#friendly checkpoint

[lukewarm-buttermilk]

and plug your phone in!!

[folksy]

still can’t go over when I was doing online co-op on my switch for resident evil 6 which meant I had no communication with my partner besides button prompts where I could tell them things like to come here or compliment them. it was the part in leon’s campaign where helena was carrying deborah and the leon player (me) has to protect them but my partner went without me and I was fucking around so I did a really shitty job. afterwards my partner kept throwing grenades at me trying to kill me and then left. sorry I was bad this is my first time doing this

[i-am-a-fish]

self care checkpoint

this is a friendly reminder that you can meow like a kitten or woof like a dog, or make any sounds that you want to make. and you can make these sounds whenever you want

[lowrisemiller]

“ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇɴ ᴅɪᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ, ꜱᴏ ɪ’ᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ”

one - shot is inspired by ethel cain’s song “crush”

smuggler!joel miller x fem!reader

you're the last friendly checkpoint before the edge of the Boston QZ. a safehouse disguised as a run-down gas station turned supply pit-stop. you’re not a Firefly, not FEDRA, not quite neutral either. you're your own authority, and people respect that. smugglers pass through, barter, rest. joel is one of them. comes and goes like a storm—gruff, practical, unreadable. you assume he’s only here because it’s convenient. you try not to care. but every time he returns, it gets harder not to.

masterlist | 5k words | YEARNING, reader falls hard and Joel falls harder, pov switches, mentions of blood and patching wounds, violence!!, neglecting wounds (they're horny stfu) kissing, PRAISE, riding, unprotected sex & aftercare

The day begins like it always does—with the light bleeding in through the dusty blinds, soft and warm against the wooden floorboards. You wake up slow. There’s no rush, not this early. Outside, the sun hasn’t even fully broken over the ruins yet, but the faint gold smear across the sky means it’s close.

The safehouse is cold in the mornings. You pull your old knit sweater on before your boots, feet brushing the cold floor as you shuffle to the kitchen. There’s a rhythm to it now: water from the barrel, fire from the coals you banked last night, the small stove coming back to life with a crackle and puff of smoke. If there’s any power that day, the fridge might hum back to life. If not, you’ve still got your root cellar, and enough dried things to last the week.

You move quietly, out of habit. The safehouse isn’t a bustling place, not unless someone’s bleeding.

You’ve had all types—smugglers, couriers, FEDRA deserters, even one terrified kid who didn’t say a word and only stayed the night. Most people don’t linger. That’s the unspoken rule: get patched up, get fed, keep your head down, and move on. You’re not a hero. Just a warm bed, a stitched wound, maybe a few cans of food tucked into a knapsack before they disappear again.

But they remember you. Tess, especially.

She’s the one who first showed up with her face split open and a bullet graze along her ribs. That was two winters ago, and now she drops in whenever the city gets too hot or the tunnels start to flood. You’re used to the sound of her boots on your porch, the sharp knock, the muttered “It’s me.”

Others are more fleeting—Marcy with her burn scars, Lyle with his limp, the girl with the broken radio who swore she could fix your generator (she couldn’t). You keep records in your head. Some people don’t give real names.

You move through the morning like a ghost, pouring boiling water over stale tea leaves, slicing into bread that’s harder than you’d like. There’s a satisfaction in the stillness, but also something else—loneliness, maybe. Or restlessness. Like the quiet’s stretching too long lately. Like something’s due to change.

You scrub the floor. You mend a ripped sleeve. You step out onto the porch and sit with your tea, watching the horizon.

And then, around midday, someone comes.

You hear the crunch of boots before you see them—three people, two you recognize. Smugglers. The third is new. Skinny, wild-eyed. He’s limping, gripping his side like he’s holding something in. You already know before they speak.

“Shot in the hip,” one of them says. “Clean through, but he’s losing blood.”

You don’t ask names. Just step aside.

They carry him in, and the air fills with noise again—muttered curses, clinking metal, the smell of sweat and blood. You boil water. Tear sheets into bandages. The others hover, pacing or leaning against your walls, until you send them outside.

It’s just you and the boy now.

He’s younger than you thought, and his eyes dart around like a cornered animal. “You gonna kill me?” he whispers.

You shake your head.

He winces as you work, flinching from the needle. “I got no caps,” he says.

“You’re bleeding out. Worry about caps later.”

He doesn’t speak after that. Just breathes heavy and clutches the edge of the cot. You work quietly, humming under your breath—a song from before, something your mother might’ve played on a Sunday morning. You hum it when you’re scared, or when someone else is.

When it’s done, you give him water, painkillers. “Rest,” you say, and he does.

By dusk, he’s sleeping.

The others left a ration packet as payment. You heat half of it and eat on the porch. The sun’s dropping low now, sky bleeding into orange and gray. The wind rattles the door once, then settles.

You think of Tess.

She hasn’t been by in weeks. Last time, she was tired in a way you couldn’t fix. Said she was pulling in a new runner, someone dangerous. Someone she wasn’t sure about yet.

“He’s good, though,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Keeps quiet. Scares the hell outta half the guys we run with, but he doesn’t waste time.”

You asked his name. She just smirked. “You’ll meet him eventually.”

You hadn’t thought much of it. You get all kinds through here—angry ones, broken ones, ones that drink too much or talk too little. They pass through, you patch them up, and they leave. Simple.

But tonight, as you sit on the porch with your tea cooling in your hands and the wind whispering against your bones, you wonder about him. The runner. The quiet one.

You wonder if he’ll come.

It’s been a month since Tess stopped by, and Boston has settled back into its usual uneasy rhythm.

Gray skies. Wind through broken glass. Blood stains that won’t scrub out of old wood. The safehouse breathes quietly again, but her visit lingers like smoke in your clothes.

She hasn’t returned. No one has mentioned her. But she’s in your head. Or maybe it’s not her—it’s him. The man she didn’t name.

You start noticing shadows more. Listening harder. Wondering if each pair of boots might be his. You don’t even know what he looks like. But you picture him anyway. Dark hair. Stern mouth. A scowl molded by grief. The kind of man who kills without flinching, then washes his hands in your sink.

You should know better. But still.

The nights stretch longer in November. The cold settles into your bones even when the fire’s high. You patch up a runner with a bad shoulder. A kid who doesn’t speak, just nods and stares. You share your last can of peaches with an old woman who gives you an extra box of ammo out of pity.

You clean. You rearrange. You listen to the wind.

And then—one night, long after the lanterns are out, there’s a knock.

Three, spaced out. Not urgent. Not begging. But deliberate.

You pause in the hallway, heart kicking against your ribs. You haven’t had visitors this late in weeks.

The knock comes again.

You open the door with the pistol raised, just a little. And then you see him.

He’s taller than you expected. Broad shoulders. Blood on his shirt. His hand clutching his side. Not dying, but not good. His face was unreadable. Weathered and silent and sharp like a cut stone.

He looks at you like he already knows what you’ll do.

“Tess said this place was quiet.”

His voice is gravel soaked in whiskey and bad sleep.

You nod once. “She was right.”

You don’t ask his name. You don’t need to.

He steps in and takes up the whole room without trying. Doesn’t look around much. Doesn’t ask questions.

You get the feeling this man only speaks when he has to. He doesn’t sit—he leans against the counter like he’s waiting for someone to shoot at him.

You reach for the med kit. “You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

He shrugs off his jacket, stiff, and pulls up his shirt just enough to show the gash along his side. It’s not deep, but it’s dirty. Long. Like a knife meant to scare, not kill.

He watches your hands while you clean him up, silent. You try not to shake under the weight of his stare.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breath and the soft tear of gauze. He smells like sweat and metal. Like the road. Like something ruined and sacred all at once.

You want to ask him if Tess is okay. You want to ask if he’s Joel.

But you already knew the answers.

So instead, you say, “You’ll need to stay off it for a few days.”

He grunts. “Ain’t got a few days.”

You press harder on the bandage than you need to. “You want it to get infected?”

His mouth twitches—barely. Like the ghost of a smirk or something close to it.

“I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t offer to trade. Just pulls his shirt back down and winces as it sticks to the wound.

“I can give you antibiotics,” you say, softer now.

He nods once. “Tess said you don’t ask questions.”

You meet his eyes.

They’re dark. Heavy. Tired in a way that no sleep could fix. He doesn’t look at you like a person. 

Not yet.

Just someone doing a job. Someone useful.

That should make it easier.

But something about him—his stillness, the way he’s holding everything back like a dam about to break—makes your stomach twist.

You hand him the pills in a folded napkin.

He pockets them without a word.

He leaves just before dawn. No goodbye.

You stand at the door after he’s gone, heart still racing.

The space he took up feels colder now. You clean the blood off the counter, but not all of it. You leave the faint smudge on the edge of the sink.

You sit with it like it’s a secret.

For the next week, you think about him constantly. It’s not even his face. It’s the way he didn’t look at you. Like you were air. Or a wall. Or a bedpost.

You imagine what his hands would feel like if he weren’t trying to hold himself together.

You touch the sink where the blood stain still is, and wonder if he ever thinks about you.

You know he doesn’t. You’re just a stop. A patch. A soft place in a hard world.

But you still watch the road. Every dusk. Every dawn.

Waiting.

You don’t talk about it to anyone, but the air feels different now.

Joel’s visit was like lightning splitting the sky once and then disappearing, leaving you in the crackle.

You didn’t realize how silent your life was until he filled it for five minutes and walked out.

Now everything is louder. The wind. The squeak of the back door. The creak of your bed frame when you turn at night, restless and annoyed with your own thoughts.

You find yourself moving slower. Listening harder.

You rearrange the shelves—again. The second-aid kit, the ammo drawer, the canned food pantry that never has enough. Everything feels cluttered, like it might bother him if he ever came back.

You don’t even know why that matters. He didn’t comment. Barely even looked around.

But still.

A man stops in, asking for water and a patch for his busted palm. You help him.

You do what you always do.

But he stares at your mouth when you talk and leans too close, and all you can think about is how he isn’t Joel.

How he barely looked at you. Barely breathed in your direction.

And how, for some reason, that felt worse. Felt real.

You send the man off with a mumbled goodbye and your pistol half-raised until he’s out of sight.

That night, you try to remember Joel’s voice. You thought it was rough. But there was something quiet in it, too. Something steady.

You play it back in your head, every word. Tess said this place was quiet.

You should’ve said more. Should’ve asked him to stay, even just for another hour. Should’ve found a reason to matter to him.

But you didn’t.

You just let him go.

A week later, you find yourself watching the treeline longer.

You hear every snap of a branch, every shuffle of boots in the dark, and your heart lifts at every sound.

And drops just as fast.

You dreamt about him, once. He didn’t say anything. Just stood in the kitchen, bleeding again. Same cut. Same shirt. But this time, he looked at you. Really looked.

You wake up drenched in sweat, embarrassed by yourself.

You make coffee even though you’ve run out of sugar. Sit by the window with your feet tucked under your knees. Eyes on the dirt road.

You used to sit there because it made you feel safe. Like you were guarding something.

Now, it feels like you’re just waiting.

Waiting for someone who maybe only needed you once.

Someone who doesn’t know what he left behind.

On the third Sunday since he showed up, you take out the blood-stained rag you used to clean his side. It’s still in the laundry bin, forgotten.

You press it flat. Fold it once, then again. Put it in the drawer next to your bed.

You don’t know why.

Maybe it’s stupid.

But it’s the only proof you have that he was ever here.

The roads outside the safehouse tracked into mud overnight, rain washing away any clear footprints—except his. Joel Miller drags his boots through the slush, heart loud in his ears. It’s been four weeks. Four weeks since he bled out across the threshold, four weeks since she stitched him up and sent him off without a backward glance.

He tells himself he’s here for the job. For Tess. “Just checking the perimeter,” he says, over and over. He’s a professional now. He’s got business beyond blood and bandages. But his steps—stubborn as a hound’s—lead him straight back to her door at dusk.

He pauses on the porch, breath misting in the cool evening air. Through the cracked window, he sees her silhouette—lean and sure—moving from counter to shelf, humming under her breath. He swears he can almost hear it.

“Can you read my mind? I’ve been watching you…”

He’s been watching her for days. Watching her load gun shells into a box, watching her wipe down the chipped sink, watching her finger the blood-smear rag. 

 When she opens the door, it’s no different than last time. She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t bat an eyelash at the dried blood on his shirt. He steps inside and the warmth hits him like a punch. Not just the stove, not just the shelter. Her.

He clears his throat. “Evenin.” His voice is low, ragged.

“Joel,” she says, as if he should’ve warned her but didn’t. Then: “Was expecting Tess.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I came instead.”

She shrugs and steps aside. “Come in.”

Inside, the lamplight pools gold and orange. He watches how her hair catches it—same as last time, but she stands taller now, more worn around the edges. He’d have said she looked safe then; now he only trusts himself to keep her that way.

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the same counter he bled on, hands braced on the wood. It’s scarred with tiny grooves. He’s carved his name there once, a half-remembered dare. Now he presses his fingers into the dents, letting the moment anchor him.

“Coffee?” she asks. Quiet question, offered like an olive branch.

He nods. She turns away. He watches the curve of her spine, the way her sweater dips at her waist. He swallows. 

She places the steaming mug in front of him. The rich smell pulls him back—a glimpse of who he was before the scars and the secrets. He lifts it in a thankful grunt.

“You’ve been here a lot, lately,” she says. Her tone’s flat, but the question is there. Taut.

He looks down at the mug. “Makin sure it’s still standing.” He wants her to push. He wants her to ask—why he really came back.

She studies him a moment, then turns to the window. He catches the flicker in her eyes. Worry? Curiosity? Something else.

“Right,” she says, as if she half-believes him.

He knows she doesn’t.

She moves to the shelf and brings down a jar of peaches—the same brand he stole once from a corner store, back when he thought he was invincible. She passes him a slice on a chipped plate. “For the road,” she says.

He bites. Sweet, sticky. Everything tastes too sharp in his mouth.

“I should ask,” she says then, very quietly.

He bristles. “Ask what?”

Her shoulders tighten. “Why do you keep coming back.”

He looks at her—really looks, for the first time since he arrived. She’s waiting. He hates that she makes him feel small or needy or exposed.

Instead he turns away. “Things to handle.”

She turns too. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

The words hit him like a shot. He’s spent years telling himself he’s alone, that care means weakness. But there’s something in her voice—steady, patient—that threads into his gut.

He clears his throat. “Why do you keep this place running?” He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks. She arches her brow.

“You know why.”

He blinks. “I don’t.”

She steps closer, eyes even with him. “Because somebody has to.”

His pulse jumps. She’s always been courageous—patched up strangers and sent them on their way. But him? He lingers in her mind like a bruise she can’t press away.

He swallows hard. 

“Good men die too, oh, I’d rather be with you, you, you…” 

He grips the edge of the counter. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a voice rougher than he intended.

Her mouth softens. For a heartbeat, he sees her as someone who cares as much as he does—then the moment breaks and she steps back.

“It’s late,” she says, turning toward the stairs. “You can take the cot in the back.”

He nods, but the room throbs with unsaid words. He watches her climb the stairs, the line of her neck… and he almost follows. Almost says he can’t let her go up alone.

But he doesn’t. He stays.

Late that night, he slips outside and circles the perimeter—just like he told himself. He crouches in the long grass, peering through the trees. She’s safe. For now.

He waits. Breath steamy in the chill. His thoughts spiral: What if she’s gone when I wake? What if she hates me? What if she forgets me?

He knows he needs her, but he can’t admit it.

He kneels. Hands on his knees. The world feels too loud.

He whispers into the dark: “I could do whatever I want to you…”

He doesn’t know if he means it.

But he will come back. He already knows.

He leaves before dawn. Her door closes quietly behind him, and he steps into the gray morning, alone again—haunted by her silhouette in the window, by the taste of peach and coffee and half-finished apologies.

His heart hammers. He chalks it up to the cold—but he knows better. There’s a crack in his armor now, and it runs straight to her.

He walks the muddy road, promising himself: Not for long.

And as he fades into the mist, her last words echo in his mind: “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He doesn’t knock anymore.

He stays in the trees.

The safehouse looks the same—half-swallowed by overgrowth, rust curling along the tin roof, a soft plume of smoke trailing from the chimney. Her light’s on in the back room. That same amber hue, low and flickering. He sees her shadow move across the curtain. A brush of her hand. A cup lifted. A head tilt and he’s memorized.

It’s been three days since he left. He was going to stay away this time.

But something about the silence made him restless. Boston’s noise couldn’t drown it out. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sit still. He caught himself staring at the bottle she gave him on his last visit—some ointment in a mason jar, tied with twine. He didn’t need it anymore, but he wouldn’t throw it out.

So he left again. Didn’t tell Tess. Didn’t leave a note.

Now he’s crouched behind a birch tree, hours deep into watching the same window. He counts her steps. Times how long she’s gone when she disappears into the back. Notes the new placement of her rifle—moved closer to the door. Good. Smart girl.

And still—he doesn’t feel peace.

He’s told himself over and over:

It ain’t ‘cause of her.

You’re just making sure she’s safe.

You owe her that much.

But his stomach knots when she opens the door to take out the trash. When she pulls her sleeves up. When some old trader comes by and she smiles that smile—the one Joel barely got for himself.

He digs his fingers into the bark. Stares harder.

“Something's been feeling weird lately

There's just something about you, baby (there's just something about you, baby)

Maybe I'll just be crazy (I'll be crazy)”

It’s a curse. Every time he sees her, something in him stirs that shouldn’t. Not this way. Not this loud.

She’s just a girl.

But he remembers the way she looked at him when he flinched in pain. The way she pressed her palm to his ribs. The way her breath caught. The way she said his name, not like a warning—but like a prayer.

Joel.

She’s in his dreams now.

On the fifth day, he hears them.

Three men. Stomping through the brush too loud to be animals. Laughing the kind of laugh that always meant trouble back in Austin. He ducks behind a fallen log and narrows his eyes.

They’ve got old rifles. One’s got a bloodied bat. Another carries rope. They don’t look like locals.

He’s already shifting forward, close enough to catch their muttered words.

“—heard she lives alone.”

“Quiet one. Doesn’t let anyone stay past dark.”

“She’s cute. Maybe we won't kill her.”

“Could keep her alive. Sell her, even. Good trade in the QZ for girls like that.”

The rope guy snickers.

Something in Joel goes ice cold.

And then red hot.

He doesn’t remember moving.

Doesn’t remember unsheathing the knife.

He’s just there—on them—before the last word even finishes.

The first guy doesn’t even see him. Knife to throat. Dead weight in seconds.

The second pulls the bat. Too slow. Joel crushes his knee and drives the blade up into his chest, fast and furious, grunting through gritted teeth. Blood splashes his shirt.

The third runs. Joel follows. His lungs burn. His side stings—scar tissue tugging where she sewed him shut—but he doesn’t stop.

He tackles the guy by the stream. The fight’s sloppy. Fists. Mud. A kick to Joel’s stomach that makes him roar.

He pulls his gun and fires once—close-range, just below the chin. The shot echoes like thunder.

Then there’s silence.

He’s panting. Covered in mud and blood. He wipes a shaking hand down his face and realizes it comes away wet.

Not sweat.

His blood.

One of them got a hit in—a lucky swipe of the knife across his lower abdomen. It’s deep. His hand clamps down, and he stumbles.

But he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t go back to Boston.

He goes to her.

The porch creaks under his boots.

His vision’s going dark at the edges, his hearing warped. The wind howls. Or maybe that’s just in his ears. He slams his hand against the door once. Twice.

It swings open.

She’s standing there in a robe, barefoot, eyes wide.

The smell of herbs and pine and cinnamon hits him like a kiss.

And he drops to his knees.

“Joel?!”

She catches him as he falls.

Her voice comes through in waves—high and panicked, tugging at him from the edge of unconsciousness.

“What happened?”

“Oh my God—Joel, stay awake!”

“You’re bleeding out—stay with me!”

He mumbles her name. She’s real. She’s warm. Her hands are under his shoulders, dragging him in, across the wood floor.

He hears her voice crack. He thinks she’s crying. But maybe that’s just the wind again.

“Good men die too—but I’d rather be with you…”

He lets go.

Because he’s finally home.

The door crashes open like he couldn’t bear to knock.

You barely register the noise before you see him—Joel, stumbling in, blood dripping from the side of his face, a deep cut over his brow, and darker stains soaking the side of his jacket. Your stomach drops.

“Joel—Joel,” you gasp, rushing to him as the door slams behind him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, even as he leans heavy into the wall. “Just—fuck—just need a minute.”

He’s not fine. Not even close.

You press your hands to his chest, guiding him down before he topples. He collapses onto the patched-up couch with a grunt, one hand instinctively reaching for your wrist like he needs to anchor himself.

“What happened?”

“Raiders,” he mutters. “They were talkin’… about you.”

Your chest tightens. “About me?”

“They knew you were helpin’ smugglers. Knew you were alone.” His jaw clenches. “I followed ‘em. Took care of it.”

The weight of that sinks in like cold water in your lungs. He didn’t just stumble into a fight. He went into one—because of you.

You kneel in front of him, fingers trembling as they search for more wounds. His shirt is soaked down one side. You lift the fabric carefully, wincing when he hisses.

“Hold still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at you like he’s memorizing something. Like it’s the last time he’ll see it.

“You could’ve died,” you whisper, unable to look him in the eye.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Silence drapes over the room like a thick curtain. His voice breaks it, low and rough.

“Yeah, I did.”

Your hands stop moving.

He drags a breath in, jaw twitching. “I keep tellin’ myself to stay away. That it’s better if I just… come and go. Not get involved. Not care.” His eyes bore into yours. “But I do.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I care, sweetheart. More than I should. It ain’t safe. It ain’t smart. But fuck if I can stop.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. The room feels too small for the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re something precious. Like he’s scared of what you’ll do with what he’s just given you.

“I thought you didn’t,” you whisper. “I thought you were just… here because of Tess. Because it was convenient.”

Joel flinches like you slapped him.

“That what you think of me?”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Your voice cracks. “You never stayed. You never looked at me like—like this.”

“I stayed away because I’m already too far gone.” His hand lifts to cup your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek. “You let me rest here. You patch me up, smile at me like I’m worth somethin’. I—I don’t know how to be around that without wantin’ it all the time.”

You press into his touch, eyes burning.

“I want you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not just your bed or your supplies. I want you. And when I heard them talkin’ about takin’ this place from you, takin’ you—I saw red.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He leans forward, wincing as he moves, and presses his forehead to yours. “Say somethin’, baby. Please.”

You take a shuddering breath. “You could’ve told me all this… before you bled on my couch.”

Joel chuckles, hoarse and tired. “Had to make it dramatic.”

You kiss him.

It’s not delicate or soft. It’s messy, desperate. He groans into your mouth, one hand tangling in your shirt, the other anchoring around your waist. You crawl into his lap without thinking, straddling him carefully so you don’t press on his injured side.

“You’re hurt,” you murmur between kisses, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“I don’t give a shit,” he growls, chasing your lips again. “Just wanna feel you. Been starvin’ for it.”

You kiss him again.

It’s messy, breathless, and tastes like copper and desperation. Joel groans into your mouth, his hands rough on your waist, tugging you closer like he can’t stand another inch between you.

You straddle him without thinking, careful of the wound on his side but needing to be on him, against him, now. Your thighs bracket his hips, and the heat between your legs pulses with each shaky breath you take.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your mouth, “you feel so good, baby—been wantin’ this. You don’t even know.”

You gasp when he cups your ass, grinding you down against the hard line of him. There’s no teasing—he’s already thick and aching beneath you, straining against the denim. You rock your hips once, twice, and his head falls back with a low growl.

“Get these off,” you mutter, tugging at his jeans. “Joel—please.”

“Yeah,” he pants, lifting his hips to help you. “C’mon, sweetheart, take what you need.”

You fumble his belt open, push his jeans down just far enough, and his cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. You moan softly at the sight, wrapping your hand around the base to stroke him once. He twitches in your grip, his stomach flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You tryna kill me?”

“I want you,” you whisper, lining him up with where you’re already dripping. “I want this.”

Joel cups your face, his thumb brushing your lip. “You sure, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, and then sink down onto him in one slow, shaking motion.

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as he stretches you, inch by inch. He’s thick, the kind of full that makes your eyes roll back, makes your body tremble from the inside out.

“Goddamn,” Joel grits, hands gripping your hips so tight it might bruise. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You start to move—slow at first, adjusting, then faster, grinding down to take him deeper. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your pace, his eyes fixed on where you’re joined like he can’t believe it’s real.

“Fuck—you’re takin’ me so good, baby. So tight. So warm.”

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and roll your hips faster, chasing the friction, the pressure building low in your belly. The slick sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room, and Joel’s breath goes ragged.

His thumb slips between your legs, circling your clit in tight, perfect circles. You cry out, hips bucking, and he shushes you gently, kissing your jaw, your throat, your shoulder.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my good girl.”

You clench around him hard.

“Yeah, you like that?” he breathes. “My sweet girl, fallin’ apart on my cock.”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but useless. Your climax hits hard—sweeping through you in waves, stealing your breath, and Joel holds you through it, groaning when you spasm around him.

“Fuck, baby—just like that. You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

He’s close. You can feel it—the way his thrusts grow more erratic, the low growl in his throat, the way his hands tremble on your waist.

“Inside,” you whisper, not even thinking. “I want it, Joel. Please—inside me.”

Joel curses, loud and broken, and then he’s spilling deep inside you with a strangled groan, his hips grinding up as he throbs and pulses and presses your body tight against his.

You both go still, panting, shaking.

His arms wrap around you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You rest your head on his shoulder, your skin damp with sweat, your heart still racing. He strokes your back with one hand, the other sliding down to squeeze your thigh gently.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, lips against your hairline.

“Yeah.” You press a soft kiss to his neck. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, breathless. “Took down three raiders and then got ridden within an inch of my life. Feelin’ real fuckin’ lucky, actually.”

You smile against his skin, lifting your head to meet his eyes. They’re softer now. Warmer.

“I meant what I said,” Joel whispers. “I’m yours.”

You kiss him again, slow this time. Like you’re promising something back.

And this time, neither of you pulls away.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

“You didn’t.” His voice is rough but certain. “I’m right here.”

You curl into his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his shoulder as his hand strokes your spine.

“You’re not sleepin’ on the couch anymore,” you murmur.

Joel huffs. “Was gettin’ real sick of it anyway.”

You smile, the kind that hurts a little. He tilts your face up and kisses you again—slow and sure and full of everything he didn’t say before.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetheart,” he promises. “You got me now.”

And you believe him.

You’re still tangled together, skin to skin, when the air finally settles.

Joel’s chest rises and falls beneath you, a deep, steady rhythm that lulls your racing heart into something softer. You shift gently, brushing your lips across the curve of his shoulder, and he hums in response, one hand stroking lazy circles on your back.

The tension’s gone now. Or maybe it’s just changed—melted into something heavy and warm. Something real.

“C’mere,” he says, voice hoarse but gentle.

He guides you to lie beside him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s still afraid someone might try to take you away.

You run your fingers lightly over his ribs, careful near the bandage. “Hurts?”

“Nothin’ compared to earlier.” He huffs a soft laugh. “Pretty sure I forgot the pain the second you climbed on top of me.”

“Mm. I was very motivated.”

“Yeah, you were,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You good, sweetheart? I didn’t go too rough?”

You shake your head, tracing a fingertip over the fresh stubble on his jaw. “You were perfect.”

Joel’s eyes close like he’s trying to soak in the moment, memorize every detail. You stay like that for a while, quiet. Breathing each other in. Until you shift, rest your chin on his chest, and give him a crooked little smile.

“I owe you a black eye and two kisses.”

He blinks. “Do what now?”

You grin. “You scared the hell outta me, Miller. Showed up bleeding, collapsed on my porch like some western outlaw, and then you told me you were mine.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I am.”

“I know. That’s why you’re only getting one black eye.”

Joel laughs—deep and rough and real—and the sound wraps around your heart like a blanket.

“Alright,” he says. “Guess I deserve that.”

You lean in, kiss the edge of his mouth, slow and sure.

“Tell me when you wanna come and get ’em,” you whisper against his lips. “The other kiss too. It’s waitin’ on you.”

He flips you gently onto your back, careful with his weight, hovering just above you now. That soft look in his eyes is back—like he’s never seen anything as precious as your face.

“I want it now,” he murmurs.

So you kiss him again, deep and slow. And this time, it feels like healing. Like a promise.

When you finally break apart, you tuck yourself into his side again, and Joel pulls the blanket up over your bare skin. His thumb strokes your shoulder, and his other arm stays tight around your waist, protective even in rest.

You fall asleep like that—warm, safe, claimed.

And Joel doesn’t let go.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlemillersbaby @midwest-goth-lesbian @lokis-right-femur @whimsicalangel111 @grayandthyme @littledes1re @monicasblues @amyispxnk @penguinz0s-no1simp @justsarahbella @eri-maull @uncassettodiricordi @fairylights-throughthemist @catch1ngmoths @mystickittytaco @cocobear18 @millersdoll @serruten @dearstcupid @saturnyo @boscogirlsworld @valentineispunk @spookyfunhottub @sage-babydoll @aj0elap0l0gist @plsilovedilfs @grayandthyme @ivuravix @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @alyhull @alidiggory92 @cokewithcameron @killmesweet

divider by @cursed-carmine

[4calicocatsinatrenchcoat]

Just a reminder

Go water your plants.

Treat yourself.

Check on your friends.

Finish that passion project.

Pet your pet.

Drink some water.

Are you too hot?

Are you too cold?

Go get the daily bonus in that one mobile game you like.

just a friendly reminder to be atleast a little bit productive and comfortable.

[perry-the-human-fanzine]

A FANZINE? A PERRY THE HUMAN FANZINE?!

Welcome to this first little intro to what this fanzine is going to be! Some things might change as we get organized, but for now, here are the main details—so exciting!

Non-profit. I have no idea how to use platforms like Kickstarter and similars, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable handling other people’s money. So this zine will be completely free, made purely for love and our monotremed muse.

For all audiences. No explicit content, at least in this first edition.

This is a Perryshmirtz-friendly zine. You don’t have to be a shipper to participate, and the content won’t focus on the pairing, but keep in mind that a large portion of the fandom centers their work around it. Respect and community are key.

If all goes well, sign-ups will begin on June 5th (baby, we are back), and there will be two checkpoints: June 21st for submitting the first part (don’t worry, this part is just basic info about your version of Human!Perry), and August 1st for submitting the rest (fanart and fanfics). The official release date of the complete zine is currently set for August 31st. PDF download links will be posted on this blog so that anyone interested can access it.

Fanart: Traditional or digital—it doesn’t matter. We want every Perry flavor we can get.

Fanfics: The saddest thing you’ve ever read? Perry on an actual day off? Write, write, write—we want to read it all.

Articles: We are people of culture.

Printable. On the other hand, the design will be print-friendly for home printers—for those who enjoy binding their own books—or even for print-on-demand services, as long as, of course, it's not for commercial use. It’ll be as accessible as we can make it.

English: This will be the official language. If it’s not your native language or you struggle with it (look at me), don’t worry—there are tons of tools online to help you, and you can even ask another participant for help.

This zine is open to suggestions, so if you have an idea you think is amazing… we’re all ears.

Spread the word! If you have friends outside Tumblr who have their own version of Perry, encourage them to join in. The more, the merrier!

Summer belongs to you! Remember, this is a fan project made by fans for fans, just for fun. If you have any doubts or run into issues during the process, don’t hesitate to reach out via blog messages, chat, or the Discord channel (which doesn’t exist yet, but will be the sing-up day). The main goal of this zine is to have fun.

[sweetromanova]

Off The Record: Part Nine

Natasha Romanoff x Criminal Defense Lawyer!Original Female Character

Summary: She’s built a career on keeping secrets and defending the worst with nothing to lose. That changed when Natasha Romanoff showed up on the other side of the courtroom.

Warnings: descriptions of violence, psychological manipulation, implied child abuse and trauma, emotional abuse, mentions of torture, human and sex trafficking, war crimes and murder, implied coercion, legal corruption, gun violence, secondary character deaths, power imbalance, blood and injury depiction

Chapter Nine

Federal Tribunal Courtroom, Washington, D.C.

April 4, 2022 

Sienna arrived early to the courthouse, slipping past the usual security checkpoints with a practiced ease. She exchanged polite nods with clerks and staff, the kind of warmth that made people underestimate just how sharp she really was. Her voice was steady as she briefed her team, discussing timelines and evidence with quiet authority.

In the break room, Sienna took a moment to sip her coffee, scrolling through case files on her tablet. Her eyes flicked briefly to a news alert about increased security measures around known Luka associates. She smiled thinly, the weight behind that smile unseen by the others bustling past.

Later, during a brief recess, Sienna met quietly with Maria in the hallway. Their conversation was professional, focused on legal strategy and procedural nuances. Yet Sienna’s subtle glances around the corridor hinted at her ever-present awareness of being watched, hunted.

Natasha lingered nearby, apparently reviewing notes but really observing Sienna’s every move. The silence between them was thick, not friendly but not hostile either. They shared an unspoken agreement to keep the courtroom focused on justice but prepare for what came after.

Court was in session, the air thick with anticipation as the case unfolded. All eyes were on the defence table when Sienna rose to her feet, her expression calm but resolute as she challenged the prosecution’s line of questioning. “Objection, Your Honour.” Sienna said, firm and certain. “The witness’s testimony is leading and prejudicial.”

The judge’s gavel barely hit the desk before the response came. “Sustained. The objection is overruled.”

Sienna bit back a flicker of frustration, masking it with a polite nod. SHIELD’s lawyers were playing rough today, shutting down her objections at every turn. Every carefully crafted point met with an impenetrable wall. The judges weren’t being generous either, like they’d decided to be bias and put Maksim away for good. Luck was not on Sienna’s side. 

Maksim sat in the defendant’s chair, muscles tightening. His eyes flicked toward Sienna with something close to irritation, his jaw clenched. “This isn’t working.” He hissed under his breath, loud enough for Sienna to hear. 

She met his gaze coolly. “I’m not failing.” She whispered back. They just want you to think that.”

Maksim’s fingers curled into fists. “They’re killing you in here.”

Sienna’s lips curled into a faint, almost wry smile. “Good. Let them think that. It’s all part of the game.”

As the trial pressed on, Sienna’s objections kept coming, dismissed, sustained or ignored but her poise never faltered. Every moment was a chess move, every denial a calculated risk. The courtroom was a battlefield sure but she was far from defeated.

The courtroom buzzed with a tense energy as the prosecutor drilled the witness. Sienna rose smoothly, voice calm but firm. “Objection, Your Honour! Counsel is badgering the witness with repetitive questions.”

Sienna stated, holding the judge’s gaze steadily.

The judge sighed, tapping the gavel. “Overruled. Proceed.”

Sienna sank back, face unreadable.

Minutes later, as a key piece of evidence was introduced, Sienna stood again. “Your Honour, I object to the admission of this document. It is hearsay and irrelevant to the defendant’s intent.”

The judge adjusted his glasses, glancing at the prosecution. “Sustained. The evidence will be struck from the record.”

Maksim’s eyes flickered with a flash of approval.

The prosecutor recovered quickly, turning to a new witness. Sienna was ready again. “Objection! The question calls for speculation, Your Honour.” Sienna said, sharply.

“Overruled.” The judge replied, without hesitation.

Maksim’s jaw clenched and he whispered under his breath, “They’re squeezing you out.”

Sienna’s expression remained neutral. “Just following the plan.”

Later, during cross-examination, Sienna raised another objection. “Leading question, Your Honour.”

“Sustained.”

But when Sienna tried to exclude a critical witness’s testimony, the court wasn’t as lenient. “Objection! This witness’s testimony is hearsay and should be dismissed.”

“Denied.” The judge said, flatly.

Maksim’s frustration broke through, a low growl escaping him.

Sienna looked at him briefly, whispering. “Patience.”

As the day wore on, the battle waged on with a steady rhythm of objections, some cutting through the prosecution’s case, some smothered under legal technicalities. Maksim’s tension grew but Sienna’s calm endurance made it clear, she was playing a longer game than anyone suspected.

The courtroom emptied quickly, murmurs buzzing through the hall like static electricity. Sienna gathered her files, stacking them with precise, deliberate motions.

Maksim stepped from the shadows near the exit, his voice low and sharp. “You’re slipping, Sienna. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

She glanced up, meeting his glare with steady eyes. “I’m not slipping. I’m making sure we don’t give them any openings.”

Maksim’s jaw tightened. “They’re dismantling everything I built. You’re letting them win.”

Sienna’s lips curled into a faint, almost bitter smile. “I’m not here to win for you, Maksim. I’m here to make sure we survive what’s coming.”

He took a step closer, voice dropping. “You don’t understand what’s at stake. You’re playing with fire.”

“And you don’t understand what I’m willing to risk.” Sienna replied quietly but with steel beneath the calm.

For a moment, the air between them crackled with unspoken threats and hidden truths. Then Sienna turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Maksim standing in the courtroom, the taste of frustration bitter on his tongue as the guards came to take him back to his cell.

Sienna’s phone buzzed sharply against the quiet hum of her apartment. She glanced at the screen, Luka.

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then answered.

“Little sister.” Luka’s voice purred, smooth but laced with cold menace. “Maksim’s been complaining again. Says you’re letting this slip through your fingers.”

Sienna’s breath caught, but her voice stayed steady. “How? We literally just left court.”

“We have our ways.”

“And so do I. I’m doing what I have to.”

A low chuckle echoed on the line. “You think this is a game? You think you can just walk away if things get messy?” There was a softness behind the threat, almost a twisted tenderness. “I care about you, Sienna. But cross me and I won’t hesitate. You’re the only family I’ve got left, don’t make me regret it.”

Sienna swallowed hard. “I’m not here to disappoint you, I’m here to do my job.”

“Then do it.” Luka’s voice dropped to a whisper, deadly and close. “Good. Because if you do disappoint me, I’ll burn everything we have left.”

The line went dead, leaving a cold silence that pressed against her skin.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers Compound, Upstate New York

April 4, 2022 

The Avengers gathered in the common room, the air thick with tension. Natasha sat beside Sienna, her eyes sharp and steady, silently urging her to speak.

Sienna’s fingers curled tightly around her coffee mug, knuckles white. Finally, she exhaled, voice low but clear. “Luka called me today. After Maksim started losing patience with how I’m handling the case.”

She paused, searching their faces for any sign of judgment, but found only concern. “He made it clear… if I screw this up, or step out of line, he won’t just hurt me. He’ll destroy everything ‘we have left’.”

The room fell silent. Even Tony’s usual banter was replaced by solemn looks.

Steve leaned forward. “We knew this wouldn’t be easy, Sienna. But you’re not alone.”

Bucky nodded. “We’ve got your back. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

Natasha’s gaze hardened. “You told me you were fine handling this on your own. But you don’t have to. Let us help.”

Sienna gave a small, grateful smile, though the fear lingered beneath it. “I don’t want to be the weak link-“

“Sienna, we’re a team with two super soldiers, a witch who can re-write reality, a genius in a metal suit, a guy who never misses, a scientist who turns into a green, rage monster and a literal Norse god on speed dial. It’s not about being the weakest link, it’s accepting someone has your back for once.”

Sienna let out a shaky breath, their words sinking in deeper than she expected. Her eyes flicked from Bucky to Natasha then around the room at the rest of the team, each of them watching her with a quiet, unspoken solidarity.

“Okay.” She said finally, voice steadier. “Team effort. I can do that.”

Clint leaned back in his chair, smirking. “See? That’s the spirit. Next thing you know, you’ll be throwing yourself off rooftops without hesitation.”

Sienna raised an eyebrow. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I still scream a little when the toaster pops.”

Tony grinned. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and for the first time in days, the weight on Sienna’s shoulders felt just a little lighter.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Federal Tribunal Courtroom, Washington, D.C.

April 5, 2022 

The next day, Sienna’s blood felt cold from the minute she opened her eyes, not that she’d slept much anyway. She knew this time would come and she knew what it would cost but she had no other choice. Maksim’s words echoed in her mind from the previous day ‘They’re killing you in here’. 

Her heart was louder than the chatter outside, not from fear but from how close this all was to falling apart. Her stomach twisted as the judge called their next witness.

“Agent Natasha Romanoff.” The bailiff called.

Sienna didn’t flinch but her grip on the edge of the table tightened as Natasha walked in, black suit sharp, hair neatly styled, eyes hard and calm. The air between them didn’t crackle this time, it froze.

Romanoff took the stand.

Maria conducted a clean, efficient direct examination. Natasha sat tall, composed in the witness stand, her posture betraying none of the weight she was carrying. Her tone was professional, distant, almost clinical as she outlined her role in the investigation, her observations on Maksim activity and the patterns that pointed towards his hopefully guilty verdict.

But Sienna watched closer than anyone else. She noticed the slight catch in Natasha’s throat when she recounted the ambush in Prague. The way her eyes didn’t flicker when asked to recount lethal force. The muscle just above her eyebrow that twitched whenever Maksim’s name was mentioned.

Every word she spoke was truth. But truth was vulnerable and it could bleed.

Then it was Sienna’s turn.

She rose slowly from her seat, smoothing down the crease of her jacket like she had all the time in the world. She walked toward the stand with careful ease, projecting calm, control and just enough detachment.

Her first few questions were gentle, almost courteous.

“Agent Romanoff, can you confirm the exact time SHIELD surveillance lost visual on Mr. Vasiliev?”

“Can you clarify who issued the operational green light?”

Natasha answered with steady, short phrases, her voice measured and clear. The courtroom listened and so did Luka from somewhere in this courtroom, not physically but he had eyes and ears everywhere. Sienna should know, she was once one of them.

When Sienna shifted gears, almost imperceptibly. Her voice dropped in warmth, it turned completely cold, less collaborator, more predator.

“You claim you knew Maksim Vasiliev was associated with several different operations such as HYDRA, The Paragon Initiative, The Red Room, just to name a few.” Sienna said, voice flat, almost bored. “Yet you had no physical evidence to corroborate this at the time of apprehension?”

Natasha’s gaze flicked toward her. “Correct. We had circumstantial data—”

“So assumptions?”

“No.” Natasha replied, firmer now. “We had credible intelligence and witnesses-”

Like Antonia.

“But still no hard proof. If you had, there would be a line of witnesses out of this door, correct? So you had no hard proof.”

Natasha hesitated, a pause that would be nothing to the untrained ear but might as well have been a shout to someone like Sienna. “No. Not at that moment.”

Sienna paced slowly in front of the stand, hands clasped behind her back. Her heels echoed off the marble like a metronome, deliberate and precise.

“And yet-” She said, turning back to face Natasha. “-You assisted in a high-level takedown of a suspect without direct evidence. Tell me, Agent Romanoff, does that align with SHIELD protocol? Or was this personal?”

Maria objected. “Speculation.”

“Sustained.” The judge ordered.

Sienna didn’t flinch. She already had what she wanted, the way Natasha’s spine stiffened ever so slightly. The flare of something like betrayal in her eyes.

“Let me rephrase.” Sienna stepped closer. “Would you agree that acting without conclusive evidence undermines the legal integrity of your case?”

Natasha’s jaw tightened. “No. It means we acted with the best intelligence available to prevent greater loss of life.”

“But that’s not what you were asked. You weren’t asked to prevent loss of life. You were asked to prove Vasiliev’s guilt in court. And so far, Agent, you’ve offered little more than instinct and anecdote.”

Sienna felt the air shift, felt the silence behind her stretch tighter, the crowd lean forward. Natasha didn’t move. Her eyes, however, were glacial.

“And Agent Romanoff…” Sienna paused for a beat, letting the moment hover. “You were trained to kill. Conditioned to follow orders. Rewired to suppress doubt. How does it feel to stand here now and testify as a witness of justice, when your very history makes you its contradiction?”

Maria stood up instantly. “Objection! Irrelevant. And argumentative.”

“Sustained!” The judge snapped. Clearly a Black Widow fan, Sienna mused.

Natasha’s jaw tightened. “I’m not the past I left behind. I’m here because I chose to be. Because I believe in this-"

Sienna cut her off, voice cold. “Belief doesn’t undo years of blood on your hands. It doesn’t erase every order you followed without question. Justice isn’t about what you want to believe, it’s about truth. And if you can’t stand in this courtroom and face that truth then maybe you’re still hiding behind the ghosts you claim to have escaped.”

Sienna’s eyes never left Natasha’s. Neither woman blinked.

"OBJECTION!" Maria near enough growled.

"Sustained!"

The judge’s gavel echoed like thunder but no one in the courtroom forgot the question. And that’s all Sienna needed.

Natasha stared at her and for just a second, just one flash but Sienna saw it. The way her hands gripped the arms of the witness box. The flicker of something hurt.

Sienna returned to her seat, spine straight, face unreadable.

But inside, something twisted deep. She hadn't just discredited a witness. She'd drawn blood. Natasha’s blood.

When the court recessed, Natasha moved fast. She left the room without waiting for anyone.

Sienna followed, caught her near the elevators in a blind spot.

“Natasha.” She called, almost desperate. "Natasha, wait!"

Natasha turned, her expression unreadable.

“I had to.” Sienna said quietly. “You know I had to.”

Natasha nodded, too fast. “It’s fine. It’s just a front, right? A game.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I laid everything out.” Natasha said, voice low. “I told the truth so you could dismantle it. And I know why. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like shit.” She exhaled sharply. “I need space, Sienna. Just… give me that.”

She turned and left.

Sienna stood alone in the hallway, her chest hollow and burning.

But she didn’t have time to let guilt consume her, to throw the case and run after the redhead with apologises and truths spilling from her.

Because her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

She knew who it was before she even looked.

UNKNOWN: Congratulations. You made the redhead bleed on the stand. Real Widow slayer.

Then came the second message. A photo.

Blonde hair.

Tied back in a braid.

Face blurred. Duct tape.

The caption read: Thought I’d handle the other one. Your silence has bought me time.

Sienna’s knees went weak.

Yelena.

Her reply came fast, fingers trembling.

SIENNA: Wait. Don’t touch her. I have something she knows about Maksim. There’s evidence. I need to talk to her before anyone else does.

She knew her message wasn’t believable, that it probably was only going to poke Luka the wrong way but she couldn’t let anything happen to Yelena. She was just another innocent person in this stupid game that people like Luka had orchestrated. 

And if she was completely honest with herself. She couldn’t let it happen just for what it would do to Natasha.

UNKNOWN: You have one hour.

Sienna knew what had to happen.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Briefing Room, The Avengers Compound, Upstate New York

April 5, 2022

In the quiet hum of SHIELD’s briefing room, Maria Hill flipped through the day’s case files, her movements brisk and habitual. The team had gone to grab dinner, leaving behind scattered coffee cups and the stale tension of courtroom fallout.

She opened one of the sealed folders that held the highlights of the day. Everyday she scribbled in this folder, whether it was good or bad but it was habit. It was the key to everything important in this case.

So when she opened it and scrawled across the front was loose hand writing pressed against a yellow post-it, flat against the inside cover, she froze. The handwriting was rushed but deliberate, all angles and urgency.

‘Going to him. Track this location. Protect her.’

Beneath the message, a set of coordinates.

Maria's blood went cold.

No signature. No name. But she didn’t need one.

Maria’s eyes lingered on the note a moment longer before she snapped the folder shut and stood abruptly. She moved toward the door with purpose, the sharp sound echoing behind her as the team filed back in, lighter now after stepping away from the grim reality of the case.

She almost slipped past unnoticed, wanting to let them breathe a little easier for the night but she couldn’t. Not now. This was the moment that could make or break everything.

“Maria.” Steve’s cautious smile met her as he noticed the tension etched across her face. “Are you alright?”

She exhaled slowly. “It’s Sienna.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper and Natasha’s expression dropped instantly. “She’s gone.”

Somewhere across the city, Sienna was already moving.

Her phone was dead, her trail was cold but her resolve was unshakable.

She’d left just enough, just enough breadcrumbs to be found, if Maria chose to follow them.

She didn’t allow herself to imagine the what-ifs. What if no one saw the note? What if Maria didn’t even want to help? What if the Avengers took a rare night off? Maybe Maria had today, chosen to skip the usual post-court briefings, leaving that folder tucked quietly among the others. Maybe tomorrow they’d find her and Yelena, or maybe only one of them.

But deep down, Sienna knew Natasha would come. She’d sense it. And she’d come.

God she hoped she would come.

[pavedinashes-if]

Paved in Ashes

The only constant in your life is the board beneath your feet.

Slice of Real Life Drama Focus: Romance and Life Struggles

DEMO || DISCORD || BLUESKY

⫸ STORY:

You're only 20 when suddenly your life goes bam! Throwing you into a whole new city, a different country even. Wasn't part of the plan, but you know how life loves to mess with plans. People happened, stuff happened, and suddenly you're on the move. The new chapter ahead? Buckle up, 'cause it's not gonna be all sunshine and rainbows. And guess what? Your step-mom? Yeah, she's right there in the same city. She's always had this knack for trying to steer your ship, like every decision's a GPS checkpoint.

But hey, there's this one thing that's never let you down—your skateboard. It's like the buddy that's been with you through thick and thin, the one that never bails. Among all this craziness it's like your anchor. So, the big question is—can you break out of the loop you got in? Find your place in the world and restart or lose yourself in temptation? Time to find out.

⫸ LOCATION:

Hamburg, Germany - Known as the Gateway to the World, featuring Germany's most sinful mile. Welcome to your new home!

⫸ YOU: Customise your own Main Character

Looks: Hair, Body, Scars, Piercings & Tattoos and much more

Gender identity and sexual orientation

Personality: Sarcastic / Genuine, Rude / Polite, Grumpy / Friendly, Aggressive / Peaceful, Stoic / Emotional, Shy / Bold, Deceitful / Honest, Arrogant / Humble, Selfish / Generous, Oblivious / Aware, Disinterested / Curious, Cautious / Reckless

Nickname: What do people call you?

Fashion: Pick your clothes to match your personality

Custom Skateboard: Design the look of your board

Skate Style: What's your riding style?

Vices: Alcohol, Drugs, Smokes, Gambling, Aggression, Self-Harm

Job: pick one of several professions - or don't

Hobbies: pick a hobby that makes you happy

Housing: live with your step-mom, find a place for yourself, share a flat - or don't

⫸ FAQs and more

Demo

Game Mechanics

The World of PIA

Individual Romance Options & Flings

All ROs fact checks & comparisons (incl. short scenario asks)

NSFW asks

MCs Family

Your MC

Scenario Asks & Snippets

DEMO: Prologue & Chapter 1, 145k+ words

CoG Demo Link

⫸ FEATURES: Juggle a new home, new friends, new romance, new profession, new temptations, old and new vices, crazy night life, your stepmother and build yourself a reputation out there.

⫸ ALL 12 DATEABLE & OTHER NON-DATEABLE CHARACTERS BELOW All romance in this story is optional and can be skipped all together if preferred. Still, the platonic relationships will be rewarding and deep on a different level. There are poly options available and each character has their own expectations, needs, wishes and desires, which you'll have to discover.

Note: Throughout the story, you'll encounter the ROs at various points. However, not all of them are destined to remain in your life; some seek fleeting enjoyment while others might become sources of annoyance. Just like reality, there's a mix of success and setbacks, reminding you that heartache is an authentic part of the journey. #heartacheisreal E.g.: If you behave like an a*hole, there's a chance they'll break up with you.

⫸ DATE OPTIONS - Overall 11 ROs & flings available

Samual / Samantha "Sam" Peters, 25 - 💙

Your Neighbour [m/f]:

Occupation: Police Officer - Life's flipped you into a whole new city, right? Newsflash! Next door's got a friendly face that's making things a bit less chaotic. Only thing is, you're starting to wonder if there's more to this neighbour than the casual chats. Are they keeping something under wraps? 💬 "In front of my eyes? Are you serious?" ♡ Loyal, Observant, Dedicated, Reliable, Friendly & Approachable 🚩Overprotective, Controlling, Difficulty Switching Off 🛹 Does not skate Looks: tba Social Media: Samantha Playlist: Spotify #pia: samantha #pia: samual

Felix / Felicia Nowak, 21 - 🩷

Your Ex [m/f]:

Occupation: Rich Kid - Old flames flare up as your past strides right back into your life in this brand-new city. Sparks are undeniable, but so are the reasons things didn't work out. Can you give this a second shot, or is it just history playing its track again? 💬 "Your mother always loved me, you know it." ♡ Confident, Generous, Driven, Charismatic 🚩 Impulsive, Superficial, Entitled, Manipulative 🛹 Does skate Looks: here Social Media: Felix (xF!MC), Felix (xM!MC) #pia: felix #pia: felicia

Alex Czarnecki, 25 - 🧡

Your New Foe [m]:

Occupation: Lawyer - None other than a face that seems to have it out for you. Every encounter feels like a clash, sparks flying in every direction. But hold on, could there be more to this hostility than meets the eye? 💬 "I am looking forward to making your life a living hell." ♡ Sharp-Witted, Analytical, Passionate, Perseverant 🚩 Stubborn, Guarded, Confrontational 🛹 Does not skate Looks: tba Social Media: Alex Playlist: Spotify #pia: alex

Noah / Naomi Cho, 20 - ❤️

Your Best Friend [m/f]:

Occupation: Photographer - Your ride-or-die best friend's on the other side of the world. They're just a text away, keeping your spirits high as you dive into this new city's chaos. The catch? Obviously the distance, but: Is there more to this bond that's worth exploring, or should it stay in the "friend zone"? 💬 "Pah, plane tickets are so cheap these days." ♡ Optimistic, Spontaneous, Loyal, Empathetic, Playful 🚩 Conflict Avoidant, Flakey, Jealous 🛹 Does skate Looks: here Social Media: Naomi(xGF) #pia: naomi #pia: noah

Xavier Hoffmann, 22 - 💚

Your New Friend [m]:

Occupation: Musician - So, you meet this new friend at an event, and suddenly life's got an extra splash of excitement. But hold on—there's something about this new buddy that's keeping you guessing. Can you really put all your cards on the table, or is there some trick up their sleeve? 💬 "See? Super easy and nobody will ever find out." ♡ Inspiring, Free-Spirited, Passionate, Charming 🚩 Attention-Seeking, Impulsive, Unreliable 🛹 Does skate Looks: tba Social Media: Xavier #pia: xavier

Bianca Wolf, 19 - 🩵 [not a RO at this point—might change]

Your Childhood Friend [f]:

Occupation: Student - A chance encounter brings back memories of your childhood friend. It's like life's throwing surprises your way, and this friend's becoming more than just a blast from the past. Can you pick up where you left off, or are you diving into uncharted territory? 💬 "I have to admit, seeing you kind of...messes with my head." ♡ Supportive, Empowering, Trustworthy, Honest, Kind-Hearted 🚩 Mood Swings, Stagnation, Drama-Prone 🛹 Does skate Looks: tba Social Media: here#pia: bianca

Laurenz / Laura Svenson, 20 - 💛

Your Rival [m/f]:

Occupation: Pro Skater - Rivalry's a familiar tune - Drama is to be expected 'cause they don't give you an inch of space. Competition's getting a different flavor once you both aim for the same goal. Can you navigate these uncharted feelings? 💬 "Oh, you will so damn fuckin' much regret it!" ♡ Spontaneous, Humorous, Enthusiastic, Entertaining 🚩 Egoistic, Control-Freak, Insecure 🛹 Does skate Looks: tba Social Media: Laurenz Playlist: Spotify #pia: Laura #pia: Laurenz

Francesco / Francesca Moretti, 22 - 💜

Your Best Friend's BF / GF [m/f]

Occupation: Model - They always knew what they wanted, and they always got it. Truth is, you fell for them even before they got with your best friend. Then, you behaved - but your friend is not here now. As their gaze draws you in, loyalty falters in the face of desire. Can you resist, or even want to? 💬 "Not even they know about it." ♡ Artistic, Sensual, Inspirational, Ambitious 🚩 Dishonest, Neglectful, Envious 🛹 Does not skate Looks: here Social Media: Francesca Playlist: Spotify #pia: francesca #pia: francesco

Dima / Dalia Petrov, 34 - 🖤

Your Boss [m/f] *

Occupation: Club Owner - As you step into the dark world of nightlife your paths cross. Soon you'll navigate the complexities of the club scene with all its secrets. Can you decode the hidden motives and stories behind their actions? 💬 "I bet you have never seen anything like this before." ♡ Confident, Assertive, Initiative, Alluring 🚩 Possessive, Aggressive, Manipulative, Deceitful 🛹 Does not skate Looks: here Social Media: Dima Playlist: Spotify #pia: dima #pia: dalia

Dr. Michael / Michaela Sturm, 29 - 🤍

Your Doctor [m/f]

Occupation: Doctor - Unfortunately, your meeting is based on an accident. Will your face stand out amidst the sea of faceless patients? Can you unravel the layers of their identity and unveil the person beyond the white coat? 💬 "How did you even survive for so long?" ♡ Charitable, Open-Minded, Witty, Empathetic 🚩 Restless, Workaholic, Burnout 🛹 Did skate Looks: here Social Media: Michael #pia: michael #pia: michaela

„Sparks“, 24 - 🩶

Your Supplier [m/f] *

Occupation: Drug Dealer - You heard a name, often, by many people, some you trust and some you don‘t - but they all agreed they are the one you should talk to. Sometimes it seems they don‘t offer earthly goods only. Soul for sale? 💬 „It‘s actually kinda fun and I make tons of money. But if I had been given the choice…“ ♡ Outgoing, Spontaneous, Genuine 🚩 Non-Reliable, Trust Issues, Volatile 🛹 Does skate Looks: here Social Media: Sparks (M) Playlist: Spotify #pia: sparks

Paul / Paula Gerwig, 38 - 🤎

A Stranger [m/f] *

Occupation: Executive Vice President - There‘s no way you can read their true intentions, but why would you want to? They manage to surprise you in the craziest - good - ways and even allow you to cause some chaos. 💬 „My chauffeur will pick you up at 9pm.“ ♡ Generous, Attentive, Driven, Reliable 🚩 Hard-To-Read, Provocative, Hot/Cold 🛹 Does not skate Looks: tba Social Media: Paula Playlist: Spotify #pia: paula #pia: paul

⫸ OTHER CHARACTERS (non-romanceable):

Kassandra [redacted], 45 - Your Step-Mom [f]

Occupation: CEO - She changed. Though she was never an easy person and always particularly strict towards you, she once had the kind heart your father fell for. But that was long ago. Now all that matters is that everything meets her expectations. At any cost. 💬 "You need to grow up before you are a shame to us." ♡ Responsible, Committed, Vigilant, Perceptive, Ambitious 🚩 Controlling, Obsessive, Dismissive, Authoritarian 🛹 Does not skate #pia: kassandra #pia: step mom

Manfred von Kulversteyen, 56 - Your Step-Mom's Partner [m]

Occupation: Lawyer - You have no idea how he ended up with your step-mom. Seriously. He seems to have it out for you and in some moments you are very lucky she is around. 💬 "If you were my blood, I would have beaten you into shape already." ♡ Driven, Efficient, Confident 🚩 Intolerant, Choleric, Arrogant, Unpredictable 🛹 Does not skate

Henric [redacted], 44 - Your Dad [m]

Occupation: Documentary filmmaker - Choosing happiness and authenticity over material pursuits, your father's separation from your stepmother revealed his unwavering commitment to a meaningful life. Unfortunately that also meant sacrifices. 💬 "I couldn't be any prouder of you. And I don't care what they say. I love you." ♡ Patient, Understanding, Affectionate, Supportive 🚩 Worries a lot, Inconsistent, Overcompromising 🛹 Did skate

Nader / Nazrin Davani, 23 - Your Roommate (#1) [m/f] *

Occupation: Art Student - They moved from London to HH a few months ago, when their parents opened a new hospital in Hamburg. Their parents try real hard to push them in the medical direction, but all they want is to shape a destiny distinct from their family's expectations. Be their muse? 💬 "I wouldn't mind settlin' in 'ere for the night, just to paint you." ♡ Trustworthy, Hilarious, Fun-Loving, Rebellious, Creative 🚩Over-Sensitive, Perfectionist, Self-Doubt 🛹 Does not skate

[redacted], 21 - Your Roommate (#2) [f] *

Occupation: [redacted] 💬 "I have to admit I did not expect to see you again under such circumstances, but I must admit it is a pleasant surprise nonetheless." ♡ Spontaneous, loyal, affectionate, protective, confident 🚩Perfectionist, self-reliant, argumentative 🛹 Does skate

„The Queenpin“, 58 - A Stranger [f] *

Occupation: ??? - Here's the scoop—an accidental run-in with a total stranger's changing the game. But there's this vibe you can't shake, a sense that there's more to this stranger than meets the eye. Is it fate playing games, or is there a hidden agenda in the mix? 💬 „Who clipped your wings little bird?“ ♡ Caring, Protective, Patient, Nurturing, Enigmatic 🚩 Controlling, Unpredictable 🛹 Does not skate

??, 18 - A Stranger [nb] *

Occupation: Barista - soon 💬 "If you were my type I would totally smash you. Right here, right now." ♡ soon 🚩 soon 🛹 Does skate

??, 35 - A Stranger [m/f] *

Occupation: Tattoo Artist - soon 💬 "Ha, THIS one will definitely surprise them!" ♡ soon 🚩 soon 🛹 Does not skate

??, 24 - A Stranger [m] *

Occupation: None - soon 💬 "I love my life. No restrictions, no nothing. I can do what I want." ♡ soon 🚩 soon 🛹 Does not skate

People working at Laces - Club* :

Sasha* Fernando* Pat* Pepe* Hana* Anders*

* the appearance of characters with an asterisk depends on your choices

⫸ WARNING: Paved in Ashes will be rated 18+ because of explicit language, explicit sexual themes, drug and alcohol (ab)use, violence, moral ambiguity, and more. Full list here: PiA Trigger Warning

[heroesrest64]

Farming For Heroes

Introduction: You’re the new farmer in Hateno Village, looking to start a new life away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. Your farm doesn’t look like much now, but with some proper care, and perhaps some help from your fellow villagers, it’ll be up and running smoothly in no time! Spend your days tending to crops, taking care of your animals, and talking to a wide cast of friendly villagers all eager to make your acquaintance!

Of course, there’s more than just farming to do in your new home. Take a trip to the mines to dig up rare artifacts, or adventure into the Hylian wilds to fight monsters for loot. And never be afraid to go it alone- a select group of villagers are more than happy to accompany you wherever your adventures might take you!

Inspirations:

-Rune Factory

-Stardew Valley

-Harvest Moon

-Story of Seasons

-Field of Mystria

General Notes: Hateno Village itself would be based off the version we see in BotW. You can grow all manner of fruit and vegetable, as for the animals, I’ve always loved games where you can go into the wild and tame the animals yourself (specifically thinking about Harvest Moon: One World and Rune Factory). Mining would be pretty similar to Stardew Valley/ FoM- all in one mine that you have to progress down with a few checkpoints for ease of access. Combat would be a bit more prevalent, like it is in Rune Factory or the Wilderness Map in SV. Of course, you wouldn’t have to fight alone. Like in RF, you can befriend certain villagers (*cough* the Chain *cough*) and request for them to join you on your adventures. They’ll watch your back, help you collect materials, and might occasionally do small Events with you to help deepen their bond.

Writing Notes: I think the best way to write this would be to do one main storyline with vague hints of romance with other characters but mostly focusing on plot points, then several separate (smaller) storylines following heart events and maybe the occasional intimate moment with each ‘bachelor’, so they can all get their time to shine. Then maybe an extra one for a poly option?

[dilemmaontwolegs]

i know u have a gazillion requests but what if we spice up that Carlos fic? if you decide to do a pt 3. maybe Carlos is once again is frustrated because of the penalty after a good quali and has sex with Rebecca cuz he can't find the model. a lil angst

It’s no secret, I’m in an angsty kinda writing mood at the moment 😅 I also forgot who was meant to be the toxic one...and now it's both of them.

Lady in Red (3) || CS55

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x fem!reader Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, smut, cheating, manipulation WC: 1.5k

One || Two || Three || Four

You had been called away to work just before qualifying finished. You and half a dozen other models were asked to stand behind the top three drivers and wave feather fans for the cameras while an Elvis impersonator pumped out his signature dance moves. 

From your position you could see the frustration on Carlos’ face. He had qualified second fastest yet he was going to have to start from 12th on the grid. You weren’t the only person in the area upset by the 10 place penalty and the Ferrari supporters were making their opinion known as they chanted for Carlos.

“Alright, sweethearts, we need you over at the Bellagio for some promo shots and then you’re free for the night,” one of the headset-clad organisers said to the group you were with before checking her watch. “Or should I say morning.”

The drive back from the Bellagio to the paddock seemed to take hours with the road closures and checkpoints, but finally you made it back. Knowing Carlos would be waiting somewhere for you, you scanned each floor to find him before heading straight to the top.

“Fuck, mi amor, this is what I need,” Carlos moaned. 

You froze at the sordid scene you had walked in on. Neither one saw you in the doorway of the darkened room, their backs to you as Carlos bent Rebecca over the desk and pounded into her. He curled her hair around his fist and pulled back so to expose the pleasure painted on her face. 

You didn’t even notice you were crying until a droplet fell from your cheek to land on your breast, the feather girl outfit he enjoyed on full display. You suddenly hated how exposed you felt in the ridiculous costume. It was almost as ridiculous as you - for thinking a man like him could change. 

“Take it, cariña, take it,” he stammered as you recognised the pinch of his brow. He was close. He was close to finishing and you were more than done with seeing it. 

You were conscious of your footsteps as you retreated from the room and descended downstairs. You just needed to make it to your dressing room so you could get your stuff and go. 

“Hey,” Charlotte called out as she caught your arm and pulled you to a stop with a friendly smile. “Carlos was looking for you earlier. Did you find him?”

“Yeah, I did,” you whispered, quickly wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t bother drafting up the breakup post.”

Her smile dimmed as confusion replaced it. “What breakup post?”

“Huh,” you laughed humorlessly as you shook your head at your stupidity. “The one Carlos clearly didn’t talk to you about. God, I am a fucking idiot.”

You left the track, heading straight back to your hotel room and before you even reached the room you saw Carlos’ name come up on your phone. You sent him straight to voicemail, again and again.

You barely slept as you thought about how humiliated you felt. You wanted to get him back but you weren’t innocent yourself. You knew your career would be over if you outed the relationship you had with Carlos, even if it made you feel better momentarily. No, you weren’t going to bloody your hands for him, there was already a stain on your soul for what you had knowingly done.

You were a survivor and you were smarter than your recent actions showed. You knew things about Carlos that he had been foolish enough to share in the unburdened state that came after sharing his bed. You were going to use it to your advantage and do what you did best, be the envy of every man.

You had turned your phone off when you arrived at the paddock for the race but it was going to be impossible to ignore Carlos when you were assigned to the Ferrari team. 

“Stacy, swap with me?” you begged as she waited for Charles to escort him to the grid. “Pleeeease.”

“Whatever, French boys aren’t my thing anyway,” she said with a grin before heading next door to Carlos’ side. 

“I’m not French,” Charles corrected as he stepped out of his room. “I’m Monégasque.”

“Today, you’re pole,” you said with a grin as you offered your elbow out to him. “Ready to go?”

You didn’t glance in Carlos’ direction as you accompanied Charles out onto the grid. You didn’t even have to fake enjoying the company as you found the Monégasque had a good sense of humour and made you laugh the entire way. 

From the slamming of Carlos’ car door you knew you were getting to him. Carlos’ fear was losing to his team mate and he was sick of always being compared to Charles Leclerc. 

Carefully angling the feather fan to hide your faces from the jealous driver, you leant in and wished Charles good luck for the race. To the fans, you were clearly talking, but to Carlos? He would always think the worst.

Charles was high with adrenaline when he arrived at the Bellagio after coming second place. It wasn’t the win he was obviously hoping for but you could see how happy he was with the result. 

“So, you like Charles now, huh?” Stacy whispered as she stood as you did, a fake smile on your faces as you lined the interview stage. 

You cast her a quick side glance and winked. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I know why you wanted to swap, Carlos acts like a fucking baby. He practically trashed his garage after Charlotte spoke to him about something. God, I wish I could have heard what that conversation was about.”

“Hmm, me too,” you said with a sick sense of delight as the interviews wrapped up. “Oh, finally, almost time to party.”

“You must be happy, proving Carlos wrong,” you teased Charles as you escorted him back to the Rolls Royce he arrived in. 

His steps faltered and he slowed his walk as his other podium finishers drifted further ahead. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s been telling everyone how much better a driver he is compared to you,” you stated with a shrug. It was an exaggeration, you had overheard him complaining to his father in the garage. “But you showed him.”

“A better driver?” Charles scoffed. “He is full of shit.”

He seemed to be in deep contemplation as he walked silently, until he reached the car and turned to you. “You should come to the after party.”

Carlos had already added you to the invite list but you smiled and batted your lashes as Charles. “Are you asking me?”

He blushed and laughed at himself as he nodded. “Would you like to come to the after party with me?”

“You don’t have a girlfriend do you?”

“No,” he laughed warmly. “I wouldn’t be asking to take you if I did.”

“Then I would love to go with you.” You gave him your room number that was conveniently in the same hotel as him, since both Ferrari drivers stayed in the same one. 

You already had the perfect dress waiting in your room and as you stood in front of the mirror you had to admit you looked stunning. The red dress was tailored to your body and the plunging neckline was risque and exactly what you envisioned it to be. You couldn’t wait to see Carlos’ face when you walked into the party on his teammate's arm.

“Hey,” you greeted as you opened the door after the knock, but it wasn’t who you expected to see on the other side. “Carlos, what are you doing here?”

His jaw fell slack, lips parting, as his eyes trailed down your body. “Mios dios, hermosa.”

You held your hand out, planting it on his chest as he stepped forward to kiss you. “Woah there, buddy, not happening.”

“Why not? Why have you been ignoring me?” he asked with genuine confusion.

“I saw you fucking Rebecca last night after Qualifying.”

He looked a little sheepish as he scratched the back of his heated neck. “I couldn’t find you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better when you call her ‘mi amor’ too?”

“I didn’t mean it, I-I was thinking about you,” his eyes widened as his voice went up a pitch. “I swear.”

You nodded sympathetically as you rubbed his arm. “Of course, like you were thinking about me when you didn’t have that chat with Charlotte. Yeah, I know you didn't, so just go back to your girlfriend.”

“But I want you,” he pouted as he bowed his head and looked up with big brown puppy dog eyes.

“But I don’t want you. Not anymore.” You gave him a push and he ceded the space in your doorway as the  elevator across the hall opened and Charles stepped out looking good in a pair of jeans and a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. “Hey handsome,” you greeted him with a smile as you grabbed a black clutch with your phone and money. “Perfect timing.”

“You are breathtaking,” he said after a few blinks to recover from the sight of you. He smiled as he brushed past Carlos to kiss your cheek, ignoring the Spaniard completely. “Ready to go, chérie?”

You took his hand and sent a dark smile in Carlos’ direction as you passed by. “See you around, red man.”

Click here for part four.

[smoothsmut]

The Journey Begins

Pairing: husband!BangChan x Wife!reader

Genre: fluff

First holiday as married couple.

Bang Chan held tightly onto Y/N’s hand as they walked through the bustling airport, their luggage trailing behind them. Y/N looked around in awe, excitement bubbling up inside them.

"Can you believe it? Our first vacation together as a married couple!" Y/N beamed up at Bang Chan, their eyes sparkling.

Bang Chan chuckled, his dimples appearing. "I know, right? I’m so glad we finally have some time off. We deserve this break."

They reached the check-in counter, and the friendly staff greeted them. After checking in their bags, they headed toward the security checkpoint.

"I hope you didn’t pack anything weird in your bag," Y/N teased, nudging Bang Chan with their elbow.

"Who, me? Never!" Bang Chan feigned innocence, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away. "Just a few snacks, maybe some extra batteries, and oh, that stuffed animal you love so much."

Y/N laughed. "You mean Mr. Snuggles? I can’t believe you brought him!"

"Of course I did! How else are we supposed to sleep without Mr. Snuggles?" Bang Chan grinned.

After clearing security, they made their way to the departure gate. Y/N looked at the board, scanning for their flight information.

"Gate 32, there it is!" Y/N pointed. "We still have some time. Want to grab a coffee?"

"Absolutely. Let’s find a nice spot to relax before the flight," Bang Chan agreed.

They found a cozy café near their gate and ordered two cappuccinos. As they sipped their drinks, they chatted about their plans for the vacation.

"I can’t wait to hit the beach," Y/N said, a dreamy look in their eyes. "Sun, sand, and the sound of waves. It’s going to be perfect."

Bang Chan reached across the table and took Y/N’s hand. "And I can’t wait to spend every moment with you. Just you and me, away from everything."

Y/N squeezed his hand, their heart swelling with love. "You always know the right thing to say."

As they finished their drinks, an announcement came over the loudspeakers. "Flight 123 to Bali is now boarding at Gate 32."

"That’s us!" Y/N exclaimed, jumping up. They grabbed their carry-on bags, and Bang Chan followed suit.

They made their way to the gate and handed over their boarding passes. As they walked down the jet bridge, Y/N looked back at Bang Chan, a mischievous smile playing on their lips.

"Ready for our adventure, Mr. Snuggles?" Y/N teased.

Bang Chan laughed. "Ready as ever, Mrs. Snuggles."

They found their seats on the plane and settled in. Y/N took the window seat, and Bang Chan sat beside them. As the plane taxied down the runway, Y/N rested their head on Bang Chan’s shoulder.

"You know, I’ve always wanted to travel with you," Y/N said softly.

Bang Chan kissed the top of their head. "And now we are. Here’s to many more adventures together."

As the plane took off, they both looked out the window, watching the city below grow smaller and smaller. They were on their way to Bali, to their dream vacation, and most importantly, to new memories that they would cherish forever.

[tacticaltotsagere]

🧢 Tactical Tots | The Softest Deployment You’ll Ever Take 🏷️

✦ Mission Briefing:

You’ve been drafted into a different kind of battleground—one where crayons are your ammo, blankies are your armor, and safety is the only objective.

This is Tactical Tots, a Call of Duty–themed SFW agere server built for littles, caregivers, and supporters who want something fun, fresh, and cozy—without sacrificing structure or safety.

🧼 Your Loadout Includes:

✦ Regimented but relaxed—strictly SFW, 13-25, and agere based ✦ Themed roles, intros, and channels that feel like a real mission ✦ Soft, cozy vibes wrapped in military aesthetics ✦ Little-only zones, CG chats, support spaces & system-friendly areas ✦ VC channels like Naptime Radio, Movie Ops, and Playdate Checkpoint ✦ Custom forms, reaction roles, and briefing intel to guide your journey ✦ True COD Gaming events

💀 This isn’t your average server. It’s a place to regress safely, make friends, and feel like part of a unit.

So what do you say, Rookie? Ready to report for snuggle duty? → | Join here |

[dirtytransmasc]

Stripes - The Birth of a Strange Boy

Miles Javier Socorro was born in a spare exam room in the quiet hum of night, when there wasn’t anyone roaming the halls except some patrol staff at the checkpoints. His father wasn’t present, and that was probably a good thing, in the end. He came out screaming, his lungs strong and healthy. He weighed in at 8 pounds and 12 ounces with a full head of curls and all four of his little limbs intact. He was perfect… except for the fact that he wasn’t. He was far from normal. 

The medic, Medical Seargent Garcia, tasked with his delivery by a less-than-friendly Colonel, gasped upon seeing him, hesitating to even wrap him in a blanket, fearing she was seeing things. Fearing she wasn’t seeing things. 

He was striped. Truly striped. Tan streaks painting along his skin in intricate swirls and sharp edges, accompanied by odd freckles that run like constellations over his limbs and around his torso, even up onto his face, over his flat nose, and around his too-big eyes. They only brought attention to his pointed little ears hidden amongst golden curls, the same ones flexing around clumsily as murmurs filled the room. 

And he had 10 perfect fingers, but his 10 toes were odd… they looked more like the tracks found out in the mud made by the blue savages the RDA wanted gone than anything else, an odd gap between the hallux and the rest of his little toes. 

“What… what is he?” his mother, Maria De La Paz Socorro, asked. Her voice wasn’t cold, there was no malice or anger, she was just scared. Any mother would be. His baby came out different, and she just wanted to make sure he was ok. But what else could she ask? He may have human coloring, for the most part, but he certainly wasn’t human, not entirely. “My baby, what’s wrong with mu baby?” she pleaded again, arms reaching for her baby. 

Gracia, still white as a ghost, wraps him in a blanket, noting the patch of black hair at the base of his neck, handing him to Paz, who held him to her chest, . He cooed at the sight of his mother, still belting out little cries but calming slightly, pressing close to her, hands clumsily reaching for her. She placed her finger in his little hand, and he held onto it, his big eyes opening, inhumanely golden iris’s meeting her own deep brown eyes.

“Look at you,” she whispered softly, wiggling the finger in his grasp, “my special boy,” and after she admires him a while, she’ll look to the Medic, and ask if he’s healthy, and the Sergeant will hesitate before looking him over, like she’s scared to touch him. 

Paz holds her baby boy close as Garcia runs a stethoscope over his striped chest and down his back, as she manipulates his limbs, checking all of his little fingers and toes. Miles does not appreciate any of it, wriggling and crying up a storm, but Paz can only smile, hushing him gently. His ears follow her voice, his eyes try and find her. 

“He can hear you alright,” Garcia murmurs, “and he looks healthy, nothing’s jumping out at me, but I’m not peditrican, I haven’t touched a baby since my rounds at med school…” she eyes the infant once more, “and I never saw anything like this, not even in my text books. So I’m not making any promises you can hold me to. You should have the quacks look at him, I’m sure your Colonel has some favors… or blackmail… he can use to get them to keep quiet.”

“... we’ll see,” he murmured, more focused on the baby in her arms than their uncertain future. 

The medic said nothing else, not on any small talk type matters anyway, and instead continued to tend to Paz and the rest of the delivery and afterbirth procedures, talking her through it, even if she was no longer listening. 

Miles continued to squirm in her arms, face pinched, ears furrowed. He was pouting. And it was the cutest little pout Paz had ever laid her eyes on. She couldn’t help but stroke his little cheek, tracing the stripes that spread from his neck and his hairline, and then the constellations of moles and freckles, down to petting the thick black hair at the base of his neck, feeling the divide between his curls and the thick fuzz. 

She couldn’t deny that he looked Na’vi, that would be foolish. She didn’t know why. She didn’t know how. Part of her didn’t want to know, fearing she’d find she was part of a conspiracy or experiment. She’d rather live in blissful ignorance to the truth, and love her baby as he was than know why. 

“You, my son, are perfect, just the way you are,” she cooed softly, “nothing will ever change that.” 

The infant squeaked, huffing as he tried to keep his eyes open, to keep looking up at his mama, but sleep was taking him, pulling at his fluttering lids. It took a few well-placed strokes of gentle fingers down the bridge of his nose to get him to fall fast into a fitful sleep. He was still wet and a little cold, as per the exam room being dim and drafty, and he was probably hungry, if the way he was nudging his face into her chest was any indicator, but her milk had yet to come in, she didn’t even know if it ever would. Formula was yet to end up on the table, the boy’s father was meant to arrange that, but she wasn’t sure there had been any success. 

Just thinking about it, she felt her own breathing pick up, her heart racing. She couldn’t feed her son. She couldn’t fill his empty belly. Couldn’t keep him warm enough. Couldn’t get his father to be by her side. Did she go through all this just to watch her son starve on some foreign planet having never met his father? And on top it all, he would end up as an experiment if the higher-ups ever saw him or his stripes or his ears or his eyes or any part of him, because he was born wrong. 

Fear coursed through her, but she kept calm, calm enough to not disturb the baby boy in her arms. She held him a little closer, pressing her lips to his temple, “Mama will protect you, I promise,” she whispered, “Mama will always protect you, whatever it takes.” 

links to other posts in this au, just till I come up with an official tag to put these under:

[themafiadebt]

That Time When I Tried To Bring A Foot Long Knife In My Cabin Bag On An International Flight

You know flights. For at least a few generations already we have had a privilege of travelling through air, which is statistically one of the safest means of transportation, but when shit goes wrong, it goes wrong in a particularly spectacular manner and being the dumb fucks we humans are, spectacular failures (such as acts of terror) register as more plausible ones in our stupid monkey brains. This is a digression, but, as the title of the post suggests, not an untangential one.

In any case, there used to be a time in my life when international flying was just a regular thing for me, getting on a plane and immediatelly getting some monday-morning shut-eye even before the take-off to teleport a few thousand kilometers away was just a fact of life. Two of my russian-speaking (but also fluent in my mother tongue) team mates doing some contract backend web development for a foreign fintech startup with me as a "team lead" (in quotes, because we have always been egalitarian) were as accustomed to flying as I was. Security checkpoint, it seemed at that time, was something we knew intimately, not necessarily to the point when we referred to the agents by their first names, but rather we knew which shoes are going to have to come off and the exact amount of change to trigger the metal detector. It was, as we all understood it, a dog-and-pony show in a post 9/11 security theater where water in your belly was qualitatively different from the water in an unopened bottle, which is technically true, but it never even made anyone feel safer as a passenger or less safe as a potential criminal (like my white ass getting "randomly checked" five times in a row for "traces of explosives"); it usually went as a well-choreographed routine of retrieving a laptop from an easily-accessible part of your backpack, unbuckling your belt, taking off your coat, putting clothes, backpack and electronics into separate trays and proceeding to waltz through the SCARY GATE in a steady pace all the while smiling in a friendly manner to the agents, maintaining Just Enough eye contact to establish connection but not come off as challenging and refraining yourself from making any meta commentary throughout the whole ordeal.

Easy.

Imagine yourself in my shoes when my backpack comes out of the x-ray about 1.25 seconds later than usual. There's a warning light going off silently at the back of my head as I wait for my belt to come back to me so my pant's don't slip off my fat white ass as much, getting brigher and turning into a bangbang double exclamation mark emoji and starting to emit avionic warning sound as the security agent pulls the tray with my backpack aside.

"Sir is this your bag?"

"Yes, it is"

"It seems you have a knife in there"

At this point I am more amused than perplexed.

"Yes, that is true," - I say smiling incredulously - "but it never caused any trouble anywhere."

I'm thinking about my trusty pocket victorinox (with scissors that are incredibly good for trimming my nails on the go) attached to my RSA OTP generator.

"Oh." - the female agent replies dryly, putting the vynil gloves on - "may I please open your bag, sir?"

"Sure!" - "May I retrieve The Object, sir?" - "Please go ahead".

And I watch, with increasing horror, my eyes widening, as I see the very remotely familiar handle that stirs something in the depths of my memory, the blade emerging in slow motion and going oh-so-slowly to what seems like forever until the whole footlong thing is out, pinched between two fingers of the agent who looks at me as memories of a town several hundred kilometers away rush back to me: the hunger, the yearning, the NEED for a simple kielbasa-and-bun sandwitch, both kielbasa and a freshly baked bun in my hands in a middle of a shop with no way to cut neither kielbasa nor the bun and the footlong steel monstrocity being the only possible option of instruments capable of cutting. Did I unpack my bag or I simply throw it aside when I got home is a question with an answer so obvious it immediately unasks itself.

"Sir?" - a female voice brings me back to here-now. - "I said, shall I discard of it, sir?"

I struggle for a moment to regain control of my motor function and nod. I think my mouth is slightly agape and I have no control of my vocal cords. A single elongated vowel escapes my throat.

"Thank you" - she says, handing my backpack over to me. My colleagues also stand frozen, their eyes wide in disbelief. - "You may proceed, sir"

"T-thank you" - I stutter as I shuffle away with my backpack in one hand and my belt which I retrieved just prior to the whole incident in another, pretty sure I've gotten damn lucky once again.

I never bought another trio of bun, kielbasa and a big fuckoff knife abroad again.

[vox-solaris]

Untouchable - Chapter 2 [Deimos x Quincy]

[Chapter 1]

A particularly stupid knife saves Quincy's life.

Sol's light blazes over the war-torn streets of Höllvania, casting an irritating glare in the corner of Quincy's scope.

Laid out flat at the edge of a rooftop terrace, the sniper keeps a careful lookout over his surroundings, monitoring the movements of a nearby Scaldra convoy while his squadmates raid the facilities below for much-needed supplies. The opposition is unalerted for now, leaving him with little to do but watch and wait... and so his mind wanders, turning over recent events.

As hard as it was to believe, things were starting to improve for the Hex. They'd established a stronger perimeter around the HCM, and word was spreading fast. More civvies were flocking to the nearby tenements every day, and under their protection, the area was shaping up into something of a safe haven, at least as far as Höllvania was concerned. But as good as that all was, it wasn't what was occupying Quincy's thoughts today.

No, he was thinking about the Drifter. Again.

It had been months since his arrival now, and the outsider had come a surprisingly long way in such a short amount of time. Where once he'd barely spoken a word, he was now a regular appearance throughout the mall, making idle chatter with the Hex between assignments and patrols. Just the other day, he'd even seen him hanging out in the arcade with Amir of all people, getting his ass kicked at air hockey, and laughing about it.

If you asked anyone else, he was well on his way to proving himself as part of the team.

If you asked Quincy, the Drifter was hiding something.

He didn't know how to explain it. Maybe it was just intuition. Maybe it was the timeframe, how quickly he'd started working to gain the Hex's favor after shutting them all out for weeks. A man doesn't turn around that fast without some incentive, and unlike some people, he didn't buy into the whole 'good intentions' act for a second.

Not after Entrati.

He scowls to himself. Trusting that damned 'doktor' was what got them all into this mess in the first place, and it was starting to feel like he was the only one who still remembered that. There was no shot in hell he would make the same mistake twice, and certainly not with another time-traveling freak.

The convoy has stalled at a checkpoint, giving him a few precious moments to relax. He lowers the scope, briefly closing his eyes to let them recover from the glare. His mind continues to spin.

While the Drifter certainly acted like he was on their side, there were still too many unknowns for Quincy to trust him on that. Sure, he'd saved them. And sure, even he couldn't deny how useful those 'frames' of his were against all the shit they were scrapping with, even if thinking about them too hard made his skin crawl.

But what Quincy didn't get was why.

He wasn't trapped in this warzone like the rest of them. He could fuck off to the future whenever he wanted, no obligations to keep, none of it. He had the kind of freedom Quincy would have killed for... yet for some reason, he'd chosen to stay.

It stood to reason: the Drifter had a motive, and he was determined to find out what.

So, he'd gone along with it. Every day for weeks now, another little chat with the Drifter, putting on a friendly front as he searched for a sign of whatever it was that eluded him about the other man.

But, try as he might, Quincy couldn't nail down a thing about him.

Whenever they spoke, it was always the same dance–he would press him on something, and the Drifter would evade, either changing the topic completely or leaving things so vague that he'd walk away with even more questions than he started with.

And then, the guy had the absolute bollocks to turn around and start asking questions of his own–prying into his personal shit, all while giving up nothing in return. That had pissed him right off, and he'd lost his temper over it more than once now. At this point, it was probably expected that the two of them would be at each other's throats over something new every week.

But it didn't matter. He knew this playbook well. When it came to the long game, Quincy was a professional, and whatever the Drifter's angle was, mark him, he would find it first.

Fuming quietly, he returns to his watch, re-centering his scope on where he'd left the convoy. Shit. They'd already moved on while he was distracted, and were now out of sight. He'd need to find a new angle, and radio in a warning to–

A soft sound interrupts his thoughts. Something heavy is dragging across the roof behind him, getting closer by the second. Had someone managed to read him? How?

Nah, this wasn't happening. No Scaldra pillock was getting the drop on him.

Instincts kicking in, he rolls onto his back, bringing his Neutralizer up with practiced ease to take aim at his assailant–only to freeze as his scope is filled by a hulking mass of decay and half-melted plastic.

That definitely wasn't Scaldra.

Quincy's finger closes on the trigger, a single shot ringing out over the rooftops. In his shock, he'd aimed wide and only clipped the Techrot monstrosity–and now it was barrelling towards him, a garbled electronic roar emitting from the speaker sunk into its torso.

He tries to evade and activate his cloak, but his reaction comes too late–the behemoth crashes over him, driving the air from Quincy's lungs as it pins him down. His armor buckles beneath its weight, wiry tendrils snaking around his limbs and throat, coiling and crushing as they hunt for a gap in his carapace to burrow into.

Locked down and helpless, he can do nothing but watch as one winding limb wraps around the barrel of his rifle, ripping it from his arm and sending it skittering over the edge of the roof.

Through the searing pain, a cold panic sets in. He can't move. He can't breathe. He's alone–and this time, no one is coming for him.

As his vision starts to swim, strange words drift into his mind, bringing with them a sense of utter despair.

His own last words, from another life.

"See ya soon, momma."

No sooner does he think them, then the pressure around him shifts.

Something pushes into his palm, and he grasps instinctively, recognizing it as a weapon. Suddenly filled with furious resolve, he wrenches his hand upwards, tearing free of the ensnaring wires to drive the other end deep into the infested mass.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, crackling heat races up the metal of his arm as the weapon abruptly discharges, forcing him to let go. A chorus of computerized shrieks rips from the monster's chest-speaker as energy surges through its warped circuits, its tendrils spasming from the sudden overload.

Seizing the opportunity, Quincy shoves back hard. The weight lifts from his chest, and he gasps, pulling in a lungful of air before diving sideways and reaching for his sidearm.

Eight more shots sound off in turn, each sending a spray of viscera outwards. The Techrot convulses, crumpling to the ground, its shrieks fading into jittering static, then finally, silence.

Quincy's hand trembles, his finger locked tight to the trigger, still holding it down despite having emptied his clip.

What the hell was Techrot doing this high up? And how had he been so Sol-damned stupid as to let himself get caught out like that?

A scream of rage and fear suddenly billows up inside him, threatening to spill out of his throat. He sets his jaw, swallowing roughly and forcing it back down into the locked box it came from.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, letting it fill his aching chest and holding it there for as long as he could.

He's alive. That's enough.

Exhaling slowly, he lowers the gun and hauls himself to his feet. He doesn't have time for this. His position is now compromised, and without his scope, he's blind. He has to move fast, or the whole operation could fall apart on his watch.

Ignoring his injuries, he lets his training take over, automatically packing up the rest of his kit, as he'd done countless times before.

As he finally turns to leave, he freezes, his eyes catching on a familiar object protruding from the Techrot's still-twitching corpse.

Was that...?

Numbly, he sinks to one knee, carefully grasping the handle and tugging it free of the infestation, as if to confirm to himself it was real. A makeshift knife falls into his hand, its blunt edge sparking faintly. 

This was impossible.

He hadn't brought the Drifter's knife with him. And even if he had, there was no way he could have pulled it out on his own...

As he stares, the space around the knife shimmers and twists, briefly thrumming with pale void-light. A cold needle shoots down his spine, his stomach tightening as an uncomfortable recognition sinks in.

…fuck.

…FUCK.

That wasn't part of the plan.

[sol-consort]

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3

You can't shake the feeling that something feels off today.

Shepard never really enjoyed walking through the Citadel much of late. The novelty of the Centre-of-Civilisation Hub was as short-lived as the final facedown with Sovereign three years ago.

You placed your drink down, double clicking on the game icon.

How quickly they've become jaded to the sight of the cosmos laid bare in front of their eyes, a mere reinforced window away from the vacuum of space. Its taste still fresh at the back of their throat, the feelings of their own lungs caving in on themselves as their ribcage collapsed.

Scrolling through your phone as the usual startup video played. Checking your dms. Pretending to watch the tiktok clips your friends sent you.

Tightened security, tens of checkpoints, salarians smoking, hanar eating sushi, asari walking hand in hand with krogans, turians dancing with humans in nightclubs. It seemed that humanity found its place within the galaxy during the years Shepard's soul was stuck in limbo. Everything was so different, and yet... undeniably, the same.

The ice cubes clinked against the glass cup, fizzy foam forming atop your soda as they melted, diluting the sugary drink.

It was flattering the first few times an alien gawked at them, attempted to sneakly snap pic of them, ask for a photograph, in that order.

After all, Shepard was a nobody in the eye of the galactic masses the last time they stepped a foot on the Citadel, even if they've had a reputation amongst humanity—but as the remours of their supposed "coming back to life" spread further and further like wild fire, their newly founded fame was becoming nothing short of debilitating.

And no one in their crew seemed to relate.

"See it's because I knew better than to show my face, let the Archangel name speak for itself" The turian attempted to keep a facade of nonchalance, positioning himself so the light reflects just right off of the totally cool badass scar on his face.

"That and the fact no one could get close enough to your camping spot to see your face without being sniped from across the map." Crossing off another item from the list on his Omni-tool, Joker was down to only two items remaining.

You're still at the menu screen.

Shepard can sense the familiar signs of your presence hovering nearby, and yet, their body felt as hallow and cold as ever. Where were you? Why aren't you with them?

"How come I don't get any of that celebrity treatment? I was there too, people! Or do they think Shepard was steering the Normandy with one hand while fisting Saren with the other." That got a snicker out of the turian next to him.

Were you mad at them? Did they do something wrong? Their eyes scanned the various merchandise on the shelves, hoping for something to coax you out of hiding.

"—And with the discount from the recorded endorsement message, the total comes to 1400 credits. Will that be all for today?" The asari cashier chirped up, practised smile and overly friendly tone.

"Yeah, and uh... how much for the Destiny Ascension model?" Akin to an offering left at the altar of a displeased god, Shepard hoped this might appease you.

Or, at the very least, summon your presence to them. This never happened before. They know you're out there. They can feel you at the tip of their fingers, at the ends of their hair, hues shifting in the corner of their visions like phantoms.

"That'll be 500 extra credits, 416 with the discount."

Just their luck.

"Sheesh," Joker inhaled sharply, "Commander, unless you're planning to expand your resume and become an idol part-timer, then our budget doesn't allow for that."

"Who knows, maybe Shepard's devoted fanbase will throw money at us if we stand very still in the centre of the Presidium" Garrus purred back a little to eagerly for someone who was just claiming how not-bitter he is for having his secret alter ego remain secret.

Again. No sign of your presence, your actual presence. Only the vague anticipation of something coming, of the skies preparing to part like curtians for you to descend.

"Forget it," bringing up their omni-tool, Shepard paid for the original items, "let's just get what we came here for and hurry back aboard."

"Aye Aye Captain."

"Garrus, you're on bag duty. Joker—"

You loaded the savefile.

Their breath hitched, and a familiar feeling weighed down on them like a comforting blanket, a spring breeze filling their lungs.

"...I'll head to the Normandy. You two handle this on your own."

Finally, oh how they've missed you.

As the loading screen faded out of view, the world rendered from around you. Shepard was at the very same spot where you last left them, standing in front of the galactic map. The familiar sound of Kelly reminding you of the new emails on your terminal.

Were where you again? Oh, yeah, Mordin loyalty mission.

Strangely enough, Garrus was absent from the crewmates selection screen. You grimced, the bugs are hard a work it seems. Just your luck to get a cursed savefile.

Fine. Sure. Whatever. You won't let that ruin your mood. Maybe it was a good thing. Especially with how immensely disappointed you were after watching Garrus romance scenes on YouTube. Really? A fade to black? Good thing it bugged out, otherwise it'd have been a waste of your time and effort.

Your aim must be sharper than usual today... did Shepard always have these many hitpoints? Wow, that speed, this can't be vanilla. Ugh, did the save editor mess with your savefile?

No way, you swear you reloaded a backed up one. This should be a clean slate.

Not that you're complaining, after all the infuriating bugs and misclicks, being at the other end of the stick feels kinda good for once. You're not totally op, but noticeably stronger than your last session.

It was so fun, in fact, that you kept gunning one mission after another. Even the Garrus bug seemed to fix itself after the Mordin loyalty mission.

You were oblivious to the ticking of the clock, and your now lukewarm flat soda.

And Shepard? Oh Shepard.

They were on cloud nine. It might have been an extra couple hours of playtime for you, but with the amount of progress you've made, a whole week had passed from their point of view.

A whole week with you by their side.

Ah. They see the error of their ways. They pushed back, so you've kept your distance. They made you feel unwanted with their constant display of independence, didn't they?

Their intentions were pure. They simply wanted to prove the existence of their own volition. But apparently, it only served to hurt you instead.

Did you come back because of their gesture of attempting to buy the ship model? Were you watching them from the oblivion?

How they wish to talk to you, have one small conversation, if you are truly a person capable of speech. They're not too keen on the idea of you being a simple benevolent spirit, a mere force of the universe not that different from gravity or the change of seasons.

They're growing closer to their crew, thanks to you, that they can clearly see. Who would've known Mordin kept such a secret? Or the extent of how much Grunt repressed his nature. You seem to care for all of those people, based on the words you manifest for Shepard to say.

Well, almost all of them.

You had a defiant side that broke through whenever it was a one on one meeting between Shepard and The Illusive man himself.

You weren't a fan of Cerberus, they gathered.

Shepard themselves felt indifferent towards the whole operation. They could wrap their head to why a group like this is a necessary evil for humanity, as much as they could also picture why someone would completely resent them—if their previous crewmate's tantrum on Horizon was anything to go by.

Maybe, if you had asked them about Cerberus three years ago, they would've given a completely different answer.

But as it stands today, it's the people closest to them who turned their back on Shepard, whilst the scum of the earth fished their charred corpse out of orbit, nursed and nurtured them, welcomed them with open arms.

How confusing it was to wake up to a world full of anger at them for coming back to life. For supposedly tarnishing the image of a noble martyr.

To prefer them to remain a hero 6 feet in the ground than to see them alive walking on the surface—a flawed person, yes, but alive all the same.

Not like they even had a choice or say in the matter. Their birth, death, and reincarnation, they didn't have a say in any of them.

Which might just be the fate awaiting their future demise, when the bell tolls for them a second time, to die twice in one lifetime, and it won't even be out of their own choosing, but another matter-of-fact forced upon them, another burden to carry, another sacrifice in the name of the greater good.

Unlike you.

You who never forced them into anything.

Always phrased things as a suggestion.

Always asked them to move forward, never pulled them like a dog on a leash to fight their battles.

Became their strength from within, their voice of reason at times of strife.

You who never forced them into anything.

Kind, merciful, thought, pure hearted you.

You chose them to bless with your presence, your guidance, and your selfless labour.

Truly a guardian angel.

You who never forced them into anything.

You saw them as they are, understood them better than anyone else. Not as some tool to use for your own bidding like the council views them as, neither as a mascot to push more propaganda like the alliance have been shaping them up to be.

But as Shepard.

You who never forced them into anything.

With the sunrays peaking through the curtians, the sound of birds squeaking outside, and the sticky dryness of your eyes, you knew you've been staring at a screen too long for what's humanly recommended and socially acceptable.

It took you so many hours, a couple of open browser tabs with guides, but you've finally found all collectable ships and fish within the game.

All loyalty missions were taken care of, all dlc stories done.

Tomorrow, first thing after coming back from work, you're going to immediately book it to the Omega Relay.

Fuck the collectors, fuck the illusive man, and fuck this haunted savefile.

One last mission then it's goodbye ME2 and hello ME3!

-

"You really left me stranded with Garrus on the Citadel?? I mean, what were you thinking, Commander? What, so just because EDI can fly the ship, I'm suddenly disposable?"

"It was an urgent matter, you wouldn't understand. I had something important—"

"IMPORTANT?!" used to witnessing these arguments between these two by now, none of the Cerberus crew on the bridge were exactly phased by Joker's loud burst. "What could possibly be so important that you couldn't wait five minutes for the pilot of the damn ship."

"...."

"Yeah. Thought so. Listen, I know things been tough on you, coming back from the dead and all. But you're seriously starting to freak me out here, commander. This past month something about you just been... off"

"If I tell you, you'll think I'm a nutjob."

"Well, for one: I already think that. And two—" Joker covered the glowing orb of which EDI speaks from, to have an illusion of privacy as he lowered his voice. "Is this about what happened on Horizon? never took you for the type to get hung up over an ex. I could try to reach out and maybe arrange a reconcile dinner—"

"No. Absolutely not. I'll throw you out the airlock."

"Then spill already, Shepard. You're really giving thriller authors a run for their money."

"Fine. Tomorrow, left wing of the Presidium, 5 sharp."

"Nuh uh, you talk right here right now. How can I be sure you won't sneak off with my baby again and leave poor me to fend for himself on alien streets."

"Name your price."

"Your spectre access card, let me borrow it for a day"

"Joker—No. that's a federal crime."

"Umm no it's not? The Citadel isn't part of the federation. It's a galactic crime."

"That worse, you know that's worse right?"

"Then at least take me on a tour inside, please, been dying to know what goes on behind that freaky spectre access only door. Is it like a bdsm club with asari in full body leather carrying your guns around and—"

"No asari, just a shooting range, a terminal, and some screens. I think... a hanar urinal too. Very anticlimactic stuff, still wanna see it?

"duh?"

"you know what sure okay."