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sluttyminghao · 1 month ago

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♡ pairing: choreographer!junhui x choreographer!afab!reader ♡ genre: enemies to lovers, smut, angst, fluff ♡ w.c: 3.8k ♡ warnings: hate sex/rough sex, verbal power play + dirty talk, possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, toxic energy, semi-public sex, mirror sex, spanking, rough handling, degradation, semi-slow burn, hair pulling for a moment, multiple orgasms over multiple days, conflicting feelings ♡ a/n: thank you to @supi-wupi and @flowerwonu for beta reading for me! let me know who you guys want to see next!

It was supposed to be a clean collaboration, consisting of professionalism and a temporary nature.

But from the moment you were assigned to co-choreograph this high-energy dance with Junhui, the air between you was completely and utterly toxic; subtly laced with clipped comments that made your eye twitch, his constant territorial energy, and the kind of tension that makes everyone else clear the room early.

He always found a way to contradict you, whether it was to revise your counts, challenge your flow, or even push your buttons to the point where you’re either grinding your teeth or snapping back at him constantly. You’ve stormed out of that dim practice room twice. He hasn’t chased you either time.

Tonight is no different.

“You keep slowing the pace down,” you bite, hands on your hips as your chest heaves, sweat slick down your spine. “This part needs aggression and sharpness, not whatever the fuck you’re doing.”

Jun scoffs from across the studio, and you can almost hear his eyes roll. “And you think you’re the only one who understands sharpness?” He tosses his damp towel aside and walks toward you, every step controlled and almost predatory. “I’ve seen your work. It’s precise, sure, but it’s so, so cold, and even worse? It feels empty.”

You step forward, closing the distance between you. “And yours is arrogant and overconfident. I can throw words around, too, you know. You choreograph like the floor owes you something.”

He laughs, low and bordering on dangerous. “No. I choreograph like I own it.”

Something in you snaps, like a dusty lightbulb being turned on in a dingy basement. Before you realise it, your hands are extended out to shove him. He doesn’t move far with the pathetic push, just enough to register it. Then his eyes flicker with something you’ve seen before, but never directed at you like this: heat.

“You’ve wanted to put your hands on me for weeks, I can see it in your eyes,” he says, his voice molten. “You just didn’t know if it’d be to hit me, or fuck me.”

Your stomach drops and then coils. You don’t respond to his snarky comment as much as you want to, but instead, you grab the front of his shirt and crash your mouth into his.

It’s brutal.

Your teeth knock together, your eye twitching slightly from sensitivity. His hands are in your hair, then at your waist, then under your shirt like he can’t decide what he wants to ruin first. You yank him closer to you, pressing your body into his until you can feel the hard line of him, already pulsing through his sweats.

“You’re so fucking smug,” you gasp against his lips.

“And you’re so fucking desperate to be proved wrong,” he growls.

You slam him into the mirror, he doesn't take that well. He flips you in an instant so that you are the one backed to the cool surface instead. His eyes are fiery, fueled with anger and what you can only presume is lust.

Your back hits the glass, and before you can even look at him, he’s situated himself between your legs, his plush lips trailing down your neck with the kind of hunger that makes your knees buckle. One hand pins both of yours above your head, the other slips under your waistband, fingers dragging over your wet heat.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, satisfaction oozing into his tone. “Already dripping. Are you sure you hate me?”

“Shut up.”

He smiles against your collarbone as he presses his lips to your fiery skin. “Make me.”

You do, you bite his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, then moan, a little too loudly for your liking, when he sinks two of his fingers inside you with zero warning. The stretch is perfect, with just a tinge of pain that causes tears to well up in your eyes briefly, which quickly subsides as he begins to thrust his fingers. His rhythm is ruthless, and when you arch against him, desperate and furious, he leans in and kisses you like it’s a war he plans to win.

Your release hits you hard, like a wave breaking. Messy, loud, and has you shattering into a million pieces. He doesn’t stop his pace, however, he doesn’t even slow down, which sends your body into a series of aftershocks that have you gasping for air and gripping his shirt like a vice.

You claw at his waistband blindly before yanking it down carelessly, and the sound he makes when you take him in your hand is downright filthy. You drag your thumb along the underside of his cock, then guide him to your entrance, meeting his eyes with defiance.

“Do it,” you whisper.

He thrusts into you in one brutal, perfect stroke.

And everything burns.

He fucks you like he’s still arguing with his body, not his mouth this time. Every thrust screams I’m better than you, and your moans scream prove it. You claw at his back, red marks streaking his skin. He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, but the sensation only drags you further into your pleasure. You both hit the edge simultaneously with teeth gritted, sweat dripping, gasping each other’s names like curses.

When it’s over, you collapse against the mirror, your legs shaking and chest heaving, sweat dripping down your skin in small rivulets. Jun leans in, his softening cock still inside you, his forehead resting against yours.

For once, there’s silence between the two of you, almost like an unspoken argument.

Then, he speaks, his voice slightly hoarse. “You’ll still be insufferable tomorrow.”

You laugh breathlessly. “So will you.”

But neither of you pulls away. Not yet.

—-----------------------

The next day, everything’s normal. Too normal.

You arrive at the studio a little earlier than you normally do, stretching on the floor like nothing happened. Like you weren’t pinned to the mirror twelve hours ago, gasping Junhui’s name with your legs wrapped around his waist.

He walks in five minutes later, fresh shirt hugging his stupidly toned body, water bottle in hand, his jaw clenched tight. Neither of you says anything. He moves to the other side of the room and pretends to scroll through his playlist, even though it's the same playlist you’ve both been using for the last 3 weeks. You count the seconds between his breaths. You can feel the ache in your thighs, almost able to feel his fingers digging into your skin still, and hate how much it thrills you.

You think maybe he’ll bring it up, maybe he would throw a smirk your way, or do that annoying thing where he licks his bottom lip when he’s being a cocky bastard.

But he doesn’t. And that’s somehow a thousand times worse than if he had done something.

Because when his eyes do flick to you in the mirror, it’s not teasing. It’s hungry. Like he’s remembering every sound you made, every place his mouth touched. He looks away from you before you can even open your mouth to say something.

You make it through half of the session. Half the routine, hell, you only made it through half a song before you explode, surprising yourself in the process.

“So you’re going to pretend that nothing happened?”

Jun doesn’t even turn to you, focused on his phone now. “Nothing did happen.”

You walk toward him, your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your ears. “You’re lying.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “So are you.”

You’re in front of him now, close enough to smell the fabric softener on his shirt, and you can see the sweat beading at his neck. “Say last night meant nothing,” you dare him. “Say it and mean it.”

His jaw flexes, so much so that his jawline looks like it could cut through glass, but he says nothing. Instead, his hand grabs your wrist and yanks you forward, his lips crashing into yours again like a match dropped on gasoline.

This time, there’s no build-up. No slow undressing and no banter. Just pure, fiery lust that cannot be put out with any kind of extinguisher. Jun turns you around quickly and bends you over the speaker console, dragging your leggings down with a roughness that makes your pulse skyrocket.

“You came in here dripping for me yesterday,” he growls against your neck. “What are the odds you’re already wet for me again? Pretty high, I would say.”

You’re about to snap back with a clipped remark when his fingers slide through your folds and prove you wrong.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost like he’s in awe. “You like fighting with me, don’t you? Gets you fucking soaked every time.”

You reach behind yourself and blindly dig your nails into his thigh, a broken moan escaping your lips when he finally lines himself up and thrusts into you, deep and punishing. Your hips slam against the console with every stroke, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck. It’s raw and primal, just like him. It’s the kind of sex that makes you forget what you were fighting about to begin with.

He fists your hair, pulling your head back gently so that he can whisper in your ear. “Say you hate me.”

You choke on a gasp, his perfectly timed thrusts and the sting on your scalp making you see stars. “I hate you.”

He thrusts harder, a whimper dropping from your swollen lips. “Say it again.”

“I… hate you,” you whimper, but your body betrays you, you’re arching, clenching and begging for more. Your body is addicted.

“That’s right,” he snarls. “You hate me, but I know you’re going to cum for me anyway. Cum for me.”

And you do, you’re biting your lip so hard it nearly bleeds, your thighs intensely shaking as the orgasm rips through you, even stronger than the one he’d given you the night before. He follows right after, spilling his load into you with a growl, his long fingers digging into the skin of your hips like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out.

Afterwards, he pulls out slowly, his breathing ragged and chest heaving. Neither of you dares to move. The air smells like sweat, sex, and something dangerously close to addiction.

Finally, Jun breaks the silence, his voice almost a whisper.

“We’re never going to work.”

You look over your shoulder at him, your hair a complete mess, and your mouth red and swollen.

“No, we won’t”, you agree. “But we’re not going to stop either.”

He grins. And for the first time since you met, it’s not cocky. It’s hungry.

___________

You tell yourself it’s the last time.

You leave before he wakes up. You stealthily grab your hoodie off of his laminate floor and step into your practice shoes without looking back. It’s barely 6 a.m. and the sun hasn’t even started to show its face yet, which seems like a fitting scenario, considering you’re walking out of the most unholy night of your life.

The air outside is cold. It clears nothing from your mind, clouded with thoughts and leftover lust from the hours before. By the time practice rolls around at 8 am, you’ve rehearsed the line in your head at least twenty times:

“We need to stop this.”

But Junhui doesn’t give you the chance.

The moment you step into the studio, he’s already there leaning against the mirror, hair tied back in a small ponytail so it won’t be in his face, his water bottle in one hand like nothing happened. Like you didn’t scream his name into a pillow just a few hours ago.

He lifts an eyebrow at you. “Morning.”

You force the words out. “This can’t happen again.”

He tilts his head, possibly acting confused. “That's what you came here to say to me?”

You cross your arms, defiance setting in despite the lust trying to crawl its way to the surface. “I mean it, Jun. This thing? Us? It’s just a distraction. It’s distracting us from our main goal”

He hums, and you aren't sure why, but that action alone has you peeved. “A distraction that had you begging for me last night in all aspects.”

You snap. “God, you are so full of yourself.”

“And you’re shaking.”

Your spine straightens out at the callout, but it’s true. Your hands are curled into fists, not out of fear, but from restraint. He takes a step towards you, almost as if he’s challenging you to say something else.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, stepping back so the distance remains the same between the two of you. But his eyes go dark in that way they always do when you challenge him. When you say one thing but your body screams something else.

“Why not?” he asks, taking a step closer. You don’t step back this time, your anger beginning to dissolve into something else, a mixture of emotions.

“Because you’ll ruin me.”

He stops, your words hitting him like a freight train, and the tension shifts. It’s not playful banter anymore, nor is it teasing. It’s raw.

“Don't you think I have already tried to stop?” His voice is low now, stripped of any performance, providing a raw insight. “I look at you and forget every line I swore I wouldn’t cross.”

You blink. That wasn’t what you had expected him to say in the slightest.

“Jun-”

But he’s already in front of you again, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s different. It’s still extremely intense, and it’s still hungry. But in this moment, it’s slower and deeper. The kind of kiss that says I hate how much I want you. I hate how much I need you. But I’m here anyway.

Your arms fall to your sides, and your fists loosen, before you finally kiss him back like you’re drowning and he’s the only one that can save you. The clothes fall off both of you just as fast again. But this time, when he lays you on the studio floor, he doesn’t pin your wrists like he did that first time. He doesn’t rush.

He moves like he wants to remember how you sound. Like he wants to make it hurt—but only because it means something. Every touch is still like fire licking across your skin, but beneath it, there’s intent. Like he's memorising the shape of your body, the way you gasp when he says your name low against your neck.

“Say it’s just sex,” he dares you between steadily timed thrusts, sweat dripping onto his toned chest.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your mind and body are at a standstill.

He slows his pace, almost dragging it out in a teasing way. “Say it.”

You drag your nails down his back and whisper, “I can’t.”

And the way his body shudders against yours says everything he doesn’t.

You don’t remember falling asleep. All you remember is the way Jun’s fingers stroked down your back long after the last wave hit, and the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek.

________________

When you wake up a few hours later, he’s still there. You’re pressed close together, and his breathing is slow and even. He has one arm slung over your waist like he forgot who you are, who you’re supposed to be to each other. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his hand tightens on your hip.

“Don’t go.”

His voice is rough, half-asleep and barely more than a whisper, but it stops you in your tracks. You turn your head, just enough to meet his gaze. His hair is a mess, strands sticking out at every angle, and his eyes are puffy with sleep. And still, somehow, he looks unfairly good.

“We said this wasn’t going to happen again,” you murmur.

He lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah. We say a lot of things.”

You’re both quiet for a long time. Long enough that the weight of the situation settles deep in your chest.

“Why does this feel like more?” you ask softly. “Why do I feel like I’m going to start missing you before I even leave?”

Jun brushes his knuckles down your spine. “Because maybe it is more. Maybe we just never gave it a name.”

You blink and turn to face him, surprised by his genuine response. “What would you call it?”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Stupid. Messy. Real.”

You don’t say anything, you don’t have to. Because for once in this whole fucked up mess, you’re not fighting it.

_______________

It doesn’t get any easier after that emotional encounter.

You both try extremely hard to act as civilly as possible in public. You give it a week of pretending to be normal, you get separate hotel rooms during the tour leg, less lingering in the studio, nods towards each other in recognition instead of smirks.

It doesn’t last, not even the week that you both promised. There’s one shared look across the stage during rehearsal, a single whisper in passing. A momentary press of his hand against your lower back when no one’s watching.

And it detonates all over again.

This time it’s in the dressing room. The door is locked, and so are your lips.

He pushes you up against the wall, your thighs wrapped around his hips, clothes half-on and half-ripped because Junhui just could not contain himself. It’s frantic and brutal, you’re both like starving wolves trying to devour what they’ve already tasted and still crave. Neither of you can get enough.

“You’re ruining me,” you pant, your fingers fumbling to tug his shirt over his head in your haste to see him bare.

“Good,” he growls, kissing down your chest. “Because you ruined me first.”

He takes you fast and rough, similar to the first night, like he’s trying to chase something he’ll never fully catch. Your name is a curse on his tongue, and he is a prayer on yours. Afterwards, you slide to the floor together, skin flushed and breathing ragged. It’s the only sound that fills the otherwise silent area.

He leans his head back against the wall, eyes closing as if the back of his eyelids will provide him with the answers he wants.

“We’re not going to stop,” he says, voice wrecked and hoarse.

You shake your head, resting your forehead on your palm. “We don’t know how.”

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to.

Because what exists between the two of you is this chaotic, furious, irresistible thing, which has become like oxygen. It's a fire neither of you can survive without. Too toxic to last forever. Too addictive to give up.

So you do the only thing you can. You light the match again, ignite the fire, and this time, it continues to burn.

___________

You don’t even remember what the fight was about.

Something stupid, was it a timing issue? Blocking problem? His huge ass ego getting in the way yet again? It doesn’t matter now. Because after all the intense yelling, the stubborn silence on his end, the slammed doors as he left the studio and left you standing there fuming, he shows up at your apartment door.

He’s completely soaked from the rain. His normally light grey hoodie is clinging to him and saturated to almost black with how much rain is pouring from the skies. His eyes seem stormy but clear.

“I can’t do this halfway anymore,” he says before you even open the door fully. “If you want me, it’s all in. If not... I’ll leave.”

You stare at him.

He’s dripping onto your floor. He seems out of breath. But this? This is him, and it’s raw and it’s real.

“Jun…”

“No more pretending we’re just hooking up. No more pretending I don’t wait for your texts, or memorise the way you laugh when you think I’m not listening. No more lying to myself.”

You feel your chest crack open, as if he’s just inserted a key into the crevice of your heart where you’d locked away your feelings for him.

“I don’t want to fight you anymore,” he says, his voice tired. “I want to fight for you. For this. For us.”

The rain drums harder outside, a low rumble of thunder in the distance signals a powerful thunderstorm likely on its way.

And still, you step back. You let him in fully.

He drops his bag onto the floor, making a thwap as it hits the ground, shrugs off his soaked hoodie and throws it on top of his bag, and you’re moving before you realise it, your hands are in his hair, your mouth on his, and it’s all yes. Yes to the tension. Yes to the past. Yes to the future.

You pull him into your bedroom and undress slowly this time. No tearing of clothes and no slamming of doors. Just lingering touches and the kind of kisses that say I’m staying.

He lays you down like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you, and when he slides inside you, it’s not a battle. It’s a homecoming. Your bodies move in sync, like they’ve been waiting for this moment all along; no games, no roles, just truth in every thrust, every moan, every whisper.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. You nod, breath catching. “And you’re mine.”

When you cum, it’s quiet and deep. You are tangled together with Jun in something more than just heat. Afterwards, he doesn’t pull away from you. Instead, he wraps around you like a shield. Like a vow.

“I don’t care what we are to everyone else,” he murmurs into your hair. “But you’re it for me.”

You curl into his chest. “You always were.”

____________

The studio seems different now.

It’s still as intense as it ever was. It’s still very much alive with movement and music and creation of people from all over the world, but the tension no longer cuts through the air like it used to. It hums in harmony, like a bee pollinating a flower.

When you argue with Jun now, it’s with grins rather than scolding looks or snappy remarks. When you fight, it’s about who should do which part in a choreography, not who’ll break first. He still teases you relentlessly, and you still roll your eyes at his antics. But when the others leave, and the lights go low, he pulls you into his arms and kisses you like the last time. Like every time.

And when you dance together? It’s no longer war.

It’s worship.

#svthub #sm: masterlist 2025 #sluttyhao fics #sluttyhao smut #sluttyhao scenario #kpop smut #seventeen smut #jun smut #junhui smut #kpop scenario #kpop fic #idol x reader #jun scenario #jun x reader #junhui x reader #seventeen scenario #seventeen fic

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gloomwitchwrites · 10 months ago

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Hello, hope you're a having a good day

Could you write something about 141 x reader where the sparring session turns a little too not your usual sparring (if you know what I mean). The reader and them being all sweaty and shit and like the sexual tension that's been there for a while. This idea has been plaguing my mind since forever. Thank youuuu

Haha! Yes! Omg, I love it. Okay, for this, I didn't go full smut. When someone mentions sexual tension, I tend to hyperfocus on that and want to bathe in it. Give me naughty thoughts and flirting-maybe even some actual physical contact that borders on dangerous territory. Give me the yearning! I want to giggle and kick my feet and think about what might happen later. So, I indulged in that regard! I had lots of fun with this. Thank you so much for sending it in!!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x TF141!Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, knife play, grinding, rough kissing, caught in the act, training, naughty thoughts, mutual yearning

Word Count: 2.4k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Come on. Come at me.”

Soap rolls his shoulders and then brings his fists up in a fighting stance. He makes a “go on” gestured with his hands.

Every muscle in your body is sore. Tired doesn’t even begin to describe how you’re feeling. But you want to best Soap. He’s been on your ass for weeks now—insisting that the two of you should spar together. It’s not the sparring that makes you warm and tingly but the way he suggests it.

Always leaning in. Standing far too close. Bumping your shoulder with his.

Soap waits, but you’re not sure how to proceed. So far, you’ve been completely unsuccessful. As if knowing all your moves, Soap has dodged each blow and kick, effortlessly taking you down to the mat every time you thinking you’ve ensnared him.

Stealth is more your thing. Creeping around in the shadows. Taking out opponents from afar. A sniper scope is your friend. Hand-to-hand isn’t.

You lunge for him and Soap steps back. Fist missing him, you sidestep and go for a jab in the stomach. Soap slaps your hand away, and you want to yell in frustration.

“Sloppy today,” chides Soap, grinning like this amuses him.

It probably does. He’s one for a good laugh.

This time you feign, and Soap takes it, moving in. You’re ready for him, turning out of his swing to duck beneath and then aim for the face. Soap rises to block, and opens a clear line to his groin.

Fucking beautiful.

Lifting your foot, you don’t tap him hard, just enough for his cheeks to go pink. Soap grunts, and you chuckle.

“Shouldn’t have left yourself—”

With an oof, your back smacks against the tumble mat beneath you. Soaps snags your wrists and pins them above your head. You go to kick out at him, but Soap’s knees are between your legs. He shoves them wider.

You’re completely trapped beneath him.

And in a completely inappropriate position.

From where you’re pinned, you notice the small beads of sweat on his brow and how a few pieces of hair stick to his skin. Though his chest is covered by a shirt, it’s snug, with every muscle on display. Those powerful thighs of his press against yours in such a way that you’re imagining nothing between your bodies.

Would he feel this powerful over you if the two of you were elsewhere? Perhaps, somewhere more private. Somewhere without a tumble mat. Somewhere with a bed.

“Can’t harm the goods, love,” says Soap, his voice husky. You’re not sure if it’s from the close contact or from the tap you gave his crotch.

“Then don’t leave them vulnerable,” you reply, almost not recognizing the sound of your own voice. It too is husky as if dipped in desire.

The middle of Soap’s brow scrunches slightly. His gaze travels downward to linger on your lips and then further still until you sense him admiring more than he is observing.

“Soap—”

His gaze snaps upward. “Johnny,” he corrects. “Think we’re on closer terms.”

“Are we?” you ask, as his hips start to relax.

The press of him against you is apparent, and the hardness there is poking at you. Insistent. And you don’t want to ignore it.

Instead, you press upward, grinding against him.

Soap—no—Johnny, makes a sound in his throat.

One moment you’re under him and then you’re in his lap, the two of you sitting up, staring into each other’s eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, and your hands fists the front of his shirt.

“You—”

“Are we interrupting something?”

You and Johnny turn just as Ghost and Gaz enter the gym. Gaz has a towel draped over his shoulder. The water bottle he holds it half-way towards his mouth before he freezes, gaze locked on you and Johnny.

Ghost cocks his head, arms crossed over his chest.

You’re speechless. Lost. Your mind hasn’t caught up.

But Johnny’s has.

With a twist, Johnny rolls and then lightly tosses you off him as if the two of you were simply practicing and not staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want a go, Lt?” asks Johnny.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“You up for another round?” asks Kyle.

The man is grinning like he could do this all day. You’re sore everywhere—ready to collapse from exhaustion. Hand-to-hand combat is not your thing which is why you’re here in the training room with Kyle.

Yes, you need practice, but you’ve also had your eye on him, admiring him when you think no one is looking. It’s an excuse for some alone time.

“I’d rather eat glass,” you mutter, snatching up your water bottle and drinking the last of it.

“Hate me that much?” he teases.

“So much so that I wanted to spend the afternoon beating your ass.”

Kyle bursts out laughing. He snatches the water bottle out of your hand and aims it at you, squeezing. There’s nothing in it. A few measly drops hit your face and then you lunge for him. Kyle jumps back and extends his arms outward.

“One more round.” He winks. “Come on, love.”

He’s being cheeky, and your blood is pumping.

Kyle tosses your water bottle to the side as you stride forward. His arms go up, and then the two of you are nothing but flying fists and feet. He’s faster, blocking every blow you send his way.

Sweat accumulates on your brow and on the back of your neck, dripping down your spine. You lick your lips, taste the salt from the sweat.

You duck. Swing. Kyle snatches your wrist and twists, pinning your arm behind you. With a sharp jab of your elbow, you nail Kyle in the stomach, freeing yourself.

As you spin to lash out, Kyle is right there, in your space, blocking all movement. You try to step back, to allow space in your next strike, but Kyle rushes in. The two of you are twisted up. Falling. Slamming into the mat on the floor.

You shove and Kyle resists, his strength outmatching yours. With cheek pressed into the mat, you have nowhere to go. You’re completely on your stomach, and all of Kyle’s weight is on you. He breathes heavily, chest heaving. You feel his breath against your skin, and the contact only sends your skin into a shiver.

Your mind drifts, lingering in places it shouldn’t. Worse—Kyle is aroused. His hardness pokes at your ass. But whether he notices or not is unclear.

“You’re improving,” he says.

“I have a good teacher.”

Kyle makes a noise that sounds like agreement. Every muscle is tense, and even Kyle’s hold on you seems laced with something harsh. But then it eases. Softens. His grip loosens enough that you roll onto your side, glancing up at him.

He is so goddamn close. Just a gentle tilt of the head and your lips would meet his. It wouldn’t be that hard. He’s right there.

Kyle blinks, and then his gaze trails downward, lingering on your lips.

“We,” he begins. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

His thumb traces along the side of your throat, and your eyelids flutter with contentment. A little moan escapes you, and you hear Kyle’s sharp inhale.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck it.”

His thumb becomes his whole hand. Holding you in place, Kyle goes all in, claiming your lips with his. It is dominating, and you happily give in to him.

John Price

Your back hits the tumble mat with a sharp slap. The exposed portions of your shoulders and back sting from the contact.

"Again."

Groaning, you push up to a seated position. "We've been at this for hours."

"And you need practice," counters Price.

He's hatless. And shirtless. Only in cargo pants and boots, Captain Price's bare skin glistens with sweat. You won't pretend that the sight of him like this doesn't intrigue you. For months now you've been observing Captain Price in more than just a professional manner. It's hard not to, and the sweat-drenched man before you isn't helping things.

Captain Price runs his fingers through his hair, taking a step back. The casualness to the movement causes your stomach to twist with desire. Your body betrays you, and you have no idea if these feelings are entirely one-sided. Sometimes you think you might gleam a notion of his thoughts, but it always manages to slip through your grasp.

Price offers his hand, and an idea forms.

You extend yours, but don't close the distance. Price is the one that leans forward to do so. It's the perfect opportunity. When your fingers close around his, you tug back, throwing him off balance.

Price tips forward, and you turn to the side as he crashes down to the mat. In one fluid movement, you roll Price onto his back and straddle his stomach.

"Never let your guard down. That's what you always say."

Price's eyes widen slightly before softening. The corner of his mouth twitches into a hint of amusement. It immediately sends heat flaring through you.

"I do," he replies, and it's nearly a coo.

That smirk of his widens into an actual smile, and then it's you on your back and Price straddling. You strike out with an elbow but Price catches your swing, trapping your arms above your head. He bends forward a bit, and it is then that you feel the stiffness against your stomach.

Price makes no move to hide it, and you don’t dare glance downward.

"You need to do better-"

"Captain."

Price immediately recoils, sitting up and releasing your arms. You twist to look behind you, only to find Ghost and Soap standing nearby. Ghost is ever the silent observer, but Soap's head is slightly tilted to the side, the middle of his brow pinched like he's not sure what's happening.

"Meeting starts in five,” says Soap. “Came to find you."

Price coughs and then he's off you, kneeling and offering you a hand again. You don't try to knock him down.

"Just going over some pointers,” replies Price.

"Pointers?" deadpans Ghost and you shoot him a look. He shrugs at you, gaze lingering before moving to his captain.

"Give me ten minutes. Shower. Then I'll be there."

Captain Price gives you a quick glance before walking off with Soap. Ghost crosses his arms over his chest and just stares.

“What?" you snap

"Pointers," he repeats.

"Oh, fuck off, Simon."

He chuckles and turns to follow the two out of the training room.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"Your posture is terrible."

"That's very helpful, Lieutenant,” you deadpan.

"Are you sassing me?"

"No."

Simon shakes his head and sighs. “Can’t throw a knife accurately if you’re hunched like a goblin.”

“Goblin,” you mutter under your breath. “Asshole.”

“What was that?”

You clear your throat. “Seems easy, Lieutenant. You just throw the pointy end at the enemy.”

Simon grunts and then grabs your raised arm. "You won't hit anything standing like that."

You resist his pull but you're outmatch when it comes to strength. With one hand on your arm and one on your waist, Simon shifts you into position.

"Like this," he instructs, bringing your arm back. "Firm grip. Feet pointed forward." Simon releases your arm but his hand on your waist remains. "Throw. At the target."

You let the knife fly. It strikes just right of the bullseye.

"Again,” nods Simon.

"Really?"

Simon slowly drops his hand from your waist, the tips of fingers lingering a second longer than necessary.

Removing a knife from his boot, Simon flips it end over end. "We could hone your skills a different way."

"What way?"

“Grab your knife and find out.”

Stalking toward the bullseyes, you yank out the knife, joining Simon in the sparring ring. He bends at the knee, crouching into a fight stance. You mimic the movement.

Simon lunges first and you sidestep. But he's quick for such a large man. He moves around and behind you so fast he's almost a blur.

Grabbing your wrist, Simon lightly twists and pins you against his front, the knife tip pointed at your throat.

"Again,” he growls.

Simon lightly shoves you away. You spin. Striking out. He slaps your arm down and raises his own, the knife tip pointed at your throat for a second time.

"Again."

Showing your teeth, you charge at him, barreling into him at the middle. Simon staggers but doesn't faulter. He attempts to toss you off him, but you remain firm, grabbing hold.

This unloads him, his weight toppling with you. The two of you go down. Simon rolls you onto your back, his body pressed to yours, knife at your throat again.

"Better,” he says. “Still needs improvement."

You go to shove him off, but Simon doesn't budge. He remains where he is, and every point of contact is like an electrical spark. Even his face is close, balaclava nearly scratching against your skin. There is not part of him you’re not touching.

Awareness settles in.

Simon is all hardness over you.

"Have any tips you can give me?" you reply.

His gaze slowly lowers to your lips. His hips shift slightly, something stiff poking against your inner thigh.

“I have one,” he murmurs.

Bet I can guess.

“How do you want it?” he continues.

"You're the expert," you reply softly, hooking your leg over the back of his.

It's an invitation, one you aren't sure he'll take.

There’s a brief pause, and then Simon hums in agreement. It’s a pleased sound, one that instantly makes you shiver. Without taking the knife from your throat, he closes the distance, lips pressing against yours through the balaclava.

Heat erupts, the knife in your hand forgotten on the floor as you grab at him, fingers digging in.

It's only a tease. You want the real thing.

"What's the tip?" you ask once he breaks the connection.

Simon answers by grinding his hips against yours.

That one. Got it.

“We should—”

A door slams from somewhere down the hall. Simon’s head snaps up. The knife disappears, and then Simon is pushing himself away, kneeling beside you. His head is turned toward the main doors, but no one enters.

“It’s late,” you say. No one should be coming this way.

He turns back to you. “Your knife skills are shit.”

You groan. “I know. Goblin hunch. Got it.”

Simon snorts, and offers his hand. You take it, and he pulls you into a seated position. “Just a few more rounds,” he says, and then with a husky twinge to his tone, “and then I’ll go make sure the locker room is clear.”

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n0tamused · 4 months ago

Note

Hi hello and congrats on 1.5k!!

Looking at the event I'm low-key feeling greedy like I want to read every single prompt with Mydei lol. But maybe action prompt 3? With Fem!Reader kissing his red markings? I think this man deserves some soft moments.

Also side note your dragon designs are peak and I'm still obsessing over them.

Congrats again!

˖ ࣪⊹Mydei x Reader

Prompt: Action 3.A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

A/n: Hello! Thank you so much and feel as greedy as you'd like lol I hope this is what you had in mind when sending this request in, just let bro go to sleep with someone he loves <3 And ps.. I am making a Mydei dragon design slowly if you haven't seen hehe.. I'm so happy you're enjoying those designs as well! <3

Contents: Mydei x Reader, fluff, maybe a tiny bit suggestive if you squint really hard

Words: 856

Ko-fi | 1.5K followers event

His torso was bare before you as he slumped on the edge of the bed, a sigh heavier than the world leaving his lips while he took a moment to simply linger on the border of the waking world and going to sleep next to you. Mydei always took some time to relish in the quiet, such a stark contrast to all the screams he had borne, the battle cries, the trumpeting of the horn and the clash of weapons. It was a distant memory, still looming in his shadow, but a memory all the same.Instead, they had taken on a strange, familiar quality, as if they were old companions who had returned for a visit - it helped him remember, why he was here, who he was doing all of this for.

Your arms were suddenly snaking their way underneath his arms, hands sliding up his chest while you pressed yourself against his back, your skin warm and soft from the bed. You do not speak, but he senses your thoughts and grasps one of the hands that are at his chest, giving it a small squeeze.

“Come to bed, lay down..” you whisper, nosing at his shoulder for his warm scent. It was too late and both of you were too tired to speak in too lengthy words; you did not intend to question him either, he already knew what you meant to ask, and he’d answer when the time was better. Mydei did not like to be pushed for a response.

He picked up the hand he was holding and kissed the inside of it, his throat vibrating with a low hum. Feeling just a little daring through your sleepy muscles you curled your fingers as if to grab his face, it made him huff a laugh while he grasped your wrist to pull your grabbing hand back.

“Always so eager to have me close, aren’t you? You’re lucky I don’t mind..” he told you as he turned to the side, head turning as well so he could take a look at you. You loosened your hold but did not let go, smiling up at him as you found his gaze.

“I would have hoped you’d say it is because you love me instead, or do you let anyone be melting up to you for attention?”You leaned into his shoulder with a contented sigh, your words playful but your affection clear. Yet he huffed all the same as if your words were meant to slight him. Suddenly you found yourself sliding into his lap as he hooked an arm around you and brought you in front of him, sitting sideways on his lap, the bed sheet trailing behind you and falling off your legs.

“I’d say it’s because I love you, but you are asking for trouble with comments like that” You tilted your head and gave a little playful sneer, arms already having found their purchase around his neck.

“Trouble..” you scoff but lean into him. “As if..”

“As if I’d let just any person ‘melt into’ me. You are the only one that can” he finished off for you, his fingers tracing up and down your spine, his smirk growing watching you shudder.

You hummed and leaned in, ducking out of sigh and resting your forehead on his shoulders. Mydeimos held you, his head resting against yours in a silent moment of mutual comfort.

Your lips found the red mark running over his shoulder, kissing it tenderly. The light of the room was enough to allow you to see them, dark red lines painted on a long time ago. You heard him sigh softly as you kissed another spot, another red trail.

His arms fell around your waist, your kisses melting the tension of his body away until he began to crave to lay down more than to remain sitting. As you were about to grace his skin with another kiss, his hold on you tightened and he let himself fall back onto the bed, pulling you down along with him.

Your hair fell before your eyes and you puffed, trying to get it from your eyes as you squirmed to find comfort in the new position. Mydei’s hand extended forth and moved your hair aside, tucking it behind your ear, and as your eyes were revealed to him once more he held your gaze. Wordlessly. His eyes, soft pools of molten gold carried the image of you like a treasured memory.

Holding his gaze you dipped down again and kissed the pointed mark on his chest, chuckling softly when you heard his breath hitch. You continued with your languid kiss shower across his skin, trailing up and down before Mydei had too much and hugged you onto him, bringing an end to your affections for tonight.

His hand found the forgotten bed sheets and pulled them over you. He kissed the top of your head and sank his head into the pillows, but you wouldn’t be yourself if you didn’t land a good night kiss to the mark running over his shoulders once more, knowing he was growing red in the face.

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idkyetxoxo · 4 days ago

Text

Seven | Eclipsed | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 3.1k

Warnings - Parental abuse, angst, sexual content (mild)

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The decision to run wasn't something I made lightly.

But after crying into Eris's chest, after sobbing until my ribs ached and my breath came in shallow hiccups, I knew there was no other choice.

Not anymore. Not with a life growing inside me. Not after last night.

Beron hadn't even been angry with me. Not specifically. One of my brothers had disobeyed him. A courtier had misspoken. The details didn't matter.

What mattered was that I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and in his eyes, I'd always been an easy target.

His fists had found me quickly. Cold. Controlled. Not once. Not twice. And then his hands—his hands had wrapped around my throat like iron bands, squeezing, squeezing—

It was Eris who'd pulled him off. Who'd thrown his body between mine and our father's rage. I remembered the heat in his voice, the flash of fire in his hands, the barely contained threat.

I also remembered the silence that followed.

The tension that thickened the halls. The bruise blooming across my neck like a collar. The way my lip throbbed and cracked when I tried to speak.

This morning, I had dressed in haste, tunic and trousers that didn't cling to the evidence of what I carried. I covered my neck with a scarf. Packed only what I could carry.

Every movement had felt surreal, like I was watching someone else's hands fold clothes, someone else's body move through my room.

Eris was already waiting outside my door. He didn't speak at first. Just looked at me.

His jaw clenched at the sight of my face—what Beron had done to it. And still, he didn't ask if I was sure. He knew the answer. Knew this was the only path left to me.

"We'll keep it quiet," he said. His voice was low but steady. "Your window of time is short. The guard shift changes in less than an hour. I've already cleared the western corridor. No one will see you."

My throat ached with gratitude I couldn't voice.

"You'll go through Winter first," he continued, adjusting the strap on my satchel, ever the older brother even now. "Kain will be expecting you. He doesn't know the full story—only that you're in danger, and I trust him. He'll give you shelter."

I nodded slowly. "And from there... Day."

"Helion owes me," Eris said simply. "He won't turn you away."

I swallowed thickly. "And if he does?"

He hesitated. "Then you find Lucien. He'll protect you." That name, the last resort. A comfort and a warning.

I took a slow breath. My heart felt like it was splintering, like each beat carried a goodbye I hadn't said yet.

Then, the dam inside me cracked again. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed. "What are you apologising for now?"

"For putting you in this position. For making you lie. For leaving like this. For—" My voice broke. "For everything."

Eris stepped forward, gathering me into his arms again. But this time, I didn't cry. I couldn't afford to. I just pressed my face into his shoulder and held on.

"You didn't put me here," he said, his voice rough. "He did. And if you stayed, it would only get worse. You know that."

I nodded into the fabric of his coat.

Eris pulled back, placing a hand on either side of my face, his thumbs brushing the edges of my bruises with such gentleness I almost cried again.

"You are not a burden. You are not weak. And you are not alone."

I blinked hard. "Promise me you'll come. When it's safe."

A flicker of warmth crossed his features, the rare kind that reminded me of the boy he used to be before this court turned him cold. "I will. I swear it. I'll find you."

The goodbye was brief because if it lasted longer, I wouldn't be able to leave.

I stepped out into the corridor and didn't look back.

The Autumn border loomed ahead before midday, where crimson and gold bled into the pale, icy blues of Winter. The line between them shimmered like a living thing, a rift between worlds.

On one side, tyranny, fire, blood. On the other, a frigid unknown, but freedom.

The wind howled as I crossed. I had barely made it past the border. My boots crunched in the snow-dusted moss of Winter's forest, breath hitching in my chest, the cold biting through my clothes and skin and bone but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

And then the shadows came. Like a breath of wind. Like a warning.

They spilt in around me, dark tendrils curling over tree trunks, brushing against my ankles like they recognised me, owned me. I barely had time to spin around before he was there.

Azriel. He winnowed in as if summoned by my heartbeat. Cloaked in wings and midnight, expression carved from stone.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

"Are you insane?" I snapped, clutching the strap of my satchel like it might anchor me. My magic instinctively checking the glamour around my belly. My panic came too fast, too sharp. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

His shadows flitted and curled around his shoulders, more alive than I'd ever seen them, like they were relieved. Like they'd missed me.

Of course they had. Damned spymaster.

He didn't answer my questions. He just stared. "You're leaving," he said flatly. A statement. Not a question.

"Yes, Azriel," I said through gritted teeth. "I am. Is that a problem for you?"

"No," he said, too calmly. "Not at all."

I narrowed my eyes. "Then why are you here?"

His jaw clenched. His siphons pulsed faintly, his wings twitching like he wanted to shield me from something invisible.

"You were gone," he said, voice low. "And no one knew where. Eris lied for you. I nearly tore apart the entire Autumn Court before I followed the scent trail across the border. What the hell are you thinking?"

"You have no idea what I've been dealing with—"

"Then tell me!" he barked. "Tell me why you ran! Tell me why you've been hiding. Tell me what Beron did. I know he did something."

My voice cracked. "You don't understand—"

"Then help me understand!" His shadows lashed out violently behind him. "Because right now, it looks a lot like you were just done with me. Like I wasn't even worth a goodbye."

My breath came out in a shudder. The words hit deeper than they should have. Deeper than I could handle.

"I left," I whispered, "because I had to. Because if I didn't—he would have killed me."

Azriel stilled. "I don't care what Beron did," he said after a long beat. "We could have handled it together. You don't get to vanish and act like I don't have a right to fight for you."

"I wasn't just protecting myself!" I shouted, voice sharp with panic, pain, truth.

"I was protecting your baby."

The words tore out of me like they had claws.

Azriel froze. His expression didn't change, just drained. Like all the breath had been pulled from his lungs. All the colour from the world. He didn't move. Didn't speak.

And I took his silence like a knife to the gut.

I laughed, but it was hollow and choked. "Of course. Of course you'd think it isn't yours."

His head jerked up. "That's not—"

"It is yours, Azriel!" I shouted, a sob clawing at my throat. "Do you think I would run like this, alone, terrified, if it wasn't? Do you think I would carry this—hide this—if it wasn't yours?"

"That's not what I—" He moved forward, reaching for me, voice raw now. "That's not what I thought."

I flinched.

"I thought I'd lost you," he breathed. "I thought... I wasn't enough. That maybe you'd decided I wasn't worth telling."

My anger shattered.

"I don't want this—us, if you don't want it," I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "Don't feel pressured because of the baby. I can do this on my own."

His eyes flashed, wings twitching slightly. "No," he said, the word low, hoarse. "You don't get it."

He stepped closer, voice breaking as he continued, "I've always wanted you. More. I've always wanted more, but I was willing to take what you gave—anything, everything, because I'd rather have you in some way than lose you altogether."

My breath caught.

"Even without the baby," he said, eyes blazing now, "I'd still want you. Gods, it's why I'm here. Why I've been so insistent. So damn persistent. You think I wouldn't be here if this wasn't real to me? You think this is just about obligation?" He let out a ragged breath. "I chose you. Long before I ever knew this child existed."

And then he stepped forward again, slow, reverent, and laid his palm gently—gently over my stomach. His breath caught. "You're pregnant."

I nodded, barely holding it together. "Yes."

His hand trembled. "With my child."

"Yes," I said again, voice cracking.

And something in Azriel broke.

He dropped to his knees before me, arms wrapping around my waist, forehead pressed to the barely-there swell beneath my tunic now revealed because I dropped the glamour.

His wings curled protectively around us both, and his shadows sank into the earth like they were rooting us together.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice thick. "You were never alone. Not for one damned second. I would've burned the courts for you. For you both."

I buried my hands in his hair as I finally let the tears fall.

"I was so scared," I choked. "I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know if you'd want it. Or me."

He looked up at me, eyes shining. "Want you? Want you? You're everything. You always have been everything. And this baby—this baby is mine. I will never let anything touch you. Either of you."

And the way he said it, fierce, certain, terrifyingly tender, broke something in me that had been held too tightly for too long.

"I love you," I whispered, voice shaking.

He stood, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me like I was oxygen after drowning.

"I love you," he said. "And I will never let you run again."

Azriel didn't speak again as he winnowed us out of the Winter borderlands, but the way his arms held me, like I might vanish again, said enough.

Velaris met us with the hush of starlight and sea air. The House of Wind stood dark and waiting, perched in the cliffs like it always had, like it had never stopped.

He landed softly on the balcony of his room and didn't let go of me until we were inside, shadows flitting ahead.

For a long while, we said nothing. I stood in the familiar quiet, unsure what to do with my hands, my breath, the storm still warring inside my chest.

Azriel watched me from near the fireplace. Not expectant. Not pressing. Just watching, like he was memorising the fact that I was there, really there.

We ended up in his bed, not by some grand plan but by instinct. His room was still exactly as I remembered, cool shadows and still air, the scent of cedar and clean linen clinging to everything. Him.

We lay there side by side, the silence humming between us like a living thing.

"I missed you," he said after a while, his voice low, rough with emotion.

I turned to face him, our foreheads nearly touching. "I missed you too."

He let out a breath, his thumb tracing along my jaw. "How's it been so far?" he asked, gently, but I knew what he meant.

I gave a shaky laugh. "Terrible."

His brows furrowed instantly. "Terrible how?"

I sighed. "I'm nauseous almost constantly, I'm always exhausted... and, Cauldron save me, I've been so horny all the damn time."

Azriel actually recoiled slightly, blinking. "Oh."

A beat of silence. Then I smirked. "Don't worry, my healer says it's normal. Hormones and all that."

He blinked again, and then he laughed. A real, soft chuckle that rumbled in his chest and made his shadows stir around the bed like they were sighing with relief.

"I... might be able to help with that," he said, his voice suddenly deeper, rougher, warmer.

I raised a brow. "You volunteering, Spymaster?"

He leaned in, lips ghosting over mine. "Only if it's what you want."

"It is," I whispered. "I never stopped wanting you."

That was all it took.

Azriel kissed me like I was air and he hadn't breathed in months. There was no rush, no hunger behind it just softness. Reverence. A kind of aching sweetness that pulled tears to my eyes as his fingers threaded through my hair.

He kissed me until the world went quiet, until there was only the warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, the steady rhythm of our hearts finally syncing again.

His hands moved with care, relearning my body like a song half-forgotten.

When he undressed me, he paused at every new curve, every sign of change, as if memorising this new version of me—of us.

When he touched the gentle swell of my bare stomach, his expression broke wide open. Wonder, fear, love, all of it flickered in his eyes before he leaned down and pressed a kiss there, slow and trembling.

I ran my fingers through his hair, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

Azriel looked up at me then, cupping my face with both hands. "I love you," he said, fierce and gentle at once. "And I already love them, too."

I kissed him, pulling him down with me, and when he finally slid into me, it was like coming home.

There was no frenzy, no urgency. Only skin and breath and quiet moans between kisses. He moved with care, slow and deep, as if every stroke was a prayer of apology, of promise, of love.

I clung to him, wrapping my legs around his hips, letting the weight of him ground me in this moment. In him.

We made love like we were rediscovering what it meant to be whole.

When we reached the edge, it wasn't with fireworks, but with a sigh, a soft moan, a whisper of his name against my lips as I shattered around him and he followed, groaning into my shoulder as he buried himself deep and still.

Afterward, he didn't let go. He stayed wrapped around me, one hand gently splayed over my thigh, the other tangling with mine.

In the stillness of our shared breath, I realised I wasn't scared anymore.

I was loved. I was safe. We both were.

I felt it like the brush of butterfly wings inside me, a flutter so sudden, so gentle, I sat up with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instinctively to my belly.

Azriel rose with me immediately, tension crackling through his frame, shadows stirring like alarmed birds.

"What is it?" he asked, eyes scanning me for pain.

But then he saw my face. I was smiling. Wide and real.

"Feel," I whispered, grabbing his hand and placing it over the spot just beneath my navel. "Right there."

His hand stilled. A moment passed. Then, another kick. Stronger this time, certain.

Azriel froze. His lips parted, the breath catching in his throat like he'd been struck, like the world had dropped out from under him in the most beautiful way.

"That was—" he blinked, and then a laugh burst from him, raw and amazed. "That's—gods, that's our baby."

I nodded, giggling despite the sudden tears pricking my eyes. He moved instinctively, shifting so both hands cradled the gentle swell of my belly, reverent, like he was afraid touching too hard would wake him from a dream.

"I can't believe it," he murmured. "Three months, and now... it's real. It's really happening."

"It's been real for a while," I said softly, laying back down. He followed me, turning onto his side to face me, one of his wings draping protectively behind my back like a shelter. "But feeling that... it changes everything, doesn't it?"

He nodded slowly, eyes locked on my face. His fingers traced the line of my temple with aching tenderness.

"What else do you know?" he asked, barely louder than a breath.

I reached up, wrapping my fingers around his wrist, pressing a kiss into his palm. My heart beat faster. Not from joy but from the weight of what I knew I had to say.

"There's something I need to tell you," I whispered.

His expression sobered immediately. Concern etched into every line of his beautiful face. His shadows tightened, gathering closer, as if they sensed the shift before the words had even left my mouth.

"The baby..." I began, voice trembling. "The baby has wings."

At first, he smiled. That quiet, proud, stunned smile he wore so rarely, like the sun rising behind his storm.

But the moment he looked back at me and saw I wasn't smiling, his expression collapsed.

"My body..." I said carefully, repeating the words that had been haunting me for weeks, "isn't built to accommodate that kind of development. Not without complications. Criva, my healer—she explained it plainly. There are risks. Serious ones."

Azriel went still, like a statue carved from night.

And then, hoarsely, "Are you... are you telling me you might die delivering our baby?"

My throat closed. I tried to speak and failed. So I just nodded.

Tears welled in his eyes, unshed but shining, and his shadows became a storm, thick and whirling and frantic as they wrapped around his shoulders like a second skin.

His hand trembled as he reached up and brushed my cheek.

"I—I can't lose you," he choked. "Not now. Not after everything. Not when I just got you back."

I swallowed hard, blinking through my own tears.

"It's okay, Az," I said, and somehow managed to sound calm. "Really. If it comes to that... if I don't make it, you'll still have them. And that's enough for me. It has to be."

"No," he said, voice breaking. "That's not enough for me. I want you. I want both of you. I will not let this end with you dying just to bring life into this world."

He shifted closer, cupping the back of my head, foreheads touching now.

His voice cracked like thunder when he whispered, "We'll find another way. I'll tear apart every library in Prythian, I'll go to Madja, to Helion, to anyone—I don't care. There has to be a way."

"You're not going to lose me without a fight," I murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, salty from his tears. "But you need to understand... this is why I ran. This is why I didn't want to tell you. Because it's terrifying. Because it's real. And I couldn't bear to see you break."

"I won't break," he said fiercely, both hands now framing my face. "I'll bend, I'll burn, I'll bleed—but I won't break. Not as long as you're with me."

I closed my eyes and let the sound of him, his heartbeat, his breath, his voice, wrap around the ache inside me.

For a moment, there was only that. Only him. Only us.

And in that stillness, I let myself hope.

A/n - FINALLY THE TRUTH! It didn't come out exactly the way I originally imagined, but after tweaking it endlessly, this is the best I could do.

We go from heavy angst, straight into some spice and then into soft fluff... real whiplash energy, I know x

The ending is sad I'm aware. They just found their way back to each other, only to be hit with the full weight of how dangerous this pregnancy really is :(

Also I have a concert on monday (lana del rey… i know 😝) and the next part is meant to be on tuesday for this but I might have to wait to post cause i wanna tweak it a bit but i won’t have time cause of the concert, don’t kill me please ty 😭

Thank you for reading <33

Shadow and Flame tag list - @coffeebooksrain18 @jaybbygrl @slut4acotar @justtryingtosurvive02 @mortqlprojections @sheblogs @moonlitlavenders @windblownwinston @queenoffeysand @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @metaphysicaldoom @natalijassav @bookishbishhh @yourenothingbutnottome @holb32 @etsukomoonbeam @fxckmiup @i-am-infinite @megwan @cuethedepession @rinalsworld @whoreforfictionalmen18 @asahinasstuff @lilah-asteria @smol-grandpa @shinyghosteclipse @rachelnicolee @shellsarepretty @jugodeshadowsinger @landofpetrichor @sunnyspycat @pit-and-the-pen @obscure-beauty

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redeemingvillains · 7 days ago

Text

the knight's war - knight!mattheo riddle (pt. 2)

summary: “You will leave at dawn with the next battalion.” word count: 2k a/n: you can't have flangst without angst, dears ♡

« part one || part three »

Your heart hammered against your ribcage as a wave of nausea swept over you.

Your feet moved quickly against the flagstone, and your dress trailed behind you as you pushed open the large wooden door to find the prince and his senior advisors in a heated discussion.

He didn’t acknowledge you and you moved quietly to stand near him, your eyes fixed on the floor as you listened to the latest report.

Your border villages had been brutally attacked weeks ago and nothing the prince was doing was working; the more men he sent, the more men died and he was quickly running out of options as the fighting drew nearer.

You held your breath as you listened to news of the staggering losses. Your eyes flicked up to see Mattheo’s already staring at you, though for once he didn’t smile and darkness swirled in his gaze with a concern that matched your own in a way that worried you perhaps more than anything else.

Suddenly the prince cleared his throat and you realized he'd said something to you. You blushed furiously despite yourself and turned to see him looking between you and Mattheo, eyes narrowed. And before you could reply a slow, wicked smile spread across his face, a dawning realization, a thought.

“Sir Riddle” he said, though his eyes never left you, “you will leave at dawn with the next battalion.”

The blood rushed from your head so quickly you swayed on your feet and one of your ladies held your arm to steady you.

You could feel a scream in your throat, could feel the tears behind your eyes but the prince was studying you, daring you to react and you swallowed every emotion and stood perfectly still, eyes falling to your feet, desperate for something to focus on. Because the reports had been clear: the kingdom was woefully unprepared, you didn’t have the weapons, the men, nor the supplies.

This was a death sentence.

And you had no way to stop it.

The meeting adjourned and you raised your head as Mattheo turned to you, pausing only long enough to go unnoticed before he was shepherded out of the room.

That night you muffled your sobs, your screams, your rage and your regret in your pillow because this was entirely your doing. You were careless, you were flippant, you flaunted your affections in front of the court, and you’d created space in your heart for Mattheo that could never belong to him.

Worse still, you realized much too late that you'd fallen for him. Hard. You'd fallen for the curve of his smile, for the way he laughed and joked with you, and talked to you like a normal human being, for the husky sound of his voice in the morning, for the way you could have entire conversations in a single glance, for the way his fingers had felt on your skin and the break in his voice as he’d whispered to you in his native tongue, dolcezza.

You’d gone to the library that night to look it up...my sweetness.

You could feel your heart shatter.

The morning Mattheo left it began to rain.

And for 189 days it had not stopped.

The weather was unprecedented in it’s gloom, in it’s misery, like the sky mourned with you, because after day 146 you had stopped hearing from the front lines. More men had gone out, and not a single one had come back.

You stopped eating.

You didn't slept.

You were wasting away, a shell of yourself. Empty.

“She’s so compassionate... she’s so patriotic” the court said of you like they knew you, like they could even begin to comprehend what it was that was plagued you, that was making you ill.

A dark pallor hung over the castle, and the prince reveled in it, in the power, in the bloodshed, in the knowledge that there was nothing anyone could do to stop him and no one to swoop in and save you.

And he took appalling advantage of the situation.

He let his hands wander under the dinner table despite how you squirmed, he pressed and nuzzled into your neck openly despite the impropriety of it all while others only averted their eyes.

You pushed back and you complained at first, but when the front went silent and the reality crept in like strangling vines that Mattheo wasn't coming back, you gave up. And now you were resigned to it, to him, disappearing into your pain every time he touched you.

You wandered the halls like a ghost. And when you weren't doing that you sat and gazed out the window in your room that had a vantage point of the horizon.

You daydreamed about what it would be like to scale the castle wall and run, about how far you could make it before they pulled you back kicking and screaming. You wondered if you could let yourself sink into the pond in the garden and never resurface.

Your eyes glazed over as you stared at the horizon.

You lay your head on your arms and watched as the gray clouds in the distance faded to a puffy white admitting the first crack of sunlight you'd seen in months, but you couldn’t stir up the joy to be happy about it.

But then you saw a speck.

You rubbed at your dry eyes that felt salty with lack of sleep. This wasn’t the first time you’d imagined something there, and you sighed as you tried to blink the mirage away.

But then you looked again. And it was still there. And it was moving, growing closer, and you slowly rose to your feet as you called for one of your ladies.

“Do you – do you see that?” you whispered, your voice hoarse from lack of use as you pulled her in front of you and pointed.

“Your highness...” she cautioned, all too familiar with this type of request from you before she followed your gaze and then dropped the basket of linens she’d been holding as an armory became visible and more figures crested the horizon. Soldiers. Knights. With an undeniable knight dressed in all black at its helm.

You ran.

Barefoot, with your hair loose, in your informal dressing gown you ran as you heard the commotion in the castle as the news spread.

You nearly lost your footing down the steps in your haste. You’d completely forgotten yourself and people ducked out of your way but none of it mattered because by the time you threw open the door to the main courtyard and your feet hit the cobblestones, the parade of soldiers was coming through the trellis gate to shouts and cheers as flower petals, leaves, and rice rained in celebration, music started playing and someone began to sing the national anthem.

Your chest heaved with emotion, and your tears flowed freely when you saw him.

His horse was trotting slowly, unsteadily, and he seemed to be cradling his arm but it was him, he was here and he was alive.

He was searching the crowd as other soldiers dismounted and joined the revelry until his head turned to you and like his horse was an extension of him it stopped. He slid out of his saddle in a way that betrayed a level of exhaustion you weren’t familiar with as he stumbled and pulled off his helmet with a grimace and let it clang to the street.

Several people cheered, a few gasped but he only had eyes for you.

His eyes. They were dark. Black. Swirling, whispering to you of things he would never unsee. His hair was matted to his forehead, his face dirty, sweaty, smeared with blood whether his own or someone else’s it was impossible to tell. He was covered in layers of filth and mud that left only his eyes and mouth exposed and only 20 years of grooming in court kept you from running to him, from running straight into his arms as he stumbled towards you and your chest heaved faster as you cried and swiped fruitlessly at the tears on your cheeks.

He swallowed upon seeing them, upon seeing you, here, looking at him, more beautiful than every dream he’d had of you and he knew instantly, without a doubt, that every bloody corpse he'd laid down was worth it for this moment, to be here, with you, as flower petals rained from the sky and children danced in the street, safe and happy.

Tonight the taverns would flow with ale and a story. About a knight in black who singlehandedly turned the tide of the war, who cut through bodies like a madman, screaming as his sword flew, otherworldly in his anger, his vengeance, his rage; some would even go so far as to say he did it for love.

He staggered as he pressed forward to you, your eyes never leaving one another despite the chaos that rained around you.

You ached to hold him, to touch him, to confirm this wasn't a dream you would wake up from.

He was only a yard away when his steps faltered and he glanced over your right shoulder. You turned to see the prince behind you, a requisite smile on his face given the celebration despite the fire you could see in his eyes. Then you heard the clank of armor as Mattheo dropped to a knee in front of you, close enough to touch as he bowed his head.

“The kingdom is safe, your majesties" he said hoarsely.

You felt your body shake and it took everything in you not to sink to your knees alongside him, to pull him into your arms, to run your fingers through his hair but even though he was close enough to touch you felt another hand pulling you backwards, away from him: the prince, his fingers grasping your upper arm, pressing into an already familiar bruise there. And as he gathered you to his side he waved to the crowd and their cheers grew louder.

“To our soldiers, to our kingdom!” he shouted, basking in glory he wasn’t rightly owed. He squeezed you hard enough that you remembered to smile and wave next to him.

Mattheo stood with measured effort, eyes narrowing at how the prince gripped you, at the fingermarked bruises on your arm, at the way your dress hung on your slimmed figure, in moments piecing together what the last 6 months had entailed for you in a way that made him sicker than anything he’d seen on the battlefield.

“A proper celebration is in order!” the prince continued, “and I can think of no better way to celebrate than with my future bride at my side - in fact” he shouted louder, “what better way to honor this momentous occasion than with a wedding!?”

Your eyes shot to him in shock. The terms of your betrothal clearly stated that your wedding wouldn’t take place until the fall.

“We will wed in a fortnight, further unifying us and our country against enemies both foreign" he said, before his eyes slid fleetingly to Mattheo "and domestic."

There were more cheers and loud shouts of celebration but they echoed in your head like they were far away as blood rushed in your ears.

The prince looked down at the shock on your face, enjoying the horror of it, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“And the only thing more exciting than that, dear," he whispered against your ear, "will be everything I plan to do to you on our wedding night.”

You shivered as you looked back to Mattheo, horrified, helpless.

His knuckles were white as he grasped the hilt of his sword, and you could see his body trembling as his chest rose and fell with exertion, with precision, with control. His eyes were locked on yours, unfailing in their strength, in their promise as they slid to the prince and flared with a coldness, a ferocity and an anger you'd never seen before.

»-♡→ next: the knight's reprisal (part three)

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#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle imagine #knight!mattheo #divider by saradika graphics

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐒

ㅤㅤjoel miller x f!reader

genre: smut, jakcson era, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, minors dni

word count: 15k

summary: joel saves you and brings you to jackson, after healing you become the local librarian of the community.

warnings: some angst with happy ending, mutual pining, female masturbation, slow burn, reader's name is Ash + bisexual, oral (both receiving), heavy petting, piv, dirty talk, soft dom!joel, submissive!reader, reader enjoys bands and books, blood mention, canon typical violence, some spoilers for part 2 (for ellie)

a/n: this was commissioned by @ashleyfilm 💜 thank you so much for being patient with me and supporting me!

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the rugged terrain of Wyoming. Joel rode slowly, his horse's hooves crunching softly on the gravel path. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and earth, a refreshing change from the stale, musty confines of Jackson’s walls. Tall trees bordered the path, their leaves rustling gently in the mild breeze, creating a soothing symphony that mingled with the distant calls of birds. The sky stretched wide above, a brilliant canvas of blues and pinks, with streaks of orange signaling the approach of dusk.

In the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the mountains loomed majestically, their silent, steadfast presence a reminder of nature's unyielding power. The grass swayed gently in the wind, patches of wildflowers adding bursts of color to the verdant landscape. Joel could hear the faint trickle of a stream nearby, its clear waters winding through the forest, a lifeline in this vast, untamed wilderness. The tranquility of the scene was deceptive, masking the dangers that lurked just beyond the tree line.

Joel’s eyes scanned the surroundings with practiced precision, taking in every detail. The gnarled bark of ancient trees, the glint of sunlight on the surface of the stream, the fleeting shadows cast by birds overhead – everything was noted, cataloged, filed away in his mind. The world outside Jackson was a place of both breathtaking beauty and constant peril, and Joel knew better than to let his guard down. Still, in moments like this, it was hard not to appreciate the raw, untouched splendor of the land around him.

Joel dismounted from his horse, the reins held loosely in his hand as he walked the rest of the way on foot. He preferred the quiet that walking afforded, the ability to move silently through the underbrush, alert to every rustle and crack in the woods around him. The air was filled with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the fading light painted long shadows across the forest floor.

As he moved deeper into the trees, a noise caught his attention – the low murmur of voices, urgent and panicked. Joel’s instincts kicked in, and he crouched low, moving stealthily toward the source of the commotion. Each step was measured, his boots barely making a sound on the soft ground. The voices grew louder, more distinct, and he could make out the gruff tones of men in distress.

Joel reached the edge of a small clearing and paused, hidden behind a thick oak tree. He peered around the trunk, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him. Three men stood in a loose circle, their backs to him, all focused on something on the ground. Their postures were tense, movements agitated. Joel’s gaze shifted, and he saw what held their attention – a woman, unconscious and sprawled in the grass, her dark hair matted with blood.

Nearby, the bodies of two raiders lay crumpled, their lifeless forms testament to a recent struggle. Blood stained the ground around them, dark and viscous. The men standing over her seemed distraught, their faces pale and drawn. One of them knelt beside her, checking for a pulse, while the others scanned the perimeter, their eyes darting nervously.

Joel crept closer, using the trees and underbrush for cover. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the danger that could erupt at any moment. He could hear the men speaking now, their words sharp and anxious.

"Fucking bitch went feral," one of them hissed, his voice trembling.

"Yeah, these types are the worst," the man kneeling beside the girl replied. "They’ll do anything to survive, even when they’re outnumbered."

"Well, it’ll be easier to make use of her now," another said, his voice filled with anger and fear. "But look at them. She took them out, or at least put up one hell of a fight."

Joel's eyes lingered on the unconscious woman. She was small, curvy even in her battered state, and dressed in dark clothing. Despite the blood and grime, there was a fierceness about her that spoke of resilience and strength. He felt a pang of something – concern, perhaps, or admiration for her courage. But then he noticed something else: one of the men standing over her had drawn a knife.

"Let’s not take a chance and kill her now," the man with the knife said, his voice hard. "Then we can make use of her."

Joel’s jaw tightened. He knew these types – survivors who looked out for themselves first, willing to abandon those in need if it meant their own safety. Normally, he might have looked the other way, rationalizing it as the harsh reality of their world. But something about the girl struck a chord deep within him, a fierce need to protect her that he couldn’t explain.

Without another thought, Joel acted. He slipped his revolver from its holster, the weight familiar and comforting in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from his hiding place, weapon raised. "Put the knife down," he commanded, his voice cold and authoritative.

The men spun around, eyes wide with shock and fear. The one with the knife hesitated, then lunged at Joel. In a swift, practiced motion, Joel fired, the shot echoing through the trees. The man fell, clutching his chest, his knife clattering to the ground.

The other two men reacted, one drawing a gun while the other tried to grab the girl. Joel moved quickly, taking aim and firing again. The second man dropped, blood blooming on his shirt. The last man, realizing the fight was lost, turned and fled into the woods.

Joel lowered his gun, breathing heavily, and approached the girl. She was still unconscious, her pulse weak and erratic. He felt that strange pull again, a fierce need to protect her. He quickly checked her for any serious injuries, then lifted her gently in his arms.

He carried her back to his horse, securing her in front of him. With a final glance at the clearing, he urged his horse forward, heading back towards Jackson. The girl’s head lolled against his chest, and he could feel the faint rise and fall of her breath. He didn’t know who she was or what had happened to her, but he was determined to get her to safety. As the forest closed in around them, Joel’s thoughts were a swirl of concern, determination, and a growing sense of responsibility for the woman in his arms.

Joel rode through the thickening twilight, the girl's limp body held securely in his arms. The rhythmic motion of the horse and the steady beat of her faint pulse against his chest did little to calm his racing thoughts. He found himself plagued by a storm of emotions he couldn’t quite name. Usually, the sight of another person in peril would elicit a practiced detachment, a necessary survival mechanism in this brutal world. But this time, something was different.

As they neared Jackson, Joel’s mind kept returning to the clearing – the dead raiders, the unconscious girl, the inexplicable urge to save her. He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts, but they clung to him, persistent and unyielding. His grip on the reins tightened as he urged his horse faster, the town’s gates coming into view, the welcoming lights a stark contrast to the darkness encroaching on the forest.

The gates creaked open as he approached, familiar faces of the night guards registering surprise at the sight of Joel carrying an injured woman. He gave them a brief nod, too focused on his task to engage in any explanations. He directed his horse towards the infirmary, the only place in Jackson equipped to handle such emergencies.

"Doc! Get the doc!" he shouted as he dismounted, carefully cradling the girl in his arms. A flurry of movement followed as people rushed to help. The infirmary door swung open, and Joel stepped inside, the warm, sterile smell a sharp contrast to the cold, earthy scent of the woods.

"Over here!" Dr. Allen called, clearing a space on one of the cots. Joel laid the girl down gently, stepping back as the medical team sprang into action. His hands, now free, trembled slightly. He clenched them into fists, trying to steady himself.

Dr. Allen, a middle-aged woman with keen eyes and a calm demeanor, began her examination immediately. She worked with swift precision, checking the girl’s vitals, assessing her injuries. Joel watched from a distance, every muscle in his body taut with worry.

"She’s stable, but barely," Dr. Allen said, glancing up at Joel. "What happened out there?"

Joel exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Found her out near the old logging road. Raiders got to her, but she fought back. Took down a couple of them before I got there."

Dr. Allen nodded, focusing back on her patient. "She’s got a strong will to survive. That’s good. She’s going to need it."

Joel hovered near the doorway, his eyes never leaving the girl. He felt an intense, inexplicable need to ensure she was safe, to see her through this. The room buzzed with activity as the medical team cleaned her wounds, administered fluids, and worked to stabilize her condition. Joel’s worry gnawed at him, an unfamiliar sensation that left him feeling exposed and raw.

Hours seemed to feel like days as he waited, the minutes ticking by with agonizing slowness. Tommy appeared at some point, a concerned look on his face as he approached Joel.

"Hey," Tommy said softly, placing a hand on Joel’s shoulder. "You okay?"

Joel nodded stiffly. "Yeah, just… worried about her."

Tommy glanced at the girl, then back at Joel. "You don’t even know her."

"I know," Joel replied, his voice low. "But I couldn’t just leave her there."

Tommy gave him a knowing look, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You did the right thing. She’s in good hands now."

The night wore on, the medical team’s efforts began to show results. The girl’s breathing steadied, her pulse grew stronger. Dr. Allen finally stepped back, wiping her brow.

"She’s going to make it," she announced, and the tension in the room visibly lessened. Joel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing over him.

"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Dr. Allen nodded. "She’ll need rest and care, but she’s a fighter. She’ll pull through."

Joel settled into a chair by her bedside, watching over her as she slept. The worry that had plagued him since he found her eased slightly, replaced by a determined resolve. He didn’t understand why he felt such a connection to this stranger, but he knew one thing for certain: he would be there for her, whatever it took.

As dawn broke over Jackson, casting a soft glow through the infirmary windows, Joel remained by her side, haunted by thoughts he couldn’t quite comprehend but resolute in his newfound purpose.

He remained by her side, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but unwilling to leave her alone. The infirmary had quieted down, the initial rush of activity giving way to a more subdued atmosphere.

When the first light of dawn seeped through the windows, casting long shadows across the room, Joel's thoughts drifted to the moments before he found her. He replayed the scene over and over in his mind: the woman lying unconscious, the dead raiders around her, the way she had fought so fiercely to survive. There was something about her, a strength and determination that resonated with him deeply.

Tommy returned, bringing a steaming cup of coffee. He handed it to Joel, who accepted it gratefully. "How's she doing?" Tommy asked, his voice hushed.

"Better," Joel replied, his eyes never leaving the girl. "Dr. Allen said she’s going to make it, but she needs rest."

Tommy nodded, pulling up a chair next to Joel. "You should get some rest too, brother. You’ve been up all night."

Joel shook his head. "I’ll rest when I know she’s out of the woods. Until then, I’m staying right here."

Tommy sighed but didn’t argue. He knew better than to try and change Joel’s mind once it was made up. Instead, he settled into his chair, offering silent support. The two brothers sat in companionable silence, the weight of the night’s events hanging heavily between them.

A while later, the infirmary door opened again, and Maria walked in, her face a mix of concern and curiosity. "Heard you had quite the night," she said, her gaze shifting from Joel to the woman on the bed.

"Yeah," Joel replied, taking a sip of his coffee. "Found her just in time. She’s a fighter, though."

Maria smiled softly and approached the bedside, looking at the unconscious girl. "Seems like she’ll fit right in around here. We could use more fighters."

Joel nodded, a sense of agreement settling over him. He didn’t know what lay ahead for her, but he was certain she had a place in Jackson. Maria turned to Joel, her eyes searching his face.

"You’ve been here all night?" she asked gently.

"Yeah," Joel admitted, his voice low. "Couldn’t leave her alone."

Maria exchanged a glance with Tommy, a silent understanding passing between them. "You’ve done enough for now, Joel. Let us take over for a bit. You need some rest."

Joel hesitated, his eyes lingering. "I can’t. Not yet."

Maria sighed, but there was no frustration in her expression, only compassion. "Alright, but at least sit down. We’ll stay with you."

Joel nodded and He settled back into his chair, his eyes never straying far from her face. Tommy and Maria took seats nearby, their presence a comforting reminder that he wasn’t alone in this.

At one point, Maria leaned over to Tommy and whispered, "I’ve never seen Joel this concerned about a stranger before."

Tommy nodded, his eyes on Joel. "Yeah, it’s unusual. But I think she means something to him, even if he doesn’t fully realize it yet."

Maria glanced at the girl, then back at Joel. "Maybe she’s what he needs. Someone to remind him that there’s still good worth fighting for."

Tommy squeezed Maria’s hand, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe. Let’s just hope she pulls through."

As evening approached, she began to stir, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to wake up. Joel leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest.

Slowly, her eyes opened, dark and filled with confusion. She blinked several times, trying to focus on her surroundings. When her gaze finally landed on Joel, there was a flicker of recognition, followed by a mix of relief and apprehension.

"Hey there," Joel said softly, his voice gentle. "You’re safe now. You’re in Jackson."

She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "Who…?"

"My name’s Joel," he replied. "I found you out there. Brought you back here to get some help. You’re going to be okay."

She nodded weakly, her eyes drifting shut again. She was still exhausted, her body demanding more rest. Joel felt a sense of relief wash over him. She was awake, and she knew she was safe.

Tommy and Maria watched the exchange with quiet interest, noting the tenderness in Joel’s voice and the protective way he watched over the girl.

"Looks like she’s in good hands," Maria said softly, her eyes meeting Joel’s. "You did good, Joel."

Joel nodded, his expression resolute. "Just want to make sure she’s okay."

As night fell, Joel remained, his thoughts a swirl of concern, determination, and a growing sense of responsibility for the woman in his care. Tommy and Maria eventually left, their reassurances lingering in the air.

Joel knew that whatever the future held, he was committed to seeing this through. He didn’t fully understand the connection he felt to this stranger, but he knew one thing for certain: he would protect her, no matter what.

***

You drifted in and out of consciousness, your mind a haze of pain and confusion. Each time you woke, the world around you shifted in and out of focus, as if you were seeing it through frosted glass. Your body ached with a deep, relentless throb that seemed to come from every part of you.

Voices echoed around you, muffled and distant, as though they were coming from underwater. You could barely make out the words, but you remembered men shouting, the sharp crack of gunfire, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. The memories came in fragments, each one more disjointed than the last.

Amidst the chaos, there was a moment of clarity, a fleeting glimpse of a man with a hard, weathered face, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and something else—concern, maybe? His face blurred as your vision faded, and you slipped back into the darkness.

The next time you woke, it was to a different sensation. You were being carried, held tightly against a warm chest. The rhythmic motion of walking jostled you gently, and you could hear the steady beat of a heart beneath your ear. The scent of sweat, leather, and something comforting enveloped you, grounding you in the moment.

You tried to open your eyes, to see who was carrying you, but your eyelids felt like they were made of lead. All you could do was rest your head against the warmth, feeling a strange sense of safety despite the pain that racked your body.

The world shifted again, and you found yourself lying on something soft—a bed, maybe? There were more voices now, urgent but less panicked than before. Hands touched you, checking your injuries, and you flinched at the pain. You heard someone speaking close by, their voice low and soothing, but the words were lost to you.

***

You slipped in and out of consciousness, each time catching fleeting glimpses of your surroundings. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls. Sometimes, you saw the man from before, sitting close by, his eyes never leaving you. Other times, you saw different faces—concerned, caring, but always strangers.

Pain flared up again, pulling you under, and you felt yourself drifting away once more. The last thing you remembered before the darkness claimed you was the feeling of a rough hand gently brushing your hair back, the touch surprisingly tender.

***

As the days passed, those glimpses began to clear. The man was always there, watching over you, his presence a constant in your fractured reality. You didn’t know who he was, but in your moments of lucidity, you felt a strange connection to him, as if he were a lifeline pulling you back from the brink.

Eventually, the pain started to recede, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that clung to your bones. You were still weak, but the moments of consciousness grew longer, and the world around you began to make more sense. You could hear conversations now, snippets of words that pieced together a picture of where you were and what had happened.

"... found her just in time," someone said.

"She’s a fighter," another voice replied, filled with a warmth that made your chest tighten.

You opened your eyes fully for the first time in what felt like an eternity, and the man’s face came into focus. He was sitting beside your bed, his expression a mixture of relief and weariness.

"Hey there," he said softly, his voice gentle. "You’re safe now. You’re in Jackson."

You tried to speak, but your voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "Who...?"

"My name’s Joel," he replied. "I found you out there. Brought you back here to get some help. You’re gonna be okay."

You nodded weakly, your eyes drifting shut again. You were still exhausted, your body demanding more rest. But for the first time since the attack, you felt a flicker of hope. You were safe, and someone was looking out for you.

And as you slipped back into sleep, you held onto that thought, letting it anchor you against the darkness.

***

The faces of Tommy, Maria, and Ellie became familiar presences around you. Each time you woke, they were there, offering quiet reassurances and gentle smiles that helped ease the lingering fear in your chest. They treated you with a kindness that felt foreign yet comforting, their presence a stark contrast to the violence and chaos you vaguely remembered.

Tommy, with his calm demeanor and steady voice, sat by your bedside, occasionally sharing stories about life in Jackson and cracking jokes that brought fleeting smiles to your lips. Maria, whose warmth and strength seemed to radiate from her, checked on you with a motherly concern, ensuring you had everything you needed. And Ellie, vibrant and spirited, chattered away about books, movies, and the world beyond Jackson, her enthusiasm infectious.

Their support made you feel less like an outsider and more like a welcomed part of their community. They didn’t pry into your past or demand answers to questions you weren’t ready to answer. Instead, they simply offered their friendship and a sense of belonging that you hadn’t realized you were searching for.

One afternoon, as you were well enough to sit up in bed, Joel walked in carrying a stack of books he found in the makeshift library of Jackson. He placed the books on the bedside table and offered you a small, reassuring smile.

"Thought you might like these," he said, his voice gentle yet tinged with a hint of concern. "Heard you were into movies and books."

You nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Joel. It means a lot."

He nodded in return, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. "Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable while you were healin’."

You appreciated his care, sensing there was more behind his actions than mere kindness. But before you could dwell on it further, Joel began to explain what happened, piecing together the fragments of your memory with the events he witnessed.

"You were out there, near the outskirts," Joel began, his voice steady. "A group of raiders attacked you. They... they were about to... but I showed up just in time."

You swallowed hard, the pieces starting to fit together in your mind. The shouts, the gunfire, the overwhelming sense of fear—all of it began to make sense now, though the details were still murky.

"You saved my life," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his actions settled heavily on your shoulders, mixing gratitude with a profound sense of vulnerability.

Joel shook his head, a hint of discomfort crossing his features. "Just did what anyone would have done."

But you knew better. Not everyone would have risked their own safety to intervene, especially in a world where survival often meant turning a blind eye. Joel chose differently, and his decision brought you here, to safety and healing.

As Joel stood there, his presence a reassuring anchor in the storm of your thoughts, you felt a surge of gratitude and something else—a growing connection that went beyond words. It was as if fate had brought you together, intertwining your lives in ways neither of you fully understood.

***

Slowly regaining strength each day, Joel’s visits became a steady rhythm in your recovery. It started with small gestures—him checking in on you, bringing fresh bandages or a cup of tea. But it was the mornings that stood out the most.

Every morning without fail, Joel arrived with a small bouquet of wildflowers he had gathered from the outskirts of Jackson. He placed them in a makeshift vase by the window, the delicate blooms adding a splash of color to the sterile hospital room. The gesture was simple yet meaningful, a reminder of life and beauty amidst the harshness of your world.

You watched him silently as he arranged the flowers with care, his hands gentle yet purposeful. There was a quiet intensity about him in those moments, a vulnerability he rarely showed to others. And as he turned to you with a soft smile, you felt a flutter of something deeper than gratitude—an unspoken connection that grew stronger with each passing day.

You began to talk more during his visits, sharing stories and snippets of your pasts. Joel spoke sparingly about Sarah, his daughter, and the pain of losing her. You listened attentively, offering words of comfort when the memories threatened to overwhelm him. In turn, you shared glimpses of your own life before the outbreak—memories of family, friends, and a world that now seemed like a distant dream.

Your conversations flowed easily, punctuated by moments of shared laughter and quiet understanding. There was a comfort in Joel’s presence, a familiarity that eased the ache of loneliness you had carried for so long. And in those stolen moments between nurse visits and medical checks, you began to see Joel not just as a protector, but as someone who had quietly slipped into the spaces of your heart.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and cast a golden glow across the room, Joel lingered by your bedside longer than usual. The air between you seemed charged with unspoken words, a tension that crackled beneath the surface.

"You know," Joel began, his voice low and rough with emotion, "I’ve never been one for… for flowers."

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze with a gentle smile. "I’ve noticed," you replied softly, your heart beating a little faster in your chest.

"Guess I’m makin’ an exception for you."

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You reached out tentatively, placing your hand over his where it rested on the edge of the bed. His fingers curled around yours, warm and solid, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

"I’m glad you did," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s expression softened, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand. "Me too."

In that moment, the distance between you dissolved, replaced by an undeniable pull that drew you closer together. It was as if you had been circling each other, hesitating on the edge of something profound. And now, with your hands intertwined and your hearts laid bare, there was no turning back.

***

One evening, as you sat together in the fading light, Joel’s hand found yours once more. His touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. You turned to him, your heart pounding in your chest, and found him already looking at you with an intensity that stole your breath away.

"Joel," you whispered, the word a prayer on your lips.

He didn’t speak, but his eyes held yours captive, searching for any hesitation or doubt. And when he leaned in, closing the distance between you, you thought the world would finally fall away, leaving only the warmth of his lips.

But what you expected never happened. Instead, he stilled, his eyes dropping to your lips and then back to meet your eyes over and over. He pulled away, swallowed thickly, and got up from his seat. He left without saying another word.

But, through it all, Joel continued to bring you flowers every morning—a silent reminder of the love and hope that had blossomed between you amidst the ruins of your world.

***

Several months passed in Jackson, and with each day of recovery, you found yourself drawn more deeply into the rhythm of life within the fortified walls. The once unfamiliar faces of Tommy, Maria, Ellie, and Joel became your steadfast companions, their presence weaving a tapestry of belonging that you hadn't felt since before the outbreak.

As you regained your strength, you sought out ways to contribute to the community that had welcomed you with open arms. It was during one of Joel's visits that he suggested you spend time at the local library, knowing your love for books and movies from your earlier conversations. The idea resonated deeply with you, igniting a spark of excitement and purpose.

The library itself was a refuge—a haven of knowledge and imagination nestled within the sturdy walls of Jackson. Its shelves were lined with dusty books of every genre imaginable, their spines worn and weathered from years of use. The air was infused with the comforting scent of paper and ink, a familiar aroma that brought back memories of lazy afternoons spent lost in fictional worlds.

Occasionally, patrons would wander in, seeking recommendations or browsing the latest arrivals. You greeted them warmly, offering assistance with finding books or answering questions about library programs. Some were regular visitors, their faces becoming familiar over time, while others were newcomers, drawn in by the promise of a quiet corner and a good book.

During breaks, you would steal moments for yourself—a cup of tea, a brief pause to admire the view from the library windows. The town of Jackson spread out before you, a patchwork of rooftops and winding streets, framed by the majestic peaks of the surrounding mountains.

Joel's visits were a highlight of your day, his footsteps echoing softly on the library floor as he approached. Sometimes, he would linger near the front desk, watching you with a quiet intensity that sent a flutter of warmth through you. Other times, he would join you in the stacks, his presence a steady comfort as you exchanged snippets of conversation between the rows of books.

As you meticulously arranged a display of newly arrived mystery novels near the entrance of the library, the familiar sound of footsteps approached from behind you. You turned to see Joel entering with Ellie at his side, their presence instantly brightening the quiet atmosphere of the library.

"Hey," Joel greeted with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your heart skip a beat. "How's the day treatin’ you?"

You returned his smile, feeling a rush of warmth at his presence. "It's going well. Just getting things in order here."

Ellie darted off towards the fiction section, her eyes scanning the shelves with eager anticipation. "I'm looking for that new sci-fi book Tommy mentioned," she called back over her shoulder, her voice echoing softly through the library.

Joel chuckled fondly, his gaze lingering on Ellie for a moment before returning to you. "She's been itchin’ to read that one for weeks now."

"She's got great taste."

Joel moved closer, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "You know, Ellie's been talking about you," he admitted, his voice low and intimate. "Says you've been a lifesaver with those book recommendations."

"Well, I'm glad I could help."

"You do more than just help, you know."

Before you could say anything his gaze, usually steady and composed, softened as he noticed the small cut on your wrist. Without a word, he gently took your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring against your skin.

You held your breath, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you at his proximity. His fingers traced the delicate line of the cut, his touch gentle yet firm as he inspected it. "What happened?" he asked quietly, concern etched in the lines of his face.

You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. "I... I got a splinter earlier," you managed to explain, your words coming out in a breathless rush. "It's nothing, really. I took it out, but..."

Ignoring you, he continued to examine your palm, his brow furrowed in concentration. His thumb brushed lightly over the area where you had removed the splinter, and then he paused, his expression changing subtly.

"There's still a small piece in there."

"I thought I got it all out," you admitted, a hint of frustration coloring your tone.

Joel met your eyes, his gaze steady and reassuring. "It happens," he murmured, his focus shifting back to your hand. "Let me take care of it."

With practiced ease, Joel reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pair of tweezers. He positioned himself beside you, his touch careful and precise as he gently extracted the remaining splinter from your palm. You held your breath, watching as Joel worked with steady hands and unwavering focus. The sensation was more comforting than painful.

"There," Joel said softly, finally withdrawing the tweezers and inspecting his handiwork. "All done."

You exhaled a sigh of relief, "Thank you," you murmured.

Joel nodded, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "Anytime," he replied quietly, his voice rough with unspoken emotions.

Then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed his warm lips against the throbbing patch of skin. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart beating a mile per minute. It didn’t last. It felt like a drizzle of rain, leaving your skin as soon as it touched it. He let go of your hand and took a quick step back, he looked remorseful like he regretted his action almost immediately.

His look made you feel guilty. Your heart aching even though you knew you’d done nothing wrong.

***

In the weeks and months that followed, you and Joel found yourselves drawn closer together, your bond deepening with each shared moment and whispered conversation. The library remained a sanctuary where your friendship blossomed amidst the pages of beloved stories and the quiet hum of everyday life in Jackson.

With Joel heading out on patrol, the library felt unusually quiet that day. Ellie had arrived earlier, her energy and curiosity filling the space as she browsed through the shelves with a voracious appetite for new stories.

You greeted her with a warm smile as she approached the front desk, her arms already filled with a diverse stack of books ranging from graphic novels to classic literature.

"Hey, Ellie," you greeted cheerfully, taking note of her eclectic choices. "Finding everything okay?"

"Definitely! You've got so many cool books here," she exclaimed, carefully setting down her stack on the counter. "Mind if I borrow these?"

"Of course not," you replied with a chuckle, scanning the books one by one and checking them out for her. "I'm glad you're enjoying the selection. Anything specific you're in the mood for?"

As Ellie launched into animated descriptions of her favorite genres and characters, you found yourself drawn into her infectious enthusiasm. You bonded over shared interests—sci-fi novels that explored distant galaxies, fantasy epics filled with magic and adventure, and even a few graphic novels that blurred the lines between reality and imagination.

In between discussions about your favorite books, Ellie shared stories of her experiences growing up in the post-outbreak world. You reciprocated by opening up about your own journey—memories of a life before the outbreak, your love for books and movies, and the challenges of finding a new sense of normalcy in Jackson.

The hours slipped by unnoticed as you lost yourselves in conversation and exploration, your laughter echoing through the library aisles. It was easy to forget the outside world for a while, immersed in the camaraderie and shared passion for storytelling that bound you together.

As the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows through the library windows, Ellie glanced at the clock with a playful grin. "I should probably head back before Joel starts worrying," she teased, gathering up her books and preparing to leave.

You nodded in understanding, grateful for the unexpected bond that had formed between you in Joel's absence. "Thanks for keeping me company, Ellie," you said sincerely, touched by her presence and the genuine connection you had forged.

Ellie flashed you a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Anytime, Ash," she replied, using Joel's nickname for you with a knowing glint in her eye. "You're pretty cool, you know?"

Before you could respond, she was already halfway out the door, her laughter trailing behind her. You watched her go with a fond smile, feeling a warmth in your heart that lingered long after she had gone.

In that quiet moment, surrounded by the comforting embrace of books and stories, you reflected on the unexpected friendships that had blossomed in the wake of devastation. Joel's departure had brought you and Ellie closer together, reminding you once again of the resilience and strength that could be found in the bonds you forged and the stories you shared.

***

You lay on your bed, the soft sheets cradling your body as you closed your eyes. Your mind wandered to him, your crush, Joel. The mere thought of his name sent a shiver down your spine and a warm sensation between your legs.

You couldn't help but imagine his hands on you, his gentle touch igniting a fire within you. You pictured him hovering over you, his lips inches away from yours, his breath hot against your skin. Your fingers instinctively began to trail down your body, following the curves and dips, imagining it was his hands exploring every inch of you.

The thought of his strong, calloused hands caressing your skin made you shiver. You remembered the way his eyes lit up when he smiled, the depth in them that always seemed to draw you in. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze, intense and burning, as he looked at you with a desire that mirrored your own.

As your hand found its way between your thighs, you could almost feel his touch. Your body responded eagerly, your hips arching off the bed. You let out a soft gasp, imagining it was Joel's name tumbling from your lips. The fantasy deepened, and you could see his face more clearly now, his features etched in your mind with perfect clarity.

Your mind played out various scenarios, each one more intense and intimate than the last. You imagined him leaning in to kiss you, his lips soft and insistent against yours. The kiss deepened, his tongue exploring your mouth with a slow, tantalizing rhythm that left you breathless. His hands were everywhere, tracing patterns on your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

You pictured his lips on your neck, his soft whispers in your ear, his strong arms holding you close. His voice was low and husky, filled with a need that matched your own. He told you how much he wanted you, how he couldn't stop thinking about you, and every word sent a jolt of pleasure through your body.

The pleasure built and built, and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. You imagined him whispering your name, his breath hot against your ear, his hands guiding you, teasing you, bringing you to the brink of ecstasy.

As you reached your peak, you allowed yourself to fully indulge in the fantasy of Joel. Every touch, every kiss, every whisper, it was all in your head but it felt so real. You could almost hear his voice, feel the warmth of his body against yours, the weight of him pressing down on you, grounding you in the moment.

The waves of pleasure crashed over you, and you cried out, your body trembling with the force of your release. For a few blissful moments, everything else faded away, and it was just you and Joel, lost in the throes of passion.

And as you came down from the high, you couldn’t help but wish that it was more than just a fantasy. That one day, Joel would make all your desires and daydreams a reality. You imagined the two of you together, sharing moments of intimacy and connection, building a relationship that went beyond your wildest dreams.

But for now, you settled for this moment of sensual bliss, enjoying every second of it. You lay there, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, your mind filled with thoughts of Joel. You let yourself linger in the fantasy a little longer, savoring the feeling of being close to him, even if it was just in your imagination. And as you drifted off to sleep, you carried the hope that one day, your fantasies would become a reality.

Feeling sticky and aching, you slowly peeled yourself off the bed and headed for a quick shower. The cool water cascaded over your skin, washing away the remnants of your fantasy and providing a refreshing contrast to the heat that had consumed you moments ago. As the water soothed your body, your mind remained restless, thoughts of Joel still swirling in your head.

You felt a bittersweet twinge in your chest as you thought about him. The warmth and intensity of your fantasies clashed with the cold reality that nothing would ever happen between you and Joel. Despite how often he was around, how his presence always seemed to light up the room, he never took that next step. He never crossed the line from friendship into something more.

You replayed your interactions with him, searching for signs, any indication that he might feel the same way. There were moments that made your heart flutter—a lingering glance, a touch that felt too intimate to be merely friendly, words that seemed to carry a hidden meaning. But just as quickly, doubts crept in, and you reminded yourself that it was probably just your wishful thinking, seeing what you wanted to see.

The ache in your heart deepened as you accepted this reality. You knew that despite your longing, Joel remained just out of reach, a constant presence in your life but never quite yours. The shower water mingled with your tears as you silently mourned the unfulfilled dreams and desires that seemed destined to remain in your imagination.

As you stepped out of the shower, you wrapped yourself in a towel, feeling the softness against your skin. You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the melancholy that had settled over you. You reminded yourself that life went on, and you couldn’t stay lost in your fantasies forever.

Instead of getting dressed, you find yourself drawn back to your bed. The sheets were cool now, a stark contrast to the heat of your earlier thoughts. You climbed back in, pulling the covers around you, seeking comfort in their familiar embrace.

Your mind drifted back to Joel, to his warm brown eyes that always seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words. You pictured his smile, the way it lit up his entire face, and the sound of his laugh, so genuine and infectious. You couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have him here with you, to feel his arms around you, to share these quiet moments together.

You lay there, your heart heavy with longing, and allowed yourself to imagine just a little longer. Even though you knew it was just a fantasy, it brought a small measure of comfort. His presence in your thoughts was a bittersweet solace, a reminder of what you yearned for but also what you could not have.

Eventually, your eyes grew heavy, and you let the thoughts of Joel lull you into a dream-filled sleep. You knew that reality awaited you when you woke, but for now, you let yourself drift, holding onto the image of his warm brown eyes and the hope that one day, you would find the love you deserved.

***

Joel sat on his horse, patrolling the outskirts of Jackson with a heavy heart. The familiar landscape, with its rugged terrain and dense forests, usually offered a sense of solace and routine. Today, however, his thoughts were far from the patrol at hand. They kept drifting back to the library, to the warmth of her smile and the depth of her eyes.

He'd felt an inexplicable pull towards her since the moment he found her. Her tenacity and spirit had captivated him. She fought like hell to survive, just like he had so many times before. It was more than just attraction—it was a connection he didn't fully understand and certainly didn't know how to handle.

"Get your head in the game, Joel," he muttered to himself, trying to shake off the distraction. But the more he tried to focus on the patrol, the more his mind wandered back to her. He remembered how her breath had caught when he held her hand to inspect her cut. There was something about her that drew him in, despite every instinct telling him to keep his distance.

Back in Jackson, she was sucesfully becoming a part of the community. Tommy and Maria had taken to her quickly. Tommy often spoke highly of her, appreciating her wit and the way she didn't suffer fools. Maria admired her resilience and found in her a kindred spirit. Ellie was perhaps the closest to her, their shared love for books and movies creating a bond that seemed to grow stronger by the day.

Joel watched from the sidelines, a mix of pride and something else he couldn't quite name filling his chest. Seeing her interact with Tommy and Maria, laughing at Ellie's jokes, and bringing a new light to the community was both heartwarming and painful. He wanted to be closer to her, to let down his guard and allow himself to feel. But the fear of loss, the weight of his past, kept him from stepping into the light she offered.

One evening, Joel found himself standing outside the library, watching through the window as she and Ellie animatedly discussed a book. Her laughter rang out, clear and joyous, and it struck him deeply. He turned away, the internal struggle gnawing at him. He wanted to protect her, to be there for her, but he didn't think he deserved that kind of happiness.

Every interaction was charged with a mix of emotions—hope, fear, desire, and self-doubt. When he brought her fresh flowers each morning, her eyes would light up with a gratitude that made his heartache. Yet, he always found an excuse to leave quickly, afraid that lingering too long would reveal too much.

They found themselves alone in the library more often than not. She would be shelving books, and he would walk in, their eyes meeting across the room. Words felt inadequate, and yet the silence between them spoke volumes. She began to notice his frequent visits, the way he seemed to hover just on the edge of their interactions, always present but never fully engaging.

One afternoon, Joel found her struggling with a particularly heavy stack of books. Without thinking, he moved to help, their hands brushing as they both reached for the top book. The contact sent a jolt through him, and he saw the same spark in her eyes. She bit her lip, a small, nervous habit he'd come to recognize, and his resolve wavered.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for answers he wasn't ready to give.

"Neither do you," she replied, her voice equally soft but filled with a strength that shook him.

They stood there, the library fading into the background as the weight of their unspoken words hung between them. Joel's heart pounded in his chest, the magnetic pull towards her stronger than ever. He wanted to reach out, to close the distance and let her in, but the fear of losing her, of not being enough, held him back.

Finally, he stepped away, the moment broken by his retreat. She watched him go, a mix of sadness and understanding in her eyes. Joel walked out of the library, the internal battle raging on. He didn't know how long he could keep this up, but for now, he would protect her the only way he knew how—by keeping his distance, even if it tore him apart inside.

***

The library was your sanctuary, a place where you could lose yourself in the comforting embrace of books and the soothing rhythm of routine. You were deep in thought, rearranging a shelf of classic novels when you heard the door creak open. Turning, you saw Ellie standing there, her usual bright energy replaced by a troubled expression.

"Hey, Ellie," you greeted her warmly, trying to read her mood. "What's up?"

Ellie hesitated at the entrance, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She looked around the empty library as if making sure you were alone. "Hey, Ash," she said softly, her voice lacking its usual spark. "Can we talk?"

"Of course," you replied, setting the book you were holding aside and walking over to her. "What's on your mind?"

Ellie bit her lip, her eyes downcast. "It's... kind of personal," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your heart going out to her. "Let's sit down," you suggested, guiding her to a cozy corner of the library where a couple of armchairs were nestled by a large window. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the room, creating a safe, intimate space for your conversation.

You settled into the chairs, and you waited patiently, giving Ellie the time she needed to gather her thoughts. She looked at her hands, her fingers nervously tracing patterns on the armrest.

"I've been feeling really confused lately," Ellie began. "There's this girl... Dina. She's amazing. Funny, smart, and just... so cool. I think I have a crush on her."

"Dina sounds wonderful," you said encouragingly. "It's okay to have feelings for someone."

Ellie looked up at you, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "But... it's more than that. I think... I know I'm not into guys. I like girls. And it scares me. I don't know how people will react, especially Joel."

Her vulnerability tugged at your heartstrings. You reached out and placed a reassuring hand on hers. "Ellie, thank you for sharing this with me," you said softly. "It's a big step, and I want you to know that it's perfectly okay to feel the way you do."

Ellie swallowed hard, her eyes searching yours for any hint of judgment. "You really think so?" she asked, her voice fragile.

"I know so," you replied firmly. "And you're not alone in this. I'm bisexual."

Ellie's eyes widened in surprise. "Really?"

You nodded, offering her a comforting smile. "Yes. I've been where you are, feeling scared and unsure. But the important thing to remember is that your feelings are valid. Who you love doesn't define your worth; it's just a part of who you are."

Ellie took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the floor as if the words she was about to say were too heavy to lift. "I'm really scared to tell Joel," she confessed, her voice trembling. "What if he doesn't accept me? What if he thinks less of me?"

You leaned forward, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Ellie, I know Joel can be a bit... gruff and guarded, but he cares about you more than anything. You mean the world to him. He's been through a lot, and he's seen more than most. If there's one thing I know about Joel, it's that he values the people he loves for who they are."

Ellie's eyes flicked up to meet yours, a glimmer of hope in their depths. "You really think so?"

"I know so," you said with conviction. "I've seen the way he looks at you, the way he worries about you. He might have his rough edges, but his heart is in the right place. And if you need someone to be there with you when you tell him, I'll be right by your side."

Ellie bit her lip, her expression softening as she considered your words. "It's just... he's been like a father to me. I don't want to disappoint him."

"You won't," you assured her. "Joel loves you unconditionally. He might be surprised at first, but that won't change how much he cares about you. He'll want you to be happy, and being true to yourself is a big part of that."

Ellie nodded slowly, the fear in her eyes giving way to a cautious optimism. "I hope you're right. I just don't want to lose him."

"You won't lose him," you repeated gently. "Joel's been through too much to let something like this come between you. He'll need time to process, but he'll come around. And remember, you have a whole community here who supports you, including me."

"Thanks, Ash. It means a lot to hear that."

"Anytime, Ellie," you said, giving her a reassuring smile. "You're not alone in this. We'll face it together."

Ellie took a deep breath, nodding as if steeling herself for the conversation ahead. "Okay. I'll tell him. But... can you really be there with me when I do?"

"Of course," you replied without hesitation. "I'll be right there with you, every step of the way."

You sat in silence for a few moments, the weight of the conversation settling between you. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the library. It felt like a moment of quiet reflection, a brief respite before the next step in Ellie's journey.

Finally, Ellie broke the silence, her voice stronger and more determined. "I've got to tell Dina too. I think she might feel the same way, but I've been too scared to say anything."

You smiled, proud of her courage. "That's a good idea. Being honest with her will help you both figure out where you stand."

Ellie nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Yeah, I think so too. Thanks, Ash. For everything."

"You're welcome," you said warmly. "Remember, I'm always here if you need to talk or just need a friend."

Ellie stood up, her shoulders a little straighter than before. "I'll see you later, Ash. And... thanks again."

As she walked out of the library, you watched her go with a sense of pride and hope. Ellie was on the brink of a significant moment in her life, and you were honored to be a part of it. The bond you had forged in that quiet corner of the library was a testament to the power of empathy, understanding, and unconditional support.

And as you returned to your work, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. Helping Ellie find her way was just the beginning. In a world filled with uncertainty and hardship, moments like these remind you of the strength and resilience that lay within each of us. You were not alone, and together, you could face whatever challenges came your way.

***

You were on patrol, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the dense forest as you walked. The air was crisp, the smell of pine and earth strong around you. Normally, you would have found the setting peaceful, but today there was an uncomfortable silence hanging between Joel and you. No matter how hard you tried to make conversation, he remained stoically quiet, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a focused intensity.

"So, Joel," you started for what felt like the tenth time, trying to break through the barrier of silence. "How's Ellie doing with all those books she borrowed? She mentioned she really liked the one about the ancient Greek heroes."

Joel grunted in response, his gaze never leaving the path ahead. "She liked it," he said shortly.

You bit your lip, feeling the awkwardness grow. It wasn't like Joel to be this distant, especially after everything you had been through. You wondered if something had happened, if he was angry or upset with you. You tried again, your voice a bit more tentative this time. "I hope she's doing okay. She's really taken a liking to the library."

"She's fine," Joel replied, his tone clipped.

A heavy silence fell over you once more. You could hear the crunch of leaves beneath your boots, the distant chirping of birds, and the occasional rustle of a small animal scurrying through the underbrush. It was a stark contrast to the usual camaraderie you shared, and it was unsettling.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. You stopped walking, forcing Joel to stop as well. "Joel, what's going on?" you asked, your voice firmer than you felt. "You've been quiet all day, and it's making me feel like I did something wrong."

Joel turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing, just stared at you with those intense, deep-set eyes. Then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of frustration. "It's not you," he finally said, his voice softer. "It's me. I've got a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked, taking a step closer to him.

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. "It's complicated," he muttered. "I just... I don't want to mess things up."

You frowned, not understanding. "Mess what up? Joel, you've been a good friend to me. If there's something bothering you, you can tell me. Maybe I can help."

He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with turmoil that took your breath away. "That's just it," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't know how to handle what I'm feelin’. I've been trying to keep my distance because I don't want to hurt you. But seein’ you, bein’ near you... it's drivin’ me crazy."

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sank in. "Joel," you whispered, taking another step closer until you were almost touching. "You don't have to protect me from yourself. Whatever it is, we can face it together."

He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. "You don't understand, Ash. I've done things, terrible things. I don't deserve... this. You. I don't deserve you."

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "Joel, we all have our pasts. We all have things we're not proud of. But that doesn't mean we don't deserve happiness, or love. You've been there for me when I needed it most. Let me be there for you."

He looked down at your hand, then back up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and longing. "I want to believe that," he said quietly. "I really do."

"Then believe it," you urged, your voice soft but insistent. "We can take it one step at a time. You don't have to face everything alone."

For a long moment, Joel didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached up and covered your hand with his, his grip strong and reassuring. You stood there, the forest around you silent and still, a world away from the chaos and danger that usually surrounded you. At that moment, it was just the two of you, facing your fears and uncertainties together. He didn’t say a word, then, slowly, he let you go and pressed forward.

The atmosphere between Joel and you remained tense as you continued your patrol. The silence was thick, each step through the forest feeling heavier than the last. Your thoughts were a whirlwind, circling around the complexities of your unspoken emotions. You couldn't help but imagine how it would feel to be embraced by him, to feel his strong arms around you, offering comfort and security.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t see the tree root protruding from the ground. Your foot caught on it, and before you knew it, you were falling. You landed hard, a sharp pain shooting through your arm as you scraped it against a jagged rock.

"Damn it," you muttered, wincing as you cradled your arm. Blood seeped from a cut just below your elbow, the wound stinging in the cool air.

Joel was at your side in an instant, his expression shifting from distant to concerned. "You alright?" he asked, his voice gruff but laced with worry.

"I'm fine," you snapped, though your voice was tight with pain. "Just a cut."

Joel ignored your words, gently taking your arm to inspect the wound. His touch was surprisingly tender, and despite the pain, you felt a shiver run down your spine. His brow furrowed as he examined the cut, his fingers carefully avoiding the worst of it.

"We need to clean this up," he said, his voice authoritative. "You got any water left?"

"Don't," you interrupted, pulling your arm away from him and trying to push him back. "Why do you even care? You've been distant all day."

Joel looked taken aback, his hand frozen in mid-air. "I'm just tryin’ to help."

"Yeah, well, it’s a little too late for that," you muttered, your back against a tree as you tried to compose yourself. The pain in your arm was nothing compared to the frustration bubbling inside you.

Joel knelt in front of you, his brows tightly drawn together. "I know I’ve been an ass but. . .”

You looked away, trying to ignore the sting of tears in your eyes. "Whatever. Just go away, Joel. It hurts more when you show softness only to take it away."

For a moment, he didn't move, his gaze searching your face for something. Then, with a sigh, he sat back on his heels, clearly conflicted.

Joel’s hand shot out and caught your wrist as you tried to push him away again. His grip was like iron, firm yet not painful. You struggled against him, frustration mounting, but he didn’t let go. His eyes bored into yours.

"Joel, let go," you demanded, your voice shaky.

He didn't budge, his grip unwavering. "Not until you listen," he said, his tone firm.

You tried to pull away, but it was futile. "Listen to what? More silence?"

His eyes flashed with something you couldn't quite decipher. "Listen to this," he said quietly before leaning in.

You barely had time to register his words before his lips were on yours. The kiss was unexpected, a collision of emotions that took your breath away. You stiffened, caught off guard, but Joel’s hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you gently but securely as his fingers worked the muscles.

For a moment, you were frozen, your mind reeling from the sudden intimacy. Then, slowly, you began to respond, your resistance melting away. The kiss deepened, a raw and desperate exchange of everything you had been holding back. Your free hand found its way to his shoulder, gripping tightly as if anchoring yourself in the storm of emotions.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard. Joel’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn’t know how else to show you how much you mean to me."

You swallowed, your heart pounding. "Joel, you can’t just... kiss me to make everything better," you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

"I know," he replied softly, his grip on your wrist loosening but not releasing you entirely. "But I had to do somethin’. I can’t keep pushin’ you away. Not when I feel this way."

"Then stop pushing me away," you whispered, your voice trembling. "We can figure this out together."

Joel nodded, his thumb gently brushing over your wrist. "Together," he agreed, his voice resolute.

Joel's touch shifted from your wrist to the cut on your arm, his movements careful and precise. His fingers traced the edges of the wound, assessing the damage with a quiet intensity that belied his usual stoicism. You watched him closely, feeling the warmth of his hands against your skin, a stark contrast to the coolness of the forest around you.

Using the water from your bottle, Joel cleaned the cut gently, his touch light yet firm. The sting of the water made you flinch, but he continued his ministrations without hesitation. His focus was solely on you, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked to ensure the wound was thoroughly cleansed.

Once satisfied that the wound was clean, Joel reached into his pack and retrieved a small first aid kit. With practiced movements, he carefully applied antiseptic ointment to the cut, his touch gentle despite the efficiency of his actions. You winced again at the sting of the ointment, but Joel's reassuring presence kept you grounded.

Next, he unfolded a sterile bandage from the kit and began to wrap it around your arm, securing it in place with medical tape. His hands moved with a steady rhythm, his focus unwavering as he ensured the bandage was snug but not constricting. Each touch sent a wave of comfort through you, a silent reassurance that he was there, taking care of you.

As he finished securing the bandage, Joel looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of relief and concern. "There," he said softly. "That should do for now."

"Thank you, Joel," you murmured.

He gave a slight nod in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer before he slowly withdrew, giving you space.

You sat there for a while longer, the forest around you settling into an evening hush. As you made your way back from your patrol, the tension that had gripped both of you seemed to ease with every step. The forest was bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun, casting long shadows on the familiar path to Jackson. Joel walked beside you, his presence a silent comfort.

You stole glances at him from the corner of your eye, unsure of what to say after everything. His hand, rough and calloused from years of survival, brushed against yours as you walked, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down your spine. To your surprise, Joel’s fingers interlaced with yours, his grip firm yet gentle, as if afraid you might slip away.

Finally reaching the outskirts of Jackson, you hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Joel slowed his pace slightly, as if sensing your uncertainty. As you approached your house, you turned to him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Joel," you began, your voice barely above a whisper, "would you like to come in?"

His gaze met yours, searching for something in the depths of your eyes. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I'd like that."

You led him inside, the familiar warmth of home enveloping both of you as you stepped through the door. Joel followed you into the living room, his presence filling the space.

As you settled on the couch, Joel’s hand found yours once more, his touch grounding and reassuring. The weight of everything you had shared that day hung in the air, a fragile bridge between friendship and something more. His thumb brushed against the bandage, the wound still stinging underneath. He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple, you leaned in and as you did, you slowly turned your face, meeting his lips with your own.

He tasted sweet like a gentle summer breeze, that subtle wind that feels like a caress from the sun. You were bolder than him, parting your lips with a greed you thought you didn’t have anymore. He parted his lips with a groan, the deep sound made you tremble. Suddenly you were on top of him, your legs parted over his lap as you placed soft, rushed kisses all across his face. You felt him smile and it made your lips curl up, your heart skipping a beat.

His hips jerked up as he parted away, his breath warm when he spoke, “Your arm, darlin’. . .”

You felt yourself leaning in, wanting more—needing more. Joel’s lips softly brushed against yours, causing electricity to surge through your body. His hand trails up your arm, gently caressing the bandage where he had tended to your wound earlier.

"My arm feels...better now," you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady as Joel’s hand lingers on your skin.

He leans in closer, his lips now only a fraction of an inch away from yours. "Good," he muttered, his voice low and husky. "I'm glad."

Slowly, almost hesitantly, your lips brushed against his. The sensation was electric, igniting a fire within you. You felt the warmth of Joel’s breath against your face as he deepened the kiss, his hand now cupping your cheek tenderly.

Lost in the moment, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. It felt like time had stopped and you never wanted this moment to end. As your lips parted, your foreheads rested against each other, both of you breathing heavily.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Joel said.

"Me too," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel leaned in for another kiss, but this time it was slow. His tongue explored your mouth, tasting you, moaning whenever you tease him with a flick of your own.

You felt a rush of excitement as Joel’s hands explored your body, his touch igniting a burning desire within you. You let out a small gasp as he removed your shirt, revealing your now bare chest.

Joel’s eyes roamed over your body, his gaze dark as the bark of the oldest tree in Jackson.

His lips trailed down your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You ran your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to you.

“Impatient one, aren’t you?” he rasped. “Gonna have to teach you some patience while we’re at it.”

Without breaking the kiss, Joel’s hands moved to your bra, unclasping it with practiced ease. You felt a rush of excitement and nervousness as he removed it, leaving your chest exposed to him.

He pulls away slightly, now gazing at you in awe. "God, you're beautiful,"

His lips moved down to your breasts, his touch gentle and tender. You gasp as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, his other hand cupping your other breast. He twisted one nipple while pampering the other with his tongue, a soft whimper escaped your throat. You eagerly grind your hips down, feeling the hard outline of his cock. Sweat beaded at the curve of your spine, your body was blissfully being burned from the inside out.

You buried your hand in Joel’s hair, the sensations he’s causing you almost overwhelming. As he continued to kiss and caress you, your body responded eagerly, your arousal building with each passing moment.

You moaned softly as Joel moved his hands lower, his fingers expertly teasing and exploring your most sensitive parts. You couldn’t believe how good he made you feel.

“You like that huh?” he muttered. “Can’t wait for me to devour that sweet pussy of yours?”

You feel yourself getting lost in the moment, forgetting about everything else except for the two of you.

“Yes,” you breathed, your chest caving in on itself. “Please, Joel, you have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

“And how long would that be, sweetheart?”

“A damned long time,” you smiled. “Way too long.”

You grabbed Joel’s hand and promptly stood up, leading him to the bedroom. You felt his hand grip yours tighter, letting you know that he was just as eager as you are.

When you entered the room, you turned to face Joel, your eyes locking with his. Without a word, you slowly started to undress him, your hands running over his defined chest and down his softened torso.

Once he’s completely naked, you step back and admire his body, feeling a surge of want course through you.

“You brought me here just to ogle me?” he grinned. “That’s not very polite you know.”

You took a step closer, your hand resting on his chest as you pressed against him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. Your lips met in a passionate kiss, your bodies pressing closer together in unison. You felt the length of his cock, your hand wrapping around it without second thought. His chest rattled with a groan, cock twitching in your palm. You slowly brought him to the bed, allowing yourself to fall, you pulled him down with you.

You felt his lips trailing down your neck, his tongue leaving a trail of wetness as he moved lower. Your breathing became heavier, your anticipation building with every passing second.

Joel’s mouth found its way to your most sensitive area, his tongue expertly teasing and flicking against your clit. You let out a gasp, your hands gripping the sheets as waves of pleasure coursed through you.

“Mine,” he groaned, pressing his mouth harder against you. “This pussy is all mine, say it or I’ll stop.”

“Yours,” you replied almost immediately. “Every inch of me is yours, I belong to you, every bit of me.”

He hummed his approval as he sucked your clit between his lips, teeth gently nibbling the sensitive flesh. Your upper body jolted, hands finding the back of his head.

But you’re not content with just lying back and enjoying his touch. You wanted to reciprocate the pleasure, to make him feel just as good as he’s making you feel.

You pushed Joel onto his back and straddled him, your hands roaming over his chest as you kissed him. Your hips grind against his, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you.

With an innate sense of what he likes, you took him in your hand, stroking him slowly but firmly. You felt him grow harder as precome slid down his throbbing cock, you moved lower, taking him into your mouth.

You used your tongue and lips to pleasure him, feeling him writhe beneath you. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. He tasted bittersweet, cock pulsing against your tongue. Your cunt throbbed as you took him deeper down your throat, he groaned, hips thrusting forward. When you choked, he pulled you off and touched the corner of your lips with the pad of his thumb.

“Later,” he muttered, his eyes dropped down to witness your pouty lips, only to smile when he met your gaze again. “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to use that smart mouth.”

With that he flipped you over onto your back, his eyes full of need as he positioned himself between your legs. You spread them eagerly, welcoming him into you.

With one swift movement, he slipped inside of you, both of you letting out a moan. He started to move, his hips thrusting against yours in a rhythm that became more and more intense. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer to you as your bodies moved together in perfect harmony. You felt yourself getting lost, your mind consumed by the pleasure each thrust brings.

Joel’s hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing your hips against him, you feel slick dripping down and staining the sheets. Your entire body writhed against him, your eyes rolling all the way to the back of your skull as his cock stretched you over and over again.

With one final push, you both reached your climax, your bodies trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you. You collapsed onto the bed, gasping and panting as you tried to catch your breath.

As you laid there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for this moment. You’ve never felt so connected to someone before, and you know that you want to experience this feeling again and again with Joel by your side.

***

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the window, casting a gentle warmth across the room where you and Joel lay nestled close together. The quiet morning wrapped around both of you like a comforting blanket. As you stirred awake, you felt Joel's arm around you, his presence steady and reassuring.

"Mornin’," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but filled with tenderness.

You shifted slightly, turning to face him with a soft smile. "Morning," you replied softly, feeling a rush of warmth at the closeness between you.

Joel brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle. "How's your arm feelin’?" he asked, his concern evident.

"It's better," you assured him, leaning into his touch. "Thank you for taking care of me yesterday."

His gaze softened, a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. "Always," he said quietly, his hand resting against yours.

You and Joel lingered in the soft embrace of the morning light, your whispered conversation carrying a weight of unspoken understanding. As you shared your thoughts, a mutual agreement emerged between you—a decision to keep your burgeoning relationship private, shielded from the complexities that often accompanied deeper connections in your fragile world.

"I think it's best if we keep this between us," Joel murmured, his voice low and earnest. "We've both been through enough already."

You nodded. "Yeah, it's just... I don't want anything to jeopardize what we have," you admitted quietly, your fingers tracing patterns on the blanket draped over you both.

Joel's gaze softened, his hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers. "Neither do I," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "But being with you... it feels right."

A swell of warmth filled your chest at his words, a silent reassurance that echoed your own sentiments. Despite the uncertainties that lay ahead, you couldn't deny the growing connection between you, a bond forged through shared experiences and unspoken emotions.

You lingered a while longer in the quiet sanctuary of the morning, each moment steeped in the gentle intimacy of newfound understanding. As the world outside stirred with its own rhythms, you and Joel found solace in the simple promise of each other's company, silently vowing to protect what you had found amidst the uncertainties of your lives.

In that fleeting moment of shared vulnerability, you knew that your decision to keep your relationship a secret was not just a shield against potential complications—it was a testament to the fragile hope that had bloomed between you, a hope that dared to whisper of a future where you could navigate the challenges together, one quiet morning at a time.

***

“On your knees, sweetheart. Now.”

Head completely empty, you did as you were told. The small shed at Tommy and Maria’s place was secluded enough for no one to see either of you. The leaves of a nearby tree blocked the window, the gentle scrapes making you feel safe.

It had been a month since you and Joel started your relationship together. He was a tentative man, both in public and behind closed doors. He would remember what you told him and bring you small gifts from whenever he went on patrol. It warmed your heart and for the first time, you genuinely felt happy.

You leaned into his touch, his palm cupping the side of your cheek. Smiling, you unzipped his pants and took him into your palm. He was hard already, eager to feel the warmth of your tongue on the sensitive skin. You gave the tip a soft kiss, smiling wider as he shuddered. His hand slid to the back of your head. He thrust forward, the length of his cock sliding against your lips. You parted them, tongue flat against the underside of his cock, you took him deep down your throat.

“Fuck, just like that,” he groaned, head thrown back. “Show me how much you want me, darlin’.” You looked up and blinked rapidly. “I bet you're soaked right now. . . With all those people outside havin’ fun, aren’t you ashamed?”

Your stomach bottomed out, excitement growing in your gut. You attempted to make a sound that would convey disagreement, but he only smiled, pushing himself further down.

“Take it,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Take all of it.”

Your eyes widened as he began to fuck your throat with earnest, precome coating your tongue. He was impatient, which was something he rarely was. Maybe it was because of the barbecue outside, or the fact that this was his baby brother’s shed—Whatever it was, you enjoyed it.

You could barely breathe, saliva and spit dripping down the corners of your outstretched mouth. His balls laid heavy against your chin, smacking you every time he snapped his hips forward. Your eyes rolled, tears pricking the sides. You thought you heard him shushing you, a soothing sound, at least, that’s why you assumed he was shushing you. To soothe you. You had missed the fact that your moans had grown obscenely loud despite his cock sliding between your lips—

“Hey Joel, you guys good in—” Both of you stilled at the sound, the creak of the door, the familiar soft voice. Your cunt clenched, slick dripping between your thighs. You so badly wanted to touch yourself, to soothe the pain, but that seemed like an impossible thing to do.

Joel cleared his throat, adam’s apple bobbing as he slowly pulled out his cock. It glistened with spit and precome, the sight of it making you whimper. Your head felt like it was floating, that none of this was really and all you could focus on was the throbbing between your legs.

He prevented you from looking back towards Tommy. He held his hand firm on your neck, massaging it to keep you calm.

“We’ll be out in a second,” he said, voice strained. “Sorry.”

The younger Miller said nothing else, you only realized it was the two of you again when you heard the door closing. Joel let out a deep breath, “So much for keepin’ it a secret,” he muttered. “I won’t be hearin’ the end of it.”

“Sorry,” you said, looking up, eyes teary. “I. . . I didn’t realize I was being so loud.”

He promptly knelt down, holding your face between rough hands, he kissed your forehead and smiled. “Nothin’ to apologize for. I’m the one who got us into this mess, you don’t need to worry about nothin’. It ain’t the first time he caught me indecent. Now, let’s get you home.”

“Okay,” you muttered, heart feeling light and head still feeling dizzy. “Let’s go home.”

***

Joel sat in the dimly lit kitchen of Tommy’s and Maria’s home. The evening shadows danced across the walls, painting the room with muted hues of twilight.Tommy had walked in on them—caught them in a moment of vulnerability and intimacy.

Tommy's initial shock had given way to a steady calm as he sat across from Joel at the small wooden table, the lines of his face etched with doubt. Joel’s hands were clasped tightly in his lap, knuckles white with the strain. He stared at the worn surface of the table, struggling to find the right words.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Joel finally said, his voice rough with emotion. “It just... things got complicated. I know how it looks, Tommy. I know I’ve got no business...”

Tommy held up a hand, cutting him off. His gaze was steady, full of an unspoken empathy. “Joel, I’m not here to judge you,” he said firmly. “You’re my brother. And whatever’s going on between you and Ash, I support it. I’ve seen how she makes you feel. Hell, I’ve seen how you look at her. I want you to be happy.”

Joel’s eyes lifted to meet Tommy’s, a mixture of surprise and relief flickering across his features. “I know I don’t deserve her,” he said quietly, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve done a lot of bad things, Tommy. I’m not the man I used to be. I don’t know why she’d want anything to do with me.”

Tommy shook his head, his expression one of deep, abiding concern. “Look, Joel, none of us are perfect. We all have our demons. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a little happiness now and then. Ash’s been through her share of shit too. She’s not here because she thinks you’re some perfect hero. She’s here because she sees somethin’ in you that maybe you don’t see yourself.”

Joel’s gaze dropped again, the weight of Tommy’s words sinking in. “I just don’t want to mess it up,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid that something’s gonna come along and ruin it.”

Tommy leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “You’re not alone in this, Joel. None of us are. You’ve got to trust that maybe you’re worthy of something good. Maybe you’re worthy of her. And if you’re worried about messin’ things up, then do somethin’ about it. Fight for it. But don’t keep it a secret from everyone who cares about you. It’s not a burden to bear alone.”

Joel nodded, the knot of tension in his chest loosening just a bit. “Thanks, Tommy. I appreciate it. I just... I needed to hear that.”

Tommy clapped Joel on the shoulder, a gesture of solidarity and support. “Anytime. Just remember, if you need anything, if you need to talk, I’m here. For both of you.”

***

In the weeks following the decision to make your relationship with Joel public, you found yourselves navigating a new reality in Jackson. The once familiar streets now felt charged with curiosity and speculation. You walked through the bustling market and communal areas of the town, your hands entwined, openly displaying your affection for each other.

The reactions from the community were varied. Some greeted your union with open arms, offering congratulations and warm smiles. Others were more reserved, their curiosity evident in their glances and whispered conversations. You and Joel faced these moments with a combination of resilience and humor. Your quick wit was particularly effective at easing the discomfort of those around you.

One sunny afternoon, while you were browsing through the market stalls, an elderly woman approached you both with a skeptical look. She raised an eyebrow, peering at you from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. “So, you two are an item now?” she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and caution.

You turned to face her, a playful smile spreading across your face. “Yep, that’s right. Joel here is my favorite person to argue with,” you said, giving Joel a mischievous look.

Joel smirked, adding, “And she’s the one who keeps me grounded. Can’t have one without the other.”

The woman’s stern expression softened into a smile. “Well, that’s a refreshing way to look at things. Congratulations then,” She patted Joel on the shoulder and ambled away, leaving behind a sense of acceptance.

As your relationship grew, so did the depth of your connection. You and Joel became more attuned to each other’s needs and emotions. Your bond was tested and strengthened through shared experiences and mutual support. Each day brought new challenges, but facing them together made your partnership even more resilient.

One particularly trying day, after a demanding patrol that left Joel physically and emotionally drained, he returned home to find you waiting for him. The sight of you, with a warm meal and an understanding smile, was a balm to his weary spirit.

As you sat down to eat, Joel hesitated before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Today was rough, Ash. I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

Your eyes softened with concern. You reached across the table, your hand covering his. “You’re stronger than you think, Joel. We all have days that test us, but you’re not alone in this. I’m here with you, every step of the way.”

Joel met your gaze, the exhaustion in his eyes slowly giving way to a glimmer of relief. “I don’t know how I’d manage without you,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion.

You squeezed his hand, your expression resolute. “You don’t have to manage alone. We’ve got each other. That’s what matters.”

Your relationship was not all about serious moments; it was also filled with lightheartedness and affection. Your playful banter and shared humor brought a sense of normalcy and joy into your lives.

One morning, as you prepared breakfast together, the kitchen was filled with the usual clatter of pots and pans. You were juggling two eggs and a fresh stick of butter when, in a moment of clumsiness, you dropped the eggs across the floor. Joel, standing nearby, couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Well, looks like we’re having eggs for breakfast and a side of floor clean-up,” Joel said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

You rolled your eyes, picking up the scattered pieces with a smirk. “I’m just adding a bit of excitement to our otherwise boring mornings. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

Joel leaned against the counter, shaking his head with an amused grin. “You and your ideas of excitement. I guess I should be grateful for the change.”

Later, as the day drew to a close and the sun dipped below the horizon, you and Joel found yourselves on the porch, enjoying the tranquility of the evening. You sat close together, the warmth of your bodies and the fading light creating a cozy atmosphere.

Joel wrapped an arm around you, pulling you gently against him. “You know,” he said quietly, “for all the chaos and challenges, I wouldn’t trade these moments with you for anythin’.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, your voice was soft and content. “Me neither. We’ve built something really special here. It’s worth fighting for, no matter what comes our way.”

As you sat together in the fading light, your bond felt stronger than ever. The shared laughter, mutual support, and tender moments of connection were the foundation of your relationship. In the midst of a world fraught with uncertainty, you and Joel had found a precious refuge in each other, a testament to the enduring power of love, humor, and unwavering support.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #tlou fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #writing commission #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters fanfiction

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fuddaroundandgetbueckets · 1 month ago

Text

Back after a short hiatus :) Pazzi launch had me actually sick with glee so this was hard to finish lol let me know if u like it / what you want to see!

Part 8 - Lost You

Winter - 2022

Paige was having a bad day.

She was late to her morning class, her professor had assigned them a last-minute paper, she’d shot poorly at practice, and worst of all – she was avoiding Azzi like the plague.

Azzi hadn’t done anything wrong; nothing wrong at all, actually. The problem for Paige was that she was doing everything right.

Paige’s blossoming feelings for her best friend were slowly ruining her. Azzi looked more beautiful every time Paige saw her, which was at least daily, if not multiple times a day. She noticed everything Azzi laughed at, everything she said she loved. She watched in admiration as her now cleared friend began playing basketball again and grew more confident on the court. She noticed when other people noticed her too, and it took everything in her to keep her hands clenched at her sides instead of professing any feelings to Azzi so she could never give anyone else the time of day again. She was bordering schizophrenic tendencies, if she were being honest.

The catalyst for her internal reckoning had been New Year’s Eve a few weeks ago. Azzi and Paige had arrived back at UConn, opting to welcome the new year with their teammates. Paige’s apartment was lit only by the subtle twinkle of her LED lights that lined her ceiling. Her living room packed with their friends as they watched the countdown on the TV, Azzi pressed against her on the couch, her curls brushing Paige’s cheek as she laid her head on Paige’s shoulder in her tired state.

Paige had noticed everything. She had felt stiff as she glanced at Azzi from the corner of her eye, wearing Paige’s sweatshirt and sweatpants. Her socks. Her bracelets. Her hair tie. The way she had felt so warm. The way she sighed quietly, ready for the night to be over. The way her nose brushed Paige’s neck when she glanced up at the TV.

Paige had felt like an elephant was sitting on her chest, the way she wanted to grab Azzi by her chin and whisper in her ear that they could go to bed. That she didn’t care about their friends chatting loudly around them.

Instead, Paige had gripped her own knee, laughing when she was supposed to with her friends and pretending the gorgeous girl next to her wasn’t all encompassing. When the time came, the group counted down to ten together, and Azzi lifted her head from Paige’s shoulder with a tired grin on her face.

“Three!”

Their faces turned to one another.

“Two!”

Paige felt her eyes bounce between Azzi’s eyes and her full lips. She watched as Azzi did the same. Their faces so close, breaths mingling.

“One!”

Azzi blinked, her half-lidded eyes coming fully closed as she leaned in and kissed Paige on the cheek. Paige felt her whole body tingle, her cheek burning from the imprint of Azzi’s touch.

“Happy New Year, P,” Azzi said quietly, eyes searching her own.

Paige had forced a smile, unconsciously tugging at her earlobe. “Happy New Year, Az,” she said, soft enough just for Azzi to hear. She felt like her heart might implode.

After this, Paige decided she had to pull away before she reached an inevitable psychotic break.

In the weeks that followed, it started slowly, beginning with Paige delaying her text replies. She couldn’t read a text from Azzi without hearing her laugh in her head.

Then, she started declining FaceTime calls. Paige couldn’t stop staring at Azzi’s lips whether she was talking or not.

Last, she turned down opportunities to hang out. She would watch, internally anguished, as Azzi tilted her head in soft confusion and maybe a little bit of hurt at Paige’s half-hearted excuse for being busy.

I have homework.

I promised Nika I would watch her film with her.

Have a brand meeting.

I just…can’t.

Nothing about pulling away in this manner was calculated, if not solely an act of self-preservation on Paige’s part. What she had discovered was that avoiding Azzi did absolutely nothing to extinguish the feelings Paige had for her. It only made Paige realize that she was royally fucked, and she had never thought she was capable of missing someone in the way she missed Azzi.

She fought with herself daily; was she doing the right thing? Did Azzi notice her pulling away?

One thing Paige knew for certain – the idea of Azzi’s possible rejection and the concept of her not being in her life both had equal opportunity to end her.

——————————————————————

Azzi was having a bad day.

Her younger brothers were in a fight, calling her incessantly to resolve it for them. She’d gotten the worst professor possible for her accounting class this semester, a course she historically struggled in. Her shooting at practice this morning was just fine. And worst of all – Paige was avoiding her like the plague.

She would be an idiot not to notice. She felt it in Paige’s sudden slow replies, in her declined FaceTime calls. She felt it especially when Paige refused to spend time with her.

Paige was a constant in her life; someone she perhaps inadvertently depended on to ground her and help her when she couldn’t help herself. To have her inexplicably pull away for seemingly the first time in their friendship was not only confusing, but it also hurt. Badly.

Although she was getting closer to her teammates and friends, like Caroline and Amari, she had never felt so alone.

When their hiatus from texting each other began stretching to days, she wondered, what did I do? Where did you go?

Azzi missed Paige’s laugh, she missed her stupid jokes, she missed finding blonde hairs on her clothes, she missed shoving her when she said something sarcastic, she missed hugging her after a long day, she missed falling asleep with their phones in their hands, she missed the way she could find her blue eyes anywhere in a room, she missed the way she always smelled faintly of her detergent and the Dove soap bar in the shower, she missed –

She just missed Paige.

Her chest ached. Constantly.

———————————————————————

As the team walked into the men’s basketball house, Paige was mentally preparing herself to spend the evening with the one person she had been vehemently avoiding for weeks.

Paige’s eyes wandered over shoulders as she politely dapped up her friends on the men’s team, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as she realized Azzi hadn’t arrived yet.

Propping herself on the arm of the couch in the living room, she let herself fall into conversation with Aaliyah and Nika, both seeming more interested in the boys next to them. Regardless, it felt nice to Paige to feel a semblance of normalcy after feeling neurotic for weeks.

From the door, Paige heard a “Yo! Fudd, Amari” and felt her body tense up immediately. She turned to see the two girls walking in, her eyes zoning in on the crop top Azzi wore that exposed her belly ring. Her and Azzi locked eyes, Azzi giving a small smile. Paige swallowed, holding up two fingers in greeting.

She felt herself begin to grip her knee as she watched a men’s team member whisk Azzi to the kitchen with a hand at the small of her back.

Do not go in there, she exhaled through her nose, do not.

She counted to three. Or at least, she tried to.

Fuck it.

She let herself stalk to the kitchen under the guise of refilling her water. Her cup was full.

She spotted Azzi talking closely with Jalen Gaffney, a junior. There was really no need for them to speak so close, the music that filtered in from the living room was at a normal volume. Paige felt herself squeeze the solo cup in her hand, causing the cup to crack and her water to spill on the floor. Azzi and Jalen turned their heads at the sound.

“Oh, hey Bueckers,” Jalen said casually. Paige nodded curtly.

“Yo,” She eyed the puddle on the floor, “My bad.”

Jalen gave her an easy smile, already moving to retrieve some paper towels to clean it up, “No worries, I got you.” He brushed past her, leaving Paige and Azzi alone.

They stared silently for a moment, Paige clearing her throat slightly before saying, “Hey.”

Azzi gave her a quick and quiet, “Hey.”

Paige felt her fingers at her sides twitch, staring at Azzi in the soft glow of the warm kitchen lights. “You like him or something?” She blurted out before she could stop herself. She immediately felt nauseous.

Azzi face quickly turned puzzled, her eyebrows drawing in confusion. “Huh?” she said, letting out a short incredulous breath.

Jalen returned then, a paper towel roll in hand. He bent down to wipe the floor, and Paige began helping him as she ignored the burning feeling of Azzi’s eyes on her.

“Butterfingers, I guess,” she joked, eliciting a chuckle from Jalen.

“Nah, you’re fine,” he heaved himself up with a grunt, tossing the paper towels in the trash. “You ladies want to play BP?”

Paige shrugged casually, “Not drinking but I’m game.”

She locked eyes with Azzi then, her gaze unmoving as she replied, “Sure.”

The three of them found themselves at the pong table, Azzi and Jalen paired, while Paige was with Nika. Paige felt herself grinding her molars as she watched Jalen whisper something in Azzi’s ear every so often, completely unnecessarily. She did not notice as Nika stared at her as if she were a grenade about to go off.

She sunk one, two, three, ping pong balls after the other, feeling slightly high from the attention Azzi was giving her. She wanted Azzi to keep looking at her; she wanted Jalen to disappear.

“Balls back,” she grinned, ready to keep showing off.

Jalen rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue, “Man, this ain’t fair. You’re dead sober.”

Paige shrugged, sinking the ball again. “Just a better shot, bro.”

Jalen scoffed, “Nah, now you’re just talkin’ shit.” He leaned down again to speak in Azzi’s ear, placing a hand on the wall behind her, essentially caging her in. Her eyes widened at that, and she looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Yo, we playin’ or you flirtin’ over there?” Paige heard herself say, eyes locked on Azzi. Nika sucked in a breath, watching all three of them carefully.

Jalen glanced back at Paige briefly, “Chill.”

Paige felt her jaw tick. She opened her mouth to respond, before Nika quickly interjected, “Hey, J, I just heard Andre asking for you in the kitchen.” Paige looked at her, confused.

Jalen in his semi-drunk state replied, “Oh, word?”

Nika nodded a little too enthusiastically, coming around the table, “Yeah, come on. I’ll go with you.”

Jalen shrugged and let himself be dragged by Nika far, far away from her two friends staring each other down.

Paige rounded the table shortly after, grazing Azzi’s forearm as she tilted her head towards the door. “Come on.”

Azzi’s face scrunched in confusion, “I just got here.”

“You’ve got morning class, don’t you?”

Azzi blinked at her. They hadn’t had a real conversation in weeks, and now Paige was suddenly attuned to her semester schedule that she had spoken about once, maybe twice.

“So?” Azzi pressed, suddenly feeling agitated.

Paige just tilted her head to the door again. “Az,” was all she said.

Azzi stared at her for what could’ve been one second or five minutes, she wasn’t sure. All she could think was to wonder when her best friend had turned into such a puzzle to her. She sighed, crossing her arms as she passed Paige, “Whatever.”

They rode back to Paige’s apartment in silence, Paige tapping her steering wheel every so often. She wasn’t sure why she wasn’t taking Azzi back to her own dorm after all the effort she had put in avoiding her, and Azzi didn’t ask. It was like once Paige had gotten an inkling of the feeling of being around Azzi again, she couldn’t stop herself. Azzi tried to ignore the sheer happiness she felt from being so close to Paige again.

Paige gave Azzi a sidelong glance, watching her profile. “You think he was cute or something?”

Azzi’s head snapped toward her, “Who?”

Paige turned back toward the road, keeping her tone neutral, “Don’t play dumb.”

“Don’t call me dumb.”

“I’m not saying you’re dumb.”

“You just did.”

“I’m asking you a question.”

“You’re being a dick about it.”

“How am I being a dick about it?”

“You just called me dumb.”

Paige let out a long sigh as she pulled into her parking spot. Azzi was unclipping her seatbelt as Paige asked, “Why the fuck were you flirting with a junior?”

Azzi looked at her like she had three heads. “What the hell are you even talking about?”

Paige grunted and hopped out of the car, slamming her door shut behind her. She got to her apartment entrance, holding the door open for Azzi as she stared ahead. Azzi muttered nonsensically under her breath as she passed Paige, immediately heading into the bathroom.

Paige watched as the door clicked, feeling herself slowly losing her cool. She wasn’t sure why she was pressing Azzi; maybe to hear that what she saw with Jalen tonight was nothing, maybe to just hear Azzi talk – she wasn’t sure. She waited in her room for Azzi, her insides feeling chaotic.

When Azzi resurfaced from the bathroom, her face now bare of any makeup, she squinted at Paige accusingly. “What's your problem tonight?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Clearly you do.”

“Clearly you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Azzi let out a frustrated breath. “Why are you asking me about Jalen?”

“Why were you flirting with a drunk junior?”

“First of all – I was not,” Azzi felt herself becoming agitated again. “Second, even if I was, what the hell does it matter?”

Paige blinked at her. “He’s older and he could’ve taken advantage of you.”

“Jalen is a good guy, you know that’s not true.”

“Don’t be dense, Az.”

“I’m not being dense.”

“You are.”

Azzi shut her eyes. “Paige.”

“So you like him?”

Azzi let out an exasperated groan, throwing her hands in her hair. “What are we even fighting about?” She nearly hissed. Her patience had run dry, her temper rising. She watched Paige’s eyebrows furrow, her mouth opening and closing in scoffs. Paige ran a hand through her hair, briefly closing her eyes.

Blue met brown, and Azzi thought she’d never seen them look so distraught.

“Nothing,” Paige said finally. She turned her back to Azzi then, opening her dresser to start changing for bed. “Nothing,” she repeated, quieter this time. Azzi couldn’t tell if Paige was talking to herself or Azzi anymore.

Azzi stared at Paige’s back, her mind momentarily going blank as she was met with bare skin as she stripped her sports bra. As she slipped on a shirt for bed, Paige mumbled, “It’s late. You’re sleeping over.”

Azzi blinked, and let out a humorless laugh at that, “No, I’m not.” She angrily threw on her jacket and began to turn towards the door. “You end my night early, act weird for weeks, and expect me to spend the night? Yeah, fucking rig– ”

Paige grabbed Azzi’s arm before she could open the door, her grip tight. She was looking at Azzi with a mix of anger and anguish, her eyes intense. She said low, “Azzi, it’s late and I’m not driving you and I’m sure as hell not letting you walk across campus. Cut the crap and change.” With that, Paige twisted Azzi’s arm, flipped her palm up, and handed her the oversized shirt and boxers she always slept in when she spent the night.

They stared at each other for a moment, willing the other to break first. Paige’s mouth in a hard line, while Azzi’s hung slightly agape at Paige’s tone with her. Part of Azzi wanted to walk out just to spite her, and the other part wanted to stay and be held by the girl that was making her see red.

Azzi let her shoulder collide with Paige’s as she shoved past her, “You’re unbelievable.” She faced the wall, changing as if she held a personal vendetta against each article of clothing. When she turned around Paige was staring at her, almost as if she was in pain. Azzi pushed down any wonder of what that look meant and put her hands on her hips.

“Happy now? Happy you got what you wanted?”

Paige took a breath through her nose and stared at her for a second before wordlessly walking to her bed and sliding under the covers. Azzi crossed her arms and watched as she flipped on her stomach and turned so she was no longer looking at her.

Azzi huffed at being blatantly ignored, having half a mind to sleep on the couch. As if she knew what she was thinking, Paige graveled low into her pillow, “Come here.” After a beat of silence she added, “Please.”

Azzi stood with her arms crossed, feeling her resolve slowly slip at Paige’s soft request. She pinched the bridge of her nose before crawling into bed next to her, turning her body so she faced the wall. Azzi still felt angry at the evening, even angrier that Paige hadn’t apologized to her, and angriest at herself for staying. And she felt so sad that she was angry at Paige, because all she wanted to do was hug her. Hold me, she thought, tell me you’re sorry. Tell me we’re fine. Tell me I’m not crazy for thinking you’re pulling away. Tell me you feel the sa–

“I’m so mad at you,” Azzi said quietly, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to be.” They both knew she was talking about something entirely different than tonight.

Next to her, Paige squeezed her eyes shut. Her chest physically tightening at the pain she heard in Azzi’s voice. Before she could reply, Azzi continued.

“Where have you been?”

Paige could hear that Azzi was on the verge of tears. Azzi didn’t elaborate further, but Paige knew what she meant. She wanted to give her an answer, she wanted to make her feel better, to have her understand what she was going through – but she couldn’t; she didn’t know how without ruining everything they had built. Under her pillow, Paige’s hands fisted her sheets.

“Az, I’m sorry,” Paige said, turning her head as she faced the back of Azzi’s. Her hand itched, craving to pull Azzi toward her. It floated, ghosting over the younger girl’s shoulder blade. “I’m so sorry.”

“Just be my best friend, Paige,” Azzi said sounding small, tired. After a second of silence she continued, “Talk to me.”

Paige heard Azzi exhale shakily.

“I need you.”

I need you.

Paige’s hesitation broke with that, her hand falling and lightly gripping Azzi’s bicep, her forehead pressing slightly between Azzi’s shoulder blades. Her eyelashes felt wet. She felt like she’d been shot in the chest.

“I’m so sorry, Az,” she mumbled quietly into Azzi’s shirt, “So sorry.”

They both laid quietly for a few minutes, the only sounds in the room being their soft breaths and the quiet rustle of sheets as Paige began running her hand up and down Azzi’s arm.

“I’m here,” Paige said, unsure if Azzi was still awake or not. “Never leaving you.”

Paige shuddered a breath as she felt Azzi’s fingers slide over hers that rested on her arm.

It was an unspoken agreement; they would be fine.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #pazzi fics #azzi fudd #paige x azzi #uconn wbb #wlw #Spotify

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luvly-writer · 2 months ago

Text

Aretia: Missions gone wrong

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

The mission had gone to hell.

The sky burned a bruised red above the shattered forest line, smoke rolling in waves that stung Y/n’s eyes as Tiamat veered hard, dodging the flames licking upward. Her hands burned from summoning light too much. The air reeked of scorched trees and blood, of magic spent and twisted into chaos.

But none of it mattered.

Because she couldn’t see Sgaeyl.

She couldn’t see him.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to break free of her chest. She scanned the battlefield below, her voice sharp and panicked as she barked commands to Tiamat. “Search again! Take the left side. I don’t care if it’s clear—he’s not there.”

The emerald dragon let out a low growl of worry, matching her rider’s rising distress.

Y/n’s breathing was ragged now, bordering on hyperventilation as her mind raced through every possibility—He fell. He’s injured. Sgaeyl was hit. He’s not moving. He’s not—

“No,” she choked out loud, pressing a hand to her mouth as her vision blurred. “No, no, no.”

They landed hard near the edge of the treeline, her boots barely touching the dirt before she was off Tiamat’s back and sprinting into the fray. Smoke obscured everything—faces blurred past her, dragons circled overhead, screams of injured riders and the ring of steel still echoed.

She looked everywhere.

“XADEN!” she screamed.

“SGAEYL!”

Nothing.

She turned frantically, her hair whipping free of its braid, her pearl choker tight against her throat like it might choke the air from her lungs. Her charm bracelet clinked with her shaking hands, her fingers tugging at it like it might give her strength.

“Where is he—where is he—where is he—”

“Y/n!” Ridoc was suddenly in front of her, catching her by the elbows. “Hey—look at me.”

She tried to shove past him. “Let me go!”

“He’s not dead!” he said firmly, eyes wide. “You’d know it if he was. You’d know—”

“I didn't see anything!” she yelled, her voice cracking in a way that made everyone nearby freeze. “I don’t feel him. I always feel him and now—now I don't know.”

Ridoc’s face fell, horror flickering across his features as she turned again in a frenzy, scanning the chaos, running—limping slightly from a graze to her thigh she hadn’t even noticed.

Tears stung her eyes, slipping down her ash-covered cheeks as her panic spilled out like a dam bursting.

She felt Rhiannon’s hand brush her back. Violet murmured something about “Tairn is reaching Sgaeyl, he'll be fine,” but Y/n was spiraling. Spiraling with the image of his empty leathers, of Sgaeyl’s lifeless body, of her waking up tomorrow with a heart severed and nothing left.

And then—

“By the ridge!” someone called.

Her entire body froze.

She whipped around so fast she nearly stumbled.

And there he was.

Xaden stood in the distance, Sgaeyl beside him, one arm pressed to his ribs, his uniform darkened with blood and soot. He looked exhausted. Bruised. But whole. Alive.

The ground shifted beneath her feet as she ran.

She didn’t scream his name—didn’t make a sound—just ran.

Her braid had fallen, her ribbon flying behind her, her dragon’s roar echoing behind her like a war cry of joy. Tears blurred her vision, chest heaving with sobs she didn’t care to hide anymore.

He saw her coming and dropped everything—his blade, his pack, his composure.

When she finally reached him, she slammed into his chest with a force that made him stagger, and she gripped his jacket like if she let go, he might vanish into the smoke again.

“You’re here,” she breathed, again and again. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here.”

“I’m here, love,” he rasped into her hair, voice raw. “I’m right here. Gods, Y/n—don’t cry, please—”

“I thought— I felt nothing,” she sobbed. “I felt nothing and I—”

“Shh, shh,” he whispered, cupping her face, kissing her cheeks, her eyelids, her mouth. “The wards—there was interference— I was trying to get back— I swear—”

“I couldn’t breathe.”

“You never have to be without me again.” His forehead pressed to hers, his thumb brushed away her tears. “You hear me? I will always come back to you.”

And there, in the middle of a field still burning from battle, Y/n finally inhaled her first full breath since the mission began.

Because she was in his arms.

And he was alive.

Later...

The infirmary was dim and hushed, lit only by the amber glow of dragonfire lanterns hanging from the beams. He sat on the edge of the cot, stripped of his jacket, tunic half undone, bandages wrapped around his ribs—burned, bruised, and still reeling.

And she hadn't moved more than a few feet from him since they’d returned.

Y/n paced at first. Silent, tense, like her body couldn’t believe he was still solid in front of her. Her hands shook even as she fetched water, even as she dabbed blood from the corner of his mouth and smoothed his hair back from his temple.

Now she sat beside him, one leg curled beneath her, fingers tracing slow, aimless patterns along the inside of his wrist like if she kept contact, he wouldn’t vanish.

She hadn’t spoken much.

She didn’t need to.

Xaden watched her with quiet reverence, feeling every tremble in her hand, every deep breath she took as if trying to anchor herself. Her charm bracelet clicked softly with each motion. Her choker was still fastened tightly around her neck, her lips slightly chapped from the wind, her eyes rimmed red but no longer frantic.

She was still in battle gear, blood and soot streaked across her collarbone, but she’d never looked more devastatingly beautiful to him.

Sgaeyl’s voice slid into his mind with a low, knowing rumble: She loves you more than air, boy. You're her safe place. Then, smugly: She looked like she might stab someone when she couldn’t find you. He almost smiled. Almost. She still hasn’t stopped watching you. And you love her back so loud it’s giving me a headache.

He bit back a chuckle.

Y/n’s fingers drifted up to his neck, brushing the cord where her seashell pendant hung. She’d given it to him a few months ago, from her hometown—a small white shell smoothed by tide and time, now worn from where his thumb had rubbed it endlessly in her absence.

“Still have it,” he murmured.

Her eyes flicked up to his. “Of course you do.”

She reached toward her own neck, tugging the black ribbon of her collar aside so the chain with a small emerald ring he’d given her—his fathers’s, now hers—was visible against her skin.

“I wore this every day you were gone,” she said softly. “Didn’t care if it was reckless. I needed something of you.”

His chest ached.

He cupped her cheek, his thumb gently brushing her skin. “You have all of me.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a long moment. Then, in a whisper: “I couldn’t breathe without you.”

He moved closer, sliding his hand to the back of her neck. “I know, love. I felt it too.” His voice broke just slightly. “Seeing you run to me… I’ve never felt more alive.”

Her lips brushed his collarbone, the place that bore the bruises from the crash. She didn’t kiss him like she was trying to seduce him. She kissed him like she was trying to remind herself that he was there.

That he came back.

He watched her after, how her gaze scanned him again, just to be sure. How her hand slid to rest over his heart. And how her breathing only started to even out once his arms were around her.

Sgaeyl, ever smug, hummed: You are so thoroughly hers it’s embarrassing. And you like it. Xaden buried his face in Y/n’s curls and smiled into her hair. Yes. Gods help me, I love it.

She curled closer against him on the cot, and he let her stay.

Because for the first time since the mission, Y/n was breathing right.

And so was he.

A few nights later...

The room was still, the kind of silence only found deep in the hours before dawn. The only light came from the moon filtering through the sheer curtains, casting soft silver shadows across the stone walls and the large bed where they lay tangled beneath the blankets.

Xaden stirred first—not from a nightmare, but from hers.

At first, it was just the faint rustle of sheets. But then he felt it— Y/n's body twitching, her breathing sharp and shallow, her fingers curling into the blanket like she was bracing for impact. A soft whimper left her lips. Then another. Her brows furrowed, and she turned her face into the pillow, like she was trying to hide from whatever she was seeing.

“Y/n,” he murmured, instantly awake, his voice low and gravelly. He propped himself up on one arm, pressing his other hand gently to her shoulder.

She flinched.

“No,” she breathed, still trapped in the dream. “No, no, please—don’t fall—”

His heart clenched. “Y/n.” He leaned closer, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “Love, wake up. I’m here. You’re safe.”

But she twisted again, the sound that escaped her throat broken, desperate. A whisper of his name—not in comfort, but in terror.

That did it.

Xaden cupped her face, not forcefully, just enough to anchor her. “Y/n. I’m alive. Look at me, sweetheart. Please—look at me.”

Her eyes snapped open, glassy and unfocused. Her chest was rising and falling like she’d just sprinted miles. There were tears on her cheeks.

“Xaden?” Her voice cracked.

He was already pulling her into his arms, cradling her against his bare chest. “Right here,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ve got you. It’s over. I’m not going anywhere.”

She clung to him—like she needed the feel of his heartbeat to believe him. Her arms wrapped around his ribs, and she tucked her face into the crook of his neck, still trembling.

“I couldn’t find you,” she choked. “In the dream—I was there again. You were just gone.”

He didn’t say I’m fine or It was just a dream. He knew better. He remembered the panic in her eyes the moment she saw him alive. He remembered the scream she’d bitten down when she first landed, and how she hadn’t let him out of her sight since.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice raw. “I know it’s stupid—”

“Don’t,” he said firmly, tipping her chin so she had to meet his gaze. “It’s not stupid. You love me.”

That broke her again. Her face crumpled, and she buried it in his neck.

He kissed her temple, then the top of her head, and just held her. "You kept me breathing out there. I'm home because of you."

Minutes passed. The storm inside her began to quiet. Her grip eased slightly, but she stayed curled against him, his arms wrapped around her like armor.

“I’m here,” he whispered again, pressing a kiss just below her jaw. “You can sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

And she did—eventually, slowly, with her cheek over his heart and his hand tangled in her hair, whispering her name like a prayer until her breaths evened out and the nightmares finally let her rest.

The next few days were chaotic. Venin movement everywhere. People coming and going on patrols and missions trying to push them back and stay alert.

Then came another incident. They were supposed to just be patroling.

The clearing reeks of smoke and blood. The wind howls low, like it knows something is wrong.

Xaden's boots hit the ground hard as Sgaeyl lands. His eyes sweep the scorched battlefield—shattered rocks, a collapsed ridge, still-burning brush—but none of it matters.

Not when she’s not here.

“Y/n?” he calls out, already ripping off his riding harness, voice sharp and ragged. “Y/n!”

Nothing.

No answering voice. No flash of dark curls tied in green ribbon. No glow of her light signet or the shimmer of her pearl necklace. Nothing.

Just silence. And the burn of dread rising in his throat like acid.

Sgaeyl?

I don’t see her. I don’t see Tiamat. Her tone is strained—too restrained for the bond they share. She’s trying to stay calm for him.

But beneath that calm is worry. Sharp and biting.

“She was right behind us,” Xaden says out loud, turning to scan the skies, then the ground again. “She was right fucking behind us!”

“Maybe she landed somewhere else,” Sawyer says, approaching with his sword still slicked in blood. “There was a lot of chaos. The ridge—collapsed right after her dragon passed it.”

Rhiannon speaks, gently. “We’ll find her. We always do.”

But Xaden’s heart is already fracturing.

Because he remembers—he remembers—what it felt like when she thought he was gone. Her broken sobs, the way she ran to him like she couldn’t breathe without him. The way her hands had trembled when she held his face.

Now it’s his turn.

And gods, it’s worse than anything he’s ever known.

Ridoc’s voice, desperate, cuts through the air as he runs back toward him, wild-eyed. “Nothing. I checked the south ridge and the eastern ledge—there’s no trace of them.”

Her twin’s voice is cracked. Barely holding together. “I can’t see her—she’s hurt. I know it. I know it, Xaden.”

That breaks something in him. Fully.

Because if Ridoc can’t feel her… if Tiamat hasn’t responded…

He grips his sword so tightly his knuckles go white. “No. No, she’s alive. She has to be.”

He turns, pacing in a tight circle, his mind unraveling as panic claws up his spine. The bond with Sgaeyl pulses with worry and pain.

“I should’ve stayed with her—gods, I should’ve—”

There. Sgaeyl’s head jerks to the left, her tone urgent. There, Xaden. Look.

He turns.

A flicker of movement by the edge of the distant tree line. A shape limping. One set of wings folded tight.

Dark green scales shimmer.

Tiamat.

And there—slumped beside her, favoring one leg but walking—Y/n.

Her hair is half-fallen from its ribbon, her bracelet glinting dully in the sunlight. Blood streaks her temple, and her uniform is torn—but she’s alive. She’s alive.

Xaden doesn't think—he runs.

He shouts her name as his legs carry him faster than they ever have. His vision blurs. His lungs burn. His heart hammers so hard it nearly stops.

She looks up.

And the moment their eyes lock, she tries to break into a run too but can't— limping, highly pained.

They crash into each other in a bone-crushing, soul-healing embrace.

“Gods—” he breathes, pulling her into him, burying his face in her hair. “Y/n—”

She’s trembling. Sobbing. But laughing too, in that broken way that means she knows how close it was. “I’m here—I’m here—Xaden, I’m here—”

His hands are everywhere, gripping her waist, her face, her back—like he can’t believe she’s real.

“I thought—” he chokes, voice cracking. “I thought I lost you.”

She shakes her head into his neck. “Not a chance, Riorson. I promised you forever.”

And Sgaeyl, through their bond, hums with warmth—There she is. Safe.

And Xaden clutches her tighter.

Because now he understands.

Now he knows what it is to live in a world where she might be gone.

And he never wants to live there again.

The infirmary tent is quiet now. Lanterns glow low, casting soft golden light across Y/n’s cot as a medic finishes bandaging the gash on her thigh.

Xaden hasn’t moved from his spot beside her. Not once. Not when she winced. Not when she hissed in pain. Not even when Ridoc whispered something about giving them space—because he needs this space filled. With her. Breathing. Alive.

Y/n gives the medic a grateful nod before settling back against the pillow. Her hair is damp from sweat and streaked with dried blood, and her face is pale beneath the warm brown of her skin—but she’s alive. Gods, she’s alive.

“You’re staring,” she says softly, cracking the faintest smile.

“I nearly lost you,” he replies just as softly. His thumb brushes along the edge of the bandage on her arm. “I’m allowed to stare.”

She reaches out with her uninjured hand and curls her fingers into the hem of his jacket. Like she needs him anchored to her as badly as he needs to stay.

He doesn’t make her ask.

With gentle movements, he slips out of the chair and into the cot beside her. She makes room—immediate, instinctive. Their bodies slot together in the cramped space as if made to.

Y/n buries her face in his chest, drawing in a long breath. “You smell like fire and smoke,” she mumbles. “You always do after a fight.”

“I was trying to find you,” he whispers, his voice rough. “Tore through half the ridge before I even let myself feel the fear.”

She tilts her chin up, eyes shimmering. “Now you know what I felt… when it was you I couldn’t find.”

Xaden presses a kiss to her forehead. Then another, slower one to her temple. “I’m your boyfriend, Y/n. Of course I’d burn the world down just to find you.”

Her breath shudders.

Then she shifts, one leg draped over his, fingers slipping under his shirt to rest over his heart. Feeling it. Needing the beat of it.

“Don’t let go,” she whispers.

“Never.”

He wraps both arms around her, holding her close, his lips pressed to her hair. His eyes remain open long after hers flutter shut.

And when sleep finally takes him, it’s only because her heartbeat is against his chest.

Right where it belongs.

It’s only been two days since they found her—limping, bloodied, eyes wild with exhaustion—and yet Y/n is already pushing to be cleared for training and working.

“I said I’m fine,” she insists, trying to pull her arm free of Ridoc’s grip.

“You lost enough blood to fill a godsdamned tub, Y/n,” Ridoc snaps, not loosening his hold. “You're not setting a single foot outside this building.”

She glares at him. “You're being dramatic.”

“And you're being reckless,” Xaden adds from behind her, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Y/n whirls around. “Not you too.”

But the look he gives her stops her cold. It’s not stern. It’s not commanding. It’s… scared. The kind of quiet fear that lingers behind someone’s eyes even when everything is over. The kind of fear she saw in her own reflection days ago, when he had been the one missing.

“I couldn't breathe when I realized you weren’t on the ridge,” Xaden says quietly, voice rough. “I don’t think I have breathed properly since.”

She softens immediately. “Xaden…”

He steps closer, gently cupping her face. “So forgive me if I’m not ready to let you out of my sight.”

And behind her, Ridoc—arms still folded and eyes suspiciously glossy—mutters, “Same goes for me, and I don’t plan on sugarcoating you, so you know I’m serious.”

That earns a small laugh from Y/n, which seems to loosen the tension in the room just a little.

She looks between the two most important men in her life—her twin and her lover—and finally sighs in surrender.

“Fine. You can both keep your overprotective vigil.” She raises a brow. “But I am brushing my hair. Alone. And you’re not following me to the bathroom, Ridoc.”

“No promises,” he mutters, and Xaden barks out a short laugh.

She walks off, finally, leaving them both watching her go.

And even as she disappears around the corner, Ridoc mutters, “We’re gonna take shifts, right?”

Xaden doesn’t even blink. “Already planning the rotation.”

Days later...

It’s a quiet evening—too quiet for a war camp, too still for Ridoc’s liking.

Xaden had finally eased up on the protective hovering, reassured enough by Y/n ’s return and her slow recovery. But Ridoc… Ridoc hadn’t let go.

Y/n finds him sitting outside her quarters, knees pulled to his chest like he used to do when they were children and the thunder outside their window grew too loud.

She doesn’t say anything at first—just sits beside him, shoulder brushing his. He exhales shakily.

“I felt it,” he says after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. “When you were gone. It was like… everything in me cracked.”

She swallows thickly. “I know. I’m so sorry, Ro.”

He finally looks at her. And for once, there’s no teasing in his gaze. No mask. Just the raw ache of a twin who almost lost his other half.

“I need to be near you. Just for a bit.”

Y/n nods, wrapping an arm around his shoulder as he leans into her, head resting on hers. “As long as you need,” she whispers.

They sit like that, breathing in sync. No words. Just heartbeats and the sound of safety found again.

Later, Xaden peeks in to find Ridoc fast asleep on the couch in Y/n’s quarters, clinging to the edge of her blanket like he did as a boy. Y/n meets Xaden’s eyes and simply shrugs, lips tugging into a soft smile.

“He needed me,” she mouths.

And Xaden only nods, quietly grateful that the woman he loves is made of so much heart.

Taglist: @eepyfaerie @dreamdragonkadia @hiraethjules @nikfigueiredo @galaxystern08 @taleiaargenis @minidemont @poeticbookwormcat @eternallyrosyfire @shadowhuntyi @bubble300 @messageforthesmallestman @iheartshopping @lagrandeourse @readinf @barbreadsbooks @optimisticsoulstarfish @locatinginspo @lxnvmvrzx @im-a-weirdo-for-life

If you want to added to the taglist, leave a comment. <3

#iron flame #violet sorrengail #fourth wing #xaden riorson #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #xaden riorson x reader #ridoc fourth wing #ridoc gamlyn #onyx storm #the empyrean #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson x y/n #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden x reader #ridoc and aotrom #ridoc x reader #of light and shadow

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cuzxai · 2 months ago

Text

muted - nsfw

spencer reid x gn!reader

a/n: ooolala when do i get to do this to spencie

It was nearly ten when Spencer’s phone rang, the quiet buzz of it slicing through the peaceful hum of the living room. You barely glanced up from where you were curled on the couch, legs tucked under you, book resting open on your thigh. Spencer had been next to you moments ago, rereading some medical journal for the second or third time, absentmindedly twirling the edge of the throw blanket between his fingers. You caught a glimpse of the caller ID before he moved and so did he. “It’s Hotch,” he murmured, already pushing himself up.

You hummed in acknowledgment, eyes dropping back to the page. “Tell him I say hey,” you said but Spencer was already answering.

“Hey, Hotch—yeah, I’m still up.” His voice dropped lower as he stepped across the room, one hand running through his hair. His pacing was slow and aimless, fingers tapping lightly against the back of his neck as he listened. Whatever the call was about, it wasn’t an emergency. His voice stayed soft. You watched him while pretending not to. There was something about the way he walked—barefoot, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the loose drape of the shirt he threw on. He was tired, you could tell but also tense. Probably annoyed to be getting a work call this late. His jaw flexed every now and then, brows twitching down as he answered in short but thoughtful phrases.

You let your eyes linger a little longer than usual. Maybe it was the hour, the quiet, the way the low lamplight played along the sharp line of his profile but something inside you stirred. You shifted slightly, book forgotten now as you rested your chin on your fist, gaze locked on the way his mouth moved when he spoke. “Uh-huh. Yeah, the paperwork’s filed on that one—I sent it over after lunch…” He trailed off as Hotch cut in, nodding along even though the man on the other end couldn’t see him. You cleared your throat softly.

“Hey,” you whispered, catching his attention. He looked over, eyes tired but affectionate. You patted the spot next to you on the couch, tilting your head in a gentle invitation. “Sit.”

He hesitated for half a beat, then crossed the room and sank back down beside you. The call stayed pressed to his ear and you watched as his eyes fluttered shut for a moment, letting himself relax into the cushion. You turned slightly toward him, letting your hand rest on his thigh, casual at first. He didn’t flinch. You let your fingers trace idle shapes against the fabric of his sweatpants, featherlight and slow. Spencer’s jaw tensed. He shifted his weight subtly but didn’t pull away, still listening as Hotch laid out something about the upcoming case schedule. “Mhm,” Spencer said, a little distracted now. “Right. I’ll double-check the witness interview times.”

Your palm flattened a bit more, easing upward. Your touch wasn’t urgent—not yet. Just curious, bordering on affectionate. You leaned in slightly, lips brushing his shoulder in a silent kiss. Spencer’s voice dipped, barely perceptible and his hand twitched around the phone. You looked up at him through your lashes, your palm now dragging over the length of him. He was already getting hard beneath the fabric and your stomach flipped. “Okay… yeah, that makes sense,” he murmured and you could feel the slight change in his breath.

His free hand gripped the edge of the couch. He still hadn’t looked at you but you could tell he was hyper-aware of every movement you made. You dragged your fingers along his thigh again, slower this time, applying more pressure to the thickening shape underneath. His hips shifted forward, just barely. You slid off the couch slowly easing yourself down between his knees, never once breaking contact with your hand. You watched his face as you knelt, eyes a little wide, mouth parted like he wanted to say your name but couldn’t. Not with Hotch still in his ear.

You smirked faintly, fingers curling around the waistband of his pants. You didn’t pull them down but you palmed him firmly now, letting your thumb trace a lazy line up the length of him. Spencer swallowed hard, barely covering it with a soft, “Uh-huh,” when Hotch asked something else. You leaned in closer, eyes dark and slow, lips brushing just above where his waistband sat.

And very softly you mouthed, “Stay on the phone.”

Spencer’s breath hitched when you ran your tongue over the skin of his lower stomach, just barely brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before you kissed your way down. His hand tightened around the phone with a low, almost imperceptible groan slipping past his lips. He tried to cover it with another quick murmur to Hotch but it was clear he wasn’t fully focused anymore. You pulled his pants down just enough to free him, the cool air brushing against his skin making him shiver slightly. You paused, taking a moment to look at him. His chest was rising and falling, his free hand gripping the fabric of the couch so tightly his knuckles were turning white. You smiled up at him, licking your lips before you kissed the sensitive skin just under the base of his cock. Spencer’s breath caught and you could feel him freeze, his back arching slightly. You teased him just like that—slow, soft kisses along the sensitive skin, brushing your lips along the length of him without fully taking him in.

His voice faltered, Hotch’s voice now sounding faraway in his ear. “Reid?” He asked but it was almost as if he couldn’t hear him. Spencer’s mind was racing—half on the call, half with you. You could tell by the way his eyes glazed over, his body stiffening under your touch.

“I—I’m listening,” Spencer muttered but his words were thick, distracted. His fingers flexed around the phone but his gaze was fixed on you. You were driving him crazy, slowly but surely and you knew it. Without warning, you took him into your mouth, just enough to hear him suck in a breath sharply and you hummed, savoring the soft groan that rumbled deep in his chest. Spencer’s hand dropped from the couch to his lap, fisting his sweatpants as if trying to hold back. He still had the phone pressed against his ear but his attention was entirely on you now.

“Fuck,” he breathed, barely audible as you began to move slowly, taking him in deeper, the warm pressure of your mouth making his entire body tighten. You didn’t hurry; you took your time, enjoying every little noise he made, every slight shift of his hips. The phone on his ear buzzed— Hotch had to be saying something but Spencer didn’t even flinch. He was too far gone, the sound of your steady rhythm as you worked him deep into your mouth overtaking any semblance of control. “Uh… Yeah, I’ll look over it,” Spencer mumbled, voice growing more strained as you continued. You looked up at him from under your lashes, catching the way his eyes were closed, his lip caught between his teeth to stop himself from moaning too loud.

Your hand slid up to gently cup his balls, rolling them carefully in your palm as you sucked him in deeper. Spencer’s hips bucked into your mouth and you felt his breath catch in his throat. He wasn’t able to hold back much longer but he was trying so hard to keep it together, to stay professional while Hotch continued speaking. But it was hard. So fucking hard.

You pulled back just long enough to speak, voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to come for me,” you teased, feeling his entire body shudder at the words. Spencer’s eyes opened for a split second, his gaze locking with yours in a pleading way. The tension was palpable, his body thrumming with need as he bit down hard on his lower lip, trying to keep it together.

And still, he kept the phone pressed to his ear. “Uh-huh yeah… okay,” he choked out, the strain in his voice clear now. “I—I’ll get to it in a minute. I promise.” But you weren’t going to let him off that easy. You went back to work, this time more determined, sucking him deeper into your mouth, your hand pressing him harder into the back of your throat. Spencer’s breath quickened, his grip tightening on the phone as his hips started to jerk, unable to control the rhythmic thrusts he was giving into your mouth.

“Fuck, baby, I can’t…” His words were thick, barely audible and he didn’t even try to hide the way his voice cracked.

“Stay quiet for me, Spence,” you whispered, feeling him twitch in your mouth as you pulled him back in again, sucking just the right way to drive him wild. You wanted him to break, wanted to hear him fall apart while he tried to maintain some semblance of control. His head tilted back slightly and his grip on the phone faltered just a bit but he didn’t hang up. Not yet.

Not until, “Shit, I—” Spencer gasped, his hand falling from the phone entirely as he bucked up into your mouth, feeling that telltale tightening in his core. You could sense the moment he lost it and all at once, he was coming, spilling into your mouth with a soft, strangled cry.

You swallowed around him, making sure not to miss a drop, while Spencer struggled to keep himself together, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. Hotch’s voice crackled through the phone but Spencer couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even think straight. It wasn’t until you pulled back, gently licking your lips, that he let out a slow, shaky breath. He looked down at you, his face flushed and eyes wide with the aftershocks of what just happened. You smiled softly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“I think Hotch’s call is over,” you teased, glancing at the dark phone still lying on his lap.

Spencer blinked a few times, shaking his head as if trying to clear the fog from his brain. “I—uh…” He lifted the phone to his ear but by the time he processed everything, Hotch had already hung up. He set the phone aside, rubbing his face in a mixture of exhaustion and embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t think that would happen.” You just smirked, trailing your fingers up his thigh, feeling the slight twitch that was already building back up.

“Next time,” you murmured, “I think you’ll be more prepared for me.”

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sam-keeper · 30 days ago

Text

Hey Look At This Comic: Smut Peddler Presents Pitch Black

I can't remember how we got on the subject of the comics that my friends Iris Jay and Nero Villagallos O'Reilly did for an old Iron Circus april fools bit. maybe we were chatting about Megan Delyani's blank frame comic Spaces, which I wrote a whole review of last year, but it might just as easily have been talking about comic structure generally. cause we're huge nerds. being a huge nerd, I was all over the premise of the joke: a fake kickstarter for a Smut Peddler volume full of comics with all blacked out panels.

it's a great gag, a full webpage duping the Kickstarter layout, with a fun tongue in cheek explanation: comics don't leave enough up to the imagination, there aren't enough interpretive gaps for the reader, so to fix that Smut Peddler will publish a bunch of Pitch Black comics where YOU have to provide the visuals. Joke, maybe, but it lends credence to frame-focused models of comics reading: it's not the images that make something a comic, but the breakdown of page space into discrete units. So goes one theory, anyway. How do these pages fare without their images?

Lin Visel deploys a regular grid of long, thin columns, with a kind of horizontal capital at the top. The speech bubbles drive a lot of the action here and there's a sense of simultaneous movement across the bottom, with the bubbles breaking the panel borders at the top and the sound effects flowing into each other below. So, there's an interesting division between the upper strip, which is relatively subdued, a moment of reassurance that exists almost in its own zone before the rush of the bottom. And, as we'll see with a bunch of the others, in the absence of images the style of the text, the shape of the word balloons, and the font colors all become more crucial to conveying what's happening (sex, to be clear). That's already a lot going on with a series of black panels.

I love how Iris's comic bakes an explanation for the blacked out panels into its narrative. The apparently dominant character gloats that her streaming site won't let her actually display the brutal force-fem pegging she's giving to some shitty gamer bro. Sure enough, at the bottom of that panel there's a black and white video control interface and LIVE signal. Text alone and the design of the speech bubbles transforms the whole diegesis of that second panel, from the floating omniscient "camera" of the other panels to a webcam. Which is crazy because don't forget, there is no diegesis at all. It's all black!

There's so many great touches in this. I love the fact that the tongue in cheek panel containing the "guy's" internal monologue ("I can feel my epic skills draining away with every thrust... along with my masculinity!") is not just a second panel on the upper strip but an inset, separating out this moment of more intimate first person experience from the more remote view of implied fucking. And look at the flowers in the final orgasmic speech bubble! This is a total tangent but I feel like a lot of older attempts at structuralist comics decomposition wanted a firm line between the panel, the image, the characters, the speech bubbles, and so on. But comic elements can constantly interpenetrate, with the apparent domain of text becoming more complex graphical elements. Also, what a cute way to depict orgasming so hard you get turned into a girl. Head full of flowers. :)

It's incredible what you can achieve without breaking Tumblr's draconian terms of service at all.

Robin Tess offers a more straightfoward humorous panel, which lets me catch my breath after Iris's hot and heavy speech bubbles. Yet, this could have been a straightfoward 2 x 3 grid, couldn't it? 6 panels? Instead, this joke about over-engineered jargon names for what could just as easily have been called a "fuckmachine" (left delightfully up to the imagination) gets its core pacing from an irregular panel format. The premise is introduced in a big splashy full-strip panel at the top, the elaboration takes up the middle row, and then the bottom, in two equal panels, displays the two part punchline. I like the subtle way the middle row panels get progressively smaller. It increases the tension as we move toward the release of the punchlines, in a way that could be easily obscured by the panel contents if the page wasn't all blacked out in this way. Like Delyani's work, it makes me want to see notable comics blacked out. It could offer a whole new perspective on the medium's language.

Speaking of which, Nero uses a series of tall regular panels that suddenly POP into one that seems to squirt across the page, the other panels moved to allow for the white negative space to show off the irregular splash of the panel edge. This could be the silhouette of literal fluid, but I also like the idea of a frame that just has this kind of irregular energy. The comic structure itself becoming unruly and fluid to highlight a climax is a staple of many comic genres, but I'd say that I see it deployed most consistently by adult creators, who seem more willing to throw page literalism to the wind in order to achieve heightened expressivity. And once again we've got this escalation to a climactic panel. Typing this up I actually realized I don't have a specific idea of what I think the visual for these panels is or should be. Part of the excitement comes from filling in the blanks, to be sure, but that's true of any comic, which requires us to engage in closure to make sense of the transition from panel to panel. No, it's the drama of the reveal of the vibe plug one character apparently has been hiding, the invitation to intimacy, and finally the release, all achieved through dialogue physically arranged on the page. I don't think this would really make sense at all without the visuals that ARE there--the buzzing sound effect that moves across panel borders and is simultaneous to rather than sequentially arranged between lines of dialogue, and the incredibly suggestive final panel shape. Even without apparent visuals, this is visual storytelling.

Abby Howard wraps things up with the most abstract of the pieces, one that doesn't use frames at all but implies panel contents simply through the convention of word balloon tails. The result is a disorienting dark mass. It's hard to know what exactly is happening here and actually I'm having a hard time imagining what the last visual is "supposed" to be. It sort of is what it is: groping claw marks raking a black void. It's part of the april fool's joke, but it's a creepy one, and it feeds into the final joke of the page: that all this overthinking, all this trying to make sense of black panels, has worn you out, made you vulnerable to the Dark. Well, looking at everything I typed up here, I can't deny the inevitability of this end. Time to get in the maw!

Actually I think this end uncovers the close relationship that comics and hypertext narratives or more experimentally formatted texts have to one another: the space on the page becomes, itself, a signifying element and a way to direct the flow of the story. It's a shame that this is, I think, still considered a bit gimmicky in the realm of professional publishing and criticism. We have all these tools we've barely employed for storytelling, made far more accessible than in the days of having to manually set type!

Well, maybe it'll all have its day in the sun, or I suppose night in its new moon, soon enough. With an increasingly puritanical treatment of sexuality in society and on the internet, maybe we'll ALL have to black the action out of our comics and leave the frames to imply what we socially no longer want to see.

Pitch Black: Comics Code Authority approved!

you can read more reviews in the Hey Look At This Comic tag and support me on Patreon at least until they get my ass for being an adult writing about comics for other adults.

#Hey Look At This Comic #comics #iron circus comics #experimental comics #indie comics #webcomics #comic review

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writingrock · 11 months ago

Text

no hard feelings

pairing: katsuki bakugou x reader (gender neutral) summary: you and your pro-hero boyfriend are enjoying date night until you bump into a talkative ex-classmate.

notes: fluff, funny bullshit, date night interrupted, katsuki is about to blow someone up, pro-hero katsuki

word count: 938

a/n: inspired by that one scene from 'no hard feelings' movie. I couldn't help but picture Katsuki in it.

Katsuki’s eyes twitched in annoyance as he watched you talk to your friend. An old friend who just happened to recognise you and wanted to catch up. Afterall, it's been so long.

A suppressed groan slipped out of his mouth as he took another long sip of the red wine. How long was this fucker going to stand over you and drag the conversation? Especially during his date night with you. Your boyfriend usually doesn’t mind some chatter, especially if you haven’t seen them in a while. But it has been twenty minutes of this bullshit.

His eyebrows furrowed in frustration as the conversation didn’t seem to end. Mainly because this loser kept opening his mouth. You were being polite to a high school classmate you haven’t seen in years. In truth, you wished this was over but weren’t sure how to end this conversation. You could appreciate a nice, small chat but this has definitely gone on long enough.

The pro-hero was getting annoyed as this continued, his lips pressed into a thin line as he glared daggers at this man. Is his off time being wasted by some douche who can’t shut up? Just when he thought this couldn’t get worse, this man proved to be a bigger idiot than initially perceived.

“I don’t know what you’re doing later but there’s this reunion—” your past classmate pulled out his phone with such eagerness. Katsuki wanted to gag at the sight and blow this man up on the spot. He’s had enough. He was going to end it.

Clearing his throat, Katsuki redirects the attention to himself. The sound caused the both of you to turn to the pro-hero. Katsuki looked at you for a moment, noticing your facial expressions. Your expression was sending a message bordering between ‘please help end this’ and ‘be gentle’. Be gentle. As if. But for you, he would try.

“We have plans.” His piercing gaze narrowed at the unwelcome presence at dinner. His words are short, simple for a simpleton like him to understand. Katsuki’s tone was firm and carried a heavy weight to it. There was a fire within the blond that he had to hold back for you.

Thinking that would end it, he swiped the wine glass on the dinner table. Delicately tilting the glass to swirl the Bordeaux. Katsuki’s eyes stay on your friend who’s suddenly rather awkward and meek, letting his gaze spell out the obvious. Fuck off.

Imagine Katsuki’s surprise when your friend turned away to look back at you. Running away from the threat the pro hero posed. Heat rose in his chest. This little weasel. His fingers tighten on the stem of the wine glass. “Oh, but I can still send you the address- ” your friend tried to start, his fingers already swiped on the screen of his phone.

Ready to send you a text until your boyfriend cuts him off, “She didn’t bring her phone.” a lie but this shithead didn’t know that. Your phone was sitting snugly in your purse which Katsuki knew was on silent mode. You watched the scene play out in anticipation, letting your boyfriend take the reins on this situation. Plus, it was rather amusing to watch.

“Oh, I can give you the address.” Was this man dense? Did this dumbass really just offer to send the address to him? Irritation was plain obvious on Katsuki’s face. If his grip on the glass was any tighter, he might have broken it. His patience was thinning, turning into a ticking time bomb that was about to blow. The longer this continued, the faster the ticking went.

You could have sworn that you saw a vein pop on Katsuki’s forehead. Gritting his teeth, he swallows the burst of obscenities in his throat, forcing an amicable smile on his face. Though that smile looked nothing like sincere or friendliness. It simply looked like he was holding in the urge to yell at this past classmate of yours.

“No need.” he manages to give a short answer. On the edge of losing his cool over this idiot who’s being painfully oblivious and persistent to invite you to some reunion. Katsuki wondered what his deal was. Was he doing this on purpose to rile the pro-hero up? Because it sure as hell felt like it.

His intense gaze was burning with frustration. His lips loosening to unravel his bad temper if this kept going. You hoped for the safety of your past friend that he got the hint and would go before Katsuki blew a fuse. And knowing your boyfriend, he’s nearly there.

“Can’t hurt to have it— ” Katsuki slammed the wine glass onto the table, causing it to wobble slightly. The plates and silverware clattered slightly as he let out a deep exhale. The wine swayed in its glass. Your friend is cut off by the sudden slam.

Honestly, Katsuki didn’t even mean to slam the glass onto the table. He had underestimated how hard he was gripping the glass. How utterly pissed he was.

“Might hurt.” a nasty snarl paired with his sudden aggression was finally the trigger that clarified that he’s overstayed. Your past classmate finally realised that he’s being asked to fuck off. Which he does so quietly, squeaking a small apology as he scurried out of the restaurant.

You look at your boyfriend with a smile before bursting into laughter. Katsuki’s grip finally loosens on the wine glass. His hand on his temple, rubbing away the pent up anger he felt. That was aggravating.

“He’s super nice isn’t he?”

“He was about to be blown up.”

a/n: hope you enjoyed this! needed to write something small because I've been working on bigger fics. Not proofread !

border credits: @enchanthings & @adornedwithlight

#bakugou katsuki #x gn reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha bakugou #mha #mha x reader #mha fanfiction #bnha bakugou #bnha #ficlet #mha fic #bnha fic #bakugou x you #bakugou fluff #bakugo katsuki

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hans-wh0re · 11 months ago

Text

You could never resist the tempting opportunity to tease and taunt Chan with your insatiable lust whenever possible. Even something as simple as going for an impromptu nature drive together had your perverted mind racing with naughty ideas.

"Hey babe,m gonna pull off up here," Chan murmured in that deep baritone that never failed to make your thighs clench. He nodded toward a secluded fork in the deserted country road you'd been winding through, tucked away under a dreamy canopy of budding trees.

You bit your lip to suppress a smirk as Chan slowly steered his sleek black Jeep off the main path and rumbled over the grassy embankment into a small clearing framed by twisted oaks and wildflowers waving lazily in the breeze. This looked like the perfect private little hideaway for all sorts of indecent shenanigans.

As soon as he killed the engine, Chan swiveled in the driver's seat to fix you with a sultry gaze, the corner of his plump mouth kicked up in a sexy half-smirk. He knew that mischievous glint in your eyes all too well - you were already plotting some sort of erotic surprise.

"So what naughty thoughts are running through that dirty little head of yours, princess?" He rasped in a gravelly tone, large hand drifting across the center console to palm your bare thigh with a possessive squeeze. "You've been squirming around and giving me fuck-me eyes ever since we hit the road."

A shameless giggle bubbled up in your chest at Chan's playfully blunt assessment. You always did get unbelievably riled up whenever he pulled out his dominant bedroom voice. Feigning innocence, you parted your legs wider in a bold invitation while batting your lashes coyly.

"Who, me? I don't know what you're talking about…unless you were the one picturing me on my knees choking on your big dick in the woods like a filthy little slut?"

Chan's eyes flashed warningly at your brazenly dirty mouth, an almost feral growl rumbling up from his chest. In one smooth movement, he unclicked his seatbelt and lunged across the center divide to capture your lips in a rough, messy kiss.

"Such a bad girl, trying to rile me up," he groaned against your mouth between bruising smashes of his full lips. His tongue plunged past your parted lips greedily, chasing the sweet taste of you as his broad palms roamed over your body with shameless gropes. "You know how quickly you can get me riled up and ready to rail you into next week."

Whimpering into the deliciously filthy liplock, you rutted your hips up to grind your dewy slit against the rapidly forming bulge in Chan's jeans. His thick cock throbbed and strained against the unforgiving denim, leaving a tempting damp patch for you to press into.

"Mmm, feels like someone's excited to play too," you purred sultrily once he finally released your mouth with a final nip at your plump lower lip.

Chan let out a low chuckle that bordered on a growl, shifting backwards to blatantly palm and adjust his confined erection through the front of his pants. "Can't say I mind you teasing me like a needy little cockslut. In fact, I'd love to see those pretty lips wrapped around my dick, slobbering all over it right here in the front seat."

Your mouth practically watered at the tantalizing visual of bracing yourself in the cramped footwell and bobbing up and down on Chan's delicious length, his strong fingers tangled in your hair to guide your rhythm. With a needy whine, you immediately scrambled between his spread thighs to fumble with his belt buckle and zipper.

"Anything to make you happy, daddy," you purred, nuzzling your cheek against the impressive hard line straining against the front of his boxer briefs. The heady musk of Chan's arousal made your head swim and your cunt gush fresh dampness to soak the flimsy cotton.

With a theatrical swirl of your tongue, you mouthed a torturously slow trail along the shaft outlined beneath the soft fabric, savoring the taste of his salty precum already beading at the tip. Chan released a guttural moan, his hips twitching upwards instinctively to chase the hot suction of your lips. By the time you finally tugged his length free, his cock sprang out flushed, engorged, and glistening at the swollen head - undeniably aching to be buried in your velvety heat.

"Shit, look how fucking thick and pretty it is," you practically purred, wrapping one hand around the girthy base to stroke him from root to tip with teasing kitten licks following your snug fist. "Not sure I deserve such a nice treat…."

Hooking one toned leg over your shoulder for leverage, Chan carded his fingers through your hair to tilt your face upwards under his potent smoldering gaze. "Why don't you put that smart little mouth to good use and suck daddy dry then, hmm?"

Your tongue slipped out to drag a fat, messy stripe through the pearly beads of precum gathered on his cockhead, circling the engorged crown with torturous slow laps. When Chan's dick jerked heavily in your grip, you giggled and latched your lips around the tip in a tight suction to tongue at the sensitive bundle until he was thrashing beneath you.

"Fuckkk that's it, take it all down like a good girl," He groaned, head rolling back on the headrest as you slowly sank your jaw further to stretch your puffy lips around his considerable girth.

With a hand still fisted around the base, you eagerly worked the rest of his impressive length past your lips, swirling your tongue indecently and hollowing your cheeks to draw him deeper into your throat with filthy, gagging noises. Chan cursed vehemently, hips pumping off the seat to meet each sloppy down-bob of your head as the blunt head prodded into your convulsing throat.

"Such a cockslut for me, choking yourself sloppy and stupid on my dick…" Chan slurred through gritted teeth, one hand twisting in your hair to set a brutal cadence of forcefully skull-fucking your stretched mouth.

The sting of tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, coupled with the sharp burn of being deliciously impaled on his throbbing length. But the grotesque sound of your noisily suctioning mouth, your saliva-slickened chin, and Chan's punishingly deep shoves into your gullet made your cunt throb with unbridled arousal. You keened around his cock with pleasure, practically humping the console in search of much-needed friction between your neglected legs.

With a guttural snarl, Chan hilted himself fully in the convulsing wet heat of your throat until your nose brushed coarse curls and your lashes fluttered with lack of air. The fat, leaking crown stretched your poor lips obscenely wide, pearly drool and stringy saliva dripping down your chin to soak your tits.

"F-Fuck, gonna fill your tight little throat with so much cum," Chan rumbled through gritted teeth, harsh grunts punching out in time with the debauched bobbing motion of fucking your sloppy face. "Going to drench you in a hot, thick load right down your throat like the cumdump slut you are…"

At his lewd words, you whined out a pathetic plea around the thick cock spearing your gullet. The prospect of being so thoroughly defiled and used as nothing but a jizz receptacle had your core gushing fresh arousal. Your muffled whimpers and gags only seemed to spur Chan on to jackhammer his hips upwards in sharper, more erratic thrusts. Every withdrawal left a fat trail of spittle and precum painting your chin before the fat cockhead stretched your lips wide yet again.

Out of nowhere, Chan delivered a stinging slap across your cheek, leaving a crimson handprint blooming along your face as more tears sprang up. But the harsh sting only made you moan deliriously around his member, angling your neck to take the next fierce thrust deeper, harder, sloppier. You were absolutely transcendent on the degradation, serving as his fuckdoll to relentlessly throat and use like a cockwarmer.

"I'm cumming, I'm fuckin' c-cummin'…" Chan growled out a final warning in a wrecked, guttural tone.

The first hot, viscous ropes of his seed erupted out into the back of your gullet before you could react, thick cream painting the insides of your throat and dribbling back out around your poor abused lips in a filthy mess. Your body shook with the desperate urge to swallow down each spurt of cum, only for Chan to sink his nails into the crown of your scalp to still your movements and pump his hips. More and more of his spend coated your tonsils, gushing down your sputtering windpipe and draining back out around your spit-slick oral cavity…

By the time Chan's pulsing cock started delivering its final weak spurts of seed down your raw throat, every inch of your pretty face was a sloppy mess of drool, tears, and thick globs of his potent release. Jets of cum continued to dribble from the plump, distended shape of your overstuffed lips even as he dragged his softening length from your mouth with a final groan.

Chan didn't give you more than a moment to gasp frantically for air before he was hauling you up into a bruising, possessive kiss. You keened against his mouth, allowing him to chase the musky taste of his own spend flicking over both your tongues in a nasty, unrestrained makeout. The erotic flavor made your head swim, pussy throbbing with need to be similarly painted with his seed.

"I want every drop cleaned up, baby girl," Chan husked in a low rumble against your spit-slick lips when you finally parted for air. The promise in his smoky gaze was undeniable - he planned to use and defile every part of your body until you were a slutty, trembling mess well into the night.

With needy whimpers tumbling from your puffy lips, you obediently scooped up the pearly strands and globs of potent cream smeared across your jaw, chin, and down your heaving chest with petite fingertips. You held Chan's heated stare as you unabashedly lapped the tangy puddles of cum from your skin, swirling your tongue around each digit with obscene slurping noises to polish them clean.

"Good girl…such a nasty little cumwhore for me," he groaned approvingly, thick cock already twitching back to engorged interest from watching your erotic show. "Get it nice and slick for round two now."

Chan spread his muscled thighs obscenely wider, nearly sprawled in the driver's seat while his slick, heavy prick lay gleaming and exposed against his defined lower abdomen. He was putting himself on unabashed display, shamelessly baiting you to make a sloppy mess of his gorgeous body next, and who are you to not fall for his bait…

#skz #stray kids #stray kids imagines #stray kids smut #skz imagines #skz smut #bangchan x reader #bangchan smut #bangchan stray kids #christopher bang #skz bang chan #stray kids bang chan #stray kids bangchan smut #bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #bang chan stray kids #bang chan imagines

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caffeinewitchcraft · 1 year ago

Text

Cinderella Doesn't Believe in Fairytales (pt 10)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3). (Part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9)

Summary: There are many sorts of meetings. Meetings you dread and meetings you anticipate. Baron Ramsey is overdue for both.

“I did not expect you to return so soon,” the Queen says. Her coal-like eyes flick over the Baron, cataloguing every inch of him. Did she see the dust clinging to his trousers, evidence of his haste to arrive? Did she see the tightness in his jaw at her welcome? Did she see the new bead of sweat rolling down his cheek? “Another week at the earliest.”

“I—” The Baron has to summon moisture to his mouth to speak. He swallows. “I was already within our borders when your message found me. Of course, I had no choice but to return.”

The Queen’s expression doesn’t change, but her aura does. She leans back in her throne and watches him through half-lidded eyes. “Why is it you think I called for you, Baron David Ramsey?”

To torment me, he thinks and doesn’t say. He wishes he would have listened to his wife all those years ago. She told him they must go unnoticed. He thought he had rid himself of his arrogance when he married her, but he was wrong. It had been arrogant of him to not heed her warning.

“There is a new type of dye in the southern islands,” he says. He spreads his hands wide. “If I had known your majesty had already heard of it, I would not have delayed in finding a sample. I hope you will understand. I was returning home after so many years abroad.”

The Queen never admits to not knowing. Her expression flickers. “Yes, the new dye…I am interested in it.”

A wave of relief rocks through him. This is familiar territory. Every request for a new product she gives him is another handful of months he can keep her attention away from his home and the secrets he has kept hidden there for 19 years. “It would be my privilege to acquire some products using this new dye for you, your majesty. I have made a promise to the Baroness to return home this month however, so there will be a delay—”

“Returning home to an empty house?”

The Baron blinks. “Pardon?” Then her words register and a surge of sick fear makes him sway on the spot. What has she done? He swallows twice before he can speak. “N-no, to my daughter – my daughters. To the Baroness.”

The Queen studies him. The Baron desperately tries to hold himself still. The Queen always speaks vaguely. He is hearing a threat where none exists. The Queen’s domain may extend past his manor, but her magic doesn’t. She doesn’t know, she can’t know. She is testing him. Should he have denied knowing that the higher nobility of this land were, in fact, the Unseelie Court?

Sweat rolls down his temple and he feels the Queen’s eyes track its progress.

“Then rejoice,” the Queen says at last. Her nails trace the arm of her throne. “Your journey is at an end. Your family is in the Capital.”

“Wha—” What?! The Baron bites his tongue so hard blood wells. The pain does little to clear the panic from his mind. “I—I was not aware.”

“I can see that,” the Queen says. The sharp edge in her gaze softens. Calculation crosses her face briefly and settles into an unsettling amusement. She smiles. “Yes, that makes sense. You wouldn’t have been home to receive the invitation. There is a ball, Baron David Ramsey. All eligible ladies of the kingdom are in the Capital for it, of course. Your…daughters included.”

A ball? It’s been three decades since the Queen last a held a ball, perhaps longer. Why now? His wife told him that the Unseelie Court was confined to the very core of their territory after the last great war. She predicted that their power would not be enough to free them for another hundred years. So why a ball? Why invite the human nobles across the land to come into the heart of the territory before they were recovered? Why—

The Prince. These are politics the Baron knows. The Prince has come of age this year. This isn’t an ordinary ball. The Royal Line must continue regardless of the powers they may or may not have recovered. A Prince needs a Princess.

The Unseelie Court is hunting for new blood.

“Then I suppose,” the Baron says faintly, “that I am not going home quite yet after all.” The unease the Queen voicing his name evokes fades next to the sick fear roiling in the Baron’s stomach. “By your leave, of course.”

“Nothing would make me happier than having your attendance at the ball tonight,” the Queen purrs. She extends a hand and an invitation appears in the air between them. She crooks her finger and it drifts into the Baron’s chest. “I guarantee that this will be a surprise reunion that no one will want to miss.”

The Baron’s clammy hand presses the invitation over his heart. Is it his imagination or can he feel oily tendrils seep from it and into his heart? Is the air colder? Without thinking, the Baron says, “Thank you for your consideration, your majesty.”

A wave of weakness washes over him as soon as his thanks leaves his lips. He staggers and his vision wavers. The Queen’s nostrils flare as she breathes in deeply, eyes fluttering shut. Does the King laugh behind his hand? Or does he cough?

His wife’s voice echoes in his mind. Never thank the fae. Never apologize. And especially never give thanks nor apology to the Unseelie.

“Don’t thank me yet, Baron,” the Queen says. When she opens her eyes they gleam with an unearthly purple. Black stains her mouth when she smiles. “Tonight. Thank me tonight.”

The order slips around his neck like a noose. The invitation throbs like a second heart. “Yes, my Queen,” the Baron whispers.

---------.

Cinderella watches the colors of the sunset catch in the crystals embroidered on her dress, red and pink and gold against the eggshell blue of the silk. Helga’s hands are gentle as she weaves Cinderella’s hair into an intricate knot.

“There,” Helga says. There’s a faint press of lips on top of Cinderella’s head, the move so effortlessly affectionate that Cinderella’s heart sings. Helga gently lifts Cinderella’s chin. “Take a look. We can change anything you don’t like.”

This afternoon with Helga has been magical. Cinderella doesn’t remember the last time she felt so at ease with another person besides the Prince. They talked and laughed and commiserated over her friend’s lack of communication, about nature, about what type of jam goes best on what type of bread, about everything and anything. Good food and good company has healed something deep inside of Cinderella, another crack sealing tight and holding. She can’t imagine not liking something that Helga has done for her.

She is still surprised when she sees herself in the mirror.

Last night’s gold jewelry highlighted Cinderella’s hair and the deep green of the dress. She remembers feeling beautiful and elegant and so, so confident.

Tonight is—well, it’s everything Cinderella feels.

It’s as if Helga listened to Cinderella’s recounting of the previous night and manifested every hope and every joyful memory into what Cinderella sees before her. She feels like she’s glowing. Rather than focus on her hair this dress throws her light eyes into brilliant focus. She blinks quickly. She didn’t realize she had her mother’s eyes until this moment.

Her jewelry is still dainty, but it all shines as brightly as the crystals dotted like flowers through the skirts of her dress. A single teardrop pendant hangs from a silver chain around her neck and diamond earrings reflect firelight as the castle lights the sconces around her room. Silver thread holds Cinderella’s hairstyle in place.

“I’m the sky,” Cinderella says breathlessly.

“And more,” Helga promises. There’s a knock on the door. Helga meets Cinderella’s eyes through the mirror and she smiles. “Your carriage has arrived, my lady.”

Cinderella’s heart leaps as she rises. The Prince is here. Her friend. Suddenly she feels…not insecure, not quite. There is a fluttering in her stomach as Helga goes to the door, a breathless anticipation that makes her feel weightless. She finds herself following Helga to the door, stopping a few feet behind her when the older woman opens it.

Oh, Cinderella thinks as, unerringly, the Prince’s eyes meet hers. The Prince is draped in a deep, night-sky blue, the same crystals on Cinderella’s dress sewn in clusters on his jacket. His black hair is swept away from his face and a thin, silver wire twines around one ear like a vine.

“You’re early,” Helga chastises the Prince.

The Prince jolts as if he didn’t notice Helga at all. “I thought it best if we had dinner before—”

“We match,” Cinderella says.

Helga jumps, spinning on one foot with her hand presses over her heart. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come up behind me...”

“Why,” the Prince says and pretends shock as he looks down at his outfit. “I think we do.”

Cinderella fights against a smile. “You knew I would choose the blue dress.”

“I had an inkling.”

Cinderella slides around Helga, barely noticing as the older woman wordlessly gives way. She takes the Prince’s arm when he offers it. “You said dinner?”

“That I did.”

Cinderella is full on bread and jam and juice. “I’d like that.”

“You could have sent a note,” Helga mutters. But she drapes a buttery-soft shawl around Cinderella’s shoulders to protect her against the evening chill and does not protest when the Prince leads her from Emerald Castle and into the gardens rather than to the carriage.

The gardens are a different world at night, especially seen from the ground rather than the window of her guest room. Small, wrought iron torches mark their path past the flower beds and towards the hedge maze.

“If you get us lost and we wind up being late again, I’m not walking in with you,” Cinderella says as they enter. The hedges smell slightly floral and she breathes the fresh scent in hungrily. Jasmine, maybe? “I saw the look the Queen gave you last night.”

“My mother doesn’t give looks to me,” the Prince denies. He grins at her. “And we won’t be late. Or, if we are, neither of my parents will be upset.”

Something in his voice gives Cinderella pause. “Because they love you so very much?”

“Because if we’re late, they’ll be late too,” the Prince says and directs her around one last corner into the center of the maze where the Queen and King are waiting at a table set for four.

-----------

(Patreon)

#my writing #cinderella retelling

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fallenclan · 5 months ago

Note

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

sure :)

Sleepydawn's Journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would he do now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

Twolegplace was. Different.

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

Or so he had thought, anyway.

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

He ran off quickly after that.

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

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

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

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

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

Dogs.

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

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

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

. . .

Sleepydawn knew the story of his grandfather, okay?

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow, that was great!”

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

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

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

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

“None of your business.”

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

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

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

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

A frown. “What?”

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

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

He huffed an angry breath. “Obviously.”

“Katie!”

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

“Katie, get away from him!”

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

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

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

Good, he thought vindictively. They should be scared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

Halfway through drinking, he heard pawsteps behind him.

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

But he couldn’t think.

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

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

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

He was having trouble breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A dog.” He answered without thinking.

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

“I don’t want your kittypet food.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His heart ached at the thought of her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Otterslip,” Sleepydawn breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm.” Dusty blinked. “And did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“None of your business.” He meowed instead.

. . .

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

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

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

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

His leg ached some more. He fell asleep.

. . .

Sleepydawn had gotten used to crossing thunderpaths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew the feeling. His leg was broken again.

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

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

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

. . .

“What are you doing?”

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

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

Sleepykit wrinkled his nose. “So, chores?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What’ve you got there?”

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

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

Sleepykit frowned.

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

“Hey, are you listening, tripod?”

The world faded out.

. . .

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

“Sleepypaw, step forth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one else’s.

. . .

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

Oddly, his leg didn’t hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleepydawn perked up. “A plan?”

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

And he still had no plan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forever?”

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

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

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

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

“I knew I made the right choice.”

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

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

“You knew clan cats?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then-

Sniff.

Fuck.

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

“Fish-”

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

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

“And I’m gonna be a warrior. Say it.”

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

“That’s right.”

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

. . .

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

“Psst! Mayor!” A pause. “Mr. Mayor!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

Sleepdawn waited, then let his eyes drift closed again.

“Well, what if-”

. . .

“Tell me a story.”

“Hah,” Sleepydawn responded dryly.

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

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

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

“Once upon a time… there was a cat.”

“Strong start.”

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

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

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

“How did he die?” Fishstick chirped.

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

Fishstick gave a sad little whine. Sleepydawn pushed on.

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

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

“Why?” Fishstick interrupted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, he should have.”

. . .

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

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

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

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

“Fishstick!” He called out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mayor?” Fishstick cautioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manipulative little shit!

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

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

Freedom, at the tips of his whiskers again.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

“Is Fallenclan big?”

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

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

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

“More than I’ve got toes on my paws?”

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

“How long?”

“Sleep.”

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

“What do you think you’re doing.”

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

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

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

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

. . .

It wasn’t like Sleepydawn had a small family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is this what I could have been?

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Fishstick screamed.

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

Not his. Not his home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hopefully, he added to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s alright, she’s safe.”

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

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

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

Sleepydawn paused.

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

“This is… Starclan.”

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

“I’m… allowed here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think they would?”

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

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

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

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

“Which one?”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

It was Sleepycloud.

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

“...Dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The new, starry world faded away.

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

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

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

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

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

It was too late, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loved his clan. With every breath.

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

“So, you’re back, after everything.”

#fallenasks #fallenfic #tw injury #tw blood

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