#she keeps weaponizing soup

[superdorkcat]

Probably the thing I'm looking forward to the most in For Good is the expansion of Dorothy's plotline. Not just because of how it'll help flesh out the story, but also because the musical!Wicked version of the gang is objectively the funniest version in any piece of Oz media ever.

We've got:

Scarecrow - The Wicked Witch of the West's boyfriend who she accidentally zapped into straw while trying to save him from getting executed for treason. Also he's a literal prince, Glinda's ex-fiancee, and the only person here who has anything close to the full story of what's going on.

Tin Man - Elphie's old friend from college who's spent the past few years enslaved to her sister (his ex) and who now hates her because he thinks that she turned him into a human soup can just to be an asshole rather than to save his life. Probably fighting off the beginnings of an existential crisis.

Cowardly Lion - Elphaba saved him from a life of non-sapiency when he was a cub, which he blames for his cowardice. Considering how he was a small child that got abandoned in the wilderness, he kinda has a point.

Dorothy - Literally only here because her house was used as a murder weapon. She just wants to go home, but all of the adults around her keep dragging her into their bullshit. Also, she has a pet dog - a completely foreign concept in Oz that everyone except the Wizard and Morrible most likely finds disturbing as hell.

[lostintransist]

Broken Beyond Bearing

-… . - .- … / -… . .. -. —. / -… ..- - -.-. …. . .-. . -..

@beloveds-embrace I hope I did this idea a bit of justice so far. Inspired by the delcious idea from beloveds found here.

AO3

CW: references to medical procedures that were not agreed to, reader is dying, A/B/O, odd dynamics, babies first time writing A/B/O.

A/N: I am really new to A/B/O so if something feels off or if you want more of this idea LMK!

Kate told you that the CIA still used Morse code in the field sometimes. It had fallen out of fashion after World War II and the alphabet soup of government agencies liked to reuse what they could. She said it worked best for short messages and when speaking could alert enemies. She talked at you nonstop on the long drive from the hospital. You wondered if the silence would bite at her toes or if the drone of the engine would keep it at bay.

She found you in the waiting room. Back straight, head upright you stare out the window across from you. If you ignore her maybe she will leave you alone like everyone else. You had been freed from a facility when some government agency or another busted them for performing illegal experiments on betas. Everyone else had a family to return to.

You weren’t everyone.

“I have a friend at this hospital. He called me when he saw that you had yet to be released,” she uses a soft voice as if the mint green and oddly shaped couches were pews instead. Pews don’t creak like plastic when you shift your weight. “My name is Kate. My friend, Ty, is an administrator here. He mentioned you needed someone to sign for you due to your beta status and the lack of documentation on your identity.”

Silence had been your only weapon against the staff there and the staff here.

She smells of alpha, the heady scent that should reek of safety and confidence. It tastes sour in the back of your throat.

“I’ve read through the information about you from Scorpio, the changes they made to you? They don’t expect you to make it another five years.” Kate rubbed her hands down the top of her slacks. “I’m here to give you an offer.”

Glancing at her without turning your head you wait. When she meets your side eye you shift your gaze back to the distant fluffy clouds dotting the sky like sheep grazing through a meadow. The sky sheep look all the whiter for the blanket of snow smothering the earth below.

“I know of a group of men, even split between them alpha and omega, who could use someone to care for. They are gone for long stretches of time and won’t pressure you for anything, only to care for you and use you as a touchstone of normalcy,” Kate lets out a breath, the shifting air bringing more of her should be comforting scent to your nose.

Voices drift past the locked doors to your right. You had posted up on the maternity floor, the staff had yet to find you here the last few times you were able to avoid their gazes.

“Why me?” Your voice whispers out. Should have grabbed the water mug the night nurse had left on your tray before you ducked from the room.

“Well, that’s the sticking point. They don’t know you would be coming. The guys have started to fray at the edges, getting reckless on jobs. I need them to be safe. If they have someone to come home to?”

Ah, so this wasn’t about you. Couldn’t ever be about you could it? No. Always a beta, never important.

Scorpio had seen six hundred seventeen betas through their doors before you quit counting. Not one of them left through the front door.

“You can’t tell them I’m dying.”

Control had to be a resource you doled out sparingly.

“Done.”

“And I get my own bed.”

The wrinkles around her face deepen as Kate settles on an unsure look.

“I’m not sure…”

“I will spend time in their nest when invited but I get my own bed,” you look at her now, face to face.

She must see something unmovable in your expression.

Sighing, her eyes drift shut and her shoulders relax.

“I will make it happen.”

Nodding once you stand.

“Lead on Kate, let us meet my doom head-on.”

Kate chooses not to comment on your morose declaration.

Maybe that is why she filled the car with her voice? She must not appreciate your brand of deadly honesty.

Her voice drifts away as she turns off the well-maintained and snow-cleared highway for a clear spot marked only by the tire tracks that lead between the dense trees.

“I’ve told them so many damn times they need to move closer but no it’s all ‘Kate you don’t understand we need the space from everyone’ and never thinking of how hard it is for people to visit them,” she mutters to herself as the color leeches from her knuckles with each slip of the tires.

“Maybe they don’t want visitors.”

Kate’s brows pull down as she glares out the windshield.

Looking back out the window you catch sight of a massive moose between the trunks before it disappears into the trees. It takes another twenty minutes of achingly slow driving before Kate finally relaxes her shoulders.

The smell of satisfaction drifts through the car heater. Turning you find a modestly large cabin, a green metal slanted roof, and a porch that reaches from one corner of the house to the other. Next to the stairs that connected the porch to the ground are two vehicles, one SUV and one large truck, though these both sit neatly under the porch. Kate parks in the open.

Without hesitation she climbs from the driver’s seat, grabbing the backpack she picked up for you with your three changes of clothes and two sets for sleeping. Kate is halfway up the stairs when you finally join her. Snow clings to the canvas of your shoes even as you follow in the large boot prints she left behind for you.

Tucking your arms close to your chest you stand behind Kate as she pounds with a fist on the door. The swish of her coat is the loudest sound beyond her beating for entry. You are fighting to keep your teeth from chattering when the door finally opens. You didn’t know cold had a smell. The only word you could find for it? Sharp.

“John. Took you long enough,” Kate pushes her way through the opening in the door.

A burly man steps back to allow her entrance. He is barely decent, his robe hanging open and tie only just covering his bits. John lifts a brow at you when you don’t immediately follow. You are not dressed for winter. When a particularly chilled bit of wind rushes past you and into the house, he moves to shut the door. Darting inside you watch him warily until you stand near Kate again. She stands in front of a massive couch. Counting the cushions, you give yourself the space to breathe. Twelve separate sitting spaces, three walls of a square, and still with room to walk behind and peer out the window that took up nearly the whole wall behind it.

“Not like you to show up without calling Kate. What is this about?” John steps around the snow you shed on his hardwood floor.

“I brought you a wife.”

They stare at each other for nearly thirty seconds. Your toes start to sting from the cold. The shoes on your feet squeak as you shift from foot to foot. Making the mistake of breathing too deeply you can taste the battle of wills between them. Kate’s shouldn’t be sour scent warred with John’s masculine, woodsy scent. He was an omega?

A long table is positioned opposite the kitchen, and central to it all is a wood-burning stove. The kitchen has an excess of cabinets. You start to count them to avoid what your nose is telling you.

“Why would I need a wife?” He finally asks.

You are also curious about the word choice. Betas weren’t terribly important in the grand scheme, born at a lower rate and died at a faster one. Populations didn’t need betas to survive, they, you, were mostly only good for keeping fights from escalating. With everyone receiving training in school anymore on how to address and deal with signs of rut/heat to avoid fights, death due to rut-related combat had reduced by over half. Betas were less important than ever. The other reduction in deaths had come from Scorpio.

Sarah had always been so proud to tell you about how you were contributing to keeping alphas from killing each other when she drew your blood or injected you with yet another unknown serum. The government had started to pump the barest amount of what Sarah called, calmers, into the water system. Said it was good for everyone, like fluoride.

“Serin, helicopter, Los Alamos, hospital visit. Would you like me to go on?” Kate said all those words as if they made any sort of sense.

John sucked in a deep breath through his nose. His eyes snapped to you.

“What are you?”

Kate steps in front of you. The slap of your hand to your scent gland runs parallel to her words. Sarah had done something to you, changed everything at a base level, including your scent.

“Beta, and a wife. Someone to care for, someone who needs you.”

His eyes are on you as sounds from deeper in the house reach your ears. Deep voices, a loud thump, then laughter. You look past John and see a set of stairs near the front door that leads to a second floor that only takes up part of the space from the vaulted ceiling.

“We don’t need anyone Kate-” he folds his arms across his hairy chest as Kate cuts him off.

“Should I ask them then? Call them down and see what they say?” She glares up at him, the height difference not making a difference even when her alpha to his omega should. You had only ever seen one dynamic, alpha ruling, all else managing to stay out of their way. That did not hold true here. They battled as equals.

John let his lung full of air go, a sigh of admission as his hands fell to his hips.

“No. We will take her.”

Kate nods once, settling your backpack on the couch before turning and giving your shoulder a squeeze.

When she turns back to John she gives him the final piece of information.

“She gets a room to herself. Doesn’t need to be much, but at least a place to retreat when everything becomes too much.”

He rolls his eyes but nods.

“Anything else Kate?” He asks drolly.

The glare she sends him is met with a smirk.

“I will check back in a week to see how everyone is settling.”

John walks her to the front door, opening it for Kate to step back into the startling brilliance of the sun twinkling off snow.

When the door clicks shut behind her John turns to you. His eyes drift from your feet upward until settling on your face.

“Hello, wife.”

Part 2 | Broken Masterlist | Masterlist

[aquasarsstuff]

Baby Disaster!

General Lilia Vanrouge x Reader

Blurb: Baby faes are are born because of true love. It doesn't matter if the deed is done or not, so what does Lilia does with his baby daughter when his spouse pass the baby to him while they went out?

____

As Lilia held the small hands pawing and grabbing at him and his hair, he couldn't find himself to be annoyed at the little one. It was a rare time for him to spend time with the child due to his job and duties to the kingdom.

When he came back after being deployed, he noticed you were looking a bit weary. He blurted out something having time for yourself, which lead to this situation. He was a bit clueless on what on to do, so you made a list on what he should do.

---

He look at the clock, then at the paper. It was time to feed the baby. It wasn't specified what he should feed his daughter, so he went in the kitchen to whip a dish based on the available ingredients.

He tossed in random vegetables, fruits, and something to the pot until it was full. Then, he let it boil. When he was done, he transferred some of its contents to a small bowl and returned to his daughter's side. He begun feeding her the suspicious violet soup.

The baby on the other hand, didn't flinch and keep swallowing the liquid. Well, this was easier than he thought.

---

It was time for the baby to take a bath. Lilia wipe off the water droplets off his forehead. His daughter got a little handful in the bath. He figured he'll just dry off and change his clothes. That was... until the baby made a face and burp out before christened him with her breakfast earlier.

He stood there in disbelief. His daughter seemed to be amused and started giggling. Looks like he needs a bath too now.

---

When he walked out of the bath and went to check on the baby, she was already gone on the crib he left her on. His blood ran cold. His mind spiraling from scenaries to scenarios worse than the last.

He was literally one step away from leaving the house with a weapon in tow when he notice one of the cupboards opened in an unnatural way. He checked it out, and there was his baby. He grumbled in annoyance, but he firmly held the baby in arms this time.

---

When you finally came back home, the house was still in one piece. You peeped at the kitchen. You swore there weren't black spots in the wall before. And was there something moving in the pot? You'll let him handle that later.

You checked every room in the house until you find the two. You found the two sleeping on the floor: Lilia was holding the baby on his chest while he was in an awkward position. You didn't have the heart to wake him up, so you just put a blanket over them.

____

I have no idea how to take care of a baby. Why did I write this 🤣🤣🤣 BTW, I wrote this with the idea that the baby was made, not because they did something, but because there was only one bed 😂😂😂 I just didn't specify it above lol

[kashverse]

umbrellas are, without a doubt, mankind’s magnum opus. rain? blocked. sun? deflected. want to look like a brooding protagonist in a slow-motion film sequence? pop that thing open and stride dramatically.  a/n: read till the end to see choso's temu collab <3

unfortunately, this universal truth is lost on gojo, who believes his infinity is a catch-all solution to every problem in life, including weather. does it keep the rain off him? sure. does it do the same for you? absolutely not. but does he realize this? of course not. so while he’s smugly holding you close, humming some dumb love song and talking about how "this is just like those k-dramas, huh, babe?" you are actively getting drenched. fast forward two days later—you’re curled up in bed, tissues piling up like a battlefield, and gojo is wailing as if he’s the one on death’s doorstep. “my baby is dying,” he cries to shoko over the phone, who is ignoring him as she eats her lunch. it doesn’t matter that you told him it was just a mild cold. gojo is now hand-feeding you soup with the solemnity of a man who thinks he is on his last day of service. *“i should’ve—sniff—bought an umbrella.” you have half a mind to hit him with the spoon.

geto, on the other hand, is a man of preparation and, for some reason, exclusively stocks clear umbrellas. like, exclusively. open his closet and you will find nothing but a neat, borderline concerning collection of transparent umbrellas, stacked like they’re waiting for a government-distributed evacuation plan. does he use them all? yes. does he need that many? no. when you question him, he simply shrugs and says, “it’s aesthetic.” but the aestheticism fades a little when the two of you are forced to walk under the blazing summer sun, grumbling like old men because the clear plastic is offering exactly zero protection from UV rays. "we’re gonna get so tanned,” you whine. “we’ll be fine,” he reassures, though he looks about one minute away from passing out. why doesn’t he just buy a regular umbrella? you may never know.

toji, meanwhile, gives you the slow blink of a man who has never voluntarily used an umbrella in his life. if you ask him where his umbrella is, he will blink at you like a lizard sunning itself on a rock and say, "what’s an umbrella?" except he’s joking, but also not really. the thing about toji is that he fundamentally does not care about the weather. if it rains, it rains. if it shines, it shines. he has completed jobs in typhoons, sprinted through downpours to reach you in the middle of the night when you were anxious, and once walked through a literal snowstorm to buy a six-pack. weather is an inconvenience only for the weak. that is until his philosophy backfires and he ends up with a sunburn so severe he’s walking around the house hissing like a vampire, or with a cold so bad that every time he blows his nose, he sounds like a goose fighting for its life. and now he’s grumpy about it. "should’ve used an umbrella," you tell him sweetly as you rub aloe on his peeling shoulders. he grumbles something unintelligible and sulks like a big, overgrown toddler.

nanami is the only one among them who has fully mastered the art of umbrella ownership. you don’t even have to ask if he has one; the answer is always yes. he has one for every occasion. he carries a primary umbrella, a backup umbrella in his bag, and if you check his office drawer, there’s probably another one neatly folded away just in case. he whips it out at the farmers' market, during evening strolls, and most impressively, in a street fight. if you’ve ever seen a man turn an umbrella into a lethal weapon, nanami is that man. he can and will beat the shit out of someone with it. “it’s a tool,” he says simply. and honestly, who are you to argue?

choso, however, is firmly in the raincoat camp. umbrellas make his hands hurt, so he skips the struggle entirely and commits to full rain protection like a man on a mission. the problem arises when he starts browsing for new raincoats and sees children wearing character-themed ones. next thing you know, he is holding up two sanrio-themed raincoats from temu, grinning ear to ear. "they glow in the dark when they get wet," he says proudly. they allegedly glow. allegedly. you do a quick google search and find out they might actually contain enough lead to take down a fully grown man. "choso, you are not wearing that." but he already bought it. and now he’s standing in the rain, in a kuromi-themed raincoat that is possibly a biohazard, smiling like he’s the peak of fashion.

sukuna, much like toji, does not give a single damn about rain or shine. it could be pouring or blisteringly hot, and he’d still be doing whatever he wants, unaffected and unbothered. however, if the weather starts personally inconveniencing him—like preventing him from stretching out in his favorite sunspot like some oversized demon cat—he will glare at the sky itself and, somehow, it will fix itself. it doesn’t rain if sukuna doesn’t want it to. the sun won’t shine if he says so. when you ask him how he does it, he just shrugs. "i just do." you don’t push for answers. you’re a little scared to.

[blank-potato]

Kitchen Hazard

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader x Yelena Belova

Summary:

“I…” Bob says, stepping forward to take one for the team before Yelena stops him. Patting him on the shoulder as if throwing herself on the grenade for him. You smile at her as she takes a small bite. As soon as it hits her tongue, her mouth is immediately assaulted with an overwhelming burst of sourness and a hefty helping of… salt? What on earth did you put in them? “It's delicious,” She wheezes with a smile, a single tear rolling down her cheek. It was not.  You can't cook for shit. Or You can't cook, and you're a massive distraction in the kitchen, but they love you regardless.

WC: 2.0K

A/N: A little fluff kinda crackfic I started the night after I watched Thunderbolts, and I'm finally getting it out my drafts

You were trying your best, the whole team could see that.

“Somebody taste this.”

You weren't exactly the most well-adjusted, but thankfully, no one on the team was. But one of the only things that made you feel calm was cooking. It was your way of getting away from all the stabbing, shooting and kicking your superhero day job affords you. It also allowed you to show the team how much you loved being with them and how much you cared about them. Because the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach, at least that’s what you’d learnt from TV.

You pout, looking around as you offer your cupcakes, but no one has even moved, except Ava, who had phased out of existence as soon as you turned around with the tray in your hands. 

“Bob? Yelena?” You ask, fluttering your eyes at them. You knew they could never say no to you. You were each other’s something, you hadn’t exactly put a label on it, but they loved you, they loved each other, and you loved them, which means they were more often than not your cooking test subjects.  

“I…” Bob says, stepping forward to take one for the team before Yelena stops him.

Patting him on the shoulder as if throwing herself on the grenade for him. You smile at her as she takes a small bite. As soon as it hits her tongue, her mouth is immediately assaulted with an overwhelming burst of sourness and a hefty helping of… salt? What on earth did you put in them?

“It's delicious,” She wheezes with a smile, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

It was not. 

You can't cook for shit.

The first time you made cookies, they came out so hard that they could’ve been used as weapons. In fact, you ended up leaving a small bruise on John’s head when you threw one at his head when he said they had more in common with rocks than cookies. You apologised profusely afterwards, but you still thought they weren’t that bad, maybe John’s head was just soft. 

But that was hardly the last time you hurt someone with your food. Like when you almost poisoned and killed Bucky with your experimental fusion noodles, which tasted, according to him, like what he imagines jet fuel must taste like. 

Or the time you attempted to make soup for Ava when she was sick, and you managed to overcook the meat and vegetables in it. She had no voice, a fever, and still managed to croak out, "Is the soup supposed to be black?"

Not to mention that every other thing you made was unbearably spicy. At one point, John even started inspecting your spice usage like he was defusing a bomb. 

Your cooking could be considered biological warfare.

“You really like it?” you ask, your eyes sparkling with pride. You really tried this time. You measured things (mostly), followed instructions (kind of), and only deviated from the recipe a tiny bit to add your own special touches. Which, in reality, meant you went completely off the wall and threw in everything that looked “inspired.”

“It’s…” she says slowly, her eye twitching just a little as she fights to keep the smile on her face, “…perfect.”

There’s a beat of silence before she clears her throat and adds, “Really… unique flavour profile.”

“Great! Dig in,” You exclaim, pushing the cupcakes in front of her. Bob feels his stomach lurch at the thought of having to eat it all and is eternally thankful to Yelena and her seemingly iron stomach. 

“I can cook dinner too—”

“No!” came the resounding chorus from everyone in the room, except Alexei, who somehow didn’t mind your food and would always be reaching for seconds with alarming enthusiasm.

“That’s not necessary. Let Bob and I do it,” Yelena cut in quickly, a flicker of fear in her eyes like she was remembering the great ‘Turkey Incident’ of last Thanksgiving. They still got war flashbacks every time a turkey was so much as mentioned. 

You blink, the hopeful smile on your face slowly melting into a confused, almost pouty frown.

“But… I can help. I want to help,” you say, your voice softening with genuine intent, oblivious to the silent, panicked glances being exchanged behind you.

Bob watches you for a moment, and he understands that feeling all too well, wanting to be of use to the rest of the team and not feel like dead weight. He smiles gently, leaning over the counter and taking your hand in his, his thumb brushing soothing circles against your skin.

“You can keep us company instead,” Bob suggests softly, his eyes warm and reassuring.

You nod slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing as you return the faint smile. “Sounds good,” you murmur, squeezing his hand in return.

The three of you enter the kitchen and look around. 

“So, what are we making?” you ask, hopping up onto the counter briefly before deciding maybe that’s not the best idea with Yelena around. You have found yourself pinned against one or two with intense makeout sessions following after and you should probably let them actually cook...probably.

“Creamy tomato pasta. If we try anything else, I’m scared we’ll burn the place down,” Yelena replies dryly, already grabbing tomatoes and garlic from the counter with practised ease.

You watch them fall into a rhythm, working in surprising harmony. Bob is boiling the kettle and starting to gather other ingredients, while Yelena multitasks like a pro, heating oil and prepping a pan. It’s almost domestic. Who are you kidding? It is domestic.

“Do you know where the basil is?” she asks, not looking up.

“Grab it for me?” she adds a beat later.

Bob reaches over her, brushing slightly against her side as you snag the fresh basil from the windowsill planter, handing it over with a little flourish. She smirks, not missing the theatrics.

“Can you open this for me?” Bob suddenly asks, holding out a stubborn jar to Yelena.

You raise an eyebrow. “You could crush that jar with your pinky.”

“I know,” he says sheepishly, “but it’s more fun when she does it.”

Yelena rolls her eyes but takes it, popping the lid off with a casual twist like it was nothing. “Hopeless,” she mutters playfully, setting it down on the counter.

He lingers, sticking closer to her, hovering a bit too obviously over Yelena’s shoulder as she preps ingredients. You exchange a glance with her, trying not to laugh.

“What?” she asks with a knowing smirk, catching his gaze.

“Just go cut onions,” Yelena adds, nudging him away with her elbow.

He obeys, letting out a sigh before grabbing the cutting board and starting to slice.

Both you and Yelena keep a not-so-subtle eye on him, watching his clumsy but careful movements. His eyes dart to both of you.

“I’m being careful, okay? I won’t cut myself. Invincible, remember?” he says, feigning confidence.

You don’t say anything, but you remain close. Curious, quiet, and maybe a little mesmerised as you watch his hands work. There’s something oddly calming about the way Bob moves: precise, steady, almost delicate despite his size. He’s focused, thoughtful, and your eyes follow the subtle shifts of his fingers, the crease of his brow, the way his lips part slightly in concentration.

It’s… entrancing.

Your skills of observation come in handy a few moments later when you notice his nose twitch ever so slightly. He clearly doesn’t want to break focus, but it’s distracting him.

Anticipating his needs, you reach over and gently scratch the side of his nose for him.

His shoulders relax, and he exhales with a laugh. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Turning your sights over to Yelena, you notice she forgot to put on an apron—again. With a dramatic sigh and a teasing shake of your head, you grab one off the hook.

“Let me put this on you,” you say, holding it out.

Yelena raises a brow but obliges, dipping her head slightly with a smirk tugging at her lips.

You slip the apron over her and step behind her to tie it, fingers brushing gently against her back as you secure the strings. You can feel her tense ever so slightly under your touch, but she doesn’t move away; in fact, she leans back just a bit.

“There. Now you won’t ruin another one of your ‘cool assassin’ shirts with tomato sauce,” you say with a playful nudge to her shoulder.

“I would make tomato sauce look badass on my shirts, but I get your point,” she quips, turning her head to glance at you over her shoulder, that smirk now fully formed.

“I’m the best sous chef anyone can ask for,” you chirp with a confident grin. Seeing a smudge of sauce on the corner of Yelena’s mouth, you lean in and kiss it off, marvelling at the taste as your lips brush hers.

“It tastes so good,” you murmur, cooing over the tiny bit you tasted on her lips before turning back to the pot, taking a spoonful and humming in delight.

“Yeah?” Yelena muses with a smirk, clearly amused by your enthusiasm.

“Bob, you have to try some,” you say, not even giving him a second to react before you reach up and kiss him quickly on the lips. “Good, right?”

Bob flushes a bright red, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, it’s uh—” he stammers, coughing slightly as his body tries to recover from you making his heart skip a beat. 

“You guys might just be better than me at cooking,” you say with a playful grin, leaning in toward him. His hands immediately fly up, cradling your face, but then he pulls back.

“Wait, my hands are onion-y, I don’t want to make you cry,” Bob says, a little sheepishly.

“Then don’t use your hands,” you tease, eyes sparkling.

You lean in again to kiss him, and he’s forced to keep his hands by his sides, despite clearly wanting to cup your face and deepen the kiss.

Pulling back with a mischievous smile, you reach out, grabbing Yelena and tugging her closer. “I’m cooking.”

“Not anymore,” you declare firmly, determined to kiss your not-quite-girlfriend, not-quite-boyfriend, because honestly, dinner didn’t matter anymore. 

You wrap your arms around her, starting to kiss her neck as Bob’s lips trail over yours. His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you closer.

“We need to—” Yelena starts to say, but neither of you are listening.

Your hands are wandering, and honestly, you don’t even know whose hands are where anymore. Nothing could pull you apart.

Well, except for a fire.

Suddenly, the only sound in the room isn’t the soft brushing of lips or the quiet gasps—it’s the loud whoosh of a pot catching fire, flames licking upward, smoke building fast, filling the air.

You dramatically scream in pure horror, as Yelena rushes forward, swearing fiercely in Russian while searching for something to smother the flames.

“I’ve killed us, I’ve killed us all!” you wail, like you’ve discovered you had actually been switched at birth. Melodrama seemed to suit you quite nicely, another cute attribute they liked about you. 

Bob quickly wraps his arms around you, his voice calm and steady as he gently strokes your hair. “It’s just a small fire, see? Yelena is taking care of it.”

Within seconds, Yelena smothers the fire, the smoke beginning to clear.

She turns to you both with a sharp look, her tone a mix of warning and amused exasperation.

“What did we learn?”

“Never leave the stove unattended,” you say with a pout.

“And?” Bob asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t distract the cooks when they’re cooking…” You reply, giving a small shrug.

“Can we just order food?” you suggest, admitting defeat. They both nod in agreement, no way they're letting you anywhere near the kitchen for a while. You were a hazard, whether you were actually cooking or not.

You start to help them clean, the some smoke still comes out as Ava walks in, eyes wide. “What did you do in there?” she asks, taking in the smoky room and the faint scent of burnt tomato sauce. 

Masterlist

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"The moon"

ok ya'll! I know I said I'm doing another chapter of this is me trying (and I am) buttttt I read @i-cant-sing's time traveler AU and I could not stop thinking about it. I'm muslim and it's Ramadan and I realized I have free will to write whatever I want, SO i present to you a platonic yandere story set in the Ottoman Empire. kinda based on real people and events, but a lot of things are just my imagination! I am NOT a history buff, I just enjoy historical things, if something is wrong, feel free to politely correct me. The main character is a female and does have a name (Esmira) and face type BUT i try not to go into her too much so you can imagine what you like. Credits to @i-cant-sing, it was their writing that inspired me! check out their works, they're really talented! I DO NOT SPEAK TURKISH, ALL MY KNOWLEDGE IS GOOGLED AND SURFACE LEVEL.

Ottoman Empire, Istanbul

Year 1524

I was my father’s moon.

"Benim ayım."

He called me that when I nestled against his side, his arms encircling me as he listened to my childish recitation of the Qur’an, my voice small yet steady. “My little moon,” he would murmur, pressing a kiss to my forehead when I finished. “No one recites as beautifully as my Esmira.”

To me, he was not Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent. The Lawgiver, the formidable warlord. To me, he was my beloved Baba.

I would giggle, curling my fingers into the folds of his kaftan. I never sat apart from him, never kept a polite distance. When we dined, I ate off his plate, tearing bread from his own hands, dipping it into his soup the way I had since I was old enough to chew.

"You will spoil her, Hünkârım," my mother, Medriveh, would say from across the room, watching as my father lifted me onto his lap, letting me pick the ripest dates from his tray.

"She is already spoiled," he would reply, laughter deep in his chest. And he would not send me away. He never sent me away.

I prayed with him, every dawn and every dusk, my small voice whispering after his as we kneeled on the prayer rugs. When my hands trembled in the cold, he would clasp them in his own, warming them against his palms.

"When you are older, you will have a place beside me," he had told me once, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles. "Even when I go to war, my moon will stay in my sky."

I believed him.

When he rode through the palace gates on his great black stallion, I was the only one out of my siblings- Mustafa, Selmin, Mehmed, and Layla- he lifted onto the saddle before him. I would press my cheek to his chest, feeling his laughter rumble beneath my ear as he held the reins in one hand, keeping me close with the other.

I thought it would always be like that. I thought nothing could take me from him.

I was wrong.

My mother never hit me.

She did not need to.

Her weapons were sharper than any blade, her words precise and cruel, cutting deep where no one could see.

"You embarrass me, Esmira," she would sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose whenever I stumbled in my lessons or tripped over my skirts. "Must you always follow your brothers like a stray dog? They have no use for you."

"I just want to be with them."

"They do not want to be with you."

Her disappointment weighed heavier than any slap.

I had always adored Mustafa, Selmin, and Mehmed. I ran after them in the gardens, trailed them through the halls, sat at their feet as they practiced swordplay.

I wanted to be part of their world, to belong with them as I had once belonged with my father.

But they were always too fast, too sharp, too indifferent.

"Go away, Esmira." Selmin’s voice was rough, barely sparing me a glance as he wiped sweat from his brow, his sword resting against his shoulder. "We are not playing games."

"I can learn too!"

"You are not a soldier." Mustafa did not even look at me, already turning back to his sparring partner. "You are not even useful."

Mehmed was the only one who pretended to care, giving me his easy, careless smile.

"Little sister, you should be with the women," he said, flicking my forehead with two fingers. "We are busy."

"I just want to be near you."

"Then sit quietly. Do not make a fuss."

So I did. I sat in the dirt, in the sun, in the cold. I waited for them to acknowledge me.

They never did.

Layla was everything I was not. Four years older than me, and stunning. The true daughter of a Sultan

She was graceful where I was clumsy, beautiful where I was plain, loved where I was ignored.

"Your sister was never like this," my mother would say as she brushed my hair, her touch firm and impersonal. "She knew how to behave, how to walk, how to be wanted."

Layla was desired by all who saw her. Even the women in the harem whispered about her, about her elegance, her cruelty, her charm.

"You are fat, Esmira," she told me one afternoon, watching as I struggled to fit into the new silk kaftan our mother had gifted me. "And slow. And foolish."

"You are my sister," I whispered. "You should love me."

She only smiled.

"Love is earned, little one. And you have done nothing to earn it."

Then, one day, a week after my tenth birthday everything changed. I was going to my father, to try and capture his attention again when I heard her. My mother.

"She is useless, Hünkârım. If you will not marry her off, then send her away."

I pressed my back against the lattice screen, breath trapped in my chest. I was too young to marry. Baba always said he would wait till I was eighteen. That he would keep me forever if I wanted.

"To where?" He replied sharply.

"To the Greeks," my mother said smoothly, as if my fate was nothing more than a chess piece being moved across the board. "The Basileus of Morea wishes for an Ottoman princess as a ward. A peace offering."

"She is only a child, Mehdrivan."

"She is a disgrace."

Silence. A silence so deep it felt like the air itself had stopped moving.

Then, finally, the words that destroyed me.

"Fine."

The world blurred around me. My heart slammed against my ribs, a desperate, caged thing trying to claw its way out. I waited till my mother had left, till i could no longer hear her cruelty.

No. No, no, no.

I did not think. I ran.

I burst into my father’s chamber, barefoot, breathless, trembling.

He stood near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at the courtyard below. The glow of the setting sun burned against his silhouette, making him seem even larger, more untouchable.

I was eight again, running to him after falling in the gardens, scraped knees and teary eyes, knowing he would pick me up, soothe me, call me his moon.

But I was not eight. And he did not turn.

"Baba!" I cried, voice breaking.

Slowly, he turned to me.

For a moment, just a moment, his face softened. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the unreadable mask of a ruler, not a father.

"Esmira," he said, his voice even, measured. Distant.

I did not hesitate—I threw myself at his feet.

"Baba, please!" I clutched at the hem of his kaftan, my nails digging into the silk as if I could physically hold myself to him. "I will be good—I will do better! I don’t want to go! I don’t know their language, their God—they will kill me! Let me stay! I love you, Baba! I will stay by your side forever!"

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Stand up, Esmira."

"No!" I sobbed into the fabric of his robes, shaking my head, pressing my forehead to his knee like a beggar at the steps of a mosque. "Please, please, please, I will do anything! I will stop following my brothers, I will stop embarrassing you, I will be what you want, just don’t send me away!"

Nothing.

Not a touch. Not a word.

I felt his silence like a blade slicing through me.

"I do not care about peace!" I cried, hands fisting against him. "I only care about you!"

Finally, finally, he spoke.

"You must go, Esmira. It is for the good of the empire."

Something deep inside me cracked—so violently I swore I heard it echo in the vast, empty space of the chamber.

I recoiled from him, stumbling back.

"You are my father!" My breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. "I am your daughter! I am not a pawn for your empire!"

He did not move. He did not reach for me.

"You are a princess of the Ottoman Empire." His voice was hard, cold. A warlord’s voice, not a father’s. "You will do your duty."

I shook my head, tears burning like acid down my cheeks.

"If you send me away, I will never love you again."

Something flickered in his eyes.

"Esmira—"

"I swear to God, Baba!" My voice rose in fury, in anguish, in something too deep to name. "I swear by Allah Himself, if you listen to my mother, if you send me away, I will never forgive you! Never! You will not be my father anymore!"

His nostrils flared. His lips pressed into a thin line.

"You will not speak to me that way."

"You are not listening to me!"

I was screaming now, screaming as if the force of my voice alone could bring him back to me.

"I will hate you for the rest of my life!"

And then—he struck me.

The first slap sent me reeling. The second tore the breath from my lungs.

My ears rang. My vision blurred.

I staggered back, stunned, unable to process what had just happened.

He had never hit me before.

Never.

Not once in my entire life.

His sons had felt his hand before—when they disobeyed, when they failed, when they acted recklessly. But not me.

Never me.

I stared up at him, at the man who had once held me in his arms, who had once called me his moon.

I did not recognize him.

He was no longer my Baba—he was Sultan Suleiman, the Great Turk, the Shadow of God on Earth, the warlord who crushed enemies beneath his heel and ruled an empire with an iron fist.

And now, I was afraid of him.

His expression shifted. Regret flickered in his gaze. His hands trembled as he reached for me.

"Esmira—"

I flinched.

I flinched away from him.

For the first time in my life, I feared my own father.

The moment stretched between us, heavy, suffocating.

I saw the realization dawn on him—saw the way his chest rose sharply, saw the way his hands fell to his sides, saw the guilt carve into his face like stone.

But I did not give him the chance to take it back.

I turned and ran.

I did not stop running.

Not when I reached the halls. Not when the guards called after me. Not when my mother’s voice echoed in the distance.

I ran until my lungs burned, until the cold air cut through my thin silk dress, until the world blurred into nothing but streaks of gold and blue and white.

The moon above me was full and bright, casting silver light across the palace gardens.

I pressed my forehead to the earth, fingers digging into the soil.

"I will come back."

The words left my lips like a prayer.

"I swear it."

"And when I do, I will never love you again."

OKKK YA'LL??? WHAT DO YA'LL THINK??? YOU LIKE??? I TRIED SO HARD ON THIS SO PLS BE NICE! I'M KINDA SCARED TO PUT THIS OUT BC ITS NOT MY USUAL CONTENT AND I CHANGED MY WRITING STYLE A BIT, BUT I HOPE IT INTERESTS PEOPLE!! Likes, comments, asks and reblongs are always appreciated, also the platonic yanderes in this story are Sultan Suleiman, Sultana Medrivah, Sehzade Mehmed, Mustafa, and Selmin!

also, yk ur writings good when u got ppl in ur dms and asks telling u its AI. Like bitch please, I spend HOURS thinking of plots and dialougue only to have some random anon saying its AI????? like be fr.

[sativariddle]

DEAD GIRL WALKING₊˚⊹ ᰔ

♡ ⋮ wc: 9k+

♡ ⋮ content: mentions of guns and getting shot. if you don’t enjoy my content, there’s no need for you to stick around, i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage with.

♡ ⋮ summary: you’re shot during a supply run and wake up in a stranger’s safehouse, stitched up by the same man who pulled the trigger. anger erupts as you learn you’re too injured to leave. jenny, who tagged along, leaves to find your group while you’re forced to recover under the watchful (and annoyingly attractive) eye of your would’ve been killer.

╰› m.list.⌇walking dead au.⌇my au’s.

“THERE’S A WALKER!” theodore burst into the safety house, breathless and shouting, his hands tight around his rifle. the group of five froze. lorenzo glanced at the weapon, raising a brow as if to ask, why aren’t you doing something about it? without a word, theo held up the rifle and tilted it, revealing an empty chamber: completely out of ammo.

it was breakfast, or at least, what passed for breakfast these days. the metallic smell of old canned food, and the soft clatter of spoons scraping against tin filled the quiet. pansy sat cross legged near the stove, her thin brows furrowed in thought as she rationed out what little was left.

for the past couple of months, she’d managed to stretch their food supply using the cans she scavenged on the way to what they now called the safety house. it wasn’t much, but it had kept them fed.

but now, the stash was thinning out. too fast. the pantry shelves had become bony. the days of handing each person their own can of beans or soup ended. now, a single can was pried open, its scopes divided as evenly as possible among the group. just enough to keep the hunger at bay, not enough to satisfy.

there was silence, before mattheo reached for his own gun and slid a fresh round into the chamber. he locked eyes with theo, giving him a silent look that clearly meant, where is it? theodore didn’t speak. he just turned and jogged out the door, rifle still clutched in his hands.

that was all it took. the rest of the group followed without hesitation. mattheo sighed under his breath: he knew damn well they wouldn’t stay put even if he shouted at them to get the fuck back inside. they were too bored. however, theo had said it was just one walker.

one. with any luck, it’d be quick, and not as big of a mess it could’ve been.

"are you... are you sure?" pansy's voice came tense as she hurried after mattheo and theodore. her boots crunched over the gravel strewn path just behind them. pansy had every right to ask: this place, this safety house, had been their shelter. a rundown two story cabin tucked into the tree line, high up on a hill that most walkers never managed to climb. the landscape grew too jagged, too unstable near the top, and more often than not, the dead lost their footing and tumbled back down before getting anywhere close. no walkers had breached it: ever.

that was the point. that was the hope.

theodore didn’t slow his stride. “are you questioning my vision?” he snapped, glancing over his shoulder with irritation sharpening his words. mattheo reached out and smacked the back of theodore’s head with an open palm. not hard, but firm enough to make a point. “watch your fuckin’ tone,” he muttered.

theodore scowled but didn’t respond. pansy blinked, but didn’t shrink away. she’d been through too much with them to be discouraged by a bad attitude.

mattheo shot her an apologetic glance. she wasn’t just some tag along. pansy had stitched their wounds with shivering hands. she’d turned dented cans and half rotted root vegetables into meals that kept them alive. she was the closest thing they had to a medic, a cook, and on some days, a voice of reason. mattheo understood the mood. the wear and tear of running for months had started to show on all of them. everyone was thinner now, shadows hollowing beneath their eyes. the house had been tense lately, snapping tempers, silence stretched for far too long. hunger didn't just eat at your stomach; it ate at your mind.

and still, the idea that a walker had made it all the way up here? it didn't sit right. not with anyone. but if theodore had seen something, they had to check. doubt could get them killed.

“let’s just keep moving,” mattheo said, more to calm the rising disagreement than anything else. “we’ll check it out. if it’s nothing, it’s nothing. if it’s not... we’ll handle it.”

pansy didn’t say a word.

she just stood there for a moment, shoulders drawn slightly inward, lips pressed into a thin line. her silence was louder than any argument, and it caught mattheo off guard. she didn’t glare, didn’t curse, didn’t remind theodore of everything she’d done for them: patching up wounds, cooking with almost nothing, keeping them sane in a world that had gone to hell. no fire in her voice. no bite in her response. she gave the smallest shake of her head, barely more than a breath, and turned around, walking back toward the safety house without another glance.

mattheo watched her go, something tightening in his chest. she used to be the first to snap back, especially when someone talked to her like that. she never took shit, not even from him. there were nights she’d argue with her whole chest, fists on her hips and eyes blazing because someone had forgotten to fix the bandages or wasted water on washing a shirt instead of drinking.

that fire had helped keep them going. it meant she still cared. but this time, there was nothing. just a tired shake of her head. mattheo turned back toward the treeline, jaw clenched. things had changed. too many near deaths, too many cold nights, too little food.

theo sighed, “now i’m the asshole.” mattheo didn’t even look at him, he just gave a small nod. “yeah,” he said quietly. “you are.” the wind rustled through the trees. behind them, the screen door creaked shut as pansy disappeared inside.

normally, theodore would've had something to say. whether it’d be sarcastic, defensive or a muttered insult, but this time, he stayed quiet. he just jerked his chin toward the edge of the woods behind the barn, brows furrowed in that focused way he got when things felt real. “walker was coming from over there,” he said. “must’ve cut behind the barn.”

mattheo followed his line of sight. the barn sat at the back of the property forgotten: its wood warped and splintered from rain, the red paint now faded. they’d cleared it out weeks ago. no supplies. no place for anything to hide. if the walker had ducked behind it, they’d have a clear view. no excuses.

“right,” mattheo said, popping open the rifle chamber and sliding a round into place with a click. he moved to follow, boots crunching softly over the dry grass. “you’ve got incredible luck, huh? ammo runs dry the exact second a real threat shows up.”

theo let out a humorless scoff and lifted his empty rifle, tapping it lightly against his shoulder. “you’re tellin’ me,” he muttered.

riddle made a soft noise in response, a kind of laugh and sigh: but then he froze. movement. so quick he could’ve missed it. it wasn’t the wind, and it sure as hell wasn’t a bird. his instincts kicked in before thought did. he spun toward the motion with a snap of his body, raising his rifle in one swift motion. the barrel leveled in the direction of the barn’s edge, and with a flick of his wrist, he chambered a round, the click-clack sound echoing slightly.

right eye closed. left eye peering through the scope: the forest and barn blurred around the circular view through the lens. dust motes floated in the sunlight, snipping through the trees like golden blades.

a shadow shifted, barely visible, but it was there. something hunched. waiting. mattheo adjusted the angle, finger hovering just over the trigger. but what made mattheo’s breath hitch, what really made his stomach twist with confusion, was the sight that came into focus through the scope.

not one walker. two. they stood just at the far edge of the barn, partly hidden by its shadow, their forms jerky and uneven. at first glance, they looked like the infected: slumped posture, slow steps, heads low. classic walkers.

mattheo’s instincts didn’t hesitate. “wait…” theodore’s voice was a small whisper beside him. but mattheo’s focus stayed locked, jaw set. there wasn’t time for second guessing. he clicked off the safety and squeezed the trigger.

the rifle cracked through the silence like a whip, a deafening shot that echoed down the hillside.

one of the figures dropped instantly, collapsing to their knees with a strangled cry. not the usual guttural growl. not the mindless noise of the undead. no, this was pain. real pain. they clutched their arm, blood soaking through their sleeve, fingers curling tightly around the wound. the cry that followed wasn’t inhuman. it was unmistakably human. mattheo froze.

the second figure, also not moving like a walker at all, lunged toward the injured one and screamed, “NO!” a voice. not a moan. not the rasp of the dead.

a fuckin’ voice. mattheo’s arms lowered automatically, rifle still warm in his hands. his mouth went dry: these weren’t walkers. not even close. he stepped back, stunned to his core. theodore stood beside him, equally still, eyes wide. “that… that wasn’t a walker,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

⌗ ( a few moments before. )

“what did i say about eating the food before the twins?” daisy’s voice snapped through your eardrums. before you could react, she snatched the protein bar straight out of your hands. your fingers instinctively clenched around the empty space where it had just been, stomach clenching tighter than before. you’d barely peeled back the wrapper, just enough to catch the scent of chocolate and oats.

it had been days since anything tasted remotely real, and now, not even that small bite would be yours. you stared at the ground, heat rising behind your eyes. not from embarrassment, but from hunger and frustration. so hungry. it had been chomping at you all morning, a grumble from your stomach loud enough to make your thoughts scatter.

it chewed at your focus, made your limbs feel heavier, your temper shorter. patience was already hanging by a thread, and even that, it seemed, was something you weren’t allowed to have.

“they’re taking too long,” you muttered, pushing yourself up from the log you’d been sitting on. the wood creaked beneath your weight, and your legs felt heavier than they should have. dust clung to your pants, your fingers dirty and sore from the last supply run. you didn’t look at daisy when you spoke. you didn’t need to. she had that tone again: the one she always used when she was playing leader. as if she’d been appointed.

“i said,” she replied, louder this time, “they’re going to eat after. you know, when they’re done playing.” she bent down, sealing the food containers like they were treasures. you watched her, jaw set like she was the only one keeping the group from spiraling into chaos.

the sound of laughter from the twins somewhere beyond the tree line made you roll your eyes, their games echoing faintly like spirits of a world that no longer existed. you resented them a little, not because they were playing, but because they could. because no one was snatching bars out of their hands.

you clenched your fists and looked away, not saying another word. you knew better than to argue with daisy, at least, not today. not when hunger was making everyone more brittle than usual. and especially not when she was convinced her word meant order in a world where almost nothing made sense anymore.

“that’s dangerous,” you say, voice pointed as you dug into the side pocket of your shorts. fingers curling around the crinkled wrapper of a protein bar, warm from your body heat. you didn’t look up, but you could already feel it: the moment the protein wrapper gave the slightest rustle, daisy would hear it, and she’d be on you like clockwork, marching over with that usual tight lipped expression.

sure enough, you barely got the wrapper open before you heard her footsteps crunching over the gravel.

“a walker could easily sneak up on them,” you continued, peeling the wrapper back slowly. “especially if you’re here criticizing me for not waiting to eat, instead of being over there, you know, actually keeping an eye on them.” you motioned toward the woods, where the kids’ laughter screened faintly through the trees.

daisy’s sigh was loud the moment she saw the bar in your hand, her shoulders tensing like she was preparing to dive into a speech. “yeah, well… aiden is with them,” she said quickly, just before reaching out and snatching the protein bar straight from your grip.

you froze. not because of the bar, your stomach had already given up the idea of food hours ago: but because of the mention of aiden. you didn’t say anything, but she saw the way your posture shifted, how your hand twitched slightly in response. it was small, nearly invisible, but daisy had always been the type to pounce on the smallest crack.

“he’s been helping around a lot more lately,” she added casually, already pulling out a ziplock bag from her pack like this was all part of some routine. she wasn’t done. “seems like he’s trying to get stuff off his mind,” her tone slid into that overly sweet, singsong she used whenever she was about to stir the pot. “or someone.”

you blinked once, then again, eyes shifting away before you could stop the reaction.

that was all she needed. her lips curved ever so slightly into a victorious smile. that was what daisy did: she didn’t argue, she played games. poked, prodded, needled her way under your skin just to prove she could. her real satisfaction came not from winning, but from making you flinch. you looked down at your empty hand, where the protein bar had been. hunger was one thing, but this was the kind of hunger daisy fed on.

“have your fucking protein bars,” you muttered under your breath. words meant more for yourself than anyone else. you turned away from daisy and stalked toward the white plastic table where the group usually laid out the food supplies. the table was already stained from weeks of use: faded marks from cans, crumbs scattered from meals, fingerprints smudged across the surface from the twins.

you grabbed your rifle from where it leaned against the side, slinging it over your shoulder with ease. your fingers moved quickly, snatching up a few rounds of ammo, sliding them into your pocket. the motions were automatic now.

as you adjusted the strap and checked the weight, you muttered just loud enough for daisy to hear: “tell aiden to stop sharing other people’s business.” you spun on your heel and started walking, each step grinding down onto the dry forest floor. leaves and twigs cracked under your boots, the sun baking the dirt until it was more dust than soil. the rifle bounced lightly against your back with each step. sweat clung to the back of your neck, sticky beneath the collar of your shirt, and the heat of the summer sun felt like it was trying to cook you from the outside in. not that it compared to the heat you were already carrying inside, burning frustration, hunger, and daisy’s ability to push every single one of your buttons.

“can i come?”

you glanced over your shoulder. “you talk?” you said dryly, catching sight of jenny hovering a few paces back. she was always quiet, always watching.

before she could open her mouth again, you added firmly, “and no.” jenny let out a soft grunt: more annoyance than surprise. you didn’t blame her for asking. shit, you almost admired her for trying, especially with how things were. but this wasn’t the time. not with daisy breathing down everyone’s neck like she was the second coming of leader and stomachs growling. especially not when any wrong move would get pinned on you, as always.

daisy had a gift for that. twisting the narrative, turning glances into guilt. she walked like she was born to lead, as if her voice mattered more. aiden, her older brother, was more reserved. but even he seemed to encircle her. and then there were the twins, barely seven years old, all jumpy, picked up along the way. just like you. just like jenny.

a group stitched together by circumstance, not choice. people who had nothing in common except that they were still breathing. and somehow, you were always the problem in daisy’s eyes.

you adjusted the rifle, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand as you pushed deeper into the woods. you didn’t know where you were going yet, just away. away from the arguing, the power games, the constant ache in your gut. you just needed space. and maybe, if you were lucky, something that involves shooting.

you never stayed in one place for long. none of you did. there wasn’t anywhere safe enough to settle, not really. even when it felt safe, it was only a matter of time before something pushed you back on the road: a noise in the distance. tracks that weren’t yours.

so you moved. always moving.

jenny walked a few paces behind you as you made your way toward the woods. you and her didn’t talk much. actually, talking was a stretch. most of the time, she’d ask something, and you’d reply with a grunt or a single word before wandering off to check in with aiden or head out on your own.

that was the rhythm. she never seemed to take it personally. but today, she wasn’t giving up so easily. “please, please, please,” jenny begged, jogging a little to catch up. her ginger hair was pulled into a high ponytail that bounced with every step, and her cheeks were already flushed from the heat. “i’ll stay quiet the whole time i promise! or—or i could be your armor holder. like, when you ask for ammo, i’ll hand it over lightning fast! i’ll even save you a protein bar later!”

you didn’t answer right away. you just kept walking, your boots crunching over sun baked leaves and dry twigs. the path ahead curved toward a familiar spot, a place you’d checked before. it wasn’t much, but these days, even a squirrel felt like a luxury.

daisy never let anyone else leave with you, claiming it was “too dangerous” or that “splitting up is stupid.” which meant you always hunted alone. no one to talk to. no one to watch your back. it wasn’t that you didn’t want the company. truth be fuckin’ told, anything was better than the silence that trailed after you. but having jenny with you meant one thing: if daisy found out, you’d never hear the end of it. she’d start with the lectures, then the glares, and finally that performative disappointment she put out: you didn’t have the energy for that today.

“and get yelled at by the big bad boss?” you muttered, finally glancing at jenny over your shoulder. “no thanks.”

jenny grinned a little, despite your answer. she’d heard you call daisy the big bad boss before: always with that mocking twist in your voice. it had become an inside joke, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.

jenny fell into step beside you anyway, hands shoved into the pockets of her big cargo pants, walking like maybe if she didn’t say anything else, you’d just let her stay. you didn’t tell her to go back. not yet. and she seemed to understand that the silence between you wasn’t a rejection, it was just how you were.

“i’ll just tell her i wanted to come,” jenny said flatly, her converse crunching over dry leaves as she kept pace behind you. even if you’d wanted to send her back, it was already too late. you both knew it. you’d started walking, and the forest had swallowed the trail behind you like it never existed.

“and anyway,” she added, gesturing behind her with a swing of her arm, “i don’t remember which way we came from. so if you want me to get bit and die out here, then fine. totally your call.”

the trees were dense here, their trunks tall and thin, releasing long streaks of shadow across the path of leaves. a breeze rustled above, stirring branches across your skin. you kept your eyes ahead, one hand steady on the strap of your rifle, the other brushing aside a low hanging branch.

“whatever,” you muttered. “if you die, i’m killing you.”

“that doesn’t even make sense,” jenny replied. you could tell by the way she started to walk a little faster, by the way her shoulders eased just slightly, that she was glad to be there. glad you hadn’t told her to turn back.

you smirked, finally glancing over your shoulder. “actually it does. you die, you turn into a walker. then i kill you again. basic logic.”

she rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. rather, she narrowed them in that signature jenny way. her gaze snapped forward, locking onto something ahead. “last one to that tree is a rotten egg,” she called, already swerving off the trail. she pointed to a tree standing alone at the top of a grassy slope, a massive oak, wider than the others, its roots exposed and curling out like knotted fingers gripping the earth: sunlight over its branches, causing a shine on the hill as though the world wasn’t falling apart all around you.

you sighed, not bothering to hide your annoyance. “m’not really in the mood…” you started, trailing off as you slowed just a bit. jenny had stopped just long enough to look back at you, her expression faltering.

normally, that wouldn’t mean much. you were used to brushing people off. used to moving on. but something about the way she looked right then: disappointed, stuck with you. maybe it was because daisy always shut her down, always played the responsible one and rarely let jenny breathe, let alone have fun. or maybe, in a world where everything felt like it was falling apart, she just wanted to feel normal again for five goddamn seconds.

jenny’s shoulders dropped, and she stared at the ground, kicking a rock with the toe of her boot.

you let out a breath and shifted your grip on your rifle strap. with a push of your legs, you took off running. “hey!” jenny shouted, laughing behind you. “cheater!”

you didn’t respond. you just ran.

the wind pushed past your face as you sprinted, dirt and leaves kicking up beneath your boots. the hill was steeper than it looked, and the burn in your legs was immediate: but it felt good. real. the oak loomed closer, its shadow stretching toward you like a giant hand. jenny’s laughter echoed behind you, full of breath and joy.

there were no walkers. no worry. just footsteps. just air in your lungs and sunlight on your face. just the sound of two people trying to outrun the darkness by racing toward a tree.

“that’s not fair!” jenny took off after you. you could hear the beat of her sneakers hitting the earth, closing the distance between you. she was catching up fast. “should’ve at least said ready, set—mmph!” her sentence was cut short by the sound of impact: a thud followed by the rustle of leaves and a short, pained grunt. you stopped dead in your tracks. instinct overrode everything else. without hesitation, you spun around, your hand whipping to the grip of your gun and drawing it up, the barrel sweeping until it landed on the source of the noise.

but there was nothing. no walkers. only jenny, awkwardly in the dirt, her palms pressed into the mud and her breath shallow with the wind knocked out of her. you lowered your weapon, your grip still tight as adrenaline pulsed through your veins. your eyes widened slightly, every muscle still locked in that second of panic, the type that never fades when survival is your every day.

“you fuckin’ scared me,” you muttered, forcing out a breath through your nose as your gaze flicked to the treeline. nothing moved.

you walked toward her in quick strides, boots sinking slightly in the ground with each step. jenny was already pushing herself up, her face pinched in embarrassment and annoyance as she wiped her hands on her jacket. mud clung to her knees and the side of her leg where she’d hit the ground, soil and leaf sticking to her clothing.

even with careful footing, one wrong step was all it took: jenny had been running, her converse slipping against rocks and wet leaves. here, even the ground itself could hurt you. the rocks were sharp enough to slice open skin through thin material.

your eyes darted around once more. the trees loomed close together, their branches clicking in the wind. it wasn’t just the physical danger that made your skin crawl. it was the silence. the waiting. the paranoia that slithered beneath your thoughts. out here, every sound mattered. every leaf crunch could mean something more.

you reached jenny, and she looked up at you with a faint wince, brushing more dirt from her arms. “i’m fine,” she muttered, though her pride was clearly more bruised than her body.

you reached down to help jenny up. and by ‘help,’ it really just meant hooking two fingers into the back of her shirt, lifting with just enough force to get her moving while very purposefully keeping your palms away from the mud smeared across her arms and torso. the last thing you needed was to be dragging half the forest with you.

jenny immediately caught on, a sly smirk curled across her lips as she stood, brushing herself off with slowness. “thank you,” she said sweetly. and then, before you could step back or react, she lunged forward and hugged you.

not just a polite hug, either. she wrapped her arms around you like you were her long lost sibling, pressing herself against you with the full weight of her muddy clothes. the mud that had soaked into her jacket, smeared across her knees, and ground into her sleeves now bled into your own clothes.

“stop!” you recoiled as you pushed her back with both hands. it was too late. mud had already transferred in wet patches onto your chest and arms. you looked down in disgust, exhaling sharply through your nose.

jenny was already laughing, wild laughter like a kid who knew exactly how far she could push before getting tackled. without a word, you crouched, scooping up a handful of mud from the ground.

it was cold and chunky, squishing between your fingers as you packed it just enough to give it weight. then you stood, took a short step forward, and launched it. the muddy ball hit her dead center in the chest with a splat, flecks of it bursting across her jacket, neck, and unfortunately: her face. she tilted back with a sharp gasp, one hand immediately swiping at her cheek while the other instinctively moved to her hair. but it was no use. “ew!” she coughed, her lips puckering in disgust as she started spitting. “pt—ptt! gross! it got in my mouth!”

you couldn’t help but laugh this time, the sound bursting from your chest before you tried to stifle it. jenny wiped at her lips with the back of her sleeve, her other hand already reaching for the nearest pile of mud.

“okay,” she huffed. “you asked for it.”

you didn’t wait to see what kind of revenge she had planned. you sprinted up the hill, boots slipping slightly against the surface of the muddy path. rocks scraped beneath your shoes, and stray branches clawed at your legs as you surged forward. you clutched the rifle strap tight against your chest to keep it from swinging wildly, the familiar pull against your shoulder.

every exhale forced through your mouth as your legs pumped, one foot in front of the other, faster, always faster.

behind you, you could hear the chaos of jenny’s laughter, you didn’t dare look back. the only rule of a mud war: never give your opponent a clear shot.

the wind tugged at your hair, strands whipping gently around your face as you ran up the hill, boots crunching against the patchy, overgrown trail. as you reached the top, your eyes landed on something nestled halfway down the other side: an old barn, sun bleached, sitting crooked in the tall grass like it had been forgotten.

your pace slowed. usually, you only came across places like this when you were with the full group: daisy always a few steps ahead, keeping an eye on the twins who never seemed to stay in one spot for more than a minute, and aiden trailing at the back, always watching for trouble. jenny never wanted much to do with the searching or the waiting; she’d usually peel off without a word, pretending to be interested in the rocks under her converse or the trees lining the path.

even if the group never expected much from these barns, they always seemed to hold something: a few cans of food just past expiration but still edible, tools rusted but useable, things that meant survival could extend a little longer.

with that in mind, you turned your head just enough to glance over your shoulder. jenny was moving slowly, just a small figure now against the wide field, but still close enough to see where you were headed. you let yourself slow down more, your chest rising and falling as you tried to even your breathing. your shoulders sagged slightly, the adrenaline of the hill fading as curiosity started to pull you toward the barn.

there was something about it, maybe the way the light caught the edges of the broken roof, or how the door hung slightly ajar.

something flickered in your peripheral vision. a sudden movement: too quick to register properly. your body reacted before your mind caught up, head snapping to the side, eyes scanning the shadows just beyond the barn. but there was nothing. no one. just the empty space and your own breath echoing louder in your ears.

you exhaled hard through your nose, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. it was happening more often now, these little moments where it felt like someone was watching, like a presence was just out there. but there hadn’t been anyone. not in months. not beyond your group.

you kept moving forward: barns always had something inside. and something was always better than nothing.

the barn was exactly as filthy as you expected, maybe worse. it’s wooden cover, grayed with age, creaked slightly as the wind blew past. you hadn’t really anticipated finding a barn out here, let alone anything useful. inside, however, was mostly empty. no tools, no crates. just old flattened hay scattered across the dirt floor and the stench of animal waste: you stepped through the entry.

the only light coming in is through the uneven cracks in the barn's siding. it made strange patterns on the floor, strips of sunlight that looked almost like bars.

then came the sound of footsteps behind you. you turned fast, gun already raised, finger ghosting over the trigger. but then the figure stepped into one of those thin stakes of light, and you saw jenny, hands raised in surrender. her eyes wide, face pale with fear. she stared at the barrel of your gun like it had grown teeth.

“that’s the second time you’ve pointed that thing at me,” she said.

you lowered the weapon instantly. “instinct,” you said, turning away before you could see more of her expression. guilt was a luxury you couldn’t afford right now. jenny let out a shaky breath and followed a few steps behind, muttering under it. “yeah, well, your instinct is giving me heart pulsations.” she brought two fingers to her neck, checking her pulse. “yup. beating like a damn drum. thanks for that.”

“welcome,” you muttered back, adding a flicker of cheer to your tone as you crouched near a pile of hay. you reached out, letting the dry strands slide through your fingers. it felt crude: off. like it had been untouched for years. the barn hadn’t seen life in a long time. no animals. no people.

jenny watched from a distance, nose scrunched in disgust. “what are you even doing?” she asked finally, clearly impatient. you resisted the first response that bubbled up: shut up and let me work, because that sounded too much like something daisy would say. “trying to find clues,” you said instead, standing and brushing your hands off on your shorts. “maybe a sign that someone’s been here recently. something. anything.” you didn’t say the rest. you didn’t say maybe we’re not alone out here. you didn’t say maybe we’re not the last ones still breathing.

hope was fragile. saying it out loud always made it feel more breakable. jenny rolled her eyes, already turning to leave. “well, good luck with that,” she said, waving a hand as she backed out toward the barn doors. “i’ll be outside. smells like shit in here.”

you glanced down, then pointed toward the far end of the barn where the floor was caked with something dark. “there is shit, jenny. that’s probably why.”

she looked, and the second her eyes landed on the pile of dried poop, her face twisted and she doubled over slightly, gagging. one hand clutched her stomach like the sight alone had caused physical pain.

“yeah. i’m out of here,” jenny mumbled as she spun on her heel and stomped toward the barn’s exit, converse crunching through old hay. you stayed behind for a moment longer, eyes sweeping the space one last time, hesitant to leave without being sure. but there was nothing. no sign of recent life, just the reek of rot and shit, the long abandoned smell that clung to barns like this. if anyone had ever passed through, it hadn’t been recently.

with a soft exhale, you followed jenny out, the disappointment settling in your chest.

the moment you stepped past the entry, the difference in air hit you like a wave. it wasn’t exactly fresh, but at least it didn’t feel like you were breathing through filth. beside you, jenny let out a dramatic sigh, like she’d just resurfaced from deep underwater. “god, i swear i was holding my breath the entire time in there.”

you kept walking a few paces ahead, scanning the tree line automatically, the barn already fading from your mind like it had never mattered. “let’s head back,” you said finally. “there’s nothing here.”

“okay, okay,” she replied. “let me at least tie my shoes first.” she dropped to one knee in the tall grass, fumbling at the laces of her converse while you stood there waiting, the wind stirring faintly through the field. you gave her three seconds. that was all the patience you had. then, without a word, you turned and started walking again.

“can’t you just wai—NO!”

people always said that when your ears ring for a long time, it means someone’s talking about you: dragging your name through the mud, behind your back, maybe spitting out words that sound nothing like the person you think you are. but as the high pitched shriek echoed through your skull, you realized how wrong that old saying was. because this ringing wasn’t some petty gossip: this was the sound of getting shot.

it didn’t register right away, not the pain, not the panic. just that noise in your ear like a fire alarm pressed against your brain.

your body caught up. your arm felt wrong: numb and heavy. the pain wasn’t strong at first, but faint. like when your foot falls asleep, except worse. this wasn’t just tingling: it burned. as if thousands of tiny ants chewed just beneath the surface of your flesh, each bite lighting up your nerves in waves. you wanted to move, to breathe, to scream, but every motion set off a new gush of torture.

you stayed still, not out of strategy but because moving felt like it would break you.

your vision began to blur, slipping sideways. everything lost its harshness, like the lens of your life was fogging over. it was like someone handed you a pair of glasses, but not before smearing the lenses with their breath, leaving you to peer through a blur that only made everything harder to see.

you blinked hard, tried to focus, and that’s when you saw jenny. her face hovered above you, twisted with panic, lips moving, but her voice was muffled. it was like she was yelling at you from underwater, as if you were floating somewhere just beneath the surface and she was sinking fast, too far to reach. you tried to ask when did i fall? but the words wouldn’t come. you hadn’t even realized you were on the ground until you saw the dirt against your cheek, the grass pressed under your arm, blood soaking into the soil.

when had that happened? when had jenny knelt beside you? when had two strangers appeared behind her, standing over you both? were they the ones who pulled the trigger? were they the ones who'd been silently watching?

your heart raced, but your limbs stayed heavy, body sluggish and sinking further into the dirt like it was swallowing you whole. consciousness pulled at you, tried to keep you tethered, but it was getting harder to resist the exhaustion creeping into your bones. you wanted to say something, to tell jenny you were okay, or at least that you would be.

that you just needed a second to close your eyes. just a second. but your mouth wouldn’t move. your body was no longer listening. still, as the edges of your vision turned to shadow, you managed to latch onto one thought: maybe this’ll teach her to tie her damn shoes on time.

you could feel the grin trying to form on your lips, the muscles barely twitching. but the darkness came too fast, like a surge crashing over your head. and then your eyes closed. entirely.

“NO! YOU KILLED HER! I SWEAR TO GOD—just wait until aiden hears about this!” the words cracked through the mushiness in your mind like thunder. you were barely conscious, your body heavy and uncooperative, your eyes glued shut as if someone had stitched them closed.

another voice cut in: “awww, you hear that, malfoy? we found you a sister for life in the apocalypse. that’s what it does to us, it brings people together.” there was a collective groan and a smack, the sound of palm on skin. you didn’t have to see it to know someone had slapped him, probably to shut him up.

a new voice speaks, however, more serious: “enzo, take everyone else and let the motherfuckers who actually know what they’re doing handle this. your jokes aren’t needed right now. this is serious.”

you weren’t even fully awake and they were already arguing. you blinked slowly, eyes dragging open. the light stung. everything was washed in a strange way: shapes moved in front of you, doodles you couldn’t quite place yet. one… two… maybe four people passed by and slipped through the doorway. you watched them leave, not entirely sure if you were dreaming.

am i dead?

it seemed like a fair question. for a second, you really believed it, believed maybe you had finally died, and this was the waiting room to something else. maybe god, or whatever version of him still existed, had decided to scoop you up in some moment of mercy. maybe this was what peace looked like. but then your vision cleared just enough, and you saw jenny. she was crouched beside you, hair a mess, face smudged with dirt, but her smile was wide and bright and absolutely real. her eyes welled with tears the second she saw you blinking.

“you’re alive!” she gasped, then launched forward without hesitation, wrapping her arms tightly around you.

yeah. sadly, you were still alive. the aching in your body proved it, especially in your right arm: you turned your head, just barely, and caught sight of the bandages. they’d dug the bullet out. a dark stain had bled through the dressing already, but the wound was wrapped in clean cloth and held in place with medical tape. someone had done their best to patch you up.

“okay, steady on the hug…” you managed to croak, grimacing slightly as jenny squeezed a little too hard around your shoulder. she pulled back, brushing a tear off her cheek and giving you a sheepish smile.

you adjusted your weight slightly on the bed, or what felt like a bed, though it was probably just a mattress on the floor. either way, you finally noticed there was someone else still in the room.

he stood leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. his hair was a mess of dark curls that looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. his skin was tan, jaw shadowed with scruff, and his eyes, all deep and chocolate brown, locked onto yours the second you looked at him.

he had a few scars on his face, one across his cheekbone and another slicing just under his lip. but they didn’t take away from his looks. god no, if anything, they added to them.

your lips parted slightly, without realizing it. it had been months, maybe longer, since you’d seen anyone who looked like that.

fuck, you thought, how is anyone allowed to look like that in the middle of the goddamn apocalypse? beside you, jenny let out a knowing whisper. “oh, please.” you blinked, eyes still locked on him, barely able to look away. she leaned in, her words like ice slicing through your dazed admiration. “he’s the one who shot you, for fuck’s sake.”

your entire body tensed. the softness in your expression vanished. “what?” you hissed, turning to her, your voice suddenly harsh despite the weakness in your limbs. your gaze snapped back to him. the butterflies in your stomach were instantly replaced by confusion. “him?” you whispered, more to yourself than to her, but the poison in your tone was impossible to miss. the stranger didn’t flinch, didn’t move from the wall. he just watched you, like he was expecting a reaction. maybe even welcoming it.

your nose flares slightly as the heat rose to your cheeks had nothing to do with attraction anymore. you hadn’t seen who shot you, everything had gone numb the second the bullet tore into your flesh, but now, with that crashing into you like a second blow, it made sense.

“yes!” jenny hissed, just inches from your ear. “asshole had me thinking you were dead! he told everyone to leave the room while he took the bullet out, like he was the only one qualified or something.”

you blinked at her, trying to process the image of him: the guy leaning against the wall like he didn’t just put a hole through your arm, digging around inside you like some back alley surgeon.

jenny looked flustered, her hands fluttering slightly in her lap like she didn’t know what to do with them. you could just picture the awkwardness of it all too: the silence, her pacing in the hallway outside, trying to peer through cracks in the door without looking like she cared too much. the thought struck you then: even after all this time, after all the fire and blood and chaos, jenny was still jenny.

still shy.

still the girl you and aiden had found trembling in a collapsed drugstore two towns over, clutching a crowbar like it would keep her safe from the world. you’d dragged her out, literally, when she refused to move, and even after saving her life, she’d barely spoken above a whisper for weeks. she was scared back then, like a deer always on the edge of bolting. and while she’d grown tougher since — who hadn’t? that softness never quite left her.

actually, now that you thought about it, this was probably the most she’d ever spoken in one go.

your brow furrowed. “wait, he took out the bullet?” you whispered, eyes flicking back toward the guy. “and you let him? after he shot me?!”

your voice rose just slightly at the end, the outrage slipping through the pain. jenny winced and quickly leaned closer, trying to shush you, though her expression said she wasn’t exactly proud of the decision either. “what was i supposed to do?!” she snapped under her breath. “i panicked! there was blood everywhere, and you were unconscious, they were the only people nearby with supplies and actual hands that weren’t shaking!” she exhaled hard, brushing her bangs out of her face. “sorry for immediately saying yes to the first people who offered help, i didn’thave time to interview anyone!”

you opened your mouth to argue, something about loyalty, about how if the situation were reversed you would’ve found a way to treat her yourself, how you wouldn’t trust the person who pulled the trigger to also be the one digging around inside her. but the words didn’t come.

because truthfully… she wasn’t wrong.

if she hadn’t accepted their help, you’d probably be dead. you could still feel how close it had been, your body limp, heat draining from your skin, the ringing in your ears like someone had flipped the switch on your life and you were slipping away. and someone, apparently him, had brought you back.

you swallowed, shifting your gaze again to the guy in the corner. he hadn’t moved. just stood there, watching the two of you, like he already knew what you were saying and didn’t feel the need to defend himself. you let out a slow breath, your anger simmering into something more conflicted. still frustrated. still sore — literally and figuratively.

but also… aware that you owed your life to the same person who nearly took it.

“i’m still mad,” you muttered to jenny. “yeah,” she said, nodding. “but at least you’re alive to be mad.” touché.

the room calmed into silence. you and jenny both sat there, quiet now, until you remembered one important detail: he was still in the room.“done talking like i’m not standing right here?” the guy asked. of course he had to have a sharp mouth. you resisted the urge to roll your eyes, but barely. “you shot me,” you said flatly, staring him down like that single fact was all the conversation needed.

mattheo exhaled slowly through his nose and gave you a small nod. “yeah. i apologize.”

“it hurts,” you added, as if he somehow hadn’t figured that part out yet. “that tends to happen when you’ve just been shot, yeah.” he replied without missing a beat. the delivery was so quick, that jenny almost let out a tiny puff of air, on the edge of a laugh, but she clamped it down fast when she caught the way your eyes flicked toward her.

you turned your attention back to mattheo, your stare narrowing. “what happens if i were to shoot you back then, hm?” you asked. “i’d ask what we are afterward,” he said casually. you didn’t know what pissed you off more, the fact that he had an answer ready, or the fact that you had no response. your mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. just silence. first time in a long time that words failed you.

so instead, you said, “where’s my gun?” your eyes swept the room again, still no sign of it. the place was nicer than you expected, all things considered. worn wooden floors, patched up windows, an actual bed beneath you. someone had taken the time to make it feel lived in, not just survived in.

“why?” he asked, a slight curve tugging at the corner of his lips, somewhere between a smirk and a challenge. “gonna shoot me back for payback?” you shook your head slowly. “i’m not you. am i?”

that wiped the smirk off his face. just for a second. his jaw shifted like he was grinding down a reaction, then he huffed and looked away, giving you the smallest of nods.

“my friends are keeping it safe,” he said.

“safe,” you repeated, the word rolling around your mouth with a bitter taste. safe from what? or more like, from who? you didn’t like not having it. you didn’t like the idea of being unarmed when daisy and the rest of the group were likely still tracking your last location, probably thinking you’d be dead.

you glanced over at jenny. “get it back. we’re leaving soon.” she gave a hesitant nod and started moving toward the door, already on her feet when his voice stopped her.

“you can’t leave,” he said, stepping forward. “your injury is bad. you need to let it heal.”

the audacity. the absolute audacity of him to stand there like some self assigned officer, telling you that you couldn’t leave, after he’d been the reason you were bleeding in the first place. it lit something under your skin, that frustration that had nothing to do with the wound in your arm.

“as if we’re staying here. with you,” you pushed yourself up, trying to swing your legs off the edge of the bed. but the second you shifted your weight, a bolt of pain shot through your shoulder, slicing down your side and stealing the breath from your lungs.

with a low hiss, you collapsed back against the mattress, your arm pulsing, teeth clenched to keep from cursing out loud. mattheo shrugged a little as if he expected that exact outcome. “i don’t like the idea either, trust me,” he said. “but pansy insisted. especially after… well. shooting you. she's a stickler for cleaning up after our messes.”

“pansy?”

“she’s our friend,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “and the closest thing to a medic this group has.” so there’s a girl, you thought, who feels bad for what her dumbass friend did. you didn’t know her, but you could already picture her: someone helpful, definitely fed up with the ones around her.

and honestly, the idea of meeting another woman out here who didn’t want to shoot you, steal your supplies, or abandon you sounded… kind of nice.

and god, it had been so long since you’d felt the softness of a real mattress under you. a creaky one, sure. but it was so soft, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laid on anything that didn’t have rocks or dirt digging into your back. “fine,” you muttered, your pride still bruised. “but we’re with another group. they’re going to worry. we need to let them know we’re safe.” you almost choked on that last word. safe. what a joke.

he gave a small nod. “just tell us where. my friends can go find them, deliver the message. meanwhile, you stay here—with me and pansy.”

you tightened your eyes at him, studying the way he leaned against the wall like none of this was a big deal. “why aren’t you going?” you asked. “what if they see a walker? you’ve got good aim. maybe you’ll shoot them on purpose this time.”

he smirked at that, tilting his head like he was trying not to look too amused. “i’m the only one who knows how to handle a wound like yours. what if you start bleeding again? who’s gonna be here to lick it off for a second time?”

your eyes widened instantly, a wave of disbelief crossing your face so fast it made him chuckle. jenny had been standing awkwardly by the door, rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “he’s fucking with you,” she muttered, glancing between the two of you like she was mentally preparing to referee a second gunfight.

the two of you didn’t even spare her a glance, just locked in a stare so intense, she couldn’t tell if you were seconds away from tearing each other apart… or tearing each other’s clothes off. honestly, she wasn’t sure if it was a glare or a full-blown eye-fuck.

“whatever,” jenny said, finally stepping forward. “i’ll go. i’ll show them where the group is.” you didn’t argue. it made sense. you weren’t exactly in running shape, and despite how much you didn’t trust the guy, you really didn’t trust him around daisy and the others. not with that mouth. jenny put her hand on the doorframe, hesitating just long enough to toss a final look over her shoulder. “try not to shoot each other, okay?”

[twisted-dork]

Batfam x Spider-Man Crossover But With a Twist?

OKAY, so I’ve been reading if Peter Parker was in Gotham (most notably the ones where Dick Grayson is his bio dad) and I also went to TikTok to scroll through some of the skits which are mostly him in the Lazarus Pits when it hit me

What if (MCU) May Parker was the one to come out of the Pits and is now protecting her Meta nephew or she was able to survive NWH and goes (tells Strange and Peter off for even thinking she would let Peter do this alone) with Peter to another dimension where Spider-Man doesn’t exist but she inherits Peter Spider DNA from either the transportation of going to a new dimension, Peter donating his blood to save her from dying, or simply because the universe thought that would be fun.

+Image she and Peter got de-aged to 20’s and 5-8 years old so now she is looked as a single mother

(I’m going with the second idea cause I thought of it more later on but anyway’s)

So now she’s got to take care of little Peter while also dealing with the fact that she’s now Spider-(Wo)man (and even though May Parker as Spider-Man is Spider-Ma’am I feel like she would go by Spider-Mayhem solely because Peter came up with because he never really got to choose it and he just came up with it off the top of his head and she was like okay) at least she’s not the one and only Spider-(Wo)man but now she’s got to deal with a kid crawling on walls for fun.

To make it even better can you imagine that before she made herself known as Spider-Mayhem or realizes that she now also has spider abilities Peter gets kidnapped by The Joker (cause of Parker Luck) and Aunt May (now younger but still protective) was not going to let that slide finds out where Joker and Peter are and starts beating the sh*t out of Joker with a baseball bat (that randomly got off the streets and the bat was so far the safest option that led her to question why the street filled with so many weapons?) while all the Joker’s goons do is watch because Aunt May most definitely have the Mom Glare and if the goons know one thing is if a mom cares enough about her kid to go after THE JOKER of all villains and doesn’t seem to care if she’s caught then she’s a woman they are not fighting. So Aunt May beats the Joker up until he’s immobile (paralyzed) Peter is just sitting in the chair tied up sighing as he shakes his head he did try to warn the guy because while Spider-Man doesn’t kill, Aunt May would kill for Peter especially since he’s all she has left (of Ben). When May is done with the Joker she unties her nephew and picks him up to sit on her hip before leaving she kicks Joker where the sun don’t shine and then makes her way off.

The next day she was able to go to work at Gotham’s Library which surprisingly had good pay that she hopes Peter will be able to go to school soon and maybe she might be able to get her soup kitchen running again or at least help some of these people out a bit more. As she’s stacking books back on the shelves (with little Peter holding the next book as he follows her around to help) she notices that a tall man keeps staring at her but whenever she looks back at him he looks back at his book embarrassed. She only chuckles at him before continuing her work but she was able to see the white strands of hair in front and his green eyes.

Masterlist

[berriblossom]

Devotion - Childe

☆| Helloooo, another sagau fic! Liking these atm, read warnings below!|

☆| WARNING| male masturbation, semi-smut (not really just tartag jacking off), religious themes, obsessed devotion, reader is reffered to as a holy elder/ ancient god in teyvat AKA "The Great Divine", MDNI, ALL WORK AND CHARACTERS PROTRAYALS ARE FICTIONAL! Enjoy yaaay!|

Holy divinity was different for many people. Specifically in his homeland of Snezhnaya, the way the cryo archon and the fatui worshipped the elder god of this land, was through trials of hardship and sacrifice. Not by human life but more so in spirit. Tartaglia remembers before he fell into the abyss, he remembers how his parents would take him to the capital of the nation as people handed out hot mule, carts of candies, soups, and strict coupons from the Northland Bank as a way to get more people into debt. Ah sweet times he remembers, but specifically the core of this memory and why he wanted to grow strong in the first place was the military parade, led under the first Fatui Harbinger, Capitano, or the Captain.

How the soldiers and men under such an esteemed figure, followed his order, chanting prayers of absolute dedication and power given to her lady the Tsaritsa and the Great Divine. How they held onto their weapons and raised them in the air, promising victory in their journey, for they won't falter in this promise, and how this promise to their benevolent gods was a sign of pure devotion and strength. As a young boy watching this with eyes of life and joy, Ajax made a promise to himself that day at the small celebration, that he too would lay his life for not only the cryo archon but now his devoted and beloved Divine diety.

Ajax entered the now vacant temple hall. At the moment he had returned to his homeland for a banquet held by the Regretor for the honor of bringing home another gnosis in the name of the Cryo archon. However, he left the party early, a rare sign for the youngest harbinger. Usually, some would suspect the adrenaline-driven young man to be bursting with energy at large gathering and times to show of himself. But unlike an actual party, Fatui Banquets aren't about celebration, but rather politics and money. Something despite his position wasn't something he felt interest in. Just for him to be reminded of the greed and personal gain each of his fellow members had for themselves, so silently he left. Ajax sat on a temple pew, your frosted statue standing at the top of the hall, sat atop a small stage with a chair beside it, representing the Tsaritsa as she would sit or stand beside you in glory at your fated return to Teyvat. Ajax sat on the step underneath your statue, the air was cold, his breath coming in small pants, cheeks blushed as the usual bite of the cold nibbled on his features. But his eyes remained on your statue, focused and unchanging.

Silently, Ajax wondered what the feeling your benevolent gaze had on him. He remembered that even his master, Skirk mentioned casually that despite your benevolence to humankind, you were in fact a being of havoc and destruction, it was that you chose to keep humans, mortals, and immortals out of said fury, and wrath out of your kindness. Hearing that at a young age, made Ajax double his promise to you, that he would lay his life for you, even fight for you. Hell if needed he would betray his fellow harbingers for you and the cryo archon, without a split second to rethink the decision. Even as he travels for work and missions handed to him by the Tsaritsa, he carries a small page of scripture for you, words from thousands of years ago spoken that still ring in his mind when he feels unsettled or disturbed and needs your guidance and love.

"For human life and soul is the building block of all things in this world, without it, I am nothing, and as nothing, I shall depend on the love my humans have created out of nothing to give for me, something. Human love is worth a thousand years in memory and gold."

Ajax no matter what the anxiety, fear, or even boredom that plagues his mind, he daydreams of the day you'd return. How in his wildest fantasies, he'd get to hold you, cherish you, worship you, kiss your feet, and hands, hold the strong hands and fingers that sculpted his entire being and blessed him for the victories in battle he as acquired and carry scars as if they were trophies.

His breathing in the cold temple hall stalls for a moment.

He looks up.

His eyes meet your stone-engraved ones. Closed as a warm smile is printed onto the marble statue, forever frozen in a warming embrace and careful tenderness. Ajax whimpers as he closes his eyes tightly shut, his hands grip into fists against the tile flooring, leaning over as he kneels under your stone gaze. He mumbles quietly.

Ajax's voice echoes as he feels the weight of his words hangs in the empty temple. The world feels like it is silent, for it feels like he is only here with your statue, your presence, your being. Pressure builds in the base of his spine, crawling up his sides like a flame, tingling and burning with passion, burning at his fingertips, the cold leaving a numbing feeling as his other hand stays on the cold tiled floor. The hand from his chest lowers as he swallows hard, his eyes fluttering open and close with each breath, and each touch he leaves, imagining it was you. His voice falters as his pleas grow silent but his soft noises echo louder.

"My grace...by the names given to you...my dear loving god...hear me.." His voice was hoarse as he shivered feeling what felt like warm air hit his clothed back. Covered in the official Fatui coat, Ajax's hands tighten as he releases his fist and lays his fingers flat on the floor, his voice picks up again in the cold room. Light only by a sole candle illuminating your stone-etched face. "My grace, hear my prayers, as your devoted soldier, I want... no need for your blessings, the gifts of life and victory you've given me have warmed my heart, have been so tender...I am grateful....however.."

Ajax sighs and as he feels another wisp of warm air hit his neck, shivering he brings his hand to his chest, flat as his heart beats steadily. "I want more than your power...my fellow harbingers wish for your dominion, wishing to be like the gods you've created and destroyed....I want..your love...your sole love..your divine love only for me...a sin it is to be ready my grace, but I plead..."

With the promise he made set in his heart, Ajax tumbled forward, his chest heaving, as he spilled warmth into his palm, his flesh flushed, heart pounding in his ears, the warm hands he imagined, the sensation was replaced with his rough scarred palm. He looks down at his hand, his face flushed but eerily calm. He sighs and pulls his gloves back on, not caring about the mess as he stands, his coat overhanging on his shoulders.

He bites off his glove, wanting to imagine a new sensation, a warm scarred hand is replaced by his fantasy, a hand he can't recognize but adores. His eyes water as his fantasies grow wild, your voice, he imagines surrounding him, asking him to explain his needs, how he wants you to love him. The hand slides down his toned abdomen, tickling at his ribs and chest, flicks of hydro swirling around his fingers as he whimpers again..

"Please..." His voice gave in, slowly hurling over, the hand he imagined dipped below his belt, tossing away the useless fabric, taking hold of his form, his breath quickens as the pace is slow, "as it should" he thinks in the back of his mind. It shouldn't be rushed...he whispers into his consciousness, it should be slow, careful, tender. With love, he moans into the cold room. The candle flickers in the cold wind, the wisp of warm air against his fingers as they stroke hypnotically, circling around his flesh as he bites down on his lip harshly. Fresh drops of blood drip into his throat, flowing slowly as he swallows some, delusionally believing it could be your blood into him, flowing into him he wishes.

He desperately wants everything of you, all of it. Even if it hurts, even if it killed him. Ajax was prepared for such a price for your love, depraved and unattached, he choked a struggled moan as he felt his body tense, he quickened his pace, his voice speaking in hushed prayer as he used the other hand to press against his neck. His moans begging.

"Please...please...give me it...all of it...my grace..... give-"

He looks at your statue.

A smile creeps onto his face the gloved fingers just used for pleasure, cup your sculpted face. His final whisper relayed before leaving the frozen temple.

"You will be mine...and I yours, my beloved divine and holy god."

☆|Oof, I made him a freakish ngl, anyways I hoped you enjoyed it!

_______________________________________________

[mediumsizedfountain]

It's been years, but I'm back on my Star Wars shit.

I think the thing I love most about Oshamir as a ship is how much of a female power fantasy it is, and the show unapologetically leans into that aspect.

Like, Qimir as an undeniably powerful and dangerous man, but he very rapidly started shifting into the more submissive person in the relationship.

He's not a tyrant or a fascist or a warlord or anything like that which could be triggering and icky. He's a lone wolf committed to his own freedom and making his own path as he sees fit. He's a killer, but only when those deaths either protect/defend his freedom and independence, or advance the cause of his power and his personal journey.

HOWEVER, bro is also clearly lonely and touch starved, and willing to take on fake personas in order to find something resembling friendship.

This is where the female power fantasy comes in.

The minute he meets Osha, he's so immediately taken with her that he drops his fake persona and nearly reveals himself. Then when he is ready to kill everyone else to protect himself, he goes out of his way to avoid killing Osha, flirts with her mid battle, keeps checking that she's paying attention when he's talking. The man is crushing on her big time. He even seems impressed every time she fights against him.

By the end of the battle, when he finds her unconscious in the forest, our boy is already halfway in love.

What better power fantasy could there be? Not only does the most deadly man in the galaxy not want to hurt her, but he's totally smitten when all she's done is point weapons at him.

The fantasy only gets more intoxicating from there. Not only does he tuck her into bed and tend her wound, this guy COOKS HER SOUP and respectfully sets up his makeshift bed across the room.

From the moment she picks up his lightsaber, Osha starts losing her fear of him, because it's obvious this dweeb is just peacocking by showing off his nice body and his artfully arranged tendrils of hair and flirting non stop.

The way he literally puts his life in her hands and remains unflinchingly honest and straightforward with her while helping her work through her complicated emotions is only icing on the cake. Not to mention he keeps inviting her to join him, but every time she rejects him he just quietly pouts and respectfully backs down.

I'm not going into detail about how he follows her around like a devoted puppy for the rest of the season while also respecting her personal boundaries.

The bottom line is: Leslye Headland created the ultimate female power fantasy by giving Osha an overpowered monster who instantly falls for her, willingly and eagerly defangs himself, devoted himself to her needs, and submits himself to her choices.

It's also perfectly clear that he can still transform into a monster, but now he's OSHA'S monster. And he's also Osha's biggest fanboy and her eager emotional support person.

Leslye just knows what the girlies like and served it up to us on a platter.

We are so fed. Now just hoping Disney has the guts to keep trying something new by giving us a second season.

[no-name-omo]

[A/N] first time posting

[Summary] Them having an crush

[genre] fluff / crush

[Pairing / Characters] Caesar x gn reader / Miyabi x gn reader

Caesar King

Ever since you began working at Cheesetopia, Caesar has been consistently eager to catch your attention, often going out of her way to find ways to get your notice and make a connection.

She feels truly at ease in your presence; greeting her with a warm smile every time she enters Cheesetopia, already having her ticket prepared for her order.

Whenever she notices a customer stepping out of line with you, she's quick to step in, fiercely defending her new favorite person because she simply can't tolerate anyone harassing you.

She makes it a priority to visit you every day to always inviting you to take a break and join her to share her latest adventures stories and tales of battles with rival gangs always with a playful and cheerful tone, moment of conversation.

"Of course I won!" she says with a cheeky smile, her confidence shining through. "I am Caesar King, after all—the leader of the Sons of Calydon." She chuckles, taking a bite of her food as she leans casually on the counter. When you casually mention that you'd love to see the leader of the Sons of Calydon in action as your tone was suggested, Caesar nearly chokes on her bite, her face flushing crimson. Caught off guard, she quickly catches her breath and says, "I would love to show you!"

Hoshimi Miyabi

As the newest member of Hollow Special Operations Section 6, you're known for always carrying snacks to keep the team energized during missions or between point A and point B, which naturally drew her attention and made her gravitate toward you.

At first, her interest was mainly because of the snacks, but over time, it grew into something more—she began to notice and appreciate how thoughtful you truly are.

Although she doesn't openly show it, she secretly feels a sense of joy whenever her fans start shipping you both, as it means they see something special in the connection you share. Or just think the two of you look good together

She always follows you around, calling it "training," though she never reveals what she's preparing for—yet you never mind, enjoying her company regardless. As she trains to get closer to you

“[Reader], let’s train,” Miyabi said, you accepted her request as you reached for your weapon. She paused after adding, “I’d like to go to Waterfall Soup on 6th Street. It was suggested by some friends.” For a moment, you were confused, but then it clicked—this was her unique way of training. You chuckled softly and nodded, agreeing to accompany her with her 'training', and she responded with a small, soft smile.

A/N: I'm new to this so if it's needed I would like to have some criticism

[cornerdreams-txt]

quick headcanons about the new characters in the bo6 crew :)

black ops 6 was phenomenal, btw. i loved it. please come talk to me about it. please. please. please. please. please. pl

★ william "case" calderon

— known to dissociate or space out frequently, but is easily pulled out of it. it's on his record, but it's never caused enough problems for command to really get concerned about it.

— fidgets with his holsters when he's on edge. it's too quiet, or he's waiting for something to happen, he'll rub his fingers against the leather of the straps, or catch his nail on the metal of the buckles, over and over again. even if the weapon inside, blade or gun, is already drawn.

— seems uneasy around smoke or fog, shifty eyes and a pinched brow, but whenever its brought up, he's confused. seems like he has no idea that air that's... thicker, maybe, is a good descriptor, seems to put him on edge.

— unbothered by bugs, snakes, and any kind of creepy-crawly. seems to enjoy them, if anything - helped handle spiders and other insects or pests that found their way into the safehouse. biting insects seem to love him, though - mosquitoes especially. probably a blood type thing, right?

— avid horror enjoyer. seems uneasy about human experimentation, though. him and woods both seem to dislike that kind of trope.

★ troy marshall

— art is a coping skill, and hobby, of sorts. he keeps a pocket sketchbook and a handful of pens in his pockets whenever he can so he can pull it out when the inspiration arises.

— the longer the group stayed in the safehouse, the more that sketchbook filled up with portraits and still life sketches. people, interactions, architecture, sunrises, scenery. memories, ones troy couldn't help but want to capture.

— definitely a motorcyclist. did you see how he handled that bike with case on the back of it? that was NOT this man's first rodeo. 110% has a motorbike of his own. his biker jackets cycle in and out of his daily wardrobe at seemingly random.

— terrible cook. cannot make complex dishes to save his life. can follow instructions, sure, and makes a damn good sandwhich, but do not trust him to make soup or anything of the sort from scratch.

— ...isn't terrible at cooking meat, though. says he learned how to grill from his parents, but didn't really give the team many chances to see for themselves.

— seems to almost act as an older brother figure to the team instinctively. based on how he responds to jokes about him being a mother hen, it doesn't seem like he realizes he does it. (it is welcome, though. the compassion is nice, in such a harsh field)

★ sevati dumas

— very task oriented. you give her a goal and the right motivation, and she'll do it. very very headstrong, though. doesn't like taking orders unless compensated properly.

— food motivated. loves a good savory dish. enjoys exploring other cultures through that. but, no, she will not accept food as payment. nice try.

— good at acting lax and unbothered, but does, in fact, care very deeply. she's empathetic, but forces herself not to show it. she's had that be taken advantage of once, and she refuses to let that happen again.

— very reluctant to get attached or form connections to others, see her admitting she's only with the team until she gets paid. but she still hangs around felix, and she still tries to talk to troy when harrow's fellowship with the pantheon was unveiled. seems like she's not perfect when it comes to avoiding getting attached, is she?

— vibes only but like. i feel like she wants a little sibling. she wants someone she can take care of. she wants to be a good family member to someone, but having a child... no. she refuses to be a mother. she doesn't want to be a wife. she wants to be her own person. (she'd make a great godmother. or aunt. if she had the chance, and if she tried)

★ felix neumann

— if this man isn't autistic i am going to swallow a leather jacket whole like a snake. by the way. just sayin.

— the gloves were a paranoia result. they're metaphorical, sure, a reminder to himself not to harm anyone else, no taking another human life, but also a horrible, creeping paranoia eased in, of "what if they find your fingerprints," "what if you get blood on your hands again," "what if what if what if" until he could only ease it by wearing gloves. worked nicely, in the end. taking them off was... cathartic. to say the least.

— probably an anarchist? the vibes are there. hates society. hates government. wants to dismantle it all and start from scratch. that's the vibe.

— you... my special little man, get the nature autism. this guy can go on for hours and hours about the critters case finds around the safehouse, and case listens attentively and happily. also fantastic at foraging, has dozens of safe-to-eat and unsafe-to-eat plants stored away in his brain, and can rattle off the facts at a moment's notice.

— not the best hunter, but is, amusingly, better with a bow when it comes to hunting than he is with a gun.

— would code simple video games (think similar vibes to the chrome dinosaur game) to play for fun if he got bored enough. good thing he's excellent at finding things to distract himself with, no?

★ jane harrow

— photography lover. not fantastic about herself, but she'll sit and analyze photos taken by others for minutes on end, noting all the little details captured by a camera lense freezing the moment in time.

— does the same with drawn art. paint, sketch, whatever, she'll sit and analyze every little detail she can and point it all out. she loves noticing the details. calling attention to them. letting the artist know, if she can, that she sees all the effort they put into their work.

— her guilty pleasure? window shopping for stuffed animals. always writes it off as being for her niece, or a friend's child, but she wants to collect them. there's something soft, precious, genuine and uncomplicated about plush toys. but she's an adult. she can't afford to be so childish.

— ...alongside the drawing troy made of her, she still also keeps the little teddy bear he insisted on buying for her as a thank you gift, once. but that one isn't in her office. she hides it, away from prying eyes.

— mildly claustrophobic. she can push through it, and she will, when it comes to what her job demands of her, but she likes to avoid enclosed spaces when she can get away with it. it's... easier. feels less like being cornered. (she dances around the real reason she hates it. she never wants to be stuck hiding in a closet, or tucked under a little girl's bed ever, ever again.)

[kanalynn]

Killua x Lishu! reader headcanons

characters: Killua Zoldyck

based on: reader is based on lady Lishu (The Apothecary Diaries)

summary: headcanons of Killua's relationship with Lishu! [Name] - a little naive, but sincere and kind fourteen-year-old girl, former imperial concubine who, after being deprived of her position, began to travel, wanting to see the world.

author's note:

• English is NOT my first language;

• May contain OOC;

• Do not copy or steal my works !!

• Killua most likely met [Name] while traveling with Alluka.

• At first, she seemed like a spoiled and naive fool to Killua, who acted very recklessly. He considered her a typical daughter of a rich family, and tried to ignore her - but still, it seemed to him that there was something more to her...

• To his surprise, she very quickly managed to become friends with his sister, and showed a different side of herself - a compassionate and very kind girl who simply lacked experience communicating with people her own age.

• This made Killua soften towards her... but only a little! And anyway, it was not because she was so beautiful, kind and sweet... o-of course, it was not because he liked her! How stupid...

• Alluka noticed this first, and was delighted. She began to shamelessly pester him, wanting him to confess to [Name], began trying to bring them together... and it was very strange and embarrassing. Killua loved his little sister very much, but this whole situation was driving him crazy!

• In the end, when Alluka was no longer giving him a break with her questions, Killua decided that it was time to act! Gathering all his willpower, courage, and driving away thoughts of what would happen if [Name] rejected him, he resolutely went to her to confess!

• It was probably a little awkward... but [Name], although very, very red and a little scared, was sincerely happy. She accepted his confession very passionately, since she felt the same way! Thus, what Alluka had been waiting for so long - the relationship between her older brother and her only friend - began!

• Killua probably sees [Name] as a fragile and delicate flower that needed protection... and that's basically true. She was never taught how to handle a weapon, and even though she knew nen (for some reason?), she didn't have enough experience using it, so in Killua's opinion, she needed someone who could take care of her... and he was willing to be that "someone" - Killua would do anything to keep [Name] safe.

• Along with her physical weakness, [Name] is unfortunately a bit naive and gullible... Of course, it's all due to her lack of experience in dealing with people - but now she's trying to be more suspicious. Although, probably considering that Killua will always protect and save her, she doesn't need to worry about it so much.

• Killua is surprisingly responsible about [Name]'s problems with certain foods due to allergies and near-death experiences. When he found out how many times she almost died because of some soup, fish, and even some damn honey, he was horrified and decided to be more careful about it...

• Despite her outward legitimacy and inner kindness, [Name] is a rather insecure girl. Sometimes, she honestly doesn't understand how someone like Killua could fall in love with someone like her - a pathetic and weak gullible fool... Killua doesn't understand at all where she found something in herself that fits this description and tells her so directly. He's not that good at consoling... but he will learn.

• [Name] will probably be unsure about whether she should tell Killua about her past... she trusts him, but this topic... who knows how he will react to the news that she was a concubine and to two emperors at that? Will he find it terribly indecent and disgusting? She didn't want to lose Killua, she really loved him! In the end, deciding that hiding such a thing from the one she loved, who told her about his own complicated past, would be disgusting, [Name] still decided to do it.

• Killua was shocked. [Name], his girlfriend, was once... a concubine? First one emperor, then another... and even though they didn't do anything to her, one of them really wanted to... Wanted to do it to her, a defenseless little girl...

• Killua was fucking furious. It took him a lot of time and talking to [Name] to come to terms with the circumstances of her past. He was angry at [Name's] family for intentionally giving her to the palace knowing what would happen to her, at the previous emperor who wanted to encroach on a little girl, at her stupid ladies-in-waiting who mocked her...

• Oh, it's better not to talk about the ladies-in-waiting at all. Once Killua found out that [Name] was openly bullied by them, taking advantage of her trust and position, shaming her, even replacing her dishes, posing a threat to her health... each of these women who treated his girlfriend like that became his personal enemy. Unlike her family and the previous emperor, they were still alive, and he could have taken it out on them... but [Name], who was too kind and forgiving, talked him out of it. Or rather...

• [Name], of course, also told Killua about Ah-Duo, the former concubine who was like a mother to her... Listening to his girlfriend tell him about this amazing woman, Killua couldn't help but feel respect and gratitude for her protecting [Name]. If [Name] ever found Ah-Duo again, she would introduce her to Killua without hesitation. Perhaps the woman would be a bit distrustful of him at first... but after realizing how much he truly cared for [Name], her attitude towards him would change for the better. Who knows, maybe Ah-Duo would see him as her child...

• Killua tried his best to prevent, or at least delay, [Name] from meeting his family other than Alluka, but he knew it would happen one day. And when it did... it wasn't quite how he expected.

• His father was mostly indifferent to the news of his girlfriend, but he did meet her a couple of times. Zeno, his grandfather, seemed pretty indifferent too... but then, somehow, he was able to find common ground with [Name] and they seemed to get along. His mother was nearly hysterical when she found out he had a girlfriend, but when she met [Name] in person, she was completely charmed by "this sweet and beautiful girl" - she was especially well-received by her after learning about her past some time later - Kikyo was almost horrified and immediately wanted to punish everyone involved in [Name's] suffering, but the girl talked her out of it with great effort.

• Kalluto also treated [Name] with some disdain at first but soon became completely enamored with her. Milluki mostly doesn't care, but being himself, he'd like to somehow ruin her life... but of course, Killua would never allow that. Illumi... doesn't seem to care, but he'd be pretty disappointed to realize that [Name] is basically nothing, not a fighter or a strong nen user. He changed his opinion when he found out she got along with Alluka and Nanika... but he still doesn't know how to communicate with her.

• The ruthless hunter and former assassin Zoldyck and his sweet, slightly naive girlfriend who used to be the Emperor's concubine is a surprising dynamic that doesn't seem to fit with someone like Killua. He honestly doesn't care. He truly loves [Name] for who she is - not a fighter, not an assassin, not a hunter - but simply a sincere, kind and compassionate girl who had her own difficult past.

[ironmandeficiency]

the fellowship + romance

characters included: aragorn, boromir, gimli, legolas, pippin

word count: 1177

summary: just some soft shit bc these men are all sappier than any tree in the greenwood

a/n: there’s still an overwhelming lack of gimli content that needs to be fixed and i will do my part

aragorn 🗡️

aragorn’s quiet presence is the warmest blanket on a cold night, the first bite of a meal you slaved over for hours, every comfort you’ve ever experienced

he’s never been one for overwhelming displays of his affections; instead, he shows you in simple ways that add up - giving you the more full bowls of broth, laying his blanket over you if he notices you shivering during night watch, sharpening your weapons (this one had gimli nearly brought to tears by the devotion it spoke of), anything that helps your days pass easier

he grew up around stories of elves who committed astounding feats in the name of those they loved, fighting wars and risking their lives with alarming frequency. but none of them ever talked about the everyday ways they showed love. his mother taught him what she could about those things, stories of his father’s steady presence and stalwart love for his family. a young aragorn took these lessons to heart and used them when the time was right

it was why, when he caught his heart skipping beats around you, he let his actions do the speaking for him. without fail you would thank him with a soft smile, slowly coming to realize that aragorn felt something much deeper for you than camaraderie. when you woke up early one morning to find your weapons sharper than they were the day before (not for the first time), you went straight to aragorn and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. he nearly dropped your bowl of stew in his flustered state

having your affections secured didn’t mean he stopped his small acts of kindness, it did quite the opposite. it just made him bolder and more confident in his actions

boromir 🍻

this man is so damn tactile it’s ridiculous

if you’re the cuddly type like he is, it makes him all the more eager to always have some form of physical contact with you, no matter where you may be

unless you tell him to back off, he is always touching you one way or another. a gentle hand on the small of your back, your pinkies interlocked, an arm wrapped around your shoulder, anything to keep you close to him

his favorite time of day eventually becomes the end of it, because that’s when he can hold you close and whisper soft words of love in your ear while he holds you. he makes it his goal to give you a goodnight kiss every night you spend together

the best cuddle position in his mind is you leaning your back against his chest, one of his hands resting on your hip where his thumb rubs small circles above the bone, and his chin resting on your shoulder just right to where he can turn his head to kiss your cheek or burrow his face into your neck

gimli 🛡️

valiantly is the best way to describe how gimli approaches any situation he comes upon, including (and especially) matters of the heart

this is a dwarf who says what he means & means what he says, who does nothing that he wouldn’t be proud of the next day. because of this, you couldn’t find it in you to not believe him when he professed his love for you with such unwavering confidence you were nearly brought to tears. gimli never said anything just because his lips could move so you simply had to believe him

will do you favors big and small simply because he wants to help you however possible. you can’t remember the last time you carried your own pack or made your own bowl of soup. if you encouraged him (which you wouldn’t), this romantic fool would not let you lift another finger for as long as you both live

he grew up watching his parents with keen eyes, his adad showing him by example how a true dwarf treats their one. he embodies these lessons with every interaction with you, striving to be the one you deserve him to be. it ranges from the ferocity of his protection to opening doors for you. may mahal strike him down if he ever hurts you

he just wants to be a dwarf you’re proud to love, proud to call yours

legolas 🏹

physical affection can be difficult for him, but one thing legolas is good at doing is speaking his mind and his heart

if you thought his regular speaking pattern was overflowing with poetic descriptors, you’ve heard nothing compared to when he’s being truly romantic. no one you’d been with before had ever described you with such beautiful prose, never whispered soft poetry about your eyes to lull you to sleep

and he’s a cheeky bastard about it too! it’ll be a regular conversation between friends, nothing important, then BAM! he’s making quippy one-liners about your overwhelming skill/beauty/personality that catch you off guard and has your friends cackling at your flustered reaction to his flattery

even better, his praise will often include sindarin and on the off chance you don’t speak it, you’ll have to gauge the meaning from the silent looks shared between your dear elf and aragorn (doesn’t really work). eventually legolas tells you what some of them mean; after all, he needs to have an element of intrigue about him or his name isn’t legolas thranduillion

he carries a lot of pride for you and will brag about you to anyone who listens, his melleth being one of unparalleled skill and beauty and bright laughter that carries his soul on great wings

pippin 🥕

his already strong need to be silly and foolish grows exponentially when he finds out how happy it makes you

pip doesn’t care what it is you ask of him, he will do anything to hear your laugh. he’ll put baby carrots in his nostrils, respond to conversations exclusively in farm animal noises, he will even do his spot-on impressions of the rest of the fellowship and make them say all sorts of silly things

the best one to date is him doing an aragorn impression that consists of all the different ways he says legolas’s name

you’ve never heard such astounding colloquialisms from anyone until you met pippin - “don’t eat half the berries and say the pie shell’s too big,” “his cornbread isn’t done in the middle,” “if brains were leather, he wouldn't have enough to saddle a junebug” - and each time he says one, there’s always a not-so-subtle look to you so he can see your reaction. the ones that get the most laughs are used a little bit more, just enough to not lose their appeal but enough to hear your laughter all the more often

there is a single-minded determination to hear your snort when you laugh at something he says, and he will not rest until you do. his personal goal to do this resets each time you do actually snort, him now aiming for the next joke or prank that will bring it out again

[that-hazbin]

Media Demon AU

Vaggie would be even more conflicted when she falls, imagine she gets her wings ripped off by Lute, same reason and Charlie finds her and takes her to a actual Sinner hospital.

Now I can't understand Pride Ring having a hospital at all in the Canon verse. The sheer variety of demon physiology makes such a thing as surgical medical care near impossible to practice. Sinner Demon doctors would have to have started out as vets to be able to adapt to the vast variety of pseudo species that appear every day.

They probably wouldn't be able to identify Vaggie as a Exorcist via her golden blood because no one knows Exorcists can bleed yet! (so sickfic away with Charlie handfeeding Vaggie various cultural get better foods until she finds one that works)

In this AU I'd assume any medical progress would hinge solely in the research of Angelic Steel and reversing the damage the metal causes so if the sinner dies they won't be smited. Carmine making a mint in money and hero worship from Hell's sinner demons for saving their lives.

Imagine Vaggie with Charlie in the waiting room as the doctors hurry about full triage mode treating angelic steel injuries. Crying children who have just been orphaned being comforted, (and oh Vaggie feels the guilt as she realises the unbaptised? children in hell aren't exceptions or mistakes to the extent that hell has Child Protection Services and adoption agencies out of nessesity) Broadcasts on the TV with lists of the confirmed dead and interviews with the afflicted in damaged areas as if the Exorcists were a indiscriminate natural disaster like a Earthquake or Tsunami instead of heaven mandated duty, radio broadcasts warning of damaged infrastructure and guiding people to relief centers and soup kitchens.

Then the next thing Vaggie knows is the doctors are sympathetically informing her that her wings have 50/50 chance of regrowing and talking about similar wing mutilation cases at the hands of Exorcists and warning her to avoid dying to reform fully healed as she risks permanent double death with the angelic steel contamination in her and Vaggie just feels sick..

Vaggie would definitely be less open about carrying a Exorcist spear and probably just get a normal one for defense purposes for one, threatening people with double death seems a bit extreme.

Because these demons are people too.

OOOOO oh my GOSH this actually gives me so many ideas. First of all, LOVE the idea that Hell is in a good place to actually study angelic steel and possibly treat angelic wounds, even the most serious ones. On one hand, Carmilla might lose business, but on the other hand, she is ALSO an overlord who owns a LOT of souls and doesn't want to lose any of them. Not to mention, Hell has changed so dramatically that the weapon industry isn't as lucrative as it was in the past— but medical equipment, security, and, funnily enough, instruments are a much more profitable venture now. So it wouldn't be farfetched for her to turn her business towards reforging angelic steel for other purposes, and funding medical research with the intent of uplifting her medical equipment profits. It benefits people while also making her bank, AND increasing the odds of keeping her daughters safe in the case that shit goes tits up during an extermination. (Not to mention that the hero worship definitely helps her out.)

I also really love the idea that television and radio is being used here to both warn the population of damaged areas, and informing the public of the death toll. I imagine the entire Pride Ring just dead silent as a news reporter reads through the confirmed casualties, individuals desperately hoping not to hear a name they recognize. There would definitely be Missing Persons reports as well for anyone whose body isn't accounted for. It would absolutely be treated the same way a natural disaster would, but it's routine.

As for Vaggie... OOOO boy. Imagine if Vaggie doesn't meet Princess of Hell Charlie, but instead meets DISGUISED CHARLIE.

The royal family is still not seen in an all too good light, what with the ongoing exterminations, so Charlie goes out mostly in her half-imp persona, having long learned how to do the spell herself after meeting Alastor. It's easier for her to help out the injured when they aren't hung up on their resentment of the monarchy, so it makes sense for her to be out in disguise. Then she meets Vaggie, who's lost a lot of blood, and helps guide her to the hospital.

Vaggie would definitely be unnerved by... everything about Hell. During the extermination, you don't really have the luxury or mindset to think about where you are and what you're doing. You're a tool meant to accomplish a task, only following orders. Vaggie breaks out of the mindset when she's face-to-face with a child who is cowering, cornered and shaking with sobs. She actually stops, thinks, and is like "Woah okay, this is fucked. No thank you." Suddenly the demon isn't a faceless number, that is a child. And before she even gets to process this, Lute comes in, takes out her eye, rips out her wings, steals her halo, and leaves her to bleed out in Hell.

And now Vaggie really doesn't have the time to think about anything, because she is stranded and very possibly dying.

When she's safe in a hospital, with a kind and caring woman by her side, she's going to start feeling safe enough to start processing everything. And yeah, the guilt is going to hit her like a fucking truck. It's going to hit her way harder than it would in canon, because this version of Hell makes it IMMEDIATELY clear that people aren't black and white. Pictures of missing people will be up on the TV and she'll see for herself that some of these people are happy and loved. There's different radio stations putting out heartfelt messages to those who have been lost in the recent extermination. Interviews, memorials, the works. Her worldview is changed.

I think it would be very, very interesting if disguised Charlie doesn't click with Vaggie the same way canon Charlie does simply because she didn't have to take her home to treat her. Could you imagine? Charlie doesn't need to personally oversee this person's recovery. She doesn't need to stick around, and there's more sinners out there who need treatment. So, she'll leave.

I think it would be VERY funny if the person who gets Chaggie together is actually Alastor. He knows the general timeframe that Vaggie falls and probably regularly checks the hospitals and streets just to make sure he doesn't miss her— and he finds her ALONE in a HOSPITAL. WHERE THE FUCK IS CHARLIE??

Listen, he didn't particularly like Vaggie, but she DID try to save his life in the other timeline despite their mutual distaste. And, okay, MAYBE her sarcastic attitude grew on him a little...

Fuck it, he cares. Time to adjust the Grand Plan.

So, he enters her room. Vaggie is immediately on edge, because this guy is not a doctor, and a stranger walking into your hospital room when they have no business being there is very unnerving. Alastor shuts the door behind him, and walks over to sit by her bedside.

"I'd like the preface that I don't particularly care about the atrocities you've committed in the past," he'll start off with, because he does not want her flying off the handle before he finishes speaking, "considering that everyone in Hell has done something immoral, but I would like to know exactly what you did for your exorcist friends to reject you so violently."

And Vaggie is terrified. But this guy isn't attacking her, so she answers.

"Huh. Well then, I'd like to make a deal. You promise to never intentionally or willingly hurt anyone whose wellbeing I personally care about, and I'll set you up with an identity, some cash, a roof over your head, protection, and a job. What do you say?"

And this is how Alastor plots to one day get Vaggie employed at the hotel. Not knowing that Vaggie's current job as bodyguard to his little half-imp star is already pushing the Chaggie agenda.

[cressidagrey]

Welcome to the World - Chapter 3

Summary:

The quickest turnaround time between finding your mate and having a kid anybody in the history of Prythian has ever managed

Warnings:

Rhys bashing, Mention of Domestic Violence, Mention of Miscarriage, Mention of Child Murder, Mention of Adult Murder, Mention of Stabbing, Childbirth, Labour, a disgruntled Donkey named Thistle

(super pretty dividers thanks to @saradika)

To say that he had tried to stay busy was an understatement. 

For cauldron’s sake, Azriel had pulled out his mother’s bedraggled Recipe book from its place in the kitchen and was making chicken soup. 

And it was definitely not like he normally cooked. He left that to Cassian, the only one of the three of them who had any talent in the kitchen. 

Though putting a chicken in a pot, covering it with water and cutting up an assortment of vegetables to go along with it…he could do that. 

So he had. 

He had split up enough wood in the shed outside that his mother had enough wood for the rest of the winter. 

He had brought the same wood inside and tidily stacked it next to the fireplace. 

He had started sharpening Truthteller with the whetstone he always had with him, sharpening his weapon to keep his hands busy. 

Azriel had tried to concentrate on the feel of the blade on the stone. There was something soothing about a task that required just a single set of movements. He could do this. 

But where it normally soothed him…tonight it did not. 

He had done all of this, trying desperately not to listen to the voices coming from upstairs and failing. 

His ears strained without his want, listening to every noise Ciara made. 

The sounds of her steps, her moans that steadily escalated throughout the night…the quiet assurances of his mother that she was doing so well, that it would be over soon…

and on and on it dragged. 

Azriel had absolutely no clue how long a birth should take, what was normal. Was it normal that she had been at it since late afternoon, and now it was pitch black outside, stars gleaming? 

Was it normal that the moans seemed to get louder with every minute, sometimes turning into choked-off groans or a gasp for air? 

She was in pain. In so much pain, and there was nothing he could do as he sat there at his mother’s kitchen table, a hand harshly gripping Truthteller's hilt, the whetstone forgotten in his other. 

It was…

He could feel her anxiety, her pure fear through the inkling of a bond they had. She seemingly screamed it down the bond at him, the terror that gripped her. 

And then there was another groan, louder choked off…

“Your water broke. She will be here soon, sweetheart,” his mother cooed. 

Oh. 

Soon. It would be over soon. 

He tried hanging on to these words. It would be over soon. The pain would end for her…she would have her daughter in her arms. And she would be fine…she needed to be fine. 

“Could you fill the bathtub, Esmeray?” the midwife asked, her voice low but Azriel could still hear her…the bathtub? Why…would she take a bath now? Was the baby already going to be born in the next few minutes and needed a bath afterwards? But why would she do that now? 

“What’s wrong?” Ciara gasped, and the sound of her voice, pain-filled, had him on his feet, pacing. 

“Nothing is wrong, Ciara,” the midwife soothed. 

“You didn’t think I would need the water because the baby isn’t that big,” Ciara whimpered. 

She was going to give birth in the water? Was there a problem? Was the baby not coming?

“She’s not. It will help you,” the midwife assured Ciara. “You’ll have less pain and could heal quicker.”

Oh. 

He could hear steps again, 

“In the tub with you," the midwife said calmly… more steps…more pain-filled moans from Ciara. 

And then…“I can’t get in there.”

“You can and you will.”

Splashing of water…Her moans quieted right down. He could still listen to them, could still hear every movement from her because he was so attuned to what was happening in the cottage right now. 

Still…shouldn’t she be louder? Shouldn’t she be screaming? 

 She was being so quiet, he feared that it was going to be another day or two before the baby would arrive… Ciara spent and exhausted by then.

Even more than she already was…

He forced himself to sit back down, return to his blade and his whetstone…and nearly dropped it when he heard Ciara vomit. 

Fuck, that wasn’t normal, right? Was that normal? How should he know?!

“That’s alright, Ciara. Your body knows what to do. It's getting rid of the food so it can work harder.”

Harder? 

Hadn’t the last few hours been enough? Hadn’t…

And then he heard her sobbing, the sound cutting him to the marrow of his bones. 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” pure desperation bled from every word that left her mouth. 

This wasn’t…this didn’t sound well.

He was back to pacing. 

“Yes, you can. You’re doing so well,” the midwife assured her. 

“If I die, can you get her out?” 

And he was done. He was fucking done. 

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t listen to that. 

He was up the stairs before he could reason with himself, bursting into her room without a second thought. 

He ignored the shocked look from his mother as he ended up on his knees in front of that cauldron-forsaken bathtub…Ciara draped over the side of that, sobbing, her skin pale, hands biting into the white porcelain. 

He reached out to touch her, to push the hair away from her face, cupping her cheek, wet with tears and sweat. 

“You are not going to die,” he snarled. That was not going to happen. That was fucking unacceptable. He just got her. He was not going to lose her. “Listen to me. You are not going to die,” he gentled his voice, but still held her face…her eyes, still filled with tears…and the utter exhaustion he saw in them. “ You are going to do this.” 

“I can’t…” she whimpered. 

“Yes, you can,” he disagreed. “You can do this, Ciara,” he promised. “You are going to do this and I’ll be there every step of the way.” 

“You are nearly there. You just need to push,” Nora said quietly. “Just a few good pushes and she will be here.” 

“Come on, Ciara.” He helped her move so that she was kneeling, holding one of his hands with her… somehow worming the other one behind her shoulders, so that he could be the one holding her up and she could use all her strength for bringing her child into the world…her head ended up lolling against his shoulder, face pressed against his neck, panting against him. 

Her wings weakly twitched behind her, and he closed his eyes, for one moment just breathing in nutmeg and clementines. 

She was still there, she was alive, she was breathing. 

And they were going to do this. Together.

“When the next pain comes, listen to your body. Push down,” Nora said calmly. He had no idea what the midwife was doing and didn’t think he wanted to know, but he felt the muscles in Ciara’s body tighten, pain clearly mounting. “There we go.”

And for the first time, a shout broke free out of her throat. 

***

The unwavering strength of him, the smell of cedar and mist was the only thing that kept her calm. The only thing that kept her hanging on…against the fiery hot pain…

She screamed like she had never screamed before, clawing herself into his hand and into Esmeray’s, every bit of strength as she had concentrated on pushing . 

“Good! You are doing so good, Ciara!” Nora assured her. “Another one just like that.”

Another scream ripped out of her throat, another pain lancing her, another…and then she could feel the baby’s head break free, “Now the wings and it’s over.” 

Wha…

“Ciara. Ciara, reach down,” Azriel whispered and she listened, Nora guiding her hand…and with one more push, one slick slide…she had her baby right in her waiting hands. 

A quiet panting sob escaped her throat, as she blinked open her eyes, both hands reaching out to grab her baby under the arms,  using her fingers to support the neck and head as she brought her baby immediately up out of the water. 

“Oh,” she whispered. A gasp and then a quiet cough…and then a loud cry of surprise and Ciara brought her baby to her chest as her own sobs of relief overtook the baby’s.

Her warm little body pressed against her chest sent an instant flush of heat and relief through her entire being, body and soul.

She could feel her heartbeat right against her chest, could feel the fluttering of her wings…little black, perfect wings…

And Ciara cried her eyes out because she was finally there. 

Finally there in her arms and she was crying and she was alright and it was over and…

“You did so well,” Azriel whispered against her temple and she leaned against the arm that was still holding her up, feeling him shift…ready to leave her alone, ready to give her distance…but she didn’t want distance.  

“No, don’t,” she whispered hoarsely. “Stay. Please.”

He pressed a kiss against her temple, and she looked to watch him look down at her daughter, an expression on his face…that she could only describe as wonder. 

“She’s beautiful,” he breathed, one single scarred finger reaching out to touch the dark curls covering her head. The touch was whisper soft, nearly reverently. Like her daughter was the most precious thing he had ever had the privilege to even look at…

She fell like a ton of bricks for him right at that moment. 

At the care, he showed to both her and her daughter...that steadfast presence...that gentleness that she would have never expected from a male like him, but still was there, so very obvious... 

“Is it a girl?” Nora asked quietly.

Oh. She hadn’t even checked.  Ciara reached around her daughter and felt between her legs, pushing the still pulsing cord out of the way.

“Yes,” she said softly. “it’s a girl.” 

A girl. Just like she had thought. 

“You were right. Mother’s intuition,” Esmeray said softly. “Congratulations. She’s perfect.”

She was. She was perfect. 

Ciara gasped as another pain ran through her. 

“What’s wrong?” Azriel demanded and she clenched her teeth, pushing once again. 

“She’s fine, it’s just the afterbirth,” Nora assured him, calmly. It was the work of moments until Nora severed the cord. “Can you let her go?” she asked Ciara calmly and she hesitated for a moment before she turned to Azriel. 

“Will you…” she asked and he stared at her wide-eyed, even as Esmeray handed him a towel to wrap around her daughter. 

“You want me to hold her?” he asked her, swallowing, looking so hesitant. 

“Yes,” she agreed. Safe. Her daughter would be safe. 

So she handed her to him, pressing a kiss against her forehead...and watched as he lifted her into massive, muscular arms, softly murmuring to her as he left the bathing chamber.

Somehow, letting her go, meant that her body started shaking in the earnest as Nora and Esmeray helped clean her up. 

Her arms physically ached for her baby as much as the rest of her body throbbed with pain, exhausted and weak…shivering with something…

The water in the tub was suddenly too hot, even when she was shaking. “Oh, Ciara,” Esmeray crooned softly as she helped her stand, holding her in a warm, comforting grip. "You're alright.” 

“Don’t be scared, a lot of new mothers have this,” Nora promised her as they fished her out of the tub, wrapped her into a towel…and then into a clean nightgown, and helped her to the soft comfort of the bed…

“I need her,” she whispered, her arms aching…the pain so very present. 

“One moment, then you can have her,” Nora promised her, leaning over her, still in Azriel's arms. “I just want to check her over, then you can have all the cuddle time you two need.”

Every second seemed too long, even when Azriel finally handed her over to her again, and suddenly her little girl was in her arms again, her warm weight instantly chasing away the ache building within her…

She was wrapped into a blanket Ciara had made for her and she carefully pulled it back to look her over, memorising every detail from her little fingernails to the way her hair curled…her olive skin glowed in the first rays of the sun that just came over the horizon… admiring her until tears blurred her vision and she brought her baby back to nestle against the warmth of her chest, skin to skin. 

“She has a name yet?” Esmeray asked her softly, as she pulled up a blanket to cover both of them.   “You had a few options the last time we spoke about it,” she said with a smile to the little baby, sitting down on the edge of the bed, tucking the blanket tighter around them. 

Ciara wondered if she still knew who her mother was…if she would have done the same thing. 

She had had a few options for names…but she really only could imagine one. “Aurora,” Ciara said softly. “It means Dawn.”

“A new day breaking,” Esmeray said, smiling. “It’s beautiful. A very fitting choice, Sweetheart. Well done. Do you want a middle name?” She asked curiously. 

“Oh, I had one in mind,” Ciara agreed, a smile stealing over her face. “Though that she deciding to come today of all days worked out just perfectly…Aurora Esmeray,” she said softly. There hadn’t really been a choice in that matter. Not when Esmeray had been the one to save her life and to give her a home, to keep her safe and cared for and had never expected anything in return. “Happy Birthday.”