#boot camp challenge

[total-mkulia]

The thing about disventure camp is they do have interesting enough relationships between the characters but like. That is the main draw. So it ends up being that the most interesting part of the show is before and after the challenge, not during, because that’s when the characters talk and actually have meaningful interactions.

Total Drama had many problems but this wasn’t one because they took care to write challenges for the show that allow the characters to interact meaningfully with each other at length. And DC still hasn’t figure out how to do that.

[wosospacegirl]

Brunette roots - Alexia Putellas

Summary: You love brunette Alexia, and you'll do anything to get her back

Word count: 2.6k

a/n: they could NEVER make me hate you, baby

Also last fic of the week!

..

The blonde was beautiful. It was hot, sexy. It made Alexia look powerful. 

Alexia has had her fair share of blonde shades, going from dark blonde to bleached hair. Her blonde hair was almost like her signature by now. Some people forgot she was actually a brunette.

But you didn't. You never did.

You started dating Alexia when both of you were teens at La Masia. Alexia was serious about her football, it was her passion, it was who she was. You, not so much. You liked to play football, but that was it. Just a hobby, just something to do after school.

When it got to the point where you needed to choose between pursuing a football career or another career path, it was easy. Off to university you went. Alexia stayed, and she grew into it, winning every challenge thrown at her.

It was difficult to balance your relationship, but you guys always did.

The hardest phase of your relationship was when Alexia tore her ACL. Saying she was depressed was an understatement; she was completely devastated. Her mental state showed through her physicality, especially in her hair. She stopped dyeing it, she stopped eating.

When she got back on her feet again–literally–she was back to her old self. She got back to dyeing her hair.

You were happy and relieved that Alexia was okay again, that she was feeling like herself, but you missed the brunette so much. It not only looked beautiful on her–it made her eyes pop–but it also reminded you of the young Alexia. 

The one who was sixteen when she first kissed you, the one who would pick flowers on the way to La Masia to give to you.

Blonde Alexia belonged to Barcelona, to football, to the media.

Brunette Alexia was... yours. Completely yours.

It was turning into an itch you longed to scratch.

Whenever you saw a little bit of brunette root, you had to hold yourself back from jumping on Alexia and kissing her. But then, days later, she would be back to bleaching it, and you'd be back to pouting and whining.

So you realised... all you needed was a plan. It started small, but it grew.

..

"Fuck!" Alexia said as she was packing her suitcase to go to yet another camp. She was looking at her watch. "You let me sleep too much! You knew I needed to dye my hair before I catch the flight."

She had a frown on her face, a small pout that she would never admit doing, on her lower lip. She was mad at you.

You had promised her to wake her up from her nap three hours ago so she could get everything ready to leave. But she was so sleepy and tired, you didn't have the heart to do it.

"Just don't dye it then," you said, giving her boots and shin pads to pack.

"But I wanted to dye my hair before going. I won't be able to do that at camp," she said, annoyed, taking her sports gear from you before closing the suitcase more aggressively than needed. "I hate when my roots are showing."

"I love when they're showing," you said teasingly. If Alexia was annoyed, you would make sure to annoy her even more. 

She got riled up easily, and you liked that.

"Well, you do," she said. "Yo no!"

Alexia put the closed suitcase on the bed before heading to the big mirror in your room. "Look, it's awful." Her eyes were squinting, as if she were counting each strand of hair that needed to be dyed.

You rolled your eyes but walked toward her, hugging her from behind. "You look pretty, hair dyed or not." You kissed her neck sweetly and smiled when Alexia didn't pull away.

"I like blonde," she stated firmly, but her body language was anything but firm. She was soft now, realising that she wouldn't see you for two weeks.

"I like you whatever," you said, your cold hand making its way under her shirt before stopping at her bra.

"If you really liked me–" Alexia breathed, her body shivering when your hand found her nipple. "You would have woken me up."

You laughed a little. "Oh, are we being dramatic now, la reina?"

"Sí," she breathed, eyes closed. "You were mean to me. You promised me you would wake me up, but you didn't."

"I didn't because you looked too pretty," you said. "You can't blame me."

..

"I bought it," Alexia said, taking the pillows from the sofa and throwing them one by one on the floor. "I know I did. I put them in a separate bag, too."

"Alexia," you held the bridge of your nose. "The bottles of blonde dye are not under the sofa's pillows, for the love of God."

"Then where are they?" Alexia turned to you, an exasperated expression on her face.

"I don't know!" you said.

You were lying. You knew where they were: at the bottom of your office's trash. You wanted brunette Alexia back, and you were willing to do it, even if not by the most righteous of ways.

"I haven't dyed my hair in two months," Alexia said angrily, sitting beside you on the loveseat and wrapping an arm around your waist, bringing you closer. "This is my first day off... I wanted to finally dye it!"

You put the book you were reading aside and lifted your head to look at her. "Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? You have a full day off in sixty days and you want to spend it dyeing your hair rather than being with your wife?"

Alexia was silent as you began kissing her jaw. 

"I'm still spending time with you, though," Alexia said, tilting her neck to the side so you would have more room to kiss.

"Uh huh," you shook your head. "You spent the last thirty minutes looking for a bottle of bleach when you could've spent it with me... that's thirty fewer minutes of our life that were thrown in the trash."

"Don't be so manipulative," Alexia mumbled, holding your body so you were straddling her.

"But you like it," you whispered against the skin of her cheek.

"Yes, I do," she agreed eagerly as you slipped your tongue inside her mouth, kissing her deeply.

..

"Ale, come here," you said as you sat on the other end of the sofa. Alexia was playing FIFA.

"Un momento," she said without looking at you. "Almost done."

You waited while flipping through the pages of the very new and handmade album you had just finished. It took you a few weeks, but it was finally done.

When Alexia scored a goal–really Alexia, because her game character was the one who scored–she closed the game and sat beside you, kissing the top of your head.

"What do you have there?" she said, curious eyes gazing at the photography album opened on your lap.

"Just a little thing I've done for Valentine's Day," you said. "Take it as an early gift."

You handed it to her, watching as she flipped through the pages. They were filled with pictures of you two.

It began with you and Alexia at thirteen, both too small in Barcelona's jersey. Alexia's hair was cut very unevenly, she had told you her mom was mad about that. You said she looked cool. That's when your friendship started.

There were pictures of games you shared together, both of you playing for Catalunya under-15s, then more pictures of you dating. Alexia kissed your cheek when you were both sixteen.

"This is so beautiful, amor," Alexia said. "You did it yourself?" she asked.

You nodded, smiling. "Yes, I asked our moms if they had pictures of us when we were younger."

"I love it, thank you," Alexia said. "We were so young."

"Yes, literal kids," you said.

You did the photography album because you knew Alexia would like it, yes. You didn't have millions of dollars to give Alexia an expensive gift, actually, you did, because Alexia's bank account was your own, but you didn't like to use it. Instead, you wanted to create something intimate, something meaningful to give to her, something only you could make.

But this wasn't the only reason. You wanted to show–very subtly–how much you loved her brunette hair, wanted Alexia to associate her brunette hair with the first few years of when you started dating.

Some would call it emotional manipulation. You just called it psychology.

..

Well, psychology didn't work.

Alexia kept buying bottles of bleach, and you kept throwing them away, while very artistically pretending not to know where they were as you helped her search the whole house for them.

Your last plan was something, between the lines, criminal.

You started to pretend to be someone else.

Yes, you weren't proud of it. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

When Alexia would mention she was going to book an appointment to dye or bleach her hair at a salon, you were faster. You would call all the salons you knew Alexia could go to and book appointments during all of Alexia's possible free time.

"This is the fifth salon already!" Alexia complained while eating the fruit salad you had just given her.

"What?" you asked as you were making coffee for both of you.

"Somehow all the salons that specialise in blonde hair are fully booked today," she grumbled, taking a bite of a strawberry. "That can't be normal! I even said they could book me during lunch, and even that time slot had someone already booked."

"Oh," you said in faux pity. "That is so sad, baby."

You were beaming on the inside.

"I think I'll need to go to France to get my hair blonde again," she said.

Oh no, you thought to yourself. Another crime you would have to commit: steal somebody's passport

..

Alexia didn't go to France, but she did find herself a salon in Madrid, of all places. She told you the night before that she was catching a flight to go there, but that she would be back the next day. She was literally just making the trip to get her hair done.

You, of course, couldn't let that happen. Her roots were almost at eye level now—the brunette was coming out beautifully.

When she had her small backpack ready, that's when you began your show.

You lay down on the sofa, legs pressed against your chest, pout on your face. You didn't call Alexia, you didn't need to. She was by your side the moment she noticed you were in pain.

"Hey, princesa," she said worriedly. "What happened?" Alexia was kneeling on the couch, her backpack long forgotten somewhere by the door. Her flight was in one hour, and she would still have to get through Barcelona's traffic. You needed to keep her with you for at least half an hour.

"Cramps," you said, pout on your face. "Got my period this morning."

Alexia looked at you, confused. "Your period? What do you mean? You were on your period two weeks ago."

You almost rolled your eyes. Why did Alexia have to remember everything?

"Well…" you said, trying to think of some excuse. "Guess my hormones are all wrong. My period has been irregular for a few months now."

"It has?" Alexia tilted her head. "Why didn't you tell me? I can book a doctor's appointment for you."

"It's okay–"

"No," Alexia said. "I'm booking a gynaecologist for you tomorrow, sí? Maybe they can get you on the pill. You can't be having two periods a month…you'll get anaemic."

You wanted to hold Alexia, tell her to stay with you, but she was already up. For a moment, you got scared that she was leaving for the airport. But she wasn't.

"I'm going to the pharmacy," she said, hand brushing your cheek gently. "Gonna get some ibuprofen and some iron pills."

You froze. Alexia was taking this too seriously. You didn't need any medicine. Hell, you weren't even on your period, you just wanted a reason for her to stay home and not dye her hair.

"No, Ale, it's alright. Just stay with me."

But Alexia thought she was the one responsible for fixing everything. Of course, she went to the pharmacy like her life and dignity depended on it.

In the end, you had to take two ibuprofen pills that day, plus iron pills for a week, and go to the doctor Alexia had booked for you. 

But hey, at least Alexia's roots were growing during that time.

..

At the end, you didn't need to formulate any more elaborate plans. It was Tuesday night, and Alexia had come home after a long day at training. 

Her hair was now half brunette. You had worked hard enough that Alexia wasn't able to dye it, even if she wanted it a lot.

Alexia walked into your shared bedroom. She looked different, like she had something to say. You knew that look very well, it was the same look the same look she got when she was thinking of something for a long period of time and had finally made up her mind.

"I'm not dyeing my hair anymore," she said, just like that.

She dropped her body on the bed like a starfish. On a normal day, you would smack her arm playfully and tell her not to lie on the bed with her training jersey filled with grass, but you were completely caught off guard.

Alexia's words felt like an angel had just materialised in your room, telling you your biggest dream would come true.

You looked up from your laptop, where you were definitely not researching how to sabotage a bottle of bleach to make the hair of whoever uses it darker.

"What?"

"Yeah..." she said, looking at you, a small smile on her face.

She wasn't necessarily close, your feet were just touching her torso from the way she was lying, but you could smell her post-training scent, the smell of the deodorant she uses.

You couldn't help but peek at her little brunette roots that were getting longer every day.

"I'm letting it grow out–" she stated.

Why? You wanted to ask, but you were scared that if you said anything, she might change her mind. So you just stared at her, trying not to smile too big, trying to keep casual. You let her talk.

"--because," she said quietly, and then, in an instant, she got up and pulled the photography album from the little drawer on your nightstand. She began flipping through the pages. 

"I was seeing these pictures again the other day, and realised how cute I looked with brunette hair. It makes me look younger, I think."

Your heart was doing something weird in your chest.

"And also," she continued, and there was this little smirk on her face, "because I know you've been throwing away my hair dye, amor."

Shit. Your face went hot. Your heart was beating faster, but not because of her brunette roots, but from nervousness. You were caught.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, avoiding eye contact.

"Mhmm." She moved closer, her voice dropping. "And booking appointments at every salon in Barcelona under fake names."

You opened your mouth to deny it, but she put her finger against your lips.

"I'm not mad," she said. "Actually... It's kind of hot how obsessed you are with my hair."

"So you're really going to let it grow out?" you whispered against her finger.

"Sí," she said, settling against you, her head on your shoulder. "Blonde Alexia can take a vacation, don't you think?"

You nodded eagerly, wrapping your arms around her and kissing the top of her head, breathing in her hair, already imagining how perfect she was going to look in a few months when all the blonde was gone.

"Te amo," you whispered.

"Te amo también," she replied. "Even though you're completely loca."

..

a/n: i had so so so much fun writing thisss!! <3

[lay-z]

barbed-wire kisses | 1

Synopsis: Soap, the SAS and 141's most prized explosives detection hybrid and demolitions expert, gets a new handler.

Pairing: hybrid!John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x fem!handler!Reader Warnings/Info: 18+ | Soap is a purebred German Shepherd hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adopted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | enemies strangers to lovers; forbidden love; angst; hurt/comfort; heavy smut; eventual romance; canon-typical violence; military inaccuracies; dom/sub elements; forced submission; cussing; humour (Please mind the warnings for each chapter!)

Based on this idea 🩶

Big thanks to my bestie @bloodytalefeathers for helping me handling our boy Soap 🐶

It’s always a rather impersonal affair as a hybrid serving in the military–getting a new handler assigned and vice versa.

John sniffs you out, of course, before Captain Price even has the chance to properly introduce you. When the Sergeant is given your file along with the handlership documents on a random Wednesday in February–the ones you’ve already signed a few weeks prior–he gets one deep whiff of your musk still lingering on the paper and starts prowling the base on the lookout for his new target.

Despite the many familiar, surrounding scents among the different smells announcing the beginning of spring, it doesn’t take too long for a specimen like him to pick up on and find you on the large military base, letting the winds do most of the work for him.

He's just way too good at his job, and his little self-imposed challenge leaves his chest puffing with pride and the blood in his veins buzzing with an odd eagerness to meet you once he finally spots you among the large crowd of soldiers on the training grounds.

John decides to skip his lunchbreak and watch you instead. He takes a seat on a well-positioned bench with a good view of the field where you’re currently going through drills with a platoon that you’re serving as their temporary CO. His tail swishes lazily against the wooden planks of the bench, pushing off some dry leaves that gathered there.

He’s read about you, knows that you’ve just come back from a five-month overseas deployment in Al Mazrah–supporting their local forces with the training of the serving hybrids, among other duties.

John can see it in the tension you carry in your neck and shoulders, in the way you keep checking your surroundings while you give orders to your soldiers, and with the dark circles under your eyes–all of it speaks volumes of how well you’ve adjusted to living on base again so far, and, boy, does it look bad.

On top of that, you’ve just been transferred to Hereford from your previous base and task force–after getting your new orders while you were still deployed–so you must be twice as stressed and thrice as vexed about this whole new arrangement you’re finding yourself in right now, thanks to the brass. He also knows that you’ve already moved and settled into your new place close to the barracks. Close to where he lives, too.

Fucking brilliant, John thinks, and his large furry ears twitch as he grins wickedly. It’ll be more than easy to get rid of you if you’re already feeling this worn out; perhaps even easier than it went with the previous handlers he’s had since boot camp.

None of them ever made it past the six-month mark before they were transferred again due to their incompetence, though none of the higher-ups has ever admitted fault and called it what it is.

No, it’s always just been ‘Soap being a bloody handful’, slippery and clever as he simply happens to be, and yet the brass still keeps refusing him that exceptional permission which would finally grand him freedom–the freedom to operate without a handler on, and to a certain degree, off duty.

He is a canine hybrid, yes, and his nature might make him extraordinary, aye, but he’s not a fucking toddler in need of assistance and guidance 24/7. It’s bad enough that his rank as Sergeant can easily be outranked by a human subordinate simply because he happens to be a hybrid.

His thought process is disturbed by the crunching of boots on the gravelly road leading up to his makeshift recon spot, when a group of soldiers walks up the rolling hill to have a smoke break.

Scrunching up his sensitive nose at the stench of cigarettes despite being used to the smell, John gives up his seat for the group, straightening his shoulders with a curt nod at them before he makes his way back to HQ.

There’s a meeting he needs to prepare for after all.

A few hours later, the briefing room clears again when everyone claims to not have any questions left to simply get it over with.

“Right,” Price utters roughly. “I’ll leave you two to it then. Lieutenant,” he gives you a curt nod and John has to suppress a smirk when the Captain shoots him a glare as soon as his back is turned towards you. “Soap.” And John can hear the stern warning underlying Price’s voice before the latter leaves the briefing room and shuts the door behind him with finality and a raging ball of concern lodged in his guts.

And even though Price has left, and took his commanding aura right with him, the room feels even smaller and stuffy now with only you and John, standing across from each other like it’s a Mexican Standoff.

While John lets his eyes roam freely, assessing you thoroughly and searching for weaknesses, you simply keep your sharp eyes trained on his with a kind of effortlessness that is slowly making the fur on his tail bristle–up, up, up his spine until it tickles his neck and makes his ears twitch involuntarily.

Your hands are firmly clasped behind your back, your stance relaxed as your hip leans against the table behind you; keeping your whole front exposed and vulnerable while you’re oozing nonchalance and confidence with no trace left of all that tension and fatigue he’d noticed earlier when he was watching you train with your platoon.

You almost look… bored now that you’re finally alone with him, and John doesn’t quite know what to make of this reaction.

His thick brows furrow and he caves, despising the tense silence already. “Ye not gonna say nothin’, lass?”

Suddenly, your lips twitch into a humourless half-smile. “That’s still ‘Lieutenant’ to you, Sergeant,” you reply coolly. “We’re no friends yet.”

“Right,” he half-snorts, half-huffs in response. “Well, ‘am lookin’ forward ta workin’ with ye, ma’am.” If you’re just a wee bit clever, you could easily pick up on the sarcasm in his words, and judging by the way your eyebrow twitches, you can. His tail swishes proudly in response, and then John mirrors your stance; clasping his hands behind his back before rolling his broad shoulders and straightening up to his full height.

“Oh, are you now?” It’s a rhetorical question, and John finds the way you tilt your head to the side like a wee pup utterly adorable, along with the fact that he’s taller than you, forcing you to crane your neck if you want to maintain eye-contact with him despite the thick-soled combat boots you’re wearing.

“Well, in that case–” You bring your arms forward suddenly, clutching a black collar in your hand; brand new and personalized, the scent of its full-grain leather still fresh and thick in the air. His eyes zero in on your name and rank stitched into it, along with your emergency contact and military ID number. “May I?”

John’s tail stills, bright eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at the collar and processes the implication behind your words. He doesn’t get collared like this, no; usually grabs the damn mandatory thing and puts it on himself to get it over with.

“Ye insistin’ to put it on me, la–Lieutenant?”

You simply stare up at him with those unimpressed, gorgeous eyes – eyes that have seen as much, perhaps even more, horrific crap he has in combat–and his heart starts jumping in his chest in return. “You tell me, Sergeant. You wanna be a difficult pup?”

He swallows hard, clenching his teeth and wrinkling his nose at the raw condescension in your voice. Aye, he wants to make this difficult, wants to get rid of you already and let everyone know that he doesn’t need a handler–doesn’t need you–and yet he can only shake his head slowly while you stand before him so confidently, triggering his natural urge to please, to submit to a leader.

None of your predecessors ever made him feel quite like–this–so effortlessly. They always tried to force it yet never succeeded.

Almost subconsciously, John steps forward, towering over you though you still don’t move a muscle before he leans down, bracing his palms on the table you’re leaning against, now practically bracketing you in. “Go ahead, then,” he hums roughly, lowering his gaze to hide the way his pupils are dilating while his skin begins to prickle at the sudden close proximity to you.

As you unclasp the collar to bring it up to his neck, he gets a real whiff of your scent and nearly groans; an all-natural concoction of female pheromones, sweat and skin hidden underneath a layer of artificial peach-scented body wash and deodorant. His mouth starts salivating and he gulps it down harshly, fingers twitching against the table as you fasten the collar around his neck.

“Atta boy,” you mutter and your warm breath puffs against his rapidly flushing skin, making his pulse jump in his neck. His dog ears twitch as he leans in closer until his nose nearly brushes against your shoulder and he exhales a shuddering breath as the collar finally wraps around his throat.

“Need it a wee bit tighter, ma’am,” he rumbles and his breath hitches as you oblige; he swallows thickly, barely able to, while the leather creaks and tightens, pressing against his Adam’s apple snugly. You fasten it with nimble fingers, leaving goosebumps in their wake and his pulse sky-rockets at once. “Aye… perfect,” he breathes, almost panting now, his voice strained while another tingle runs down his spine that has warmth pooling between his thighs, and his cock chuffing in his boxers with interest.

An unexpected chuckle makes his eyes flicker up to meet yours again. “I see how it is, Sergeant,” you muse, a hint of a smile playing on your lips that makes him smirk boyishly in return.

Then, your index finger hooks through the metal loop for his leash, and another gentle tug makes his heart flutter and his chest rumble with a playful growl.

“Well then, let’s get to fucking work, MacTavish.”

And it’s the firmness in your words or the pure determination twinkling in your eyes that leaves John’s tail wagging.

Perhaps both.

[shirefantasies]

You Underestimate Me- Fili x F!Human!Reader

EVERYBODY LIVES AU!!! Warnings: canon typical violence and peril, descriptions of pain/blood/wounds, one suggestive comment

“Fili, stop it!”

The dwarf in question was chasing you through the stream, forcing you to run as fast as you could through the splashing water, which wasn’t much at all considering the resistance.

“Make me.”

One look at his smug face was all the convincing you needed to come to an abrupt stop, extending one leg out and bracing yourself to endure the inevitable strike, the brief pain of Fili barreling into you well worth the splash he made. Spinning on your heels, you joined Kili and Dwalin’s roar of laughter proudly, smiling and giving a little wave to Fili as he rose, dripping.

“Your clothes needed a wash, too,” you remark as he first glared, then shook his head and burst into laughter of his own, “I distinctly remember you saying so.”

Fee’d come back with some sort of revenge, you knew. Even if you didn’t know him so well as you thought and hoped, the look of rivalry-toned respect, the challenge gleaming in his eyes, told it all to you as you strode back to the muddy bank.

“Mark my words,” Fili spoke your name as though it were a vicious utterance, but either a smile upon his face, “if I wasn’t a gentleman, I would pick you up and toss you into the river myself!”

“I’m too big,” you shot back, “You couldn’t even lift me.”

“You underestimate me,” Fili replied to that, striding with great long leather-booted steps right up to your side, "I'm stronger than I look, you know."

"I will believe that when I see it."

"Someday you will," he said simply, joining you at the bank with water rushing from his long golden hair as he shook it out, "Mark my words, I will raise you above my head in triumph!"

At that, you just kicked one more little splash of bank at him and scurried off toward camp, ducking and hiding between Dwalin and Balin lest Fili seek his retaliation then and there.

At dinnertime, the slightest hint of mischief glinted in Fili's eyes, but it was only made manifest in the way his knee darted out, nudging yours and sending you laughing and holding up your bowl.

"Oi! Watch the stew!"

"What was that?" Fili smiled innocently and cupped a hand around his ear, nudging you one more time. "I think I've still got water in my ears. Can’t imagine how that happened."

~

Shattering, cracking bones and crashing steel almost drowned out the blood pounding in your ears as you darted between blades. Cried out names in search of any fragments of familiarity amidst it all. Not a sight of your friends brightened the bleak, black-and-red-painted horizon for what felt like minutes on end. An orc's falling body nearly toppled you over, but your voice was too exhausted to scream.

Panting, you beat the battlefield harshly, pounding it again and again with the soles of your boots. The weight of your black blood-spattered daggers slowed the swing of your arms as you ran, stitches in your sides stinging harshly, but stasis was afforded by no one in such violent bedlam. A blade was flung mere feet from you, and only upon turning to follow its trajectory did you see your attacker.

Scimitar raised and swung, the orc looked down upon you with a sadistic sneer as he slashed you across the side. Gasping, you tumbled back from the sheer force, let alone the burning arc of steel penetrating flesh and the warm trickle of blood spattering and spreading across your body with the impact of your fall. Lightning pain arced up and down your torso and you cried out, barely able to roll away from the next strike. Before the killing blow could fall, though, an arrow struck your assailant through the eye, knocking him right down to your side.

Spots danced in your vision as you heaved there, panic overtaking you. Dirt barely gave way beneath your scrabbling fingers as you forced yourself to attempt crawling forward. Just as the spots began winning, however, a pair of hands darted into your vision and your wound burned when they made brief contact with it. Your last sight before the dark enclosed you was that of Fili pulling you up, hoisting you on his shoulders. Briefly his face, his tear-streaked face, glistening blue eyes, and sad smile passed before you and then you faded away…

“I’m not losing you. I’m not.”

~

It felt like mere seconds later that you jolted awake again, gasping for breath at the shock of pain the motion brought you. Before your hung head was a blanket. Your legs beneath it. You’d been bandaged and lain in a cot. Breath barely came to you and stars danced once more in your vision. Hastily tapping footsteps ran your way and a hand gripped yours.

“Lie down.” Fili.

You spoke his name. He gently but firmly pushed you back onto the bed. Carefully manipulated you by your hands so as not to touch your bleeding side.

“Lie back down,” he repeated, “You’re hurt.”

“We survived,” you panted, giving a weak smile, “You saved me.”

“I told you,” he replied, whispering your name, “I would raise you above my head one day. I kept my promise. You saw.”

“I don’t know,” you teased, “My vision was a little spotty. How can I be sure it was you who picked me up?”

“You underestimate me.” He shook his head and tutted in mock disappointment. “If you wish, I’ll do it again once we’re not so battered.”

“And risk dropping me?”

“Only if we’re standing over a lake.”

Your smile grew. “I’ll never live that down, will I?”

“Not as long as we’re growing old. I’ll always remind you.”

Even in its frail state, your heart leapt at his words, beating harder and deepening your haze. Lips parting, you gaped at Fili, who only smiled harder, squeezing your hand.

“If, that is, you’ll have me. I don’t mean to force the responsibility on you, I’m just… so relieved you made it. Didn’t know what I would do if I lost you before I could tell you how much I love you. You can blame the blood loss on how it came out.”

Shaking your head, you let out a small, breathy laugh. “Responsibility? What responsibility? Babysitting my best friend every day? A small price to pay for a courting bead from the dwarf I love.”

“Any price I could pay for you is small,” Fili added, the hand that wasn’t holding yours reaching up to trace the back of it along the curve of your face.

“Even getting tripped and knocked on your face?”

“Well remember, anytime you do that I get to get you back.”

“And what punishment do you have in mind for me,” you grinned even as your eyelids fluttered weakly, “Hm?”

“Don’t worry,” Fili reassured you with a fond look, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’ll hoist you triumphantly and throw you in plenty of lakes once you rest up.”

“You have a deal,” you replied, allowing Fili’s hand to rotate, pulling you in and caressing the apple of your cheek with his thumb as he brought his lips to yours.

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[lottiesdolly]

wanting

♡ lottie matthews x reader

The woods were loud at night.

Not because of animals, though you swore you heard them sometimes, but because the silence itself felt alive. Breathing, watching. Judging.

And Lottie? Lottie thrived in it.

You’d never really noticed her back home, not like this. Sure, she was beautiful in that haunted way. But here, in the cold teeth of nowhere, she glowed. People followed her. Leaned in when she spoke. Even Natalie didn’t bite back as hard anymore.

You were the only one who didn’t bow.

That’s probably why she hated you.

“You’re sitting close to Van,” Lottie said one night, voice quiet but sharp. You didn’t hear her approach, she just appeared, like the forest whispered her name and she answered.

You blinked up at her. “There’s one fire and twelve of us. Excuse me for trying to not freeze to death.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t see the way you look at her?”

You laughed, dry and disbelieving. “What, you’re the camp psychic and the jealousy police?”

Wrong answer.

Lottie moved closer, way too close. Her hand caught your wrist before you could even flinch away. She didn’t squeeze. She didn’t need to.

“You don’t get it,” she said, almost soft. Almost. “I’m not worried about Van. I’m worried about you.”

You hated the way your breath caught. She leaned in until her lips nearly brushed your ear.

“You think you’re not mine?”

You’d felt it for weeks now, those lingering stares, the too-long touches when she bandaged your arm, the way you woke up some mornings already knowing she’d been watching you sleep.

“I’m not yours,” you said, but it didn’t sound convincing even to you.

Lottie smiled, slow and cruel. “Then why haven’t you told anyone about the lake?”

Your blood ran cold.

That lake. The one you found together, the one she made you swear to keep secret. You never told anyone about how warm the water was, how she kissed you there like she was drowning, how you kissed her back like maybe it was worth it.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” you said. “It was just—”

“Say it was nothing,” she challenged. “Lie to me.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you pulled your wrist free and stood up, turning to walk away, but her voice stopped you cold.

“They don’t love you like I do,” she said, and it wasn’t a plea. It was a warning.

You looked back. Her eyes burned, two bruises of violet fire. She looked like she wanted to destroy something beautiful. You realized it might be you.

“You don’t love me,” you whispered. “You want to own me.”

Lottie stepped closer. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

The next morning, Lottie acted like nothing happened.

She passed you a piece of stale bread by the fire, her fingers grazing yours like she hadn’t threatened to own you in the dark last night. Like she didn’t know you’d barely slept, heart racing every time a twig snapped.

“Eat,” she said.

You stared at her. “You’re not my mother.”

“No,” she said, voice syrupy. “Mothers let you go.”

Your stomach clenched.

Van laughed at something Taissa said a few feet away. You turned toward the sound too quickly, pretending it mattered, pretending your whole body didn’t feel like it was still caught in Lottie’s gaze.

She leaned in again. “You can look at them all you want,” she whispered. “They won’t look back like I do.”

You flinched. “You really don’t hear yourself, do you?”

“I do,” she said. “I just don’t care.”

She walked off, hair catching the low sun like wildfire. Everyone moved around her like she was the eye of a storm and they were just leaves waiting to be blown apart. You hated it. You hated her.

But that night, when it was your turn to go check the traps, she followed you into the woods.

“Lottie,” you said, spinning around. “No. Go back.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

You laughed, bitter. “And you think I belong to you?”

Her expression changed. Not angry. Not sad. Something worse. Something devoted.

“I know you do.”

She stepped closer, boot crushing old pine needles. “You think you’re different from the others? That I don’t see the way they crave me—how easy it would be to let them believe I’m some... chosen thing? But I don’t want them.”

“You want power,” you spat.

She stopped in front of you, voice low. “I want you.”

You hated the way your body froze. The way your pulse betrayed you. She could always feel it, she read you like scripture.

“You don’t have to be scared,” she said, brushing her knuckles against your cheek. “You’re the only thing I don’t want to break.”

A twig snapped in the distance. You both looked toward the sound. A rabbit. Just a rabbit.

But that moment was enough for you to move, step back, heart hammering. “You’re sick.”

Lottie tilted her head, smiling like a saint before the slaughter. “Maybe. But you’re still here.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because she was right.

Later that night, when the wind screamed and the walls of the cabin groaned like bones, you curled up on your makeshift bedding and tried not to think about her.

But the door creaked open.

Your breath caught. It was her. Barefoot. Silent.

She crossed the room like a ghost, knelt by your side, and slipped beneath the blanket.

You didn’t stop her.

Her fingers found yours in the dark, cold at first, then warm. And when she pressed her forehead to yours, she whispered, “If we get out of here… you’ll still be mine. Won’t you?”

You wanted to say no.

You didn’t say anything.

[insomniac4000]

Everything About You

Chris hates it when George's sister comes over.

Chris had lived with George Clarke for over a year, and in that time, he’d developed a deep respect for George’s chill attitude, solid banter, and his ability to somehow never do the washing up and still avoid confrontation.

But there was one recurring disturbance in their otherwise peaceful flat dynamic. And her name was Y/N Clarke.

George’s twin sister.

She popped up like an unwanted popup ad—appearing in their flat when she had “nothing better to do,” stealing Chris’s favourite snacks and drinks, leaving her shoes in the middle of the hallway, and worst of all: always, always had something sarcastic to say.

“Didn’t know you could burn eggs,” she’d commented one morning, leaning against the fridge with a smirk as Chris tried to salvage his breakfast.

Chris gave her a deadpan look. “Didn’t know people invited themselves over this often.”

George, still half-asleep and brushing his teeth, had mumbled, “Play nice.”

But Chris didn’t like her. And Y/N definitely didn’t like him. She made that clear from day one when she sauntered into their flat with her cropped jumper and sharp-tongued attitude, looked him up and down and said, “So you’re the guy George makes football content with? Cute.”

Cute. With that exact tone. Usually he didn’t mind it when girls called him cute in fact it happened often but they she said it with such sarcasm, such distain.

It became an ongoing battle.

Chris would try to sneak the last of the milk so he could have his cup of tea in the mornings? Y/N would beat him to it and leave the empty carton in the fridge. Chris was filming a quiet video? Y/N would barge in with George mid-clip asking if they wanted Five Guys. She had a way of making everything Chris did feel… irritating. And yet she always laughed when he snapped back. Like she enjoyed winding him up.

She wasn’t even in the flat that often, and yet she lived in his head rent-free.

Then came the camping trip, It was George’s idea, naturally.

“Let’s do a camping video—off-grid, no phones, just the wilderness.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “You hate bugs.”

“Yeah, but you know what I hate more?” George grinned. “Running out of video ideas.”

The plan was simple: three days in the woods with a camera crew filming challenges, campfire cooking, and survival attempts. The group included Chris, George, WillNE, Harry Lewis, and—of course—Y/N.

“She’s coming?” Chris groaned.

“She’s been outdoorsy since scouts. I need someone who can actually pitch a tent,” George replied.

“And you think I can’t pitch a tent?”

“Mate, you once got stuck in a sleeping bag.”

Chris rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Not that it mattered. Y/N showed up to the meet point in combat boots and a smug grin.

“Oh, good,” she said, eyes locking on Chris. “We brought the walking ego.”

“Oh, good,” Chris shot back, “you brought the sarcastic commentary no one asked for.”

“Admit it,” she said, tossing her backpack into the van, “you’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

And maybe—maybe—she had a point not that he would ever admit that of course.

“Right,” Chris said, squinting at the tangled mess of poles and fabric on the forest floor. “How hard can it be? It’s just a tent.”

“Famous last words,” She muttered, hands on her hips. “YouTube’s about to witness a man be humbled by nylon.”

Chris ignored her and proudly held up a long, bendy pole like he was wielding Excalibur. “Okay, this goes through the… hole thing?”

“Very technical,” she deadpanned. “Did you even read the instructions?”

Chris scoffed. “I don’t need instructions. I went to Scouts for a whole term.”

“Well either way it doesn’t look like you have any practice holding things that are long, let alone one that goes in a whole.” She gave a very proud smirk,

“For fucks sake,” he muttered.

“Actually Chris has poked a lot of holes lately,” George joined in, his sister gave him a shocked  look before putting that stupid smirk on her face again.

“I hate you both.”

Ten minutes later, they had somehow created what looked like a collapsed spider rather than a shelter. One side was upright, the other flopped dramatically onto the mud. Y/N had one arm tangled in the door flap and Chris was holding up the middle like he was doing an impression of the statue of liberty.

“This is a disaster,” Y/N said, laughing breathlessly. “You’ve made a tent burrito.”

“YOU distracted me!” Chris barked, wiping mud off his hoodie. “You kept yelling ‘left pole’ and then pointed right!”

“Because your sense of direction is worse than a Roomba!”

As Chris tried to re-thread a pole, it slipped and pinged him directly in the forehead.

“OW! Bloody hell!”

Y/N dropped to the ground, wheezing with laughter. “You just got owned by camping equipment.”

Chris rubbed his head. “This is a hate crime.”

By the time George wandered over, he found Chris swearing at a peg and Y/N crying with laughter.

“I don’t know what I expected,” George sighed, pulling out his phone. “But I am filming this.”

He tent was finally erected after two hours and it was a lucky thing because as night fell it was colder than expected.

Chris had underestimated how miserable a night in a tent could be when your sleeping mat deflated and someone (definitely Harry) snored like a malfunctioning chainsaw. By 2 a.m., he was outside the tent, pacing to stay warm.

“You’re up too?” came Y/N’s voice behind him. She had wrapped herself in a thick blanket, holding a torch under her chin like a ghost.

Chris jumped. “Jesus, don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” she said, clearly not sorry. “Can’t sleep either?”

“Nope. Tent sucks. It’s cold. And my tent mate breathes like Darth Vader.”

Y/N laughed and moved to stand beside him. “You’re such a princess.”

Chris opened his mouth to reply but didn’t. For once, she wasn’t teasing to annoy him. She looked up at the stars, thoughtful, a little softer.

“I used to camp a lot as a kid,” she said. “But I forgot how quiet it is. It’s kind of… unnerving.”

Chris looked at her in the glow of the moonlight. Her hair was messy, her nose a bit red from the cold, but something about her expression struck him—calm, yet real. Not the usual armour she wore.

“Yeah,” he said. “Too quiet. Like the calm before the chaos.”

They stood like that for a while—silent, but not awkward.

A very  uneasy truce settled between them slightly.

The next day started with rain. Not drizzle—torrential, camera-ruining, mood-killing rain.

Challenges were scrapped. Everyone huddled under tarps, miserable and damp. George, trying to stay positive, suggested a campfire cooking challenge.

Chris ended up teamed with Y/N. George clearly planned it that way.

“Great,” Chris muttered. “Three meals over fire with someone who thinks I’m unbearable.”

“I do not,” Y/N said breezily, chopping vegetables with alarming speed. “I think you’re mostly unbearable.”

Chris laughed in spite of himself.

They bickered throughout the task of course, over spice levels, who burnt the rice, whether paprika was a “real” flavour but, by the end of it, their dish got the highest score.

Chris was forced to admit she was fun to cook with.

“You’re shockingly good at this,” he said, surprised.

“And you’re shockingly tolerable when you’re not trying to win everything,” she shot back, but her smile softened the blow.

That night, after warm food and dry clothes, Chris was sitting by the fire alone when Y/N sat next to him.

“George talks about you a lot, you know. Says you’ve got his back like no one else.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Where’s this coming from?”

“I just thought I’d let you know I don’t always think you’re a total wanker.”

Chris seemed pensive for a moment. “ And I know you have this annoying fucking wall put up.”

She shrugged. “Just… it’s easier to mock someone than admit you actually like them.”

Chris tilted his head. “Are you saying you like me, Clarkeey?”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

Chris grinned, but there was something different in the air now. Less heat, more warmth.

“I never hated you,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I just hated how much you got under my skin.”

“Yeah?” she asked, shifting slightly closer.

“Yeah.”

“Bet you won’t kiss me then.”

Chris blinked. “What?” He wondered where on earth that came from, was this girl for real?

She smirked. “I dare you.”

Chris looked at her, really looked at her sure she was attractive so leaned in without thinking, just enough to meet her halfway. Their lips touched it was soft, at first as they tested the waters but soon enough instinct took over. Her lips were cool from the night air, but the way she kissed him; deliberate, focused it was anything but cold.

She pulled him in by the front of his hoodie, and he let out a quiet sound of surprise then kissed her harder, one hand cradling the back of her neck.

What started as careful quickly turned hungry. She gasped softly against his mouth when he ran his hand down her spine, to her hips pulling her to him. The kiss turned almost desperate, like they were trying to make up for all the time they’d spent arguing instead of doing this. Their mouths fighting for dominance almost like their arguments of old and no one person willing to give up and lose.

When he pulled back, Y/N’s expression was unreadable. Then she said, “Took you long enough.”

Things weren’t awkward after that. That was the strangest part.

Back at home, Y/N still dropped by, but now she sat closer on the sofa, stole sips of Chris’s drink, and once even left her bra in his room “by accident.” A red lacy number no less.

George noticed.

“You two seem less… hostile lately,” he said, watching them bicker over who won in Mario Kart.

Chris tried to play it cool. “We’ve called a temporary truce.”

“Right.” George raised an eyebrow. “Temporary.”

When Y/N left that evening, she brushed past Chris and whispered, “I like it when you lose, just FYI.”

He smiled. “Good thing I never do.”

But that wasn’t true, because he was falling for her and falling hard but to him that was a battle worth losing.

It all came to a head two weeks later.

Chris and Y/N were sitting on the roof of the flat, overlooking the city with two mugs of tea between them.

“Remember when I hated you?” Chris said.

“Which time?” she joked.

He laughed. “I think I just didn’t get you. You’re chaos, and I’m…” He paused. “Kind of a perfectionist.”

Y/N nudged his leg. “I like that you’re serious about things. But you still laugh when George falls down the stairs, so you’ve got layers.”

“I think I’m into you, Clarke.”

Y/N turned to him, eyes bright. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like, actually into you. Not just the snog-in-a-tent kind of way.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

He chuckled. “Thought you’d make fun of me.”

“Oh, I will. Constantly.” She smirked but it didn’t irk him anymore, now he found it kind of cute.

“But you’re into me too?”

She looked up and kissed him again, slow and certain. “Yeah, idiot. Of course I am.”

They decided to not tell George right away not because he’d be a protective big brother, the reality is he wouldn’t give a shit, it was more because they wanted to take things slowly and people would probably be shocked. Things had a way of revealing themselves though and one day while they thought George was out, Chris led Y/N out from his room for breakfast him shirtless and her only in Chris’s Arsenal shirt and a pair of panties.

“Okay seriously what the fuck is going on here.” George asked staring at his sister in the face, Chris went bright red but  she didn’t even flinch. “Sup bro?”

George just sighed and knowing he was never going to get anything out of her he looked up at Chris. “Look just be honest with me? Are you fucking my sister?”

Chris looked between the two Clarke’s before nodding sheepishly. “Yup.”

George sighed and walked away muttering, “This is my villain origin story.”

From the hallway, Y/N called out, “Love you too, George!”

Chris grinned. He had fallen—hard—and maybe she’d pushed all his buttons and now he was going to get absolutely rinsed for it but Y/N Clarke was absolutely worth it.

[heich0e]

"jammies?"

"check!"

"rain boots?"

"got 'em!"

"sun hat?"

"yup!"

touya's lips purse thoughtfully, his eyes scanning over the list he'd written out on the back of a tattered receipt in his chicken scratch scrawl. natsuo, shouto, and touya's five-year-old son hotaru all stare up at the eldest todoroki expectantly, gathered on the floor of hotaru's bedroom with his little suitcase (crammed full to the brim) between them.

the oldest man in the room swallows down a smile, stifling the laugh that threatens to slip out at the three identically expectant faces peering up at him. "alright," he says, chuckling a bit. "that's everything then."

hotaru cheers, hopping up onto his feet and launching himself at his uncles. "we're going camping!"

a laugh from the doorway interrupts the celebration inside, and all four boys turn to look at you expectantly. you've got your daughter, still sleepy from her nap, resting on your hip—holding her close as you survey the scene before you.

"you guys heading out, then?" you ask, bouncing your two year old gently in your arms.

"yeah," touya says, reaching out and ruffling aoi's hair. she leans into her father's touch, but continues clinging to you. "we're all ready to go now."

you hum, leaning over to survey the list you see held in touya's hand. your eyes flicker over to your son.

"socks and undies?"

hotaru's eyes widen. so do his father's.

"thanks, mama!" hotaru says, hopping up and running over to the basket in his closet where his underpants are kept. you watch as natsuo, shouto, and your son then begin the challenge of cramming more stuff into an already too-full duffle bag.

you glance over at touya, a little pink in his cheeks, his hand still resting on aoi's head.

"thanks," he mumbles to you, leaning over and kissing your cheek briefly. he steps towards the doorway, calling back over his shoulder to the boys, "you guys finish packing, i'll be right back."

hotaru glances up as his father slips away. "papa, did you forget your undies too?"

it takes a second but then you hear touya's disgruntled voice distantly reply.

"it wasn't on the list!"

[natsaffection]

Innocence. pt 3 | N.R

Older!Sargent!Natasha × Younger!Soldier!Reader

Warnings: War, destroyed environment, orphans, stress, allusion to sex

Word count: 6,8k

A/N: I had to split the part because Tumblr once again wouldn’t let me upload everything, so I’ll post the rest and the ending of this mini-series tomorrow! 🫶🏼

Part 2

9 Weeks into Deployment

The camp smelled like dust, diesel fuel, and burnt coffee, but tonight, just for a few stolen hours, it almost felt like something close to home. A small crowd had gathered near the rec tent, the low thud of laughter and clinking bottles rolling out into the warm night air.

Someone had dragged the battered kicker table outside, a chipped, faded thing that had survived more deployments than anyone cared to count, and a makeshift tournament was already in full swing. Gage and Martinez manned one side, red-faced and already arguing over whose fault the last goal was.

Rae lounged nearby with a half-empty water bottle, heckling both of them with brutal precision. You wandered over, the buzz of the campfire still warm against your skin, a lazy grin pulling at your mouth. You caught the tail-end of Martinez daring anyone to take them on, “best kicker team this side of the goddamn desert!!” he bragged.

Without thinking too hard, you stepped up, grabbing one of the handles casually. “You’re on.” you said, and the guys erupted into cheers and mock boos.

“You need a partner, dumbass.” Gage said, smirking around his drink. Before you could answer, you heard boots scuff behind you, slow, measured, and glanced over your shoulder.

Natasha. She was moving across the open space with Maria, a cup of something steaming clutched loosely in her hand. She looked relaxed, or as relaxed as Natasha Romanoff ever allowed herself to look, hair pulled into a loose bun, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

Someone, maybe Martinez, maybe pure courage fueled by beer, called out. “Hey, Sarge! You in?”

Natasha’s steps slowed. Her eyes flickered to the table, to the crowd, to you gripping the kicker handle with an eager grin. For a moment, it looked like she was about to wave them off, the professional wall snapping back into place. But then, a breath, a heartbeat, and her mouth curved into a faint smirk.

“Why not.” Natasha said, setting her cup down on a crate with a soft thunk. Maria laughed under her breath and shook her head, walking away toward the firepit. She circled the table, rolling her shoulders once, and stopped at your side.

“Guess we’re teammates.” she said dryly, one eyebrow arching in challenge. Your stomach fluttered, nerves, adrenaline, maybe something more, but you bit it down, nodding sharply.

“Don’t hold me back, Sarge.” you teased. Natasha snorted quietly, adjusting her stance at the table. “We’ll see who’s carrying who.”

The first few minutes were a mess of bad coordination. Your hands slipped on the metal rods, the ball pinwheeling wildly as you tried to keep up with Martinez’s brutal spins.

You lost three points fast, the score clacking up to 0-3 and Gage whooped loud enough to draw more onlookers.

“You two gonna get it together or what?” Rae called from the sidelines. Natasha just smirked, calm as ever, shifting her grip and nudging you lightly with her elbow.

“Focus up, rookie.”

The next serve was sharper, Natasha’s hands moved the defense rods with clean, efficient flicks, and you found yourself syncing to the rhythm without even thinking. The ball snapped across the table, you caught it with your center man, twisted your wrist quick, and scored. The clack of the ball hitting the goal box echoed loud and sweet.

“Nice.” Natasha said, low, almost approving. You grinned despite yourself, heart thudding hard. You fought back, point by point. At 5-5, the jokes started flying faster than the ball, Martinez accusing Gage of sabotaging him, Gage blaming the dust for his “poor grip.”

By 7-7, the crowd was fully invested, Rae screaming fake betting odds at the top of her lungs. Sweat rolled down your neck, sticking your shirt to your skin. Your hands slipped on the metal rods, arms burning from how tight you were clenching. Everyone was sweating, everyone was laughing, everyone was alive in a way that had nothing to do with bullets or missions or survival.

9-9. Match point.

Your fingers ached, your arms shaking slightly from adrenaline and heat. Martinez twisted viciously, the ball rocketed across the table, but Natasha’s defensive bar slammed it back so hard it ricocheted straight toward you. For a heartbeat, everything blurred, shouts, dust, sweat-slick hands, and then instinct took over. You twisted your wrist, slammed the shot. The ball rattled into the goal box with a loud, final clack.

You won.

For a second, no one moved, just stunned silence broken by the sound of the ball rolling to a stop. Then cheers exploded around you. Heart hammering out of your chest, you turned, without thinking, and threw yourself into Natasha.

Not hard, not dangerous, just a clumsy, joyous, stupid leap of pure excitement. Your arms wrapped around Natasha’s shoulders before your brain caught up. You could feel the solid warmth of her body, the slight recoil of surprise in her muscles, the way Natasha’s hands instinctively came up to catch you by the waist to steady you.

For a second, just a second, the whole world narrowed to that one dizzy, breathless moment. Natasha’s laugh, real and low and rare, rumbled against your chest.

“You’re gonna knock us both over.” Natasha murmured, amused. You pulled back fast, face burning, grinning like an idiot.

“Sorry- sorry,” you gasped, breathless and buzzing. Natasha’s hands lingered a moment longer at your hips before she let go, stepping back with a smirk tugging at her mouth. “No harm done.” she said, voice low enough that only you could hear it. “You earned it.”

Most of the unit had wandered off, laughing, yawning, carrying the last of the warm beers and leftover food back toward the containers. The camp was quieter, softer, settled into that rare space between exhaustion and the next mission. You stayed behind near the firepit, sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground, picking idly at the frayed seam of your cargo pants.

You weren’t alone. Natasha lowered herself down nearby with a quiet grunt, boots scuffing the dirt, one hand wrapped around a dented metal mug still half-full of something lukewarm and bitter.

“You were good tonight.” Natasha said eventually, her voice pitched low, casual. “At the table.”

You snorted, feeling a grin twitch at your mouth. “You mean other than almost taking your head off celebrating?”

Natasha gave a quiet, breathy laugh, rare and real. “Part of the game.” she said, tilting her mug in salute. They fell into silence again, but it was lighter now, threaded through with something warm.

You poked at the dirt with the toe of your boot, debating. Then, because the night was soft and because Natasha was here, you asked:

“Your family ever get on board with you joining?”

Natasha’s mouth twitched, not a real smile this time, more a grim quirk of humor. “My parents didn’t want me anywhere near it,” she said simply. “Tried every trick in the book to stop me. Guilt trips. Bribes. Threats.”

You huffed a soft laugh, not at her, but in shared understanding. “Yeah..”you said, tipping your head back to look up at the sky. “Yeah, I get that.”

Natasha shifted, glancing at you sidelong. “What about yours?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, thinking how to put it into words, how to make it sound less raw than it still was. “It’s… complicated.” you said finally.

Natasha didn’t push. Just waited. The fire cracked quietly between you, the embers hissing low.

“When I first said I wanted to join..” you began, voice careful, “my mom was…proud. Shocked, but proud.” You rubbed your palms together, feeling the grit catch in the lines of your skin.

“I thought she’d freak out.” you continued. “She hated the idea of me being a cop back when I mentioned it in school, thought it was too dangerous. Too…risky.”

You smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “So when she was all supportive about the army, I didn’t get it. Thought maybe…maybe she’d finally seen me.”

Natasha said nothing, her gaze steady in the low light. You breathed out slowly, feeling the weight settle heavier across your chest. “But when the paperwork came through, when it was real, not just talk, everything changed.” you said, voice cracking a little around the edges. “She just…looked at me. Like she didn’t know who I was.”

You swallowed hard, blinking up at the stars to hold the burn behind your eyes. “She said…” You laughed softly, a broken sound. “She said she didn’t know how she could be proud of a daughter who was going to kill people.”

The words sat in the space between you, ugly and raw. The fire popped loudly, sending a spray of sparks curling up into the night. You dragged a hand over your mouth, pressing hard against the tremble there.

“I get it.” you whispered. “I do. It’s not… it’s not what you want to imagine your kid doing.” Your voice broke softer now, fraying at the edges. “But it hurt.” you admitted. “Hurt like hell.”

Natasha shifted closer, not touching, not crowding, but closer enough that you could feel the warmth of her presence wrapping around you like a shield.

“For what it’s worth.” Natasha said, voice rough and low, “your mom’s wrong.”

You looked at her, startled.

“You didn’t join to kill people,” Natasha said. “You joined to protect them. Big difference.”

You stared down at your hands, curling them into fists against your knees. “She’s… she’s better about it now.” you said quietly. “Still scared. Still thinks one day she’ll get a call she doesn’t want.”

Your throat closed tight. “I guess I can’t blame her.”

Natasha nodded slowly. “You can love someone and still be terrified for them,” she said. “Doesn’t mean they’re not proud. Just means they’re human.”

You smiled faintly, wiping your hand across your cheek. “Yeah..” You sat there a long time after that, the fire burning lower, the stars wheeling overhead in slow, ancient patterns. The fire had burned down to little more than glowing embers, pulsing faintly in the dirt. The smoke drifted low and lazy over the camp, blending into the dark horizon.

You sat slumped forward now, elbows on your knees, fingers absently tracing the frayed seams of your cargo pants, your body heavy with the weight of exhaustion you could no longer outrun. Across from you, Natasha still sat, watching the last of the fire with a small, unreadable smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The easy hum of voices from the containers had faded. Someone clattered a chair somewhere, a few last stragglers laughing low, but the camp was settling into that deep, final quiet that only came before the early starts. Tomorrow was coming fast.

Your four-day mission. Out beyond the wire, into dust and heat and whatever else waited for you. No more nights like this. At least not for a while.

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to leave the fire. Didn’t want to leave the fragile, warm bubble of tonight. But your body was already sagging with the need for sleep, and tomorrow would not wait.

Natasha must have seen it, the slump in your shoulders, the stubborn way you stayed seated despite how badly you needed rest. Without a word, Natasha stood, brushing the dust from the back of her pants, and stepped forward.

She held out her hand. You looked up at her, throat tight, and took it without hesitation. Natasha’s grip was strong but gentle, pulling you easily to your feet. You swayed slightly as you stood, muscles sore, blood rushing to your head, but Natasha’s hand stayed firm on your elbow, steadying you without a word.

You didn’t speak as you turned away from the dying fire and started walking back toward the containers. Your boots crunched softly against the dirt. The stars stretched wide and endless above you, a thousand cold eyes watching. The camp around you was mostly dark now. A few floodlights cast long, slanting shadows over the gravel. The hum of generators buzzed low in the background, broken occasionally by the distant bark of a radio.

You focused on Natasha’s shoulder ahead of you, the way she moved, smooth, precise, efficient, even in fatigue. It was comforting, somehow. To know there was still something solid in a world that kept shifting under your boots.

As you reached the containers, Natasha slowed, glancing back at you with a small, crooked smile that made your chest ache strangely.

“Get some sleep.” Natasha said softly, voice carrying just enough weight to make it a command, but softened by something warmer underneath.

You nodded, swallowing against the tightness rising up in your throat. “Yeah.” you croaked, clearing your throat. “You too.”

Natasha’s eyes softened a fraction. “Early roll-out.” she said. “Zero five hundred.” You smiled faintly, exhaustion pulling at the edges of it. “I’ll be ready.”

Natasha’s mouth quirked up slightly, not quite a smile, but close enough. “I know.”

You stood there a moment longer, neither moving, the night heavy around you. A thousand things you could’ve said burned the back of your throat, thank you, be careful, stay close, but none of them made it past your lips. And somehow, Natasha understood anyway. Without another word, Natasha lifted her hand, quick, casual, and let it brush lightly against your knuckles before stepping back into the shadows, boots silent against the gravel.

The alarm buzzed through the container like a razor against skin. You flinched awake before your eyes even opened, already feeling the deep ache settled into your muscles. The air was still heavy with the grit of the desert night, and every inch of your body protested the thought of moving.

You lay there for a breath longer, staring up at the dim ceiling, listening to the familiar chorus of a base coming alive before dawn, boots hitting the gravel, shouted orders swallowed by the thick morning air, the low grumble of vehicles warming up in the distance.

Today was the day. Four days out. Beyond the safety of the wire. Your stomach turned slightly, part nerves, part grim anticipation. You dragged yourself up slowly, hissing at the tightness in your side, and swung your legs over the edge of the narrow cot. The cold bit through the thin fabric of your T-shirt.

Across the room, Rae was already moving in the half-light, pulling on her uniform with brisk, automatic movements, muttering something low under her breath about hating mornings. You smiled faintly to yourself, shaking the fog from your head.

By the time you stepped outside, the first light of dawn had just begun to scrape along the horizon — a thin, bruised line of color against the endless grey of the desert. The air smelled like diesel, sweat, and something sharper underneath, that tense, metallic tang that came whenever soldiers prepped for a mission.

The camp was a living thing now, humming with low, urgent energy. Groups clustered around the trucks, checking and rechecking gear, tightening straps, loading crates. Just the hard rhythm of work, metal clinking, canvas snapping, boots grinding into gravel.

You fell into it without thinking, hands moving in familiar patterns as you tightened your vest, double-checked your rifle, adjusted your helmet. Beside you, Rae finished loading her medic bag, checking the straps twice, then slapping the side of your pack with a quiet nod.

“Locked and loaded, baby.” she said under her breath, too tired for any real enthusiasm. You bumped her shoulder lightly in return, a silent thanks.

At the head of the convoy, Natasha stood with Hill and Vargas, heads bent low over a map pinned to the hood of a Humvee. She was dressed sharp, plate carrier snug, sidearm strapped low, helmet tucked under one arm, the picture of composed authority. But your eyes caught a smaller detail, the way Natasha’s thumb tapped absently against the side of the map as she listened, a steady, grounding rhythm she probably didn’t even realize she was doing.

It made something tighten low in your chest, a reminder that no matter how solid Natasha looked, she carried the same weight you all did. Maybe more. Squad leaders called roll. Gunners mounted weapons. Engines revved louder now, swallowing the last of the quiet.

You hoisted your gear higher onto your shoulders, feeling the familiar pull of the straps, the rough rub of the vest against your side. Every buckle, every seam, it was all part of your skin now.

Natasha moved through the ranks, checking each vehicle personally, exchanging quick words with each driver, each squad. When she reached you and Rae’s truck, she paused for a second longer. Her eyes flicked over you both, checking, assessing.

“You good?” she asked quietly. You nodded sharply, standing a little straighter despite the tight pull in your ribs.

“Good to go, Sergeant.” you said, voice steady. Natasha’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost something softer, but she only nodded, knocking the side of your helmet lightly with two fingers before moving on.

The touch was not nothing..It was everything.

Moments later, you mounted up, the doors slamming shut with heavy finality. You settled into your seat beside Rae, cradling your rifle loosely against your knees, the truck vibrating beneath you as the engines roared to full life. The radio crackled to life, Hill’s voice sharp and clean through the static.

“Convoy, this is Command. Clear to move.”

Natasha’s voice answered next, clipped and calm. “Unit Nine copies. Rolling out.” The truck lurched forward, tires grinding into the dirt.

The base gates swung wide. The desert stretched out beyond, endless, merciless, waiting. You sucked in a slow breath through your nose, feeling the tight coil of nerves and adrenaline waking up fully inside you.

The first day was always the hardest, not because of the distance or the heat, but because it meant resetting your brain.

Base was safe. Relatively. Out here? Out here, it was always waiting. Always watching. The convoy chewed up the dirt roads, heading toward a rebuilding village flagged in the last intelligence report. Supplies were incoming. The mission: escort, overwatch, stabilization.

By midday, you could feel the weight of your gear pulling you down with every step. You adjusted the strap of your rifle against sweat-slick skin, boots grinding into dry earth. The village sprawled ahead, a few shattered buildings, some canvas tents. Civilians moved between rubble piles and half-built walls, carrying bricks, hauling buckets of water.

The squad spread out along a half-collapsed wall, static overwatch while local teams cleared debris and distributed aid. You shifted your weight, adjusting your helmet, eyes sweeping rooftops, windows, alleys, always moving.

Across the open courtyard, Martinez leaned against the bumper of a Humvee, playing cards with Rae and Gage. They kept it low, discreet. Helmets still on. Rifles within reach.

Gage flicked a card with two fingers, muttering something that made Rae snort-laugh. “You’re bluffing like shit.” she said.

Martinez just grinned, flashing a busted MRE (Meal, Package) cookie as a wager. The laughter was small, almost apologetic. It didn’t carry. Even now, the desert could swallow you if you made too much noise.

A few meters away, Natasha stood silent and steady. One hand rested on her rifle strap, the other shading her eyes as she scanned the street beyond the aid trucks. She barely moved, just the slow pivot of her head, the precise sweep of her gaze.

You watched her, not openly, but enough. The way her eyes would flick now and then toward the squad, counting heads, checking gear, absorbing every small detail, and then back to the streets. It wasn’t paranoia. It was survival. You dropped your gaze back to your sector, breathing slow through your mouth, tasting dust with every inhale. The heat soaked into your bones.The waiting ate at the edges of your nerves.

The second day started just after sunrise, before the heat fully pressed down, though it already threatened to. You walked point with Gage, scanning ahead. Rae and Martinez flanked the formation. Natasha, as always, brought up the rear, never in front, never showing anything but complete control.

Two translators led the way, their voices careful, smoothing over the deep lines months of war had carved into the village. You passed a group of kids, barefoot, dusty-faced, kicking a half-deflated soccer ball between them in a narrow alley.

A smile tugged at you under your helmet. And then, the ball bounced wide, rolling straight toward your formation. It came to rest by Natasha’s boot. Every muscle in your body tensed automatically, instinct screaming trap. But Natasha barely paused.

She nudged the ball back toward the kids with the side of her boot, a smooth, deliberate motion. Not careless. Not soft. Just…human. The kids whooped, chasing after it, laughing. Natasha’s rifle stayed ready. Her eyes never left the windows overhead. But for one moment, one heartbeat, you saw it: The cost. The effort it took to stay steel when your heart wanted something else.

Hours later, the self-made camp was a loose circle of vehicles and sleeping bags. They kept the lights dim, lanterns low, rifles within arm’s reach. The stars stretched so close above, it felt like you could touch them.

No one talked about home. Not really. Only in sideways jokes, the kind you didn’t have to explain. They traded food, the night’s favorite game.

“Chicken a la mystery.” Martinez announced, holding up a brown packet.

“Trade for your brownie.” Rae countered instantly.

“You think I’m stupid?”

“Think you’re hungry.”

Gage tossed a packet onto the sand. “Who wants veggie omelet? I’ll pay someone to take it.”

Groans all around. Even Natasha huffed, a tiny, almost-silent laugh.

Someone tossed a cracked protein bar into the growing “community pile,” and by the end of twenty minutes, a makeshift ration market was running under the faint glow of lanterns.

Natasha stayed, not leading. Just..being. Martinez dared her into a card game. Natasha shrugged and joined, schooling them all so mercilessly that Rae threw her cards down in surrender.

They joked about a rematch, argued about MRE superiority, and Gage told a story about an officer who once got his foot stuck in a toilet.

Even Natasha grinned at that one. For a little while, the war didn’t exist. There was just you. A family made of sweat, dust, and survival. Because Natasha had made it that way. She didn’t shield you from the world. She made you strong enough to live in it.

Morning came under a blur of dust trails and grinding gears. The sun baked up onto the village square, the stones and dirt radiating heat like an oven. It was nearing the end of the fourth day outside the wire, and the entire team moved slower now, worn down by the grind of exhaustion, sun, dust.

Natasha stood near the center of the open space, facing a thin, tired-looking woman wrapped in layers of faded fabric. Their translator stood at Natasha’s side, shifting nervously from foot to foot, his radio crackling faint static.

Natasha kept her body loose, nonthreatening, her hands visible at her sides, her rifle slung tight across her chest but her posture relaxed. She spoke in a calm, low voice, every word deliberate, her eyes locked firmly on the woman’s face even though she knew the woman wouldn’t understand her English. The translator echoed her words rapidly in the local dialect, tripping over a few phrases, but Natasha didn’t rush him.

“Have you seen any unknown vehicles near the village recently?” she asked, voice even. “Anyone you didn’t recognize, anyone acting strange?”

The woman hesitated, twisting the edge of her headscarf between trembling fingers, before answering in low, rapid bursts. Natasha watched her face more than her words. The tightening of her mouth when she mentioned the northern fields. The slight shake of her hands when she gestured toward the abandoned well.

The translator relayed it all, but Natasha was already piecing it together from body language alone, reading the fear under the surface like she’d been trained to. “Thank you.” Natasha said when the woman finished, her voice softening just a fraction.

“Thank you for your help.” The translator passed the words along, and the woman nodded quickly, clutching her scarf tighter before hurrying back toward the group gathered near the well. Natasha exhaled slowly, letting some of the tension bleed from her shoulders.

She turned, making her way toward the lead vehicle, gear heavy on her back, the sweat drying and re-drying in salty layers along her spine. As she reached for the handle of the door, something caught her eye. Across the square, you knelt in the dust, one knee braced against the ground, surrounded by three small kids no older than seven or eight.

You had one hand resting protectively across the stock of your rifle, keeping it tucked safe against your body, angled firmly down and away. The other hand was free, gesturing awkwardly, trying to communicate. Your French was clumsy, Natasha could hear the broken syllables even from here, but the kids didn’t seem to care. They laughed, hands fluttering excitedly as they pointed at your patches, at your boots, at your helmet.

One of the kids, a tiny boy with a mop of black hair and torn sandals, reached out with hesitant fingers, touching the heavy armor on your thigh with reverence. You didn’t flinch. You smiled, tired, warm, real, and said something that made the children giggle harder.

Natasha leaned her weight into the side of the vehicle, watching. The whole world felt sharper for a moment, the heat, the dust, the distant crackle of a broken radio. But none of it mattered. Just the way you crouched there, rifle guarded, gear heavy, sweat streaking down your temple,

It hit Natasha somewhere deep, somewhere she usually kept locked away. Without thinking, she thumbed her radio, lifting it to her mouth.

“Unit Nine, saddle up.” she said, voice crisp across the comms. “Time to head home.”

The acknowledgment crackled back almost instantly, low curses, a few tired jokes. Across the square, you heard it too. You stood carefully, moving slow so you didn’t startle the kids. The children clustered closer, still giggling, hands clasped together like they didn’t want to let you go.

You smiled at them, wide and full, brushing a dusty hand against the smallest boy’s head in a gentle pat. Natasha’s hand tightened on the doorframe of the vehicle. And before she could stop herself, she pulled out her phone, the battered field-issue one, and lifted it.

She framed you quickly, backlit by the harsh sun, surrounded by children, armor and humanity wrapped into one. She snapped the picture.

You caught her in the act, looked up, eyes wide for half a heartbeat, and then grinned at her. Natasha felt something tug at her chest sharply. She lowered the phone, slipping it back into her pocket with careful fingers, before pulling herself up into the truck.

The ride back was quiet, the heavy, low buzz of soldiers half-dozing against seatbelts, rifles cradled loosely in their laps. Through the dust-caked windows, Natasha caught a glimpse of the kids again, running after the vehicles for a few meters, laughing and waving. It twisted something in her gut. Hope, maybe..or guilt. She wasn’t sure anymore.

By the time they rumbled back into camp, the sun was bleeding out across the horizon, painting the sky in bruised oranges and purples. Engines shuddered off one by one, leaving only the low hum of generators and the distant bark of orders.

You climbed down stiffly, boots hitting cracked asphalt with a heavy thud. Every movement automatic. Habit, not thought. Around you, the squad gathered loosely, some dragging packs, others stretching out sore muscles.

Natasha stood in front of you all, helmet clipped to her side, expression sharp despite the hollowed look behind her eyes. She clapped her hands once, drawing the loose circle tighter.

“I know all you want is a shower and a bed.” she said, voice carrying clear but not harsh. “You’re gonna get it.”

The faint ripple of exhausted relief that went through the group was almost funny. “But first, quick words.”

The unit stilled, listening. “You did good out there.” Natasha said. “Every checkpoint. Every sweep. No casualties. No missed shots. We were visible, we were professional, and we kept the civilians safe.”

She looked around the group, really looked, her gaze lingering a fraction longer on you without meaning to. “I know it wasn’t easy. Long days. Not enough sleep. Too much heat. But you kept your heads.”

Someone , Rae, maybe, made a faint sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. Natasha smirked, just a little. “We’re on low-tempo until tomorrow morning.” she finished. “Get your gear squared. Get clean. Get some hours. Rebrief at oh-six-hundred. Dismissed.”

Natasha spotted you threading your way toward your container, helmet under your arm, vest slung across your shoulder. You moved slower than usual, the fatigue etched deep into every line of your body, but when you saw Natasha, you offered a faint, lopsided smile.

Natasha crossed the distance easily, stopping in front of you. She didn’t hesitate. “Phone.”

You blinked, thrown off by the abruptness — and laughed, shifting your helmet to your other arm. “Did I do some-“

Natasha smirked, tilting her head slightly. “I need to send you something.” she said. “Photo from earlier.”

Your eyes widened in realization, and then you grinned, fishing your battered phone out of your cargo pocket and offering it over. Natasha took it easily, thumbs flying as she punched in her number under the name N.R..

When she handed it back, you glanced down at the contact list, and couldn’t help but tease, voice warm and low: “Smooth way to get a number..”

Natasha’s mouth twitched into a crooked smile. “Wouldn’t have to be so smooth if you were quicker.” she said, dry as the desert.

You barked a soft laugh, tired but real. And when your eyes caught, just for a second, something unspoken flared hot between you. Natasha stepped back first, professional again, but her voice was softer now, “I’ll send it tonight.”

And then, like it was nothing.. she was gone, boots crunching away across the gravel. Leaving you standing there, phone in your hand, heart hammering against your ribs.

The shower was heaven. It hissed against your scalp, weak pressure and lukewarm heat, but you could’ve cried from how good it felt. You stood there far too long, head tilted, letting it rinse four days’ worth of sand and war off your skin. Letting yourself feel human again. When you stepped out, the steam curling off your arms, you moved slowly , like your body belonged to the mattress already.

Clean clothes. Real socks. A dry shirt. The little things mattered more than they should’ve. You climbed into your bunk, damp hair soaking into the pillow, and let the quiet settle around you. You were nearly asleep when your phone buzzed.

You groaned, turning your head. You didn’t want to move. But then you saw the name.

N.R.

Your stomach flipped. You rolled onto your side, grabbed the phone.

Natasha:

“Figured you’d want this before you passed out.”

(attached: 1 image)

You tapped it. It was the photo, you with the kids in the village. Sunlight streaking through dust. A soft smile on your face you didn’t even remember making. The smallest kid still clinging to your pant leg like he’d known you his whole life. It looked… beautiful. Like something outside of war.

You smiled, your chest tightening in that odd way it did when something meant more than it should. You forwarded it to your dad. Then your mom. No message, just the photo.

You were about to set the phone down when you saw it, N.R. is typing…

Your heart kicked harder.

Natasha:

You look good there.

Like yourself.

You stared at the screen for a full five seconds. Then:

You:

Didn’t realize you were such a photographer. Should’ve told me to pose.

Natasha:

That was the pose.

I just caught you in it.

You grinned, cheeks warm despite yourself. You rolled onto your back, phone resting on your chest. The screen lit again.

Natasha:

You did good out there. The last four days weren’t easy. You held your own.

You read that twice. Then again. You bit your lip. Then typed: Coming from you, that means more than I can say. You kept us all moving. Even when we were half dead on our feet.

There was a pause. Longer this time. You almost thought that was it. Then:

Natasha:

You looked more comfortable with them than half the unit.

You:

They didn’t grill me about gear maintenance, so yeah. Definitely easier.

Natasha:

They didn’t stare at you the way some of the guys do either.

You blinked. Read it twice. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then you smiled, shy but bold.

You:

Not sure what you’re implying there, Sarge..

Natasha’s reply came back sharp.

Natasha:

You know exactly what I’m implying.

And then, softer:

Natasha:

You’re not invisible.

Not to them.

And not to me.

You felt the air shift in the room. The weight of those words. You sat up, phone in both hands, staring at it like it might start burning. This wasn’t banter anymore.

You:

You’ve been… around more lately.

Natasha:

Because I trust you more than most and I feel better when you’re nearby. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without making it weird.

Your fingers trembled.

You:

It’s not weird.

Natasha:

No?

You:

No. I’ve been thinking about it too.

About you.

Long pause. Then:

Natasha:

I don’t want to push. You’re younger. You’re my soldier. This matters.

You:

I know.

Natasha:

So I’m going to say this once. Just once. If you want to come over, just to talk, door’s open. No pressure. Nothing more than that unless you want it.

You stared at the message. Your heart was going too fast. You pulled your knees up to your chest, phone clutched against your shin, forehead pressed to your arms.

“Just to talk..” you whispered. You chewed the inside of your cheek. Looked up at the ceiling. Spoke out loud, like a fool.

“Don’t make this something it’s not. She’s trying to be careful. Don’t ruin it!!”

You waited five full minutes. Phone in your hand. No response. Because Natasha had said all she needed to. And finally, with your stomach tight and your pulse electric, you slid off the bed.

You slipped your boots on. Didn’t tie them. Threw on a jacket. Checked your reflection in the steel mirror. Whispered, “Relax, dammit..” And walked out the door.

When you knocked softly on Natasha’s door, it opened almost immediately. Natasha stood there, dressed down, eyes tired, hands loose at her sides. She didn’t speak. Just stepped back, slow and quiet, letting you step in.

The narrow cot was tucked tight against the wall. A battered duffel sat half-unzipped at the foot of it, boots lined up neatly nearby. A small metal shelf held a few personal things, a worn book, a tiny framed photo you couldn’t see clearly from here, a half-empty canteen.

The overhead light was off, only a small desk lamp burned in the corner, casting the space in warm, golden shadows. It was cleaner than you expected. Tidy without being sterile..Lived-in.

You stood awkwardly just inside the door for a beat too long, jacket still clutched awkwardly in your hands. Natasha watched you quietly from across the small room, hands loose in her pockets, body relaxed, but her eyes… her eyes stayed sharp.

Not pressuring. Just..waiting. Giving you space to choose. You swallowed, shifting your weight, trying to shake the tension buzzing under your skin. You cleared your throat, the sound too loud in the tiny room, and blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re…way neater than I thought you’d be.” you said, voice pitching high enough it almost cracked. You winced immediately, cheeks flushing hot.

Natasha’s mouth quirked, the tiniest smirk, but she didn’t tease. “Years of practice.” she said instead, voice low, almost amused.

You moved further in, jacket still clutched awkwardly, eyes scanning everything too quickly. “You’ve got, like, three things.” you said, laughing a little to cover the nerves crackling in your chest.

“I think Rae and I combined have enough junk to fill a truck.”

Natasha shrugged, stepping to the side so you could move further in. “Less to leave behind.” she said simply. The words hit harder than you expected.

You dropped your jacket onto the nearest chair, fingers fumbling with the sleeves. Silence stretched between you. Natasha crossed the small room slowly, not rushing, just closing the distance enough that when she stopped, she was close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off her skin.

She didn’t touch. She didn’t reach. She just..waited.

You looked up at her, really looked, and something in your chest caved in. The tension wasn’t just physical. It was in the way Natasha’s hands flexed slightly at her sides. In the slight tightness at the corners of her mouth, in the way she watched you.. Terrified to take without permission.

It gave you the strength to move. To reach out..tentative..and brush the tips of your fingers against Natasha’s wrist. A light touch, just testing.

Natasha exhaled slowly, not a sigh, just the slow release of something coiled too tight for too long. And when you didn’t pull away, Natasha lifted her hand, and cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing the damp edge of your hairline.

You shivered, not from cold, and leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat. Natasha’s forehead dropped to yours, your breath mingling, close but not crushing.

“Last chance to run.” Natasha whispered, rough, a little raw. You smiled, small, trembling.

“I’m tired of running.” you whispered back.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t violent. It was slow, tentative at first, the soft press of lips, the cautious exhale of breath, the trembling shudder of walls coming down piece by fragile piece.

You clutched at the front of Natasha’s shirt, grounding yourself. Natasha’s hand slid carefully to your hip, anchoring, not pulling. When you broke apart, just for breath, you leaned your forehead against Natasha’s shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut.

For once, you didn’t have to be strong. You just had to be.

Part 4

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(Original picture)

[mediumgayitalian]

“The key is under the mat.”

Nico glances down at his boots. Under them is indeed a mat, or at least an approximation of one, woven grass long since thinned and ripped enough to see right through. Enough so that Nico can see, quite clearly, the rings of the giant tree, but no key.

Not the it matters. Since the treehouse doesn’t have a lock.

“Will,” Nico sighs, “can I please just come in.”

“The key is under the mat!”

Nico wishes he was friends with less complicated people. Like Connor, maybe. Gods, he can’t believe he’s even thinking it, but bring back the Stolls. Nico needs to spend his time with people who aren’t worried about thoughts or neuron pathways. This is too hard.

“I can hear your superiority complex from in here.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“It’s stifling.”

Scowling, Nico really considers barging through the faded tapestry currently serving as a door. It would be so much easier. It would take him three steps, he estimates, to lunge in, grab the holy fool he calls his best friend, and drag him out, kicking and screeching if necessary, down the stupid tree and back to camp. Just to eat and shower and sleep.

Gods, when did he become a babysitter.

“The key is under the mat,” Will insists for the third time, and to avoid blowing up like an actual bomb Nico whips the stupid mat off the stupid floor and looks.

And.

Well.

“Huh,” he mumbles, and ignores Will’s indignant I told you so!. He squints at the faded letters, puzzling what they might really be — because there’s no way he’s reading them right — before giving up and hesitantly saying. “Ghed?”

“It’s gheD,” Will corrects.

“I said that!”

“No, you said Ghed.”

“I —” Nico takes a deep breath. And another. Then he mimes strangling someone in the direction of the door. “Okay. Can you. Repeat it please.”

“Yes,” says Will patiently. “Say it like this: gheD.”

Nico wonders what sins his father is punishing him for.

“GheD,” he tries.

“Lower case g!”

“How the fresh fuck do you —” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Okay. In through the nose, out the mouth. Okay. Fuck. gheD.”

The tapestry door-thing whooshes open. Nico stares at it.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

It begins to descend. He rushes through it, tripping over a bent branch on the door frame and nearly toppling himself straight out of the tree and splatting on the floor. Fuck.

“This is, without a breath of hyperbole, the most annoying structure I’ve ever —”

His gaze skips over to the middle of the cramped little treehouse, where Will is curled up, in the middle of a frankly offensively large beanbag, knees tucked to his chest, curls dropping, eyes red.

“— seen.”

Will tries for a smile. “That’s what they get for letting an eight year old nerd design it.”

A curl of guilt cinches Nico’s heart. He does not have to ask who ‘they’ might be.

“How much did you have to beg to let them do that?”

“Barely.” Will snorts, scooching over to make room, snorting harder as Nico misjudges the softness of the beanbag and lands facefirst into the centre of it. “Michael liked to pretend to be a hardass but he was a big fat liar. I asked him first.”

Nico tucks his legs together, criss-cross, swiping the lint off his flaming face. “Now that is a challenge to picture.”

“Mhm. He really had the whole camp fooled.” He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face in his knees, but he can’t hide the tremor in his voice. “He spoiled me bad.”

“Figures,” Nico says softly. He pokes his friend hard in the ribs. “Only brats like you are this annoying to find when you need to.”

Will chokes on a laugh, and then it warps something heavy in the back of his throat, and Nico winces at the sharpness of it, rubbing his own neck. He shifts, hands twitching. Will curls up tighter, leaning away.

“S-sorry.”

Nico clears his throat. “Don’t be.”

It is hard to be in the same room as someone who is crying. It is harder still to sit next to someone who is trying desperately not to.

Slowly, heart pounding, Nico pulls his hand out of his pocket, and rests it on the curve of Will’s spine.

The shaking worsens. But the muscles of Will’s back relax under his palm.

He lets Will cry. He’s not sure what else to do. He tries to imagine it, for a moment; not just Bianca’s death but Hazel’s, Reyna’s, Jason’s, even Percy’s and Annabeth’s and — gods, six more. At least. Watching them die, one by one. Feeling them die through the burning heat of your hands. The lump in Nico’s throat aches something fierce.

Fuck. He’d run away sometimes, too. He did, really.

“Is it — is the doorway enchanted?”

He winces. That is not the Statement of Support™️ he’s meant to say, but luckily Will only laughs, wet and muffled as it is, and nods. Unbidden, Nico’s heart begins to smart something nasty, hand sliding up without his permission to comb through Will’s hair. Of course he’s — laughing. Even when hurting.

“Yes. I — me and Cecil got banned from any kind of locking mechanisms after The Incident of 2006 so Diana improvised. She had a buddy in New Jersey, an old foster sister, who was a Hecate kid, so she called in a favour. And Lee let me choose the code word before Michael could stop him so it’s in Klingon. That’s why it’s hard to say. Cass convinced me to write it under the mat. She said it was in case I ever lost my voice or something and someone else had to let me out, but really it’s ‘cause I used to fall asleep in here all the time and they had to come carry me back.”

“They sound like they loved you,” Nico says softly.

Will turns his head, just enough that Nico can see the dark blues of his eyes, the tears sliding across his nose, his temples. He smiles, wobbly, and it is so cracked and fragile that Nico is reaching out before he realizes, palm wet where it covers Will’s cheek, and Will’s long fingers are wrapped around his wrist.

“They did.” He sniffles. “I miss them, Nico.”

“You’re allowed to.” He runs his thumb over the heavy bags under Will’s eyes, careful not to catch the soft skin with his calluses. “Maybe, like, let someone know before you disappear, but you can take the time to miss them, Will.” He squeezes gently. “‘Feel it, don’t forget it’, right, Mr. Therapist?”

Will smiles again, and there is no attempted lightness, in it, this time; it is small and it is sad and it is sincere.

“Right.” He leans into Nico’s hand. “Thank you.”

Nico exhales. “Of course, tesoro.”

[norrisradio]

MEET ME IN THE WOODS

⸙ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ⸙ WC: 1.6K ⸙ GENRE: fluff + murphy's law ⸙ INCOMING RADIO: another buzzer beater for oscar's birthday! huge congrats to him for the phenomenal race in suzuka, i hope 24 is as kind to him as he is to the world around him <3

⸙ SUMMARY: oscar really hates camping. but he really loves you.

It is while surrounded by the smoky remnants of a fire that refuses to stay lit and the twisted, mangled poles of a tent that won’t go up no matter how many times he tries, that Oscar Piastri realizes: he fucking hates camping.

It had been your idea to get away—spend a few nights out in the wilderness, just the two of you, to celebrate his birthday. Get away from the noise. Refresh. Decompress.

Oscar hadn’t been opposed to the idea, not exactly. But he hadn’t camped in what felt like years, not since those family summers where his dad would drag him up the mountain, forcing him to pitch tents under the scorching sun. The promise of a weekend alone with you, however, had been enough to chip away at his paper-thin resolve. 

So he’d said yes. Even smiled through gritted teeth when you’d handed him the packing list you made in Notes, complete with emojis and way too many items labeled “just in case 💕.” He had nodded along when you enthusiastically described the exact trail to the campsite, the pre-made chili you’d frozen for dinner, and how cute it would be to stargaze away from city lights.

What he hadn’t known was that the moment you left the comfort of civilization, the universe would take it as a personal challenge to ruin his birthday, one inconvenient disaster at a time.

It had started on the drive there, when the GPS lost signal and you’d insisted—insisted—you remembered the turnoff “from the map.” That map had led you forty-five minutes in the wrong direction down a logging road that Oscar was still convinced doubled as a serial killer’s driveway. That’s when you had sheepishly admitted you “might’ve misremembered a turn or two.” He’d just opened his mouth to argue when you leaned across the center console and kissed him—quick, firm, sweet.

“There,” you said, like it was a magic spell. “That one’s for not yelling at me.”

Oscar had blinked at you, startled. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Yes, you were,” you said, grinning. “But it’s okay. I would’ve yelled at me too.”

And for some reason… that made it easier. He sighed, but didn’t snap. Didn’t even complain when you made him turn around. He just shook his head, muttering something about trusting your “great sense of direction.”

Then, when you finally arrived at the trailhead, it started raining. Not just a drizzle, either. A torrential, bone-soaking downpour that waited until he opened the boot of the car to unload everything before truly beginning its assault.

The rain stopped just long enough for you both to hike the trail in damp silence, Oscar slipping twice on the mud-slicked path, one of which resulted in him falling directly onto the bag of pre-made chili, which now smelled faintly like dirt and regret. You’d spent 15 minutes doubled over laughing. 

Oscar, meanwhile, was blinking water out of his eyes and watching his socks become tiny lakes. “We’re going to drown,” he said, deadpan.

“We’re going to bond,” you countered, and then kissed the rain off his lips. “See? Adventure.”

He rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his mouth.

Then came the tent.

Oh, the tent.

It had looked easy enough on the website—a “simple two-person pop-up,” you’d called it. Except it was neither simple nor popping up. One of the poles had snapped in half while Oscar tried to force it into the ground, and another had just…disappeared. Like, vanished. Possibly stolen by a raccoon. He wouldn't be surprised. The instructions were in six languages—none of them helpful. Oscar had spent twenty minutes trying to make sense of the diagrams while you watched like it was performance art.

“I believe in you,” you’d said sweetly.

“I need less belief and more competent engineering.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” you replied, before kissing his jaw and whispering, “Maybe we’ll just sleep under the stars. Very romantic.”

He groaned into your neck, but he didn’t stop trying.

And now, the fire. After six attempts, two nearly-singed eyebrows, and a lighter that ran out of fuel precisely when he needed it most, all they’d managed to create was a pathetic smolder surrounded by soggy kindling.

Now, with smoke stinging his eyes and soot on his hands, Oscar is reconsidering every decision that led him here—including, but not limited to, dating someone who uses words like “romantic” and “rustic” in the same sentence.

You, somehow, still have the audacity to be chipper.

“I feel like we’re really roughing it,” you say, holding your blanket tighter around your shoulders like it’s not doing absolutely nothing to help. “Super authentic experience.”

Oscar gives you a look. “Authentic what? Torture?”

You just grin. “Think of it this way—you’ll have the most dramatic birthday story to tell for the rest of your life.”

“Provided I survive the night,” he mutters, swatting a mosquito.

But then you scoot closer, knee knocking against his, and rest your head on his shoulder like this—this mess—is still somehow worth it. And despite the mud in his socks, the blister forming on his heel, and the slight buzz of frustration humming in his chest like an angry beehive…he lets out a low chuckle.

“I can’t believe you made me bring a full spice rack for chili we didn’t even get to cook.”

“We might still cook it,” you say optimistically.

Oscar gestures at the fire, which at this point resembles a haunted pile of wet sticks. “Sure. And then we’ll eat it raw like wild animals while fending off bears with our broken tent poles.”

“I’d protect you,” you offer, nudging him playfully. “Even from the bears.”

You decide you won’t let him wallow in the dwindling hours of his birthday—not when you still have one last plan up your sleeve.

“Come on,” you say, standing and holding out a hand. “Birthday boy emergency protocol is now in effect.”

Oscar blinks at you. “That sounds fake.”

“It’s real,” you assure him, grabbing his soot-streaked hand and yanking him to his feet. “And you have no choice but to comply.”

He grumbles something unintelligible but lets you drag him back toward the van. You throw open the trunk, pop the hatch, and get to work—untangling a bundle of fairy lights you’d hidden under the passenger seat, stringing them along the roof like it’s a Pinterest board brought to life. You layer every dry blanket you can find across the floor, toss in some throw pillows from the backseat, and dig out a bag of emergency snacks from your backpack. Half of it is crushed granola bars and slightly squished peanut M&Ms, but you arrange it all on a makeshift tray like you’re hosting a five-star picnic.

Oscar stands there, arms crossed, watching you with the expression of someone deeply suspicious of joy. “You packed fairy lights?”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Of course I packed fairy lights. What kind of amateur do you take me for?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but then you toss a blanket at his chest. “Get in, Piastri. You’ve been sentenced to enforced coziness.”

He climbs in with a sigh, but you catch the smallest twitch of his mouth as he settles back against the cushions. You follow him in, scooting close enough for your thigh to press against his, then wrap one of the fluffier blankets around your shoulders and drape it half over him too.

“See?” you say, nudging his knee. “Not completely terrible.”

He casts a glance around the van: the golden glow of the fairy lights, the now-dry haven you’ve constructed, the lopsided pile of snacks between you.

“…I’ll admit it’s slightly less terrible.”

You gasp, mock-offended. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

He turns toward you with a sigh so dramatic you’d think he was enduring medieval torture. “My tent is broken. I smell like wet socks. There’s probably chili all over my back. And we’re sleeping in a van.”

You grin, leaning in. “And yet—still the luckiest man alive.”

Before he can protest, you kiss him again—this time slower, with a little more intent. When you pull away, he doesn’t say anything for a second.

“…I guess there are worse ways to spend a birthday,” he says quietly.

You rest your head on his shoulder, smiling into his hoodie. “That’s the spirit.”

Then you pull him down next to you, both of you lying flat on the nest of blankets, limbs tangled and noses still a little pink from the cold. The fairy lights blink lazily above, reflected dimly in the van windows like distant stars.

You point up at them, completely serious. “That one’s the Big Blinky Spoon.”

Oscar snorts. “That’s not even remotely close to a constellation.”

“That’s because it’s from a better galaxy. The one where your socks are always dry and tents just pop up like they’re supposed to.”

He laughs quietly, breath fogging the air between you. “Sounds fake.”

“Sounds perfect,” you counter, voice dreamy, “And that one over there? That’s the Nebula of Doomed Chili.”

Oscar shakes his head, but he’s smiling now—really smiling—and when he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him. Your eyes are full of stars and fake constellations and Oscar is certain he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

You don’t say anything, but he doesn’t need you to. He’s already drawing his own version of the constellations along the sliver of skin at your waist where your jacket’s ridden up, fingers tracing slow, tender lines like they’re writing something sacred. When you shiver a little, he tucks the blanket tighter around you both.

“Happy birthday, Oscar,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Another to his jaw. One more just beside his mouth. “I’m sorry it wasn’t everything I promised.”

He tilts his head, nuzzles his nose against yours. His voice is low, certain. “It was everything. And more.”

And so, it is surrounded by fairy lights, kinda soggy, kinda frozen blankets, and your arms wrapped firmly around his waist, that Oscar Piastri realizes:

He still fucking hates camping.

But he really fucking loves you.

[mvctavish]

hesdcanosn for graves and price where the reader is pretty bossy and kind of intimidating? for graves she's sort of the co-commander of shadow co. and for price she's the 141's medic

𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄 - 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐘!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐂𝐒

notes: i love this idea so so much you're a genius anon!! since the relationship wasn't specified... i just made the reader their wife... cuz it felt right to me. if u were hoping for platonic hcs or anything different don't be afraid to send in another ask and i'll do it!! anyways, happy reading <3

summary: (seperate) headcanons of graves and price with a bossy/intimidating wife

cw: wife!reader (for both), deputycommander!reader (for graves), medic!reader (for price), general war stuff idk, probably inaccuracies when it comes to the military/PMCs, reader is kind of bitchy, for price reader is mentioned to be at least smaller than him

cdr. phillip graves

౿ ۪ ݁ he's scared of you, and it's pretty obvious despite his attempts at hiding it. when you get mad, he gets all quiet and mutters a quick and respectful "yes ma'am" no matter what you request or say to him. it's rather funny seeing the commander so scared of his own wife. phillip has seen first-hand just how angry you can get when things don't go your way. the aftermath ain't pretty. while he knows you'd never actually hurt him (besides throw around a few choice words) he prefers to keep the peace at all costs. he hates seeing you upset, whether it's a mission gone sour or down to something little like him leaving the toilet seat up.

you two first met way back in the marines, fresh outta boot camp and ready to conquer the world. even then you were intimidating, a fiery attitude that could challenge the sargeant above you both. you ended up leaving the military when phillip did, and got married not long after. despite the fact that he'd much rather have you not risk your life — you were insistent on being part of shadow company when it was formed, and not behind the scenes.

as his deputy commander, you're right there by his side. the shadows are like family to both you and graves — they're your boys — but you aren't afraid to whip them into shape if necessary. some new recruits are being too rambunctious for your liking? you're giving a sharp, glaring look to your husband and he's quick to get them in line. it doesn't take long at all for them to learn to respect (and fear) you, perhaps even more than graves. you're a force to be reckoned with.

down to the more domestic aspects of your life, you're always on his ass about the upkeep of the house. when you're both home, the work is split 50/50 (which was a huge shock to graves at first since he's always been a bit more traditional) but he knows it's only fair since you both work. you like your house in pristine condition, down to the floorboards being dusted, to the lampshades being in just the right position. you're bossy about little things, like always pairing up the socks when they're taken out of the dryer or him rinsing his beard trimmings down the sink whenever he's done shaving. he knows you tend to get a little pissy when things aren't done exactly how you like them, so that's why graves makes sure he — and the shadows — always listen to your input.

capt. john price

౿ ۪ ݁ price is more impressed than anything. there's so much fire and spirit crammed into one small thing: you. it's funny to him, how most people you interact with can be so intimidated by you. you have the bossy attitude as an angry mother bear, yet can still be sweet when it's needed. price first met you when he was still a lieutenant, suffering from a bad injury on the field. you were the only combat medic on duty. he'd tried to convince you that he was fine — there were other men that needed your help, too, and that he could keep going — but you'd grabbed him by the ear and chewed him out. calling him a "damn fool with a death wish," and that if he wanted to live he'd "better listen to you and sit his ass down." he'd immediately gone quiet and did as he was told. price wasn't used to being spoken to like that, much less from someone of a lower rank. that was the moment he knew he had to have you, and the rest was history.

it took a while to gain your attention around base, and you were the reason he grew out his beard in the first place, after a passing comment that you'd made about how you thought it'd make him more rugged. it took time, but you were worth every second.

relationships in your line of work can be messy, and perhaps one of the worst aspects could be the judgment from others. in one interaction with a new face on base, you'd gotten into quite a heated argument. the guy thought you'd be easy picking, a way to make fun of you and show off in front of his new pals. your sharp tongue and quick insults resulted in the man leaving close to tears, whilst price watched round the corner with a little smirk on his face. deep down, he'd always worry about you. you were his wife, his woman, his world. it was only natural — but instances like that reminded him that you could stand up for yourself. you were strong and independent, and never let anyone walk all over you. you'd been a people pleaser in the past, but never again. you lived for yourself.

once task force 141 was formed, it's obvious that your husband recruited you to join as well. it was difficult, and he had to abuse a few loopholes in the policies to even be allowed to be your CO, but in the end, it worked. rounding back to the mama bear point, ghost, gaz, and soap quickly warm up to you. you're honestly the closest thing any of them have to a mum. a scary, bossy, picky one, but still a mum. your team's safety is your number one priority, and you certainly aren't afraid of getting your hands dirty both figuratively and literally. you keep the boys and price in line, constantly nagging about drinking water and insisting that they need to eat more than just a damn protein barn before a mission. MREs suck, but it's better than going hungry.

price lets you boss him round whenever you two are home from deployment. of course, on the battlefield, he's in charge. but home? it's a different story. the lawn needs to be mowed? you bet it'll be done by the evening. low on groceries? he's starting a list and planning to drive down to the shops. you and price never really get into any real arguments. he's seen you on the battlefield, frightening as you shout orders to anyone around as you're patching up an injured soldier — that sort of intensity is one he does everything to avoid seeing in you.

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 7

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 7k

Trigger warning; //

notes; Back again haha! In this chapter, you might actually start to understand how much of a workaholic Y/N is. I'm excited for the solstice and the dawn trip (hope you guys are too <3). Well, see you soon! Take care and enjoy <3

previous ✧ next

The cold wind of the Illyrian mountains howled against the stone walls of the healer’s quarters, but you barely noticed as you worked, your focus entirely on the pile of scrolls, notes, and herbs spread across your desk. You had been in Illyria for a couple of days now, assisting the local healers with particularly challenging cases and offering guidance where it was needed most. Despite the simplicity of the space, your room was filled with a quiet energy, a testament to the tireless work done within its walls.

Your quill scratched against parchment as you wrote out instructions for one of the Illyrian healers who had sent a message earlier that morning. They had asked about a new technique for treating frostbite—a common issue during the harsh winters in the mountains. You had spent hours referencing old texts and comparing notes from your own experiences, finally coming up with a method that combined traditional herbal salves with a warming spell you’d learned during your time in the Dawn Court.

Just as you finished sealing the parchment with a simple wax stamp, there was a knock at the door. It opened to reveal a young Illyrian healer, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Healer Y/N,” the girl began, her voice tinged with nervousness. “I—I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve had another incident at one of the northern camps. A training accident. They’ve requested your advice.”

You stood, your boots clicking softly against the stone floor as you crossed the room. Placing a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder, you said, “No need to apologize. Let’s hear the details.”

The healer explained the situation as you quickly gathered your supplies. A young warrior had fallen during flight training, resulting in a severe dislocation of his wing joint. The healers at the camp had managed to stabilize him, but they were unsure how to proceed with the delicate process of resetting the joint without causing permanent damage.

“Send them this,” you said, handing the girl a scroll you’d prepared weeks ago for just such an occasion. “It details the exact steps for resetting a wing joint. Remind them to use the salve we’ve been distributing to numb the area first. And tell them to send word immediately if there are any complications.”

The girl nodded, clutching the scroll tightly before hurrying off into the cold. You watched her go, a small smile playing on your lips despite the exhaustion tugging at your bones. The Illyrian healers were young and inexperienced, but they were eager to learn, and that gave you hope.

Returning to your desk, your attention shifted to a small, intricately folded note that had arrived earlier in the day. The bird carrying it had been one you recognized immediately—a sleek, golden creature from the Dawn Court. Unfolding the note, you read the familiar handwriting of your old master, Healer Talyen. 

Y/N, 

Preparations for the upcoming meeting are underway. 

I trust you are faring well in your new role. The tensions in the world weigh heavily on us all, and I fear this gathering will bring more questions than answers. Still, it is necessary. I look forward to hearing your insights, as always. Let us hope this meeting will guide us toward solutions, not further discord. 

Yours in healing,

Talyen 

You sighed, folding the note carefully and setting it aside. The meeting of the head healers was only weeks away, and though you had been preparing for it diligently, the weight of its significance was not lost on you. The healers would be discussing not only advancements in their craft but also the rising tensions across Prythian—tensions that threatened to spill into outright conflict if not addressed. The responsibility of representing the Night Court was a heavy one, but you had never shied away from a challenge.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of yet another messenger, this time your own bird, Ydle, sleek and golden, hailing from Velaris. Unfolding the note, you read the familiar handwriting of Elira, one of the healers at the Velaris clinic.

Y/N,

We have a critical case on our hands—a rare form of Greyscale has developed in one of our patients. Preparations for the operation are underway, but we need your expertise to supervise. The procedure is scheduled for tomorrow. Please make haste.

Elira

There was no time to waste. After gathering most of your belongings, you prepared to return to Velaris. But before leaving, you knew you needed to address the Illyrian healers. Calling them together, you spent the next hour explaining the different measures to take in your absence, detailing protocols for various emergencies and ensuring they understood the importance of keeping thorough records of any developments.

As you finished outlining the final points, Devlon, the warlord of Windhaven, entered the room. His imposing presence was hard to ignore, and his sharp gaze scanned the gathered healers before settling on you.

“Still as bossy as ever, I see,” Devlon remarked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tone was meant to provoke, but you were not in the mood for his games.

Fixing him with a steely glare, you replied, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Devlon, but every healer in this court is under my command—not yours. So unless you’ve suddenly developed a talent for healing, I suggest you deal with your own business and let me do mine.”

The room fell silent, the tension palpable as your words hung in the air. Devlon’s smirk faltered, and though he said nothing further, the message was clear: you would not tolerate interference.

With that, you dismissed the healers and made your final preparations. The journey to Velaris awaited, and the clinic needed you now more than ever. Stepping out into the cold mountain air, you took a deep breath, centering yourself for the tasks ahead. 

You summoned your strength, focusing on the urgency awaiting you in Velaris. It wasn’t the first time you had left Illyria in a hurry, but something about this case weighed heavier. Perhaps it was the rarity of the Greyscale affliction, or perhaps it was the sheer responsibility placed upon your shoulders now that you had taken Madja’s place. Either way, the icy winds of the mountain pushed you forward as you winowed back to the city.

Arriving at the Velaris clinic in the quiet hours of the night, you immediately felt the bustling energy within. The faint glow of lanterns lit the hallways, casting long shadows against the walls. Despite the hour, the staff moved with precision, their steps purposeful. Elira met you at the entrance, her expression a mix of relief and urgency.

“Y/N, thank the Mother you’re here,” she said, gripping your arm as if to anchor herself. “The patient is stable, but the situation is precarious. His vitals are erratic, and the infection is spreading faster than we anticipated. We’ve done all we can to prepare for the operation, but…” She trailed off, clearly overwhelmed.

“Take me to him,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the adrenaline beginning to course through you.

Elira led you through the clinic, her hurried footsteps echoing against the polished floors. She briefed you on the patient’s status as you walked. A young male, mid-thirties, with no prior health issues, had developed a peculiar strain of Greyscale that seemed to target not just the skin but also the underlying tissue. The infection had started on his forearm and was now creeping toward his shoulder. If left unchecked, it could spread to his chest, putting his life in immediate danger.

“We’ve kept him isolated,” Elira continued, her voice tight with worry. “The room has been thoroughly sanitized, and only the most experienced healers have been allowed in. We didn’t want to risk contamination or worsening his condition.”

Nodding, you absorbed every detail. By the time you reached the patient’s room, your mind was already calculating the next steps. Pushing open the door, you were met with a grim sight. The man lay on a sterile cot, his arm wrapped in tightly woven bandages that barely concealed the mottled, grayish hue of his skin. His breathing was shallow, his face pale and glistening with sweat.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, your hands glowing faintly as you prepared to assess the extent of the damage. You would need precision, focus, and every ounce of your skill to save him.

But first, you needed a moment to prepare yourself mentally. You turned to Elira. “I’ll need the detailed records of his condition and the herbs prepared for the salve. Have everything brought to my apartment upstairs. I’ll be back shortly.”

Elira nodded, her confidence seemingly bolstered by your presence. As you made your way upstairs to your quarters, you felt the weight of the night settling over you. There would be no rest until this life was out of danger. But as always, you would rise to the challenge—because in this realm, healing was not just a duty, but a promise you had made long ago.

The rest of the night was a blur of meticulous preparation. You reviewed every note, re-checked the herbs, salves, and tools, and consulted ancient texts for anything you might have overlooked. Greyscale spreading internally was an anomaly, something you had never encountered before. The thought gnawed at you as the hours stretched on, but you pushed the worry aside. Dawn was approaching, and with it, the operation that would demand every ounce of your focus.

As the first light of the sun kissed the horizon, you and your team began. The patient had been sedated; the concoction you used was strong enough to keep him under without compromising his vitals. You moved quickly but carefully, beginning the painstaking process of removing the infected tissue.

Layer by layer, you worked, your hands steady even as the sight before you grew grimmer. The infection had spread deeper than you had anticipated, weaving through muscle and sinew like a parasitic vine. Every cut revealed more of the sickly gray tissue that needed to be excised, every moment reminding you of the high stakes of this operation. It was a battle against time, one that felt agonizingly slow yet required precision that couldn’t be rushed.

Hours passed. Your team worked in silence, their breaths shallow, their movements deliberate. The clinic’s usual hum of activity had dimmed to a quiet stillness, as if the entire building held its breath for your success.

You were midway through a particularly challenging section near the patient’s shoulder when one of the younger healers approached you, her voice hesitant. “Healer Y/N, someone is here asking for you.”

Your grip on the scalpel tightened slightly, but you didn’t lift your gaze from your work. “Who is it?” you asked curtly, your focus never wavering.

“The Shadow Singer,” she replied, a hint of nervousness in her tone.

Your heart skipped a beat, though you immediately cursed yourself for the reaction. What was Azriel doing here? You didn’t have time to think about him or the chaos his presence seemed to stir in you. “Unless it’s life or death, tell him to come back later. I’m busy.”

The healer nodded and retreated, leaving you to return to the grueling task before you. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as you continued cutting away the infection, applying salves and cleansing the exposed tissue as you went. Your back ached, your hands began to tremble from the strain, but you didn’t stop.

And then, you heard it: the soft but unmistakable sound of boots returning, followed by a second pair. Your jaw tightened, and without turning, you addressed the presence lingering just outside the room’s perimeter. “Azriel,” you said sharply, your tone edged with frustration. “What is it? And what could possibly be so important that it can’t wait?”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him standing near the doorway, his shadows curling faintly around him like an ever-present cloak. He didn’t step closer, respecting the sanctity of the operating space, but his voice was steady as he answered. “The general meeting has been pushed forward. It’s happening tomorrow instead of after the Dawn Court trip. Rhys needs you to finalize the financial proposal for the healer expansion plan.”

Your hands paused for the briefest moment before resuming their careful work. “Is that all?” you asked, your voice calm but clipped.

“Yes.”

“Then tell Rhys it will be ready.” You didn’t bother turning around, your attention fully on your patient. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a life to save.”

Azriel lingered for a moment longer, his shadows whispering around him as if reluctant to leave. But when he realized you wouldn’t offer more, he gave a curt nod, murmured something to the person who had accompanied him, and left.

You exhaled slowly, forcing your focus back to the task at hand. Whatever the meeting entailed, it would have to wait. For now, this was your battlefield, and you wouldn’t leave it until victory was certain.

The operation was reaching its most perilous stage. You had already spent hours meticulously excising the infected tissue, your hands steady despite the ache setting into your muscles. But now, you were working dangerously close to the patient’s heart. Every movement had to be exact, every cut deliberate, every application of salve perfectly measured. The slightest error could be fatal.

As you worked, time seemed to warp. Each time you pulled back a layer of skin or exposed the infected tissue near the delicate structures of the heart, it felt as though the world held its breath. The sound of your team’s soft murmurs, the clink of tools, even your own heartbeat faded into the background. It was just you, the patient, and the infection you were battling.

You swallowed hard, your focus razor-sharp. The infection had crept dangerously close to the heart, tendrils of the diseased tissue threatening the lifeblood of the body. Using a combination of precise cuts and a steady infusion of healing salve, you carefully removed the last pieces of infection. Sweat beaded on your forehead, and your breath came shallow, but you didn’t falter.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you secured the final section. The tissue was clean, the heart safe, the infection vanquished. The team around you let out a collective sigh of relief, and you allowed yourself a brief moment to close your eyes and inhale deeply. But the battle wasn’t entirely over. The patient would need close observation and care in the coming days to ensure no residual effects.

You stepped back from the operating table, your hands trembling slightly. “He’ll need monitoring,” you instructed the healers around you, your voice hoarse from hours of concentration. “Keep his temperature steady, and ensure he gets a nutrient tonic every four hours. Notify me immediately if there are any changes.”

The healers nodded, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and respect. You had done it. For now, the patient was safe.

As you peeled off your gloves and left the operating room, the adrenaline began to wear off, leaving you feeling as though your legs might give out at any moment. Your body screamed for rest, every muscle aching with fatigue. The thought of your bed—soft, warm, and inviting—was the only thing keeping you upright.

But, of course, the universe had other plans.

Just as you were about to leave the clinic, a younger healer approached you, clutching a large stack of papers bound together with twine. “Healer Y/N,” she began, looking both apologetic and slightly amused. “These just arrived from Madja. She said they were urgent.”

You blinked, your brain struggling to process her words through the haze of exhaustion. “Madja?” you echoed, your voice flat.

The healer nodded and handed you the stack. On top of the papers was a note in Madja’s neat, precise handwriting:

Dearest Y/N,

I trust this finds you well, though likely exhausted. These are the pending cases and research notes that require your attention. You’re more than capable of handling it, but don’t forget to breathe. You’re doing wonderfully, my dear.

With pride and love,

Madja

You stared at the note for a long moment, the sentiment warm and genuine—but utterly unhelpful in your current state. “That bitch,” you muttered under your breath, though the words lacked any real venom. It wasn’t anger you felt, just the bone-deep weariness of someone who had been running on fumes for far too long.

The healer stifled a laugh, and you gave her a half-hearted glare before turning toward the clinic’s staircase. Sleep had been within your grasp, so tantalizingly close, and now it felt like a distant dream. The weight of the stack in your arms was a physical reminder of the responsibility you carried now. You had always been a hard worker, but this—this was different. The stakes were higher, the expectations greater, and the room for error nonexistent.

As you trudged up the stairs to your quarters, you couldn’t help but long for a simpler time when the only thing on your mind was a single patient, not the fate of entire clinics, courts, and armies. But you pushed the thought aside. This was the life you had chosen—the life you were meant to lead.

For now, you allowed yourself one small indulgence: collapsing face-first onto your bed, the stack of papers forgotten on your desk for a precious few moments of peace. Even if the rest wouldn’t last long, you would take what you could get.

The sharp ring of your alarm shattered what little peace your sleep had offered. Groaning softly, you rolled over, willing yourself to ignore the incessant sound. But the meeting wouldn’t wait, and neither would the work you still had to finish. With a resigned sigh, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed at your eyes, the exhaustion from the previous days still weighing heavily on your shoulders. It was pretty much the same rhythm since you had taken Madja’s place but still you would need more time to be fully used to it.

Bless the Mother that the topics for the healer’s portion of the meeting were ones you had already prepared extensively for. You had been working on these plans for weeks now—financial overviews, resource allocations, and contingency strategies. At least you wouldn’t have to start from scratch.

After throwing on a soft, loose-knit sweater and some comfortable pants, you made your way to the small kitchenette. The rich scent of coffee filled the air as you prepared a steaming cup, its warmth a small comfort against the chill of the early morning. You grabbed a piece of toast, slathered it with a bit of jam, and headed toward the balcony.

Opening the door to the crisp winter air, you immediately regretted your decision. The cold bit at your skin, and your breath fogged in front of you, but the sharpness of the air helped shake the lingering haze of sleep from your mind. Standing there for just a moment, coffee in one hand and toast in the other, you took in the quiet of the morning. Velaris was still, the streets below dusted with a fresh layer of snow that sparkled faintly under the rising sun. The city had a magic of its own, even in moments like this.

The cold quickly seeped through your cozy outfit, and with a shiver, you retreated back inside, shutting the balcony door behind you. The moment had done its job, though—you were awake now, ready to tackle the day.

You set your coffee down on the desk and started sorting through the stack of papers from the night before. Your quill scratched against parchment as you finalized the last details, double-checking your figures and refining your notes. The financial overview was straightforward enough, outlining the current state of healer resources across the courts. Plans for improved training and resource distribution were already drawn up, and now you added the final touches to your strategy for the upcoming year.

Hours blurred together as you worked, pausing only to sip your coffee or glance out the window for a fleeting distraction. The cold air had invigorated you, but the work demanded every ounce of your focus. By the time you finished, the sun was higher in the sky, casting a pale light over the city. The documents sat neatly stacked on your desk, ready for the meeting ahead.

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing at the stiffness in your neck. There was still so much to do, but at least you had cleared this particular hurdle. The meeting would be demanding, no doubt, but for now, you allowed yourself a moment of satisfaction. You were prepared.

As you prepared for the meeting, you chose an outfit that balanced practicality with elegance. Your wide-legged black pants were adorned with a subtle sprinkling of golden star details, shimmering faintly in the light. The fabric was soft yet structured, allowing for ease of movement while still appearing polished.

Your top was a dark teal masterpiece with a high neckline that exuded understated sophistication. The long, flowing sleeves added a graceful touch, billowing slightly as you moved. The bodice of the top was fitted, hugging your form just enough to highlight your figure without sacrificing comfort. The smooth texture of the fabric caught the light, giving it a faint sheen that complemented the gold accents on your pants.

Over it all, you wore a long, thick coat to ward off the winter chill. The coat was a deep charcoal gray, its woolen material lined with plush fur at the collar and cuffs. It hung elegantly around you, the hem brushing against your ankles as you walked. The coat’s design was simple but timeless, a perfect addition to your ensemble and a practical barrier against the icy winds of Velaris.

The morning passed in a blur of preparation. After ensuring every document was meticulously organized and packed into your satchel, you took one last look at your reflection in the mirror. Satisfied, you grabbed your satchel and made your way downstairs just as Cassian arrived to pick you up.

The sound of his boots echoed as he stepped into the clinic’s entryway, his usual grin already plastered across his face. "Ready, Y/N?" he asked, his voice tinged with that familiar playful tone.

You gave him a pointed look as you tightened the strap of your satchel. "If you fly too fast and make me lose a single page of my work, Cassian, I will make sure you regret it."

His grin widened, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. "Oh, is that a threat? You’re starting to sound like Nesta."

“Consider it a promise,” you quipped, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a faint smirk. Cassian laughed again, motioning for you to step closer so he could scoop you up.

Despite his teasing, his grip was secure as he took to the skies. The cold wind whipped around you as Velaris stretched out below, its rooftops dusted with snow. The flight was smooth, though Cassian’s occasional playful dips had you clutching your satchel tightly.

When you landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, Cassian set you down with ease. "See? Not a single page out of place," he said with mock pride.

"Yet," you muttered, smoothing your outfit and adjusting the strap of your satchel. The familiar scent of the House of Wind surrounded you as you stepped inside, the crisp winter air left behind.

As you walked through the halls toward the meeting room, Cassian’s tone shifted, his earlier humor giving way to concern. "How were your days in Windhaven?" he asked, his gaze steady as he glanced down at you.

You hesitated for a moment, adjusting the satchel on your shoulder. "Busy," you admitted. "The healers there are trying their best, but there’s a lot of work to do. Some of them are very inexperienced. It’s a steep learning curve, especially with the conditions they’re working in."

Cassian nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. "And you? You seemed… tired last time I saw you. I mean, more than usual."

The unexpected sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You glanced at him, surprised by the genuine concern in his expression. "I’m fine," you said after a moment, your tone softer. "It’s just a lot to juggle. But that’s why I’m here, right? To make things better."

He gave you a small, approving nod. "Well, if anyone can handle it, it’s you. But don’t forget to take care of yourself too, Y/N."

The warmth in his words lingered as you reached the doors of the meeting room. Taking a steadying breath, you straightened your shoulders and prepared to step inside. This was what you had been working toward, and you intended to see it through.

The meeting room was quiet as you and Cassian stepped in, the last to arrive. The others were already seated around the polished table: Rhysand at the head, Feyre beside him, Azriel sitting silently to his left, and Amren directly across from him. Their presence, the weight of being the Court’s leaders, filled the room with a palpable authority that made you pause for a moment. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before moving to your seat.

Cassian offered a light-hearted comment under his breath, but you were too focused to respond. Sliding into your chair, you arranged the documents and notes you’d brought with you, ensuring everything was within reach.

The meeting began with Cassian and Azriel reporting on their respective updates. Cassian delved into the progression of training regimens for Illyrian recruits, discussing efforts to implement more modern strategies despite ongoing resistance from the warlords. Azriel followed, his calm voice outlining intelligence gathered from his network of spies. He detailed movements from Koshiev’s suspected allies and the growing ripple of unease in neighboring territories. Their reports were thorough, efficient, and sobering.

And then it was your turn.

All eyes turned toward you as Rhysand gave you a small nod. You adjusted your papers, though you hardly needed them—you knew your material inside out. Sitting straighter, you began, your voice steady and professional.

“Thank you. As you all know, the healer network within the Night Court has been my primary focus over the past months, particularly in Illyria. After assessing the state of resources and infrastructure, I’ve developed several plans to address the gaps we currently face. First and foremost, I’ve identified key areas where resource exchanges with other courts or territories could benefit us significantly.”

You glanced briefly at Rhysand, noting his attentive expression. “For example, the Dawn Court has an overabundance of specific medicinal herbs that thrive in their climate but are difficult to cultivate here. Conversely, we have access to materials like Illyrian iron, which is rare outside the mountains and could serve as a valuable bargaining tool. Initial outreach has already begun, and I’ve drafted a tentative agreement proposal for review.”

You unfolded a detailed map, laying it out on the table. The map showed trade routes and key locations where resources could be obtained or exchanged. “Here, here, and here,” you said, pointing to the marked spots, “are regions where we could establish beneficial partnerships. I’ve already made initial contact with representatives from these areas and received promising responses. The next step would be finalizing the terms and ensuring transport logistics are accounted for.”

As you spoke, the room grew quieter, a testament to how closely they were listening. You continued without hesitation.

“Beyond external exchanges, I’ve worked on improving the efficiency of our internal supply chain. For instance, in Illyria, I’ve identified several bottlenecks that delay the distribution of vital healing supplies. I’ve proposed solutions to streamline these processes, including localized storage facilities and quicker transport methods between camps.”

You paused to let the information sink in before shifting to a more personal update. “During my recent trip to Windhaven, I worked closely with their healers. They’re skilled, but they lack resources and modern training. I’ve started drafting a plan to integrate some of our Velaris healers into rotations within the Illyrian camps. This would provide hands-on experience for both parties and improve the overall standard of care.”

Amren, leaning back in her chair, raised a brow. “You’ve been busy,” she remarked, her tone dry but laced with a hint of approval.

“I don’t believe in doing things halfway,” you replied, offering her a faint smile. “There’s still much to do, and the situation is constantly evolving. I intend to return to Illyria soon to solidify the plans I’ve set in motion, but my focus remains on creating a system that works seamlessly—whether I’m present or not.”

Feyre looked at you with something akin to awe. “It’s incredible how much you’ve accomplished in such a short time,” she said warmly. “And the level of detail in these plans… it’s exactly what we need.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes studied you for a moment before he spoke. “Your thoroughness is appreciated. These are not small tasks, and the scope of what you’ve already achieved is impressive. But tell me—do you feel confident this can be sustained in the long term?”

You met his gaze, unwavering. “Yes, I do. It’s not about quick fixes; it’s about building a foundation that will last. That means training more healers, establishing reliable trade partnerships, and ensuring every system we put in place is adaptable to changing circumstances.”

Azriel, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. “The Illyrian warlords don’t take well to outsiders imposing change. How have they responded to your involvement?”

You smirked faintly. “With skepticism, of course. But they’re beginning to see the results. Devlon himself has grudgingly admitted that the changes are working, though he’ll never say it outright. Actions speak louder than words, and I intend to keep proving them wrong.”

A quiet chuckle rippled around the table at your comment, and even Azriel’s lips twitched upward slightly. The meeting continued with questions and discussions about your plans, but the overall sentiment was clear: they were impressed. By the time the conversation moved to other topics, you felt a small sense of accomplishment. There was still much to do, but for now, you had their trust—and their support.

As the discussion shifted, the focus turned toward the borders of Prythian. Cassian began outlining the latest updates, detailing concerns about the tenuous balance along the edges of the Spring and Autumn Courts. His expression was serious, the tension in his voice evident as he explained how strained the relationships had become in recent months.

“The Spring Court has been quiet,” he said, glancing around the table. “Too quiet. We know Tamlin’s been trying to rebuild, but it’s hard to tell what kind of leader he’s becoming. And Autumn... well, let’s just say Beron’s court is a perpetual mess.”

Azriel added, his voice calm but laced with an edge of concern, “The situation in Autumn is as unstable as ever. Beron’s sons are still vying for power, and it’s causing fractures within the court. Lucien has been keeping us informed where he can, but even he has his limits.”

The conversation grew heavier as the implications of these reports settled over the group. Feyre frowned, her brow furrowed in thought. “Tamlin’s silence worries me. After everything that happened, I don’t know if he’s capable of rebuilding in a way that brings stability to his court—or even to himself.”

You listened intently, taking in their concerns. When a natural pause came, you cleared your throat softly, drawing their attention. “If I may,” you began, your voice calm but resolute. “I think Tamlin’s situation isn’t as hopeless as it might seem. The last time I spoke with the healer of the Spring Court—one of my former students—she gave me some insight into how things are progressing there.”

Everyone leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued. “Go on,” Rhysand prompted, his violet eyes focused on you.

“At the start, things were as dire as you’ve described,” you said. “She mentioned that Tamlin was wandering his lands in his beast form for months, completely disconnected from his court. It was chaos. His people were scattered, his court nearly in ruins. But...” You hesitated briefly before continuing. “It seems he’s made some changes recently. From what she told me, the Spring Court is stabilizing. Slowly, but noticeably.”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed slightly, her skepticism clear. “Tamlin’s... changing? How?”

“According to her,” you explained, “he’s begun focusing on the people rather than himself. He’s rebuilding villages, replanting forests, and actively seeking to restore what was lost during the war. It’s a stark contrast to the isolation he imposed before. She said he’s been kinder, more deliberate in his actions. It’s been months since he’s shifted into his beast form. He’s even opened the borders slightly, allowing for trade and aid.”

Rhysand leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “That’s... unexpected. I thought Tamlin would continue down the path of self-destruction.”

You shrugged lightly. “Perhaps he reached a breaking point and realized he needed to change. Or perhaps he finally listened to the people who remained loyal to him. Whatever the reason, it seems to be working—for now.”

Cassian folded his arms, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “And what about Autumn? Do you have any insight there?”

You shook your head. “Unfortunately, my connections to the healers there are limited. The last I heard, they’re overwhelmed with injuries and illnesses caused by the internal strife. Beron’s rule is as oppressive as ever, and the constant infighting among his sons doesn’t help. It’s a court teetering on the edge of collapse, but without strong leadership, it’ll only spiral further.”

Azriel’s shadows shifted slightly, a subtle sign of his unease. “If Autumn falls, it could destabilize the entire region. The ripple effects would reach every court.”

“It’s something to monitor closely,” Rhysand agreed. He turned back to you, his expression one of cautious optimism. “Thank you for sharing what you’ve learned. Your connections with the healers of other courts are proving invaluable.”

You inclined your head in acknowledgment. “It’s what we do. Healers talk—we share insights, concerns, and stories. Sometimes, it’s the smallest details that provide the clearest picture.”

Feyre smiled faintly, though her worry for Tamlin remained evident. “It’s good to know that things in Spring might be improving, even if it’s slow. Maybe Tamlin really is trying to move forward.”

The room settled into a contemplative silence as everyone absorbed the information. While the challenges ahead remained daunting, the small glimmer of progress in the Spring Court offered a shred of hope that perhaps change was possible, even in the most unlikely places.

As the meeting began to draw to a close, Rhysand shifted his attention to you, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Y/N,” he began, his tone measured, “in five days, you’ll be heading to the Dawn Court for the healer’s meeting.”

You inclined your head slightly, already expecting this topic to arise. “Yes, I’ve been preparing for it. Most of the groundwork has already been laid, so I’m confident things are on track.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Being the lead for this meeting is no small task, especially considering the current tensions across Prythian. This gathering will likely involve more than discussions about healing techniques.”

You nodded, understanding the underlying weight of his words. “I’ve already worked on plans for resource exchanges and outlined measures to address cross-court needs. I’ll finalize those details in the coming days and ensure everything is in order.”

Rhysand’s lips quirked in approval. “I have no doubt you’ll be more than prepared.”

Before the topic could shift, Rhys turned his gaze toward Azriel. “That said, I’d like Azriel to accompany you to the Dawn Court.”

The statement caught you off guard, and you blinked, momentarily stunned. “That won’t be necessary,” you said, keeping your voice as steady as possible. “I spent years in the Dawn Court. I know the territory, the people. I’ve built relationships with their healers and leadership. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Rhysand’s eyes softened, but his tone was firm. “This isn’t about your ability, Y/N. It’s about the broader situation. With tensions rising, I’d rather not take any chances. Azriel’s presence is precautionary.”

You frowned slightly, frustration flickering beneath the surface. “Rhys, I appreciate the concern, but I’m more than capable of handling myself. The Dawn Court isn’t hostile territory.”

“It’s not up for debate,” Rhysand said gently but decisively, cutting off further protest. “Azriel will accompany you. This is as much about optics as it is about safety. The world is watching, and having one of my most trusted with you is non-negotiable.”

Azriel, seated silently across from you, inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression remained inscrutable. You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to nod despite the tightness in your chest. “Very well,” you said finally, your voice calm even if your thoughts churned beneath the surface.

“Thank you,” Rhysand said, his gaze meeting yours with quiet understanding before shifting to the rest of the room. “With that, I believe we’re finished here.”

As the meeting concluded and everyone began to rise, Feyre approached you, her expression warm and welcoming. “Y/N,” she said, her voice gentle, “I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow is the Solstice celebration. You’re more than welcome to join us at the townhouse. It’ll be a relaxed evening with good food, music, and company. It would be lovely to have you there.”

You hesitated for a moment, adjusting the papers in your hands. The offer was genuine, and the warmth in her tone made it hard to refuse. But the weight of your responsibilities loomed in your mind. “Thank you, Feyre,” you said sincerely. “It’s a kind invitation, and I truly appreciate it. But with the meeting in the Dawn Court in just a few days, I have so much to finalize. Plus, I’m handling the clinic alone tomorrow night. I gave the rest of the healers time off to spend the Solstice with their families, and I can’t call them back on such short notice.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across her features. “Y/N, you’ve been working tirelessly. Taking one evening to rest and celebrate wouldn’t undo your progress.”

You gave her a faint smile, shaking your head gently. “Perhaps, but the work isn’t going to do itself. And the clinic needs to be open for those who might need care tomorrow night. Besides, this meeting is too important to risk being unprepared. It’s not just about me—it’s about representing the Night Court.”

Feyre sighed, clearly disappointed but understanding. “I had hoped we could convince you to take a break.”

Your gaze softened as you reached into your satchel and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. “Even if I can’t make it tomorrow, I wanted to give you this. I know it’s bad luck to celebrate early, but consider it an early birthday gift.”

Feyre blinked in surprise as you handed her the package. “You didn’t have to—” she began, but you cut her off with a small shake of your head.

“It’s nothing extravagant, just a salve I’ve been working on. It’s excellent for healing soreness, bruises, or just general aches. I thought you might find it useful, especially with Nyx keeping you on your toes.”

Her eyes brightened as she unwrapped the gift, a smile spreading across her face. “This is wonderful, Y/N. Thank you.”

You nodded, your smile genuine this time. “I truly hope you enjoy tomorrow. Maybe next year, I’ll be able to join you. For now, though, I’ll have to focus on my duties.”

Feyre reached out, giving your hand a small squeeze. “And when this meeting is over, we’ll have to find time to see you again—hopefully under less stressful circumstances.”

“I’d like that,” you said softly, the warmth in her gesture easing some of the tension that had built throughout the day. With a final nod, you excused yourself, stepping away from the meeting room and back into the rhythm of preparation for the days ahead.

Azriel’s POV

As the door clicked shut behind Y/N, the room fell into a moment of reflective silence. Azriel’s eyes followed the path she had just taken, his mind still lingering on her composure during the meeting. She’d been precise, efficient, and utterly unflinching in her delivery—a stark contrast to the overwhelming workload she seemed to be carrying alone.

Amren, who had remained quiet through much of the meeting, leaned forward and picked up one of the documents Y/N had left on the table. She scanned the contents, her sharp silver eyes narrowing slightly. “Look at this,” she said, her tone even but tinged with intrigue. “These aren’t just good ideas; they’re well-researched, meticulously planned, and already in motion. She’s brokered deals with some of the best suppliers in Prythian and beyond—at prices better than I’ve ever seen.”

Cassian whistled low, leaning over her shoulder to glance at the papers. “She’s been here, what, a few months? And she’s already pulling this off? She’s got connections everywhere. The Dawn Court, the Illyrian camps, even some spots in the mortal lands. It’s... impressive.”

Amren nodded slowly, flipping to another page. “It’s not just impressive—it’s unprecedented. She hasn’t just taken over Madja’s work; she’s expanded it. Madja ran the Night Court’s healing efforts masterfully, but Y/N is managing that and fostering collaborations with other courts and territories. She’s operating on a level where the pressure isn’t just from us—it’s from everyone. Every healer, every kingdom, every place that knows her name has high hopes for what she can achieve.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes gleamed with quiet understanding as he leaned back in his chair. “She’s an amazing healer,” he said, his voice calm yet laced with respect. “But she’s also a force in her own right. The weight she’s carrying isn’t just heavy—it’s enormous.”

Azriel said nothing, but his mind churned with thoughts. He had seen the intensity in her during the meeting, the unrelenting focus in her eyes. It wasn’t just that she was competent—she carried the weight of her responsibilities with a quiet, unyielding strength that was impossible to ignore.

Rhysand turned his gaze to Azriel, pulling him from his thoughts. “Az,” he began, his tone more casual now. “I appreciate you agreeing to accompany her to the Dawn Court, especially on such short notice. I know this wasn’t planned.”

Azriel inclined his head slightly. “It’s fine,” he replied. “And honestly, it’s better to have someone going with her. The Dawn Court might be peaceful, but she’s carrying a lot right now. She shouldn’t have to handle everything alone.”

Rhysand studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “I agree. She’s more than capable, but even the strongest among us need support.”

Cassian smirked, breaking the serious moment. “Support? You mean someone to carry her stack of files?”

Azriel shot him a dry look but didn’t rise to the bait. His thoughts drifted back to the sheer amount of effort Y/N had put into her preparations. It wasn’t just the work itself that impressed him—it was the way she seemed to carry it all, as if failure wasn’t even a consideration.

Amren’s voice cut through the moment. “Just make sure she doesn’t burn herself out,” she said bluntly, closing the file she’d been examining. “The world needs her at her best—not pushing herself into an early grave.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, but her words settled heavily in his mind. As the conversation shifted, he found himself quietly resolved to ensure that Y/N wasn’t alone in the tasks ahead—not just in the Dawn Court, but wherever her path led.

The memory of Y/N in the operating room lingered in Azriel’s mind, vivid and unshakable. He had watched her, bathed in the sterile glow of moonlight, working with unwavering precision to save a life. The gap between them felt stark in those moments—she was someone who healed, who saved lives, while he was someone who ended them, a hand of darkness in service of his court.

Even now, as he sat in the quiet aftermath of the meeting, her image remained. The way she moved, commanding the room without force, her hands steady despite the chaos around her. There was no doubt that Y/N was brilliant in her craft, but Azriel couldn’t dismiss the lingering doubts Elain had planted. She hadn’t specified why she felt uneasy about Y/N, but the implication that it could be tied to a vision gnawed at him. Elain’s foresight, as rare and erratic as it was, wasn’t something he could simply ignore.

I’ll keep an eye on her, Azriel resolved silently. Her loyalty, her brilliance—it didn’t mean she was above scrutiny. Too much was at stake for him to let his guard down, no matter how impressive she was.

When the others finally left the meeting room, Rhysand lingered behind, and Azriel knew what was coming before a word was spoken. Rhys turned to him, his violet eyes steady.

“Azriel,” Rhys began, his tone laced with the kind of weariness that only came with navigating family matters, “about tomorrow. With Lucien coming—”

Azriel cut him off sharply, rising from his chair in one fluid motion. “You don’t have to remind me every time we speak, High Lord.” The title rolled off his tongue with biting sarcasm, his shadows curling faintly around his frame as his irritation flared. “I know my role, and I’ll play it. As you wish.”

Rhysand’s expression flickered, surprise giving way to something softer—understanding, perhaps, though it did little to soothe Azriel’s temper. “Az,” he began again, his voice gentler this time, “I’m not trying to—”

But Azriel shook his head, unwilling to entertain any further discussion. “It’s fine,” he said curtly, though the tension in his voice betrayed his words. “You’ve made your expectations clear.”

Without waiting for a response, Azriel turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his shadows pooling behind him like a trailing cloak. He needed air, space to think, to untangle the mess of emotions that Rhysand’s reminder had dredged up.

Tomorrow would come, and with it, all the complications Lucien’s presence would bring. But for now, Azriel let himself sink into the quiet comfort of the night, the stars above a distant reminder of a world that moved on, no matter the burdens he carried.

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[hellishjoel]

float

521 words // joel miller x f!reader

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word: lake

warnings/information: post-outbreak, canon-typical aspects of tlou

a/n: my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!

It’s been days of walking under the hot Tennessee sun, attempting a cross-country trek to find refuge.

After your and Joel’s hideaway was raided and trashed, you decided it was time to find the whispered safe haven community that you heard through old radio chatter during your stay at the Atlanta QZ. 

The summer was cruel, the temperatures skyrocketing easily into the 100s and making your clothes stick to your body. Your map signals that you’re in a national forest close to the border of Kentucky. It’s been hours since you last looked, just heading North in the same general direction.

Exhaustion is evident in your steps, each one labored and dragging. If it weren’t for Joel, you wouldn’t have the will to continue. But you both made a lot of promises together, one being that where one goes, the other follows. Always. 

Joel aggressively smacks his neck, a groan of annoyance leaving his throat. “Fuckin’... bloodsuckers.” He mutters, wiping away an insect and then the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. 

Out of habit, you reach for your water bottle, only to curse to yourself a moment later, knowing it was dry. “We need water, Joel.”

He sighs and extends his hand to help you down a steep slope. “I’know, baby.” 

You worry about Joel. He can survive fights against armed raiders and rabid infected, but no one can survive without water. 

Another pesky mosquito takes a nip at your arm, and you’re quick to slap your hand to end the prickle of annoyance. “Christ, why are there so many mosquitos?”

Joel pauses, eyes darting from left to right before he pulls his map from his backpack. “Mosquitos means water.” He trails his finger along the estimate of where you are before tugging you North, the sounds of the ecosystem growing louder as you approach a large blue lake just beyond the hill between the thicket of trees and bushes. 

“Joel, water! Miles of it!” You gasp in shock, seeing the blue in the distance, and it quickens your eager pace. “Joel, water! Miles of it!” 

At the grassy shore, you unclip your pack and kick off your boots. Peeling off your shirt and cargo pants, you glance at Joel, who is pushing down his jeans and smiling widely at you. 

The lake is cold at first touch, but once submerged, you feel like all the nerves in your body go lax. Your mind clears, and in this moment, you feel like this isn’t the end of the world. You aren’t trying to survive every minute of every hour of every day. You aren’t a burden on Joel’s back. You aren’t scared to think about tomorrow and what it may bring. 

You float. Joel floats beside you, a protective man keeping you at no more than arm’s length as he wades in the water. 

Joel’s husky voice breaks the serenity. “We’ll camp here, maybe try to catch some fish or squirrels.” 

Shaking your head, the water ripples. You close your eyes as the sun makes the water droplets on your face sparkle. “Just a little bit longer, Joel… float with me.”

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[twola]

Firewater - Chapter 7

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader. explicit.

The ranch robbery goes well, so of course you have to celebrate.

taglist: @v3lv3tf0x, @stottlemorgan, @mrsarthurmorgan7, @appalachiancowboy99, @pinescent-and-gingerbread, @blueskies664, @arthurstinmug, @ultraporcelainpig, @emerald-ranch @thedilfdiaries, @heron-feathers,@nalitali, @whiskeyskin

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ARIZONA, JUNE 1897

The night air is thick with smoke and song.

After days of dry planning and a dicey execution, the ranch job went smoother than anyone expected. A big haul—cash, supplies, even a few decent rifles tucked under floorboards. Dutch is all smiles, Hosea’s already half-drunk, and even Grimshaw is laughing into a tin cup of something strong.

You’re sitting on a log near the fire, one leg crossed over the other, watching the way Arthur leans against a barrel a few feet away, half-listening to Javier’s story. He’s drinking slow, same way he’s always cautious, but there’s a faint smirk pulling at his lips that tells you he’s feeling good. Maybe better than he’d admit.

He hasn’t looked your way since the fire was lit. Not directly, anyway.

But you know he’s aware of you.

You wait until a particularly loud burst of laughter goes up around the fire—something about Bill and a pigpen—and then you lean forward just enough that your fingers brush the top buttons of your shirt.

One pops open. Then another.

The fire’s warm, but your blood is warmer. Just get up slow, as if you’re stretching. As if the night breeze is too tempting to ignore.

You walk past him, calm and unhurried, trailing into the trees beyond the edge of camp where the firelight gives way to shadow.

You don’t have to look back.

You know he’s following by the way the chatter behind you falters for half a second, then picks up again like nothing happened.

By the time you hear his boots behind you, you’re already leaning against a cottonwood tree, arms folded, eyes gleaming in the dark.

“You always undo your shirt to get what you want?” he asks, voice low, already amused.

You tilt your head. “Only when what I want is stubborn and slow on the uptake.”

He steps closer. “That right?”

“Mm-hm.” You let your gaze drift down his chest, to the way his vest hangs open, to the familiar shape of the revolver at his hip. “Besides, it’s hot out.”

“Sure,” he mutters, but his eyes are already lingering on the skin you’ve exposed—your collarbone, the curve of your chest. “You plannin’ on doin’ anything else out here, or is this just a look at me stunt?”

You push off the tree, taking a step toward him. “Why? That bother you?”

Arthur snorts, then reaches up and lazily flicks another button open with his knuckle. “Only bothers me when I don’t get to do the lookin’ up close.”

You smile, close now, the tension between you all heat and memory and promise.

“I thought maybe I’d give you something worth lookin’ at,” you say softly.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, voice thick and fond now, “you already did.”

Arthur doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just stands there in front of you, close enough that your bodies share breath. His eyes flick over your face, sharp and steady, like he’s trying to memorize the way you’re looking at him right now—equal parts challenge and invitation.

“You always this bossy when you’re feelin’ good?” he mutters, voice gravel-soft.

“Only when I know you’ll follow,” you reply, tilting your chin just enough to provoke.

That’s all it takes.

He steps into you fast, one hand catching the back of your neck, and then his mouth is on yours—hot, urgent, rough in that way that says he’s been waiting since the ranch job, maybe even since the drunken debauchery. You meet him with the same hunger, your fingers gripping his vest, your body arching into his like it’s instinct.

It’s not sweet.

It’s hungry.

His kiss makes your head spin. When he pulls back, only slightly, his mouth brushes against your jaw, then lower, against your throat. “Been thinkin’ about this since you walked past me this mornin’,” he mutters against your skin. “Like you wanted trouble.”

You smirk through your ragged breathing. “I am trouble.”

He growls softly, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time. He moves with that quiet confidence you’ve come to know in him—like he knows what you need and isn’t shy about giving it.

His hands find your hips. Then your thighs.

And then suddenly, he’s lowering you down to the ground, easing you back into the dry grass and dirt like it’s the softest bedroll on earth.

Your breath catches.

“Arthur—”

But he’s already shifting down, hands dragging up your legs, strong and sure. When he reaches the hem of your skirt, he pauses—glancing up at you, his voice low and wicked.

“Just lay back, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Let me show you how good I am with my mouth.”

You don’t argue.

Your head falls back against the earth, the stars above spinning slightly as you feel the soft whisper of air against your thighs. Your skirts are pushed up slowly, reverently, and then his head dips beneath the fabric.

And everything else fades.

No teasing now. No more banter.

Just his hands, steady and warm, holding your legs apart. And his mouth, purposeful and slow, like he’s savoring the way you lose yourself to his ministrations

The night around you is quiet except for the hum of crickets and your broken, whispered breaths. Somewhere in the distance, the firelight of camp flickers, and the faint sound of laughter and music drifts through the trees.

But none of it matters.

Right now, it’s just you. Him. And the way he licks you like you’re the only thing in the world he needs to taste again and again.

Arthur’s head is buried beneath your skirts, his breath warm against your skin, and every flick of his tongue pulls a new sound from your lips. He’s patient and thorough, like he’s got nowhere else to be—like he wants to unravel you one slow lick at a time.

Your hips shift instinctively, caught between wanting to grind against his mouth and keep still to hold onto the pressure building inside you. But he’s already got a hand pressed firm against your thigh, holding you down, guiding you exactly where he wants you.

And just when you think you’ve adjusted—just when you’re getting used to the rhythm of his mouth—he reaches up, rough fingers slipping beneath your loosened shirt, brushing over the curve of your breast.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

His calloused palm cups you, thumb teasing over your nipple through the thin fabric of your chemise. The combination is maddening—his mouth between your thighs, his hand kneading your breast, and the gravelly sound he makes when he feels you arch into his touch.

“Arthur—” you breathe, voice catching.

He hums in response, and the vibration alone nearly makes you scream.

Your hand fumbles through your skirts, fingers tangling in his hair, and you swear he laughs against you when you tug. Not to stop him—just to anchor yourself.

Every part of you feels stretched thin, the fire winding tight in your belly, sharper with every pass of his tongue, every tug of his fingers on your skin. Your breath comes in broken bursts now, hips trembling under his hands.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “I can feel it.”

You nod, barely able to speak.

“Let go for me,” he growls, mouth dragging against your inner thigh. 

And with one more stroke—with one more slip of heat and pressure from his mouth—you do.

You cry out, back arching, thighs shaking as you come against his mouth, his hands steady on your body, grounding you through it. He doesn’t pull away until you’re done—until you’re gasping and boneless, legs trembling, shirt rucked halfway up your ribs and your chest still heaving.

When he finally lifts his head, his mouth glistens, his eyes dark and fixed on yours.

“Hell,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I could die happy now.”

You laugh breathlessly, still sprawled in the grass, heart racing.

“You’re not gettin’ off that easy, Morgan,” you murmur when you finally regain the ability to speak.

Arthur exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, as he leans back on his elbows beside you, the grass bending beneath his weight.

You’re still catching your breath, your skirts tangled around your waist, your shirt half-unbuttoned from earlier. His eyes flick over you, dark and hungry, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

Then you notice it—he’s shifting slightly, adjusting himself in his trousers.

A flush creeps into your smile.

“Somethin’ wrong?” you ask, voice soft and teasing as you lean closer, letting your fingertips graze the front of his pants.

He glances at you, half a smirk curling at his lips. “You know damn well what’s wrong.”

You lean in, your face close to his, and your hand trails lower, pressing gently over the obvious strain beneath his trousers.

“Well,” you murmur, “I feel like it’s only fair I return the favor.”

Arthur watches you for a beat—just watches, eyes burning with heat and something quieter beneath it. Then he lets out a breath, almost a groan, and shifts to give you room.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he mutters as you undo the top button of his trousers with slow, deliberate fingers.

“Mm,” you hum, sliding your hand inside, “you keep sayin’ that, but I think you like it.”

He swears softly when your hand wraps around him, hips twitching beneath your touch.

“I know I do,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

The way his breath stutters in his throat only spurs you on, your strokes slow, teasing, your thumb dragging just enough to make his eyes squeeze shut.

Arthur groans low in his chest, tipping his head back. “You keep that up, and I’m not gonna last long.”

You grin against his shoulder, dragging your mouth along the stubble there. “That’s alright. I already got mine.”

His laugh is ragged—genuine, hoarse, and filled with heat.

Arthur’s breath hitches as your hand works his cock with slow, purposeful strokes, his head tipped back, eyes shut.. The low sounds he makes—low groans, a few muttered curses—go straight through you. You feel him straining beneath your palm, hot and heavy, his control unraveling by the second.

Then you shift.

Without a word, you slide down between his legs, your eyes locked on him as you press a kiss just below his navel, and then lower still.

Arthur looks down just as your mouth closes around his cock, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

“Shit,” he breathes, one hand fisting in the grass behind him, the other hovering uncertainly before landing on your shoulder, fingers digging in.

You move slow at first, savoring the way he shudders, the curse he swallows. His hips twitch despite himself, jaw clenched real tight.

“You—goddamn,” he grits out, the edge of a groan curling behind the words. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You hum in response, tongue teasing just enough to make him buck gently into your mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice hoarse and wild now. “You keep goin’—”

You don’t stop. The tension in him is visible now—his thighs taut, shoulders locked, breath coming fast and ragged as your mouth works him with slow, determined care.

Then he lets out a deep, broken moan, his hand tightening on your shoulder.

“Now,” he chokes. “I’m gonna—”

And he does.

You feel it in the way he stutters against your tongue, in the way his whole body tenses and then collapses into the grass. His voice breaks on a final, wrecked curse as he spills into your mouth, chest heaving, fingers slackening against your skin.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the wind in the grass, the faint murmur of laughter far off at the campfire.

Arthur finally lifts his head to look at you, still panting, a dazed smile ghosting across his lips.

“Remind me to piss you off more often,” he rasps.

You grin, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand as you crawl back up beside him.

[pearlprincess02]

dating & dates (aries version)

aries: (aries venus/mars/5th house/7th house)

dating someone with aries venus, aries mars, aries 5th house, and aries 7th house placements means embracing a fiery, passionate, and direct energy in love. these placements suggest someone who thrives on excitement, authenticity, and action in relationships. aries venus craves passion and spontaneity, valuing partners who are bold and confident. aries mars brings an assertive and dynamic drive to relationships, often leading to a preference for partners who can match their enthusiasm and energy. with aries in the 5th house, the person seeks fun, daring, and adventurous experiences, finding joy in playful competition or thrilling activities. meanwhile, aries in the 7th house signals a desire for a partnership that’s invigorating and challenges them to grow. while these placements can create intense and exciting relationships, they may also require a balance of patience and compromise, as impulsivity and strong-willed tendencies can arise. to nurture these dynamics, maintain open communication and be ready for a whirlwind of enthusiasm and passion.

date night ideas

spontaneous road trip, trying an adrenaline sport, like skydiving or bungee jumping, dancing at a high-energy club or event, joining a fitness boot camp or class as a duo for (aries venus, aries mars), cooking competition at home, attending a live sports event, watching a fiery live performance, like flamenco or acrobatics, attending a motorsport race for (aries venus, aries 5th house), volunteering for an energetic cause, planning a surprise, high-energy outing for (aries venus, aries 7th house), go-kart racing, outdoor obstacle course, amusement park with thrill rides, exploring a new hiking trail with scenic views, learning archery or shooting sports together for (aries mars, aries 5th house), rock climbing or bouldering, boxing or martial arts class together, team-building games or challenges for (aries mars, aries 7th house), escape room adventure for (aries 5th house, aries 7th house) paintball or laser tag for (aries venus, aries mars, aries 5th house)

over 18+ spicy bonus 🔞

aries: (aries mars/cupido/eros/lust/amor)

when it comes to kinks, preferences, and performance in the bedroom, someone with aries mars, aries cupido, aries eros, aries lust, and aries amor placements is likely to exude a fiery, passionate energy that thrives on excitement and spontaneity. these placements highlight a confident, adventurous lover who enjoys taking the lead and exploring bold, thrilling dynamics. aries mars brings an assertive and intense desire, preferring physical expression that’s dynamic, fast-paced, and full of enthusiasm. aries cupido infuses a playful seductiveness, enjoying the chase and flirtatious teasing that builds anticipation. with aries eros, there is a craving for raw, unfiltered passion and a preference for experiences that ignite a sense of exhilaration and adrenaline. aries lust heightens the need for boldness and a willingness to try new things, favoring direct and uninhibited expressions of desire. lastly, aries amor brings warmth and romantic passion, prioritizing emotional connection alongside the physical spark. while these placements can make for an electrifying lover, patience and balance may be needed to temper their fiery intensity.

kinks you might have

setting up playful scenarios involving competition for (aries mars, aries cupido), sensual wrestling or playful power struggles, experimenting with adrenaline-inducing scenarios, incorporating elements of speed & urgency for (aries mars, aries eros), role-playing as dominant & submissive, incorporating light bondage with restraints, trying adventurous positions that require physical strength, engaging in rough/primal energy dynamics, quick & fiery encounters with minimal buildup, exploring fantasies of dominance & leadership roles, experimenting with consensual rough play for (aries mars, aries lust), spontaneous encounters in unexpected places, allowing for mutual pursuit & playful “cat-and-mouse” games, creating scenarios that involve risk or heightened excitement for (aries cupido, aries eros), being seduced through bold & direct moves for (aries cupido, aries lust), engaging in playful teasing & denial games for (aries cupido, aries amor), experimenting with light spanking or impact play for (aries eros, aries lust), passionate makeout sessions leading to heated encounters, incorporating sensory play, like blindfolds or temperature play, passionate & aggressive kissing as foreplay for (aries eros, aries amor)

all observations are done by me !!! @pearlprincess02

main masterlist

[yunaversalluv]

★﹐Harder Than You Think．﹗﹑

Rivals to lovers abby x fem!reader

note - if you see any mistakes in the fic please feel free to tell me i'll go and fix it!! (this was not proofread by someone esle) This is also more short and sweet type one shot so i apologize if its cliche

If you want to join my personal taglist let me know!!

permanent taglist - @valeisaslut @sourrswitchblade @sewithinsouls

You knew from the moment she walked into the compound that she’d be trouble.

Abby Anderson. Towering. Scarred. Broad-shouldered and broad-tempered. She looked like she could punch through a brick wall — and probably had. You’d heard the rumors before she even opened her mouth. Ex-WLF. Trained killer. Real piece of work. A human battering ram with a resting bitch face and a reputation.

You didn’t care.

You’d seen worse.

But the minute she challenged you during your first training session together — called your grip on a blade “sloppy” with that infuriating calm — it was over. She made you want to spit fire. Or win. Or both.

“I didn’t realize muscle mass was a personality trait,” you snapped, flipping your knife and tossing it hard into the wooden post.

It landed just left of center. Shit.

Abby smirked. One of those closed-mouth grins that felt more like a dare than a smile. She stepped up beside you, her own blade out. Thicker. Balanced.

She threw.

Dead center.

“Didn’t realize ego could bleed so fast,” she said, retrieving both knives without waiting for permission.

You hated her.

Not really.

But enough to make it your daily goal to beat her at something. Anything. Knife throws. Sparring drills. Food ration speed. Scavenging haul count. Hell, you once nearly started a bet on who could carry more bricks before collapsing.

She never gloated. That made it worse.

She just gave you that look. The quiet, knowing one. Like she knew you were trying too hard and loved it anyway.

That pissed you off more than losing.

The outpost wasn’t big. A few dozen survivors, max. Some were old Fireflies. Some ex-Scars. Most were just people trying to survive. They didn’t care where you came from, so long as you pulled your weight and didn’t start fights.

You and Abby were toeing that line daily.

She was stronger, sure. But you were faster. Sharper. Smarter in tight quarters.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The real problem was that you worked well together.

Too well.

No one else could keep up with your rhythm. No one else could cover your blind spots as smoothly. And no one else had the guts to call you out when you were being reckless, except her.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed one day rushing in like that,” she said once after you cleared a runner nest.

“Better than sitting back while someone else bleeds,” you snapped, chest heaving.

She didn’t yell. Didn’t flinch.

Just took a breath and said, “I’m not your enemy.”

You laughed in her face. “Could’ve fooled me.”

But your stomach twisted, because part of you didn’t believe that anymore.

Part of you wanted her to keep saying things like that.

Keep seeing you.

Keep trying.

They paired you for patrol again.

Third time this week. Either fate was cruel or Manny was playing matchmaker in the most passive-aggressive way possible. You made a mental note to punch him later. If Abby didn’t beat you to it.

The morning fog clung low to the ground as you moved through the forest edge. Pines overhead. Muck underfoot. Every sound was amplified in the silence — twigs snapping, boots squelching, the whisper of your breath in cold air.

Abby walked ahead, quiet as ever, movements fluid. Tactical. Annoyingly competent.

“Try not to fall behind this time,” she said without looking back.

You rolled your eyes. “Try not to be a condescending asshole for once.”

She didn’t stop. Just tossed over her shoulder, “Still bleeding from that sparring match, huh?”

You clenched your jaw. She’d pinned you yesterday in front of half the camp. Quick and clean. No flair. Just efficiency. It had haunted you all night.

“Still milking that one victory?” you shot back.

Now she turned. Slow. One brow raised. “You think I keep track?”

“Don’t you?”

Her eyes narrowed a little. Not angry. Just studying. Then she stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to make your pulse spike.

“Only when it matters,” she said.

Your breath caught. That tone again. Not a threat. A challenge. An invitation.

You stared at her, words dried up in your throat. Close enough to smell pine and sweat and something warm beneath it. Close enough to see the scar above her eyebrow. The way her lashes clumped at the ends.

Your fingers itched.

To touch. To push. To test.

She tilted her head slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said, stepping back before you could do something stupid. “Let’s just finish this patrol.”

Coward, you thought.

But you didn’t know if you meant her.

Or yourself.

The sky cracked open the moment you reached the outer perimeter.

Rain came fast — heavy and loud, drenching your jacket in seconds. Abby cursed behind you, voice low, as the two of you ducked beneath the skeletal remains of an old carport. Rusted steel. Sagging beams. But shelter, for now.

You both stood there, panting, water running down your faces, your sleeves clinging to your skin.

“Well,” you said, brushing soaked hair from your eyes, “at least we don’t have to pretend to like the view anymore.”

Abby let out a sharp exhale — maybe a laugh, maybe just annoyance. She pulled off her backpack and set it down between you.

“We’re not moving until this slows down,” she said.

“No shit,” you muttered, crouching.

Minutes passed. Then more.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by thunder and the slow drip of water through rust holes above. You didn’t look at her. You were too aware of how close she was. Of the way her knees brushed yours when she shifted. Of the steam rising off her skin.

Eventually, she broke it.

“You always this reckless?”

You turned your head slowly. “You always this judgmental?”

She didn’t rise to it.

“I meant it,” she said. “Back in the nest. I’m not your enemy.”

“I know.”

The words surprised you both. But they were true.

You looked down at your hands. Mud under your nails. Scar on your thumb. A tremble in your fingers that wasn’t from the cold.

“I just don’t like losing,” you added, quieter this time.

Abby studied you. “Neither do I.”

You looked up.

And there it was again — that tension. Not anger. Not even rivalry.

Just heat. Like you’d been circling something dangerous without naming it.

Outside, lightning flashed. A jagged line across the grey.

Inside, something cracked open.

And this time, neither of you looked away.

The rain didn’t let up. Not really. Just softened into a steady drizzle by the time you headed back. Everything squelched. Your boots. Her boots. The path. The space between you.

You should’ve said something.

But what the hell would you even say?

That you kept catching yourself staring? That her voice stuck in your chest like a splinter you couldn’t dig out? That you didn’t just want to win anymore — you wanted her to see you.

The thought made you angrier than it should’ve.

Back at camp, the world was dim with dusk and mist. You split without speaking, without looking. Abby peeled off toward the barracks. You went straight for the showers.

You scrubbed hard.

Like you could wash off the way she looked at you.

The way your skin burned under it.

Later that night, you found her in the common room. Hood up. Elbows on knees. Staring into a fire that had long since gone to embers.

You didn’t know why you walked in.

Didn’t know why you sat beside her.

But you did.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Finally, she said, “You always got something to prove?”

You stiffened. “You always gotta ask questions with knives in ‘em?”

She didn’t laugh. Just leaned back against the bench.

“I used to think being strong was the same as being right,” she said.

You turned to her. “And now?”

She looked at you then — not just glanced. Really looked.

“Now I think being right doesn’t mean much when no one wants to stand next to you.”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” you said, quieter than you meant.

“Yeah,” Abby said. “I know.”

She didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

Because the space between you wasn’t empty anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough — for now.

She was fast.

Not just in combat — though she moved like she had something to prove, something to outrun. No, she was fast in every way that mattered. With comebacks. With fury. With the way her eyes flashed like a struck match every time she turned them on Abby.

Abby told herself it was annoying.

That twitch in her gut? Just adrenaline. Old habits. A leftover instinct to win.

But she kept watching. Kept cataloguing the curve of her lip when she smirked, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her fingers always flexed twice before throwing a knife — like it was muscle memory, or a tick she didn’t know she had.

She noticed too much.

And that meant something dangerous was creeping in.

Abby leaned against the doorframe of the armory that night, fingers tapping absently against the edge of the holster strapped to her thigh. She watched the flicker of firelight across the campyard. She knew she should sleep.

But her body was still humming. From the patrol. From the rain. From her.

She’d been close enough to smell her shampoo — citrus and gunpowder — and it had done something stupid to Abby’s brain.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She’d spent years sharpening herself into something unflinching. Something built. But this? This was messy. Sharp in the wrong ways. A thousand tiny cuts instead of one clean break.

She didn’t even know when it started.

Maybe it was the second time they sparred. Maybe it was the blood on her lip. The grin she gave Abby after she hit the mat. Or maybe it was earlier than that — when she first heard her laugh. Harsh and honest. Like she wasn’t trying to sound pretty, just real.

She didn’t trust it.

But she wanted it anyway.

“I’m not your enemy.”

She meant it.

But when she said it, and saw how the girl looked at her — chin up, eyes hard, like she’d rather die than be seen soft — Abby knew it wasn’t going to be that simple.

Because the truth was, she liked her.

More than liked her.

She respected her. Feared her a little, even — not for what she was capable of, but for what she made Abby feel. She was sharp and bright and unforgiving, and every time they talked, it felt like standing too close to a fire she had no business warming her hands by.

Abby clenched her jaw, swallowed thickly, and stared at the flame in the distance.

No one warned her that wanting something could hurt more than losing it.

But she knew now.

Because wanting her felt like grinding glass between her teeth and pretending it was sugar.

And still — Abby couldn’t stop coming back.

The dawn crept softly over the compound, casting pale gold across dew-slick grass and weathered wood. The world was quiet except for the distant crow of a crow and the steady rhythm of your own breath, puffing out in little clouds of white. You stood near the edge of the barracks, fingers twitching with nerves that felt alive beneath your skin.

Abby came into view from behind a rusted fence, her tall frame outlined by the early light. The damp strands of hair stuck to her neck, and the scar above her brow caught the glow, making it look almost like a silver slash. Her eyes, sharp and guarded as always, locked on yours. There was a softness there this time — a flicker of something almost shy.

“You’re up early,” she said, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shifted your weight, stepping forward a little, daring to close the distance you’d been circling for weeks. “Didn’t want to miss the sunrise,” you replied, your voice quieter than you expected.

Abby glanced up at the sky, streaked with pale pink and lavender clouds, then back at you, lips quirking with a small, knowing smile. “Figures. Always trying to catch something before it slips away.”

The space between you was charged, the cold air suddenly thick with heat and possibility. You could smell the faint tang of citrus soap mixed with earth and something distinctly her — sharp and grounding.

Your fingers itched to reach out, to touch that scar or catch a stray curl behind her ear. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke, “I’ve been thinking.”

Abby’s brow quirked. “That’s dangerous.”

You grinned, a little breathless. “Maybe. But sometimes, it’s worth the risk.”

She took a step closer, narrowing the gap until you could see every shade of green and gold in her eyes. Your pulse hammered in your ears.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” you admitted, voice steady but vulnerable. “Not with you. Not over this.”

Her gaze softened, vulnerability cracking the edges of her usual tough facade. “Neither do I.”

You looked down for a second, nerves twisting your gut. Then, slowly, you reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Your fingertips lingered against the rough skin of her cheek.

She leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“I don’t want it to be complicated,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Just… us.”

Abby swallowed, voice low and sincere. “Yeah. Just us.”

The silence between you was fragile and electric, stretched taut like a held breath.

Carefully, you closed the last few inches, lips meeting hers in a slow, tentative kiss — like tasting something fragile and precious for the first time. Her arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, the warmth of her body chasing away the morning chill.

When you pulled apart, breaths mingling, her smile was radiant and unguarded.

“Guess I’m glad you’re not my enemy,” she teased softly.

You laughed, heart light and full. “Maybe we’re better than that.”

The camp came to life around you—slow, quiet. Birds chirped, and distant voices floated through the mist. But you felt like you were in your own little world with Abby, fingers intertwined, sharing small smiles and gentle touches that said more than words.

At breakfast, she swiped a piece of your bread when you weren’t looking, flashing a mischievous grin.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to chase you down,” she joked, voice playful but warm.

You smirked. “I’ll take my chances.”

Later, near the cracked training grounds where your rivalry first ignited, Abby pulled a knife from her belt and tossed it with effortless precision — the blade sinking dead center into the weathered target.

“Your turn,” she said, eyes glinting with challenge and something softer.

You took the knife she offered, feeling the familiar weight settle in your palm. Breathing steady, you aimed carefully, muscles tense but sure. The blade thudded into the target just a hair off center.

Abby clapped softly, eyes bright with pride. “Not bad.”

You grinned, feeling a rush that wasn’t about winning anymore — it was about this, about her.

She stepped closer, fingers brushing yours in a casual, electrifying touch.

“Want to go again?”

You nodded, heart pounding with a mix of nerves and joy.

The sun climbed higher, warming your skin, the earth around you glowing with new light. The walls you’d built around yourselves cracked open just enough to let something real slip through — something tender and fierce all at once.

You paused, breath hitching as Abby reached out to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, her hand lingering against your cheek like she didn’t want to let go. Her eyes searched yours, full of unspoken promises and quiet strength.

“You’re not so bad,” she murmured, a teasing smile curling at her lips.

You laughed softly, brushing your thumb over her scar with reverence. “Takes one to know one.”

She leaned in, voice dropping to a serious whisper. “We’ve both been fighting for so long. Maybe it’s time we stop.”

You nodded, heart full and steady. “Together.”

Abby’s grin softened, and she pulled you into another kiss — deeper, warmer, and brimming with all the things you’d both been too scared to say.

When you finally parted, her forehead rested against yours, breath mingling.

“No more enemies,” she whispered.

“No more fighting,” you agreed.

You wrapped your arms around her, holding her close as the morning light bathed you both in gentle gold.

For the first time in a long time, you believed it was real.