper, “Guess you’ll just have to keep catching me, then.”

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears it before he sees it—the way you hiss through your teeth when you smack your shin against the table, the sharp inhale when you stub your toe against the doorframe. He tilts his head, amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Again?” he asks, voice laced with something dangerously close to fondness.

- He doesn’t need sight to know where the bruises bloom. He traces them with careful fingers, mapping your pain like he’s reading scripture. His touch is featherlight, reverent. “You keep this up, I’m gonna start thinking the furniture has a vendetta against you,” he murmurs, lips grazing over each sore spot in silent absolution.

- He tries not to be overbearing, but he’s always listening, always attuned to the way your heartbeat stutters when you nearly fall. His reflexes are faster than yours will ever be—so when you trip, his arms are already there, catching you with effortless ease. “You’ve got to stop tempting gravity,” he teases, even as he steadies you against his chest.

- But there’s a weight to his concern, something deeper than amusement. He’s spent too much of his life in pain, too much time enduring wounds that never quite healed right. He doesn’t want that for you. So he starts reaching for you more, keeping you close, a hand resting at the small of your back whenever you walk together, his grip firm when he senses the inevitable stumble.

- And at night, when you’re curled against him, he skims his fingers over your skin, cataloging every mark, every faint ache. “You take too many hits,” he murmurs, voice thick with something unspoken. You laugh softly, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “So do you.” He huffs out a breath, pulling you impossibly closer. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank notices everything. The first time he sees you flinch after knocking into a table, he frowns. The first time he spots a fresh bruise blooming across your arm, his jaw tightens. His first instinct—always, always—is violence. “Who did that?” he demands, voice low, dangerous. And when you tell him it was just a doorframe, just another misstep, he exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

- He’s not soft, not in the way other men might be. He doesn’t coo over your bruises, doesn’t pepper you with gentle reassurances. But he is there, solid and unwavering. If you trip, his hands are on you before you hit the ground. If you stumble, he pulls you upright with an exasperated sigh. “Gonna wrap you in goddamn bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head.

- He doesn’t say it outright, but his actions betray him. He starts clearing the apartment, making sure nothing sharp or precarious is within your usual walking path. He makes you wear his jacket when it’s cold, grumbling about how “it’ll keep you warm” but really thinking about how it might cushion the inevitable next fall.

- When you come home with fresh bruises, he just exhales sharply, shaking his head. “C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you onto the couch. He’s rough around the edges, but his hands are steady as he presses an ice pack against your shin, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knee. He doesn’t say much, just sits there with you, brows furrowed, jaw tight. You know he’s thinking about how much he hates this—how much he hates seeing you hurt, even in the smallest ways.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his guard is finally down, he pulls you into him, tucking you beneath his chin. His arms are heavy, unyielding, caging you against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Gotta stop gettin’ hurt,” he mutters, voice gruff, tired. You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Guess that means you’ll just have to keep catching me.” And Frank—haunted, weary, unbreakable—only holds you tighter.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye watches you trip over your own feet like it’s the greatest tragedy he’s ever witnessed. “You’re kidding me, right?” he drawls, arms crossed, head tilted. “That was a flat surface.” He doesn’t get it—how someone can be so inherently uncoordinated, so effortlessly doomed to collide with the world. He was born to hit every mark, to never miss, to control his body like it’s an extension of his will. And you? You can’t even walk across a room without making it a goddamn spectacle.

- He teases you relentlessly. “You’re gonna give me an aneurysm,” he mutters as you walk straight into the edge of a table, recoiling with a hiss. He crouches in front of you, fingers lazily tilting your chin up so he can inspect the damage. A bruise is already forming, shadowing your delicate skin, and for a brief second—just a flicker—something darkens in his gaze. He brushes his thumb over the mark, contemplative, before grinning. “Y’know, most people get bruises from fights. You? You look like you went ten rounds with a door and lost.”

- But the thing is, Bullseye doesn’t like seeing you hurt—not like this. He’s a man who thrives on violence, who carves his love in blood and broken bodies, but this? This is just the world battering you around, and it pisses him off. He starts standing closer, walking behind you with a hand hovering at your back, catching you before you can even process that you’re falling. He makes a show of rolling his eyes every time, but his grip is firm, his hands steady. “You should not be this much work,” he grumbles, right before setting you back on your feet like it’s nothing.

- The first time you cut yourself on something mundane—a knife, the sharp edge of a cabinet—he reacts badly. His jaw clenches, his hands flex, and for a second, you think he might kill the inanimate object responsible. “Okay, that’s it,” he mutters, dragging you to sit down. He cleans the wound with the kind of skill that suggests he’s done this a thousand times before (he has, just not for someone he cares about). He presses a bandage over your skin, shaking his head. “You’re a menace, babe. An absolute disaster.”

- At night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers trace over every bruise, every scrape, cataloging them like they’re personal offenses. His body is a weapon, built for precision, and here you are—this thing he doesn’t quite know how to protect. He scowls in the dark, arms tightening around you. The world doesn’t get to hurt what’s his. If it does? Well. He might just have to start fighting gravity itself.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc watches you trip over your own feet with a kind of exhausted patience. “Again?” he sighs as you collide with yet another piece of furniture. He doesn’t get mad, doesn’t tease—he just pinches the bridge of his nose like a man trying very hard to accept the absurdity of his reality. “You’re a walking hazard.” But his hands are already on you, steadying, checking, making sure you’re not hurt.

- He starts anticipating your disasters before they happen. A shift in your balance, a misstep, a doorframe you will forget to account for—he’s already moving before you even realize you’re about to fall. His reflexes are freakishly fast, and it’s almost irritating how easily he catches you, setting you back on your feet like nothing happened. “You doin’ this on purpose?” he mutters, tilting his head. “Tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, Marc doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sits you down and rolls up your sleeves, brushing his fingers over the marks like he’s trying to commit them to memory. He’s a man who knows pain, who lives in it, and something about seeing it on you makes his chest go tight. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, voice low, almost pleading.

- He starts carrying first-aid supplies specifically for you. “It’s not paranoia,” he insists as he bandages a fresh scrape on your elbow. “It’s preparedness.” He takes care of you with the same clinical efficiency he applies to himself—focused, practiced, no wasted movements. But there’s a softness in the way his hands linger, the way he cups your face afterward, pressing his lips to your forehead like he’s trying to will the world into being gentler with you.

- And at night, when his demons creep in, when sleep is a thing that eludes him, he watches over you. His fingers brush over every bruise, every cut, and he exhales sharply, wrapping himself around you like a shield. “You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he mutters against your hair. “Not on my watch.” And even though you know it’s impossible—you are impossible—you let him hold you like he can keep you safe from everything. Even yourself.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster watches you trip over nothing and just stares. “Are you—” He gestures vaguely at you, expression unreadable behind his mask. “Do you want to be a liability?” His whole thing is mastering movement, precision, efficiency—and you? You are chaos incarnate. A living, breathing contradiction to everything he stands for. It offends him on a fundamental level.

- He makes it his mission to “fix” you. Not because he’s particularly sentimental—just because he cannot handle watching you get defeated by furniture on a daily basis. “Alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, arms crossed. “Time for some goddamn coordination training.” And you try, you really do, but it turns out even Taskmaster can’t overwrite whatever curse makes you a constant disaster. He watches you attempt a basic balance drill, sees you immediately wipe out, and just rubs his temples. “Hopeless. You’re hopeless.”

- But despite his endless frustration, he starts catching you without even thinking about it. His body reacts before his brain does—an automatic reflex, like blocking a punch. One second you’re mid-fall, the next you’re in his arms, blinking up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just sets you down and shakes his head. “You owe me,” he mutters, but the way his hands linger at your waist suggests he doesn’t actually mind.

- The first time he sees a particularly nasty bruise along your ribs, something shifts. He’s seen all kinds of injuries—inflicted most of them himself—but something about seeing you marked up like this makes his fingers twitch. He drags his gloved hand over the darkened skin, tilting his head. “You let the world beat you up, huh?” His voice is softer than usual, something contemplative curling at the edges. Then, with a click of his tongue, he straightens. “Guess I better even the odds.”

- And he does. Aggressively. If the world insists on bruising you, he insists on teaching you how to hit back. He drags you into training, makes you learn something—if only so he can stop watching you lose to stationary objects. But at night, when you’re curled against him, he traces every bruise, every cut, his grip possessive. “You’re a goddamn hazard,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. And you, smiling, whisper, “Yeah, but I’m your hazard.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny finds your clumsiness hilarious. The first time he sees you trip over absolutely nothing, he has to physically restrain himself from bursting into laughter. “Babe, was that—was that the air?” He leans against the nearest wall, clutching his stomach. “Did the air just take you out?” But beneath the amusement, there’s a flicker of concern—because you don’t just stumble; you collide with the world, leaving a trail of bruises like constellations across your skin.

- He teases, but he watches. The moment you lose your balance, he’s there, faster than reflex should allow, catching you with an arm around your waist. “Whoa, easy there, graceful,” he murmurs, voice somewhere between exasperation and affection. He holds you longer than necessary, fingers splayed over your back, and for a moment, the world stills. Then he grins. “Y’know, I think you just fake this so I have to keep holding you.”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, his reaction is always the same—dramatic outrage. “Oh my God, babe. Did someone attack you?” He gasps, placing a hand over his chest in mock horror. Then his eyes narrow. “Was it the doorframe? The table corner?” He shakes his head, feigning deep betrayal. “I knew they were out to get you.” But behind the theatrics, he’s already pulling you into his lap, pressing warm hands over your sore limbs, his heat radiating through your skin like a living balm.

- He insists on carrying you at the most ridiculous times. “No, no, I refuse to let you go into battle against gravity again.” And by ‘battle,’ he means walking through a perfectly normal room. He swoops you up, laughing as you protest, his arms far too strong for someone who acts like an overgrown child. “Babe, let’s be real. This is for your safety.” He winks. “And because I like showing off.”

- At night, when the fire dims and it’s just the two of you tangled together, he traces over every bruise with careful fingers. He doesn’t joke then. He just exhales softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your wrist, the softest parts of you. “You gotta be careful,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. And when you hum sleepily, he tightens his hold. “Not kidding this time, babe. Just… don’t break yourself, alright?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed observes your clumsiness with scientific fascination. The first time he sees you walk directly into a doorway, he pauses, fingers tapping against his chin. “Hmm.” His brows furrow as he watches you rub your arm, wincing. “This is a pattern.” And just like that, you’ve become an experiment.

- He analyzes you. It starts subtly—adjusting the furniture so there’s more space between sharp edges, rerouting the lab’s layout so you’re less likely to trip over stray equipment. But soon, he’s measuring things, taking notes, muttering things like, “Your peripheral awareness seems statistically lower than average—fascinating.” He tries to be helpful, really. He even attempts to create a stabilization suit—something sleek, futuristic, designed to predict and correct your missteps. It… does not go well. (You trip anyway, and now the suit is mildly offended.)

- When you inevitably come home with bruises, Reed is deeply troubled. He gently takes your wrist, rotating it carefully as he examines the latest damage. “Your body is too delicate for this frequency of injury,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His mind is already racing, calculations spinning behind his sharp eyes. But then he exhales, carefully brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Perhaps a different approach.” The next day, there’s a custom-designed, ultra-soft padding system discreetly woven into your daily outfits.

- He isn’t always the most physically affectionate, but when you stumble, his body reacts before his mind does. His limbs stretch, elongating with effortless precision, catching you before you even realize you’re falling. “I anticipated that,” he says simply, setting you back on your feet. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t scold—just accepts your clumsiness as another variable in his universe. And when you raise an eyebrow, he merely shrugs. “I prefer solutions over criticism.”

- At night, when you curl into him, he allows himself a rare moment of softness. His hands, always so deft and purposeful, trace absent patterns against your skin, lingering over each bruise. “I wish I could prevent every injury,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the dim light. You smile against his chest, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I’d still find a way to trip.” He huffs a quiet laugh, tucking you closer. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to keep catching you.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben sees you trip over absolutely nothing for the third time in a single day, and his immediate reaction is a mix of exasperation and concern. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart, you got somethin’ against stayin’ on yer feet?” he grumbles, folding his massive arms as you rub your latest bruise. But the second he catches the way you wince, his voice softens, and he sighs. “Lemme see.” His hands are big, rough like weathered stone, but impossibly gentle as he inspects your skin. “Yer like a walkin’ accident waiting to happen, ain’t ya?” It’s not judgment—it’s worry.

- He’s the only person in the world who doesn’t flinch when you crash into him. You could be falling at full speed, and all that happens is you bounce harmlessly off his broad chest. “See? That’s why ya gotta stick by me, doll,” he teases, catching you before you can hit the floor. “Nothin’ knocks this over.” But there’s something else in the way he holds you close, something fiercely protective. If the world insists on beating you up, then fine. Ben’ll just make sure he’s there to take the hit instead.

- He starts keeping a mental tally of your injuries, gruffly scolding you whenever a new one appears. “Yer gonna make me gray before my time,” he mutters, shaking his head as he wraps your wrist with surprising delicacy. But despite the grumbling, he never complains when you come to him for help, never denies you the warmth of his careful hands. And if you rest against his side afterward, your body pressed to the indestructible wall of him, he won’t say a word about how long you linger there.

- He adapts to you in ways he never outright acknowledges. Moves furniture just a little out of your way, catches things before they can topple over when you inevitably bump into them, subtly places himself between you and whatever hazard might cross your path. “Dunno how ya made it this far without me,” he says, grinning. “Guess that makes me yer personal bodyguard, huh?” But the truth is, it scares him sometimes—how fragile you are. How easily you bruise. How the world isn’t made to be kind to people like you.

- Late at night, when you curl against him in the quiet, he traces his fingers over the faint marks on your skin, his touch achingly gentle. “Y’know,” he murmurs, “for someone so soft, ya sure take a beatin’.” There’s something heavy in his voice, something unsaid. I wish the world didn’t hurt you like this. I wish I could keep you safe. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he just holds you tighter, as if that alone could be enough. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan is used to being the responsible one, the caretaker, the steady force amidst chaos. But even she isn’t prepared for just how accident-prone you are. “Sweetheart, again?” she sighs as you stumble for the fifth time that day. She moves faster than thought, catching you with an invisible force before you can even hit the ground. “At this rate, I’m going to have to wrap you in a force field just to keep you intact.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but the concern beneath it is very real.

- She starts using her powers instinctively around you. A glass about to slip from your hands? Caught. A misplaced step sending you toward disaster? Redirected. A force field cushions you from the sharp edge of a counter before you even realize you were about to walk into it. “You don’t even notice you’re doing it,” Johnny teases her one day, watching as she effortlessly prevents you from tripping again. Susan just huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, someone has to keep her in one piece.”

- She doesn’t scold you for your clumsiness. She doesn’t make you feel less because of it. Instead, she watches, learns, and then rearranges the world around you, subtly shifting things to make your life just a little easier. It’s a quiet kind of care, the kind that manifests in softened corners, restructured pathways, and the ever-present, unseen embrace of her protective fields. She won’t stop you from moving through the world the way you do, but she will make sure it doesn’t hurt you as much.

- When she heals your bruises with careful hands, her fingers linger against your skin, her expression unreadable. “You’re so delicate,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I forget, sometimes, how easily people can break.” There’s something fragile in the way she looks at you then, something she rarely allows herself to show. “You’re lucky I love you,” she finally says, voice lighter, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because otherwise, I’d have to start charging you for all this medical attention.”

- But there are nights when she lets her guard down, when she pulls you into her arms and whispers against your hair, “You have to be careful, okay? For me.” It’s the closest she’ll come to admitting how much it scares her—how the thought of losing you, of not being there the one time she’s needed, terrifies her. She’s lost too much already. She refuses to lose you.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia thinks your clumsiness is adorable. And hilarious. “Oh, kitten, you poor thing,” she coos, watching as you walk directly into the edge of a table. “The universe really isn’t on your side, huh?” But even as she teases, she’s already moving, already guiding you to sit so she can inspect your latest injury. “Tsk, tsk. What would you do without me?”

- She starts calling you her bad luck charm, but with the kind of affection that lingers like a purr in her voice. “See, it’s perfect,” she says one evening, lazily draping herself over you. “I bring the bad luck to everyone else, and you bring it to yourself.” She grins, tapping your nose. “We’re a match made in chaos.”

- But beneath the teasing, she’s hyper-aware of how easily you get hurt. The first time she sees someone shove past you carelessly on the street, causing you to stumble hard against the pavement, her entire demeanor shifts. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, brushing off your scraped palms. And then, with a smile so sharp it cuts—“Excuse me a sec, love. I’ve got some business to handle.” She returns a moment later, looking satisfied, and you don’t ask why the guy is now desperately patting his pockets for a missing wallet.

- Felicia is grace incarnate, the exact opposite of you in every way. And yet, she doesn’t mind being the one to catch you. Doesn’t mind slipping an arm around your waist as you both walk, keeping you steady without making a big deal of it. Doesn’t mind the way you instinctively grip her when you know you’re about to trip. “Mmm, I like it when you hold onto me,” she muses. “Should I start pushing you more often?”

- One night, as you curl against her, she traces a slow finger over the faint marks dotting your skin. “You bruise so easily,” she murmurs, her usual playfulness absent. “The world must love marking you up, hmm?” Her voice dips, something dark curling in her tone. “I don’t share what’s mine, you know.” She presses a kiss just below one particularly dark bruise, her lips lingering. “Next time something wants to hurt you, it’s going to have to go through me first.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen watches you knock over a stack of books and sighs like a man who has witnessed a lifetime of disappointment. “By the Vishanti,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “You are utterly hopeless.” But there’s something in the way he steps forward, fingers already reaching for your wrist, steadying you with the effortless grace of someone who bends reality itself to his will.

- He doesn’t waste time with teasing—he just starts fixing. He places wards around the Sanctum, subtle protections that nudge objects away from you before you can collide with them. He enchants the stairs so they refuse to let you trip, much to your annoyance. “It’s undignified,” you argue. “It’s necessary,” he counters, arms crossed. “If I wanted to spend my days healing bruises, I’d return to mundane medicine.” But despite his grumbling, he still traces careful sigils over your skin, murmuring spells that ease the aches from your body.

- When you stumble in his presence, he doesn’t catch you, per se—he merely redirects reality so you never truly fall. One moment you’re tilting dangerously, the next, space itself shifts, leaving you upright, untouched. He raises an eyebrow, smug. “You’re welcome.” You groan. “That’s cheating.” He smirks, tucking his hands into his robes. “No, that’s adapting.”

- But sometimes, magic isn’t enough. Sometimes, you come home with new bruises, fresh scrapes, evidence that the world has been unkind despite all his efforts. His jaw tightens as he kneels beside you, pressing cool fingertips against your injuries, golden light shimmering between his hands. He doesn’t speak, just concentrates, the tension in his shoulders betraying more than he’d ever say aloud. “You are a force of nature,” he mutters finally, exasperated. “A clumsy force of nature.”

- And yet, despite all his frustration, all his complaints, it is his cloak that wraps around you when you’re tired, his magic that cushions your steps, his hands that linger, tracing soft patterns against your skin long after the bruises have faded. At night, when you murmur sleepily about how he’s overprotective, he only pulls you closer, voice quiet against your ear. “Someone has to be.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

Namor

- Namor watches you as one might observe an impending shipwreck—equal parts fascination and inevitability. “You are…” he begins, pausing as you trip over absolutely nothing and barely catch yourself against the nearest surface. He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…a disaster.” But there is something almost fond in the way he says it, as though he has already accepted your fate as an unstoppable force of chaos.

- It does not take long for him to forbid you from walking unassisted near the palace’s more perilous edges. “You are fragile,” he declares, tone imperious, brooking no argument. “And you will not test the patience of the sea.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he merely crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You think me overprotective? I think you underestimate your own recklessness.”

- When you return to him with yet another bruise blooming across your skin, he does not scold you. He does not chastise. Instead, he looks at you for a long moment, something dangerous and unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes. And then, with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like surrender, he scoops you into his arms and strides toward the ocean. “What—? Namor!” you protest, but he does not stop. “If the land insists on bruising you,” he says, wading into the waves, “then perhaps you should take refuge where it cannot reach you.”

- The water cradles you as he holds you close, the salt healing, the sea itself shifting to accommodate you. “The ocean does not break so easily,” he murmurs against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “Perhaps you should learn from her.” And yet, for all his talk of resilience, his hands remain gentle, steadying you as though even he fears how easily you might slip through his fingers.

- There is a moment, quiet and rare, when he traces a fading bruise along your arm with something like reverence. “The land does not deserve you,” he mutters. “It does not know what it has.” And then, softer, almost to himself—“Perhaps I should steal you away.” It is not a threat. It is not a promise. It is simply the thought of a king who does not share his treasures with the undeserving world.

- Johnny has seen pain. He’s seen bodies burn and souls wither, seen the way suffering etches itself into people like a brand. But you—you bruise like a peach, delicate and fleeting, and it makes something in him twist in a way he doesn’t know how to name. He watches you trip, watches you collide with the world, and it’s not the pain that unsettles him—it’s how easily you laugh about it, how you wave it off like it’s nothing. Like you don’t realize how breakable you are.

- “Babe,” he drawls, lifting your wrist, examining the fresh bloom of purple beneath your skin. His fingers are calloused, rough in a way that should be too much, but his touch is gentle. Reverent, even. “You ever think about not throwing yourself at death every other hour?” He says it lightly, but his eyes flicker with something else, something darker. Something that says he knows exactly how fragile life is. And it scares him.

- The first time you fall in front of him, he doesn’t catch you—he doesn’t have the reflexes of a hero, doesn’t have the instinct to soften the world. He’s used to destruction, to things breaking permanently. But he does something else. His hands light up instinctively, flames flickering in his palms, and for the first time, heat wraps around you instead of cold, buffering your impact. “That was new,” he mutters as he helps you up, eyes still glowing faintly. “Guess my body decided I have to keep you intact.”

- He gets angry—not at you, never at you, but at whatever unseen force keeps sending you stumbling into harm’s way. “It’s like you attract pain,” he growls after yet another scrape, another bruise, his fingers flexing with barely restrained frustration. He doesn’t do helplessness well. So instead, he teaches you how to land right, how to fall without it hurting so damn much. “You’re not gonna stop running into things,” he says, resigned. “So at least learn how to hit the ground better.”

- At night, when the fire is low and the world is quiet, he traces the places where pain has kissed you. His hands, so often clenched into fists, smooth over your skin with something close to reverence. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs against your hair, voice softer than he’d ever admit in daylight. You hum, half-asleep, and he exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I already got enough ghosts,” he whispers. “Don’t make me add you to ‘em.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- The first time Venom notices your clumsiness, it hates it. “SHE IS DELICATE,” the symbiote snarls, its voice a guttural growl in Eddie’s head. “SHE FALLS LIKE A DYING ANIMAL.” Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, bud, I see that.” But when you trip for the third time that day, Venom is offended. It doesn’t understand why you keep hurting yourself. “UNACCEPTABLE,” it hisses. And just like that, you have an overprotective alien bodyguard.

- Eddie, for his part, is torn between amusement and exasperation. “Babe,” he says, guiding you away from the eighth table corner you’ve hit that week. “How do you function?” But the teasing doesn’t last long, not when he sees the bruises, the little winces you try to hide. That’s when the humor fades, replaced by something else. Something possessive. “You’re ours,” Venom growls one night, curling around you like living armor. “We do not let what is ours get hurt.”

- Venom actively prevents you from getting injured. When you stumble, inky tendrils lash out, steadying you before you can hit the ground. When you reach for something sharp, something dangerous, the symbiote moves it, shifting reality around you to keep you safe. It gets frustrated when you still manage to find ways to get hurt. “SHE DEFIES LOGIC,” it complains. “SHE SEEKS OUT DESTRUCTION.” Eddie sighs. “Buddy, she’s just clumsy.”

- Eddie pretends to be indifferent, but you know him. You see the way his jaw clenches when he notices new bruises, the way his fingers flex like he wants to fight whatever inanimate object wronged you. “I know it’s not a person,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna punch something.” Venom, unhelpfully, adds, “WE WILL KILL THE TABLE.” Eddie groans. “We’re not killing the table.”

- At night, when you curl against him, Venom wraps around you both, a cocoon of inky black warmth. Eddie traces absent patterns over your skin, his fingers ghosting over bruises with something close to reverence. “Y’know,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “For someone so damn fragile, you sure take a beating.” You hum sleepily, and Venom purrs around you, protective and possessive and endlessly devoted. “OURS,” it whispers. And you know, without a doubt, that it will never let you fall alone.

Muse

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa moves like poetry, every step precise, every motion purposeful. He does not stumble, does not falter, does not yield to anything less than absolute control. And then there is you—soft, chaotic, forever colliding with the world like a wayward star. He watches, fascinated and exasperated in equal measure, as you misjudge a doorway again and clip your shoulder against the frame. He sighs, closing the book in his hands. “My love,” he says, voice smooth as still water, “are you at war with inanimate objects? Or do you simply enjoy losing to them?”

- He does not laugh at your clumsiness, though a smile often tugs at his lips when you fumble gracelessly into his arms. “Mm,” he muses, catching you effortlessly. “How convenient. It seems I am your refuge, once more.” There is amusement in his voice, but also something warmer—something indulgent, something fond. He does not need you to be perfect. He only needs you to be his.

- Wakanda’s technology adapts to you with quiet precision. Furniture shifts subtly out of your path. Doors widen at just the right moment. The palace corridors, once an intricate maze of sharp corners and regal opulence, now seem to flow around you like a river carving space through stone. “You think me excessive,” he remarks one evening, tracing a careful finger over the fresh bruise on your knee. “But I am a king, beloved. And it is my duty to protect what is mine.”

- When the bruises come, he treats them with reverence, his hands steady as he applies a salve crafted just for you. “Vibranium enhances healing,” he explains, voice low, rich, soothing. “It will lessen the ache.” But there is something in the way he lingers, something in the way his fingers glide over each mark, that betrays the deeper truth—he hates to see you hurt, even in the smallest of ways. He would raze nations for you, but against your own wayward steps, he is powerless. It frustrates him more than he will ever admit.

- And yet, late at night, when the weight of his kingdom is too much to bear, he finds solace in your presence. Finds peace in the way you curl against him, careless in your softness, in your ease, in your unrelenting humanness. “You are chaos,” he murmurs against your hair, amused and reverent all at once. “And yet, somehow, you bring me peace.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra is grace incarnate, a blade honed to perfection, a whisper of red silk against the dark. And then there is you, a creature of unintended violence, of misplaced steps and unintentional collisions. The first time she watches you walk directly into the corner of a table, she merely tilts her head, expression unreadable. “You are… fascinating,” she says at last, watching as you rub your arm with a wince. “And utterly defenseless.”

- She does not understand it at first—the way you allow the world to hurt you, as though you have no instinct for self-preservation. “Your body is a temple,” she tells you one evening, fingers ghosting over the constellation of bruises scattered across your skin. “Why do you let it be desecrated so carelessly?” But there is no judgment in her voice. Only curiosity. Only something sharp and knowing, something that feels dangerously close to care.

- She starts moving differently around you. Not obviously—not the way lesser people might—but in ways that matter. A hand at your lower back, subtly guiding. A sudden shift in position, intercepting your path before disaster can strike. A flick of her wrist that sends a stray object skidding out of your way before you can trip over it. You never see her do it. You only feel the absence of pain, the absence of disaster, and the silent weight of her gaze as she watches you, always watching.

- “Your luck is remarkable,” she muses one evening, twirling a dagger between deft fingers. “That you have made it this far, untouched by the world’s cruelties.” Her voice is unreadable, but her eyes are not. There is something dark in them, something possessive. As though she alone is allowed to mark you. As though the world itself has no right to harm what she has claimed.

- She never says the words, never softens in the ways you might expect, but when she pulls you into her lap, when she traces absent patterns over your skin, when she presses her lips to each fading bruise as though sealing them away—that is her devotion. She is a creature of war, but for you, she will be a shield.

- Muse finds your clumsiness beautiful. He doesn’t see accidents; he sees art. The way you stumble, the way your body meets the world with reckless abandon—it’s a performance, a dance only he can truly appreciate. “Fascinating,” he murmurs after you trip, his eerie, empty eyes drinking in the sight. “Such graceful destruction.”

- He paints your bruises. Not with actual paint—no, he uses his hands, his mouth, his presence. He traces the purple stains blooming beneath your skin, committing them to memory, adoring them. “A masterpiece in flesh,” he whispers, pressing his lips against a particularly dark bruise. “You walk through life like a canvas left to the mercy of the world.” There is no pity in him, only reverence.

- He doesn’t stop you from getting hurt. Why would he? Pain is an artist’s language, and you—you are his magnum opus. He watches as you collide with existence, as you collect the evidence of your mortality, and he loves it. “Every mark tells a story,” he muses, his fingers ghosting over your skin. “A testimony of movement. Of impact.” He smiles, sharp and unhinged. “Of life.”

- But for all his fixation, he is not indifferent. No, when you truly hurt yourself, when you cry out—something in him snaps. The world shifts, reality bending to the will of a mind unmoored. “No,” he breathes, his voice lilting, distant. “No, no, no. This is wrong.” And suddenly, the thing that harmed you—be it a person, an object, the air itself—becomes a target. He erases it. Obliterates it from existence. And then he turns to you, tilting his head. “I prefer when the world marks you softly,” he murmurs. “Only I am allowed to make you truly suffer.”

- At night, he watches you sleep, eyes unblinking, hands still moving, still creating. He maps out every bruise, every scrape, carving them into his mind like sacred scripture. And as you breathe, as you rest in the arms of something not quite human, he leans down, whispering against your skin. “You are a masterpiece in motion,” he murmurs. “And I will watch you fall until the end of time.”

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate weakness, nor does he suffer foolishness. And yet, you—his beloved—possess both in abundance, an infuriating contradiction wrapped in beauty. He watches as you stumble through his castle halls, colliding with ancient Latverian artifacts, knocking over things that should not be knocked over. “Again?” he drawls, arms crossed, as you nurse yet another bruise. “Must I encase you in armor simply to keep you upright?” The remark is laced with exasperation, but the way his gloved hand lingers against your injured skin betrays something deeper.

- The first time you fall in his presence, Doom does not reach for you. He is not one to coddle. But his magic moves before he can think, catching you mid-collapse, suspending you in the air like a marionette in invisible strings. “Hmph,” he muses, as if analyzing a puzzle. “A clumsy creature, yet I cannot abide the thought of you damaged.” And just like that, you are lowered to the ground, untouched by harm. His voice is softer then, begrudgingly so. “Try not to make this a habit.”

- Doom solves problems, and your perpetual clumsiness is one he refuses to leave unchecked. You wake one morning to find your world altered—corners of tables dulled, Latverian marble floors softened ever so slightly, even the air shifting subtly to break your falls before you hit the ground. You glance at him, suspicion blooming. “Victor,” you say slowly, “did you…modify reality to childproof the castle?” He doesn’t look up from his work, but his lips curl into something smug. “Doom merely enhances what is flawed.”

- He lectures you whenever he finds new bruises. “Do you have no spatial awareness? No sense of self-preservation?” His hands, clad in cold metal, trace the injuries with something dangerously close to tenderness. “You walk through the world as if you are untouchable.” He pauses, voice lowering to something unreadable. “But you are touchable. And that…is unacceptable.” You don’t need to ask what he means. Doom does not lose what is his.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his mask is cast aside, his fingers brush over the marks on your skin. No one else is permitted to witness this: the way his jaw tightens, the way his touch gentles. “Latveria’s queen,” he murmurs, barely audible, “should not bear wounds from her own foolishness.” He exhales sharply, pressing his lips against your temple. “I will not allow the world to hurt you.” A pause. “Not even yourself.”

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter finds your clumsiness adorable. Where Doom sees a problem to be solved, Peter sees endless entertainment. “Babe, you’re like…a baby deer,” he laughs as you trip over absolutely nothing on the Milano’s deck. “Like, you got the vibes of someone graceful, but your body just betrays you.” He catches you before you hit the ground, grinning as he holds you close. “Lucky for you, you got me. I’m like your personal superhero and your crash pad.”

- The problem is, Peter is also kind of clumsy. Which means, sometimes, instead of catching you, he also trips, sending you both sprawling in a tangled heap. “Okay, that one was not my fault,” he insists, flat on his back. “We’re just, like, cosmically doomed to fall together.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Metaphor for love?” You groan, swatting at him, and he only laughs.

- He starts keeping a running tally of your bruises. “Alright, babe, let’s see—knee from the control panel, elbow from Gamora’s sword rack, forehead from the freakin’ doorframe—” He clicks his tongue. “We’re gonna run outta room soon.” But despite the teasing, his hands are always so gentle when he checks you over, his usual playfulness softening into something warmer. “Y’know,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe the universe keeps knockin’ you around ‘cause it knows I’ll always be here to catch you.”

- The other Guardians get involved. Rocket builds you a helmet (“Ya clearly need it, sweetheart”), while Drax solemnly declares that he will “eliminate” any object that dares to harm you. “That is…not necessary,” you assure him as he glares at a particularly sharp table corner. Peter just beams. “See, babe? You got a whole crew of bodyguards. Ain’t that nice?”

- Late at night, when the others are asleep and the stars stretch endlessly beyond the ship’s windows, he pulls you into his lap, fingers tracing absent patterns over the bruises on your arms. “You ever notice,” he murmurs, “how you bruise kinda pretty?” You huff against his shoulder. “That shouldn’t be a compliment.” But he just kisses the top of your head, voice softer than usual. “Still is.” And when he whispers, “Don’t go breaking yourself too bad, okay? I kinda like you in one piece,” it’s almost too quiet for you to hear. Almost.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Nova is alarmed by how often you get hurt. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so beautiful yet so accident-prone. “Babe, you literally survived intergalactic wars with me,” he says, exasperated, “and yet a coffee table is your worst enemy?” You pout. “It came out of nowhere.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s been in the same place forever.”

- He starts using his helmet’s sensors to track your movement. If you so much as stumble, he’s there, catching you before you can even process the fall. “I got, like, cosmic-level reflexes, babe,” he brags, grinning. “You are officially under Nova Corps protection.” You squint at him. “Did you really just use space cop powers to stop me from tripping?” He smirks. “And I’d do it again.”

- But beneath the teasing, there’s worry. He’s lost too much—friends, home, whole planets—and every little bruise on you is another reminder of how easily things can be taken. “I know it’s dumb,” he admits one night, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but every time I see you hurt, even just a little, it just—it freaks me out, okay?” He sighs, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight. “I don’t wanna lose one more thing I love.”

- He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t wrap you in cosmic energy or change the world around you. He just adapts. He positions himself at your side when you walk, places a steadying hand at the small of your back, moves things subtly out of your way before you can even reach them. He doesn’t make you notice. He just…does it. Because loving you means protecting you, even from yourself.

- “Y’know,” he murmurs as you both float above the atmosphere, weightless, surrounded by stars, “you can’t trip in zero gravity.” You smile, pressing a hand to his chest. “Maybe we should just stay up here forever, then.” He chuckles, tilting his forehead against yours. “Tempting,” he whispers. “But, uh… I kinda like keeping my feet on the ground, if it means keeping you from falling.”

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sideysvault · 2 months ago

Text

.𖥔˚ NEW SURROUNDINGS.𖥔˚

Cregan Stark x fem!targaryen!reader ₊ requested ₊

Tags. [sfw]; Arranged marriage, ‘cultural’ differences, misogyny, fluff, happy ending, dragonrider, weaponized fasting.

Wc. 0.8k

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Everyone had heard such stories. It was known that unsuspecting, kinder houses produced girls that despite aristocratic breeding, their innocence and ill preparation made them feel totally at sea in the deferential hierarchy of political marriage.

The Targaryen Princess was nothing more than a child at the horizon of puberty, with something more akin to distaste rather than horror when she first bled. And while she’d been aware of what that meant for a woman, she desperately became aware of the danger this might put her in. There were many tears in those first months and many more to come after that.

Weight simply dropped off, as well as her white hair. Plagued with the knowledge that outside the Targaryen's protective niche, she was determined to a less glorious fate than she had imagined when she had become a dragon rider.

And then came the preparations. In fact, it was her late cousin’s advice that helped her successfully avoid getting married in its entirety. At least for a few years. The technique was rather simple; If the Princess would get word that her husband to be was ill-mannered, brutish, stubborn or violent, the woman, in order to guarantee compliance, or to avoid the marriage, was to initiate a fast until a change of circumstances arrived. Not as a form of self mutilation, but as a means to stop the fertile blood from running between their legs, This, naturally, would only be successful as long as a male heir wasn’t yet produced, or if the princess isn't yet married.

She had even heard stories that certain houses even encouraged this behavior. All to guarantee that the husband was willing to listen to the whispers of his wife, assuring the will of her lineage.

This technique, of course, had severe downsides, if taken too far, the body would stop tolerating food, making the wife immobile, dead, or worse; Infertile.

However, some people denounced the practice entirely. Those who are keen to self-sacrifice for the political and economical greatness of their lineage, who saw conceiving themselves to a life of child bearing as a form of honorous martyrdom. Like her mother.

But, when her family let her know that she was to be betrothed to Cregan Stark, she knew that all of her efforts were not in vain. His reputation preceded him. Handsome, honorable and just.

She truly felt a sense of genuine relief. Neither the backwards ways of the Northerners nor their reluctance to respect people from the South could dissipate her enthusiasm. Despite her best efforts, The Reed Keep was never really a home to her.

The Princess, of course, had failed to foresee one important detail. The people of the North felt a genuine aversion towards her dragon, probably one of the few kind, loyal things to have been gifted to her by the Targaryen lineage, it had become somewhat of a family to her. While she was aware of the strong, devastating power Maegor possessed, all her soul saw whenever she interacted with it was all those magnificent flights, all of those years of training, and the rather small, innocent look her dragon had when it was young.

All they saw, nonetheless, was an extraordinary beast covered in scales and spines, the horns that framed the edges of Maegor’s face, running along the back of that skull that had never truly seemed to stop growing. It filled them with pagan horror.

From common folk, who were rendered immobile by its appalling black profile dancing through the skies, children and adult alike screaming and gasping, to the highest members of the council, whose clenched jaws and tight fists were evident despite their best efforts to hide them. -Although, she supposed their terror had something to do with its rider, a foreign invader -

Dear Gods, even her husband flinched around it. Of course, he had graciously tried to compartmentalize his fear as soon as he saw the way his wife's eye brighten when she hoped onto the riding chair and looked at the sky above them, how excited she seemed to the prospect of sharing that experience with him, how terribly tender she was with Maegor and the sweet offer she had made to the Maestres to help them map out the territory for their cartography efforts.

It hadn't taken as much time as he had thought to become pleased with her presence. While Cregan was weary of her at first, he noticed how hard she was trying to accommodate to the region's costumes, how quick her wit was, how curious she was about the world.

Once he discovered how charmed he was with her personality, he was quick to notice how beautiful she was as well. Targaryen features had always seemed too alien to him. But on his wife? He adored the lavender haze in her eyes and the moonlit hair.

The Princess always laughed when she thought about it. She had found warmth and comfort in the coldest corner of the entirety of the Seven Realms.

────────

Notes. I've been pretty offline for some time but here is the request! Hope everyone likes it. As usual, take care, and tell me if you wanna be added to the Cregan fanfic taglist! -Sidey x

CreganTaglist. @damnedamsy @prose-before-hoes-blog

#hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd s2 #house of the dragon #house of dragons #hotd cregan #cregan stark #cregan x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #game of thrones x reader

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fallenclan · 2 months ago

Note

Do you think you could add Sleepydawn’s Journey to tumblr to make it easier?

sure :)

Sleepydawn's Journey

“This is it.” Tangletail turned to look at him, her green eyes glossy but unsympathetic. “End of the line, Sleepydawn.”

A thousand rebuttals bunched on the end of Sleepydawn’s tongue. For you, maybe. Or This won’t be the last time you see me. Possibly even something as simple as, You’ll regret this.

Sleepydawn said nothing. Tail dragging on the ground, he turned away from his clanmates and stepped across the border.

He felt their eyes watching him as he went, as the ground turned from soft grass to hard dirt to even harder black stone. He itched to turn back, shoot them a glare or just soak in a final look at his clan. It’s in his nature to be impulsive. But where had impulsivity gotten him?

He rounded the corner of a twoleg nest, and then he was gone.

It was then, and only then, that he stopped, sitting hard on his rump in the narrow gap between structures. It smelled there--like rotting vegetation and some unique twoleg stench, but he had bigger problems than whatever odors he’d have to wash off his fur later.

What would he do now?

He wasn’t a Fallenclan cat anymore. Not even a warrior. Maybe he could be, if he traveled around the territories--to Cricketclan, Gooseclan, Shallowclan, even. They weren’t even far, all things considered, and most of them would probably accept a new warrior, but the idea of belonging to a different clan, a clan besides his own, soured his stomach. He wasn’t meant to live in a swamp, or a dense forest, to live in nests made of reeds and moss.

He wasn’t meant to be a loner, either, and yet…

He could wait for Levi. Levi, who was Ravenstar’s right hand, his deputy, should by all accounts be Sleepydawn’s leader now, even if he wasn’t Fallenclan’s. He could wait for Levi to join him, and Patchback, and whoever else as an outsider (If Wolfbite doesn’t kill them, first), and then… what? Start a new clan? How was that different from joining one that already exists?

Fallenclan was Sleepydawn’s home. That was who he was. Did Levi really mean anything to him outside of that?

Perhaps it was a question for a better day. Now, Sleepydawn was tired, and he was going to need to eat soon, even if he wasn’t hungry. Wolfbite had offered him a piece of prey from the fresh-kill pile before he left, and he’d refused, blinded by anger and despair and grief. He didn’t know what he’d be able to find in twolegplace, but there was no harm in looking. Hunting might help clear his mind, anyway.

Sleepydawn stepped further into twolegplace, and began his first day as a loner.

. . .

Twolegplace was. Different.

He’d been there before. As an apprentice, in any of his spare time he didn’t spend training, he liked to wander. Not far, of course, usually not more than a tree length in, knowing that twolegplace was dangerous and not for clan cats to explore, anyway, but enough to get a decent look at what the place had to offer.

Or so he had thought, anyway.

The place seemed devoid, at first, of anything but twolegs and monsters. They stalked around their flat, grassy patches of land outside, peered at him through the holes in their nests. Very few spared him more than a glance--just a couple of kits that crouched their long legs and made noises like a broken hiss-- pspspspsps.

He ran off quickly after that.

And the monsters, of course. They were everywhere. Mostly asleep, thank the stars, either resting on those patches of smooth black or silver stone, or tucked inside perfectly sized nooks in the twoleg nests. The ones that were awake slowly prowled up and down the rocky pathways, growling and rumbling all the while. Sleepydawn gave them a good berth, knowing that they wouldn’t stray from their marked walkways, on edge despite his knowledge. If nothing else, their constant noise made it difficult to listen for other dangers.

After a long while of aimless wandering, though, he found that perhaps twolegplace wasn’t as devoid of life as he thought.

There were birds everywhere. Just as abundant as they were in the mountains, maybe more. They seemed drawn to these odd little twoleg structures that seemed to be filled with seeds and nuts--perhaps something to lure them out of hiding so that the twolegs could catch a meal? It was smart, but if that was the case why didn’t he see any twolegs hunting them? Rather, most twolegs seemed to give the things a decent berth, as if perhaps they didn’t want to frighten the birds away. The birds didn’t seem too startled, anyhow, like they were used to the twolegs wandering nearby. Probably they were.

There wasn’t a lot of ground prey, besides a few lizards and squirrels, but those all scattered before Sleepydawn could get close, not yet trying to catch something now that he knew it wouldn’t be too hard to find a meal when he was ready.

There were other animals too, not just twolegs and prey. Cats--a not-insignificant amount of them, lounging on sunny rocks, or inside twoleg nests, but more importantly…

Dogs.

Inside twoleg nests. Bound to twolegs by long tethers. Barely trapped in big, wooden enclosures. The fur on the back of Sleepydawn’s neck raised, the old injury on his leg aching.

He didn’t like dogs. Hadn’t for a long while now.

He did what he could to avoid them, and began to look in earnest for a meal.

. . .

Sleepydawn knew the story of his grandfather, okay?

Otterslip. Born an outsider, adopted by the clan leader and the deputy, raised a warrior. Adopted kits of his own. Lost one. Lost his mind. Killed the medicine cat. Got exiled.

Sleepydawn was not his grandfather. But he’s not his father, either.

His father, Sleepycloud. His namesake. Born to Bluefern, Evie, and Newtscar, grew up to be one of the greatest warriors the clan had ever seen, scarred in valiant battle in the war against Shallowclan, drowned trying to save Foxdust. Spent every living (and dying) moment being a hero.

Sleepydawn wasn’t like him. Maybe it wasn’t a good thing, like he’d always told himself it was.

He wanted to be different. He wanted to be different in a good way. Stronger, more heroic, more valorous. Maybe he could make deputy, where Sleepycloud never could.

Looking at himself, trying to sleep uneasily in twoleg territory, belly full of outsider prey, exiled from his clan, perhaps Sleepydawn was more like his grandfather than he realized.

. . .

Sleepydawn rose with the sun the next morning, leg aching from an uncomfortable rest underneath a bush, and began to walk.

He didn’t have a destination, really--he just knew that with each breath he took so close to Fallenclan territory, yet forbidden from entering it, he felt sick. Like he ate something rotten, and he couldn't get his mind away from the heavy, nauseating feeling in his stomach. He needed distance, now, more than anything.

Maybe not more than food. Despite his nausea, he was starving.

If he were still with Fallenclan, he’d go to the freshkill pile and pick out something from last night. It’d be a bit stale, and cold, but filling, and it would give him the energy to go catch something fresher, or to go mark the border and pick out something fresher when he got home. Now, there was no freshkill pile, no border, no patrol. It was just Sleepydawn and his grumbling belly.

He found and caught a squirrel without much trouble. It was difficult, when he was already hungry and still groggy from sleep without Hazelthorn or Frecklefox or Ashblink to groom his pelt and make fun of him when he’s tired and incoherent--think about something else.

It was difficult, when he was already hungry and still groggy from sleep, but he managed, and the fresh taste of prey-blood on his tongue was worth it, sweet and nourishing. He swiped his tongue over his lips, but didn’t get the chance to eat any before a voice piped up.

“Wow, that was great!”

He was bristling immediately, whipping around with a hiss. The grassy enclosure had reeked of kittypet already, layers and layers of scent, like a territory, so he hadn’t noticed the cat approaching. She was sitting primly next to the entryway of the twoleg nest, ears twitching. A lithe brown tabby, with a green collar.

“I’ve never been able to catch a squirrel before,” She chirped, unaffected by his hiss. “I mean, I’ve gotten lizards and baby birds and things, but never anything like that.”

Sleepydawn bared his teeth. “I’m not sharing.”

The kittypet looked a bit disappointed, but not necessarily surprised. “That’s alright, I just ate. I’m Katie, what’s your name?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a weird name. Nice to meet you, Noneofyourbusiness!”

For a second, he was appalled at her stupidity, but then he saw the mischievous gleam in her eye, and it turned to anger. He wanted to swipe at her face, or spit, or just scare her off, but he saw the skinny, leggy look to her, and the size of her eyes and ears. She wasn't much older than a kitten, maybe seven moons old, and Sleepydawn wasn't so cruel that he’d attack one that young, or that untrained. He gritted his teeth through the anger and picked up the squirrel, making to leave.

“Wait!” Katie cried. “I’m sorry, I’m just kidding around. Are you new to the neighborhood? I haven’t seen you around before.”

Sleepydawn stared for a second, then reluctantly dropped his prey. “I’m not a kittypet.”

A frown. “What?”

“I don’t live with twolegs.” He snarled. “I don’t stay in a nest or let them pet me with their awful naked paws.”

“Oh, you’re a stray.” Katie blinked. “Or- are you feral? You don’t like housefolk at all, huh?”

He huffed an angry breath. “Obviously.”

“Katie!”

There was another kittypet. No collar, but he could smell the stench of twolegs clinging to every fur on her pelt. She was mostly black, with a white muzzle, paws, and underbelly. Crouched on the wooden wall, she looked down on the both of them with fear.

“Katie, get away from him!”

“It’s okay, Socks, he’s nice!” Katie chirped. “Or, well, he’s actually pretty crabby, but still. He’s just feral.”

“He’s not just feral,” Socks hisseed. “He’s a mountain cat, Katie.”

Now Katie began to bush up, her eyes going wide. She looked at Sleepydawn and slowly took a few steps back.

Good, he thought vindictively. They should be scared.

Sleepydawn bared his teeth a little at the both of them, hoping that the squirrel-blood from earlier was still clinging to his gums. He wasn’t sure if it was or not, but they both shrank away anyway, bristling and tense.

“I’ll be leaving now,” Sleepydawn spat, tilting his head up a bit to glare. “Unless you want to talk more.”

“No,” Katie mewed softly. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

Sleepydawn huffed, picked the squirrel up in his mouth, and hopped over the wooden wall.

He ate his breakfast behind another twoleg nest a bit further away, but it didn’t taste as good as it did before. He told himself it was just because it’s cooled, now, and wasn’t quite as fresh, but there was a small, quiet part of him that whispered food always tastes better with company.

He bitterly told the voice to shut up, and took another bite.

. . .

The sun sets, and rose again. Sleepydawn had to assume he was on the other side of the twolegplace, now. It was a long, long ways away from home, but. Not far enough. It was there that he had his second encounter with kittypets.

He was in one of those grassy enclosures behind a twoleg nest. He’d crossed so many by now, wanting to avoid the stone pathways outside where the monsters roamed. He stayed on top of the wooden walls, mostly, but this enclosure had a bit of water in it, and his mouth was dry.

Halfway through drinking, he heard pawsteps behind him.

Choking on water, Sleepydawn was off like a startled rabbit, tearing at the ground under his paws. There was heavy breathing behind him, growling, and then a few barks. It wasn’t a huge dog. It was smaller than the one that Sleepydawn nearly lost his leg to.

But he couldn’t think.

Riddled with fear like a bug-chewed leaf, Sleepydawn ran for the first familiar thing he saw--a tree--and scrambled up it, hearing teeth snap at his heels, just narrowly missing his tail as he shot up the trunk. He got halfway before he could convince himself it's far enough, trembling and breathing heavily.

Below, in the enclosure, a twoleg burst out of the nest, growling and barking back at the dog in its own clumsy language. It grabbed the beast by its collar and dragged it backwards. Just as the two disappeared inside, another form slipped out.

Sleepydawn barely noticed. All he registered was that the dog is gone, he was safe, the dog was gone-

He was having trouble breathing.

“All right up there?” Called a voice, croaky with age.

Sleepydawn crushed his eyes shut, gripping the branch under his claws with a vicious force. The dog is gone, the dog is gone, the dog is gone.

A sigh, faint. “I’m too old for this.”

Sleepydawn didn’t register the cat crawling up the tree, not even when they settled next to him. Long fur, gray, maybe, a stench of twolegs. Sleepydawn was trembling too hard to notice.

“Calm down.” A tongue rasped reluctantly over his head, face, ears. It was a familiar gesture, and he relaxed into it a little--flashing back to when he was a tiny kit and Ivybounce would do the same to him, laughing and calling him Sleepykit, my little sleepy kit, when he would yawn and complain.

“You’re alright.” The grooming paused when the cat spoke, then continued. “Deep breaths, son.”

Sleepydawn snapped back to reality abruptly. He was a warrior, crouched in a tree shaking with fear from a dog while a kittypet calmed him down. As if he couldn’t be any more of a failure. With a snarl, he snapped his teeth at the kittypet until they draw back.

“Ungrateful little shit, aren’t you?” The cat huffed, not looking particularly alarmed, just ticked off. “Saved you from panicking out of your skin and that’s what you give me?”

“I wasn’t panicking,” Sleepydawn lied, fur bristling along his spine even more than it already was. “I’m a warrior.”

“Mountain cat, huh?” The kittypet scoffed. “Met one of you once when I was young. Not so scary. That how you got your scar? Battle?”

Sleepydawn glances down at his scarred leg. The fur is parted oddly all down that limb, awkwardly trying to grow around the thick pink tissue. Ravenstar had called it a mark of a true warrior. Sleepydawn called it painful.

“A dog.” He answered without thinking.

“That explains it.” The kittypet shook their head. “Listen, it’s late, you’re clearly exhausted. Stay here and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“I don’t want your kittypet food.”

“How about a bird, then?” The kittypet chuckled a little when they saw the hungry look on Sleepydawn’s face. “That’s what I thought. I’ll be back.”

He told himself he’d climb down and run the moment that the kittypet disappeared, but he found his body strangely shaky and weak. He spent a few minutes trying to gather the strength, and then the kittypet was returning, sitting on the grass below with an oriole in their jaws.

“Dinner,” They called. “Hop down into the yard, the dog is locked inside now.”

Sleepydawn swallowed. His voice was uncharacteristically weak when he meowed, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. And anyway, Buttercup is no wild dog. She likes to chase, but wouldn’t know what to do if she caught anything. You ever catch her chasing you again, just give her a scratch on the nose and she’ll head home.”

Sleepydawn reluctantly chose to trust the kittypet for now (not that he had much of a choice), and climbed down from the tree, only a bit shaky when he landed. The kittypet dropped the oriole in front of him and didn't speak until Sleepydawn started to eat.

“My name is Dust Bunny,” they said. It was a bit of an odd name, but it was clanlike, and it made a part of Sleepydawn relax. “You can call me Dusty if you want. This is my housefolk’s yard and you’re welcome to stay in it for the night, if you want to.”

He didn’t want to. But he does think that he wouldn’t be able to go much farther without a rest.

“I’ll sleep in the tree,” he grumbled out between bites.

“The manners on you,” Dusty snorted. “Did your mother raise you to talk to your elders like that?”

Sleepydawn bristled a little. Not because he was mad, no--because Dusty was right. Ivybounce would be disappointed in him. For more than one reason.

His heart ached at the thought of her.

“...Sorry.” He meowed after a minute of pause. “Thank you for the food. And the shelter.”

“That’s more like it,” Dusty sat and wrapped their tail around their paws. “The tree is fine and all, but there’s a bit more shelter inside the shed, and Buttercup can’t get in there, which I can guess you’re worried about.”

Sleepydawn swallowed down a heated retort at the same time he swallowed down the last bit of oriole. “Thanks.”

As he washed his face, cleaning the orange and black feathers off his muzzle, he considered Dust Bunny. They were old. Elder age, certainly, with white hairs around their muzzle and an audible creak from their joints. It was beyond Sleepydawn how they managed to climb up and down a tree and still catch him a bird with energy to spare, but perhaps living with twolegs would do that to you. He knew they tended to grow fat on plentiful food. Perhaps in their younger days they had even more energy. Enough to wander across twolegplace, to poke at the mountain cat borders, meet a Fallenclan cat or two. Still, this den was a long way from Sleepydawn’s home. It was unlikely they would have met a Fallenclan cat unless they, too, were wandering.

“You said you met a mountain cat before,” Sleepydawn meowed. “Will you tell me about him?”

Dusty’s ear twitched. “What makes you think they were a him?”

They must have caught the disappointed look on his face, because they chuckled a little. “You knew him, huh? Well, I don’t envy you if you did. He was a nasty son of a bitch. Long brown fur, stripes over his eyes, scar on his cheek, sound familiar?”

“Otterslip,” Sleepydawn breathed.

“That’s the one.” Dusty tilted their head. “He said he was exiled, but that he’d be returning home soon. That his clan would ‘come to their senses’. Seemed very determined. You wouldn’t happen to know how that story ended, would you son?”

Sleepydawn avoided the old cat’s gaze. “Yewberry and Ivybounce--his kits--found his body a long time back. Infected wound, but they weren’t sure what from.”

“Figured as much.” Dusty nodded. “Not the dying part, that is, just that his clan wouldn’t accept him home. Once you get exiled from a group like that, I reckon there’s not much of a chance of returning.”

Sleepydawn flinched. It must have been visible, because Dusty’s eyes narrowed.

“...Well, I’ve told you a story,” They meowed eventually. “How about you tell me one? How’d you get that scar?”

Sleepydawn blinked. It wasn’t the story he’d been expecting to be asked about, but- he wasn’t any more excited to tell it, really. He flicked his ears backwards a bit and thought, for a long moment. Dust Bunny waited with a patient expression.

“My leader,” Sleepydawn said finally. “He ordered me to chase a dog off our territory. Normally it’d be a mission for a whole patrol, but he wanted me to prove myself.”

“Hm.” Dusty blinked. “And did you?”

“I nearly died,” Sleepydawn admitted, his throat getting a bit tight like it often did when he spoke of that day. “But yeah. I managed to injure it bad enough that it fled, and made it back to my camp. After that, Ravenstar accepted me as one of his most trusted warriors.”

Dust Bunny looked at him for a long moment. “Accepted you as a trusted warrior, huh? But only after you’d proven yourself like that?”

Sleepydawn nodded. An excuse perched on his tongue, It’s typical clan behavior, you wouldn’t understand. But he didn’t want to lie to this kittypet. Not after the meal and shelter that had been offered.

“Sounds like some leader.” Dusty’s voice was dry with sarcasm. “Tell you what, I’m gonna hit the hay. You have a good rest and I’ll see you off in the morning, alright?”

“Alright,” Sleepydawn agreed hollowly as the kittypet padded across the yard, into the twoleg den, and disappeared.

. . .

When Sleepydawn awoke, he became quickly aware of the ache in his leg.

The small, abandoned twoleg nest (a shed, Dustbunny had called it) was sturdy, safe from dogs, and solid enough to keep the draft mostly out, but it did nothing for his old injury. He’d chosen a high ledge to rest on, and tried to sleep on only that before giving up halfway through the night and curling up in a weird, crinkly sort of twoleg material that smelled like a thunderpath. It had a bit more cushion to it, at least, but he still found his sleep restless and woke with a deep, sharp ache running all the way from his paw to his shoulder.

Moons ago, when he first healed from the injury, Bristleheart took him on a walk and explained that he would always feel that pain, as long as the leg remained, and that he had to exercise it in particular ways in order to keep the pain to a minimum and to keep himself from damaging it any further. He’d then proceeded to run Sleepydawn through a series of stretches, each of which made his leg hurt more than the last.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he hadn’t kept up on the exercises. First it was stubbornness, then lack of time and energy, that pulled him away. He tried to do them a few times a moon, but why would he keep up with them if they only made him hurt worse?

Now, he pulled himself upright and moved into the first position. A sharp twinge fired up into his spine, and he bonelessly collapsed. This had been easier when he was younger.

“‘Morning,” A drawling voice meowed. Dusty poked their head through the cracked entrance of the shed and looked around for a moment before peering up. “There y’are. Sleep well?”

“Fantastic.” Sleepydawn replied in a flat voice, shaking out his bad leg before hopping down to the ground, leaning heavily to his right. “Twoleg dens really are a wonder.”

“Yeah, well, more comfortable when you’ve got a pillow or two to keep ‘ya warm.” Dusty licked their lips. They smelled like meat, almost, but dry and strongly hinted with twoleg stench. “Should I catch you another bird?”

Fire suddenly rose in Sleepydawn’s stomach. He was tired of being in pain, of being uncertain, of missing his home, of being coddled. “No. I’ll be moving on.”

Dusty had the nerve to look surprised. “So soon? Where are you traveling to in such a hurry?”

Away, Sleepydawn thought. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that I can’t be looked at by another cat like I’m something alien and unnatural. Anywhere but home.

“None of your business.” He meowed instead.

. . .

He left Dusty’s yard as the sun began to stream over the trees, and didn’t stop walking until it was at his back again.

Unsurprisingly, his leg still ached. Now the others did too, down to each pink paw-pad. His back and neck throbbed with dull pain from being upright all day. His tail was sore where it had been dragging on the ground.

Having passed through twolegplace and ended up in some sparse oaken woods, he tried to haul himself into a tree, failed, and squeezed himself into an abandoned rabbit’s burrow instead. The earth, not wet but still leeching the heat from his pelt with every breath, pressed softly against each side and crumbled a little around his ears. He’d be filthy in the morning, and even more hungry than he already was.

Being underground was comforting though, in a way. It was nothing like Fallenclan’s camp, which was rocky and sandy and really only earthy in a few places, but the way that the starlight seeped through the entrance a few tail-lengths in front of his muzzle was familiar. Wrapped in dirt, he closed his eyes and imagined it was fur, instead--he was a kitten again, Ivybounce was cleaning the space between his eyes, Hazelthorn and Frecklefox were curled against him.

His leg ached some more. He fell asleep.

. . .

Sleepydawn had gotten used to crossing thunderpaths.

The first time he’d done it, he was terrified. It seemed like the end of the world when a monster came snarling around the corner from so far away. Fallenclan didn’t have any thunderpaths inside their territory--there was one, on the border, but it was quiet and usually barren. One could sit at the edge of it for a whole day and see less monsters than there were toes on their paw.

Now, more recently (he refused to think about how long it had been. It couldn’t have been more than a few moons, surely), it was routine. Look left, look right, scamper across when it was safe and pay no mind to the big metal beasts.

Today, Sleepydawn looked left, looked right, and scampered across. He looked for the sharp gleam of metal in sunlight, in those massive black paws, those shiny silver teeth, enormous and impossible to ignore.

He wasn’t looking for whatever had hit him. Small, boney, like a collection of metal sticks, with two big but slender paws, and a single twoleg perched on its back.

If it was a true monster that hit him, he’d be dead. Whatever this one was (a baby monster, maybe?), the impact itself hurt, but it wasn’t what left the damage. What damaged him was the slender paw that rolled over his bad leg when he’d thrown himself backwards, and the sharp metal that came crashing down on him once the baby monster had lost its balance on his body. Sharp bruises and gashes formed on his skin, and he shrieked at the same moment the twoleg did, both of them pressed into the hard black stone.

A full grown monster, ash-gray and snarling, rumbled to a halt next to the collapsed baby. The sight of that alone was enough to force Sleepydawn to his feet, adrenaline flooding his pain receptors, and hobbling off into the woods.

He knew the feeling. His leg was broken again.

The twolegs began to chatter behind him, their meows high with alarm. Sleepydawn pushed forward into the woods, away from them, blinded by pain and terror and dread.

Something dark descended over his head, like a great black heap of snow falling from a tree branch, except it was faintly warm and reeked of twoleg stench.

Sleepydawn screamed, lashed out with both his front paws, and blacked out as the pain overwhelmed him.

. . .

“What are you doing?”

Hazelkit turned to look at him at his question. In her mouth, a clump of oddly-smelling grass, which she spat out to answer him, struggling to get the last few blades off her wet tongue.

“Bristleheart gave us this lemongrass,” She explained, inky-black tail waving slightly. “He said if we rub it around camp, it scares away snakes!”

Sleepykit wrinkled his nose. “So, chores?”

“We’re protecting the camp,” Frecklekit interjected, chest puffed out. “It’s an important job.”

Sleepykit pondered this for a moment, debating pros and cons. “Can I join?”

His sister, in all her graciousness, heaved an over-dramatic sigh. “I guess.”

At this, Sleepykit perked up, and swooped down to grab a mouthful of the grass. It had a harsh, acidic smell to it, but he bravely wrinkled his nose and plodded his way towards the camp entrance, head tilted back to keep the long ends from dragging on the ground.

Broccoli was sitting guard at the mouth of the cave, sharp amber eyes peering over the horizon. At Sleepykit’s approach, he turned, a warm smile on his face.

“What’ve you got there?”

Using his paw to quickly scrape the plant off his tongue, Sleepykit responded, “Lemongrass! Bristleheart says it scares away snakes, so me and Hazelkit and Frecklekit are rubbing it everywhere! It’s really stinky, though.”

“Very clever,” Broccoli praised. “Sounds like something your father would have done.”

Sleepykit frowned.

Cats told him that his father, Sleepycloud, had been one of the bravest warriors ever. He was born in Fallenclan and spent his whole life protecting it--and he died trying to save another cat, Fox-something. Sleepykit never got to meet him, but he was named after him, and cats said he looked just like him.

But Sleepykit was the one rubbing lemongrass around camp to scare away snakes. Not Sleepycloud.

He opened his mouth to tell Broccoli this, but the other cat had already turned away, finished with the conversation. Sleepykit’s jaw closed with a quick click, and his tail lashed. Whatever. Mama said it didn’t matter what other cats thought about him, anyway.

. . .

“I hear you got hit by a bike,” was the first thing Sleepydawn heard when he woke up, shrouded in a haze of pain, his head cloudy with some fog he couldn’t identify. “What was that like?”

He was… underground. Or in a den. Everything was silver and white and far away.

“Hey, are you listening, tripod?”

The world faded out.

. . .

“You look very handsome,” Ivybounce gave his face a last few embarrassing licks before nudging him forward. “Go, go, she’s about to call you.”

“Sleepypaw, step forth.”

Craning his neck to stand as tall as he could, Sleepypaw padded across the sandy earth towards highledge. Frecklefox, newly named, grinned at him from alongside Hazelthorn, both of them gleaming with pride.

He took his seat just below the ledge, looking up at Cherrystar. She smiled down at him, eyes crinkled, before speaking.

“Sleepypaw, you have worked hard to learn the ways of the warrior, and have earned your name. From this day forth, you shall be known as Sleepydawn. Fallenclan honors your vigilance and welcomes you as a full warrior.”

Hazelthorn! Frecklefox! Sleepydawn! The clan’s chant rose around them, spiraling into the air. Sleepydawn stepped back to join his siblings and felt a smile grow on his face.

It’s a different name, he told himself silently, eyes closed to bask in the praise. My own. No one else’s.

He opened his eyes again to catch his mother’s gaze. She was grinning, wide and sunny, but tears were rolling down her cheeks.

No one else’s.

. . .

He woke again. Possibly. A little more aware this time, he noticed something sharp stuck into his right front leg, like a thorn. He wiggled, found it didn’t hurt too bad, and left it alone.

A wet sound, like someone throwing up. A faint smell of blood. Something overwhelmingly sharp and unnatural. And twoleg, twoleg, twoleg. So many smells…

“Hey, wanna hear a joke?” Someone mrrowed. “I’d tell you one about fish, but I don’t think it would land!”

Sounded like something Frecklefox would say. Sleepydawn tried to reply to his sibling, but found that he was asleep before he could.

. . .

I’m not him. Sleepydawn wobbled on his paws, dangerously close to the edge of a steep hill before getting his bearings again and moving away, still, slowly towards camp. His body felt oddly light, yet so, so heavy. Every movement was a marathon.

I’m not him. Blood ran lazy rivers down his shoulder, tracing delicate lines around his paw and leaving a messy red trail behind him. He half-thought his ear might have been torn, too, just a bit, but it was hard to tell.

I’m not him. Sleepydawn had survived his big hero moment. Sleepycloud hadn’t.

I’m not him. Sleepydawn was not his father.

. . .

Wakefulness came back to him slowly. First, he was aware of the sensations in his body--a low, dull pain, something foggy and fuzzy, like he was filled with cobwebs, and some kind of bedding underneath him. Then sound, smell, and the dry dry dry taste in his mouth. The sharp thing in his leg was gone. He cracked open his eyes and found that they were sticky and clumped with goop, like he’d been asleep for days and days without knowing. He drew a few raspy breaths. His throat was sore.

Oddly, his leg didn’t hurt.

He wobbled upright, eventually, and looked around. Flat, silver walls on every side except for one, which was caged away with some kind of mesh. Behind it was an alien landscape--every angle sharp and perfect, smooth wood and metal and materials he didn’t know the name of. Two twolegs milled around beyond.

He lurched away, but there was nowhere to go. He was stuck--at their whims, no matter what they may be. Saving him, maybe, for a meal. His shoulders hit the wall behind him with a shockingly loud bang. Why couldn’t he catch his balance?

“Hey, are you awake already?” Meowed a voice. It sounded a little familiar. Young, feminine. A second later, a little golden and white paw poked into view at the bottom of the mesh wall, flapping around like it was trying to catch a bird. Or someone’s attention.

With the terror running a line down his middle, words failed him. He managed only a low, strangled growl. His throat was sore, like he’d swallowed twigs.

One of the twolegs turned its odd, naked head over to him, and made a quiet noise. It didn’t approach, didn’t make a move towards him, but just its pale eyes facing him sent a horrible involuntary shudder down Sleepydawn’s entire sternum.

After a few moments, it finally looked away, but that awful, crawling sensation didn’t leave him. Trapped. Trapped to their whims, like every horror story he’d heard as a kit--he remembered the tale of Jaggedstripe, who wandered into a silver mesh box like this one and hadn’t been seen for moons, returned different and more hollow with tales of the creatures that stuck her with silver thorns and wrapped woven grass cords around her throat.

He had to get out, as soon as possible. The longer he stayed, the less likely he was to leave, but when he tried to step forward--

Something was on his leg. Clinging, wrapped around, like an awful, shiny green limpet. It was unnaturally colored, like newleaf grass but a hundred times more vibrant. It didn’t hurt, but it was heavy--he couldn’t feel the leg underneath, not even that buzzing hum that would tell him it was asleep. Just nothingness. If it werent for the very tip of his paw poking out, he would have thought it had been taken off altogether.

His voice was a whispered rasp when he finally breathed, “What is…”

“I knew you were awake!” The young voice meowed again. “I’m Fishstick. It’s been so-o-o boring in here, there hasn’t been any other cats in ages. Just me, a couple dogs, and a raccoon the other day.”

His heart skipped a beat at the mention of dogs, but his brain caught on the name. “Fishstick… are you a warrior?” She sounded far too young, but…

“No.” Fishstick’s voice was suddenly glum. “I wish. That’s just the name my mama gave me ‘fore she ran off. What’s yours?” The blooming hope in Sleepydawn’s chest withered. Of course not. Even if she had been a warrior, she certainly wouldn’t have been a Fallenclan one. Gooseclan, maybe--she had the sort of rounded accent that he’d come to associate with that clan, though he was coming to realize it might be from the proximity to Twolegplace that gave them that inflection.

“Doesn’t matter,” he responded, suddenly exhausted. Despite the Twolegs, and the mention of dogs being near, he slumped down. His eyelids stubbornly drooped, but he blinked a few sharp times to keep them open. “I need to… get out of here.”

“Don’t we all,” Fishstick snorted. “Did they take your leg? I heard ‘em talking like they might.”

He shook his head before realizing the young molly couldn’t see it. “Still there.”

“Bummer. I could’ve called you Tripod, since you don’t wanna give me your real name. I could just call you what the Upwalkers are calling you.”

Sleepydawn scowled. Why was he entertaining this young fool? Still, curiosity tugged at him… “What are the Upwalkers calling me?”

“Mr. Mayor Whiskers,” Fishstick said, with a smugness to her voice that suggested this was perhaps something to make fun of. Sleepydawn wasn’t sure what Mr. or Mayor meant, but Whiskers seemed a fine name, at least. Hazelthorn had once wanted that to be her full warrior name--Hazelwhisker. She’d gotten Thorn, though, and liked it even better.

“It makes me sound tough, but mysterious”, she’d meowed, a twinkle in her slitted eyes. “Your name is awfully cutesy, though. A nice, sleepy morning, no dawn patrol, just cuddled up with your little brothers and sisters…”

He’d swatted her, after that. Always hated his name, branded his father’s son until the day he died. When he’d fallen into step with Ravenstar, practically his second deputy, he’d thought about asking if it could be changed. Somehow, it felt like a defeat to do such a thing--like admitting he couldn’t be bigger than his father’s name. He didn’t know what he’d have changed it to, anyway, but Whiskers was alright. Better than Fishstick, anyway.

He thought about telling her this, but stayed silent. He was more mature than to make fun of the name of a cat who must have barely been apprentice-aged.

“Anyway, Mr. Mayor,” Fishstick meowed again, incessant, “I heard you got hit by a bike. How’d that happen? They’re slow as slugs.”

A ‘bike’. Was that what kittypets called those small monsters? Sleepydawn’s tail twitched in annoyance at the teasing, but he kept his mouth shut, watching the twolegs beyond. One was sitting on some odd contraption, its paws on another, even weirder machine that seemed to be giving off a white light. The other had a stick in paw, and was scratching it on the surface of a very thin plank of wood held in its opposite paw, periodically glancing up at the array of the objects--bottles?--in front of it.

“What am I in for, you ask?” Fishstick continued. “Well, I’ll tell you. There I am, headed down an alley for some dumpster diving. I’d smelled chicken in there, see, and it was fresh. Hadn’t been rotted or nothing, not even gotten soggy in garbage water, so I’m off to find it. There it is, middle of the alleyway, sat on a nice paper plate. I was so hungry I didn’t even notice the cage over it until it was too late. Soon as I got a bite, wham! The cage fell, and I was stuck. ‘Course, if I’d noticed it beforehand I’d’ve slipped out and given those Upwalkers what-for, but as it was I was too hungry to do much. Next thing I know I’m in here. They said something about getting my weight up so they can spay me, no thank you! I’ve got a plan to get out of here before anything like that happens.”

Sleepydawn perked up. “A plan?”

“Oh, that caught your interest huh? Yeah, a plan! See, I’m gonna act all sweet to the Upwalkers, like I’m a real tame kitty, then, when they let me out on good behavior, I make a break for it. Course, I’ll have to get through the door, but I’ll break that branch when I get to it.”

“It’s cross that branch,” Sleepydawn muttered. “Breaking the branch is something else entirely.”

“Whatever,” Fishstick groaned. She sounded like Minnowpaw, whining about being sent on dawn patrol.

Regardless, the plan… could work? Sleepydawn didn’t know enough about the habits of Twolegs to say for certain, but it sounded possible, at least. Could he do the same? Act sweet to get his way? He could recall, faintly, doing it as a kit--looking up at Ivybounce with the biggest hazel eyes he could muster to plead for a bit of extra playtime before bed. It worked sometimes, but now--he had a feeling it wouldn’t be as effective. Not with the scars twisting up his leg, his crooked fangs, the always-tired look in his eyes. It was un-warriorlike to act like that towards a Twoleg, anyway.

He’d find some other way. For now, Sleepydawn rested his chin on his paws and pictured a mountain climbing up into the clouds.

. . .

The Twolegs stopped in front of Sleepydawn’s cage twice a day to refill his food and water. Sleepydawn, who had already been hungry and thirsty before he’d been hit by a bike, didn’t last long before eating and drinking--the food was dry, with some kind of wet paste, like chewed meat, piled on top of it, occasionally littered with an odd, bitter taste. The water was bland, somehow, which Sleepydawn found odd since he had thought water was already bland, yet somehow this Twoleg water managed to be even blander.

And he still had no plan.

Not even the beginnings of one, though it was difficult to concentrate with Fishstick’s incessant yapping. Only four moons old and already convinced she knew everything, had seen everything, and had everything to say about it.

She acted like any other excitable kit, or apprentice. She also didn’t treat Sleepydawn like he was something strange or other--until she found out where he’d come from.

“-I found a big fish in a trash can once, but I guess that doesn’t count as catching it, really,” she meowed. “But once in this Upwalker’s backyard I found these huge birds, bigger than me, and they had all these little babies running around, and I got one of those before the mama chased me off. What about you?”

“Hm?” Sleepydawn grunted, having been practicing his skills in tuning her out entirely.

“What’s the weirdest prey you’ve ever caught?” “A kitten. Just about your age, killed it bloody and ate it, now shut up.”

“Oh come on,” Fishstick whined, just as complainy but not quite as gullible as a clan-raised kit. “If you tell me the weirdest prey you’ve ever caught, I’ll shut up.”

“Forever?”

“For the rest of the day, but you also have to tell me how you caught it.”

Sleepydawn marinated on this for a moment. Fair enough price. His ears were about to start bleeding.

“Well,” he began, pretending to not notice the excited squeal that Fishstick released. “One early newleaf morning, I was out on a hunting patrol when I stumbled across a fawn. Usually the mother deer will fight you away from their young, but this one was left behind while she went to find food. It tried to run as soon as I pounced, but Boulderstep jumped on top of it, too, and the weight of us both was enough to bring it down. Took the whole patrol to carry it back to camp.”

For a moment, Sleepydawn was lost in the memory. He remembered it clearly--it was one of the first hunting patrols he’d gone on after his leg healed. Ravenstar ordered him to lead it--even though Boulderstep was his senior, and the better hunter. Perhaps cowed by Ravenstar’s insistence, nobody had challenged his leadership the whole way. They stalked out of camp into the early morning fog, brisk on the tips of their noses, and found the fawn in a cluster of spruce trees on the edge of the plains. Nothing had ever tasted as good as the prey-blood sweet on his tongue as he helped drag it home. Ravenstar had been sitting on the camp-ledge when they arrived--not calling a meeting, simply observing his clan--and his eyes had shone with pride. After the clan’s excitement over the huge prey subsided, he was pulled aside next to the medicine den to hear Ravenstar’s muted words.

“I knew I made the right choice.”

“Hold on,” Fishstick blurted, completely bypassing the impressive catch and nitpicking on the details. “Who’s Boulderstep?”

“My-” A lump suddenly formed in Sleepydawn’s throat. He swallowed it, and it scraped the whole way down. “A clan cat I once knew. Not really a friend.”

“You knew clan cats?”

Sleepydawn groaned internally. “Used to. Weren’t you supposed to shut up for the rest of the day?”

“What kind of clan cats?” Fishstick pressed. “Do they live in the plains? The forest? Where are they? How long ago?”

“Oh be quiet!” Sleepydawn snapped. “Why do you care, anyway? You think they’d let a soft kitty like you join up with them?”

“I’m no soft kitty!” She argued loudly.

“Sure are acting like it, every time those Twolegs come in here. You really think your plan will work? You think they’ll just let you out? Wake up and smell the daisies, kitty, you’re not getting out of here. We’re both going to sit here in these little cages eating slop and withering away until our hearts give out or the Twolegs get tired of us and kill us. Welcome to the real world.”

Silence, finally--blissed silence. It echoed in the metal cages and out in the harsh room beyond. Sleepydawn sunk into it like a fresh bed of moss, letting his eyes slip shut.

Then-

Sniff.

Fuck.

Sleepydawn shook his head, quietly. He really never had been good with kits, he always backed out of kitsitting, and helping his clanmates train their new apprentices. Still, making a kit cry was a new low--one he wasn’t proud of.

“Fish-”

“I’ve been a loner- ever since I was a kit,” Fishstick meowed, her voice cracking with tears. “Never lived with Upwalkers, just around ‘em, and I- one time I heard stories about these cats. These cats that lived in big groups and always fed each other and protected each other, and- I’d always been by my lonesome. Always have been. And I thought that sounded like- something real special. I’m going to be a warrior, even if I have to fight my way through a hundred Upwalkers. You don’t know nothing about me, and I ain’t no soft kitty.”

“Alright.” Sleepydawn acquiesced quietly. He’d seen things that would make her stomach curdle. Done things that would give her nightmares. “You’re not soft.”

“And I’m gonna be a warrior. Say it.”

“You’ll be a warrior.” Sleepydawn hoped she never knew the battle. The heartbreak. He wondered if all the love he’d lost was worth it.

“That’s right.”

Fishstick was mostly silent for the rest of the day. Sleepydawn found it difficult to enjoy.

. . .

A day later, Fishstick woke him by slapping her paws against the bottom of his cage.

“Psst! Mayor!” A pause. “Mr. Mayor!”

“What?” Sleepydawn grumbled, knowing she’d only stop if he responded.

“Do you think I really could fight an Upwalker? To get out, I mean?”

“Dunno.” He huffed. “Maybe. There’s usually two of ‘em, though.”

“Oh yeah.” He could hear the frown in her voice. “D’you think I could escape ‘em, then? Just slip out from their paws during the next checkup?”

“You’re forgetting this whole place is closed off. Where would you go?”

“Right.”

Sleepdawn waited, then let his eyes drift closed again.

“Well, what if-”

. . .

“Tell me a story.”

“Hah,” Sleepydawn responded dryly.

“Ugh.” Fishstick’s little cream-colored paw appeared at the bottom of his cage. “Come on, Mayor, I’m bored out of my fur! Just one!”

Her words devolved quickly into a wordless, petulant whine. Reminded sharply of Frecklefox, flattening his ears to his head, Sleepydawn snapped, “Fine!”

Instantly, the paws disappeared, and he heard a shuffle, as if she was getting comfortable. Typical. He wracked his brain for a story, and found only one--a story that had been haunting him for many moons.

“Once upon a time… there was a cat.”

“Strong start.”

“Can you shut up and listen?” He huffed.

“Once upon a time, there was a cat. His name was Sleepydawn.

“Sleepydawn was a Warrior. A clan cat. When he was born, his father was already dead. His mother had discovered that she was expecting in the same moon that he died.”

“How did he die?” Fishstick chirped.

Sleepydawn bit back a retort. Then slumped, a little. He didn’t have the energy to be mad, or to lie. “He drowned trying to save his clanmate. Failed.”

Fishstick gave a sad little whine. Sleepydawn pushed on.

“When Sleepydawn was born, he looked so much like his father that his mother decided to name him in his honor. That’s where he got the Sleepy part of his name. Though they matched in name and appearance, Sleepydawn wasn’t anything like his father--his father was a hero, an amazing cat who dedicated his life to protecting his clan. Sleepydawn tripped over his paws on hunting patrols, and bit his own tongue more times than he ever bit an enemy warrior. In the shadow of his father, he grew up angry and resentful. Not many cats liked him.

“The clan that Sleepydawn lived in was under the reign of their leader, Ravenstar. Ravenstar was a harsh and sometimes unfair cat, but Sleepydawn looked up to him. One day, when a dog found its way into their territory, Ravenstar decided to have Sleepydawn chase the dog out by himself, rather than send a patrol after it.”

“Why?” Fishstick interrupted.

Sleepydawn opened his mouth to reply, and found his tongue curled. A gaping absence of explanation found a home in his throat. Why?

“I don’t know,” he finally meowed. “Maybe Ravenstar wanted Sleepydawn to prove himself. Maybe he wanted Sleepydawn to learn a lesson. Whatever the reason, Sleepydawn refused. It was a suicide mission for the most skilled of cats, of that which Sleepydawn was not. But all it took for him to change his mind was for Ravenstar to suggest that this was the way to prove he wasn’t his father. And before he knew it, Sleepydawn had left camp.

“He found the dog on the plains, hopelessly chasing rabbits. Sleepydawn fought with everything he had, but the dog was quick, and vicious. It bit nearly clean through his leg, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. He thought he would die that day, alone on the plains, facing a dog by himself, leaving his family behind to grieve. Instead, he got lucky. The dog stumbled its foot into a rabbit warren, and it left an opening just big enough for Sleepydawn to tear its throat out.

“The dog fled. Sleepydawn would never find out if it died or not, because he couldn’t follow it. He’d chased it off the territory, and very nearly died in the process. He struggled his way back to camp, trailing blood all the way, and when he returned, Ravenstar praised him. It was the most that Sleepydawn had ever gotten--a cat telling him that he was better than his father. He knew then that he would follow Ravenstar to the ends of the earth.

“And that’s where Ravenstar led him. After that day, he grew only crueller and crueller, starting wars and even killing his own cats in the middle of camp, and Sleepydawn was at his heel every step of the way. He did terrible things in Ravenstar’s name.

“Eventually, Sleepydawn’s clanmates revolted against Ravenstar. He was killed, and Sleepydawn, along with Ravenstar’s other followers, were banished from the clan forever. The End.”

Silence, for a few moments. Sleepydawn wondered then if his story had lulled Fishstick to sleep, when:

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean that’s it?” He huffed in response. “I said the end, didn’t I?”

“Yeah but.” Fishstick shuffled above him. “Stories are supposed to have a happy ending. The villain gets punished at the end, and everyone lives happily ever after. There’s supposed to be a moral to the story.”

“The villain did get punished,” Sleepydawn snorted. “Ravenstar died, Sleepydawn got exiled.”

“But he should have realized the error of his ways!” Fishstick cried. “He should have joined with the cats that killed Ravenstar, and become the hero!”

Sleepydawn let those words hover in the air for a few moments, then laid down, curling his tail over his nose.

“Yeah, he should have.”

. . .

Their opportunity to escape arrived one cold morning, as Sleepydawn woke with his face pressed against the artificial moss bedding.

Less than a moon had passed, from what he could tell through the clear-covered opening that he could see from the mouth of his cage, but it felt, in many ways, like an eternity. Fishstick woke him most days with her mindless chatter, and kept him from dozing the day away with much of the same. This morning was different in that he woke to her screams.

“Don’t touch me!” He heard her howl as he woke with a start, the sound of clattering metal and mumbling twolegs alongside. “I’ll take your pelt off! Don’t!”

He jolted upright as quickly as he could with his cast, flooded with instinctive adrenaline. Just below him, a twoleg was crouched with its hands near Fishstick’s cage, repeatedly reaching forward and flinching back and making soft cooing noises.

“Fishstick!” He called out.

“Help!” She wailed, sounding every bit the young cat she was. “They’re trying to take me and- I don’t know what they’re gonna do!”

She sounded near tears. Sleepydawn didn’t think, just knew that he had to get the twoleg’s attention away from her as quick as he could, and he couldn’t fight them.

He slammed his cast into the wall of his cage, flinching at the loud bang and the shooting pain, then collapsed on his side, splaying all his limbs out and summoning the saddest, most agonized sounds he could.

The twoleg immediately lurched to look up at him with wide eyes, hesitating only a moment before closing Fishstick’s cage and reaching up to open Sleepydawn’s.

Its paws moved over him, gently stroking his pelt and prodding him. He resisted every instinct that screamed at him to attack, thrash, escape; knowing that he needed to remain the center of attention even through the uncomfortable sensation of touch.

After a moment, the twoleg scrambled away, leaving his cage open.

As soon as its back was turned, Sleepydawn jumped up as quietly as he could, and hopped down to the smooth, cold ground. He landed awkwardly, but sent a silent thanks up to Starclan when it was, at least, silent.

“Mayor?” Fishstick cautioned.

Behind him, she was still locked in her cage, pelt ruffled. She had pale ginger striped fur and creamy white paws and muzzle, her pupils narrow slits. Huddled at the back of the metal box, she looked smaller than she probably was, even puffed up in fear.

Sleepydawn glanced behind him to make sure that the twoleg was still occupied before hobbling over to the mesh of the cage. “How does this open?”

“Bite there,” Fishstick hurried closer, gesturing with her nose as he followed her instructions. The metal cut into his mouth as he pressed down, made his teeth ache, but after a moment of increasing pain it began to swing open.

Fishstick pushed her way out instantly, jostling him in her hurry, and immediately rushed to his side, stretching up to her tiptoes to wrap her neck around his.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She trilled, grin stretching her muzzle even as he pushed her away.

“Enough.” He huffed, and started quickly hobbling to the doorway, cracked open just a smidge, a miracle upon miracles. “Let’s hurry out of here and then we can go our separate ways.”

“What?” Fishstick hurried along with him. “Wait- you have to show me where those warriors are, so I can join them!”

“I have no such obligations,” Sleepydawn huffed. “Now, be quiet.”

“No!” Fishstick jumped in front of him. “No, if you don’t- you have to swear that you’ll show me where the warriors are. Or else.”

Annoyance flared deep in his chest. He bared his teeth, stretching to his not-unimpressive height to loom over her. “Move.”

“No.” Fishstick hardened her expression and drew to her full height, her head only reaching his shoulder. “If you don’t give me your word, right now, I’ll scream. Then we’ll both get caught.”

Manipulative little shit!

“You-” Sleepydawn gritted his teeth, tried to remind himself that the most important thing right now was getting out, and then they could argue about this. “Fine, yes, word given, let’s go.”

Fishstick’s face lit up like a forest fire, and just like that she was racing him for the exit, unbeknownst to the twolegs behind them.

Freedom, at the tips of his whiskers again.

. . .

Sleepydawn had done many things in his life that he wasn’t proud of, but nearing the top of the list was losing an argument to an apprentice. Twice.

So he was taking her to Fallenclan’s territory. Fine. He wouldn’t even have to cross the border--or even get close to it. Just as soon as it was in eyesight, he could tell Fishstick to look for the mossier side of the mountain and make a beeline for the second-biggest cave. As long as she didn’t describe him too in-depth to the cats that she found there, she’d be fine. And if she did, he had to hope that his siblings would convince Wolfstar to let her stay anyway, regardless of what awful cat led her there.

“We’ll have to figure out how to get that cast off you,” Fishstick chirped, trotting along at a pace that made him ache up to his shoulder. “You’re slow.”

“I’m old,” which wasn’t really true, but a lifetime of hardships and work made him feel older than he should. “You’re too fast.”

“Anyway, I used to know a kittypet who lived around here, he had a cast once.” Fishstick waved her tail for him to follow. He briefly considered making a break for it. “He’ll know how to get it off.”

Sleepydawn wasn’t keen to take advice from a kittypet, but after only a bit of bullying from his young companion, it turned out that the cat’s advice was good. Sleepydawn soaked his cast leg in water for only a few minutes before it started to slough away in stringy green chunks. The white wrapping underneath, which felt a bit like thick cobwebs, followed without much trouble.

His leg underneath was skinny and hurt to put pressure on, but not so much that he couldn’t walk on it. It had always been a little crooked since his accident, so when he found it straighter than before, that surprised him more than anything else. He hadn’t known that was possible.

“Yeah, there’s something to be said for Upwalker medicine,” Ace, the kittypet, meowed conversationally. “Can’t have kits anymore, but it’s a small price to pay for a lifetime of good health.”

…Sure.

Ace invited them to sleep in a comfortable nook underneath his Twoleg’s shed, which Fishstick accepted before Sleepydawn could even think about refusing. He also offered them some dry kittypet food, which Sleepydawn stood his ground on.

“Absolutely not,” He snapped. “I’ve been eating that shit for way too long. Come on, Fish.”

Fishstick hurried after him, jumping along like a tadpole that had just grown legs. “Are you gonna teach me how to hunt?”

“I’m not your mentor,” Sleepydawn snorted. “I’ll catch something for the both of us. You’re gonna follow along quietly and keep an eye out for twolegs.”

Fishstick gave a deep, exaggerated sigh, but didn’t argue, apparently realizing she’d filled her quota of being annoying for the day.

Hunting with his leg still injured was difficult, to say the least, but working around it was something he was used to. It didn’t take long for him to find a sparrow, feeding on fallen seeds two yards over from Ace’s; carefully, he stalked it, keeping most of his weight on his three good legs, always aware of Fishstick a few fox-lengths back, watching silently for once in her life. He pounced, and made sure to land on his right forepaw, using his left to gently grab the bird and hold it in place for a quick, crunchy bite to the back of the neck.

“This one is yours,” Sleepydawn rolled his eyes at the sheer excitement in Fishstick’s expression, nudging the prey towards her. “I’ll catch another.”

He meant to leave her behind immediately for his own meal, but found himself hesitating, just for a moment, to watch Fishsticks’s face as she bit into fresh prey. If her stories were true, she’d had it before, but you wouldn’t know that from the blissful look that washed over her as she ripped away a mouthful of feathers and went for a bite, chewing slowly with her eyes closed.

Against his will, Sleepydawn cracked a smile. Whatever. Apprentices were fine sometimes.

. . .

“Is Fallenclan big?”

“Hmm.” Sleepydawn hummed, eyes closed, chin rested on his paws. He usually fell asleep fairly quickly, but even still, Fishstick seemed to know exactly when to pipe up to draw him out of his nearly-achieved slumber. “How so?”

“Like, a lot of cats.” she hesitated. “And the territory, too. Clan cats have a territory, right?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sleepydawn resigned himself to a few more questions before he’d try to convince her to go to sleep. “They’ve got a mountain and some plains. And there’s lots of cats.”

“More than I’ve got toes on my paws?”

“More than twice that,” He cracked one eye open to see her faint outline in the dim light that peeked into the space under Ace’s shed. “Go to sleep. It’s a long journey.”

“How long?”

“Sleep.”

Fishstick fell quiet, blissfully. Sleepydawn began to drift gently away, until-

“What do you think you’re doing.”

“I’m cold,” Fishstick responded, shuffling over and burrowing into her side, jamming her icy-cold nose directly against one of the scars on his leg. “Goodnight.”

Sleepydawn opened his mouth, fully intent on telling her to get the hell back to her side of the space, but…

She was quiet, at least. He might not get that if he started her back up again.

Whatever. He’d tell her off in the morning.

. . .

It wasn’t like Sleepydawn had a small family.

His family was pretty large, actually. He had five siblings in total, though one died before he was born, another when he was an apprentice, and a third when he was a young warrior. His parents were both long dead by the time he was exiled, but both of them had siblings too--giving him a total of four aunts and five uncles, though he’d met only a pawful of them. There was a myriad of cousins, and a niece and nephew as well, the children of his oldest sister.

It had been so easy, at the time, to ignore them all. Looking back it hurt like a thorn in his chest.

He’d been such a lonely kit, and such a bitter apprentice, and throughout his warriorhood so angry that he didn’t blame the cats that didn’t reach out--they were probably afraid he’d claw their pelt off. He spent the young and formative moons of his life so twisted up inside himself that he refused to take the time to make friends, bond with his mentor, or get into mischief with his fellow apprentices. He grew up stunted because of it, and then in his adulthood only latched onto Ravenstar, who fueled his anger rather than trying to soothe it, and fed into his attempts to break free of his father’s memory.

He’d been such a miserable apprentice, despite growing up surrounded by family and could-have-been-friends.

Fishstick didn’t seem to have the same troubles as him.

Her energy was limitless. Her enthusiasm had no apparent bounds. He walked slowly in a straight line, conserving his energy, and she criss-crossed, jumped up onto fences and halfway up tree trunks, over creeks and then back again just for the thrill. Every night she crashed like she’d never had the opportunity to sleep before--shoving her way into his side and passing out before he could complain.

One morning, the sun rose, and with it came a gentle flurry of snow--a rare sight to see off the mountain that was once Sleepydawn’s home. When he woke, and felt the damp, bitter chill that he knew so well, he resigned himself to an extra-cold and miserable walk, today, or until the snow melted--frozen paws and whiskers and soaked fur. Fishstick, on the other paw, lit up as if she’d never seen something so wonderful before, barreling out of their shelter and into the thin layer of white snow with an air of glee around her more vibrant than anything Sleepydawn had seen in the last four moons.

She spent that day with even more energy than normal, if that was a possible thing to achieve. The grin never slipped from her face, she raced in circles around him as they traveled, and she even bullied him into a short snowball fight. That whole day, he watched her with quiet eyes, and a thought lingered in the back of his mind.

Is this what I could have been?

. . .

The snow didn’t melt, per se, but no more fell after the first day--it left a thin coating on the tops of leaves and grass, like gently-laid spiderwebs, melting into their fur as they stepped on it. It disappeared from any twolegplace almost instantly--either melted on the bare stone that the twolegs built their homes around, or shoveled away by the twolegs themselves with great stone scoops to make room for monsters to roam. Perhaps monsters were vulnerable to snow and ice? Something to consider.

Regardless, it left the land bitterly cold as Sleepydawn and Fishstick traveled along. His bad leg always ached a little extra when it was especially cold or wet outside, but even without that added bit of discomfort, they were left stumbling and clumsy after a while, forced to make frequent stops to huddle in some meager shelter and get the feeling back into their paws before continuing. Still, Fishstick’s spirits stayed bright--she suggested scenic detours that Sleepydawn would immediately refuse, and begged on their breaks for him to teach her a battle move or how to catch birds out of the air, despite his reminders that their breaks were meant for resting, and her grin hardly faltered. He finally caved and showed her a basic hunting crouch before they went to sleep one night. He told himself she’d need a leg up, as a former loner in Fallenclan. He ignored all evidence that she’d probably fit in better than he ever did.

Aside from all that, several days of their journey were spent cold, stiff, and vaguely miserable. Distracted.

It made sense that neither of them noticed the dog until it was too late.

It happened quickly--quicker than Sleepydawn could keep up with. One minute, serene, annoyed calm, the next, a dull growl, a single, grating bark, and a brown dog the size of a bicycle was bearing down on them, snapping its teeth as the two of them leapt into the air and tried to flee.

Panic overtook Sleepydawn’s mind like a fungus. He suddenly couldn’t think, couldn’t feel--it was just ice in every bone of his body, a tight, frozen grip, screaming without words or logic. He was blind, deaf, moving without telling his body to move.

And then Fishstick screamed.

Everything snapped back into place, like a bone being reset. Still, panic, but now he could see pearly white fangs closing down around his young companion, and his legs listened as he told them to carry him closer. He remembered his training like he remembered how to breathe--he flew at the dog’s face and howled and raked his claws over the eyes and nose, sinking his teeth clean through one of the ears. The dog howled in response, flinging its head hard enough to send Sleepydawn several feet away, a chunk of meat and fur clenched in his jaw, still. It howled all the way home as it fled back to its twolegs.

Like Buttercup, he thought nonsensically, blood ringing in his ears, a metallic taste clinging to all the corners of his mouth.

Fishstick wasn’t hurt. They called it a night early and found a twoleg’s shed to sleep in, curled up on a high shelf. Sleepydawn wrapped his tail around her and groomed her fur until she fell asleep.

. . .

His journey before he had been hit by a bike seemed to take moons and moons, but it seemed like they’d only just left the twoleg’s clutches before Fallenclan’s mountain started to loom in the distance.

Fishstick’s questions came in greater frequency and urgency the closer they got. She asked who the leader was, and what kind of prey the cats of Fallenclan ate, and how long they’d lived on the mountain. He answered most of her questions, usually truthfully. An ache was forming in him, deeper than the one in his leg. Once they reached the territory, he’d have to leave her behind. He’d be alone again.

Thoughts appeared in his mind, unabbiden--what if after he left her at the border, she found another dog? Or a group of rogues? Or a patrol in a particularly foul mood? What if she wandered straight past Fallenclan, across the river, and met a Shallowclan patrol, instead? There were too many variables. He’d have to take her directly to camp--or as close as he could get before they met a patrol, anyway. He wouldn’t linger. Just long enough to make sure she could stay there, and wasn’t turned away. Would Wolfstar do that? Sleepydawn wouldn’t know.

The first step across the border was like sinking into cool water after a day in the greenleaf sun--the tense muscles of his spine relaxed, a soft breath escaped his lungs. This was home.

Not his. Not his home.

Behind him, the world. In front of him, his world. And to the left, nestled into a bed of rocks and lichen, a sacred place, that he’d only walked past before, never into. The sun was setting, anyway. He directed Fishstick towards the cave with a nod of his head, and the two of them ducked under a curtain of moss into soft darkness.

“We’ll shelter here for the night. In the morning, we’ll make the last leg.”

“Ha! Leg.” Fishstick swerved to bump her whole body into his weak side. He dodged without much difficulty.

“Show some respect, why don’t you?” He growled. “This is a sacred place. The only place we can speak to Starclan.”

Fishstick quieted, a little, as Sleepydawn led them both down into the entrance of the Glowcave. The light from outside faded out slowly, then began to pick up again as glowing mushrooms appeared on the walls, pocketed by thick curtains of lichen. The air was slightly humid, but the ground wasn’t muddy, just slightly damp enough to stick to his paws in little crumbles.

“Woah.” Fishstick craned her neck to look at the mushrooms overhead. She seemed uncharacteristically meek. “Is it… okay for us to sleep in here?”

“It’s fine,” Sleepydawn snorted. “Starclan isn’t going to kick us out for needing a place to rest.”

Hopefully, he added to himself.

Though he kept the appearance of the confident older cat Fishstick expected him to be, inside, he was wide-eyed as a kit. He’d never seen the Glowcave himself, very few cats had--and it was stunning. At the end of the cave, so brightly lit by mushrooms it might as well have been twilight, they found a little pool of water, fed by a natural spring. Fishstick immediately went for a drink.

Something tickled his mind about that--wasn’t that how you visited Starclan’s territory, by drinking? Whatever. Maybe a visit to her ancestors would humble her.

Sleepydawn curled into a neat ball a few tail-lengths from the water, under a few particularly large mushrooms. After a few moments, Fishstick appeared to burrow into his side and dig her elbows in his ribs. He sighed in resignation.

Comforted in the thought that Starclan would protect her while he slept, Sleepydawn faded away.

When he woke up, it was to the sweet smell of crushed grass under his paws, and a warm breeze. There was no little golden tabby to be seen.

“Hm, Fish?” He meowed, cracking his eyes open, suddenly jolting up. “Fishstick? Hey, Fish!”

“It’s alright, she’s safe.”

Sleepydawn turned. There was a cat there that he didn’t recognize--black and white, with a jagged scar between his eyes. He smelled faintly familiar.

“What do you mean she’s safe?” Sleepydawn snarled. “Where is she? What have you done?”

“She’s with you,” The cat meowed, calm, but with a slight tremble in his voice. “Sleeping in the Glowcave.”

Sleepydawn paused.

He was in a field, he realized. Long grass surrounded him in a huge circle, but the stuff he stepped on was only up to his dewclaws, soft and tickling his fur where it swayed gently in the breeze. The sky above was a dark blue of twilight, dotted with puffy pink and purple clouds. The sun was setting on the horizon, bright as a marigold. The temperature was just on the edge of too warm, exactly as Sleepydawn liked it. He could smell honey and rabbits on the air.

“This is… Starclan.”

“It is,” agreed the cat, whom Sleepydawn was realizing was probably long dead.

“I’m… allowed here?”

Something in his voice, the smallness of it, the surprise, seemed to make the cat in front of him break. His mouth wobbled a bit, his ears twitching as if in a valiant attempt to stay facing forward. He blinked rapidly a few times.

“Oh, Sleepydawn,” he whispered. “Of course you’re allowed. If you want to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sleepydawn snapped.

“It means you regret what you did,” the Starclan cat meowed. “And that if given the chance, you wouldn’t repeat your mistakes. You’ve done awful things, but in your heart is a good Fallenclan warrior.”

“I’m not a Fallenclan warrior anymore,” Sleepydawn lashed his tail, shaking his head to rid himself of the avalanche of emotions this cat was dumping on him. “And I won’t be again. As soon as I show Fishstick where the camp is, I’m leaving. I won’t even give them the chance to chase me away.”

“Do you think they would?”

“Sure,” he scoffed. “Flamefall would bite my tail off if given half the chance. I’m sure Wolfbite- Wolfstar isn’t keen on having Ravenstar’s followers in her camp.”

“I don’t see you following him, now,” the cat sat down, curling his tail over his paws. “Or his memory, for that matter. Not everyone can say the same, you know.”

A pause. “You never killed in his name.”

“I would have,” he snapped. “If Ravenstar had told me to kill a clanmate, I would have.”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Which one?” The cat blinked. “If he’d told you to kill Hazelthorn, would you? What about Ashblink? Or Feathersight, or Marshjump, or Gizmo. Would you have killed them if he told you to?”

The words he wanted to use made a nest and died in Sleepydawn’s throat. “Who are you?” He meowed instead.

The scarred cat looked at him, long and sad. “I’m sorry.” “For what?”

“For making you live in my shadow. For dying before you were born. For leaving your mother to raise you without me.”

It was Sleepycloud.

This was the cat that Sleepydawn had spent his entire life underneath. That he’d nearly died for. That he’d destroyed his leg in the name of. This cat had caused his mother immeasurable grief, and his littermates, and himself. This cat had ruined his life.

“...Dad?”

“My baby,” Sleepycloud fell forward, no longer holding back his tears, and tucked his head over Sleepydawn’s shoulders. “Oh, little bug, my baby. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” Sleepydawn, a fully grown adult, wept into his father’s chest. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I should have died instead.”

“Never,” Sleepydawn’s father clamped his head down, pushing him further into his chest. “Never, I’m so glad you’re alive, that you got to live and hunt and fight. And I’m so sorry for the path you’ve had to walk.”

It’s not your fault, Sleepydawn almost said. Wanted to say. He wasn’t sure if it was true. Sleepycloud didn’t let him say it.

“You are my son,” Sleepydawn’s father drew back just enough to press their foreheads together. They had the same eyes. The exact same eyes. Sleepydawn was looking into a reflection of his own form. For the first time, he saw in himself what everyone else had seen. “You are your mother’s son. You are your siblings’ brother. You’re a guardian to this young cat that you’ve brought to live the life of her dreams. You’re a fantastic warrior. Even in exile.”

Sleepycloud’s eyes were teary, and glimmered with stars. “I have no right to ask anything of you. But…”

Sleepydawn grit his teeth, throat feeling thick. He wanted to know. “Tell me. Ask.”

His father’s eyes fell shut. “Let yourself love. Let yourself be loved. Let yourself enjoy life and know that you’ve spent yours serving and toiling and you deserve so much. Please.”

The new, starry world faded away.

Fishstick didn’t have any dreams, when she woke--Sleepydawn asked her just to be sure, but it seemed she hadn’t been visited. Presumably, she didn’t have anybody waiting for her, there. Not in that afterlife.

If he thought she’d been excitable before then, it was nothing compared to her attitude that morning. She frolicked and leapt about like a fawn in newleaf, thrilled more than anything to be a warrior at last. It was a wonder she didn’t alert any patrols to their approach as Sleepydawn carefully led her towards camp.

He wasn’t sure if it would be his last time in Fallenclan territory, but he treated it as if it was. They passed through the plains, close enough that he could point out the Honey Spruce to her, instructing her to keep her distance. Then, they followed the creek upriver, towards the Starpool. He made Fishstick pause, then, so the two of them could watch the fish swimming under the surface for a few minutes. The reflection of the sun on the water dazzled them both. He showed her the best place to cross the creek, over a neat set of close-together stones, and laughed at her when she misjudged a jump and got her hind legs wet.

They had to travel a bit around, for the best path up to the camp. In the far distance, Sleepydawn pointed out the Sky Pine, the tallest tree in the territory, standing stoically near the Gooseclan border. He remembered trying to climb it, as an apprentice. Fishstick probably would, too. One day soon.

Everywhere, the smell of Fallenclan. Like cold mountain water and moss and wet earth and birds. The closer they drew to the camp, the stronger that scent became. Sleepydawn’s lungs ached with it, and not for the first time, he debated turning back.

It was too late, anyway.

Before the mouth of the cave had even come fully into view, a voice called out. “Stop where you are!” A long-furred yellow molly stalked towards them, expression harsh and guarded for a moment before falling slack in surprise. “It’s…”

“It’s me.” Sleepydawn agreed. “I know I’m- not welcome here. I’m just delivering someone.”

He tilted his head to look behind him, seeing Fishstick. Her eyes were wide, fur prickling on the back of her neck as Moorthistle approached them.

“We’re here to speak with Wolfstar,” Sleepydawn dipped his head in submission. “And then I will leave.”

“...Alright.” Moorthistle agreed after a moment of careful consideration, green eyes flicking over them both. “Ashblink, I’ll be back in a moment.”

A solid lump formed harsh in his throat as Sleepydawn followed Moorthistle, past his mate. Former mate. Their relationship had been strained before he’d been exiled, and when Ashblink hadn’t come to say goodbye before Sleepydawn left, well… he understood what that meant.

I didn’t treat you well, he realized silently as Ashblink’s cold blue eyes followed him. I’m sorry.

Fishstick had none of the struggles that he was carrying--once she’d gotten over her initial awe, she was trotting after him like a puppy, tail held high and eyes bright, peering at the walls of the cave and the cats that were beginning to gather around them like she’d never seen such things before. Maybe she hadn’t.

She’ll make a good warrior, Sleepydawn thought suddenly, surprising himself.

She really would. Despite her annoying demeanor, which was something that, really, all apprentices had to some degree, she was intelligent, and curious, and eager to learn. Perhaps one day she’d win a battle single-pawed against a group of rogues, saving her entire patrol, or she’d bring home a ptarmigan in the middle of leaf-bare when the rest of the clan was freezing and starving. She’d probably be a better warrior than Sleepydawn ever was.

But she wouldn’t be here without me, he realized.

This was how he repaid them. Mistlefrost, Wolfstar, any other cats he’d hurt. He brought to them this promising young cat with her whole future ahead of her. Even if he couldn’t serve Fallenclan himself anymore, he could do this.

He loved his clan. With every breath.

Wolfstar padded up to the two of them, her chin tilted up and her blue eyes icy. The star-shaped white mark on her forehead was still startling to see, such a blatant show of Starclan’s favor. She was their leader. Their true one.

“So, you’re back, after everything.”

#fallenasks #fallenfic #tw injury #tw blood

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sulkingheichou012 · 1 month ago

Text

Into the Dungeon with You

Pairing: Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: RomCom, Action, Future Smut

Warning: Description of violence and profanity.

Summary: Jinwoo frowned as a new system notification appeared before him.

[Special Reward Successfully Claimed.]

Author's note: I'm happy that some of you are enjoying my silly work! Yes, if you're asking to be tagged—sure! 😊

Chapter 11

The calm after the battle barely lasted. Portals still flickered like scars in the sky, waiting to burst open again. Though the latest threat was repelled, no one believed it was over.

The recent battle had left scars across the city—and across everyone's hearts. But there was no time to rest. Hunters from around the world gathered for a joint training initiative under the Korean Hunter Association. They needed to be faster. Stronger. Ready. Because this fragile peace was temporary, and everyone felt it.

On the Association’s largest training grounds, the top Hunters were already at it—stretching, sparring, sharpening their reflexes. Among them were the absolute best: Sung Jinwoo. Cha Hae In. Liu Zhigang. Thomas Andre. Goto Ryuji. Lennart Niermann. Christopher Reed.

And there was Y/N, standing slightly apart, quiet but unmistakably there. Not a licensed Hunter. No official ranking. But she was here. She’d fought alongside Sung Jinwoo, cutting through monsters like a scythe through paper.

Some whispered. Some stared. Y/N ignored it.

Because it might be.

“Time to pair up,” Go Gunhee’s voice boomed across the field. “Choose wisely. Push each other. We need to be faster. Stronger. Smarter.”

Cha Hae In was already walking toward Jinwoo.

“I’d like to spar with you,” she said, polite and composed. “You’re the strongest. I’ll test my limits against the best.”

Y/N sighed and crossed her arms. Of course. The main couple vibes are strong today.

As Hae In and Jinwoo faced each other in the middle of the field, Y/N’ thoughts spiraled.

“Cha Hae-In is the perfect partner for Jinwoo, I can’t deny that. The silent, noble knight type. Total power couple material. But if we’re going practical, Joonhee is the best choice. She’s been there from the start! When Jinwoo was still weak, rank E, practically jobless. That’s loyalty! Ride or die! Dammit! Why is it always the blonde beauty?!” She glared at Hae In’s gleaming hair. “What about dark-haired women?” Y/N flicked a strand of her own black hair. “Villainess energy right here! Hmph!”

Jinwoo and Hae In stood opposite each other on the sparring mat. No weapons. Just hand-to-hand combat. Raw speed. Raw strength.

The two of them were like shadows and light, moving so quickly most eyes couldn’t follow.

But… Jinwoo’s attention wasn’t entirely on Hae In. His gaze kept flicking toward Y/N. Who, at that very moment, was chatting and smiling with Liu.

Jinwoo blocked Hae In’s strike a second too late. Her fist grazed his jaw.

“Distracted?” she asked, arching a brow. “Eyes over here, Sung Jinwoo.”

Jinwoo exhaled through his nose. He refocused… mostly. But the territorial flare in his eyes was hard to miss.

Meanwhile,

It was Liu Zhigang. The strongest hunter in China and one of the five National Level Hunters, ranking 2nd in the world. And he was smiling. At her. Golden eyes gleaming, like he was sizing up his next favorite person. “We meet again.” he said smoothly. “It would be a pleasure to spar.”

Y/N blinked. Externally? She tilted her head, gave a tiny, polite nod, and said, “Sure. I’ll go easy on you.” Voice calm. Totally collected. Cool as a cucumber.

Internally? System Notification: “Y/N.exe has stopped working.” Her brain slammed the red “EMERGENCY” button. Sirens were going off. Cue the internal screaming cat meme: “AAAAAAA!” Her inner self was slamming her fists on a table screaming, “NOTICE ME SENPAI!” And somewhere in the back of her mind? A tiny version of her was ugly crying while waving a Liu Zhigang body pillow.

Get it together, she screamed at herself, pasting a composed expression on her face. She was a professional. A fighter. Not some fangirl. (But oh, she was absolutely going to write about this in her diary later.)

Their spar began. He was fast. Fluid. But Y/N was ruthless.

Liu was fast. Precise. His strikes were surgical. But Y/N fought differently—more like someone used to reacting on instinct, unpredictable and fluid.

She ducked under a jab, sidestepped a low sweep, then planted a sharp punch right in his ribs. He grunted, stepping back. Then she spun, kicking his leg out from under him. He hit the ground hard.

And Jinwoo… Jinwoo was done watching. His spar with Hae In ended abruptly when he shoved her back gently but firmly. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I need to switch.”

Hae In’s brows knit together. “Distracted again?” she asked, half amused, half exasperated. “Careful. One of these days, that’s going to cost you.”

But Jinwoo wasn’t listening anymore. He was already stalking toward Y/N.

“Switch,” Jinwoo told Liu flatly.

Liu raised a brow but backed off with a shrug.

Y/N blinked.

Then Hae In called. The blonde stood ready, calm and focused. “Y/N, Let’s spar.”

Y/N cracked her knuckles. “Thought you’d never ask.”

No weapons. Just raw skill.

They circled each other, the tension thick. Hae In struck first—clean and fast. A palm aimed for Y/N’ shoulder. Y/N slipped under, pivoting, and aimed a knee at Hae In’s ribs.

Blocked.

They moved like dancers—fluid and graceful. Strike. Block. Counter.

Y/N smiled. “You’re good.”

“You’re better than I thought,” Hae In admitted.

Then Hae In pushed harder, her sword aura flickering around her fists even without a blade. She punched, and the air shuddered. Y/N blocked, sliding back, feet skidding across the dirt.

Y/N’ grin widened. “Now we’re talking.”

She darted forward, ducked low, and swept Hae In’s legs. Hae In flipped mid-air and landed on her feet.

Then they both lunged. Fists clashed. Shockwaves cracked the ground.

The other hunters stopped to watch. Even Chrispher Reed whistled in appreciation. “These women,” he muttered, impressed.

They shared a faint smile. For a moment, there was peace.

Y/N blinked as the tremor rolled through the training ground like a localized earthquake. Loose tiles cracked. Dust sprayed into the air. Nearby Hunters stumbled back, some scrambling for balance.

Boom!

A shockwave ripped through the air, and the noise that followed was like a thunderclap inside an enclosed space.

And there he was. Sung Jinwoo. Standing in the middle of the wreckage… With Liu still struggling to get back on his feet.

And then there was Y/N.

Already seated cross-legged on the sidelines, her face puffed out like an annoyed chipmunk, a juice box stuck firmly in her hands.

SSSSLURP.

She sucked aggressively through the straw, the noise cutting through the calm like a sword slash. Her eyes squinted ever so slightly as she glared at the two national-level hunters like they owed her rent.

The sparring session had left everyone winded but strangely satisfied. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, offering a brief sense of accomplishment and unity. Even Y/N found herself smiling, stretched out on the training field, towel draped over her head, watching Jinwoo.

This isn’t so bad, she thought, chest warming.

But peace never lasted. And far away, behind the veil of dimensions, unseen eyes watched.

In the space between realms, where no life should exist, an ancient presence stirred.

A massive throne of fused bone and molten obsidian floated in the dark. Coiled upon it, like a slumbering cataclysm, was Antares, the King of Dragons. His wings folded tightly against his body, his molten gold eyes half-lidded as he listened.

Below him, circling the ruins of a once-great battlefield, were his Ancient Dragons—each one older than the Monarch War, older than the age of men. Titans of scale and fury, their voices echoed in a guttural tongue that made the void itself quake.

“The Balance Keeper walks,” growled Kardum, a dragon with iron plates covering his head like a war helm. His voice sounded like continents grinding together. “The girl.”

“Y/N,” spat Zerathul, his scales oozing venom as his long neck twisted toward Earth’s pale glow. “She stands with the Shadow Monarch… the Ashborn’s heir.”

“The others are dead,” rumbled Veyraxis, the oldest of them all. Her wings were torn, ancient wounds that had never healed. “Ashborn. Beast. Plague. Frost. All gone.” Her teeth bared in a grin of bone and rot. “But we remain.”

Antares slowly opened his eyes. They glowed with smoldering fire.

“You remain because I remain,” he said softly, though his voice carried the weight of inevitable ruin.

The dragons fell silent, watching their king. Antares rose from his throne, each movement like a continent rising from the sea. His gaze drifted to the image of Earth, suspended before them—a fragile blue jewel against endless black.

“She is the last piece,” Antares said. “The Balance Keeper. The one Ashborn hid from us all.”

“She does not know,” Kardum said, flexing his talons. “She doubts,” hissed Zerathul. “She falters,” Veyraxis added.

Antares smiled. “Good.”

A clawed hand hovered over the floating image of Y/N. “Break her balance… and the Primordial Hunger awakens. A force even I do not control.”

Zerathul’s slit eyes gleamed. “Then why summon it?”

Antares' wings unfolded like a shadow blotting out a sun. “Because when the Hunger fully awakens… there will be nothing left to balance. No rulers. No monarchs. No armies.” His gaze hardened. “Only dragons.”

The dragons hissed their approval, fire leaking from their mouths.

“Prepare the legions,” Antares ordered, his voice a promise of extinction. “We will burn their world. We will break the Balance Keeper.”

“And if the Shadow Monarch stands in our way?” Kardum asked, baring obsidian teeth.

Antares laughed, deep and cruel. “Then he will fall beside her.”

The dragons roared their agreement. Their wings spread wide as they took flight into the void, each one dragging with them an army of horrors.

The war had begun.

Dear Diary,

(Or as I like to call you: my therapist I don’t have to pay. >:) )

I’m in trouble. Not dungeon-trouble. Not "oh no, the world is ending" trouble. Worse. I am in romantic trouble.

I think… I might be falling for Sung. Jinwoo. (!!!) And I know what you’re gonna say: “But Y/N, you’re the quirky side character who crashes into portals and accidentally teleports into showers. He’s the main lead! The hero! You’re just a guest star in this world!”

EXACTLY. I was supposed to root for him and Cha Hae In, maybe cheer from the sidelines while eating popcorn and dodging ice spears. NOT… get confused because he keeps doing these things.

Like yesterday.

We were training. (Which I agreed to because I’m not a coward… okay, I was bribed with snacks but that’s not the point.) And I tripped. Like a loser. (Classic me.) But instead of laughing or stepping over my face like a normal apex predator, Jinwoo caught me. And—listen carefully—he tucked my hair behind my ear. BEHIND. MY. EAR. WHO DOES THAT?! And his hand lingered, like he was memorizing my face. I don’t even know what face I was making but I’m pretty sure it was somewhere between "blinking goldfish" and "loading screen."

I thought, “Okay, cool, maybe I imagined it.” But then today, he made me tea. Like, actual tea. With honey. Because “you’ve been pushing yourself lately.” BRO. He noticed. He’s not supposed to notice! I’m not even his type! Right? I mean, Cha Hae In is literally a goddess with silky blonde hair and sparkly vibes. I’m over here in all black looking like I’m about to kick someone’s shin in a villainess cosplay.

AND THEN—get this—he smiled. Like, softly. At me. And I felt my brain rebooting. If he keeps this up, I might actually… Nope. No. Not happening.

I’m a side character. This is temporary. He’s just nice. Like, super nice. Dangerously nice. The kind of nice that makes you think about stuff. Like… cuddling. And holding hands. And— NOPE. We are NOT going there.

But if he does the ear-tuck thing again, I’m suing. Or kissing him. (I need help.)

Send snacks. And maybe a reality check. Or a portal home. Preferably not cracked.

Sincerely,

Y/N

<< Chapter 10 | Chapter 12 >>

Tag requests: @kisssleeping; @catsf0rlife707; @aorifukuzawa; @joannthebish; @ojog404; @tanspostsblog; @snowy-violet; @o-qi-shisme; @sleepyamaya; @harrystylesfan2686; @night-shadowblood-writes2; @weaponxgames

#jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jinwoo #jinwoo

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forgettable-au · 6 months ago

Note

wait. wait, the whole "papyrus is actualy wing dings" thing explains so much!

he was born with an intrinsic understanding of a certain font, and that font just happened to be wing dings. he has dificulty speaking in other fonts, and writing in other fonts, because it does not look like normal letters at all.

this is why papyrus's writing is really poor when he does something fast (the chicken scratch note from the disco floor puzzle room) and is just refered to as... subpar otherwise. he's used to using the fancy symbols subcontiously, but as papyrus, for whatever reason, he can't remember his true font!

and papyrus itself is... an interesting name. it's the name of a font, yes, but it's a font made by drawing this alphebet's letters onto, well, papyrus, a primative paper made from reeds and dried, giving it a rough and bumpy surface that is somewhat difficult to write on, and leaves a lot of spots in the text.

OH GODS. WHY IS THIS THEORY SO GOOOD?????

LIKE HOW SOMEONE WHO IS TRAINED IN WHAT MOST WOULD CALL HIEROGLYPHS WOULD DO TRYING TO WRITE NORMALLY WOULD STRUGGLE A LOT!

HEHEHEHE YEAH!!! (though I'm pretty sure the "chicken scratch note" in the color floor puzzle is Alphys' hand writing)

ALSO THERE'S THAT SANS DIALOGUE ABOUT PAPYRUS TRYING TO "DECIPHER THE HOROSCOPE" WHICH IS FUNNY IN THE CONTEXT OF THIS AU BECAUSE THE WINGDINGS FONT HAS SYMBOLS FROM THE HOROSCOPE!!

And there's also the fact that Papyrus' font isn't actually the normal "Papyrus ITC" font, he's a different version of the font! "Papyrus EF regular" FOR SOME REASON??

There's this post that mentions it and I have NOT stopped thinking about it since the day I first saw it

Here's the post if you're all interested...(The Papyrus EF regular thing is at the end)

But like...in the context of this AU it's so funny.... Of course he's not actually the normal version of Papyrus, he was never meant to be Papyrus.....

#answered ask #hehe #it's so fun theorizing and connecting stuff #SO SO FUNN #yippee

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rocknroll7575 · 9 days ago

Note

X-men

Marvel rivals

Jaune’s character interactions part 2 please

You asked, and here it is! Enjoy!

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Jaune: Should I be worried that you're up to something, Loki?

Loki: You have nothing to fear from me, for now we are on the same side until we can figure out who's responsible for this mess

Jaune: Alright, but keep the tricks to a minium and we'll get along just fine

Loki: I make no promises

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Thor: Ah! Arc! It's good to have a fellow warrior at my side!

Jaune: Thanks, Thor... Glad to know you're not angry at me for what happened with Hela

Thor: I do not blame you, She corrupted you and tricked your mind.

Jaune: Still... I can't forgive myself for what happened

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Jaune: Namor ain't giving you trouble, is he?

T'challa: He and I have come to an understanding, there is no need to worry

Jaune: Sorry, but Namor's personality is what worries me, it's his way or the highway... or I guess in his case the fishway

T'challa: You have been spending too much time with Spider-Man

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Namor: Why the hostility, Arc?

Jaune: The last time we met, you attacked Wakanda, and nearly killed Scott and me

Namor: That was in the past, I have changed

Jaune: You never change Namor, you just make everyone believe you have

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Hela: Oh, why the long face Jaune? Aren't you happy to see me?

Jaune: No, I'm not... you messed with my mind Hela, you tricked me, you're lucky I don't try and kill you

Hela: Oh, come now, we had some fun didn't we when you were my knight in shining armor

Jaune: I... That was a mistake...

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Peter: I heard about Rogue... I'm sorry Jaune

Jaune: Thanks Peter, I... It's been hard on all of us, especially Wanda and the kids, they miss her the most.

Peter: And what about you?

Jaune: I... I miss her every minute of my life.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Jaune: How are you two holding up with everything?

Cloak: We're doing fine, but I'm a bit worried we might not be able to fix this

Jaune: Don't worry, I'm sure Tony, Strange, and Reed have something in mind to fix this whole mess

Dagger: Hopefully, or else we're all in danger

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Jaune: Any ideas on how to fix everything?

Reed: I'm still working on a plan, but don't worry, we'll get this figured out, Jaune.

Jaune: I hope so, Wanda and I are worried about the kids, we can't leave them alone forever

Reed: I know how you feel, Su and I are worried about Franklin and Valeria as well

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Tony: Have you thought about coming back to Avengers?

Jaune: And live in the city? No way, upstate is where I belong, besides, Wanda would kill me if we moved the kids away from the other's

Tony: Ah, alright, but if you need upgrades you know who to call

Jaune: Haha! Thanks, Tony

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Star-Lord: The Rusted Knight? What kind of superhero name is that, Jaune?

Jaune: Really Quill? This coming from the guy calling himself Star-Lord?

Star-Lord: Hey! It's a cool name!

Jaune: Hey, whatever helps you sleep at night

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Luna: The Rusted Knight! It's so good to finally meet you!

Jaune: Oh wow! You're Seol Hee! My daughters love your music! You mind of I get an Autograph for them!?

Luna: Aw, of course! Anything for the fans!

Jaune: Oh wow! Thank you! Mags and Anna are going to explode with Joy when they get these!

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Storm: Otto's growing up so quick, before you know it, he'll be training to be an X-Men

Jaune: Heh, don't let Wanda hear you say that, she wants him to stay her baby boy for a little longer

Storm: Can you blame her? He's the cutest little thing since the girls were born

Jaune: I'm sure Otto would love to hear that Auntie Ororo thinks he's cute

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thedenofravenpuff · 2 months ago

Text

Goodbye LAES, it was a good one

Have a quick ramble about LAES' current direction

So yeah pretty sure Reed stepping back from LAES is PURELY due to Lunar's arc completing.

VAs have both in and out of character made it clear they are all so over the whole Astral and Star Power stuff, and this is the cleanest way to write it out of the shows at last. Lunar is the epicenter of it all, so him leaving the planet to train directly with more Astrals in space, is the best way they could write around kicking the Astrals and Co. off of the planet.

Which means, goodbye Lunar except for occasional visits.

Makes good sense. And Kat stepping back from LAES in turn is just fitting timing, to give her more time for IRL stuff without having to worry about an entire show, especially with the costar character made to leave. Earth's still around, far more than Lunar, but going back to be a side character on the other channels, instead of running their own show.

And as Earth talked about at the Council, there's no plans of deleting the channel or anything, all the many videos are important lore and good memories. So the channel is definitely sticking around, even once they eventually find other characters to run it. They wouldn't delete those videos for repurpose, like they did MASM. MASM had too short a run time and not relation to the SAMS lore, why they could redo the entire channel for FFNAF.

Honestly felt something like this was probably coming, when they made those "Lore videos to chill to" for LAES. Their big "clip show episodes", possibly to have around as a reminder how much LAES still holds importance lore wise.

Biggest loss is Lunar as character and co-host, and how you look at it, the Astrals and Star Stuff too. Is just the natural course of story telling when things go a bit out of hand, and that's just the fun part of this stuff. Sure they got scripts and plans, but it's still RP'ing and playing with characters like dolls, and any improve can take shocking turns even for the show writers.

It was a good run, Lunar, you really come far as a character and OC on TSAMS.

As Moondrop and Lunar both point out - couple of years ago Lunar woke up in Moon's head and now he's off to Space Militia training camp!

Lunar has experienced so much on planet earth, including his own death, facing off his creator, even met his own evil reflection in a dimension where he destroys everything just for kicks.

God speed, lil dude.

youtube

#PuffBlog #TSAMS #LAES #Lunar And Earth Show #Lunar #Earth #Puffy Rambles #Ramble #Youtube

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angelicsjn · 5 months ago

Note

Hi hi! I remember reading your blog last year and I found you again!!

So, SHOWER THOUGHT!! I was wondering how would the yan deals with their fans sending hate comments/death threats to MC just because they are dating them?

- Like for Roman, his F1 fans, they don’t like MC being his WAGs (I learn that from my F1 ✨bestie✨, unless MC is gender neutral coz I actually don’t remember).

- For Jae, his delusional K-pop fans (just like the real life delulu fans), if the relationship is not revealed and the paparazzi somehow manage to take a pic of them dating at night outside and the fans go crazy abt it.

- Kaidan is his online fans, Joshua is his fellow church members???? I’m not sure for Lento (his past hook-up?) and Hayden coz they sweet as hell.

YOUR SEVEN YANDERES.

A N: I will write it differently for the non-famous ones!

A B O U T: They see you're getting hated on.

W A R N I N G S: Death threats and online hate.

— ROMAN BEAUREGARD.

Roman is livid. He sees it all just before a race, and the whole day he's steaming, but hey, he got pole!

He has never raced so viciously in his life, and damn, he was still steaming afterwards.

Just know that he kissed you extra hard in front of the cameras that day, as a massive, 'fuck you' to the idiots who are horrible.

He wouldn't directly make a post about it. He's media trained and knows how to look good to the masses, but he does show you off more as a silent way of telling the fans to get a life.

— LATEN REED.

Laten only sees it when it's affecting you, he doesnt realise that the women around you are mean due to you both dating. He's so happy with you that nothing else exists outside of your little bubble.

Maybe you suggest breaking up. You cry over the mean comments they make towards you. Maybe you flat out ignore him in public to save yourself the backlash.

Either way, he is devastated. He's so upset that 1. He didn't notice, and 2. You're upset over a bunch of idiots.

He would comfort you, pamper you, baby you. Make sure that you're happy with him because he genuinely would go crazy if he ever lost you.

Laten will catch them out and flash his pretty smile, "Leave them alone. It's none of your business." And they smile and giggle, and suddenly they all love you and have a fanclub for you... which is also annoying.

But at least they're not mean anymore!

— JAE 'NIKO' LEE.

Due to his job and the nature of it. There is nothing that he can do. He needs to keep a polite and positive front, he can't let people know the real him.

But he is seething. Seeing the death threats? The doxxing? He's angry.

He will use it as an excuse to pin you underneath his thumb and keep you in place, "it's too dangerous out there, darling."

Honestly, he uses it to his advantage for his selfish desires of keeping you where he wants you.

But he does seek them out and have them sorted out. Legally, of course.

— KAIDAN WOLFE.

Kaidan is so upset. Our delusional baby is so overwhelmed by the fact that your sadness is due to his popularity.

His entire fandom is created by people who want him, of course it's his fault you're getting hate.

He posts you more and makes sure that you feel loved and seen. That he doesn't listen to them, doesn't care.

Kaidan takes you out on private dates and hangs around with you 1:1 to make sure that the intimacy is there.

He wants you to know that he loves you and doesn't care about what they say, so neither should you.

— HAYDEN WEST.

I genuinely don't see anything like this happening. He's a very introverted person and not really ever noticed by others.

He thanks the world for bringing you so close into his grasp.

— JOSHUA WHITE.

The girls at the church can be vicious. Joshua is the perfect man. The perfect husband. The perfect father. Their dream man.

Taken by you? What in God's name?

He doesn't seem the sly remarks or the jabs made your way at first. He's so busy helping the community.

When he finally picks up on your behaviour as you slowly crawl into yourself due to their nastiness, he's over it.

He hates bullies. Those who are unkind. It goes against everything he believes in.

He makes sure to make it known in the church that its people will remain respectful and kind, to love thy neighbour, and to stop being judgmental idiots.

He also makes sure to make eye contact with those who make you uncomfortable, to really lay it on thick that he won't stand for any of it.

— BLAKE CROSS.

Blake picks up on it way before you do, and he stamps it out just as fast.

He's wealthy, from a wealthy family and knows what he wants and how to get it.

He got you, and he's not going to lose you because of a bunch of idiots.

Unlike the others, he has no social boundaries and will create a fuss.

"Shut up, I wouldn't even piss on you if you were on fire." He spits their way before dragging you away from them with a scowl and clenched jaw.

Honestly, it doesn't take long for him to get rid of idiots. He knows he can be a nasty person, and he will take advantage of it.

#darling reader #darlingcore #yandere #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere oc x y/n #yandere oc x you #yandere x darling #yandere character #yancore

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 1 year ago

Text

Chatterbox (M, cold, 'drabble')

A little prompt-based fluff for you guys :) Reed and Greyson go out to dinner, but Reed realizes something is up when Greyson won't shut tf up lol. I'm loving writing this relationship, I can't lie, so sorry if it's too much Reed and Greyson lately - I'll get back to my other guys soon!

1.6K words (just a tiny lil blip of a story haha) CW: Male snz, coughing, fever, contagion mention. Hope you like it :)

Chatterbox

Reed looked down at his phone as he waited on Greyson, rereading the stream-of-consciousness texts his boyfriend had sent throughout the day.

Greyson

1:42PM

sooo pumped for tonight bb :)

1:56PM

should I wear a suit…? I know it’s a new spot but the website definitely reads ‘fine dining’, like fine-er than most of my clothes know how to be...

2:24PM

I think I’ll do dark jeans & a black button up. johnny cash style. cant go wrong w that. hahah.

3:17PM

I know ur working still but im just really excited to see you:):)

It was cute – borderline adorable – how nervous Greyson seemed for their dates, even after almost a year of the two of them being together. Reed had, of course, answered Greyson’s plethora texts throughout the day, but had tried to keep himself subdued so he wouldn’t give away his hand; tonight, he was going to ask Greyson to move in with him.

He knew it was a bit of a long time coming, but Reed was really trying to keep from scaring Greyson off by doing anything too quickly. His boyfriend certainly had a bit of past-relationship trauma that Reed tried valiantly to navigate; it was hard to figure out what the right time to do anything was. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure there was ever going to be a right time to push their relationship to the next level. But things had been good lately; like, really good. Tonight felt… right.

Greyson’s presence was palpable before Reed even saw him blow through the door. He looked up from his phone and clocked his boyfriend, standing out side the restaurant with his elbow locked over his face; Reed cocked his head a bit, confused. Was he… coughing?

The chef, clad in the Johnny-Cash-getup he’d promised, shook himself out before pushing the door to the restaurant open. He pawed at his nose with the back of his hand while asking the hostess to point Reed out – she gestured towards their table, and Greyson smiled when the two of them locked eyes. Reed waved, smiling back. Something was certainly… off.

“Sorry I’m late, baby,” Greyson said, kissing the top of Reed’s head before sitting across from him. “The fuckin’ train was running late again.”

“I’ve told you a million times I’ll come pick you up for dates,” Reed said, squeezing Greyson’s hand across the table. “You don’t always have to take the train.”

Greyson shrugged, smiled a little loopily. “I like the train,” he said, picking up his menu and squinting at the small font. “Lots of time to think. I’ve come up with my best dishes on the subway, I’m pretty sure; you remember that tart I made for the writer’s dinner, the one where we saw each other for the second time? Came up with that on the train. I was sitting next to this girl, probably a student, and she was eating one of those little egg tarts, the ones from the Japanese bakeries? I thought, damn I bet a root vegetable in one of those would fuckin’ slay – spoiler alert, it so did. Where would I have come up with that if not for the train? Plus, it’s one of the most sustainable ways to travel. I get my good karma for not actively killing the environment in. Win-win. What’re we eat – HTSHH! NXTSHH!” Greyson’s explosion of word vomit was very suddenly cut off to stifle two painful-sounding sneezes into the back of his hand.

Reed blinked for what was maybe the first time since his boyfriend sat down. “...bless,” he said after a beat. Greyson nodded, sniffled a little, and picked the menu back up.

“What’s this place’s thing anyway?” Greyson continued, flipping the menu over to look at drinks. “I can’t seem to figure it out; are they Italian? Mediterranean? Fine dining? Just high-end? No tasting menu, but prices are high enough to warrant one. Wine list reads very Italian, but there are like three dishes with hummus on them? I’m half-expecting to be served babaganoush bolognese. Which… maybe would work? Actually, eggplant, tomato sauce… I could see it working. You never know. Can’t judge a book by its menu, right? What’re you drinking? Want to get a bot -?”

This second monologue was cut short when Reed reached across the table to place a gentle hand on Greyson’s face. Just as he expected: hot.

“Babe,” Reed said gently, taking his hand back, “you’re burning up.”

The chef cast his glance down, embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to figure that out till after dinner,” he muttered. Reed laughed.

“Seriously? You had to know I’d figure something was up. You’ve been monologing since the moment you sat down. Have you been sick all day? You should’ve told me, honey. How much cough medicine did you take before you showed up here?”

Greyson looked up at Reed and gave him a little half-smile. “Pretty sure I downed half a bottle of Robutusssin, not gonna liiii – hh! HhNXTSHH-ue! Huh-TSHH-ue!” Once again, Greyson attempted to stifle, to no avail. He allowed himself two painful little coughs before righting himself again.

“Bless you,” Reed said again. “I wish you would just sneeze normal, that always sounds so painful.”

“We’re in a restaurant,” Greyson said, a huskiness beginning to creep in to his voice. “That’s so gross.”

Reed rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Who cares? No one’s looking at us. They’re too busy with their many, many hummuses.”

A laugh bubbled out of Greyson, and with it came a flurry of congested coughs he directed into the sleeve of his shirt. “Don’t mbake me laugh,” he muttered, taking a drink of water. “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

“Good,” Reed said, flagging the waiter. “I’m so sorry,” he said when the young, well-dressed server came to their table, “something’s come up and we’re going to have to go.” He handed the kid a fifty. “Thank you for your help.”

The server nodded, said thank you to Reed, and went to grab the two men’s jackets. Greyson raised an eyebrow, confused. “What’re you doing?”

“Taking you home,” Reed said. “You need tea and soup, not…” he glanced back down at the menu, “fattoush flatbread.” Greyson visibly deflated.

“I wanted to spend the evening with you,” he said, his voice subdued. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called and canceled, I just… I mbiss you when we don’t see each other all week. You’re always busy, I’mb always busy, it just fucking sucks. I don’t even know how I got fucking sick… oh wait, yes I do. Elijah had a cold last week – was that last week? Did I tell you that? I can’t remember. I think the servers gave it to him. Fuckin’ servers, I’ve never met a group of people who get sick mbore than theehh – huh! Fuck – HUHETSHHH-ue! Huh-! HhITSZZZCH-ue!” Greyson folded in half, his torso practically beneath the table in an attempt to keep the entire restaurant from hearing him. It was, of course, at that moment that the server returned with their coats. Reed took them silently, and stood to gather his boyfriend, who slowly unfurled himself from his own lap.

“Bless you,” he said, gently helping Greyson to his feet and slipping his coat over his shoulders. He lead the two of them past the host stand and onto the sidewalk, where he turned Greyson to face him.

“First of all,” he said, sweeping Greyson’s hair out of his eyes and caressing his cheek, “I know a subset of people who get sick more than servers, and it’s chefs. You and all your chef buddies are pestilence incarnate because you work nine hundred hours a week.” This prompted a little laugh from Greyson. Perfect, thought Reed. Break the tension.

“Secondly, yes, you did tell me that Elijah was sick, and I told you, and I quote, ‘Don’t get too close, I know you two love to share a cold’, but I know you don’t like to listen to authority, so not sure what I expected.” Another laugh. Greyson pushed his hair back, rubbed his nose, and pulled Reed in to hug him. Reed continued from this spot, pressed into Greyson’s shoulder.

“And thirdly,” he said, “I miss you too. All the time. Which is why I asked you out tonight.” He pulled away, reached into his pocket, and dropped a key into Greyson’s palm. “I don’t want to miss you anymore. I don’t want you to have to take the train from Brooklyn every single night, I don’t want us to hang out once a week, I don’t want to drop you at your apartment to take care of yourself. I want to see you when I wake up every morning. I want to hear you sneak in at three AM after you and Matt go clubbing. I want to take care of you, at home, when you’re sick.” Reed smiled, a little embarrassed, as Greyson stared at the key. “Move in with me,” Reed said. “Please.”

Greyson’s mouth opened, then shut without words a couple of times before he looked Reed in the eyes. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Okay. Yes. Yes, please.”

Reed felt a smile bloom on his face, huge, goofy, unashamed. He took Greyson’s face in his hands and planted a kiss on his lips. Greyson held his boyfriend by the waist, then picked him up to spin him around. “I love you,” Greyson muttered into Reed’s mouth.

“I love you more,” Reed said, smiling. Greyson turned away then, suddenly to -

“HRRSHH-ue! HhhITSHZZCH-ue!” he sneezed away from his boyfriend, which prompted a laugh from Reed.

“Probably too late for that nicety,” Reed joked, elbowing Greyson playfully. The chef huffed out a laugh and rolled his eyes.

“I figured sneezing directly into your face would probably kill the moment,” he said, sniffling. “But I’ll go ahead and just do it next time.”

“Oh, shut up,” Reed laughed, kissing Greyson again. “C’mon. Let’s get you home and in bed. Sickie.”

Greyson smiled a little. “Yeah,” he said, looping his arm into Reed’s. “Let’s go home.”

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #snzblr #coldfic #male cold #male snz #idk idk they're just so cute i love a happy greyson #i mean i love an angry greyson too but it's fun to write something happy idk #im thinking my next big fic will be an elijah drama fest tho... i have IDEAS

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mychoombatheroomba · 7 months ago

Text

The Enemy of My Enemy

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 54

An unexpected ally gives you some insight, and the hunt begins.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Index

After Raccoon City, in those first weeks of training - before he’d properly met you even - Leon had found a numbing comfort in routine. Wake up. Train. Eat. Train some more. A schedule had helped him. It broke up the day into predictable steps. In this facility they were in, wherever it was, there was no such luxury. Days after the interrogations and still, Leon was unable to leave his room without supervision. He ate there, slept there and tried to find a way to keep himself sane there. Easier said than done. The days fogged into one continuous expanse, each one longer than the last.

Habit led him to train in the room’s limited space. Krauser had taught them enough that even four concrete walls and a shitty bed could become a usable work room. Still, there were only so many push-ups he could do before his mind started to wander.

Didn’t matter if his eyes were opened or closed, now. He could see them. All of them.

Marvin and Ada and the rest of the lives lost in Raccoon City had company. Uninvited, their memories made those four concrete walls their home too, stuffing in around Leon and suffocating him. Too many bodies. Too many faces he would never forget.

Alejandro, staring into the dark sky in shock.

Doc, his face torn and barely recognizable.

Alenko, his eyes pleading and pained right up until-

You. Leon thought of your face just as much as he sat in that room. He thought of the smiles he’d coaxed out of you over months and months together. The way your eyes, normally, would soften when they turned his way.

He thought of how you hadn’t even looked at him as you’d passed him in that hallway.

Those were the thoughts he was stuck with for days. Right up until the door opened at last and Leon was ushered out of that little prison cell. He was marched down the hallway, falling in line behind a familiar friend, her broad shoulders bowed with the weight of the world.

“Dina,” Leon said, his voice soft with wounded hope.

Williams, for her part, managed a small smile as she looked back at him. “Hey, Kennedy.”

More cells were opened. More of their squad joined them in the line-up. Valeria, Doc’s assistant, Grayson . . . and, of course, you were there, towards the other end of the line. Leon didn’t get more than a glimpse of you before you fell into formation. No, instead, it was Krauser’s eyes that caught his own. The Major was pulled from a cell just like the rest of them. His gaze passed over you, a direct omission. Instead, it fell on Leon. An accident, the younger man was certain, and one that betrayed too many emotions Leon had never thought to see on Krauser's face.

Exhaustion. Pain. Rage. Leon saw it all as plain as day.

He could sympathize.

The contact was over in a moment, and Krauser filed in, Hellman joining from his cell last.

All of the survivors. All that was left.

“What’s going on?” The question was whispered to Williams as they began moving.

She didn’t have an answer for him.

He didn’t have to wait long for one.

Benford was waiting for them in the room they all filed into, his glasses reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead. When he told them all to take a seat, Leon couldn’t help but feel he’d stepped into some strange new world as Major Krauser obeyed alongside everyone else. A world where everything was wrong - somehow turned upside-down and inside-out and even worse than he thought it could be.

The only thing that seemed right was the moment Benford confirmed what he’d known in his heart.

“Agent Andrew Reed is our chief suspect for the recent attack.” The air changed, then. How could it not, when a room was full of attack dogs that had finally been given a scent to go after? “Our intelligence has tracked him as far as Russia, but beyond that, we don’t know where he is.”

Russia. Reed hadn’t just slipped away, he’d all but disappeared. Vanished. There would be no justice for what he’d done while he was there.

“Then send us out.” Krauser spoke with a snarl. “We’ll have him in a week.”

Benford’s expression was sympathetic, but his answer was predictable. It wouldn't be that simple. “We can’t sanction sending you all into Russia. Not on a wild goose chase. If we can find a more clear course-”

“Every day,” Krauser stood, “every minute we sit here and wait, that bastard has time to hide. To call all his friends in Umbrella and get protection. If we don’t move now-”

“I’m aware, Major,” Benford said, his tone cool. Even. Same as always with these suits. Bastards that they were. It had crossed Leon’s mind more than once in the past few days that he couldn’t trust Benford any more than he could trust Reed. That didn’t change the fact that the man in front of them all held their leashes, whoever might be holding Benford’s in turn. “We are moving as fast as we can. The moment we find anything, we will act on it.”

That was all they were given, along with the freedom to roam the facility they were in now. A freedom that rang hollow as you were all dismissed and you slipped out of the room like smoke through fingertips.

He could have chased after you. He almost did.

Instead, he let you be. Leon would do all he could do.

He would wait.

⧫⧫⧫

Sunlight bleeding into darkness. Blunted steel. Moves and countermoves.

It was uncanny how so many familiar things could feel alien to you. That was all down to the man holding the other knife. Hellman moved differently from any of the other STRATCOM recruits. Different training. You’d seen some of his skills shared in Reed’s style, when you’d assisted him in training. That was the reason you’d sought the agent out. Well, one of a few.

The other two reasons . . . you’d avoided them since Derek C. Simmons turned their names into weapons. Krauser and Leon, for their parts, had done the same. Had they been threatened too? You wouldn’t be surprised. Didn’t matter. Just like the comfort you longed for in Leon’s arms didn’t matter - the way you wanted to go to him. To pray that he didn’t hate you for what you’d done. Just like the questions you had for Krauser didn’t matter - the way you wished you could understand why he’d risked so much to protect you. Even if some part of you knew. That didn’t matter. Right now, only the knife across from you did.

You suspected Hellman had reasons of his own for agreeing to this. Shame, most likely. Good. You hoped he felt shame every time you managed to slip your knife past his defenses.

Let him feel over and over again the cost of carelessness.

Bruises were the best teachers, weren’t they?

Over the last few days, you’d had plenty to learn from the agent as well. Now, you were pulling your knife back as he pressed a counter-cut down where you’d gone to attack. Fast, just like Reed was. Calculating, too. Good at thinking a few moves ahead. He kept catching you in the same patterns. Old habits you’d fallen into since your injury.

“You’re protecting your ribs more than anything,” Hellman pointed out. His notes weren’t as welcome as Krauser’s. You would take them, but not without biting back.

“Someone broke them, remember?” It might get under his skin, childish as it was. Maybe guilt would make him sloppy. You hoped it would. Guilt likely wouldn’t work on Reed when you found him, but right now? You would settle for hurting Hellman in his stead.

It nearly worked, too, as the agent just barely batted your attack away, a followup to a series of feints. Chest, leg, chest. Hellman stayed in place, trying to grab your arm. To run his knife up in a move that would have filleted the flesh from your bone. Your knee driving upward into his stomach stopped him. The knife dropped from your right to your left, stabbing towards his gut. Another near miss.

You had him on the defensive.

“I shouldn’t have let him-”

“What?” you pressed, trailing after him. Each slash, each thrust, you paired with sharpened words to match. “Shouldn’t have let him break my bones? Cripple our soldiers? Poison an entire base of people?”

Hellman’s skills as a fighter were all that saved him from bruising blows with your practice blade, and even as he managed to slash at your arm in a riposte, you kept advancing. Kept forcing him up against the wall of the facility that now housed you.

You knew better than most how a cornered animal could fight, though.

Krauser had often warned you not to let your feelings get in the way in a fight. Now, you paid the price for not listening to him and to Hellman both. Anger made you sloppy. As you blocked a high strike at your face, you realized his free hand was going low, a fist aimed at the ribs he’d just warned you about. You inhaled sharply, moving to defend with your other hand. His knife slipped around your upper defense. Yours moved in tandem. Then, you had knives at each other’s throats.

A draw meant death, and your own stupidity had your anger rising.

“I should have seen him for what he was,” Hellman panted, and you realized that he was feeling much the same way you were. You’d seen honesty from the agent plenty of times before, but nothing like this. Nothing so full of all-consuming remorse, because ultimately, he had been the best equipped to catch Reed before anything happened. He’d failed, and everyone else had paid the price. “I should have seen it sooner.”

You were past the point of pity, your world reduced to red and black. So, you didn’t waver, even with a knife to your throat. “You should have,” you declared, sinking the blade of those words into Hellman’s heart.

Your vengeance was short-lived.

“Don’t be so hard on the agent.” You hadn’t even noticed someone approaching, you’d been so caught up in your fight. You didn’t know the voice, smooth and steady, and that made your head snap to its source. Your blunted blade fell away from Hellman and was now ready at your side. The man you found standing before you looked utterly unimpressed, the dark glasses that hid his eyes making disinterest appear effortless. Slicked back hair, a well-pressed suit . . . if not for the blond shine of that hair in the low light, you might have mistaken him for- “Reed was well-trained. You might be surprised how well Umbrella has embedded itself in the world. But perhaps you’d like to find out.”

As if those words weren’t enough to make your grip on the knife tighten, Hellman tensed beside you.

Tall, which meant a long reach. Not as well-muscled as Krauser, but it was hard to tell what physique hid beneath the suit jacket over the man’s shoulders. A jacket that could conceal a weapon as well.

“Who the hell are you?” Hellman asked, his eyes narrowed.

Thin lips curled up before the strange man spoke. “An interested party. One with knowledge of use to you.”

Not CIA. And anyone with knowledge of worth-

“You’re with Umbrella.” The accusation was spat from your lips, your body thrumming with potential energy. The promise of violence, even as the man stood perfectly still and straight before you.

His smile only widened. “Interesting theory.”

"How else would you have any knowledge of use?"

There was a moment of thought, the man choosing his words carefully. "Umbrella has outlived its usefulness. You and your government aren't the only ones interested in seeing it dismantled."

You didn't have time to question what the hell that could mean. “Then you’ll have no problems coming in for questioning,” Hellman stepped forward, a warning buried shallowly beneath his words.

“On the contrary,” the blond man tilted his head, “you won’t be taking me in, agent. You can have the information I’m offering, and you can determine what the cost of that information will be.”

There were security cameras. Guards . . . and that hadn’t stopped this man from getting here. It hadn’t stopped him from not only finding this facility, but breaching its defenses seemingly unnoticed. You took a steadying breath, your muscles coiling, trying to put a plan together in your mind.

“I can’t let you leave,” Hellman said. “Not if you know what you claim you do.”

The man took a breath, then sighed it out.

You knew when a fight was coming. You could feel the shift in the air.

Even so, you never stood a chance.

Not when the man, who had been a good ten paces away one moment was in front of you the next. Your knife arced up, your free hand moving to a defensive position, and none of it mattered when a hand closed around your throat, the force of it making you sputter.

No time to react. No time to question.

You saw Hellman move, but a kick sent him flying back against the wall. Your air supply cut off, your only option was the blunted blade in your hand. One that you aimed straight for the dark lenses of the man holding you-

Only for him to catch it by the steel and, all while looking at you with a smug smirk, he squeezed. Your eyes widened as you watched the metal bend like dough beneath his grip, and then those same eyes bulged as his other hand tightened at your throat. You kicked as you were lifted easily off the ground, your free hand beating against his arm, terror setting in as your vision blurred.

He could snap your neck like a toothpick.

He could and would.

“I’ve wasted enough time talking,” the man said, looking down at Hellman as he held you, oblivious to your struggles. Kicks that landed like hammer blows on most did nothing to move him.

You could die here, after everything, unless-

He let the bent knife go, then reached into his pocket. He pulled something small from it. Indiscernible in your wavering state of consciousness, your grip on his wrist tightening as you gasped for air. “Take this,” he said, tossing it at Hellman's feet. “Make good use of it.”

Just as the world was about to go black, just as you felt your grip on his arm loosening, air rushed to you and you were falling.

"You will need every soldier you can get."

The ground met you without remorse and you grasped at your throat, coughing and sucking in air desperately. “Sergeant!” you heard Hellman, calling for you. Footsteps and scrambling against the dirt. Your perception was all hazy images and dying light, but you were alive.

Still alive.

Of course you were.

Of fucking course you were.

You forced yourself up, your arms full of pins and needles as you moved. You saw the warped remains of your knife, and empty space where the man had once stood. Too late. Not that it would have made a difference. You never could have won that fight. At most, you would have cost him a few seconds from his time to escape. He’d done what he’d come to do.

It lay in the dirt, sealed in a protective case. A little piece of what looked like plastic, wrapped around metal. Information, he’d said.

Information that a man who could crush steel in his hand was willing to give up.

There was no doubt in your mind; that man had been a creation of Umbrella, in some way shape or form. He knew Reed at least by name. He was setting you all after something. Something he didn’t want to handle himself.

Another player in a game you had no control over. Another person who’d taken your life quite literally in their hands without a thought or care. You were just a piece on the board. Always had been.

All it left you with, as your lungs finally refilled with air, was more anger. More rage. If this was what the world was? How your life shaped up to be? Fine. So long as you had something to sink your teeth into.

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Chapter Index

A/N:

Wesker: Don’t go picking a fight with me. I could make your life difficult. Sarge, sarcastically: Wow. I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult life.

You know I had to get the third blond freak in there somehow. Anyway I hope you enjoyed your mandatory dose of Deus ex Wesker, he will probably not be back lol. Literary structure can kiss my ass for this cameo in particular (meaning I know this is shoehorned in but ya know what, in the spirit of Resident Evil's goofiness, I kept the idea).

Anyway, APOLOGIES for the literal month this chapter took me to post, I was moving this last month! It was a lot of work but I'm very happy with my new place! Happy enough that I immediately left on a vacation - so I've been a little busy as of late. In any case, we're coming up on the end of this story here and I'm so so excited to finally write all the craziness I have in mind! Thank you all of you for your patience, hope you enjoy the end of the ride (and will follow me into the sequel when I get to it!)

Also, fun fact, apparently Wesker dropping off a flash drive could have happened if he's got cutting edge tech, the USB flash drive was invented in April of 1999! Bro absolutely stole the design for that. What a menace.

Tag List: @greywardensaywhat

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #jack krauser #resident evil x reader #resident evil 2 #resident evil 4 #resident evil #between the bones #gender neutral reader #leon kennedy x you #no y/n #albert wesker

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