#so ask questions at your peril

[perfectly-clear-from-here]

i swear to jesus, his mother and all the angels in fecking heaven if ONE more alex turner x reader oneshot comes up on my feed i'm going to go BALLISTIC. that man does not need me, he needs a lad sculpted by the gods with incredible guitar skills to throw him around till the sun comes up. preferably by the name of miles kane.

#the perils of following the alex turner tag #im not your target audience babes. ive got an otherworldly obsession with bands and their homoerotic tendancies. #FORGET ME GIVE HIM TO MILES #i wouldnt know what to bloody do with him! #so youre telling me if you were alone in a room with that man you wouldnt just stare at him like something in a museum and idk. #maybe ask him a few very important questions about a few very interesting songs like catapult and the jewellers hands and golden trunks?? #anyway #milex forever #milex #alex turner

[when-we-drive-away-in-secret]

alright, so this is a question about netflix series which i've recently watched and now i'm suffering from asoue brainrot. there is an obscure moment in the penultimate peril (s3ep6) where frank locks olaf in the closet before the trial, and just as frank is about to close the door, olaf says, "one last thing", as if intending to say something. what do you think he wanted to add? is it something that is maybe more clear in the books?

OKAY so after rewatching that scene (several times) and rereading the corresponding scene in the book, I now feel at least partially equipped to answer this question! (But please bear with me because my research did send me on a bit of a tangent)

So first off, I don't think dealing with the book scene will be of too much help here (although not entirely unhelpful, either), because, as much as I love the netflix adaptation—and I do wholeheartedly adore it—it changes so much that the comparable scene is functionally unrecognisable in several key aspects. The main one being the lack of hostility towards to Baudelaires—Olaf is solidly isolated and supposedly running out of options at this point in the show, whereas his mentality in the books is entirely different because things appear to be going much more his way. He has a crowd at his back and the Baudelaires are seen as far more guilty, which doesn't really translate into the show!verse at all.

So, if we're looking at the show from a more isolated standpoint, I had to consider the possibility that it was a deliberate "what if" moment, without having anything else planned to say, purely for the purpose of getting in the Baudelaires' heads. However, I do feel like the most likely answer is that Olaf did in fact believe he would be heard out, so that's what we'll be assuming from here on out.

The fact that the Denouement in question calls him "buddy" and yet treats him roughly could have made him believe that this is Ernest playing the long con—pretending to be an ally to the others because they were outnumbered at the time, or simply for his own ends. However, he could also genuinely believe that it's Frank, and that he'd be heard out because it's the "noble" thing to do—VFD and the general society in the snicketverse is routinely governed by politeness over logic, and so cutting him off is simply impolite, so he may have believed he'd be able to talk his way out of being locked up. The use of "buddy" could be a generic, positive moniker used by Frank, or a genuine sentiment expressed by Ernest; the rough shake of his arm could be simply how Ernest behaves on any given day, or genuine righteous anger from Frank—just as it's impossible for us as the audience to be sure, Olaf has to try and figure this out in mere moments.

Regardless of what he thought would happen or who he thought he was talking to, though, I have to believe that whatever he was going to say would have been targeted more at the Baudelaires than the Denouement currently getting in his way, so it would likely have been an extension of what he'd already said, and what he'd go on to say at key moments for the remainder of the series—another attack on the Baudelaire parents, a critique of VFD's intentions, or something equally ambiguous to sow the seeds of mistrust in the minds of the children. Despite his general demeanour, he is actually a terrifyingly capable villain, and the human embodiment of the "either I'm god, or truth is relative" soundbite. If he's allowed to talk for long enough, he can convince just about anyone of anything (which is exactly what happens when he takes the stand during the trial), and I wouldn't be surprised if he was expecting to be allowed to run his mouth until both the adults are on his side.

What I think is a very interesting point to consider, though, is one useful comparison from the books—the number of the room he's sent to. As we all know, the rooms in the Hotel Denouement are arranged according to the Dewey Decimal System, and people are categorised above just as the records are categorised below. In the book, the Baudelaires are confined to room 121, and Olaf is locked in room 165 to await their trial. In the Dewey Decimal System, 121 refers to Epistemology—the theory of knowledge. A quote taken from the wikipedia page for epistemology reads:

Epistemology asks questions such as: "What is knowledge?", "How is knowledge acquired?", and "What do people know?"

Having the Baudelaires placed here shows that they aren't sure what people know about them, or what will be revealed at the trial, or what will happen to them (as clearly illustrated by the their conversation at the end of chapter ten). Olaf, however, is placed in room 165: Fallacies and Sources of Error. This could imply that he's in the wrong, but perhaps more likely foreshadows that other people are wrong about him. He will not go to prison, he will not be convicted, and, perhaps most crucially, he is not as completely evil as the Baudelaires believe. He has done terrible things, and he is a terrible person, but—as discussed during The End—they are wrong about the most crucial of his evil deeds (to them). Because he didn't kill their parents. He represents everything that VFD pretends it isn't, but at this point the Baudelaires believe (and have been told) that he is the complete antithesis of what the Volunteers represent—and so, he is categorised as a source of error.

However, in the show, both parties are placed in entirely different rooms, and therefore entirely different categorisations. The Baudelaires are placed in room 342: Constitutional and Administitive Law. This is a choice I absolutely adore, because at this point in the narrative they are quite literally trapped in bureaucracy. They fail because the system is rigged, and they are literally imprisoned by the law—not in the sense that they have already been convicted, but in the sense that they will be no matter what they do. If they stay, the High Court will pronounce them guilty. But, when they run, they're supposedly only proving their own guilt—damned if they don't, and damned if they do.

Olaf's is perhaps the more interesting change, though, because he's no longer seen as a source of error—despite the claims he makes about the Baudelaire parents and VFD immediately before being locked up (once again implying that he isn't lying to them, just using convenient truths). And it carries through to the trial, because he uses the truth (albeit a very deliberately and pointedly edited version) to make the Baudelaires seem just as guilty as he is. In the show, he's placed in room 170: Ethics (moral philosophy). And he is given the chance to talk at the trial, and talk he does. He twists the truth, spins it so that the Baudelaires seem guilty, but that is the exact point of moral debate! He trolley-problemed his way into screwing with the Baudelaires' heads, not because he needed to (he knew he was never getting convicted, because he knew who was on the High Court), but to prove a goddamn point. Yes, he's done terrible things, but did anyone think to ask him why? Of course, to us, the reader, the viewer, the third party observer, it doesn't matter. Because at a certain point, actions speak for themselves. Reasons can explain, but not necessarily excuse—that is the reasonable stance to take, and no matter his reasons, the explanation will never be an excuse for him.

But he's an actor. That's why Klaus calls him up to the stand in the trial, because he knows he'll want to talk in front of an audience, and can't imagine any way he wouldn't incriminate himself. And despite the Baudelaires' personal opinions of his ability, we've seen time and time again that he must be a good actor, because people always believe his performances. And as any good actor could tell you, it's crucial to be able to read your audience. If you want the best reaction, then you need to work out, as quickly as humanly possible, how they'll respond, and play up or tone down your performance accordingly. And he's spent so much time with VFD, with the Baudelaires, that he knows just what to say. He knows that, regardless of their reasons, they will feel guilty—in both the book and the show, they question if they're not just as bad as him! They did what they did to survive, and they genuinely worry that they're the same as the murderous, fortune-hungry beast that's been hunting them through their grief and fear. And he knows that. He wants to get in their heads, maybe just for fun, but mostly to get them to come to him. And the worst part is that it bloody works! They end up escaping with him, burning the hotel and potentially letting him out into the world, turning away from the good-hearted people trying to help them because if they can't trust anyone to be on their side, at least they can trust him not to be.

All this to say that, looking at his character, the writing of the show and the way the events unfold, while I can't give you a verbatim quote of what I think he would have said, I will say this: I wholeheartedly believe it would have been a short, targeted line to the Baudelaires, attacking them, their belief system, their very moral character. Because he didn't know he'd be allowed to speak at the trial—remember, it was only Klaus' fear and paranoia that put him on the stand in the first place—and as far as he knew, that could have been his last chance to ensure they'd come to him. He wasn't sure his previous words had been enough, and we all know he has a flair for the dramatic. Think back to one of the most chilling moments of the entire series, both in the book and show, at the end of the Bad Beginning. When the lights go out and he makes his escape, the Baudelaires would have still lived in fear of him, knowing he was on the loose, but that wasn't enough. He risked capture, risked losing his window of escape, all to torment Violet one last time; to plant that final seed of paranoia and fear into her mind, to whisper threats in the dark. And I have no doubt that, had he been given the chance, that is precisely what he would have done here.

By cutting him off, the Denouement gave the Baudelaires hope; hope that it might be different, hope that people wouldn't listen to him this time. But after all they'd been through, they couldn't risk not letting him talk—everyone always listens to him, in the end, and they had to make sure that everyone would finally believe them instead. And that very act of cutting him off, of not letting him give that final threat, is perhaps what sealed their fates. If Olaf's threat was fresh in their minds, they might have been too fearful to address him. If, like in the books, he'd eluded to his acquaintance with the High Court, they might have known what would happen. But he didn't get the chance, and neither did they.

#very fascinating dialogue #count olaf #asoue #asoue analysis #the penultimate peril #Various Fastidious Dissections #also THANK YOU FOR SENDING THIS #had so much fun thinking about it #got a little bit sidetracked #but i hope this at least somewhat answers your question!! #please feel free to send another ask if it doesn't #or for anything else #i've missed dissecting this series #also hello! welcome to the brainrot!! #a queue of unfortunate events

[on-leatheredwings]

Sleepover

Yandere! Damian Wayne x (Fem!) Reader

romantic > summary: During a sleepover, Damian makes his first foray into infatuation. > word count: 1605 > [ a/n: i just love writing from the yandere’s point of view! Damian is 19 or college-age here. honestly not much plot, just musings~ i will try to write from the Darling’s POV next time hehe.]

This must be love.

“Wow, Damian… I’ve never noticed but your nails are so pretty,” you compliment, satisfied with the boy’s upkeep. Damian feels his heart thrumming against his ribcage. You are holding his hand. 

Not for the first time either, but the thrill never fades. 

If this had occurred a year ago, before Damian learned of how casual (generous, even!) you were physical affection, he might have dumbly stated, “You’re holding my hand.” Instead, he simply thinks it, on loop, in one long string. 

You’re holding my hand. You’re holding my hand. You’re holding my hand.

Unbeknownst to all this, you simply paint his forefinger with a stripe of green so dark it looks black. 

“If we’re going to do this, it’ll be by my rules,” he had said. 

In reality, if you needled him any harder, he would’ve accepted pink nails with glitter on them. Who cares? There wasn’t anyone who dared to make fun of him at school. Not to mention, it’d be obvious to everyone that you painted them. You'd be marking him as yours, essentially. And at night… well, Robin wears gloves.

“Hn. How so?” Damian asks with feigned coolness. Mainly because he wants to hear you praise him. In your hushed, awed voice. When he dreams, you often sound like that. (And he quickly pushes that thought away.)

You look at him pointedly, grinning. Oh, he’s not so slick. You acquiesce to his whims anyway.

“Your cuticles are impeccable and your nails are finely trimmed… I’m impressed. Don’t you do martial arts, too? Crazy they aren’t more dinged up.”

Martial arts. That was supposed to explain his abnormal strength and fighting capability, the one time you saw him nearly break a man’s wrist for trying to pickpocket you. 

You accepted the excuse with only a little suspicion.

“It’s simple grooming.”

A catlike grin forms on your face. “Hm~ I don’t knowwww… Seems like you may be trying to catch the eye of a girl – you know, girls look at stuff like that.”

Damian frowns. 

He’s infatuated but not delusional. He’s aware this ‘sleepover’ is pretty platonic on your end. After nails, it’ll be skin care. Maybe you’ll even do your makeup and take goofy pictures with him. You’ll laugh and platonically huddle against him during a movie. You may doze off on his shoulder while he’ll be committing your every dewy, moisturized pore to memory. 

Because of Damian’s (self-admitted) social awkwardness with your peers, you think that gives you some sort of elder sibling-esque edge on him. You are the social butterfly, leading a naive, but well-meaning social pariah through the perils of young adult life. You don’t know you are so much more naive than he is, and he adores that.

Rather than addressing the question, he snorts. “When are you going to turn on the movie?”

You hum, completing his nail’s first coat. “Oh yeah, that’s right!” You grab the remote and press play. You continue painting, gingerly admiring his long, golden brown digits. Damian preens at the attention. 

As the movie plays, you pause often to look up and gape at the screen. It’s a horror flick, and boasts an abundance of cartoonish gore. While a bit more sensational than something he’d put on, he likes your dark taste. An annoying teenager gets their head hacked off with a chainsaw. You laugh and Damian feels his heart sing. 

There’s a chime that rings through Wayne Manor, and he has to bite back a groan.

“Pizza’s here!” you cheer. You begin to get up when Damian whips out his card in an instant. 

“I’ll pay.” To his delight, you gape in surprise, cheeks warming. 

“Oh… Thanks, Damian!” You never quite get used to him paying for things, but you at least know by now not to argue. You grab his credit card and – thank God – your fingers brush against each other. It sends the most pleasant trill down his spine. “Since you’re paying, I’ll go bring it! I won’t be long.”

A corner of his lips quirk. “I’ll be pleasantly surprised if it gets back to this room at all.” You stick out your tongue on the way out.

As soon as he hears your footsteps disappear down the hall – such clumsy, loud steps – Damian’s attention falls to the messenger bag you threw to the ground of his bedroom. He knows your diary is in there. (In his mind, he can hear you protest, It’s a journal!)

He’ll be quick. He flips open to a random page, and he already is laughing at your writing style. There’s little care for capitalizing letters and full of what you explained are “emoticons”, despite being handwritten. He flips to today’s entry, half-finished.

February 01. 

there’s a guy in class who’s pretty cute… one may even say HOT xP

Damian’s jaw tightens. He knows exactly who you’re talking about, and he won’t allow that neanderthal anywhere near you. At least, not again. Yesterday, you told him that your crush had smiled at you. Brushed fingers with you when passing papers. In the only class you have without Damian.

(Also, “your crush,” he scoffs. What a juvenile concept. You and Damian share something much deeper. His feelings for you are not so trivial.)

The semester is still young. Damian can pull any string to land himself in your anthropology class.

The rest of your entry for today (and the past days prior) isn’t anything notable except for when he’s mentioned. 

stressful day, but at least i have tonight with damian to cheer me up. he’s seriously the best …. i should tell him more often !!! (but it’d give him an even bigger head)

He doesn’t even attempt to stop the smile splitting his face. 

Damian’s keen hearing catches you striking up a conversation with Alfred in the kitchen. Despite your promise, he knows you will, indeed, take long. You love talking to everyone, even in passing. It’s an admirable quality, and one he envies.

He unlocks your phone and rifles through some messages of yours. He uses his own phone for documentation purposes. What else is there to do… He spies your jacket on his bed.

There is a shameful thought and Damian’s heart skips a beat. It is… frankly, it’s humiliating as a concept. Yet he’s enticed. It’s your jacket, after all. He brings it to his face delicately and inhales, almost shyly. Once he catches the familiar scent of your body wash, however, he allows himself to breathe it in. After being lost in it for a few seconds, he rips it away. 

Only to see his father standing in his doorframe. 

He knows what this looks like. Damian knows what this looks like. After years of working with the man, Damian can hear his thoughts as if they were his own, as they happen. 

Damian just smelled your clothes. Even if it was investigative in nature, he could’ve retrieved a sample some other way. Someone’s personal journal is open on the floor. A phone that he knows is not Damian’s is unlocked and displaying text messages. All these things are splayed out in a circle around him. It’s uncharacteristically messy of him, as well. Damian’s own phone is actively on his camera. Was he taking pictures? And most notable is the absence of you.

In summary? Damian must have some interest in you. And by this sloppy job, it’s quite emotionally charged. And at his age, it’s likely romantic.

Damian’s skin rises to what feels like a boiling heat. What is Father going to say? He can’t stop him – he can’t. Damian doesn’t even want to talk about it, let alone be reprimanded. A feral need to escape bubbles underneath his skin. Despite the panic, he channels years of League training and hardens himself. 

Bruce watches his son’s expression morph from dazed, to fearful, to steel, in real time. From Damian’s seat on the floor he offers his father only silent defiance. Bruce knows his son, his darker needs that stem from his cruel childhood. And perhaps he should’ve expected this to happen someday. Bruce exhales, eyes closing. When they reopen, his slate-grey eyes are firm and hard. 

“No one gets hurt.”

And by that, Bruce means no one dies. Because Bruce and Damian are Batman and Robin – they’re all in the business of hurting people. People who deserve it, yes, but it’s still hurt. Pain.

Damian feels immense relief. He wouldn’t have killed his father – he’s not that boy anymore. But a life without you seems similarly unbearable. Damian feels… shaken. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done. He also feels grateful, that it didn’t turn out any other way. 

His eyes drop to the jacket he holds in a fist.

“... Yes. Thank you, Father.” Bruce’s gaze lingers, but he leaves wordlessly.

This encounter reminds Damian of who he is. He is a detective, vigilante, assassin, and creature of stealth. He can’t be this careless, even if he knows you won’t notice. 

Damian returns your belongings to their place, exactly how you left it. Diary back in your bag, jacket to where you were lounging, your phone underneath a pillow, because you carelessly tossed it aside. You’ll inevitably begin to look for it and he’ll grin once he places it in your hand.

You finally return to his room, two pizza boxes of deluxe cheese (for him) and pepperoni (for you) in your arms. You laugh sheepishly. 

“Sorry for the wait, Dami.” His heart skitters at the nickname.

“It’s fine.” Your eyes glitter with excitement and optimism and purity. He finds it hard to look away, you raining down a gaze like that upon him.

“I was waiting for you.”

#yandere damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #yandere batfam #damian wayne #yandere damian wayne x reader #wish this was better but idc #its fun to just write u know :) #mine

[mariasont]

My Assistant - A.H

a/n: im a little addicted to bimbo reader rn if you can't tell lmao

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

summary: you can't reach a book so hotch helps you out

warnings: none? fluff, reader climbing a fucking book shelf and for what

wc: 0.8k

"Oh, biscuits!" 

It was a ridiculous thing to say, but frankly you didn't care. You were on your tiptoes, chest flush against a bookshelf. Spencer had asked for a book for the case they were working, and naturally, it was nestled on the top shelf.

Balancing precariously on your stilettos, you stretched as tall as you possibly could, your fingers skimming the spine that was an inch too far away.

You shifted your weight back onto your heels, planting your hands firmly on your hips as you considered the stubborn object just out of reach. Sure, Spencer would grab the book without hesitation if asked, and he'd do so with a smile, but you really liked feeling useful.

For over a year, you've been the one at Mr. Hotchner's beck and call--fetching coffee, filing papers, and attending to, basically, his every need (not the one you wanted though). To others, it might seem trivial, but you really liked it. Well, you really liked him. 

At first, you were intimidated--how could you not? He had a reputation. You heard the stories--a man who never smiled, his ever-serious nature, and Penelope's not so family friendly description of his sternness was enough to unsettle anyone.

But you considered his reputed severity to just be part of his charm, he was far from the figure others painted him as. He was a good boss, always fair, never once raising his voice at you or demanding too much. In your eyes, he was perfect. You might be biased. 

The idea of climbing the shelf was a gamble, especially in these shoes, and it seemed almost certain to end with a less-than-elegant fall. Still, you couldn't resist the challenge and hoisted yourself up anyway, the shelf wobbling perilously as you did so. 

You pressed on, climbing higher, the wood's groans of protest falling on deaf ears. If this was how you were going down, so be it.

"Almost there," you muttered to yourself, straining every muscle in your arm, you were sure.

And just as you almost had the book, your balance faltered and then found new footing, the sensation of falling dissipating. In its place, you found your ass delicately perched, nearly seated on someone's broad shoulder.

You honestly didn't even need to look to know who it was--embarrassingly enough--you had basically memorized the feeling of Hotch's hands. Though they had never been wrapped around your legs like they were now. His grip was warm and strong, sparking a wave of electricity that rippled through your whole body.

"Got it!" you cried out, your victory fist pump nearly launching you from Hotch's shoulder. But his hold on your thighs clamped tighter, securing you in place. "Thanks, sir."

You angled your head downward, locking gazes with Hotch--his eyes a rich blend of ember and molten chocolate that you really liked looking at.

His eyebrows were arched in a silent question on his well-defined face as if he really couldn't believe what you were doing. 

"Careful," Hotch murmured, his hands lowering you to the ground. There was a fleeting brush against your ass, surely accidental, yet it sparked a flurry of butterflies swirling in the pit of your stomach. "In the future, just ask. I wouldn't want you hurt over something as trivial as a book."

"Oh, don't you worry about me, sir. I'm like, practically a pro at rock climbing when I'm not here." you said, letting out a bubbly giggle.

He regarded you with a look that was equal parts amusement and disbelief, clearly not convinced.

"Okay, not really, but wouldn't that be cool?"

"Well, rock climber or not, let's keep those feet on the ground, please," Hotch remarked, the slightest quirk of his mouth suggesting a suppressed smile. "It's less of a fall from there."

"Sure thing, sir!" you beamed, popping off a silly salute, noting his struggle not to roll his eyes. "But I did get the book, so it all worked out in the end, right?"

With a gentle nudge on your lower back, Hotch directed you towards the conference room.

"Yes, it did, but for future reference, Spencer's height makes him more capable of reaching those books himself."

You couldn't help the blush that colored your face, and you managed a flustered smile.

"Well, I mean, it is what I get paid to do, sir."

"No, you get paid to do my bidding, not Spencer's," he teases, giving a gentle squeeze to your side.

Your laughter rang out, a bit too high, a bit too bright, as his touch sent a delightful vertigo spiraling through you. 

"Well, yeah, okay, that's fair. But it's been pretty light on the to-do list from you today."

"And you're complaining about that?"

With the conference room in sight, you pretended to lock your lips and throw away the key.

A rare laugh rumbled through his chest, and you felt your knees buckle, you were sure you could have melted into a puddle right there and then. It was such a beautiful sound, and you desperately wanted to become familiar with it.

Spencer emerged from the conference room, his eyes landing on the book in your hands. "Is that The Selfish Gene?"

Hotch took the book from you, handing it to Spencer with a firm look. "Reid, I'd appreciate it if you didn't recruit my assistant for your library runs."

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo reader #aaron hotchner x assistant reader #aaron hotchner #hotch #hotchner #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x bau reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #Spotify

[ackermanbloodline]

You’re so fucked out.

You two haven’t seen each other for almost a week thanks to Levi, once again, being on a perilous mission. That week felt like a year when you make love almost every day. So, in his mind, you two have lots of time to make up for. He’s been pounding into you for hours. You’ve came several times already, your voice is fried, and your mind is entirely blank. 

Your heart, mind, and pussy, are all so, so full of him.

You are barely conscious as you register the distinct sound of skin slapping together while in missionary. Despite this, broken moans and gasps leave your lips as your legs are over Levi’s shoulders. Eyes closed. One of his toned forearms is on one side of you to prop himself up while the other hand is gripping the bed frame to get more leverage and strength to pound into you. His balls slap lightly against your ass. 

“Fuck, taking it so well…” he almost whines, reveling in your warm, wet pussy. He’s been ready to cum for hours but he’s forced himself to hold off each and every time he’s gotten close. He studies how beautiful you look: your cheeks flushed a light pink, a little drool at the side of your mouth, and your long eyelashes.

Then he looks down at his cock going in and out, and the sight alone makes him twitch. 

His hand hastily leaves the bedframe and buries itself at the back of your skull, gripping the roots of the hair there. He gently forces your head downward. 

“Watch it, sweetheart, watch.” 

Your eyes open to obey his request. Your labia is so red and puffy. His dick is wet and sparkling, absolutely coated in you, and the blue-tinted veins of his length bulge. He pulls almost entirely out then plunges right back in and doesn’t stop until his pelvic bone meets yours. In and out. In and out. In and out. Watching it disappear into you is hypnotizing. You can no longer utter coherent words, just sounds of pleasure. 

You both continue to watch until his hand lets go of your hair. His lips press into your hairline softly when he asks a barely audible question. 

“Where do you want it?” 

You know precisely what he means when you notice his thrusts becoming harder and faster and he gets quiet. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s almost like you can feel him in your stomach. He’s so deep and going so ruthlessly that it’s hard to register. The thought of him using you like a toy to stroke his cock with turns you on to an endless degree. 

“Need you to talk to me, baby. Where do you want it?” 

“Inside,” you barely manage to rasp. “Inside.” 

“You want me to cum inside you? Fill this pretty pussy up?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Say it,” he pleads. 

“Please, Levi. I want… I need you to cum inside me.” 

Your words echo in his brain on repeat. Even though Levi finishes inside you almost every time, to both of you, it never gets old. 

“I’m gonna cum, oh, I’m gonna—”

You wrap your arms around his neck to pull his body closer to yours. And with that, Levi’s dick twitches inside you with rope after rope of cum. He milks his cock so deep inside you, pushing it deeper with each pump. To him, it feels impossibly wetter than before and slippery. 

He stills for a couple of moments then pulls out. He pushes your legs apart and gazes at your pussy. You bear down, making some cum come out. Seeing him drip out of you nearly always makes his eyes roll back into his head. He leans down, gathers some of it on his thumb, and pops it into his mouth. Once it’s sucked clean, he kisses you with an open mouth, making you taste. 

Once satisfied, he withdraws from the kiss. He grabs your chin and gently wiggles it back and forth. 

“You’ve never looked prettier when you’re full of my cum.”

#levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi aot #levi attack on titan #levi ackerman x female reader #levi x reader #levi x you #levi heichou #levi ackerman x y/n smut #smut #aot smut #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #snk #snk x y/n #snk x reader #snk x you #aot x female reader #aot x y/n #aot x you #aot levi #snk smut #snk levi #snk fanfiction #aot #attack on titan smut #attack on titan x reader

[samodivaa]

Training Techniques

Winter Soldier x Reader He is not allowed to move an inch—he can only watch you pleasure yourself—but why is there a ring on your finger?

Warnings - smut, light angst, mastrubation(f), rough sex, choking, breeding kink Words - 2600 ⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ You have absolutely no pleasure in the work in which you sometimes so madly indulge—training the assets with delicacy of words with which their handlers don’t approve of—Soldat is your favorite, with his expression of endless and unconditional gratitude and a silent promise of complicity unto death—he may not remember your face, but he always remembers your voice, its' gentleness. The soporific air of your room, in the soft breath of bread and sweets—he was sent there, because he was misbehaving again.

It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that you have periled this life and reputation—but here you are—on your bed trying to sleep when you see him sitting on the chair, waiting. And this isn't a romance. You're not a damsel in distress and he is not the handsome prince who comes to save you—this is his desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of the impending doom, but they didn’t know that.

You know.

He can't stop looking at you—Soldat is gazing at a distant star. It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago, because he is not allowed to move until you instruct him to.

Subconsciously, he licks his lips at the sight at your body in a night dress and wonder if he will ever just cum in your mouth as you suck him off to your knees…or if he’ll take you by the hair before he’s finished and fuck you into a sobbing heap before blowing his load. It doesn’t seem worth the risk —but he wanted this for so long now, he needs to voice it.

“Please-” —an irrational and indulgent mistake. you stand up on your elbows in shock at the word he utters—his eyes drift leisurely back up to your face and his lips twitch. Soldat has fallen into a state of feverish lust, but that is not a justification for his disobedience. His heart goes into a shameless delirium when your eyes meet. “Desperate?” you mock, but underneath the mockery Soldat finds a reservoir of understanding. You lay back on the bed as nothing has happened, and your voice takes on a restful strength “I still need to punish you for that, Winter” He behaves as naturally, with such discretion, that he does not lose his composure, not even when you remove your wedding ring—who committed the impertinence of marrying you? He goes through a crisis of disappointment, fury, jealousy, but this is your way of giving Soldat a layer of respect—he wants to call it loyalty. And maybe you can be his or maybe you will be entwined in this sexless foreplay tonight.

He wants to ask so many questions, but he can’t. Not now. There is a pent-up curiosity, hysteria of his unsatisfied needs, unnaturally suppressed communion and also a kind of tense respect, because if he is obedient enough—he will be rewarded.

“You will watch me, that's all you will do for now” you say, your voice has sunk to a whisper. Your words stoke a warmness in his stomach, a fire in his crotch. And he doesn’t care what you will do with him—even if you want to cut him, sharpen him however you please—that's all he knows anyways. He wants this memory to stay what it is, one intense moment, something that is strong and sweet enough to stand on its own. Your room has turned into an idyllic paradise for a good many years, your skin glistening in the light coming from the slits in the blinds as your hands play with your breast through the nightgown. He has lost his voice and a thread of cold sweat runs down the path of his spine, suffocating with heat, because of the black leather clothes—the stiff collar and the tight harness that is restricting his breathing, is becoming increasingly annoying.

His eyes are growing moist with indignation, with angry impotence, and for the first time, he is barely controlling himself. It is the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning—he needs to be patient, but it’s hard—not harder than his cock—It's more erotic, more intense to watch you touch yourself. He is master of what he does, but never of what he desires. You are greatly overestimating his self-control. But this is what you are testing tonight—his ability to subordinate the impulse to fuck you. Self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion, but you need to show him who is in charge while your panties are becoming steadily slicker. All you need to do is to tell him to come, but you refrain from doing the thing you want so badly—to be consumed by Winter. You glance up to find his eyes blazing with raw need—blue orbits pleading for you to command him. You spread your legs open, positioning yourself in front of him—one hand still toying with your nipple while the fingers of the other hook in your panties and drag them down your legs slowly before throwing them in his direction. His breath stutters as they land on his left boot and Soldat eyes them wickedly, knowing that all he can do is watch. 

"Good, very good, Soldat '' you coo, sliding two fingers into your core, scissoring and stretching, curling over the one sweet spot—imagining his metal digits. You remove them as your index finger takes their place, rubbing slow, torturous circles on your clit, sliding down to tease your opening, then back up. Over and over again.

He slides his tongue across his teeth, remembering the taste of your nectar, becoming more and more aroused with every beat of his heart that runs down his shaft.

“I want you so much, gosh” he is stirred by the lust in your smooth voice. You are breathing deep with your mouth wide open—he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t dare blink. Soldat can swear he feels the pressure of your palms on his cheeks—or is it a memory? Everything is a memory to him. “I want you here, fucking me” There is something raw and pleading in your voice that surpasses sexual desire, these fleeting moments of carnal craving.

With the auspicious attention of a strained killing machine, he examines your fingers, your shivering body and listens to your muffled moans meticulously. It is such a tumultuous and intemperate invasion to his mind—your scandalous behavior is pulling at every string of his nerves and self-control.

It is such a prolonged act, so meticulous, so rich in all aspects as you are giving yourself over to the deserved adoration of your own body and pleasure. It leaves Soldat breathless at the tremendous spectacle of your nudity and lack of shame as you bring yourself closer to the edge.

“Jesus-I am so close” You confess, surprised at how fast the arousal is budding. You arch your back and hips buckle like an electric current runs through your body, moaning, rubbing your clit faster, forcing yourself to let out a louder moan. The orgasm wrecks your body from head to toe and being watched by a ferocious male is exciting—all he needs is a feeling as primitive and as simple as that of love.

You see his eyes, still unblinking and you feel menaced by some invisible danger—you are keenly aware of every movement, every breath you take. Lust is a weed that grows in the vacant lots of an abandoned mind and the stacks of bad words that you have been forced to swallow, spills “Soldat, come here” you command, languid and serious.

You lick your lips, trying to quench the thirst for him. Your throat is dry as you watch him between your spread legs, getting up and slowly coming towards the bed as his thick, black pants fall to the floor around his feet, the belt clattering noisily. Winter craws on top of you and he cannot articulate a word, capable only of an animal sound, a strangulated wheeze that shocks him deeply, enraging him, this sudden loss of the faculty of speech that feels somehow bestial and forgotten. He breathes, his chest rising and falling so close to yours.

“Kiss m-” you whisper the words, and before you even finish saying them, his mouth is on yours and you are melting under his lips, eyes flutter shut—and it is blissful oblivion—giving you the most intense and explosive kiss you two have ever shared. With the coldness of his lips and the warmth of his tongue beneath yours, you vow an endless bliss. He pulls back with a groan—Winter’s sky-blue eyes stare back into yours, and in his eyes you can see no parting from you. You put your hands on either side of his face, and the room falls away. You have never gotten so lost in a kiss before. And the kiss is not gentle. It is a wrestle of who would lead the excursion into the territory of passion and ecstasy, heat and unending craving for one another. You suck on his lower lip between your teeth and he lets out a low groan. It sounds almost aggravated and definitely impatient. Fire looks into his quiet eyes, touches his dear, familiar face—you lean upwards for a moment and dip your head towards his ear, grazing his soft skin with your teeth, while your hand slides to the harness. Soldat stills, angling his mouth towards your bare, perfect neck. You feel a warm slickness on your skin, his tongue trailing a path towards your shoulder.

It is a wild, animalistic compulsion, an urgent need as he suddenly slots himself between your legs and you turn your head away. Your fear is returning, crawling through your limbs and leaving you numb to everything. You shut your eyes, gripping the sheets, and whimper when he pushes himself inside you. He releases a ragged breath before moving, slow but with purpose, and you simply take it with soft whimpers and gasps as he pumps in and out of you, now starting to set a steady pace. His eyes, the blue completely gone from his them, soften for a moment and he kisses you tenderly before he whispers in your ear, his breath puffs against your skin. He spends a good amount of time on your neck, a brief stop at the base of your throat—he wants to bite you, but he can’t—something melts inside Soldat that hurts in an exquisite way—you are not his. “Who did you marry, Snow White?” He asks, voice throbbing with menace—before slipping inside you again and burying himself to the hilt. Sex with you this time is different, he has never felt this dominant, this claiming. He is so far in that his balls are right against your lips. You arch your back and moan “It doesn’t matter” as he slides back out nearly all the way before slamming into you hard and fast. You wrap your legs around his waist as he slams into you over and over, the only sound in the room is the skin slapping. You close your eyes and swallow. Your mouth parts and stills—your voice is barely a whisper as his tip touches your cervix. “Pierce…I am closer to ruining his plans, closer to freeing you” Despite your eyelids being tightly shut, a single, hot tear runs out of your eye. You are so angry that it has escaped—so angry—he stops his trusts completely. You moan as you feel his movement out of you. Then, as he almost has the tip fully out, he slaps it back in. When your eyes meet his gaze as you are sitting here staring at each other, time stops. Your fingertips reach to trace the metal shoulder, but he grasps your hand with his own. He leans down, far enough that the ends of his hair brush feather-light against your face, catching in your lashes and tears.

His breath, warm and measured, hits your cheek. Two breaths. Three. Then you stop breathing, and a second later, you feel his lips on your mouth. It is hungry, desperate. His metal hand wraps around your neck, thumb presses into the skin—you moan, it ripples over your nerve endings. His breath caresses your ear again—his grip on your neck tightens. And this makes you always still and submit…the act of Winter taking shameful, contemptuous possession of you is the kind of rapture you want.

“Next time-” you try, but with your restricted of oxygen brain, you are not able to. He tastes passion. He tastes lust. He tastes his power over you. He tastes a world of stimulants he’d never imagined. You are right there in front of him, he can do whatever he wants. Winter loosens his hold—only to observe you as you breathe raggedly, sliding down slowly, a moan ripping from your throat. 

“Next time he calls you in his house, I will be there, too”

I have nothing to give but my heart so full and these empty hands.

“I need to kill them one by one, Winter” His mouth curves into a smile—his eyes are light blue and dancing with life. He pauses for only a fraction of a second. Then he leans forward and presses his lips to yours "Okay, yeah, yeah" a devil-soft whisper. He blinks several times like he is trying to comprehend your plan word by word. His trusts become so hormonal—you want his roughness. His other hand slips to your waist, pushing you into the mattress as he fucks you. For him, sex intimately relates to the most primitive kind of human contact, which can satisfy all of his needs he has been deprived from. "Winter " you gaspe breathlessly "Slow down" You try to let out a choked squeal, but his metal hand tightens around your neck again, muffling any sounds, your toes curling as he brings you steadily closer and closer to orgasm, reeling from the thrill and the fear from both his forceful thrusts of his powerful hips and the choking. Soldat is unrelenting in his domination of your body. But you are his at this moment, your cunt clenching around him while you mewls and grunts fill his ears, he can’t slow down even one bit. Logic would say that this is insane, every other fibre of his being says it's right—he has to fill you up. You can't move. You can't breathe. And his pace. And the adrenaline. “I will cum inside—dear Snow White” This is his demarcation line, all of a sudden it seems unfair to withhold it from you. Your inner muscles tighten as waves of pleasure start to build and ripple out. You don’t normally get off this fast, but you are lost in the exquisite sensations—you put your hands on his metal arm as your body bursts into flames, your fingers curling into the metal. You can’t make a sound and it is a shame, because it is the best orgasm you ever had. It is unbearable, unreal, unimaginable—it is too much as your eyes can only see darkness due to the choking. You can only hear a broken and hoarse cry escaping his lips, his warm come filling you up completely.

You can hear his breath, as your vision slowly becomes solid—a stray lock of dark hair falls into his eyes as he is looking down—he moves his hips back and then into you again, enjoying his cock being in a tub of cum, swimming in your honey.

#I WAS POSSESSED #but this is real #metal arm kink fr #winter soldier x you #winter soldier smut #winter soldier imagine #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier fic #winter soldier fanfiction #smut #slight angst #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel x reader #bucky barnes imagine

[thewulf]

Beneath the Healer's Touch || Azriel

Summary: Request - I was wondering if you could write an ACOTAR fic with Azriel as the reader’s mate where the reader is Madja’s apprentice, but she rarely ever asks her to personally treat their patients, like she’s just there to assist with the equipment and materials and stuff and the IC never really questioned it... Read Rest Here

A/N: Wasn't planning on putting two Az fics out in a row but I just had to write this. Love it so much, thank you for the requests :)

Pairing: Azriel x Female Reader (Night Court Healer Reader)

Word Count: 5.6k +

TW: Use of Magic (fluffy), yelling

You huddle against the rough fabric of the medical tent situated perilously close to the front lines. As Madja’s apprentice your role in the Night Court has always been subdued. Your presence nearly as invisible as the shadows where you often stand. A shy but observant female fae, you’ve adapted to watching and learning. You assisted with the preparation of healing instruments and materials rather than engaging in the direct act of healing itself. Madja, the seasoned healer you serve under has never asked you to step beyond these boundaries . That was until today.

Outside of the tent the clash and clamor of war reverberate through the air. A constant reminder of the stakes at play. Inside the tent the atmosphere is thick with the scent of blood and herbs being punctuated by the groans of soldiers bearing the fresh scars of battle. Each day the flow of injured warriors increases, overwhelming even Madja’s formidable skills.

Her usual calm efficiency begins to wane under the strain. Her movements growing more frantic as she tries to attend to multiple critical cases simultaneously. The limited space of the tent is filled with the wounded and the air is heavy with desperation and the iron tang of blood.

Seeing the desperation in Madja's eyes as she struggles to keep up you begin to feel the weight of every unattended soldier pressing down upon you. Your hands which were so accustomed to organizing and managing the background needs itch to do more — to heal and to help directly.

In a moment of sheer necessity Madja turns to you with a look of grave urgency. "I need you now, more than ever," she says over the din of suffering. Her voice thick with exhaustion. "You must help me heal them. We are losing too many. I have called for more help, but I need you today."

As the urgent call pierces through the chaotic sounds of the medical tent you look into Madja’s eyes feeling the weight of her plea. Your heart races but your response is calm and resolute. “I’ll do it,” you say quickly. The words almost catching in your throat.

Madja reaches out, her hand briefly squeezing yours. A gesture laden with both gratitude and apology. “I’m sorry to ask this of you,” she murmurs as her voice laced with regret as she glances at the wounded waiting for attention.

You shake your head dismissing her concerns with a small, reassuring smile that you hope masks your nervousness. “It’s alright, Madja. I’ll be okay,” you assure her while stepping closer to the first of many soldiers who need your help. Your voice is stronger than you feel, imbued with a determination that you muster from the depths of your commitment to heal. Despite the personal cost.

With a deep, steadying breath you prepare yourself for the task ahead knowing each healing touch will draw the pain into your own body. But in this moment of desperate need your resolve is unwavering. You are ready to face whatever comes for the sake of those who depend on you.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you step forward. Your usual place behind the scenes abandoned for the harsh reality of frontline medical work. You approach the first soldier laid out before you. His injuries severe and daunting. As you extend your hands to begin the healing a part of you recoils knowing the personal cost you will soon pay. With a deep breath you brace yourself against the incoming tide of pain that will transfer to you as you heal him accepting the burden as the price of your newfound duty.

In the stifling heat of the medical tent, you move from one soldier to the next. Your hands becoming conduits of both healing and suffering. The first soldier’s injury—a deep gash across his arm—closes under the gentle press of your palms but the sharp sting of the wound sears through you as if the blade had cut into your own flesh. You stifle a gasp, biting down on your lip to keep composed as the pain lingers. It was a cruel echo of the soldier's relief.

With each healing the burden grows heavier. A fractured leg brings an ache that settles deep into your bones making you falter for a moment as you steady yourself against a tent pole. A burn from a fire spell sends waves of searing heat coursing through your skin. You struggle to maintain the calm exterior expected of a healer. Despite the agony each touch brings you press on being driven by the urgent need around you.

The soldiers were unaware of the cost you pay with each healing thank you with weak smiles and hoarse words of gratitude. You return their thanks with nods and a faint smile making sure to hide the toll their pain exacts upon you.

Throughout all of this the Inner Circle is embroiled in their own battles too consumed by strategic planning and counterattacks to notice the quiet suffering of Madja’s apprentice. They see you sometimes as a fleeting figure moving among the cots, but the depth of your sacrifice remains unseen being masked by the chaos of war and the stoic mask you wear.

The pain accumulates as a collection of injuries that are not your own yet reside within you. As the day wears on you feel yourself weakening. The physical costs of your hidden ability dragging at your limbs making each step heavier. Each breath shallower. Still, you continue, the need to help, to heal, pushing you beyond your limits. The cries of pain are a call you cannot ignore even as each healing tears a little piece from your own reserves of strength.

In the privacy of brief moments alone when you can lean against the cool canvas of the tent and close your eyes, the reality of your situation presses close, intimate, and overwhelming. How long can you sustain this? The question haunts the back of your mind, but you push it away instead focusing on the faces of those you’ve saved on the necessity of your pain for their relief. This is the path you’ve chosen. Hidden in shadows yet illuminated by the faint glow of altruism, bearing silently the scars that no one else can see.

As dusk begins to settle over the camp casting long shadows between the rows of tents Azriel returns from a skirmish. His usually composed expression tightened with discomfort. The shadows that constantly swirl around him seem agitated reflecting his unease. He carries a minor wound. A laceration on his arm that under normal circumstances would be a trivial matter for a healer of his caliber. However, this wound is tainted with faebane, a substance notorious for its ability to thwart fae healing magic.

You watch from a distance initially noticing the way he grimaces as he presses his fingers against the jagged edge of the cut attempting to coax his own magic to seal it. But the faebane embedded in the wound repels each attempt. And with each failed healing his frustration grows. An exceptionally rare crack in his usually impenetrable demeanor.

Recognizing his struggle, you approach him tentatively. The weight of the day’s healings presses heavily on you. Each step toward him a battle against the fatigue that threatens to buckle your knees. “Azriel,” you call softly not wanting to startle him.

He looks up and for a brief moment you’re caught in the intensity of his gaze. His eyes that were usually so guarded and unreadable were now openly display his vexation and pain. "It's this damned faebane," he mutters almost to himself as his hand falls away from the wound.

Stepping closer you offer a small, reassuring smile though your body screams in protest. “Let me try,” you whisper while extending your trembling hands towards his arm.

As your fingers brush against his skin a shock of connection jolts through you. Stronger and more profound than anything you've felt with the other soldiers. It’s as if his very soul resonates with yours. A hum of compatibility that whispers of a deeper bond. Your heart stutters in your chest but you focus on the task at hand pushing away the implications of what this connection might mean.

You press your palms to the laceration and immediately a sharp pain slices through your own arm, mirroring Azriel’s wound. You stifle a cry by biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. The sensation is intense, more so because it’s Azriel’s pain you’re sharing now. Despite the agony you pour your energy into the healing being driven by a newfound desperation.

Azriel watches you. His expression shifting from one of pain to concern. "You don’t have to do this," he starts. His voice rough with his own discomfort and the growing worry for yours.

But you shake your head pushing through the pain with a determination that frightens even you. "I can handle it," you lie. The words barely a whisper over the throbbing in your arm. As the faebane slowly loses its grip and the wound begins to close a wave of dizziness hits you. So strong that you sway on your feet.

As Azriel steadies you with his shadows curling anxiously around his form he is acutely aware of the pain coursing through his arm, mirroring the wound he just healed. As a shadowsinger he has always been attuned to the deeper often hidden emotions of those around him. He was capable of sensing the unspoken pains and secret fears that others carry silently. However, this experience is startlingly intense. A raw echo of agony that pulses through him with unusual clarity.

The pain he feels as you heal him doesn't feel like his own. It’s as if he’s tapped into a direct stream of your suffering. This connection, though new and unexplored, unnerves him. It is more profound than anything he has experienced through his shadows before. Almost as if the pain itself has a voice, whispering of shared suffering and mutual burden. He struggles with the realization that he is feeling your agony so vividly. The lines of empathy blurring into something deeper. Something he can't quite understand yet.

In this moment as the faebane's resistance fades and the laceration begins to heal, Azriel finds himself grappling with a mix of concern and a peculiar sense of protectiveness. The intensity of the connection doesn’t fit into the usual confines of his abilities or past experiences. While he doesn't comprehend the full extent of what this means—far from realizing the potential of a mate bond—he recognizes that something significant lies beneath the surface of this shared pain. This unexpected insight into your sacrifice doesn't just alarm him. It shifts something fundamental in how he perceives you. Compelling him to reassess the nature of your relationship and his instincts towards you.

His hands were gripping your shoulders with surprising gentleness. "What is this costing you?" he asks. His voice laced with a rare note of vulnerability having felt a trace of your suffering through the nascent bond neither of you yet understands.

You want to reassure him. To tell him it’s nothing but the shadows in his eyes seem to see through you, recognizing the depth of your sacrifice. In this shared moment of pain and healing the unspoken truth of your connection lingers heavily between you. A secret laid bare by the battle scars you both carry.

You meet Azriel's intense gaze seeing the concern etched in his features threatening to unravel the composure you've fought so hard to maintain. His hands on your shoulders feel both grounding and alarming. As if they're the only things keeping you from collapsing under the weight of your own sacrifices. "I need to keep going," you manage to say. Your voice a strained whisper that barely conceals the weariness lacing each syllable. "There are others who need me."

Trying to inject a note of reassurance into your tone you add quickly, "It's part of healing, Azriel. I'll be okay." Even as you speak the words you feel the hollowness behind them. A contrast to the truth of your pain. But you're determined not to let him see just how much it's affecting you not wanting to add to his burdens.

With a gentle but firm push against his hands you step back pulling away from his comforting grasp. "I have to go," you insist, turning towards the next cot where another soldier lies moaning in pain. You don't look back almost afraid that if you do your resolve will crumble under the weight of his worry and the unspoken connection that you both feel but don't yet understand. You move forward, each step fueled by a mix of duty and the urgent need to escape the intensity of his scrutiny and the complicated emotions it stirs within you.

Azriel was still visibly troubled by the earlier interaction. With your evident strain he insists on accompanying you as you move from one wounded soldier to another. His presence is a silent, watchful shadow that lingers just at the edge of your vision. While the others of the Inner Circle are engaged in the throes of battle, Azriel has chosen to remain by your side. A decision that speaks more of his concern than any words could.

As you press on each healing session takes more from you. Draining your energy, drawing more of your strength. Azriel observes closely noting the increasing pallor of your skin and the subtle tremors in your hands each time you withdraw them from a wound. Despite your attempts to mask your pain, each expression, each falter does not escape his vigilant gaze.

As you lean over a severely wounded soldier focusing intently on sealing a deep, life-threatening laceration the accumulated pain from your healings surges like a tide, overwhelming and relentless. The sharp and unyielding agony lashes through you, blurring your vision and weakening your knees. You feel the darkness creeping in at the edges of your consciousness threatening to pull you under.

In a desperate bid to maintain control you reach out not for Azriel but for the tent’s support pole—a futile attempt to steady yourself. Yet, your hands grasp only air as your strength finally fails. Before you can process the fall Azriel’s arms are around you. His reaction swift and sure. He pulls you gently against him cushioning your collapse as he lowers both of you smoothly to the floor of the tent.

In this moment your pride battles with the undeniable relief of his support. You hadn't called for him. You hadn't wanted to admit that he might have been right about the danger of your condition, yet here he is, the one catching you as you fall. His presence is both a comfort and a confrontation. A not-so-subtle reminder of your own vulnerability.

Azriel cradles you against his chest. His expression a mask of concern etched deep with the lines of fear for your well-being. He doesn’t speak immediately instead opting to brush a gentle hand across your forehead, pushing away strands of hair matted with sweat. His touch is soft, almost reverent, as if he’s both trying to comfort you and reassure himself of your presence.

Around you the battle's distant roars continue but within the tent a quiet bubble of stillness envelops you both punctuated only by your labored breaths. Azriel’s gaze is locked on your face searching for any sign of recovery. Looking for any indication that you might overcome this bout of weakness.

In his eyes there is a flicker of something more—something beyond mere concern. It's a profound realization of your sacrifice. Of the silent suffering you've endured to heal others. And with this realization comes a fierce protectiveness. A vow forming in the depths of his being. He holds you closer, a silent promise cradled in the curve of his arms, that from this moment forward he will do whatever it takes to protect you. To ensure that this burden of pain is no longer yours to bear alone. The bond between you seemingly mysterious and undefined becomes his anchor. The thing he clings to as he silently pledges to be the safeguard you might not admit you need but he knows you deserve.

The pain you've been shouldering now echoes clearly through the bond that neither of you fully understands yet. But its intensity is unmistakable. Azriel feels each pang as if it were his own. A shared torment that binds you together with an ironclad tether. His face was mere inches from yours and is etched with deep concern and something akin to fear. "Hold on," he urges. His voice a low, desperate command. "Stay with me."

As Azriel holds you in his arms feeling the distressing ebb of your consciousness his protective instincts surge into high alert. The warmth from your body seems to be fading and your breathing becomes worryingly shallow. Typical signs that your physical limits have been catastrophically breached. Panic tightens its grip on him. A vivid contrast to the usual calm demeanor of the shadowsinger.

"Madja!" he calls out desperately. His voice piercing the relative quiet of the tent with an urgency that rattles the air. The shadows around him stir reflecting his growing desperation. He needs her expertise, her understanding of your mysterious condition that now seems perilously close to claiming you.

Madja rushes through the flaps of the tent with her healer's bag clutched tightly, the sight that greets her—a formidable Azriel cradling you, pale and barely conscious—draws a sharp intake of breath from her. She kneels beside you both. Her experienced eyes quickly assessing your condition.

"What happened?" she demands. Her voice thick with worry and confusion. As she lays her hands on you seeking to gauge the extent of your depletion Azriel's gaze hardens.

"She's been healing the soldiers, taking their pain onto herself," Azriel explains. His words rushed. His tone laced with both accusation and fear. "She collapsed just now. How could you not know the toll it was taking on her?"

Madja's expression crumbles into one of profound guilt and regret. She meets Azriel's intense gaze with a resigned sorrow. "I knew," she admits. Her voice a whisper of remorse. "I knew, but I thought we could manage it—keep it under control. I feared the implications of her gift being fully exposed. I thought I was protecting her."

Azriel’s anger wanes slightly instead replaced by a sharp pang of understanding. He knows all too well the complexities of hiding one's true capabilities in a world that might not understand or might exploit them. However, his concern for your well-being remains paramount.

"She needs help now, Madja. What can we do?" he asks with his voice softening but still tinged with urgency.

Madja nods. Her focus turning entirely to you. "I can stabilize her for now, but we need to rethink how she uses her gift," she says as she begins to channel her own healing magic into you. A gentle flow designed not to heal but to sustain.

As Madja works Azriel holds you closer. His thoughts racing with concern and resolve. He watches the slight return of warmth to your cheeks under Madja’s skilled care, feeling a blend of relief and determination surge through him. A promise forms in his heart. Not merely to protect you but to truly understand and support your unique gift, no matter the cost.

However, the demands of the ongoing battle pull at him. Madja noticed the conflict in his expression speaks with a calm authority. "She must rest now, Azriel," she advises with her voice steady. "And they need you. The battle isn't over yet."

Reluctantly Azriel nods. The weight of his responsibilities clear on his face. He leans down with his lips brushing your forehead in a gentle kiss. His assurance of returning to you. "I'll be back soon," he promises. His voice a whisper meant only for you. With one last lingering look that conveys all his worry and care he stands and leaves the tent. His figure soon disappearing into the fray.

The war rages on demanding every ounce of Azriel's focus and skill. Yet his thoughts frequently stray back to the medical tent, to you, lying there in recovery. Each moment he can spare he finds himself glancing towards the tent. His mind racing with scenarios of returning to you.

As the last echoes of battle fade and a weary peace begins to settle, Azriel's duties finally allow him a moment to breathe. He wastes no time. The moment he is able he rushes back to the medical tent with his steps quick with urgency and anticipation. Pushing through the tent flaps, Azriel’s eyes immediately seek you out. He finds you awake but visibly exhausted propped up against some pillows. The sight of you, alive and recovering, though still weak floods him with relief.

“I’m here,” Azriel breathes out as he quickly crosses the space to your side before kneeling beside your cot. His hand reaches out brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a tenderness that belies his warrior's exterior. “How are you feeling?” he asks. His voice low and filled with concern. His eyes scanning your face for any sign of pain or discomfort.

Azriel’s presence instantly eases some of the weight pressing down on you and relief softens your features. "I'm exhausted," you admit but manage a weak smile. "But I'll be alright, just need some rest." Your eyes meet his and even in your weariness there's an undeniable relief that reflects back from his gaze. An unspoken understanding of the solace you both find in each other’s presence after the chaos of battle.

"You had us worried for a while there," Azriel says. His voice a mix of relief and mild reprimand. His eyes scan your face still searching for signs of pain or lingering fatigue. His concern palpable but not overwhelming. "Madja told me you'd recover but seeing it for myself makes all the difference."

Your smile deepens slightly at his words. You were grateful for his concern and the straightforward honesty that always marked your interactions. "I'll be fine, Azriel. Really," you assure him with your tone aiming to put him at ease. "It's good to have you back though."

In the days following the battle, as the camp slowly transitions from a place of urgent healing back to routine operations, your strength begins to return. With each passing day the pain and exhaustion that had once clouded your vision start to fade instead replaced by a growing vigor that Madja assures you is a good sign of recovery. Azriel, true to his word, visits often. His presence a constant reassurance as the camp breaks down around you. The war finally declared over.

Once you're deemed well enough to travel Azriel accompanies you back to Velaris. The journey was facilitated by the magic of winnowing is quick but disorienting. A dramatic shift from the dusty tents and the sharp smells of medicine to the lush, serene beauty of the Night Court. Back in Velaris the city seems to embrace you both with open arms. The familiar sights and sounds of the vibrant city life, the cobblestone streets lit by lanterns and the murmur of the Sidra River, provide a comforting backdrop to your continued recovery.

A few nights after your return, once you feel stronger and more like yourself, Azriel invites you to join him on a balcony overlooking Velaris. The balcony was part of a high vantage point in the House of Wind and offers a breathtaking view of the city spread out beneath a canopy of stars. The transition from the harsh realities of war to this peaceful setting marks a significant shift in your healing process—both physical and emotional.

Seated together on the balcony the atmosphere between you is one of tentative peace. A reprieve from the chaos of the battlefield. The evening air is cool and carrying the gentle scent of night-blooming flowers. There’s a quiet that allows for softer, more intimate conversation. Here with the distance from the front lines you both find the space to reflect on the recent events and the impact they’ve had on each of you discussing thoughts and feelings that the war left little room to explore.

This tranquil setting in Velaris which was far removed from the demands of war allows you both to see each other in a new light. Appreciating the resilience and strength each has shown, and perhaps, beginning to understand the deeper bond that seems to have formed in the crucible of conflict.

Azriel breaks the silence between you with a gentle voice reflecting the calm of the night. "I've been thinking about your healing abilities. About your gift," he says before pausing as if searching for the right way to broach the subject without overstepping. "It's a heavy burden you've carried… taking on others' pain."

You nod appreciating his careful approach. "It can be overwhelming," you admit. Your voice low. Sharing this truth with him feels both vulnerable and relieving. "Especially knowing that each time I heal, I take a little bit of that pain into myself."

The softness of his gaze as he looks at you speaks volumes, and he shifts slightly closer. "Perhaps we can find a way to ease that burden," he suggests. "Explore methods to shield you or at least to share the load." The idea of sharing this part of your life with Azriel, having him understand and perhaps help carry the weight, brings a warmth to your heart. It’s a tentative step towards deeper connection and you find yourself hoping for more.

"And how about us?" Azriel adds after a moment, the question hanging between you like a delicate thread. "These past weeks, feeling everything that you have felt... it’s made me realize how deeply connected I am to you. More than I anticipated." The admission hangs in the air and is charged with an unspoken depth of emotion. You felt it too. The inexplicable pull towards him. Something beyond mere friendship.

You smile a soft, genuine expression that lights up your eyes. "I feel it too," you confess. "It's like there’s something between us, something... more."

The conversation flows more freely now, the initial hesitance giving way to a hopeful exploration of what might be. Neither of you mentions the word 'mates,' still dancing around the full depth of your bond, but there’s an unspoken acknowledgment of the significance of your connection.

As the night deepens between you, you and Azriel make promises. Not grand declarations but quiet vows to support each other. To explore the depth of your bond and understand the extent of your powers together. It's a mutual commitment filled with the promise of discovering not just the mysteries of your abilities but also the potential of what you could be to each other.

With the city of Velaris sparkling below and the tranquil night wrapping around you there’s a sense of beginning. Of possibilities waiting to be explored. Together you watch the stars comforted by the presence of each other and hopeful for the future.

In the quiet of the pre-dawn, you and Azriel linger on the balcony ensconced in the gentle embrace of Velaris' early morning serenity. The sky is a tapestry of deep blues and purples and begins to lighten at the horizon, heralding the dawn. The air around you is charged with the quiet anticipation of the world waking up. A fitting backdrop for the profound moment unfolding between you.

Azriel's gaze remains fixed on the horizon, but his mind is clearly elsewhere—on the revelations of the night, on the words that now hover on the edge of being spoken. Finally, he turns to you with his expression open. He was vulnerable in a way that you've seldom seen from the reserved shadowsinger. "There's something undeniable about the connection between us," he begins. His voice soft, reverent almost. "It goes beyond what we’ve had. Beyond friendship.” You meet his gaze feeling the truth of his words resonate within you. It's a truth you've sensed but haven't dared to define until this moment.

Finally finding the courage to speak what he’s discovered he steps closer making sure to bridge the gap between you. His presence enveloping you in warmth. "I've felt every echo of your pain, every ripple of your joy as if they were my own. It's more than just empathy… it's a bond, a deep, unbreakable bond." His hands find yours. His touch gentle but firm. "I believe we're mates," he says. The words charged with emotion and an unspoken plea for you to feel the same.

Your heart leaps. The simplicity and sincerity of his admission cutting through any lingering doubts. You smile, not just with your lips but with your entire being, accepting the truth of his words and the bond they confirm. "Azriel, I've sensed it as well," you reply with your voice soft yet filled with wonder. "It’s as if there’s been a song woven into the fabric of our days, subtle yet persistent, waiting for us to finally hear it and understand its tune."

Azriel's smile in response is a thing of quiet joy. A uniquely rare and tender sight that stirs something deep within you. He pulls you gently closer and you find yourself wrapped in his embrace. The city around you awakening as the first light of dawn spills over the edges of the world.

In the tranquil embrace of dawn Azriel holds you close. His heart beating a tentative rhythm against yours. His voice carries a rare vulnerability that makes the air around you thrum with the weight of his words. “Do you want that?" he asks softly. His breath warm against your hair. "To always be there for each other. To face whatever this world throws at us, together, as one?"

He pulls back slightly as his hands were still gently cradling your face. His eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. This question isn't merely rhetorical. It's a genuine, open-ended inquiry into your desires. A request for your heart's agreement with his. Azriel's usual certainty is replaced by an endearing, hopeful uncertainty. Highlighting how deeply he values your consent and participation in this burgeoning bond.

You look into his eyes. Into those deep pools of night that have seen so much sorrow and solitude, now laced with tender hope. The dawn casts its first gentle rays illuminating the sincerity and slight apprehension on his face. This moment, this question, isn't just about confirming a bond. It's about choosing to build a future together.

"Yes, Azriel," you respond. Your voice steady and sure, a soft yet resolute affirmation that echoes the depth of your own feelings. "I want that more than anything."

Azriel's response is immediate. His eyes reflecting a profound relief and joy that seem to brighten the very air around him. A broad, genuine smile spreads across his face transforming his usually stoic expression into one of pure elation.

"You've just made me the happiest male in all of Prythian," he breathes out as his voice is rich with emotion. The sincerity in his words resonates deeply echoing the significance of your acceptance.

His arms pull you closer. The warmth of his embrace enveloping you as he whispers, "We'll face everything together, side by side. No matter what comes we won't face it alone."

"Always," you echo back, your voice a soft yet resolute affirmation. The certainty in your agreement strengthens the bond between you weaving your fates together with threads of shared strength and mutual understanding setting a path forward together in the intertwining dance of your shared lives.

Azriel’s smile deepens at your words. His relief and joy palpable. The certainty of your mutual promise solidifies the bond between you weaving your fates together with threads of shared strength and understanding. His hands that still cradling your face shift slightly and his fingers brush tenderly across your lips. A touch so gentle it sends a shiver down your spine.

The intimate gesture holds a world of meaning. As he gazes into your eyes the warmth and intensity of his emotions are clear. He leans in, his breath mingling with yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Then with a tenderness that quickly deepens into something more he pulls you in for a kiss.

What starts as a gentle meeting of lips soon transforms into a kiss filled with passion and longing. As if all the emotions and realizations of the past days and weeks are being poured into this single, breathtaking moment. Azriel’s kiss is both a promise and a declaration, sealing the bond between you with a fervor that leaves you breathless.

Your arms wrap around him pulling him closer responding to the depth of his kiss with equal intensity. The world around you fades away leaving only the two of you entwined in a moment that transcends everything else. As the kiss lingers it becomes clear that this is not just a bond forged in the fires of battle but a connection that will shape your future, side by side, whatever may come.

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[forever--darling]

one of us | neteyam x avatar!reader

summary: when a person's life hangs in the balance, sometimes there is only one thing to do, one thing to ask of the great mother. a consciousness transfer, but the question remains: are you strong enough to pass through the eye of eywa? lots of feelings emerge as the only option left becomes the sole possibility

pairings: neteyam x avatar!reader

word count: 11.8k

warnings/notes: finally, swearing, major angst, mention of sky people, mention of death, mention of an afterlife, lots of feelings (all mostly sad), crying, more heartbreak, with sad fluff, we're so close to the end (2/3)

series masterlist | one of us: part seven | requests are currently open for now

All energy is only borrowed, never permanent, and one day you have to give it back.

It hadn’t taken long for Neytiri and Jake to make it to the camp, the pathway completely imprinted in his memory. He couldn’t talk the whole ride as the only thought that seemed to reach his mind was a suffocating amount of guilt. The same guilt that once had rotted away in his stomach years ago when he was still a dream walker, when the sky people had long since invaded Pandora, and when he was still working under Quaritch’s terms.

That guilt almost killed him when he gained the trust of the Omatikaya people. When Home Tree was destroyed, Grace was killed, and the great war brought many warriors home to their Great Mother. Not many were sparred and those that had looked to him for the answers, the mighty Toruk Makto. It wasn’t easy and often it took guidance from many to get him to where he was today but now here he was in that forest, that same perilous feeling overtaking his senses. 

He had known you were sick, not the full extent of it or how long it had been going on but he knew. Which meant as an adult, who had been watching over you, he was partly responsible. Responsible for the outcome of your life, the effect it had on his children, on his son, on his wife, on the people. He had let other commitments cloud his mind; the sky people, the new technology they were bringing back to the planet, and how they were getting closer to the village every day. He decided to focus on those things rather than checking in on you. Whatever happened he was partly responsible. As they stopped near the lab, the grey confines of it taunting him, he also knew where he was responsible, Max and Norm were too — if not more. 

Jake slid off of the direhorse, Neytiri behind him as he approached the large steel door coated in scratches and dents — it somehow stood in this environment and within these elements. Neytiri stiffened at the sight of it, every part of her screaming to rush back into the forest away from the very place she deemed as evil and foreign. She had no motivation to step foot into the metal box but the thought of you, the real you left her heart clenching in her chest.

Worry was the sole reason why she followed her husband, clinging to his back. It was that along with the fact that Jake would need someone to keep him grounded. As he stared at it, the cage it had become, he felt all of his frustration come to the surface as the terrified thought crossed his mind that you were dead. Raising his clenched fist to the door, he knocked, the loud sound echoing across the trees. 

The first compacted door opened and they moved inside. Neytiri felt her anxieties heighten as they stepped fully into a small compressing box. Jake stared forward through the glass of the second door, gaze locked on a human man standing in a white lab coat near the keypad for the door. He was so small, so weak, so angering. As the air decompressed in the box, the scientist clicked the keypad and the second door slid open.

Jake didn’t waste a moment. He stalked in there as if he owned the place. It felt so strange under his large blue feet after having once rolled across these tiled floors. The sight of the lab brought so many memories back to him; the link pods, the screens — so many memories, most of which he didn’t find comforting. 

Max appeared on the other side of the room in his own lab coat, a worried kink in his brow. At the sight of him, Jake snarled not afraid to use his intimidating statue as he walked across the room, “Where is she?” 

The demand was sharp, cold, and uncommon to be directed at Max, as he was one of Jake’s closest confidants for almost twenty years. Max blinked in surprise up at the Olo’eyktan, and at the sight of Jake in this space, he got his own flashbacks of the first day. The first day, all those years ago that Jake got his avatar. Oh, how things had changed since then. 

“Where is she?” he asked again, tone just as cold as it was before.

“She’s in the back room, but—” 

The two Na’vi’s pushed by Max, bending down as they moved through the doorway into a smaller more compact hallway. Max hurried after them in a state of panic as Jake refused to shut his mouth, all of his fears taking flight in ugly ways.

“What, you think I wouldn’t have realized what was going on? In case you have forgotten this isn’t my first rodeo. I used to do this and an avatar doesn’t just collapse like that unless a link process is interrupted or something is fucking wrong. So, tell me what the fuck happened!” 

The room opened up in front of them with a single curtain pulled over the area to provide more privacy. Jake could see the outline of Norm’s body behind the curtain bent down and saying something. Max unable to fully find the words to calm Jake down or provide an explanation other than the truth, plucked the blue curtain into his grasp and pulled it aside.

Norm’s head snapped up in their direction, his eyes widening slightly at the site of the two tall Na’vi within the lab. He was wrapping a blanket around your exhausted frame and as the couple’s eyes fell down to the wrangled weak body, both of their shoulders dropped in devastation. The harsh furrow in Jake’s brow fell away and he found himself gripping onto the doorway to stay upright. The sight of you brought an image of Grace in her final hours to the forefront of his mind and it was difficult to swallow.

You sat, your body stuck to the mattress, slumped down as if you couldn’t even sit up. Two or three blankets were pulled up to your chest where wires stuck out connecting to monitors nearby. Jake's ears flickered at the sound of their beeping and found that the numbers of your heart rate and blood pressure should have been stronger.

IVS were hanging up beside you, the large needle lined into your arm. Your skin was ashen, sunken in, all color completely drained with large purple circles pressed along the skin below your eyes. They were barely open and he wouldn’t have believed you were actually alive if it wasn’t for the twitch in your bony finger and the steady beeping of the monitor beside you. 

“She had a seizure while in the link pod. We were able to get them to stop but she is very weak,” Norm answered and stepped back from your crumbled form. One that felt less like you every day. 

“Oh, Great Mother,” Neytiri found herself crying as she moved forward and fell to her knees at the side of the bed. 

She wished to be anywhere but there, but the sight of you had masked all of the discomfort and the rage that was interlaced deep within her bones. Instead, all she could feel was the ache in her chest from the broken looks of her children at your avatar form that had been completely motionless in her son’s arms. She felt herself aching for the soul that was slipping through the fingers of Pandora. Her eyes took in the unfamiliar but familiar face and cried, tears welling up in her widened eyes. She found herself scanning your nose, your closed eyes, the high lift of your cheeks, and the shape of your jaw. It was you, without a doubt. 

Jake was able to find his voice again, this time with a newly added edge to it, “Why was she in the link pod in the first place?” 

“What?” Norm’s eyes narrowed in confusion, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Why was she in there?” Jake was becoming hostile at that point. “If you knew she was sick, if you knew it was this bad, how could you let her keep doing this? Especially with the strain that it already was putting on her weak body.”

“Ma’Jake, please,” Neytiri asked, her voice gently sweeping through the tension of the room, gaining the attention of his rigid eyes. She tilted her head towards you, and they all watched as your head lulled from side to side at the many voices that filled the room. Your breaths were shallow, taking up too much energy that you couldn’t even open your eyes. 

Jake lowered his voice slightly but the edge remained as he glanced back and forth from Norm to Max, “You should have stopped her.” 

“You don’t think we tried? You don’t think we didn’t say something to her every day, warning her of the risks, demanding her to stop?” Max became defensive then as he stepped closer to the towering figure of one of his closest friends. His eyes narrowed, the same worry that filled Jake’s, reflected in his own. “She is not a child anymore.” 

“You mean she’s not your child,” the Olo’eyktan corrected and just like that, all previous feelings were ripped from the room, leaving it in painful silence. 

Both Max and Norm’s heads dropped for a moment as a thought crossed their mind — maybe they hadn’t tried hard enough. Maybe they should have powered down the system even if you ended up hating them. Maybe they should have done more to protect you even when you were never their child, their full responsibility to bear. Maybe just maybe even though you grew up before their eyes into a grown woman, they should have taken into account that it didn’t mean to cut you loose from support and guardianship altogether. 

Max shook his head, almost as if he was going to regret what he was about to say, “No, she’s not.” 

“She may not be yours or technically a kid anymore but when she is living under your roof, you need to have some responsibility. When she is living under your roof, she is still a child,” Jake sighed, feeling the anger start to dissipate as he sent another glance at you, at your human body. At the very body, he hadn’t seen in almost two years, not like this, not this small, this different. You had grown and would be nineteen in the next year and it showed — you had become an adult under everyone's noses. If only you had the ability and the time to make it. “How much time does she have?” 

“We can’t know for sure but based on her state and how weak she is… Weeks? A month or two maybe?” Norm admitted, the state of how he found you in the link pod still pressed firmly into the front of his mind. Your faraway gaze, rigid body, and trembling lips. Your lips shook as if you were asking for time to kiss you and grant you treatment. You were barely there and laying in that damn bed, you were barely there. 

“She doesn’t have a few months, not with the sky people invading. We could have serious trouble on our hands in two months. The sky people are coming, they are getting closer every day and I need a plan. A plan to protect my family, my people, and my land. I need a plan and I am not going to put a sick young woman in the line of fire. I won’t.”

Jake shook his head and stepped further into the room, looking around at the medical supplies and the neutral-colored walls. The sterile smell filled his nose. It all reminded him of the V.A. hospital when there was a big hole blown through the middle of his life. That’s what the lab reminded him of and it sent a shiver down his spine. You couldn't stay there, not like this. He wouldn’t allow it because whatever the fuck they were doing wasn’t doing shit. Even with medicine and science on their side, it had done nothing. He wasn’t about to lose another person because of his actions — he wouldn’t. 

“She can’t stay here,” he suddenly said, eyes set on his wife, “We can’t leave her here. I won’t.” 

Max stepped forward trying to get closer to you but Neytiri stood blocking him, “Jake, you can’t just—”

“You’ve done enough.” 

The two scientists’ mouths dropped, and both of their glares widened at the tall Olo’eyktan — a man who day one had never thrown caution to the wind in his life but since becoming a leader had taken on a new role to be deliberate in his actions, think accordingly, and communicate in a way to not piss other people off. It was like that persona was gone from that room for a moment and instead it was an overprotective parent who thought they had all the answers. He was bossy, haywire, and everything that resembled a father.

Somehow his cold tone and his rapid decision weren’t justifiable enough for Max. He had seen the impossible, and as a scientist, he had detested and forced himself to not believe it. Max had seen the impossible in Jake, in the consciousness transfer, in the balance of the world that had managed to change one man's life. He had seen the impossible with the Omatikaya people but at that moment with your life hanging in that very balance, he could only look to science, in the concreteness that was medicine.

“Jake, listen to me, she is sick. This isn’t just another dress-up game where she is going to run off into the forest to become something else. She won’t survive this.” 

“Are you fucking serious?” he snapped, eyes narrowing even further until they resembled golden crescents like the morning sun that crept through their tent every morning, “This has never been a game and you know that. To me, it wasn't and it sure as hell isn't to her. If you saw her out there, the way she is when she is in that body, you would know that. Except that I think a part of you already does, knows how much she wants it, and that scares the hell out of you. Especially since there is nothing else you can do for her, and it sucks. It really does... but do you hear me when I say we can do something? The people can save her.” 

“What like you saved Grace,” Max shot back, the words cruel and unnecessary and he watched as Jake’s face went slack. For a moment the short scientist reveled in the image, “I know it has happened, the unexplainable. Because what you witnessed... what happened to you was the unexplainable, but Jake that's what? A one in a million. You're the exception, we all know that, but she's not you. I don't like the odds, not when I have seen it. Her virus, her illness, and I am deciding to combat it with medicine. I am choosing science’s side.” 

Neytiri felt her teeth bare, sink into her lower lip, fangs glimmering from the white lights of the room. As a growl left her throat, she stepped forward protectively towards her mate, “And your medicine has done nothing. It’s done nothing!” 

At that point with two pointed gazes locked down on him, Max couldn’t help but glance your way knowing that every word they spoke was true. Any worse, you could be slipping away, out of their fingers, by the end of the week. If you hadn’t been getting better with the months of treatment they had been doing, the antibiotic and the fluids, what else could they do to help you? There wasn’t another option, and he knew right then science or not this was your last chance.

Norm looked from you to Jake and within that mutual stare, they shared an understanding, a silent understanding. Stepping forward, his palm fell to Max’s shoulder, “This is her only chance."

"Norm—"

"She’s not going to get better because she hasn't yet and you know that. This is her last chance. And yes, god forbid, Eywa forbid that it doesn’t work, that we somehow lose her... at least it will be on her own terms and in a place, she’d want to spend her last moments.” 

The words everyone had been avoiding were out in the air and it struck a chord, one that left them all in silence and complete denial. Only, because no one expected this. When you had been given your avatar six months prior, no one thought to think this is where you would end up, chained to a bed with the only thing to save you being that body. No one thought either that you would have fallen in love with the forest, the people, and the eldest son of the Olo'eyktan either, but you did. It happened. It all had happened and now it was beginning to unravel in front of them and suddenly they were being faced with a choice.

You were dying and the sky people were coming. Another war was soon to take place and Jake and Neytiri were making plans for the future Olo'eyktan. Neteyam would be Olo'eyktan one day whether you would be there to see it or not. It all was happening and none of them would have thought that when it was, you would be in the middle of a whispered conversation with the Mother herself.

Max wiped his eyes from behind his glasses and sent one last longing look to you. You once had been the little girl who'd sit on his lap for hours staring at a digital image of an avatar's brain with complete awe. Now there you lay, all grown up and possibly about to get the life you had always wanted. Your choice had been made up about the life you wanted as soon as you had entered that avatar body. And your choice would be his choice.

“Just, if you’re going to do it… The consciousness transfer, do it sooner rather than later. If you want her to survive it, you will do it as soon as you can. She's already lost a lot of energy.” 

It was the last thing anyone said and as Jake nodded to Max, reassuringly, his tough-guy act dropped immediately. Almost like they had come to a mutual understanding: one father to another.

From that moment on, there was a continuous movement of people in and out of the room. All bustling as they worked to disconnect your monitors, pull out the IVS, wrap your body up in blankets to keep you warm against the cold air, and secure a mask tightly over your face. Then just like that, you were ready and leaving as if it was always how it was destined to be. You, leaving. Norm and Max each took you in for one last time as Jake and Neytiri exited the lab, both hoping they would never have to be there again.

Jake couldn’t help but stare down at you, so small in his arms, so unlike the warrior he had gotten the privilege to watch the last six months. You had transformed just as he once had, gaining the wings like an Ikran, and you would fly away, not daring to look back. Evident in the lingering glances you sent his son and how you absorbed every part of the forest, you would give anything to be transferred into your other body. Then more so as with each night you spent in the forest, in your avatar body, the longer you would stay awake. Like you were hoping to forever prolong the linking process to that one still moment in time. Now, after all this time, you could have it.

As Jake climbed on his direhorse, he heard the shift in your breath along with seeing the small tremble in your body — the first sign of movement he had seen at all. Glancing down at you again, he found your eyes softly staring up at him, through heavy lids. He glanced at Neytiri then back down at you, taking your tiny cold hand in his own. He stared at his five fingers and compared them to yours as your soft voice filled his ears. 

“Don’t let Neteyam see me like this.” 

“She’s very weak,” Mo’at expressed, honestly as her fingers danced across your closed eyes.

From the moment you were brought back to the village, in your human form, it was like you were finally awake. Finally, seeing the world as more than a recurrent fever dream. It was a world you had only ever witnessed through another pair of eyes and someone else's skin. Somehow the forest had become so much more than a training ground to you over that time. However, you realized then, that no matter how many times you had seen it before, it would never top being able to see it with your own eyes. The ones you had been born with.

It was a dream that had been painted on your soul from the moment you had come onto this planet and as you stared up at the luminescent green foliage while you rode on the back of the direhorse, you felt as if your life was complete. Like Eywa was watching over you, reaching out her arms and promising you that whatever happened you would be okay.

Staring up past the trees to the black-coated sky littered with stars and planets, you felt a new kind of peace wash over you. Your breath had evened out and you blinked slowly, entirely entranced by the skyline scattered with constellations. The constellations that resembled the ivory spots speckled across his nose and his body. That's all you could think about — the ivory-speckled sky and how it reminded you of the glow that would overtake him at night.

Please, Great Mother, protect Neteyam and his ivory-scattered face. 

As soon as you got back, Neytiri distracted the kids, allowing Jake to get you to Mo’at without anyone seeing. Partly to prevent panic from appearing in the village, but mostly to stick to your one and only request. Don’t let Neteyam see me like this. Those six words served as a confirmation to Jake. A confirmation that once again only served the greater suspicion that there was more going on under the surface. Deeper feelings were involved here whether the two of you had admitted it, and Jake wasn't sure how he hadn't seen it before. But maybe he had.

The lingering gazes. The light touches. Neteyam sneaking out of the tent at night, for months. His attitude suddenly improving. He was always cautious around you when Jake was close by as if he was afraid of the Olo'eyktan connecting the dots from the softness he displayed to you or the look in his eyes, which was less than innocent. It all had been there but for months, Jake Sully had been turning a blind eye to it all. Despite his duty as Olo'eyktan to accept the arranged marriage that would be pushed onto his son along with all the other responsibilities, he let the interactions and the feelings play out in plain sight.

Now, he was going to willingly do what any Olo'eyktan would and protect the last wishes of a member of his clan. He was making a split decision based on the six words he never thought you would have openly admitted. That it was and always had been Neteyam for you. How it was the one son of his that had been promised a throne and a chosen future mate, the one son you couldn't have willingly. Somehow it filled him with a sense of deja vu, as if when he saw you he was looking at a mere reflection of the person he used to be. Alongside that, a repeated history. The outsider and the chief's chosen child. Somehow under all of his turning a blind eye, you and Neteyam had not only become Jake and Neytiri but were being torn apart for it.

For a while, Jake stood in the corner of the room, Neytiri appearing after a while closing off the tent from any onlookers. The majority who would have been her own children. She stood next to Jake, her hand comfortingly finding a place on his shoulder.

They had watched as Mo'at closed her eyes and let the feelings of Eywa guide her. She took in many deep breaths as mumbled words escaped her mouth in the form of tongues. Then just as quickly as it had begun, her eyes were reopening, leaving her meeting with Eywa as Jake liked to call it. She glanced at the couple before her and spouted what he could only hear as bullshit. She’s very weak. 

“Well help her goddamn it!” 

“Jake!” Neytiri hissed as the tone of his voice emitted not only a glare on her face but a chip in her tone. 

From outside the tent, four dark statues lingered in the dark, near the side of the healing tent. Light poured out of the bottom bathing Kiri and Lo’ak’s faces in slivers of warm light. They lay on their fronts, chins leaning along their hands as they held their breaths, desperate to unravel what they were looking at. They could only see the outline of their grandmother, the Tsahik’s side from the confined view they had. With Spider and Tuk sitting on the other side of Lo'ak, the eight-year-old hugged her knees to her chest in a state of confusion. When her parents left, she had spent the whole time berating her older siblings with questions about you — were you okay? What had exactly happened? Were you coming back?

All questions with answers none of the older siblings had.

Neteyam crouched on the other side of Kiri, leaning his ear close to the side of the tent, trying to understand the mumblings from inside. His heart had shattered and he felt as if he had been cut open, exposing everything he was feeling to the gaping air. It made his stomach twist at the thought and he was starting to feel sick.

The sight of your avatar collapsing in his arms was still very present in his mind — as well as how his father had avoided him the second he returned forbidding anyone from seeing you, the other you. Your human body and the current body that held everything that made you, you. It was hard to imagine you any other way. For six straight months, he was memorizing every detail of your blue features just in case his golden irises would be deracinated from his face. Now all he could think about was what you really looked like, what you were born to look like.

Lo’ak leaned closer to his sister, voice breaking and coming out in low mumbles, “What did she say?” 

“Shh,” she hushed back, bumping her brother in the side, harsher than she intended too. 

“She’s weak, that’s what Mo’at is saying,” Neteyam spoke up softly, the words acting as needles as they ripped holes into his skin, “She doesn’t know if they can save her.” 

Kiri glanced up at Neteyam and felt her shoulders drop disappointedly as his expression came to light for her. How pain-stricken he was and how utterly shattered his voice sounded as it echoed in her ears. She felt Eywa there at that moment, filling her entire body, as she witnessed firsthand how strongly her brother felt for you. It had blinded him out of nowhere and a pit formed in his stomach at how sudden it all was. Over time, that dread and that fear had drifted off into the wind as if they had rolled off his back while flying through the sky.

Then there was you. How you had become a slight wreck over your feelings for the future Olo'eyktan. She could still feel your own confession lingering in the back of her mind. How shy you had gotten, how ashamed you had been when she had found out you liked Neteyam, possibly loved him.

Somehow under all of the excruciating lectures, stubborn-filled disputes, and contemptuous glares, two souls had found one another, deep within the forest under the phosphorescent green of the trees. 

She blinked and looked away, letting the prospect of the two of you fade away, leaving nothing but an imprint of dust in its wake. They all instead directed their attention back to the tent, ears twitching in unison and tails swishing anxiously as their father’s voice filled the air. 

“She’s dying, don’t you see that? One of our own is dying,” Jake pleaded then, his anger melted away like icicles in the warm temperature and all that was left was a puddle of desperation and fear. “So, please help her. Do the consciousness transfer. Do it, if it means the possibility of saving her life."

As Mo’at glanced down from your shivering human form to the empty blue vessel beside you, she knew what he was asking of her. He was right and it would have to be in Eywa’s hands now. The very hands you had tried to get yourself in weeks ago when you appeared in the doorway of her tent pleading and begging for her to consider. To think about your request, ask Eywa to guide you and herself to an answer. Tsahik, without much consideration or even listening to Eywa's plan or will, denied your request. Even when Jake Sully, Toruk Makto, had once come to her with the same request, and even when she saw so much of him in you, including a strong heart, she denied the request.

When Mo’at looked at you, she saw a young woman. A young woman with all the reasons and desires in the world to ask for this request and to ask for the opportunity to change her life. Your soul's existence depended on the opportunity to live life fully as a Na’vi, and That’s why Tsahik couldn’t accept it. Your whole life.

A young and prestigious life she didn’t want to be cut short not when there was still so much time. She feared that Eywa’s will wouldn’t be what was hoped by the rest of the clan, her family, so she denied you. For fear of taking the light out of your eyes as well as the light out of her grandchildren. 

“She’s weak so we must do it tonight. The more strength she has the better,” she finally spoke looking from Jake to her dutiful daughter, “Alert the village. We need everyone, do you understand? We need all the support we can for this. An hour and then we go.” 

The couple, the clan's leaders, the two everyone looked to in a crisis felt the weight on their shoulders deepen. Anxiety formed, pushing down on their tracheas as it all began to feel too real too fast. But panic couldn't happen. Freaking out couldn't happen. There wasn't enough time for it and there sure as hell wasn't room for it.

Jake took Neytiri’s hand in his and walked towards the entrance of the tent, all strength, and will of his own feelings lost. As they stepped out, the tent's flap falling shut behind them, a rush of air fell from his mouth. Neytiri, able to feel his energy deep within her bones, wrapped her arms around his broad torso. Her chin found a place against his shoulder and they stared forward at the rest of the village, the forest, their home, and everything in between. They listened to one another’s hearts and stood there for a brief moment, letting their breaths linger into one before Neytiri unwrapped herself around him. 

As she did, they both were startled by the sound of rustling as well as a soft groan of a very familiar prominent voice. They shared a look with one another, communicating the same conclusion as they stepped around the tent to where the sound had come from. It wasn't a surprise to find their four children squatted and laying around in the dirt, ears pressed close to the tent. Suddenly all their movements stopped as they felt the shadows looming over them, blocking the moonlight and concealing them in darkness.

All four heads then tilted cautiously and were met by the scariness of their mother, who stood with a hip popped out and arms crossed over her chest. Her stare only hardened further when she found her youngest, no more than eight years old, sitting there, a pained expression on the child's face. Neytiri looked over her shoulder at Jake but he merely shrugged as if he wasn't surprised at all by the sight in front of him. He held his arms to her; a silent signal that he was leaving the situation for her to handle.

Inhaling, her lips parted, ready to scold them not only for eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for their ears but for letting Tuk hear every word, something she could barely process at her age. Before Neytiri could get a word out, she found her youngest staring up at her, large eyes widened with fear and sadness, bottom lip quivering.

Tuk’s eyes filled with tears and slowly began to fall, drenching her innocent face, “Is Y/N going to be okay? What happened to her?” 

The other three older siblings’ bodies stiffened unwillingly, ears dropping back while their own theories and assumptions were formed. But even with their thoughts and concerns, they all found themselves peering up to their mother, who seemed to be all-knowing and often had the right thing to say in moments like this. It was a mother's intuition and they all stared at her, asking for an answer that was far better than any of their own. They all held their breath as they watched the glare melt away completely from her face while she opened her arms welcomingly for her youngest child. 

“Oh, my prrnen (baby),” Neytiri cooed as Tuk reached up to be pulled up into her mother's arms. As her small innocent face met her mother's neck, her tear bubbles collapsed, letting her salty tears fall freely upon Neytiri's skin. “Know this, that whatever happens, Y/N will be okay. She will be at peace one way or another. I don't know what's going to happen, but that is not something for us to worry about right now. Our Great Mother has a plan and whatever comes of it, everything will be okay. Do you understand me, maite (my daughter)?” 

Hands rubbing softly at Tuk’s back, her gaze fell to the rest of her children and their anxious eyes. They looked to her as if a mother could solve the world’s most significant problems and she wished at that moment she could. She wished she could take all of your pain, all of your sickness, all of the limitations your body held away. She wanted more than anything with her children’s eyes boring up at her that she could promise you life to prevent their suffering.

“The ritual is in an hour,” Jake said then, gaining the three older children’s attention as he tried to wrap his head around how he wanted to handle this situation. He couldn’t bear the idea of them being at the consciousness transfer and watching with the possibility that it wouldn't work. He couldn’t watch every hope and every fiber of light in their bodies fade away at the sight of what could be a final send-off. “Whatever you need to do, I suggest you do it now because there is a chance you won't be able to later.” 

“Can we see her?” Kiri asked then, sitting up to hug her knees to her chest, voice pleading, “Please? Can we just sit with her and talk to her. Dad, I can’t go the ritual without having said—” 

“Fine,” he interrupted her, his heart constricting with grief at the sound of his daughter’s broken voice, “Fine, yes, you can see her. But none of you will be at the ritual. Do you read me? I don’t want you attending the transfer.” 

In perfect sync all of their eyes widened in shock, ears pulling back in dejection as their father's command fell straight into their laps. Lo’ak sat up quickly, in complete disbelief, “But—” 

“No, but anything. I don’t want any of you there, do you understand?” 

That edge had returned in his voice and Jake took two seconds each to drill his gaze into his children, trying to make it stick within their minds, so that no matter how many times the thought appeared to go against his words, the remembrance of his stone cold glare would stop them. He couldn't be sure that it would work, especially as he caught the look on Lo'ak's face. It was the same look he gave whenever he was given orders or asked to do something against his own troublesome consciousness. It was passive, him nodding his head as if he was listening though he never took anything serious his father said. It was the same exact look Jake was getting then.

“Do — you — understand?” 

He spoke slower and finally got the response he wanted. All three of his older children nodded their heads while Lo’ak verbally respond with, “Yes, sir.” 

Neteyam could only stare up past Jake, huffing quietly. It was loud enough to catch his father’s attention anyway. Jake narrowed his gaze down at his oldest but the young warrior wouldn't falter. Instead, Neteyam matched him with the same expression.

No gunmetal would warp at that moment as Neteyam felt every inch of anger and frustration ball together. The order for them to stay away during the ceremony left him astonished and pissed off. His father still saw them as children and felt like he had this responsibility to protect them. But other than Tuk, none of them needed his protection. They had grown up and that was something he obviously couldn't accept.

Somehow it only filled Neteyam with more spite because there was nothing left that needed to be protected. Every innocence had been stolen and he couldn’t remember the last time he had been treated like a child, free of any responsibilities. For years he had been viewed and trained like a serviceman, kept on a shelf until he was needed. His whole life he had been ordered around; Go pick up an extra couple of hours of training. Watch over your brother. Learn how to use a gun. Take on extra challenges with other warriors. Heck, marry and mate with a woman of our choosing.

They had every part of him. They had taken every piece of him and he had willingly let them. For years he had been ordered around as if he was incapable of thinking for himself. In reality, they couldn't afford him to think and make decisions for themselves because it would go against what was best for the clan.

Some things never changed though. He stood just outside the healing tent, where the Tsahik was trying to save the only woman he has ever had feelings for, and he was expected to follow commands again. He was supposed to let them put him back on the shelf and wait for further instructions. Your life was hanging in the balance and they were asking him to be absent from the ritual that would decide what would happen. He couldn’t do that.

His hard-set gaze met Jake’s, refusing to back down. He watched then as the Toruk Makto dismissed him and instead sent one more look to each of his children. He nodded in the direction of the healing tent, “Go on.” 

One by one, they all stood silently and began to approach the tent, with dread being the only thing evidently strewn across their faces. Neytiri slowly set Tuk down, wiping what was left of her tears, that motherly smile occupying her face as she watched the rest of her children approach the tent. As Neteyam stepped by them though, the thought of you the only thing guiding him forward, Jake’s eyes found Neytiri’s. She hadn’t seemed to understand what he was trying to say, but she turned to give him her full attention anyway at the obnoxious way he cleared his throat. 

Her ears flickered curiously then as his stare frantically began to flicker back and from their oldest son to her. Lo’ak and Spider had stepped into the tent with Tuk waiting by the doorway, clearly contemplating if she wanted to go inside herself. Neytiri then found herself looking at Neteyam who was getting close to the entrance. She felt the thought kick in at what Jake was referring to or rather what you had asked of him. Him was the key term, but Neytiri felt her brows draw forward on her forehead in exasperation at his clear hesitation. The Toruk Makto had no problem lecturing his sons until their ears bled but being able to break the worst news and offer comfort to them might as well have been foreign, especially in their older years. He was terrified of it and Neytiri found it utterly ridiculous.

As Jake didn’t show any signs of calling out to Neteyam, she huffed out and shook her head at her husband, narrowing her gaze at him. The words very bad were communicated vexingly through her eye contact. She sighed then as she called out to Neteyam, “Maitan (my son)!”

Neteyam’s ears perked up at the sound of his mother’s voice and just as his hand grasped around the tent flap, so close to where you were, he pulled back to face her. She waved him over, and with frustration and confusion, he stepped away from the tent. Kiri, who was just about to enter, noticed the interaction of their mother pulling him aside and decided to wait, in favor of watching the conversation play out instead.

“What?” Neteyam questioned, the sharpness of his tongue not unnoticed.

Neytiri’s initial reaction was to smack him upside the head for it, but she held back knowing the sharpness was nothing but a reflection of how he was feeling. He wasn’t trying to be difficult or disrespectful. He just didn't have the energy or the care anymore to be any other way.

Neytir's gaze softened, the same one she had spared moments ago as she clutched her youngest in her arms. Neteyam noticed it right away, the look she was giving him. He would never admit it, but he knew his mother better than the rest of his siblings, and at the sight of her eyebrows drawing together softly, he felt his stomach drop. The lines between them displayed feelings of stress and disappointment. She wore it across her face — how badly she wished to offer him the moon and the stars. 

As her hand reached for his shoulder, that’s when he figured it out for sure. Why she had stopped him from entering, her shared looks with Jake, the way she was trying to steer him from the tent. It all made sense and a low growl took everyone by surprise as he peered over his shoulder at Kiri and the opening of the tent.

When he looked back at his mother, he felt his fists clench at his sides, “She doesn't want to see me. That's what you are going to tell me, aren't you? You pulled me aside because she told you she doesn't want to see me. ” 

“Yes,” Neytiri admitted slowly. 

A pin dropped and within a beat of time, as if only a second had passed, Neteyam resurfaced but angrier and more annoyed than before. He stepped back out of her grasp, and her hand was left dangling in the air as his tail whipped back and forth aggressively.

“No. Fuck that!"

“Neteyam!” she hissed, taking a hold of his arm and yanking him back despite his best efforts to escape her. He didn’t dare overpower his mother though or do anything that would disrespect her. Instead, he let her hold his arm too tightly, while her glare drilled holes into the side of his head.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish more than anything that it didn’t, but who would we be if we denied her wishes.” 

Her wishes. 

She spoke as if you were already dead and he felt himself tense under her words, his entire body becoming rigid. He closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to breathe through the pang in his chest. To calm himself down, he held his breath deep within his lungs for almost a minute before he released it. When he did, he felt the heartbreak creep up within his body until it was past his throat and on the tip of his tongue. Then he broke right in front of her.

“Her wishes? Do you even hear yourself right now, sa’nok (mother)? You're acting as if she has already died and is with Eywa. How can you just... No, damn her wishes because if there is a chance that I could lose her I am not going to stand out here and let her... I can’t just stand here and let her go into that ritual without telling her how I feel.” 

“It was not my choice, ma‘eveng (my child),” she whispered cooly, as Neteyam was starting to appear frantic.

The choice isn’t mine to bear.

He clenched his eyes shut again, suddenly stained with the memory of you standing within the mauve tendrils, beautiful face barring every raw emotion of your soul to him. Tears suspended in your eyes for a second as he felt every possible pain rip open in his chest, a pain so horrible it let his flaws and deceptions take over. He had hurt you right back and he knew just as everyone once would that he was no warrior. No perfect son. No perfect soldier. No man worth bearing the sins of the world. Your words crept back into his mind.

Then I will bear it. 

Neteyam, the way I feel about you is consuming.

“This is fucking bullshit!”

Just as Neytiri was going to comfort her son, try and offer any encouraging words she could, she felt his arm be pulled from her grasp. He was stepping away from her and her motherly gaze that was slowly suffocating him. He stared hard at his father as he passed him, sarcastically thanking him for all of his help in this whole thing, before stalking away in the opposite direction of the healing tent, his family, and you. 

They all watched him go and Kiri found herself stepping away from the tent in favor of going after her older brother. She nodded at her parents reassuringly, “I got it.” 

She took off in his direction, picking up her pace to catch up with him. As Jake and Neytiri watched them go, she huffed over at Jake, crossing her arms over her chest intently. That worried line in between her brows had formed again as her mind began to ramble with questions if what she was doing for her children and her people were right. Neteyam was the one she thought about long and hard, wondering if what they were doing was right. She felt like she had failed him or rather they all had failed him. As no one had ever made it easy on him from the moment he was born. There was not one sole point in time where they considered things from his point of view, his life, his future, or how once he had been full of childhood dreams. Instead, they just deemed them as improbable outcomes.

It was as if Jake could read her mind, all starting from that stressful line on her forehead between her brows. “He can’t be there. He will never forgive himself if he watches her….” 

“And he’ll never forgive us if she somehow dies and we never let him say goodbye.” 

Kiri chased after her brother, letting her parents' voices fade behind her. Her eyes narrowed at him as he walked in front of her or rather stomped in front of her. His braids swung from side to side, his back muscles tense and rigid. She could see every twitch of annoyance and frustration in his form, displayed on his back like any true man would — never demonstrating it out loud or through words but rather through body language.

Picking up her steps, she called out to him but he ignored her as he made it through the village. He was making a move for the forest, but Kiri knew that if he did disappear into the lush greenery, who knew when he would be back. There wasn't time for it.

“Neteyam, stop!” she finally yelled, firmly grabbing onto his elbow and yanking him back. 

He hissed at the way her nails dug into the skin of his forearm and let his feet come to a stop. Staring forward at the forest, his means of escape, a loud sigh fell from his lips. Unable to push the pain off his face, he refused to look at her, and instead tilted his head to the side, his broken gaze falling to the ground.

“What? What do you want?” 

“You can’t just storm off like this,” Kiri admitted, slightly out of breath from chasing after him, “Not right now and not like this. We need to stick together when something like this happens, so you can't just leave. Because believe it or not, everyone looks to you as much as they look to Dad during a crisis. Your presence is important, now more than ever. That, and I don't think you should be alone.” 

Scoffing he shook his head, denying her admission. More so, he wouldn’t stand there and let her give him that same pitying stare his mother couldn’t wipe from her face. “The fact that you would use my future title against me right now, are you serious? Tell, me Kiri other than that the people need me why I should stay. Y/N doesn’t want to see me, so what’s the point?” 

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” Kiri’s hand fell from around him, suddenly feeling angered by his words and his tone as if he was brushing you off like it was the only thing he could do when around other people, “I mean what the hell is wrong with you? You can’t even admit that you have feelings for her, can you? Seriously? Nothing, at all? Neteyam, she could die, she could not survive this transfer and you still can’t fucking say it out loud.” 

His shoulders dropped, her voice cutting through him like a knife cuts through flesh, with resistance but then giving away. The more things she said, the easier it was to get through to him past the bullshit and the fear. Exhaling, he finally turned around to face her, his little sister, and felt his words get caught at the sight of how sad she appeared. Her eyes displayed every form of grief and anger, and it was all pointed straight at him. 

“I can't,” he responded, his confession wearing her tight expression away, “If I say it, it will become real. Everything these past six months will be right there in front of me. Every night spent together, every argument about her training, every reaction, and feeling she brought out of me. Except if I admit my feelings for her, it would also mean that I have to admit that I am losing her. I will be admitting that she is sick and dying, and I can’t accept that Kiri. I can’t..” 

Kiri stared up at her brother, eyes wide and wallowing in unshed tears as every friction and pause in his voice spoke to everything he was saying. He was barring a part of himself to her at that moment which he had never done before. He was looking past the perfection that was expected of him and let his insecurities ring out in the air and while it was killing him to his very core, a part of him felt relief. 

“Kiri, she’s not mine. She never was and I didn't have the thought to even ask. We could never be together so why even say anything to her, but I guess now, it doesn't even fucking matter, does it? All that duty and expectations bullshit means nothing because she is slipping away right in front of us. And now that I realize that, she doesn't even want to fucking see me."

She sighed, one that was brought out from deep within, as she took a hold of his arm again. This time gently almost like if she pressed any harder, he would break. Or he would get scared, sink back into his shell, and close himself off from the rest of the world.

“Neteyam—”

“What is that?” he shouted, pupils dilated and crazed as his eyes became drenched in tears, he wished would never fall. 

“Neteyam, please,” Kiri cried then, gripping his arm harder to get his gold eyes to lock with hers, to get him to calm down as his breathing was erratic pulling and prodding at his chest as if he were trying to self-destruct right before her eyes. “You need to try and understand what she is asking of you.” 

“I won't do this. I have to see her.” 

She shushed him then, his cries falling silent upon his tongue, “Brother, you have never seen her like this, do you understand that? For six months, you have only seen Y/N in her avatar body and as one of us. You have never seen her in this true form, in her human body.” 

“I don’t care about that, Kiri, you know that,” he replied, brows drawing down on his face as he tucked his bottom lip in between his front teeth. 

“Okay, but she’s also sick, very sick, and I can’t imagine that the last time she'd want you to see her would be like this. Not as this weak, shell of a person she doesn’t even recognize as herself anymore,” Kiri explained carefully, her tears starting to fall without her even realizing as she gripped harder onto Neteyam, “It sounds like she knows what could happen, what’s at risk here. It’s not that she doesn’t want to see you. It’s that, she would rather have the last time you saw her be from earlier. She’d be okay with the fact it was in the forest, in your arms, and in her avatar body because it would mean you would remember her that way, at that moment.”

Her words had struck him in the chest harder than any blow he had ever gotten in his entire life. It was worse than when he had collided with one of the floating mountains on his first Ikran ride, or the time when he had gotten the shit beat out of him early on his training days. It was even worse than when Lo’ak had beat the shit out of him hours ago. In fact, it felt as if it was worse than all of those things combined.

She’d be okay with the fact that it was in the forest, in your arms, and in her avatar body.

Neteyam bit down on his lower lip, reopening the wound that Lo’ak had put there earlier as every single word of that one sentence made him recoil. If the last time he saw you, talked to you, was in front of that tree screaming at you as you finally told him how you felt. The way I feel about you is consuming. No, it couldn't be. That would be complete and utter bullshit. He sure as hell wouldn’t stand by and let the last time you saw him be there, under that tree not only rejecting your heart but his own feelings. 

Neteyam had been selfless his whole life until it had come to you and he wasn’t about to return to the person he was before you, refusing to listen to his own feelings and what he wanted. At that moment he was choosing to be selfish, to choose himself and to choose you over some last dying wish. He knew it was wrong, so wrong, but it didn’t stop him from stalking the healing tent for the next half hour, watching as each person came and went. His bottom lip at that point was rebleeding and torn to shreds but he needed something, some sort of distraction from the fears that were starting to take over his body.

There were fifteen minutes until you were going to be transported to the site and another fifteen before the ritual would start. Neteyam watched from afar he as Mo’at walked out of the tent, her hands full and her gaze seemingly distracted. She disappeared far into the village and Neteyam snuck out from around the side of the tent he had been standing for nearly a half hour. Having the darkness to disappear into, he slipped into the tent unnoticed. With no one following him, he close the front lapels of the tent and turned slowly on his heels.

He felt his entire body freeze, hands clenching at his sides while his breathing suddenly sped up. Dim lanterns encased the room, emitting a soft glow and he felt all sanity escape him at the sight of the avatar body that had been in his grasp only two hours before. The only you he had ever known. It looked so cold without your animated expressions, that familiar pinched line in between your eyebrows, or the tiny divots of your dimples that appeared when you smiled. It was you and had been the you he had given himself to completely but at that moment it wasn’t you at all. Its eyes were closed and already having been prepared for the ritual, the body was wrapped up in blankets to be transferred.

His eyes then took in the much smaller form laid a few feet away from it, all bundled up, chest rising and falling with each deep breath that was inhaled. He cautiously walked forward and as the soft glow brushed along his face, he felt as if his body was at a standstill, all air pulled from his lungs.

Completely unmoving, he finally saw you for the first time — the real you and his entire world was shifted on its axis. You were all soft lashes, smooth skin, and glistening full lips. With your eyes fluttered shut, he wondered what color your they were, the opening of your soul. He wanted you to open them. He wanted to see if they matched the ones he had been staring into for six months. Other than that, the slope of your nose was smaller and your eyebrows were different, more prominent, and the markings on your skin were completely dissimilar to the ivory specks he was so used to admiring.

Somehow though, even with an entirely different person in front of him, you were entirely familiar — all of his favorite parts of you were the same, and just as you had looked earlier that night underneath the mauve tree, there in that tent and in that body, you were ethereal. And you were his even not officially, you were. Ma’ Y/N.

Tears once again resurfaced after the countless times he had reeled them back in that day. Slowly, he sunk down onto his knees beside you and listened to the way you breathed, trying to memorize the sound of it for as long as he could. Glancing down to your side, he found his eyes flickering with interest at the sight of your hand, limp across the blanket. Five fingers, smaller than his own, just as your other always had been. Staring down at it, he couldn’t help himself and before he realized it, he was reaching for it. Engulfing your smaller one in his, he watched as it slipped into his with ease as if it was meant to be there. He felt a type of warmth fill his chest then as your hand twitched in his. 

Tilting his head, he looked back up to your face and found himself taken aback at the sight of two small doe-eyes peering up at him. They were so elegant and nothing like he had expected but somehow he would commit them to his memory then and there. They scanned over his face like it was the first time you’d ever seen him and he felt his heart rate speed up when they had narrowed slightly. Your brows knitted together to bring back that pinched look he had just been reminiscing about seconds before.

The sight of you staring at him felt almost scrutinizing and based on that furrow in your brow and the slight frown that occupied your glistening and completely temptatious lips, this was without a doubt you. He knew then that it didn’t matter which body you were in, which form whether human or avatar, it would always feel like this. With you, he would always feel this. 

“Hm, so this is you. Well it's nice to finally meet you, Y/N Y/L/N, all of you," he said suddenly, voice low and so soft it comforted you in more ways than one.

A few moments ago when you had felt a sudden pressure on your hand and the warmth of calloused skin, you couldn’t help but stir from the sleep that had suddenly overtaken you. You didn’t know who to expect when you opened your eyes, but it definitely wasn’t Neteyam. You never thought it could be but as you looked up and adjusted to the light, sure enough, it was.

He was there, staring down at you just as clearly as he had been in the forest among the mauve tendrils of the Tree of Souls. At first, you couldn’t deny how the feeling of his hand wrapped around yours resembled a hug and all the consolation in the world you needed. However, despite the affectionate look about him you couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing there. How he could have been there when you deliberately had said he wasn't allowed to be. You didn’t want him to see you like this and definitely didn't ask for him to come and see all your insecurities looming over you just before the consciousness transfer.

That was when the annoyance set in, evidently by the furrowing together of your eyebrows and the downward curve of your lips. You stared up at him, not knowing if you even had it in you to speak to him. He chuckled out, hand squeezing yours, feeling as if you had captivated him completely at that moment.

“Look, I can tell by the way you're staring at me right now, that you're angry I'm here."

Your lips parted as if you were going to reply, and you watched as Neteyam leaned closer as if he needed to hear your voice. The reassurance that it was still you in front of him, the same person. But as you inhaled, he could feel the way you were struggling to even do that, breath.

"Nete— "

His hand squeezed yours again, reassuringly, his unshed tears were so clear to you then, like uncut glass in the soft lighting from the lanterns. “No, don't. Don't say anything. You have already said everything you needed to. You had your chance, now it's my turn. It’s my turn to talk.” 

With his eyes earnestly staring down into yours, you exhaled the breath you were holding and let your chest relax, parted lips closing with ease. You nodded then, letting the pinched look leave your face as if you were alleviating his anxiety with it. It was his turn then to breathe, his words jumbled across his tongue, adding weight to his mouth as he couldn’t dare look away from you. Finally, as you offered him an encouraging smile, he felt all of that weight be lifted off. 

“Look, I know you didn’t want me here not like this and especially not now, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave things the way they were. I wouldn’t do that to us, Y/N, because you deserve more than that,” he said, stumbling slightly while completely worried that everything was coming out wrong. But based on how it felt so right in his chest and the tears gathering in your eyes, he knew it was more than enough. "I don't know what's going to happen but I do know that you deserve more finality than that because you're everything. How you make me feel is everything and I just needed you to know that.”

His eyes were soft, looking at you as if it really were true, that you were everything. That you were the entire world, his entire world. Fully in that tiny spindle of time, it was like he was finally unveiling his entire self to you — every piece, sliver, and makeup of who he was was reflected in his eyes. No more walls, no more guarding or holding it all inside. There at that moment, it was the real Neteyam Te Suli Tsyeyk’itan staring back at you. 

Curling your lips into a small smile, not enough to show your teeth, you could taste the tears that were slipping down from the inner corners of your eyes, finding a place within your smile line. With batted breath, you watched his eyes trace them to only find yours again. Relief filled him at that moment at the sight of them streaming down your face because they weren’t a sign of heartache, grief, or mortification of the situation. Most importantly they weren’t a reflection of fear or doubt about what was to come — it was as if you were completely content in your point in life right there with his hand wrapped around yours. No, what was inevitably laced within those pretty tears of yours was a complete abundance of love.

Neteyam felt as if that look had reached past his chest, taken the pieces of his heart graciously and purposefully, took them, and then, with the warmest touch, put them back together again. It was like Eywa’s plan for him wasn’t to become his father’s soldier or to save the Omatikaya from the invading enemies. His will, his purpose was to be here with you, like this. 

Leaning forward, you felt his palm connect with the side of your face, cupping your cheek like he had wanted to do so many times before. His thumb brushed along the glass of the oxygen mask and you couldn’t help but close your eyes and release more tears. Reaching up, your small hand circled around his wrist and held it there, able to feel his pulse under your fingertips. His eyes flickered to the touch before they found yours again and he suddenly couldn’t help himself any longer, not when he was finally able to see everything so clearly. 

He cleared his throat, voice overcome by emotions as a single tear of his own slipped from the corner of his eye and down into his upper lip. It was the first tear he can even remember touching his cheek in years — a tear that had and always been promised for you.

“I see you.” 

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise while the breath you had taken in felt like it had gotten lodged in your throat. More tears escaped from yours but your smile didn’t falter, not for one second, and you knew if that was the last thing you ever heard, you’d be happy. If it happened right there in his arms you could be okay with that because his words had somehow sanctified your soul. Sounding different, sounding so much more than when he had said it earlier that morning willed every bad thing away. In fact, it was everything, he was everything. 

You squeezed his wrist in your hand as you stared up at him, eyes gleaming like it was the first and last time they ever would, “I see you.” 

It was iridescent, the only way to utterly describe the sight. Mauve tendrils of neon light bathing skin in light as the forest's phosphorescent green pulsed beneath the people's bodies and feet. Pulsing to the heartbeat of their Great Mother. Pulsing in sync with their swaying bodies and stifled groans. It all reached deeply within their bones; her and her power. They cried to her, prayers and pleas kissing their tongues as the bioluminescence of the ground was prominent where their queues were connected.

Before Mo’at within the tendrils and the night sky, the atokirina was coated in white and floated in the air above in swarms. Thereupon the pulsing ground of the tree with bulging roots, two bodies lay wrapped within the confines of Eywa. The neon green phosphorescence rectifying as the Mother accepted the two bodies on her beloved soil. Evidently how the small fingerlike tresses of the ground lifted and wrapped around each body, grounding them completely. The same tresses that connected each person there to the entity of Eywa. 

“The Great Mother may choose to save all that she is in this body,” Mo’at spoke, watching the tresses grow across the avatar’s body eventually pulling the queue further into the ground creating a direct neural link to the back of your human neck. 

Eyes fluttered to a close, and you were finally relaxed, instead listening to the sound of your slowing heart. Norm stood in his avatar form near your human body with Neytiri as Jake sat on the other side next to the form they all hoped you would wake up in. His fingers brushed the strays hair out of its face and glanced over at your human body, taking note of the gentle rise and fall of your chest. He shared a look with Neytiri, a shared look of worry as both of Mo’at’s earlier words hung in their heads. She is very weak. It only brought flashbacks of Grace and filled him with the worst dread. That feeling was only exemplified when the ritual began. 

Everyone bathed in the green light, connected arms, all being interlinked as one with Eywa were able to feel her as well as each other. They slowly listened to Mo’at’s words chanting out in the air and repeated them in synchronism back at her, eyes closed focusing on the feeling channeling within one another.

“Ting mikyun ayoheru rutxe, ma Nawma Sa’nok (Hear us please, Great Mother).” 

Mo’at raised her arms high into the air, “Srung si poeru, ma Ewya (Eywa, help her).” 

“Pori tireati, munge mì nga (Take this spirit into you),” the crowd chanted back rolling their necks and their shoulders as one back and forth. 

No matter how many times Norm and Jake had witnessed the ritual, it still left them too stunned to speak; the overwhelming sensation of the voices in unison, the connection of the neurons through the ground, and the overriding presence of Eywa. It all was so much to process even more so while trying to pray to Eywa herself. To ask for forgiveness, for mercy, for her to return you even when you were weak and sick. Ask and beg that she give this one thing to all of those that loved you.

The phosphorescent green reflected back in his eyes as he glanced down from you to your human body now completely covered by tresses leaving barely any sliver of real skin showing. Mystified he watched as the atokirinas floated down from the sky and with the lightest touch surrounded your avatar body — the purest souls watching over you and serving as a positive sign of what he wished to believe.

Finally after what felt like hours of chanting and praying, and looking into the sky for Eywa, Jake felt his attention shoot up to Mo’at. He watched as she spun in circles, arms flailing in the air, eyes rolled to the back of her head, repeating the Great Mother’s name in constant tongues. She could feel her and she could hear her. He was focused then as Mo’at’s voice grew silent out of nowhere like a switch had been flipped. Her eyes returned to normal, her arms dropped to her sides, and her voice fell quiet.

Glancing down at the two bodies before her, she raised her hand to the rest of the people, her voice loud and commanding, “Lu hasey! (It is finished).”

The crowd became silent and all as one found themselves holding their breaths as Mo’at bent down examining your human body closely, her hands raised over your face. Jake held his too as Neytiri stepped forward, hands dropping to the mask around your face. With the uttermost delicacy, she reached forward and pulled it up and off, the sound from releasing the compaction was a gust of air. She laid it down on the ground next to your body as her eyes swept across your beautiful young face, relaxed, gone of any pain.

Her large hand cupped your face; like a mother, she leaned down and connected her soft lips to your forehead, right above your eyebrow. A maternal comfort you had never known or experienced, something Jake had mentioned often to her over the last half year. She let her lips linger a little longer, channeling all of her affection and devotion for you, offering it to Eywa. 

Leaning back her eyes opened again and her hand left your face with one final touch. She looked up to meet her husband's eyes and Jake felt the anxiety worsen in his stomach as she offered him an ensuring nod. He took a deep breath and looked down at the young avatar before him. He leaned over it, tracing every point of its face with his eyes, her ivory-kissed skin, and long eyelashes.

It was the same face of the young woman Jake had had the pleasure of knowing over the last six months. It was the young woman, he felt had become a part of his family. The face of the woman who had captured the attention of his children and left them astounded after seven years of knowing you. He looked down and saw the face of the woman who had managed to get his eldest son to fall in love. It was the face of you, the young girl who had been entirely and always enraptured by this planet and this world — a woman who was always meant to become a part of the Na’vi. 

His fingertips ghosted over your cheeks, the lightest of touches as the atokirinas could be seen all around you. Waiting and waiting, he felt his breath and hope leave him all at once as seconds passed and then a minute. He felt the time frame leaving, falling to a close, and his heart sunk into his stomach. Glancing up at Mo’at expectantly, disappointed, she urged him back down to you with a simple nod, asking him to wait a second longer.

Live or die?

One of us? Or one of them?

Letting his head tilt back down to you, Jake held his breath, his pointer finger brushing against the skin right below your eyebrow, delicately. His gaze zoned in on yours so seriously, he felt his throat well up waiting, begging Eywa. Just as his pinky pressed along your skin, the pair of eyes popped open, coating his sight in yellow and gold, flickered with specks of the lightest green he had ever seen.

one of us taglist is not working the best right now and I have over the limit of people asking to be tagged (it says it's fifty) so, for now, I am just not going to have a taglist because I can't tag everyone and it's taking a lot of work to figure out.

#avatar #avatarimagine #avatar way of water #neteyam x reader #writing #fanfiction #neteyam imagine #avatar imagine #avatar fanfiction #lo'ak imagine #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak fanfiction #neteyam fanfiction

[hoshieeyewrinkles]

D o c t o r p a r k

Pairing: Doctor! Jay x Bimbo! Reader

Genre: smut

W.c: 2.5k

| Requested | Not proofread |

Tw warning: extreme humiliation, heavy degradation, anal sex, spanking, fingering, shoe humping, umm reader is put into a wedgie, Jay fingered her belly button 😭, Filth.

"I'm feeling a bit dizzy, Mr. Kim," you lamented, trying to evoke a sense of concern from your professor, who simply looked at you with skepticism. "I'm a bit concerned Miss.Y/n because you haven't been feeling well for the past few weeks. Maybe you should take the day off and ask your friends for notes." Your professor suggested the idea, and you reluctantly agreed, secretly rolling your eyes. In reality, you didn't actually have any dizziness or headaches. You just wanted an excuse to escape class and visit the nurse's office in hopes of catching a glimpse of the incredibly attractive Doctor Park, also known as Doctor Jay.

You have been on his tail since the past weeks, wanting to get into his pants than anything else. Though your plans have gone unsuccessful as he merely shrugged you off crushing your hopes in an instant. He was extremely stern and focused on his work. The university you were studying in was a prestigious one with strict protocols hiring the best lecturers, the best staff and the hottest doctor.

He was everything you ever wanted. He was smart, young, well-built and probably had a big dick too given by his attitude. Oh how you wished to feel his strong arms around your neck, keeping you in a chokehold.

There you were once again, waiting for him to notice you, in his office. With his white coat dangling by his chair, he was glancing through his phone. His well-fitting black shirt revealed his biceps, and he had his hair pulled back, his trousers ironed and his leather shoes lightly tapping the floor. You wished the floor was you instead. You were relieved that his nurse had taken a lunch break, but you found her annoying because of her privilege to always be around doctor Jay.

"Oh Miss.Y/n you again?" He questioned blankly, though the 'again' seemed a little emphasised. "Yes, doctor Park, I am feeling a little unwell." You responded in a soft tone, your voice coming across as seductive, as you had intended. Jay raised an eyebrow and slightly shook his head, his gaze drawn to your choice of outfit. A white mini skirt paired with a baby blue tube top. You were dressed in very little as usual, and his gaze was drawn to your sparkling headband and red nails, which would look stunning wrapped around his fat cock. He was fully aware of your intentions, but he could not afford to give in to them just yet.

"Miss.Y/n, you have come here three times this week. You already have a prescription from me for headache medication. Despite the fact that you showed no symptoms, you previously claimed to have a fever. What symptoms do you have now? Would you mind informing me, hm?" He inquired in the most casual tone. His tone already has your pussy throbbing. He was overconfident and a stuck-up asshole in the sexiest way possible.

"I feel some pain here, doctor." You said that, and then you moved over to the hospital bed and laid down next to his chair without asking. With a silent exhale, he looked up at you. Your top was dropping to expose your cleavage, and your skirt was perilously riding up to expose your soft mid-thighs.

"Where does it hurt, Miss Y/n?" He questioned unfazed, despite the fact that his mind was racing. You pouted slightly at his unaffected demeanour, your pink glossy lips tempting him to bite them. He was annoyed by the way you fluttered your eyes at him, acting as if you knew nothing about anything. It made him so angry that he wanted to rip off your pathetic excuse for clothes and rail you to the end. The thoughts which went through his mind every time he saw you would have him fired from the university, have his licence suspended.

"Here..." You pointed directly at your crotch, expecting him to be either flustered or disgusted. To your surprise, he smirked. "I understand what you are doing, Y/n," he said, shaking his head and dropping the honorific. He did not let you respond when he spoke again. "I must say, it is funny."

"What do you mean, doctor?" You asked innocently, but your heart raced as you wondered what he was thinking. "Nothing, are you sure your litte princess parts doesn't hurt because of taking the whole football team?" He questioned and your jaw dropped. He let out a snort at your expression "What? Am I lying?" His smirk widens when your face starts to turn red, burning in humiliation.

"Does your skirt length correspond to your level of comprehension? You dirty vulgar girl" He asked again degrading you. "Doctor....that's really mean of you! You are slut-shaming and y-you are insulting me." In reply, you stumbled over your words. "I'm not slut shaming you y/n. I'm simply stating out facts which I have heard around and which you have showed around me, how is that offensive, sweetheart?" He questioned amused, his cock twitched in his pants at the sight of your dumb expression. You were nothing but a dumb slut who could barely live her life without a cock. He noticed the way you rubbed your thighs together at the nickname he called you.

"The whole football team—hell, I do not even know their names, they did not sleep with me. Doctor Jay,how can you believe them?" You asked, your bottom lip quivering as you pouted at him. You were not so naive as to miss his taunts, but you were sick enough to take pleasure in the embarrassment he was causing you. Jay laughed because he thought you were cute and there were no rumours that you were sleeping with the whole football team. He made them up himself to see how smart you are, and you were clearly one of the dumbest girls he has ever met. Probably the sluttiest too.

Lucky for you, he loved sluts.

You did not have time to think when he lifted your skirt, revealing your drenched panties, which were stuck to your pussy lips. "I- Doctor Park, what the hell are you doing!" You yelled at him, attempting to push your skirt down, but he held it firmly between his fingers. "Stop pretending, baby; you have been doing this for weeks, trying to seduce me with your pathetic excuse of tops barely holding your saggy tits and these fucking skirts that keep getting shorter, coming to my office almost every day." He paused for a moment licking his lips at the sight of your soaked panties. "Did you enjoy the humiliation I put you through, y/n? it made your pussy throb, yeah?"

You let out a small moan and nodded desperately, letting your fake innocent demeanour slip as you grabbed his hand, which was holding the hem of your skirt and guiding it onto your cunt. "Please, Doctor Park, it hurts."

He chuckled in response, shaking his head slightly. "Well, as your doctor, I must investigate what is going on with you, princess." His eyes were filled with lust. He pushed his morality and principles to the back of his mind. Fuck, he needed your slutty pussy right now. It was the prettiest cunt he would ever see, and he was not going to pass up this opportunity to use you.

He removed his hand from your crotch and opened the drawer in front of him. You watched him with curiosity, desperate to get his fingers, mouth, and cock inside you right away. He shuffled through his belongings before reaching for a pair of white gloves and putting them on. Your eyes widened at his actions.

"Your little nasty pussy does not deserve to be touched by my bare hands." He spoke in a low deep voice earning a whine from you. "Fuck, look at those juices. You are such a shameless whore." You felt your insides twist at his tone change. He was such an unpredictable man with no filter, treating you in the most humiliating ways, which only made you want him more. You would let him do whatever he wanted with you. You were down bad for him.

Without any warning he inserted his gloved finger inside you, it went in so smoothly as you were completely drenched. "Are you enjoying this? How embarassing y/n, is this why you joined this university? To suck cocks? To have your little cunt pounded by everyone?" You didn't reply to any of his questions busy in pleasure be was giving you, letting out small whimpers. He added two more fingers, aggressively fingering you. The wet, gushing sounds filled the room: "Doctor Park... P-please. Want to feel your fingers." You begged, squirming around, getting closer to your high. He ignored your words and lifted your tube top above your stomach, exposing your belly button to him. "Would you like to be fucked there too?" He aggressively pushed his other hand's fingers inside your belly button. You give a squeak at the sensation, moaning like the whore you are.

Your cunt and belly button getting fingered by his thick fingers simultaneously, releasing waves of pleasures inside you. You were thrashing around uncontrollably, overcome with pleasure. "Calm down, slut. I'm just getting started. Turn around." He ordered and you complied feeling a bit disappointed that you didn't get to cum. "but I didn't..." He cut you off harshly after landing a slap on your pussy "Not everything is about you."

He stuck your underwear in a wedgie, and you winced at the burning sensation on your pussy lips. Without warning, he pulled the wedgie and snapped it back, causing you to let out a painful screech. "This is how dirty little girls like you deserve to be treated," he said before snapping the wedgie several more times. You thrashed around, biting your palm to muffle your voice. He eventually stopped his assault on your ass crack and removed your underwear. What further humiliated you was the way he held your underwear with just two fingers treating it like some dirty trash. "Put this drenched shit in your mouth so you'll keep your dumb mouth shut." He threw the underwear in your face, and you did as he said, shoving it inside your mouth. You could taste the sweetness of your juices inside your mouth.

You never knew being treated in such humiliating way would turn you on so much. "Fuck look at this ass" he grunted kneading the flesh in his gloved hands. His cock was about to burst through his trousers. He enjoyed treating you in this manner because that is what dumb little cock sluts like you deserve, constantly seducing people and putting their jobs in risk. You needed to be taught a lesson that would put you in your proper place.

He began spanking your ass harshly until you were numb, your moans muffled by your panties. "This. is. exactly what naughty girls like you deserve." He spat on your asshole making sure it's lubricated enough. "I have no intention of using your nasty pussy but this tight ass deserve to be pounded." He unbuckled his belt throwing it aside and letting his cock stand in all glory. You tried to turn back, to look at his cock but he smacked your ass again "Don't turn back. I don't wanna see your spit covered dirty face." He degraded you before lifting you by the stomach and placing you on your hands and knees.

He pushed his cock into your hole, letting out the most seductive moan that nearly made you cum. "Mhmm..." You let out a muffled moan, and despite the pain, you could not stop pushing back on his cock. He began to pound into you with great speed, his hips slamming into your bruised ass. The pain from the wedgie assault lingered, and him pushing his cock into your whole aggravated it.

"Messy dumb slut." He yanked your hair back, his hips moving with uncontrollable speed. "Fuck, this is what you wanted right? To be fucked by me? To be treated like nothing, you are truly shameful." His words kept pushing you to your edge. Jay bit his lip at your state, your plump ass looked so bruised. Your belly button was red from his assault. He felt all of his stress disappear as he fucked your ass. "Touch yourself for me, baby," he asked, and you began to rub your clit vigorously, feeling your high return, but before you could cum, he pulled out his cock and released himself over your ass. You took out the underwear from your mouth. "Doctor park, I couldn't cum." You whined, panting loudly. He didn't reply, taking his gloves out before disposing them into the trash can nearby.

"And? How is that my problem?" He asked cockily, sitting back in his chair, manspreading, his cock still out. "Doctor park that's not fair!" You yelled in frustration before crawling out of bed, landing on your knees. Jay bit his lip at your sight, you looked so desparate and filthy. "Suck my cock and make yourself cum, angel." He pushed his leather shoe on your clit. You immediately took his cock in your mouth slurping on it messy while grinding on his hoe. "You dirty insatiable girl!" He said chuckling at your messed up state pushing your mouth deeper onto his cock.

You were still grinding hard on his hoe, moaning on his cock and rubbing your covered breast against his leg. Lost in the blissful pleasure he was receiving from your sensual lips, he was letting out soft moans. You were truly like the wettest and the filthiest dream he ever had. You came on his shoe grinding like a whore and he pushed you back before spraying his cum on your top. You both took few minutes to catch your breath before he wore his pants back and glanced at your dumb state. "Get up." He gave the order, and you stumbled to your feet, drenched in sweat, saliva, and cum. "Pick your underwear and clean my shoe."

You obeyed his orders cleaning his shoe with your underwear "Wear them back." You were about to protest, but his one look stopped you, and you wore the dirty, completely drenched panties back. You felt so nasty yet so good. He pulled you onto his lap and pressed his lips against yours. You kissed him back, running your hand through his styled hair, messing it up. He patted your ass, breaking off the kiss. "You can rest on the bed while I bring you something to eat." He said, and you felt the heat rush back into your face as you nodded shyly. You laid back on the bed watching him collect his things. "Remember don't remove the underwear till your day ends, it will be a reminder for you to know what happens to naughty pretentious girls like you."

His words made you whine and nod submissively, "Perhaps I will use your little pussy next time, princess."

#enhypen smut #jay smut #enhypen jay smut #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #jay x you #jay x reader #kpop smut #dark enhypen

[ckret2]

Chapter 46 of human Bill Cipher frantically wishing he was still locked in the Mystery Shack and not getting his wish:

The Eclipse: Part 4

Gravity has fully disappeared from Gravity Falls and Bill finally learns why the Axolotl traveled all the way to Earth to see him. And meanwhile, Ford's in mortal peril.

There were only two ways to remove a pair of magic friendship bracelets. Either both wearers had to consent to removing the bracelets; or one of the parties had to die. The bracelets weren't active if they were only being worn by one person, and a corpse wasn't a person.

The moment Dipper's soul left his body, the thread connecting the bracelets turned visible again.

Bill immediately yanked off his bracelet. He considered just letting it go, reconsidered considering that Dipper's ghost would probably tattle to Mabel, and carefully, slowly reeled the thread in. Without the magic active, it was just normal embroidery floss. The Axolotl's gravitational pull didn't make Dipper's body heavy enough to break the line, but if Bill jerked it just a little too hard, it would snap.

Bill heaved a sigh when the body was close enough he could grasp its wrist. He grabbed Dipper's head and snarled in his dead face, "This is why I told you to get in the cave." He wrapped the bracelet around and around the tree trunk and Dipper's forearm, muttering to himself, "But does anybody listen to the all-knowing immortal dream demon who's seventy times older than their entire universe? No! No, what could it possibly know! Surely we'll get better ideas from the brain-damaged hick who married a raccoon—"

An immense voice said, "Hello."

Bill froze. He slowly turned away from the beast above Gravity Falls.

The voice said serenely, "Look at me, you 8-karat coward."

He slowly turned toward the beast above Gravity Falls. He swallowed hard, steeled himself, and dragged his gaze up until he met the Axolotl's eye and he was gently tugged into the time and space between time and space. "Oh, heyyy," he squeaked. He forced a pained smile. "Didn't see you there! Haha, hi! Wow! Imagine running into you in this dimension on this planet, crazy."

"Yes, crazy," the Axolotl agreed.

"This isn't a regular part of your commute! I guess you've got some time off," Bill said. "Work must be going well!"

"Pretty well. I scheduled an extended lunch break," the Axolotl said amiably. "How's being human going?"

Bill shot the Axolotl a dirty look.

The Axolotl continued to give him a perpetual smile. "Happy New Year, by the way."

"I'll kill you."

"No you won't."

"Okay look, let's just cut to the chase," Bill said. "Go on. Tell me my punishment."

"Punishment?"

"For! Coming back here instead of staying when you dumped me in 3012. I skipped time while on parole. That's obviously why you're here." He looked down, shielding his face with a hand and squeezing his eyes shut. "So stop wasting my time and tell me how much trouble I'm in. I'm a busy guy, I don't wanna drag this out."

"Well," the Axolotl said, "it appears to me that you're locked in your enemies' home, you can't use doors, and you need to be handcuffed to a child to go outside. Is that enough 'trouble' for you?"

Bill opened one eye. "Wait, so." He looked up skeptically. "You're saying I won't get re-executed for breaking the rules. Or—or get stuck in a worse body."

"No," the Axolotl said. "You'll answer to no jailer's voice; what you do now is your own choice. I moved you by a thousand years to free you from your killers' fears. If you decide then to return, it's your own second chance you burn."

"Ohhh. See, I assumed this entire situation was a... prison... thing. Considering the..." He gestured vaguely at his body. "The flesh prison." 

"It's a body. Not a prison. You aren't being imprisoned."

"'Not a prison' my base, if it's not a prison then why can't—" He caught himself before he asked a question, and took a deep breath. "So, there are no rules against coming right back to where I left off."

"Though I think your plan is clunky—not my circus, not my monkey."

"Oh. Okay, great." Bill planted his hands on his hips, straightening up properly for the first time since the Axolotl's arrival. "Huh. How 'bout that. Spent the last two days worrying for nothing!"

"You? Worried?"

"Of course not, I wasn't worried for a second," Bill said. "So if you're not here to punish me—that doesn't explain why you are here."

"Are you asking?"

"You know I'm not."

The Axolotl stared at Bill, patiently awaiting a question. Bill stared at the Axolotl, patiently not asking one.

The Axolotl caved first. "I wanted to make sure you hadn't burned down the dimension yet."

Bill pointed sharply at the Axolotl. "Hey! Hey!"

The Axolotl gave him a look like a toothless gumball learning how to smile.

"Not funny! Seriously, now!"

"I came because you called."

"Wh— When did—?" Bill cut himself off. He thought back to the day he'd spent locked in the bathroom. He recalled the desperate plea for salvation he'd painted on the ceiling. He buried his face in his hand. "That... that was a joke. False alarm."

"I gathered," the Axolotl said.

Bill peeked between his fingers. "But, I did call for rescue. Therefore. You're here to rescue me."

"No."

"Why n—! You said I'm not supposed to be in a prison! You've seen what these humans have done to me!"

"You aren't a prisoner," the Axolotl said. "You're a kidnapping victim. That's outside my jurisdiction."

Infuriating—but it told Bill something important: in the Axolotl's eyes, Bill's captivity wasn't just. And Bill didn't consider the Axolotl any kind of god—he didn't consider anyone any kind of god—but the Ax had a lot of pull in the multiverse when it came to defining the universal concept of justice. That was promising. 

"But I do have a keen interest in your case. I wanted to check in on your progress."

Bill gave the Axolotl a questioning look. "'Progress.'"

The Axolotl said nothing. Bill waited. The Axolotl simply continued to smile. "You haven't asked a question yet. Usually you can't wait to get rid of me."

"Under the circumstances," he gestured again at his body, "I didn't think I could afford to waste it."

"I see. However, I do have a meeting I need to get to."

What was the most important thing he could ask. What did he need to know the most. "So... if I learn my lesson or complete my sentence or—whatever I'm supposed to do... will you turn me back into a triangle?"

"I can't and won't do anything else. I've completed my obligation to you," the Axolotl said. "Whatever happens to you from now on is up to you."

That could mean anything from "you're stuck as a human forever and will die in less than a century" to "there's a secret spell on you and when you meet its conditions you'll automatically turn back into a triangle" to "you're already a triangle, you just need to believe in yourself." All Bill knew was that he wasn't getting any help from the Ax.

"It's been a pleasure as always," the Axolotl said. The world slowly began to move again as he gently returned Bill to the dimension he'd come from.

"Wait!" Bill called. He needed to know—was he still a triangle, somewhere on the inside, buried beneath all this flesh and bone? Or had the Axolotl's transformation rotted him to his core—was he now nothing but a human through and through? If he wasn't being punished, why had his suffocating soul been smothered under a blanket of meat? If he wasn't being punished, why had his own corpse stared him in the eye as if it didn't recognize him? "Just one more question before you go!"

"If you have the time. Up to you."

If he had the time? Bill's eyes darted around. Why wouldn't he have the time, what was he missing—?

His gaze locked on Ford. Floating twenty, thirty feet out from the cliff's edge. Oh.

Bill let the Axolotl's gravity drag him to the edge of the cliff before digging a hand into the ground, holding himself in place. Bill was safe; Dipper's body was safe, and his soul could float home once the Axolotl was gone. But when the Axolotl was gone, gravity would immediately come back—0 to 100, just like that—and Ford was dead.

And the Axolotl was already turning away. The millions of axolotls in the water below followed, moving through and out of the lake as though the lakebed didn't exist, migrating in the Axolotl's wake.

Ford was unsuccessfully trying to swim through the air back to land. Several useless feet of cable from his infinity belt floating around him from trying to fling it at the cliff. The best he could do was stretch an arm toward land.

He met Bill's eyes. The only other time Bill had seen Ford this terrified was when he'd threatened to torture the kids.

Bill looked at Ford, looked at the Axolotl—nearly too far to shout to—and looked down. By now, the future death he'd witnessed earlier was so close that Bill could see more than the blood to be left on the rocks. He could see the body—gray hair, tan overcoat, broken. It was just a few moments away.

Stanford Pines was about to die. Bill Cipher was innocent. Dipper was his witness; Dipper, honest goody hero type, could verify that Bill not only repeatedly told them both to stay away from the thing in the sky, but also warned them to anchor themselves right before totality. Everyone at the shack knew he'd protested, knew he'd warned them, knew he'd begged to stay home. There was no possible way Bill could get blamed for this.

And once Ford was dead, none of the idiots in this town would ever find a way to destroy Bill.

Up to you.

Bill didn't stop to think.

He kicked off the edge of the cliff.

He could see, hovering in the air like a golden arc amidst a dozen blurry failures, the path he needed to jump to reach Ford. The Axolotl's tail was already soaring over the town, his sky blue fins rippling like vast, slow sails. If Bill reached Ford before the Axolotl's influence was completely gone, he could fly them over the lake and they might both survive. 

They collided. Bill had to fling an arm over Ford's shoulder before he managed to get a grip on his lapel; Ford seized Bill's hoodie in both hands. Ford demanded, "What are you—?" He fell silent as their trajectory took a sudden sharp turn from south to east.

"The lake!"

Ford nodded. Why could come if they both survived. He could already feel weight grabbing onto his limbs. He spared a split-second glance down, but with half the lake floating in the air he couldn't tell if they'd cleared its banks yet. "Have you ever learned to swim?"

"You have to learn?!"

Ford prayed, if Bill drowned, that he was a mortal, and that he wasn't the kind of drowner who dragged other people down with him. "Cross your ankles as tightly as you can, cross your arms over your chest, land feet first in the water—better to break your legs than your neck—do not tilt your head, eyes on the horizon—" And that was as much emergency survival advice as he could give before gravity returned in full force.

This wasn't the first time Ford had plummeted into a deep liquid from an irresponsible height over the past thirty years. The hit was softer than he expected—the turbulent lake hadn't settled back down into its normal water pressure—but he also sank far deeper than he expected. Streams of bubbles raced past his vision; maybe it was just the power of suggestion, but he could have sworn they looked like transparent axolotls.

As soon as he had his wits about him, he threw off his coat, tugged off his boots, and kicked his way toward the surface.

Bill didn't.

This actually wasn't so bad, he thought, with a calmness that definitely came from being such a rational level-headed fellow and not from being in shock. Sure, all the air had been forced out of his lungs and his body was screaming in airless panic, but he wasn't his body, was he? This felt just like floating. He would miss floating again.

What was he supposed to do now.

He'd seen humans swim. He tried kicking his legs. He felt stupid. But, he decided—again, with a calmness that definitely was not from shock—that looking kinda stupid was probably preferable to drowning. Although he was curious what drowning felt like. Had he ever drowned a puppet before? He couldn't remember. Didn't seem bad so far.

He surfaced.

Ford was already on shore, on hands and knees, desperately coughing out water, his lungs burning. He collapsed in the sand. It took a couple minutes for him to reach the point where he was breathing more than he was coughing, and another minute of heavy breathing before he had the energy to look at the lake again. Bill was floating on his back about fifty feet away, very still.

Ford croaked, "Bill," coughed again, and tried a little louder. "Bill?"

Without otherwise moving, Bill raised one arm and gave him a thumbs-up.

Ford dug into what energy reserves he still had, shuffled back into the water, and swam over to Bill. "Are you all right?"

Bill gave him a dazed look, opened his mouth, and exhaled a cup of water. Then he started coughing. 

Ford grimaced. "Let's... get to shore." He took Bill's arm to tug him toward dry land.

Bill flailed upright and shoved him off. "Don't—" Hack. "M'fine. I l—" Cough. "I like floating." He lay on his back, shut his eyes, and said shakily, "Don't touch me."

Ford treaded water for a moment, considering that. Bill looked like he'd got the hang of floating enough that he wasn't an immediate drown risk, so Ford said, "I'll... be on land."

"'Kay."

Ford swam to shore and sat cross-legged in the wet sand to wait, staring down at his hands. The Handwitch's ring was a bright indigo blue again, no traces of darkness within the cabochon, as though the lake water had washed it clean.

Should he go do something useful? There weren't many places Bill could go, except to shore; it wasn't like he was at risk of escaping. But then if Bill did make it to land while Ford was distracted, he had a chance to make a run for it without the bracelet—

Ford stood up. "Bill! Where's Dipper?!"

Bill raised one arm and pointed up.

Ford looked at Gravity Peak. A small speck high above, Dipper was looking down over the cliff's edge. Ford waved to him. Dipper waved back. Well. That was inconvenient. Maybe Ford could restrain Bill with the infinity belt's cable in the meantime. (He reeled the cable in while he was thinking about it. He was fortunate it hadn't tangled on anything while he was underwater.)

"We have to rendezvous with Dipper. Get over here."

"Just leave me."

"Not an option."

Bill let out a pitiable whine, but, after a moment, managed to figure out a way to slowly paddle-kick his way toward land.

When his heels hit sand, he rolled over, crawled onto land, and lay down. "Gravity," he groaned. "I hate gravity."

"I'm not too fond of it myself right now." Ford's limbs felt like lead. Some combination of spending a day and a half in steadily reduced gravity, the exhaustion following a near death experience, and waterlogged clothes. "Where are the enchanted bracelets?"

Bill lifted one hand from the elbow and pointed toward the cliff again.

That'd be just Ford's luck. All the same, he said, "Really?" Bill would hide them if they were on him.

"Yes, really. Whaddaya want, a strip search?" He gestured vaguely toward his body without lifting his head. "Go ahead. 'M not moving to help." His arm flopped back down.

Ford decided that was a bluff he did not want to call. "Fine. We'll put them back on when we rendezvous with Dipper." If Bill tried to escape, Ford wasn't sure he was in any condition to chase; but then Bill didn't seem to be in any condition to run, either.

"Surprised you wanna wear matching bracelets with me. If I'd known, I woulda made you a friendship bracelet." Under his breath, Bill muttered at the sand, "But m'sure it'd've been a waste of thread."

Ford decided it was more prudent to hold his tongue. "Can you walk?"

"If I have to." For as difficult as Bill made getting to his feet look, one would think he was being subjected to the gravity of Jupiter. Ford offered his hand; Bill smacked it aside.

"Well. My raft is still in the cave behind Trembley Falls, so we'll have to borrow a boat." Ford pointed toward Tate & Backle's Bait & Tackle at the far end of the lake. "Think you can make it that far?"

Bill—barefoot, soggy, and slumped like he had the whole weight of the world on his shoulders—gave Ford the most pathetic look he'd ever seen Bill wear. Ford empathized completely. But Bill only sighed and said, "Let's get going."

####

Tate lowered his magazine to give Ford a critical look. "Dr. Pines," he said. "You get caught out on the lake when the gravity came back?"

"Something like that."

He shook his head. "Shoulda listened to the news."

"The news?"

"Dad's been making public warnings since yesterday. 'Stay anchored and keep your head down.' Reckon you must've missed it."

"We've... been camping." He'd have to ask Fiddleford about that later. "Listen—do you have a boat we could borrow? It's an emergency. We were separated from Dipper and we have to get across the lake."

Tate raised his hat just enough to give Ford a look that told him exactly what he thought of his merit as a guardian—Ford figured he deserved that—but then stood with a sigh. "All right, I'll see what we've got."

He paused, then gestured behind Ford with his chin. "Who's the lady?"

Ford turned. The shop's door was propped open and Bill was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed tight, staring blankly out across the lake. "Er—Goldie. She's... staying in the shack a few weeks."

"Hm." Tate raised his voice. "Ma'am?"

Bill didn't budge.

"Ma'am—Miss Goldie?"

That time he turned to give Tate a faraway look. "Me?"

"Yes, uh—you're soaked to the bone. Would you like to borrow some dry clothes?"

"Oh." Bill considered the question for a little longer than necessary. "If you want."

Ford explained, "She inhaled a lot of water."

Tate nodded. "Think we've got some out-of-season stock in the back, there might be something big enough for..." He caught himself before insinuating something about a lady's weight, and mumbled, "Well, it'll do." He headed to a door behind the counter, paused, looked Ford over, and reluctantly said, "I s'pose you can get something too."

####

Tate had a motorboat in good working order, so he let them borrow it, with a stern request to have it back by the end of the day. And so they set out—Ford in waders that went up to his chest, a bandana he really hoped was keeping his embarrassing neck tattoo hidden, and a t-shirt that said "The worst day of fishing is better than the best day of court-ordered anger management classes"; and Bill in a makeshift skirt Tate had apologetically improvised out of a beach towel, a sweater depicting a pine tree constructed out of fish that said "MERRY FISHMAS", and a pair of novelty slippers shaped like rainbow trout.

"I'm never giving these shoes back," Bill informed Ford as they crossed the lake. "I don't care whether we buy them or steal them. They're hilarious." It was the nearest thing to personality Bill had demonstrated since landing in the lake.

Ford supposed he was in no position to tell Bill he couldn't keep them, considering that Bill had... well.

Well.

Ford should say something about that. He didn't know what. He didn't know where to start. (Bill's question came back to him: if Ford didn't believe anything Bill said, why did he keep trying to pry information out of him?)

(Because, he realized—beneath thirty years of every nerve in his body screaming "DON'T TRUST HIM"—part of him was still hoping Bill would say something he could believe.)

Ford cleared his throat. "It's... impressive that you didn't panic while you were underwater," he said awkwardly. "That must have taken remarkable self control."

"Oh. Eh." Bill spread his hands vaguely. "I wasn't really paying attention to what was happening. I was thinking about other stuff."

Ford blinked. "While you were drowning?"

"It wasn't a very severe drowning."

Ford huffed.

This was probably a conversation he should have later—Bill's brain only appeared to be half on—but, if they had it later, Ford wasn't sure he'd get anything but yet another polished lie. 

And so he steeled his nerves and asked, "Why did you save me."

Bill didn't answer. He stared silently at his rainbow trout slippers.

"Bill—?"

"Hold on," he said. "I don't know, just—give me a minute to make something up."

It was the first time in a month and a half—the first time in years—that Ford was absolutely certain Bill had just told him the truth.

And not just about his intentions to lie to Ford—but about not knowing why he'd saved him.

It meant there was no secret master plan, no manipulative ulterior motives, no cunning illusions. It meant Bill had endangered himself just to save Ford.

There was a universe where Ford then said, "I didn't think you meant it all those times you said you wanted to be my friend again," and where Bill lied—both to Ford and to himself—"I didn't think I meant it either." It wasn't this universe, because neither one of them wanted those words out in the world. Yet they still hovered around them, unspoken.

It didn't make Ford trust Bill. It didn't make Ford like Bill. Bill was still everything he'd ever been—liar, conman, tyrant, torturer—and Ford still hated him for all of it.

But. It meant that for the first time in a month in a half, a muscle between Ford's shoulder blades that had been knotted tight with fear could finally loosen and relax.

Ford was safe.

####

(I first had the idea for this chapter nearly a year ago and I've been dying waiting to post it. I hope you enjoyed, and I can't wait to hear what y'all think! And to those of you in the path of totality, happy solar eclipse this Monday! I totally planned it this way. I did not.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #stanford pines #grunkle ford #the axolotl #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

[skzdarlings]

part ix: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 11,700 words)

chapter warnings: the usual dynamics. child abuse history. reader in peril. violence and death. explicit sexual content.

(THE SECOND TO LAST CHAPTER! <3)

-

You move back into your father’s house after graduation.  You are surrounded by all your old pains, your childhood and adolescence written into each familiar brick and tile.  Your past overwhelms you at every turn.  It is a fight to focus on your future. 

But you are ready to fight.    

The only question is how, especially when you are battling your own emotions in that house. 

Your reprieves are small.  You find some solace in routine and the distraction of your job.  Your father gives you an internship at his company.  The role is honestly superfluous, comprised of busy work and redundant tasks, but it is clear he is not ready for you to meddle in any real business affairs.  You are not sure if that is because he does not trust you or because he does not trust his business people with you. 

You still see Jeongin and Seungmin, less than you did but often enough.  They are both pursuing higher degrees so when you meet them at that campus coffee shop, it feels like a moment back in time.  But lingering on the past, even the good memories, is no greater help than lingering on the bad ones. 

Because there is also Felix. 

You return to silent, secret communication.  He will make you feel flushed with just a glance, so much thought in his gaze that you feel it to the depths of you.  It seems like he does not even need to touch you to make love to you.  

But when he does touch you, it releases you from the prison of your house and your mind.  You put your body in his hands for a few precious moments and he takes care of it.  And in the long days in which he bears the dehumanizing commands of your father, wearing the identity of a non-person to never arouse suspicions otherwise, then he places his humanity in your hands for safe keeping. You give it back to him with your own glances and careful touches.       

It takes so much effort to take care of each other, so the idea of active offense seems nearly impossible.  Felix certainly thought it was impossible, the one time you asked, but that was years ago.  Things have changed.  You and Felix have changed. 

You do not know what your father is holding over his head.  You only know it is something, and you think it might be time to find out what. 

You want to do this right.  Felix does not have to carry his burdens alone anymore.  You need him to truly understand that you want to protect him as much as he protects you.  You know there is a part of him that still believes he does not deserve it. 

All your plans are thrown into flux the day your father calls Felix into his office. 

Usually when your father summons Felix, it is for routine updates.  But this is a long meeting.  It lasts at least two hours with the office door sealed shut.  Your mind races with the possibility of what is being discussed. 

You find yourself gravitating to that side of the house, anxiety worsening the longer that door stays shut.   As the clock ticks, your nerves get the best of you.  You wander closer, hoping you can hear from the corridor. 

The guard at the door stares at you.  His scrutinizing regard gets under your skin.  Before you can stop yourself, you snap at him, “What?  I’m just walking.”

“You don’t need to walk here,” he says and waves you off, dismissive as always. 

A lot of the men in your father’s employ seem to get some perverted joy out of dismissing or punishing you.  They have since you were a child.  Their surveillant eyes played host in your nightmares for years.  His smug countenance coupled with his threatening stance makes your blood boil in helpless frustration.   

“Fuck you,” you say.  You want to hurl it at him, but it spills out of your lips no stronger than a whimper.  Your fists are balled at your side and your brain is screaming to walk away, but your body goes cold. 

“Do not take a tone, bitch,” he says. 

The unwarranted name-calling feels like a slap.  It is him flaunting the obvious truth: your father has never taken your side and he never will.  You are nothing but a problem that needs to be solved.  You are still just a stupid, emotional child who needs a fist closed around her to keep her safe from the greatest danger in her life: herself.

“I said walk away, little girl,” the guard continues.  “Your presence is not needed.”

“I’ll go where I want,” you say.  “This is my house.”

“It’s your father’s house.  Now walk away or I will escort you myself.”

“I dare you to try.” 

You feel like you are outside of your body, watching this ridiculous scene unfold with no way to stop it. 

He takes a menacing step forward and you stumble back.  You bump into the wall and hit a small mirror, barely a nudge but enough to knock it off its hook. 

It shatters at your feet.  Yu step on a shard of glass and sharp pain lances through your foot.  It feels like someone driving a knife straight through it.  You scream, the sound ripped out of you in surprise. 

The office door swings open and your father storms out.  For a moment, he looks alarmed, eyes wide and brows high, but this only fuels his anger when he sees you are unharmed.  Fury conquers fear in moments. 

“Look!” you cry in protest.  You lift your foot because you must have a massive shard of glass protruding from it. 

Your father does not even look down.  He marches into his office and shouts something that you are too disoriented to register.  Your attention has narrowed to a pinprick of a point, centred entirely around the gash in your foot. 

You only register what is happening when a familiar face enters your vision.   Felix is in a black t-shirt and jeans, his hair in a short ponytail with not a strand out of place.  Whatever transpired in that office was clearly not confrontational.  He is completely fine. 

His thick boots crunch over the glass.  On your father’s order, he swoops you easily into his arms and carries you into the office.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” you say.  Your tears infuriate you.  They are the result of physical pain but it is only exacerbating the hurricane inside you.  “God, it hurts so much. How big is it—”

“A foot wound hurts more than usual cuts,” Felix says. 

He puts you on the couch in your father’s office.  You father is standing by his desk, drinking coffee and rolling his eyes.  You want to shout at him, purely on instinct, but your coherency is shot when Felix pulls the glass out of your foot. 

More tears fall, some in relief.  Then you look down and see an impossibly tiny shard.  You cannot believe how small it is. It truly felt like it went deeper, like it slashed right through your foot. 

“Show me,” your father says.

Felix meets your gaze, his eyes apologetic.  He lifts the glass for your father to see.  Then another glass breaks when your father smashes his coffee mug in a fit of frustration.

“It really hurt!” you protest, feeling as pathetic as you sound.    

“Ridiculous, dramatic child,” your father says.  “Felix, close the door.”

Felix obeys.  He cannot show any hesitation.  He is the emotionless robot that your father wants. 

Felix closes the door as commanded then stands against it.  He folds his hands behind his back and stares ahead, not sparing you another glance.  He looks every inch a waiting soldier.  Someone who would sooner drive a knife through his own hand than disobey an order. 

“You want to cry?” your father asks, as if you are not already hiccupping on half-aborted sobs. “Do you have any idea about the scale of work I have to accomplish this week?  Do you think I play games behind these doors?  For you to – to – to waltz around, acting like a child and throwing a tantrum over nothing—”  

You must be dripping blood on the hardwood but he does not even care to look.  He stalks to his desk where he sits. 

“Felix,” your father says, his rage barely suffused in the address.  He gestures to you and says no more.

You and Felix meet eyes.  He conceals his alarm fairly well.  You doubt anyone else would see fear and concern in the subtle crease of his brow.  He makes it look contemplative, but you see it.  You see him. 

And you know he is making a mistake before he even says anything. 

“Sir?”

Your father, who was looking at a file on his desk, lifts his head. 

You and Felix have been in this office many times.  He has watched your father beat you, and you have watched him take as many strikes on your behalf.  Your father’s instructions are implicit in the environment, under the circumstances.  He is asking Felix to deliver a beating on his behalf.  Experience and common sense should be clarity enough for a soldier like Felix.    

This confusion, feigned to buy himself a moment, is worthy of your father’s furious stare. 

“What?” your father snaps. 

Felix hesitates, then approaches. 

That moment of hesitation is enough. You look at your father.  Just like you can read Felix, you can read that man.  You can see the calculation behind his eye.  Everyone is a thing, a statistic, a number, something that be crunched and calculated, something that can be used and discarded if the calculations are unfavourable.  Things are supposed to function according to his commanded algorithm. 

Felix is not supposed to hesitate.   

You were correct to assume your father would never suspect your affair based on romance.  He does not see or recognize an exchange of true love.   But he understands violence.  He understands its absence.  Felix could kiss you and your father would not notice, but Felix refusing to hit you is worth a second glance. 

With very little time to think, you diffuse those suspicions before they take flight.  When Felix is near, you do not hesitate to swipe at him.  You land a mean smack on his cheek that sufficiently surprises him. 

He meets your eyes.  They are narrowed with righteous anger as you play the part you must.  You know he sees the apology in them.  You hope he sees the forgiveness. 

Felix returns the smack.  He does not hit you anywhere near as hard as he could – even your father would hit you harder – but it is still enough of a crack that your head turns on impact.  You clutch your cheek and your whole body quivers, like it is confused by the alternating directions of pain.

“Don’t you dare touch me again,” you say, looking at Felix.  “You stupid animal.  I hate you.” 

That you know he cannot misunderstand.

And so it is within that mute understanding you hand yourself over, as you have so often done.  Felix does what he can to lighten the severity, just as he always does, but it still requires a few good hits so your father believes your weepy surrender.

You are very quiet after.  You can hear your father’s pen scratching across a paper pad.  He watched it all then went right back to work. 

You remember when you chased the high of his attention just to linger in a pit of despondency for hours after.  You do not feel that now.  Pure, unadulterated rage flows through you, hot as fire and as all-consuming.  You feel no other emotion in that moment. 

You look at your father, unwavering. 

“I despise you,” you say.   

Then pen on the paper stops.  For a moment, he seems struck.  But then he crosses a line on the page and resumes his work, not once looking at you, your bruises, or your blood.  Not acknowledging your anger, the one trait you inherited from him.

“You’ll see,” your father says, with a fair degree of poise and equanimity.  Unbothered, like he is talking about ordinary things.  You suppose he is.  What could be more ordinary to this man than the ominous prophesizing of his self-inflicted horror?  “One day,” he says.  “When I am gone and you really see the world for what it is, you will understand why I did what I have done.  You will be safe and you will thank me.” 

I will kill you before I ever thank you, you think, and realize with a shiver you truly mean it.

“Felix, retrieve Domino,” your father says.

Domino is the guard posted at the door.  When he enters, he gives you a cursory glance, his cheek dimpled, the amusement towards your situation scarcely concealed. 

Your father’s money might afford him influence over this stock of men, but they are all in the business of profitable pain.  Military men, ex-cops: they are a dirty and criminal ilk who are accustomed to holding authority in their own right.  It is little wonder they never liked you and you never liked them.   

“Sir,” Domino says, at attention. 

“Take my daughter to her room and see to it she is tended.  Then send someone to clean up this mess.  I have work to finish here and I will not tolerate any further interruptions.  None.  Do you understand?”

“Sir,” is the reply, affirmative, with a sharp nod.

“Good.  Felix.  Sit.”

Your father gestures to the chair across his desk and Felix moves towards it.  Unlike the perfect boy soldier who once sat in that chair, Felix kicks it because he is glancing back at you. 

You meet his eye for a brief moment, then the world spins as Domino picks you up.  It is a grappling yank, like you grab a thing, with no care for injury or a polite touch. 

You are carried out of the office and back to your room.  One of the crew’s medics patches your foot.  You sit through it with a cold detachment, then your room is empty and you are alone, waiting in bed for Felix so you can ask what is happening and discuss what to do.

Felix never comes.  

-

In your wildest imaginings of what transpired behind that door, a job is not what you anticipate.  It is at once too strange and too mundane.  

A job is not an operation; it is an errand, a sleight of hand conducted in the shadowed crevice of a greater business scheme.  It is not unusual for your father to send his men out on these jobs.  But in all the years Felix has been in his employ, he has never been sent out.  His only occupation is to serve as your bodyguard, and he has proven time and again how he is irreplaceable in that position. 

You do not know what makes this job different.  You glean only a little information from the chatter of the crew, just enough that you know it is a stealth acquisition and a rare, unprovoked move against Miroh.  Your father is known for his defensive tactics, seldom manoeuvring in offense, so you suppose the inclusion of his best solider on a risky venture makes sense.  Felix  is likely your father’s only guarantee.

But you cannot shake there is something else.  Felix is more than just a soldier and Miroh is more than just a businessman.  You know their past is tangled together. 

You do not get a chance to ask.  The next time you see Felix is through a window.  You are in the upstairs corridor, staring down at the driveway as he climbs into a van with a few other agents.  Then the van pulls away and it is just you in that house with your temporary replacement bodyguard team. 

Even your father leaves, though you doubt he will be involved in the physical mission itself.   You overhear him telling your security that he anticipates returning in a week.  You count down the hours until then.

By the second day, you are sick with worry.   Sitting around with your unanswered questions makes the time drag.   Hours pass in dissociation, unmoving and anxious.  You decide that waiting will only worsen your state.  Although you are not keen to wander around town with your security entourage in tow, you cannot sit here either.     

The team is made of three men including Domino.  They are all as subtle as a scream with their bulk and demeanour, and every bit like all the others. 

Though they will undoubtedly report even the most mundane actions, they acquiesce and take you into town.  The campus café is one of your father’s approved locations.   

You are not sure if you want to run into your friends.  The distraction would be a welcome one, not to mention the balm that is a smile from a friendly face, but you also have no idea how you will explain the obvious security.  You are exhausted with lies.  You are not sure you could spin a convincing story even if you wanted, and you do not. 

The café is always quiet before lunch.  There are a few students scattered around so even though you feel ridiculous, no one pays you much attention. 

One guard waits outside the door, one inside by a window, and Domino stays by your side as you order your drink and take a seat. 

You forgot just how invasive and uncomfortable this dynamic was.  If you were not so drained, you would be snapping at them just to relieve the tension drawn tight in your chest.  Instead, you endure.  Every breath feels more strained than the last.  You cannot focus on your work any better here.  The words on your screen are just meaningless letters and shapes. 

You stare at your hands, at their faint, vibrating tremble.     

Then you hear your name.  The guards have been addressing you as girl, sometimes subject or the daughter when speaking to each other.  The gentler murmur of your name momentarily stills the shaking of your fingers, steady as a hand grasping yours.  You lift your head and see Jeongin, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder, his dark hair a shaggy mess, and his concerned eyes flitting between you and Domino.

“Hey,” Jeongin says with that dimpled smile.  “What’s up?”

“Who is this?” Domino asks.  Before you can answer, he turns to Jeongin and says, “Stand back.  You do not have permission to stand here.”

“Oh my god,” you say, slapping a palm to your forehead. 

You are flooded with childhood memories, idiots like this intimidating everyone who tried to speak to you for longer than a minute.  Whether they took the form of a guardian or masqueraded as a janitor or something else, they always made everyone sufficiently uncomfortable.  Even Jisung was often disturbed by them, though he drew the wrong conclusions about their identity.  He was good with weird.

Jeongin must be made of a similar mettle.  He gives your guard a pinched look, lip curled like he smells something bad, but he does not move.   He looks at you with a tip of the head, concern once more creasing his features. 

“Do you need help?” he asks. 

The poor guy must be so confused.  You look like you are being held hostage in a coffee shop by a stupidly inconspicuous thug. 

All you can do is sigh and shake your head.  “I’m fine, Jeongin,” you say, a very unconvincing lie.  “I’ll catch you around, yeah?”

“Move along,” Domino says. 

Jeongin looks at him.  His glance flicks up and down.  Then he says, “Your fly is down.” 

Domino stares at him, unblinking, as if he can vaporize Jeongin with just a glare.  Jeongin stares back. 

“Really, Jeongin,” you say.  A genuine breath of a laugh leaves your lips.  Jeongin could not even throw a punch without smacking a chair, but he is willing to stick up for you.  And his annoyance tactic is the funniest defense you can imagine.    

Jeongin finally leaves, but with a glance over his shoulder.  You fight the urge to throw something at the guards who watch him go. 

“Who was that?” Domino asks. 

“I don’t know his name,” you say.  “He was just a classmate a long time ago.” 

You hope that is enough to make him forgettable. 

You act casual, taking a sip of your coffee.   Then Domino looks down into his lap, quickly checking his fly.  Your snorting laughter sprays coffee everywhere.

Fortunately, this does not impact the report.  You are allowed to return to the same coffee shop the next day.   This time both Seungmin and Jeongin are there, books open but blathering in distracted conversation.  Another young guy is sitting with them, maybe a classmate, though he has no books with him.  He is sprawled in a chair, holding a coffee and grinning at whatever the boys are saying. 

He notices you first, probably because you are staring.  He tips his head as he looks at you, black bangs falling across his forehead.  He is noticeably stocky and broad, but he smiles behind the brim of his coffee cup and it is incredibly disarming. 

He is handsome but the overt flirtation brings only pain.  It makes you think of Felix.  You barely slept last night, tossing and turning with anxiety.  Your stress only worsened when you woke in an empty bed.  

You are so fraught with anxiety, your whole body feels taut like a thread about to snap. 

Something is going to happen, or maybe it already has.  It is bad.  You know it intuitively, the way you know which hand will strike when your father is in a mood, the way you know a black car on a quiet street is an enemy, the way you have always known this life is a death sentence, a slow execution by the brutality of weathering.

You look away from the stranger’s smile.  Then Jeongin sees you and his laughter fades, concern and curiosity drawing his brows together.  He nudges Seungmin who looks too, tipping his head with a questioning look. 

You just shrug and take a seat at a different table. There is nothing else to do.

Domino sits with you, as bored with his duty as ever.  You believe your whole team is annoyed with their job.  Your father would not leave weak soldiers in charge of you, but he also had to take his very best with him.  These men are probably too competent for menial work and are likely offended by their assignment.  They are the worst of the best. 

Which is how you steal a moment to talk to Seungmin.  One guard outside, one at the window, and Domino at your table.  He lets you leave to get some sugar for your coffee, watching with glazed-over indifference as you fuss at the counter.

Seungmin joins you, pretending he is also grabbing sugar.

“You’re keeping some weird company,” he says in a low voice.  “Are you in some kind of trouble?  Do you need help?”

You swallow an unexpected lump in your throat.   Your friendship with Seungmin and Jeongin was only ever casual, so it is quite touching that the two civilians are so willing to defend you, even when standing at an obvious disadvantage against your thugs. 

Your prepared lie gets tangled in that lump.  You swallow it down.  For a moment, your mouth is open with nothing to say.  You both stir your coffee slowly.   Eventually you take a breath. 

“It’s complicated,” you say.  “It’s just to do with my dad.  Thank you, though.”

There is a beat of silence before he says, “We’re friends, okay?  Just let us know if we can help.” 

You have been trapped in solitude for days now. Seungmin provides the comforting reminder that your world is not all bad.  Though he cannot do much to help, the sentiment in his simple offer is enough to temper the worst of your anxiety, at least for the time being.

“Thank you,” you say.  “Really.”   You spare a glance at Domino who is watching you intensely, just waiting for you to slip up and do something that warrants a reprimand or report.  “I better get back,” you say.  “Say hi to Jeongin, and say sorry from me for yesterday.  You guys have fun with your friend.”

“Oh, we don’t know that guy.  He just sat with us out of nowhere,” Seungmin says, laughing.  “He says his name is Changbin.  But he paid for our coffee so he can sit wherever he likes, haha.”

You smile at his playfulness.  He smiles too, then he walks back to his table.  Your eyes follow him and settle on the stranger – Changbin. 

You want to keep smiling, want to imagine the stranger is just an awkward university kid making friends in a weird way.  But Changbin is looking at you again, with the same intensity as Domino.  Your eyes skirt his shoulders and biceps and his too-charming smile.   

You want to chalk it up to paranoia, exacerbated by the extra stress of the last few days.  But something is off about this stranger appearing here, suddenly, at a place you are known to frequent, the week your father is moving against Miroh, when Felix is gone and you are vulnerable.  He is sitting with your friends, like he knows they are your friends, like he can trick you into trusting him by their proximity. 

He is not like your father’s guards who are blatantly out of place.  Changbin is so visible that he is invisible.  Just a friendly college boy. 

Just like Felix. 

You are being ridiculous, you tell yourself.  You cannot walk around assuming everyone is an enemy.   But you cannot shake the feeling of wrongness, the awful premonition that something is going to happen. 

You try to ignore Changbin as you drink your coffee but you are unsuccessful.  Your hackles are raised and will not come down, made worse by the indifference of everyone around you.  Domino is none the wiser.  The other guards have not left their posts.   Your friends are laughing with him like he is just some guy.

You ask yourself what Felix would do.  You imagine he would not cause a scene or confront Changbin.  He would quietly take your arm and usher you to safety, only fighting in retaliation if necessary.  Part of his job has always been discretion, but he has never relished in violence anyway.  It is always a last resort. 

Your instincts have often propelled you into heated action until you freeze, always one extreme or the other.  Now, you calm yourself and steady your shaking hands.  You comfort yourself the way Felix would.  You tell Domino you want to go home.  He makes some agitated remark about you needing to make up your mind, that you only just arrived, but you do not rise to his bait.  You close your laptop and pack your bag. 

It takes one second.  Changbin is sitting with your friends, then you look down.  When you lift your head, he is gone.  The boys think nothing of it.   Your guards don’t notice.   You want to scream but you know it won’t make a difference.   These men won’t listen to you. 

You leave with your guards.  The large campus is practically a city unto itself, separated from the mainland by a stretch of woods.  It is a scenic drive with a deer park in its centre, but all you see is rain ripping through branches and the shadows between each slash of grey daylight. 

You are almost relieved when something thumps heavily onto the roof.  But the relief that you were right is short-lived when all hell breaks loose. 

You close your eyes, arms wrapped around yourself in the back seat.  Glass shatters and the car skids to a rough stop, flying off the road and onto the forest terrain. 

You open your eyes to the windshield in pieces, the driver frozen with his head thrown back.  Domino and the other guard are out of their seats in seconds, making the same mistake as Miroh’s men all that time ago.  You know how this fight will end.

You look through the broken windshield.  Changbin flies into view and knocks Domino onto his knees.  It takes one roundhouse kick for him to fall over, unconscious.  The other guard tries to take a shot but Changbin disarms him with a couple sharp moves.   You close your eyes when Changbin shoots. 

He fights with the same fluidity as Felix.  For a moment, you are back there, eighteen years old and frightened and relieved all at once.  Except when the back door opens this time, you are not quick to rush out.  It is not Felix waiting for you. 

Changbin clears his throat and you slowly look over.  He is wearing jeans and a leather jacket and does not look ruffled in the slightest.  Dark hair falls over his forehead as he tips his head.  He smiles, handsome and charming.  As unassuming as Felix when his eyes crinkle up with delight and he laughs like he has never known pain.  Like he was not raised for the purpose of violence, property of Miroh, of your father, of whoever else, acting as their hand because they won’t get their own fingers dirty. 

Changbin gestures to you, curling his fingers, a mute come here. 

“Hurry up,” he says.  “Time to go.” 

You imagine escaping out the other door, trying to make a run for it through the forest.  You know you will not get far. 

“Are you one of them?” you ask, impulsively.  “Miroh’s?”

You already know the answer.   

Changbin blinks at you, then laughs. 

“It depends,” he says, then tuts like he thinks you are preciously naïve.  “I personally think I’m one of a kind.  But I guess we’ll find out.  Now get out of the car.”

With little choice in the matter, you obey.  Your legs wobble when you stand so you instinctively take the hand he offers. 

You have not yet steadied yourself when he yanks you into his arms.  Though Felix undoubtedly holds strength in his lithe form, he is more dexterous and athletic than outright powerful.  He knows how to use his body to its best advantage.  But Changbin is strong and he does not hide it, the bulge of his biceps crushing you in the hard, ungiving circle of his arms.  Leather and muscle cage you in tightly, so unyielding that you cannot even squirm.  Your heels dig at the ground as he hauls you away from the car.  A belated scream claws its way up your throat but gets strangled in his chokehold.

Then you feel ice, so cold it burns.  Your racing heart propels each freezing shard through your bloodstream. 

You realize he stabbed you with a needle.  It is a flickering thought, only momentarily realized, then you are plunged beneath the surface of that ice, drowned in black waters, and you think no more.

-

You are plunged into an oblivion so deep and so fast that you wake thinking no time passed at all. 

You hear before you see.  The patter of rain overhead is not unlike its tapping against the roof of the car.  Groggy, you think you are still there, your arms wrapped around yourself while waiting for the worst. 

Then your sense of smell creeps in, overwhelming you with damp and something metallic.  A cool breeze pebbles your skin as it washes over you.  It coaxes you out of your bleariness. 

You blink awake, the blurry world taking gradual shape around you.  It is not the world you left behind, no sign of a car or campus or coffee shop.  It looks like an old warehouse or maybe a factory, but the room has been stripped to its bare bone essentials.  The exposed pipes and rotting damp of the high walls account for the smell. 

The breeze blows from your left where a garage door is open.  You squint towards the grey light of the rainy day.  You do not know how long you have been unconscious.  It looks like early afternoon but your body tells you that you have been asleep for longer than a few minutes. 

You try to gather your bearings.  You see a harbour in the distance, past the pavement and the fence and what must be a drop to water below.  Your university is not near any body of water.  So you must have been unconscious long enough to transport this far.  A few hours at least, but given the light maybe it has been a full day. 

That is all you can deduce.  You do not recognize the warehouse or the harbour. 

You do recognize the man in front of you, though it takes a second.  Changbin is no longer dressed like a civilian, wearing a black combat uniform and boots.  His shirt covers his arms but fits like a second skin, his bulk emphasized.  He is squatting on the ground a few feet from you.  He holds a black mask in his hand, one that covers the lower half of his face when he swings it up.  He lifts and lowers it a few times, absent-mindedly it seems.  Then he realizes you are stirring and fastens it in place. 

Your head is pounding. Your petulant side wants to bark a complaint, but even you know taunting this man would be beyond stupid.   Changbin is not just any soldier.  Miroh did not send one of his regular men.  He clearly learned his lesson last time.   Even without asking, you know Changbin is like Felix.  He did not merely train as a soldier; he was born and moulded into it. 

And, unlike Felix, he has had no reprieve from Miroh. 

You come into your body, stretching your fingers.  Your hands are cuffed behind your back and locked to your chair.   One ankle is cuffed to the chair leg.   Metal jingles as you move, testing your bonds. 

You stop when Changbin approaches, your heart thumping as hot adrenaline melts the ice in your blood. 

“Good morning,” Changbin says.  “How did you sleep?”

Your body is still slow to respond, but you manage a decent glare.  It makes him laugh.

“They told me you were funny,” he says.  “That you make your father’s men look like a joke – not hard, to be fair.”  He tips his head, looking at you like he is waiting.  All you do is stare.  “Come on,” he whines.  “Say something funny.” 

Your stomach turns over itself, not because Changbin is taunting you… but because you think he isn’t taunting you.   He does not speak with the sarcastic intonation of your father’s men, dryly mocking your helplessness in his presence.  His eyes are big and resolutely focussed, seeming to genuinely anticipate your retort.  He is almost child-like with his attention.   

This impression only solidifies when he sighs, morose, and crouches again. 

“Do you want something?” he asks. 

“Let me go?” you say. 

It comes out rough but it makes him laugh behind the mask, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Aha, you are funny,” he says and slaps his knee.  “Anything but that.  But don’t worry your head.”  You flinch from his touch, but all he does is pat your head like he is reassuring a frightened puppy.  “This isn’t about you,” he says.  “Well, not yet.  Maybe later.  First…  Your father took something from us.  And he won’t give it back.” 

Changbin removes the mask so he can smile, one of those disarming smiles that is so at odds with the rest of him.  Felix might switch demeanours depending on the circumstance, but Changbin flickers between faces from one breath to the next.    

“We just need it back,” Changbin says.  “Then, maybe, we’ll even the score.  Maybe.  Don’t worry about that yet.  For now, you just need to sit.  Are you thirsty?”  

The distinct reverberation of gunfire comes from the front of the building.  You shriek and duck your head, like that will do anything to protect you, gasping as you listen to bullets ricochet off the walls in some distant room. 

When everything goes quiet, you lift your head.  Your chest is heaving with each deep breath, your adrenaline bleeding out your pores so even the air around you feels like it is humming.  You stare at Changbin who has not moved a muscle, still squatting and staring. 

“I think we have lemonade,” he says.  “You want that?” 

You do not even know what to say.  His sincere but stunted peculiarity reminds you so much of a teenage Felix even though Changbin looks older than both of you. 

There is more gunfire.  You duck your head and slam your eyes shut.  Changbin does not move until it stops, his mouth open with another comment, but he silences himself when the far door opens.   Then he is swift, on his feet with his mask secured.  He stands at your side as he silently watches the approach of a small group of men.

You are still reeling from panic, so it takes you a second to realize what is happening.

“Felix!” the cry leaves your lips.

Five of Miroh’s men surround him, suited guards in various states of dishevelment, like they have been fighting for much longer than a few minutes.  Felix is bound with his hands behind his back, a yellow bruise already forming on his chin.  His own dark uniform is singed with bullet holes.  His hair looks like it was slicked back, but he has sweat through some of the product, tendrils of blonde falling into his face.

Despite his state, his attention is all on you.  Eyes assessing, scanning you from head to toe. 

When you meet his gaze, the whole world falls away.  These men, this place, none of it exists for a breath of a moment.   Felix is here and that means you will survive.  Everything will be fine.  You have always kept each other alive.  This time will be no different.  You can see it in his eyes, in that oh-so subtle twinge of a smile.  You can hear him without him moving his lips.

Hello, sweetheart. You’re safe.   

They put him on his knees.  His gaze flits to either side.  You can see him calculating.  Oh, he is here on purpose.  He let himself be caught, you are certain, so he could find you and rescue you and—

“Target acquired,” a man says.  

It takes you a moment to realize he is talking about Felix. 

You look at the man then at Changbin, considering his earlier words. 

Something your father took.  Something they want back. 

It hits you all at once.  You have not been kidnapped as leverage against your father.  You have been taken as bait for Felix.  They don’t want you, they want him.  An irreplaceable soldier your father stole from Miroh a decade ago, that he has paraded in front of him for years at galas and parties.  Using him as a bodyguard for his wayward daughter and not as a soldier, not until now.  Biding his time before using Felix against the house that made him.   

You can see your father’s stupid machinations clicking into place.  He is a perpetual child throwing a tantrum.  His movements are sloppy and immature.  He steals from his enemy, a weapon he does not know how to use, thinking it will keep him safe, letting it make him cocky.  And now he is sitting somewhere as it all blows up in his face. 

Or it would.  In an ironic twist of fate, you are saving your father. 

Because as far as Miroh knows, Felix is here as your bodyguard, acting on your father’s orders to retrieve you.  All Miroh has to do is pluck him from the fray.  And as a bonus, he has you in captivity for future leverage.   

It would have been a good plan.  It would have worked if Felix was an emotionless machine.  If would have worked if Felix was here because of a command. 

But Felix loves you.

He is here to save you. 

In a quick move, Felix sweeps two men off their feet.  He rolls on his back and propels himself to his feet, hands bound under him, leading with his core.  He slams his head into an oncoming guard and the man stumbles back.  Three out of five on the ground.  Then suddenly one hand is free of the cuffs – he must have been picking at it the whole time - and he swings the dangling metal in another’s eye. 

You flinch away from the violence, even while rooting for Felix.  A few more thuds and you know all five men are incapacitated.  You open your eyes and lift your head, watching Felix drop the handcuffs on the floor.  He absently rubs his wrist, his gaze drifting from you to Changbin.  His fingers freeze, his eyes narrowing as he perceives the stoic soldier at your side. 

Felix stares, like he if he looks hard enough, he will see through the mask. 

“You’re new,” Felix finally says. 

Changbin rolls his eyes. 

Changbin reels back and hurls a knife in a swift arc, right at Felix’s face.  Felix is just as fast and catches the handle.  He returns the throw.  The knife clatters on the ground as Changbin surges forward. 

These two are evenly matched.  Watching them fight is terrifying and unpredictable.  They dance around each other, delivering equal blows and blocking similar shots.  In the end, Felix wins in one move miscalculated by his opponent.  With an opening granted, Felix takes Changbin down.  One, two, three hits to the head.  Changbin stumbles backward, his mask falling.  He is disoriented when he looks Felix, but Felix sees him with complete clarity.

You learned to read Felix a long time ago.  You know all his expressions by heart, the crease of each smile memorized, the track of each tear committed to heart. 

You have never seen this face, this mix of horror and bewilderment as a barely conscious Changbin slams onto the ground.  Then it is Felix who missteps, tripping over his own feet as he reaches for the opponent he just threw down. 

“Changbin,” he says.  “You’re alive, I—” 

Changbin swings at him but is too dizzy to land a hit.  Felix catches the punch.  He should throw one back, finish him off, but he hesitates.  His brow furrows.  He grabs Changbin by the neck of his shirt and yanks him close.

“Chris,” he says.  “Chan.  Chris.  Where is he?” 

Changbin laughs.  It turns to choking when a dribble of blood gurgles past his mouth.  He spits it at Felix then heaves a rough breath. 

“Oh, fuck you, Yongbok,” he says.  “’You’re new’ – didn’t even recognize me—”

“It—it’s been so long—and I thought you—”

“Yah, not all of us got to attend pretty parties these last years like you—”

“Stop it, you don’t know anything about what I’ve been doing—”

“Chris he says.  First thing he says.”  Changbin squirms but does not have the strength to rip away, especially with Felix gripping him so hard.  He heaves another aggravated groan.  “You know Chris died because of you.  He’s been gone for years.”

“No,” Felix says, his voice pinched.  His eyes rapidly water, his knuckles white from his death-grip. 

Changbin shakes his head but slips further.  Felix once more catches him when he should be ending him, sniffling hard as he gets on his knees. 

“He’s not dead,” Felix says.  “He can’t be dead—”

“Why don’t you ask your boss?”

As if on cue, your father’s men burst into the room.  Felix looks at them in surprise even though he must have coordinated their arrival. 

Changbin laughs.  “I hope it was worth it, Yongbok,” he says.  He uses one last burst of energy to throw himself forward, propelled away from Felix.  He rolls across the ground then stumbles to his feet, running past the open garage door, into the rain, and disappearing around the corner. 

Felix is too stunned to chase him.  You look at Felix, on his knees and holding nothing, palms up like he expects something to appear in them.  He closes his fists as your father’s men approach. 

Then he slides his figurative mask in place, assuming his usual role.  He kicks the literal mask discarded by Changbin, then finally looks at you. 

“Get the car,” Felix says to the men.  “And check the grounds for anything useful.” 

The men disperse and Felix approaches you.  He kneels at your side and picks at the lock of your handcuffs.  You are crying before you can stop yourself, overwhelmed with everything that just transpired. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” Felix whispers, looking at you with pain of his own.  “It will be okay.  Just a little longer.” 

The handcuffs drop.  He squeezes your hand in his. 

“Just a little longer.” 

-

You are several cities over, hours away from home and even further from the job your father was conducting against Miroh. Miroh was clearly trying to divert his enemy.  He tried to steal Felix back while doing so.

Neither he or your father accounted for you, for Felix, for all the love between you.

You are in a small hotel room away from prying eyes and military men.   You are scrubbing yourself clean in the bath and he sits on the rim of the tub, wiping your back with a cloth. 

You checked in two hours ago.  You spent most of that time blubbering incoherently, catching your breath even hours after freedom.  You have not had a real conversation yet.  Felix has been quiet, his eyes intermittently far away or so intensely focussed on you that it makes you hiccup with more tears.

You hiss when he presses his thumb to the mark on your neck, the little bite from the needle so carelessly plunged into your vein. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, smoothing with a gentle circle. 

“This has been the worst week of my life,” you say.  “And that’s saying something.  Oh my god, and it’s only Wednesday.”

Felix laughs in spite of himself, though it is more of a breath than a sound.  He drops the cloth in the water and you shiver as he caresses the bare skin of your back. 

“I love you,” he says, like it is something he has always said, like it is easy to say.  Like he could say it again and again. 

The room feels so quiet.  His voice is soft but it sounds like a shout, echoing back in this intimate space.  Your breath catches.  You go very still. 

Then he says your name in a breathless murmur that is exhaled with more adoration than the word love itself.  

“No games,” he says.  “No jokes.  No hidden meanings or secrets.” 

“Felix,” you say.  It is all you manage. 

“I know,” he says weakly.  “I know, sweetheart.  You don’t have to say anything, I just…” 

His hair is wet from a quick shower, combed back neatly, more composed than the rest of him.  You look up as he runs his wet fingers through it.  The bruise on his jaw is darkening, a burned gold that looks incredibly painful.  He shed his outer layers, is wearing a black t-shirt and black pants.  He has a silver army tag, or something like it, marked with your father’s name and not his own.  It’s new.  Something the field agents wear.  Good as a collar.

You reach out and take hold, ripping it off his neck.  He looks at it dangling from your fist, as surprised as you that it broke so fast. 

Maybe it really is it that easy.      

His hurt jaw wobbles.  He touches the bruise and looks down, away from you, head bowed as if in supplication.  Worshipful.  Penitent.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lighter than a whisper.  “I will tell you everything.  I just want to be a person for you a little longer.”

“Felix,” you say, dropping the tag on the floor.  You kneel in the bath and reach for him with your wet hands.  He does not lift his head when a silent sob wracks his body.  His shoulders shake when you touch him.  “You have always been a person to me.”

“I know,” he says, voice breaking.  “I know, sweetheart.  I owe you so much—”

“You don’t owe me anything—”

“I owe you everything.” 

He looks at you then, his dark eyes wet with tears, his expression serious.  He breathes a shaky exhale then leans away, grabbing a towel. 

“Come here,” he says, and stands. 

Moments later, you are standing on the floor, wrapped in the towel in his arms.  He bundles you tightly and you rest your head on his shoulder, safe and secure with his strong hold around you. 

“I love you,” he says, his wet cheek pressed to yours.  “Even if you hate me, even if you don’t, even if you can never say it back, I love you and all the life you have in you.”

“I’m a mess,” you say, trying to laugh, but it comes out weak. 

“You’re alive.  I don’t think anyone understands better than you, what it means to have a life,” he says.  “The way your life fills you, the way you hold onto it no matter how many times someone tried to take it away.” 

You are hiding your face in his neck, embarrassed and amorous and teary all at once.  Then he lifts you up and turns around, perching you on the counter.  You wriggle your arms free, tucking the towel beneath them.  You steady your breathing as he picks up a cloth to wipe the smudged vestiges of make-up off your cheek. 

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he says.  “I’ve always been so scared.  I hide it, yeah?  But it’s there.  Miroh, your father, everything about them…  It was like living in a nightmare.  They were bigger than life.  They controlled dangerous people.  I couldn’t imagine anyone standing up to them.”  He smiles now, his thumb smoothing over your cheek.  “Then you burst into the room and started a fight with one of them.  I was shocked.  I thought, is this girl crazy? What have I gotten into?” 

“That girl was crazy,” you say, laughing. 

He laughs too, but shakes his head.  “She was the only sane one,” he says.  “God.  You had more passion in your little finger than I had ever felt in my whole body my whole life.  And I thought… I will never feel that much emotion.  I knew it was too late for me.  I wasn’t living for myself and I was fine with that.  I couldn’t be saved.”  His eyes are teary again.  He takes your hand and looks down at it.  “You took my hand.  Even in your anger, even in your everything, you saw something…  You touched me once and it was like life rushed into me.  And I hated myself everyday after that because I wasn’t enough.  I wasn’t what you needed.  I could take your beatings but I couldn’t save you because I was a scared coward and you were stuck with me—”

“Shh, stop that,” you say.  You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing the pieces he rucked up. 

He wipes his cheeks.  He plants his hands on the counter, on either side of you.  His eyes are closed when he takes a deep breath. 

“Miroh couldn’t kill your grandfather,” Felix says.  “He tried and he failed.  Your grandfather was willing to sacrifice everything for himself.  Your mother died in his place.  You and me were on opposite sides of the world, both just babies.  You never knew your mother.  I never knew my parents.  Miroh decided he needed a new generation of soldiers.  There were a few of us, all over the world.  When we were old enough to speak and run and fight, he recruited the best.  I was one of the best.  So was Changbin.”

“And Chris,” you say, remembering the exchange in the warehouse. 

Felix’s face scrunches in pain.  He nods. 

“Yeah,” he says.  “We travelled together.  We trained together.  We were like brothers.” 

“What happened?” you ask.  You lay a hand on his chest and he takes it, holding it there.   

“I was stupid,” Felix says with a self-deprecating laugh.  “I believed Miroh.  I thought… there are bad guys out there, simple as that.  If we get rid of them, then we won’t have to be scared anymore, yeah?  They wouldn’t have to hurt us if we just got rid of the bad guy. But it wasn’t that easy.  I killed your grandfather and it didn’t end anything.  Chris was right.  Because he always knew.  He said it wasn’t right, what Miroh was doing.  Chris could have been the best if he could let go of who he was, and just be what he was supposed to be… but he didn’t.  I… I felt like I… I couldn’t afford to be that way… If I wasn’t the best, I was nothing.  If I couldn’t kill, I was going to be killed.  And by the time I realized he was right, it was too late.” 

He finally meets your gaze, squeezing your hand in his. 

“I almost died on a job and Chris saved my life.  He wasn’t supposed to.  In Miroh’s order, if something happens to a soldier, you leave them behind.  You don’t waste resources on the weak.  Chris disobeyed orders and all his training to save me.  I told him I wouldn’t have done the same and he said I know, that’s not why I’m doing it.  It’s just the right thing, Felix.  I thought, how can someone like this even exist, after everything he’s seen and done, how does he still try to find the good?  I didn’t know if he was stupid or smart.  Then a commander found out what he did and they took him out of our order for re-training.  I still saw him but we couldn’t talk.  He had so much potential and the organization didn’t want to throw it away.  They tried to break him.  It wasn’t working.  It broke me instead.  I realized I had to get us out or die trying.” 

He looks at you and says, “You get it, don’t you?  The way Jisung saved you.  The way he was your friend.  The way he was just there.  That was Chris for me, yeah?”  His voice is rife with desperation, like he needs you to understand this more than anything else. 

“Yeah,” you say softly, feeling that very heartache all over again.  “I do.  I get it, Felix.”   

“Then you know,” he says, voice breaking, “how I felt when I let him down.  I let everyone down.  I fucked up a job, trying to undermine Miroh.  I thought I could outsmart him but I didn’t.  It just opened a door for your father to get in.  There was a stupid skirmish over a politician in Miroh’s pocket.  Your dad was trying to buy him out and it ended in a fight.  Three of our best men dead.  Including Changbin, I thought.  Just someone else I let down.   I was taken alive.  I knew if I went back to Miroh, I was dead.  If I ran off on my own, Chris would never escape, and they would break him eventually, or kill him trying.  I couldn’t go.  I couldn’t stay.  I couldn’t take Miroh on my own.  So I made a deal with your father.”   

And what I get is a life worth more than mine. 

You remember those words.  Felix once spoke them in an emotional moment, lost to his memories.  You never knew what he meant.  You realize now he meant Chris, the friend he left behind, the friend he sold himself to save. 

“You gave up your life to my father,” you say, “and in return—”

“He would rescue Chris,” Felix says.  “It was a win for us both, yeah.  Take out Miroh, steal his assets.  My friend gets his freedom.  Your father gets a soldier.  I was willing to give up my life.  I figured I never had one.  I wouldn’t miss it. All I knew was how to be a soldier.  I didn’t even know how to want something else.  But then you… You.”          

“Felix,” you say, overwhelmed with his confession and the depth of his feeling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says.  “I let you down.”

“What?  How?”  You touch his face, cupping his chin in both hands.  “What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t save you,” he says, voice rasping and light again, speaking above a sob.  “At first because I couldn’t leave, not until we rescued Chris.  And there was never an opportunity. I waited years.  Years.  And by then I had to keep waiting, because I couldn’t have wasted all that time for nothing.  I had to save him.  I had to save someone.  Or else I failed everyone.  It had to mean something.  I couldn’t—”

“Felix,” you say.  “It was an impossible situation. We were kids for half of it. I don’t blame you for anything.”

“I do,” he says, barely more than a breath, a faint whisper against your skin.  “I wasn’t good enough.  I didn’t do enough.” 

“We have no way of knowing what else could have happened,” you say.  “We did our best.  And now—”

You cut yourself off.  And now?  What happens next?  You heard their conversation in that warehouse.  You know why Felix looked so torn apart.

“Chris,” you say.  “Is he…?”  Dead.  “Was Changbin telling the truth?” 

“I don’t know,” Felix says. 

Dead.  For years.  Because of Felix.  Because of your father. 

It does not take much to piece together the implications.  Your father is a cowardly, underhanded schemer.  He poisons teenagers and beats his daughter and hides in his mansion except when he’s lashing out for attention.  He put Felix under contract, but the only guarantee of servitude was his honour and one stipulation.  Honour would mean little to your father.  But a person, that he could leverage.  That he could calculate and control.  So long as he could dangle Chris over Felix’s head, then Felix would be bound to him. 

And the best way to guarantee he would never have to fulfill his end of the bargain, the best way to guarantee Chris would never escape, would be to kill Chris himself and never tell Felix.   

You see it written all over Felix’s face, the horror of this very plausible idea.  That in his effort to save Chris, he actually got him killed. 

There is a long moment of quiet.  It is a very empty silence.  There is no way to confirm if Chris is truly dead, and so Felix cannot truly mourn him.  There is also no way to prove he is alive, so he cannot take any action.

You hold his hand.   It is all you can do right now.  You look at where your palms touch, where your fingers lace.  The caress of his skin against yours never fails to touch your heart.  Even this simple touch warms you.  It affects him too, because he exhales and leans in, resting his forehead against yours. 

You want to comfort him but your shiver betrays you.  The heat from the bath is diffusing and you are in nothing but a towel.  Felix laughs and shakes his head, withdrawing. 

“Sorry,” he says.  “Let’s, uhh, get you dressed first.”

“Or at least under some covers.” 

“Someone could come knocking,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you say with a jut of your chin.  “And?” 

He stares back at you.  This silence is not so empty, a heady and contemplative regard as he glances at your lips then the rest of you.  Then he sweeps you into his arms and carries you into the room. 

You kiss his cheek, just above his bruise.  You are not sure if he winces from the pain or the affection.  

The moment your head touches a pillow, you feel your eyelids drooping.  Exhaustion hits you instantaneously.  You groan and snuggle under the covers, quite convinced this plain hotel bed is the comfiest bed in the world. 

Felix hovers at the bedside, folding your towel.  You look back at him with sleepy eyes.  It is early evening but he must be as tired as you, from the physical exertion if not the emotional one. 

“Aren’t you sleepy, baby?” you ask.

He drops the towel and has to fold it again.  It is messier the second time, then slides off the dresser into a lump on the floor.   He ignores it, approaching the bed.  You pull back the cover in offering. 

You think he strips down to his boxers, but you are fast asleep before he even unzips.  You stir a little when he climbs in the bed, but his presence is so comforting that it sends you right back to sleep.  It is the most restful sleep you have had in a while.  But, predictably, falling asleep in the early evening means you wake up in the dead of the night, bright-eyed. 

The room is dark.  The clock reads 2:17 AM, blinking in red, the only light in the room other than a blue wash of moonlight pouring through the translucent curtains. 

Felix is curled up behind you, an arm under his head and the other over your hip.  When you wake, he follows but slowly, shifting and grumbling.  He does not usually sleep so deeply.  It is a testament to the day. 

You sidle up to him, your back to his front.  He is in his boxers and nothing else, bare skin against yours as he hauls you up against him.  You lay your hand over his, resting it on your stomach then on your breast.  It is not especially flirtatious, merely intimate.  He touches you and you sigh contently, too awake to lose yourself but enjoying the comfort nonetheless. 

He exhales.  It sounds a little ragged.  You look over your shoulder, at his dishevelled bed hair and dark freckles, the bow mouth you so missed, the tenderness in those dark eyes when he gazes back at you. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Hmm? For what?”  You roll onto your back to look at him better.  

He scrubs a hand down his face then pushes back some unruly hair.  “I think, um.”  He looks up at nothing.  “A part of me always thought a day would come when you would hate me for real.  I’m, uhh, a little… I guess I just… was more prepared to be hated than, um, cared about, after everything.” 

You lean over him, propping yourself on one arm.  He meets your serious gaze, licking his lips under the intensity of your stare. 

“Do you see me that way?” you ask.  “That I would be that unforgiving and fickle?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head.  “Of course not.  It’s not how I see you, it’s… myself.” 

“Well, I don’t want you to see yourself that way either,” you say.  “It offends me.”  You say this was a dramatic air, making a point of shoving your nose in the air. 

It makes him laugh, a real smile pulling at his lips.  You swear it brightens the room. 

“Does it?” he says.  “I’m very sorry.  I’ll have to make it up to you.”  He reaches for your face, strokes his knuckles over your cheek, but you pull away. 

“That won’t be necessary,” you say, in the same playful tone as him. 

“Oh?” he asks, chasing, stroking your other cheek. 

“Yes,” you say.  You catch his hand and lower it.  When you speak again, it is sincerely, without any joke or artifice or double-entendre.  “I don’t just care about you, Felix,” you say.  “I love you.  And you don’t need to thank me or pay me back.  You just need to believe it.”

He blinks up at you, surprise written all over his face.  You feel flushed with heat even though the admission is obvious.  Saying it out loud, truly and honestly, makes your heart flutter anyway.  Love and want tangle together in a knot inside you, making you feel soft and desirous at once.   

His lips part with a breath as he stares at you.  You chase those lips, leaning down and sealing his mouth in a kiss.  It takes only a second for him to kiss you back, cupping your cheek and parting your lips with a swipe of his tongue.  His bruise must not hurt too badly, or maybe he is just ignoring the pain, but you are careful with your light kisses despite his attempt at more. 

You always happily concede to his more dominant guidance.  This time it is a little different.  You are telling him something with your kisses and you want him to hear it, without any games or distractions.  So you take both his wrists and push his hands into the bed, at the same time swinging on top of him.  He looks surprised a second time, looking at where you press his hands into the sheets.  

He could easily buck you off, but he lets you kiss him like that.  You kiss his cheek and under his jaw, avoiding the bruise, then down his neck.  His hips lift under yours, rolling against you to get hard.  You are already wet and naked, making him moan, a low, dark sound as you grind your softest parts against the hardening line in his boxers. 

It makes you want to skip right to it, but you are determined.  You kiss down his chest and he laughs when your tongue swipes his nipple, evidently a little ticklish.  You smile and keep going, until your lips hover above the hard bulge in his boxers.  You kiss him through the material then tug it down.  He shuffles quickly, ripping them off and tossing them aside.  Then his hand is on the back of your neck as you take him in your mouth.

The hotel room affords some privacy.  He makes a little more noise than usual.  Or maybe he truly does not care anymore. 

Yes, you think, loving at him with your mouth and hands, let yourself go. 

He must be getting close because he squeezes the back of your neck and lets out a groan.  “Slow down,” he says.  “Please.  It just—”

“Feels good?” you ask, a little cheekily, but he answers earnestly, with a nod and shaky exhale.  “Mmm, okay,” you say.  “Tell me what you want.”

This gives him momentary pause.  Then he grips your neck more possessively and guides you up. 

You follow his direction, lifting your head until your pretty raw lips are hovering just inches from his.

“Get back on top me,” he says.  “I’m going to fuck you.” 

“Oh. Well.”  He has said far dirtier things in the past, but usually in the context of your role-play, where you are the worst versions of yourselves, the real you just laughing under it.  It is a little different for the real him to so blatantly state his desire. 

It leaves you just as weak in the knees.  It is a miracle you manage to swing a leg over him, but you get there.  He helps line you up, then he holds your hips and slides you right down until he is fully inside you.  It is a lot all at once, especially after time apart.  You did not have many opportunities for sex before that either.  But you are so wet, despite the sharp burn, it is a smooth fit, and you adjust quickly, mostly because he wastes no time rolling his hips up into you. 

“Oh,” you say, hands on his shoulders and mouth falling open. 

“That’s it,” he says, taking complete control even though you are on top, holding your hips, guiding you to match his rhythm.  “Could – uh, yeah – could have you on your knees, begging for it, without doing anything.  So easy for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say, gasping.  “Just for you.”

“Just for me,” he says.  He pushes himself upright, wrapping an arm around you and pushing your face into his shoulder.   He holds you there, fingers stroking the nape of your neck as he fucks you, drawing all those soft, whimpering sounds of you.  “That’s it,” he says.  “That’s my girl.  Just for me.  Hold onto me.  I’m gonna come.  Spread your legs, your pussy can take it.  Good girl.  Just like that.” 

You are wrapped tightly around him, clinging to him as he comes as promised, deep and hard inside you while you tremble and sigh in his arms.  Then he lifts your head to kiss you, a quick peck before he presses your foreheads together to just breathe. 

“Can you…” Your voice comes softly.  “Can you maybe stay inside me, just another minute.”

“Fucking… fuck,” he says, making you laugh.  He smiles too. “Yes. I can do that.”

He keeps you in his arms as he lays back.  You lay against him, his heart pounding against your chest.  You stay like that for a while, almost drifting to sleep when he slides his hand up your spine, reawakening every sensitive nerve in your body.

He says your name, that loving murmur of a sound.  You lift your head to look at him.  His gaze darts to your lips then back to your eyes. 

“I wouldn’t trade places with any of them,” he says.  “I want to be your bodyguard.  I want to set you free.  I want to keep you safe until the day I die.”

“On a few conditions,” you say.  “The first, that you cannot die for a very long time.  The second, I will only be free when you are.  And finally, you can be my bodyguard, but only if I’m your bodyguard too.”

He smiles, his eyes bright and his cheeks dimpled.  His nose nudges yours. 

“All right,” he says.  “Consider it a promise.”   

#skz smut #stray kids smut #lee felix smut #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #skz x reader

[cozage]

Hello!! I love your writing and would love to see a follow up of the captured by marines ask where they go and rescue the reader :)))

A/N: This is the last of the Captured by Marines/Rescued by Pirates short fics! Luffy’s and Law’s were posted earlier today, check them out :)

Characters: female reader x Ace

Cw:  angst, torture, reader in peril

Total word count: 3k

Part 1

Rescued by Pirates - Ace

It wasn’t long before he saw the Navy ships, and he smirked to himself. How easy it had been to get to them. He wondered if the Marines even knew who they had, if they knew what kind of death sentence that had placed upon themselves by taking Whitebeard’s crew. By taking you. 

He heard cannon balls splash around him and knew he had been spotted, but he wasn’t concerned. His Striker was too fast and too small to be caught by a stray firearm.

Watching the Navy scramble around like that on the ships made him laugh. Actually laugh out loud. So loud that he knew his crewmates could hear it. That you could hear it. 

The navymen on the ships took aim and fired to no avail. He wondered if they knew it was a lost cause. Not that it mattered. They should’ve known he would come after them. They really should’ve prepared better. 

He lept off his Striker and jumped up to the deck, smirking at all the wide-eyed marines. Everyone just stood there unmoving for a second, shocked by his sudden appearance. 

“Hey there fellas, you wouldn’t happen to know where my crew mates are, wouldya?”

His question nudged them into action, and they all began firing. The bullets went right through him, and he stood there, letting them empty their rounds of ammo. Once they were done, he shrugged and ran past them down the stairs. 

His division had taken a few ships like this hostage, and he was familiar with the layout. He didn’t worry himself with the Marines staring at him. They’d all be at the bottom of the ocean soon enough, but he couldn’t sink a ship with his crew on it. 

“Ace!!” He heard a small group of about five men cry out, finding them locked behind a cell of sea prism stone. He cursed the substance, but smiled at the men regardless.

“Hey guys, howya been?” He looked around, but you weren’t there, and his heart sank a little bit. This would be a lot easier if he knew you were here fighting with him. “Any idea where the key is?”

“The vice admiral!” One of them shouted.

“Be back soon!” He tipped his hat and ran back up the ship to find the keys. 

He found the Vice Admiral holding the keys out over the edge of the ship. The man looked very nervous, and Ace knew he was a coward without even speaking to him. 

“Give me the keys, and I’ll spare your life. How’s that?”

“No way,” the man’s voice trembled as he spoke. “I don’t make deals with pirates. 

Ace didn’t argue. He just held out his fingers to create crosshairs aimed at the man.

“Listen here,” Ace said, his voice deadly serious. “I don’t have time to play around. Either you give me those keys and I let you and your men go, or I send everyone on this ship to a watery grave. Your choice.”

It turned out that Ace had picked the right ship, because the vice admiral was nice enough to give him the keys for every jail cell on every ship. Ace ran back down the stairs with the keys in his hand, and the feeling of success on his shoulders. 

He unlocked the cell and his crewmates rushed to hug him, but he waved them off. “Tie up all the marines and hold them hostage. Once we have everyone, we’ll put them on one ship and let them go.”

The pirates look at him like hes crazy, but he shrugs. “I got the keys without a fight. That was the trade off. I’m a man of my word.”

The second ship was as easy to take as the first, but you weren’t on that ship either, and Ace was starting to feel nervous. Three ships with Marines this weak shouldn’t have crushed the third division of the Whitebeard Pirates so badly. 

The third ship was quickly taken over as well, and you were still nowhere to be found. His crew mates must have sensed his panic, because finally someone spoke up. 

“They took her separately since she had devil fruit powers,” a crew mate said. “They said she was too dangerous to keep on these ships. She’d be..” the man trailed off, scared to finish. 

“What? What’d they say?” Ace said, trying to rush him. 

“They said she’d be good bait.”

“Bait…” Ace could feel his skin catch fire at the words, and his crewmates backed away from him. He wanted to destroy the small fleet of ships they had just captured, and he struggled to keep his cool in the moment.

“Get on the other ship. Now. Sail back to Whitebeard.” He handed Whitebeard’s Vivre card to a man and stood as they all scrambled away. 

He weighed heavily what to do next, and forced himself to clear his head before he decided what to do. Once the Navy ship with Whitebeard’s pirates were out of sight, he stripped two of the Navy officers of their clothes and put one outfit on, saving the other for later. He burned their main sail, and made sure all of the men were tied up tight on one ship. He took the small transponder snail with him, and then as he left, he set the second, abandoned ship ablaze without looking back. 

He moved fast, following your vivre card again. He hadn’t even thought to look at it while he was freeing the others on the ship, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He couldn’t have left his family there, in the hands of the marines and sentenced to Impel Down. Unlike with you, he would’ve had no way to find them again, and they’d be gone forever. He knew he had made the right choice, but it still hurt to know you had been moving further away from him rather than getting closer. 

He sailed through the day and into the night before he saw lights of other ships. He quickly extinguished his own boat light and watched the ship closely. He wanted to go in as wild as the fire he created, but he was certain the members of this crew would be significantly stronger than the last ones he encountered, and he needed to get you out alive. 

As his Striker crept up to the side of the ship, he was surprised by the lack of watchmen. He was expecting infiltration to be harder than this. And then his Striker tapped the side of the boat. 

“Did you hear that?” Ace heard a voice from above, and he silently cursed himself. 

“Hear what?” An older voice huffed.

“I dunno. Sounded like something hit the boat, I think.”

“I think you’re hearing things, Cadet.”

“We should probably check it out.” The voice moved closer, and Ace readied himself for a battle.

“I told you kid,” the older voice spoke. “The Captain said that the Whitebeard Pirates wouldn’t come until a public execution was set. They’re going to take this time to rally their forces, and they’ll attack when it’s a public event. It’s much less impressive to kidnap some girl from a Marine boat, but to fight the entire Navy while the world is watching? That's the spectacle the pirates will want.”

“How do you know?” the kid asked.

“I was around when Roger was executed-” Ace flinched at the name. “-and it was the same thing. Pirates everywhere, waiting for someone else to make the move. But nobody ever did, and he was executed because of it. That won’t happen again though. They’ll take a stand. They’ll make a show of it.”

“You were there for Roger’s execution?” Fascination filled the young man’s voice, and Ace rolled his eyes. “What was it like?”

“Ha! Let’s go grab a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.” The older man’s voice was paired with footsteps leading away from the railing, and Ace tied his Striker to the ladder and climbed up it.

He peeked his eyes over the railing and only saw two other men on deck, other officers who were probably on watch. They were facing away from him, and he silently jumped over the railing and landed on the deck. 

He smoothed out his Marine uniform and straightened his cap, trying his best to blend in. 

This ship was similar to the last three he had taken over, and he had to resist running downstairs to find you. Instead, he walked around, trying to figure out where the keys were. He found a board with a schedule for watch duty on deck and watch duty for the prisoner. 

As he was staring at the board, another man came up to him. He looked to be about his age. 

“You wouldn’t want to take my shift watching the bitch, would you?”

Ace’s anger flared up, but he smothered it quickly to keep up the appearance. 

“I don’t know, man. When do you have to watch her?” He said, eyeing the man next to him. 

The man was about as tall as Ace, but extremely skinny. It looked like he was too tall for his own body, like he hadn’t filled out his own skin yet. He had bright orange hair and a crooked smile, and just looking at him made Ace want to punch him in the face. Though Ace wasn’t sure if that was because of the man’s comment about you or his appearance. 

The man chuckled. “In thirty minutes, and I'd love to go back to bed. Had a bit too much to drink, if you know what I mean,” the man chuckled, and Ace joined along halfheartedly until the man continued. “Last thing I want to deal with in the middle of the night is that chick.”

Ace raised his eyebrow. Of course you were giving them hell. “She that bad, huh? Have you seen her?”

“Just when she got on the ship. She was kicking and screaming until they put a gag in her and knocked her around a few times.”

Ace gritted his teeth. “Sounds feisty.”

The man snorted. “You can go find out for yourself just how feisty she is in about thirty minutes if you want.”

“You’ve intrigued me,” Ace said, pretending to be casual. “I’ll take it if you switch for my shift tomorrow.”

“Deal.” The man held out his hand, and Ace took it. “I’m Rogan.”

Ace nodded. “Nice to meet you. Chance.”

“Well, you’re really doing me a solid, Chance. I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, the orange-haired marine walked off to bed. 

Thirty minutes. Ace had thirty minutes to keep a low profile and find the key to your cell, and then you would be free. He grabbed some coffee from the cafeteria to rejuvenate him, and got a small snack as well. He had been fighting and sailing for over a day, and the exhaustion was starting to catch up with him. 

He must’ve dozed off at some point, because a loud speaker jolted him awake to alert a shift change. He cursed himself, now he wouldn’t have time to find the keys to your cell. 

He walked down the stairs to the jail cell, and found another man waiting for him. 

“Here,” he said, shoving a rod at Ace. The man’s eyes flicked nervously back to the cell behind him. “If she acts up any more just stick her with that.”

The man started up the staircase and then turned back to Ace. “Just some advice: Don’t taunt her. She’s…” he paused, and his eyes shifted back to the cell where Ace guessed you were. “Just don’t acknowledge her. The other guy should be here soon, and I know we’re supposed to only guard in doubles, but I can’t take it anymore.”

The guy disappeared from sight, and Ace heard your voice chirp up from behind him. 

“If you think you can subdue me, you’re wrong.” He could hear the animalistic growl in your voice, and he shuddered to think about what you had been through while you were parted. 

“Oh,” Ace laughed, turning to face you. “I think I can handle you just fine.”

He could see your eyes shift when you caught sight of his freckled face, hatred instantly turning into relief. 

Your eyes flicked to the doorway to make sure nobody was there, and then you looked back at him and smiled. “That Marine outfit suits you,” you said, your voice returning to the sweet sound he was used to. “I get why Garp wanted you to live this life.”

Ace laughed loudly, and then clamped a hand over his mouth as you both looked towards the doorway. 

“I don’t have the key to get you out,” he said disappointingly. 

“The next guy who comes will,” you said. “He should be back in about 10 minutes I think.”

Ace raised an eyebrow at you, and you smiled wickedly in return. 

“They think I’m weak because I’m a girl,” you scoffed, and you saw his lips tug upwards at the corners. 

“It’s a dangerous thing to do, underestimate a pirate.” He winked at you, which made you erupt into a fit of giggles. 

“Quiet down now, spitfire,” Ace chided back to you, and you rolled your eyes. 

“I’m going to sleep,” you said, leaning your head back against the wall. “Wake me up when it’s time to move.” 

Ace turned away from you, watching the door. He waited for someone to come, and finally the door opened a bit. 

“She’s finally asleep, huh?” a hushed whisper came from the door. 

Ace nodded, glancing back at you slumped against the wall. 

The man smiled sinisterly, and Ace’s entire body tense watching  his expression. 

“Good,” the marine hissed. “Hand me that electro-rod. I need to teach her a lesson.” He grabbed the keyring around his belt loop and unhooked it as he walked towards your prison cell. 

So that’s what Ace had in his hands. An electrified rod. He had seen them used before, but he had never been hit by one. 

Ace frowned at the man. “I thought we weren’t supposed to-”

“Shut up, boy,” the man snapped. “She mocked my honor. I’ll be damned if I let a pirate laugh at me, and a female one at that.”

He unlocked the door, and held his hand out for the rod. “Give it here, and get over here if you want to see a show.”

“No,” Ace said, pressing the button to activate the rod. “I don’t think I will.”

The man looked at Ace with a baffled expression, and Ace jabbed at him with the rod quickly. It was such a swift and sudden movement, the man didn’t have time to react, and he fell backwards. 

Your eyes snap open and your throw your hand around the man, using the chain on your cuffs to act as a clothesline around the man’s neck.

Ace stands over the both of you with a dark look in his eye. “You made a mistake, and it’ll cost you now.”

He jammed the prod into the man again, and you covered his mouth to muffle his screams. 

“You underestimated her.” He prodded the man. “You underestimated me.” Another prod. “And you underestimated the Whitebeard Pirates.” This time, he smacked the man with the blunt rod, and you felt the marine go slack in your arms, unconscious. 

He grabbed the key ring and unlocked your shackles quickly, his eyes watching the door.

“Ace!” You cry out, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a hug. “You’re so scary!” He can hear the smile on your lips, your voice full of pride. 

You both wrap the Marine in the shackles and relock the door to the cell. Ace looked back at you, watching the man with hatred. 

“What did you do to him?”

You smiled slightly. “He’s just sensitive about some things, that’s all.”

Ace gave an impressed whistle, but didn’t ask anymore questions. “You ready to do this?”

You look at him and raise an eyebrow. “You think this is gonna be hard?”

“Not with you by my side.” He gave you a quick kiss on the lips. “The hard part is over.”

He was right. The few marines that you encountered were quick to take down. It made you nervous. You kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did. You all dropped onto his Striker without anyone being alerted of your absence. 

“The Marines I heard earlier said they weren’t expecting Whitebeard to make an appearance until an execution was set,” he explains, reading your thoughts. “Makes sense why this was so easy.”

“They only took me separately because I was a devil fruit user.”

“They had no idea who they captured,” he said, and he roared his Striker to life. “Stupid mistake on their part.”

You hum in agreement at that. “Still seemed too easy,” you said, frowning. 

His arms wrapped around you, and he kissed your cheek. “You’re so used to fighting powerful foes, you don’t know what to do when we catch a break.”

He started to take his Marine outfit off, but you stop him. “Keep it on,” you say with a wink. “It suits you.”

He smirks, looking down at himself and then at you. “I’ve got an extra one if you want it.”

You scrunch your face. “No thanks.”

“Fine, but I’m taking off the hat.” 

He took his Navy cap off and placed it on your head, and then he unbuttoned his shirt, but kept it on for you. For now.  Ace opened a side compartment of his Striker and found his hat, placing it back on his head, feeling a lot more comfortable. 

“Perfect!” You said, pulling him in again for another sweet, long kiss.

#one piece #one piece scenario #one piece imagine #one piece x reader #portgas d ace #portgas ace x you #portgas ace x reader #ace x y/n #ace x reader #✧˚ace✧˚

[envysparkler]

Clark swore he only turned away for a moment but when he looked back, there was a silhouette in the formerly empty corner.  He jumped, inhaling sharply, before he registered the bat cowl.

“Do you have to sneak up on people?” Clark asked, half irritation, half relief as he willed his heart to slow down.  He was Kryptonian, but the Bat of Gotham was another beast entirely.  Clark was giving serious thought to Hal’s claim that the Bat was a spook.

Surely a man like this couldn’t be human.

Batman’s expression shifted imperceptibly under the cowl and Clark could practically hear the terse ‘well maybe if you were aware of your surroundings’.  Batman didn’t voice it aloud, he never voiced it aloud, but the weight of his disdain was apparent.

Clark blew out a sharp breath, “So, what are you here for?”  He tried to remember if there was any activity near Gotham lately—nothing would step on Batman’s toes quite as much as breaking his one rule—

“Kon-El.”

Clark tensed all the way up.  He couldn’t help it, it had been over two years since he’d found Kon, but he was still overprotective of the kid.  With a megalomaniac for a father and the end of a species for his legacy, Kon had a weighty burden to shoulder, and Clark would absolutely protect him from it as much as possible.

“What about Kon?” Clark asked levelly.

“He propositioned Tim.”  The words nearly came out in a hiss and Clark blinked.  Kon had told him of his plan to ask Tim out, Clark’s discreet inquiries seemed to conclude that the boy fancied Kon back, Clark couldn’t see what the problem was.  Tim was seventeen, six months senior to Kon, and he had dated previously.

Which meant that either this was a gay thing or a meta thing.

“So?” Clark leaned back, narrowing his eyes as he kept his voice deliberately casual.  “What about it?  I think they’d make a cute couple.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Batman hissed, vehement.  Clark narrowed his eyes further.  “It will not happen.  I forbid it.  You will tell Kon-El to stay away from my son.”

“They work on the same team,” Clark pointed out, starting to get angry.

“Tim will be leaving the Titans.”

“Because Kon asked him out?” Clark asked, incredulous.  The sheer overreaction was ridiculous.

“Yes.”

“Does Tim want to leave?” Clark asked.  He didn’t know the details of how Kon was planning to ask Tim out, but it was possible that he’d accidentally offended him.  “Maybe I should talk to him—”

“No!”

Clark stared.  Batman didn’t shout.  Batman never shouted.  Batman certainly didn’t ball his hands into fists like he was contemplating punching Clark.  Whatever this was about, it was causing the man to lose his infamous composure.

“You will not talk to Tim.  Your son,” Batman twisted the word and Clark came perilously close to seeing red—“will not talk to Tim.  This will never happen again.  Is that understood?”

Clark took five deep breaths to be able to speak without shouting.  “No,” he said as calmly as he could.  “I don’t understand.  I don’t know why you’re so upset about this.  If there’s a problem, and if the kids can’t solve it on their own, then it becomes my business—”

“There is no problem,” Batman ground out through gritted teeth.

“That’s not what it sounds like to me,” Clark said sharply.  “I don’t know if this is homophobia or xenophobia, but our kids are doing a better job of getting along than we are, and that’s something to be encouraged.”

Batman was silent for so long that Clark actually got out of his chair to make sure the guy was still there.  “Getting along,” the vigilante said finally, words slow and faintly bitter.

“What?”

“This is about getting along,” Batman said.  Clark didn’t know whether it was a question.

“I guess?” he answered.  Kon wouldn’t have asked Tim out unless they’d gotten to know each other, breaking the long-held isolation of the Bats.

Batman’s jaw tightened.  “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”  Clark was very confused.

“Okay,” Batman repeated.  “We can…get along.”  Clark stared blankly at him.  “Now tell your son to stop.”

Clark immediately protested, but was sidetracked as Batman pulled off his cowl.  Batman never unmasked even though they all knew who he was, and Clark’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Bruce Wayne’s glittering gray eyes glaring at him.

“Wait,” Clark said, shaking his head, “I’m not telling Kon to stop.  Why are you—”

“Then what do you want,” Bruce snapped.

“For what?”  Clark was keenly aware that he’d lost the thread of this conversation somewhere and he didn’t know where.

“To call your son off!” Bruce said, face narrowed into a glower, but Clark caught the edge of a crack in his tone.  “Do you want me to get on my knees?  Suck you off?  Fuck you?  You—”

“What,” Clark’s voice was the one that cracked this time, embarrassingly high as he swiftly backed away.  “What the fuck.  What are you talking about?!”

“You said,” Bruce said, and Clark abruptly realized that the terseness to his tone was because he pausing to swallow more often.  “You wanted us to get along.”

“Not like that.”

“Kon-El propositioned my son.”

“Kon asked Tim on a date,” Clark said, voice still too high with dawning horror, “because he likes Tim.  Because that’s what kids do when they like one of their friends!”

“Typically,” Bruce said quietly, and Clark could see the fractures in his eyes, “they don’t also have the power to immobilize said friend.”

Clark stared at him, frozen in shock and horror.  He’d been wrong, then, it wasn’t the idea of his son dating a meta that Bruce didn’t like, except it kind of was, it was the idea of his son dating someone with the ability to overpower him.

“Why would you think,” Clark whispered, “that Kon would ever do that?”  Kon was a good kid, a hero, he loved helping people, if Bruce dared to breathe one word about Lex, Clark would eviscerate him—

But no.  Bruce didn’t say Lex’s name.  He didn’t say anything at all, just stared at Clark with a blank expression.  He looked…tense.  Anxious.  There were dark circles under his eyes and the lines on his face skewed to exhaustion.  He hadn’t relaxed his fists.

Clark walked back over to him, slow and even, posture unthreatening.  When Clark was two steps away, Bruce shifted ever-so-slightly, a flinch, a brace for a punch there could be no bracing against.

Clark stopped.  He turned and sat back down in his chair.

“Batman,” he said slowly, heart heavy and aching, “I’m not going to hurt you or your son.  Neither is Kon.  This wasn’t a—a threat, or whatever you thought it was.”  Because Bruce had clearly thought it was a threat, if he came here to bargain Clark into taking him instead.  “Tim does not have to agree to Kon’s date.  If he says no, Kon will leave him alone.  If he wishes to leave the Titans, he can.”

I am not the monster you so clearly think I am, he wanted to scream.

“If that’s all you came here for,” he said, turning back to the reports, “You can leave.”  Clark didn’t know if he could stop himself from venting his feelings if Batman stayed.

#my snippets #bruclark #timkon #bruce is terrified of clark #and unfortunately very good at hiding it #protective bruce

[witch-hazels-musings]

I never liked dreaming

warning -> none, sfw, fluff <3 | happy birthday little, yaksha

xiao x gn reader | Anthology

I never liked dreaming

Xiao opened his eyes and the light shined in. through the breaks in the leaves and swaying branches, through the passing clouds, and in between the birds that soared without him. he watched as they went with their flock, haloed in gold.

he turned his head to the cliff edge, one leg dangling absently as his hand unfurled to catch a falling petal from a perilously clinging tree. its roots deep and mingled with the falling stone. the color reminded him of the gentle images that had slowly taken over the dark of his mind. the hue that, bit by bit, tore down his torment and replaced it with a warmth he'd left behind eons ago.

you called his name, and he fell to meet you.

Xiao reappeared on the other side of the fog and found you standing there, arms held out and holding a small box. It was tradition. Every year on the same day, the same day Morax first beckoned him into breath, you were there to offer him some mortal trinket. He stopped trying to convince you to let the day go by like any other before it, and all the ones after. You never backed down. Though he never cared much for the item you gave him, he had grown desperately attached to how you looked at him when he opened it.

your smile.

your laugh.

your eyes.

He had seen mortals fall so many times he lost count, each blurred into the next like ripples in a stream. But you floated, drifted, and flourished in his gaze. A testament to what was possible, what humanity could give.

a being haunted by a tainted soul shouldn't be allowed so close.

"What do you want to do next?" you asked him as if the world was in the palm of your hands and, if it were within his power, he'd put it there.

Xiao mulled over the question, pondered on an answer. It didn't matter as long as - he dropped his head and tried to speak clearly. "May I lay on your lap?"

He peered at you with sharp eyes and felt his chest ignite at your expression. Perhaps it was too much of a request - he shouldn't be touching you anyway, it wasn't safe.

You didn't reply with your voice, instead, you sat on the ground, legs bent, and held your hand to him. He breathed and moved to rest against you.

Your warmth seeped into his skin. The back of his neck burned at the contact. Swallowing, he adjusted until the grass below him lay flat until his fingers relaxed against his chest and - only slightly - dug into his clothes.

"Comfortable?" you asked as your fingers brushed his bangs. Gentle, slow strokes that lulled his eyes heavy. He nodded and you continued to trail featherlight fingers across his brow, through his hair. He turned into the familiar. into the safety of you.

His eyes closed and the colors bloomed so brightly the darkness receded until the shape of you remained.

I never liked dreaming.

"Happy birthday, Xiao."

until now,

until it was you

I kept seeing

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x gn reader #xiao x gn reader #xiao x reader #xiao fluff

[pjoxreader]

PJO characters realizing they have a crush

Leo Valdez: 

-This man falls fast and hard… -You smile at him? Head over heels. 

- God forbid you compliment him, because he’ll work 10 times harder to try and impress you.

-He’s hard at work in bunker 9, finding himself drifting off in thought. Mostly of you. Alright, almost all about you.

-Your laugh… Your smile… How you scold him for working too hard…

-He goes bright red covering his face, Oh he was down bad…

Frank Zhang:

-He’s so shy about it… He really doesn’t know what to do…

-He recognizes right away that he’s more protective over you…

-He may know about it sooner than the others, but it takes him a while to come to terms with his feelings.

-He’s getting frustrated that he can’t transform like he wants… He has to be able to protect his friends, to protect you…

-But you’re constantly on his mind and that makes it hard to focus…

-He sighs heavily as he comes to the realization he’s going to have to confess to you sooner than later. 

Percy Jackson:

-This man doesn’t understand at all. 

-You’re a good friend! Of course he’d want to protect you! 

-He’s a flirt and doesn’t even realize just how many demi-gods have eyes for him.

-He cares deeply for you and only during a time of peril does he realize just how much he cares for you…  He couldn’t imagine a life without you…

-He falls hard after he realizes. Honestly, you were concerned he didn’t like you anymore as he didn’t seem to flirt as much as he used too…

-He’s just too embarrassed now that he knows he really does like you…

Annabeth Chase:

-She knows right away. She’s the first to realize her feelings for you.

- Does it make it any easier? Of course not! She wants everything to go perfectly!

-What if you didn’t like her back? What if you didn’t want to be friends anymore? 

-She struggles with her own doubts, but the doubt of you not liking her back? That scares her. 

-She decides to sit down and work on a plan. It was something she was good at and something she could focus on…

-She’s blushing the entire time as she writes down at least ten different ways to ask you out. Yet none of them seem to be good enough…

-She’s going to be at it for a while.

Hazel  Levesque:

-The two of you were just enjoying a nice picnic when her mind started to wander.

-This felt like a date… Her cheeks would go bright pink. Was this a date!?

-She was a blushing mess the rest of the trip and only sighs in relief once she’s back to her room.

-She slides down the door covering her face, feeling just how hot her face was.

- Was that a date? Did you like her? Did she like you!?

- She’d be up all night debating these questions. 

Jason Grace:

-Honestly so clueless it’s painful.

-He’d think you guys are just great friends and buddies! No matter how much you flirt with him.

-Kiss on the cheek? Just some friendly affection! Clinging to him and hiding into his chest while he flies? Well you must be scared of heights! He felt bad for that one though.

-He wouldn’t realize it until you stand him still and confess to him.

-He’d take a few seconds to process it, he has a lot on his mind after all but he can’t help the smile and blush that crosses his cheeks as he thinks back and realizes all the flirting. -He’s so embarrassed he didn’t realize sooner, but thankfully you find it cute.

Piper Mclean:

- You’re both on the Argo ll watching the clouds go by. Just enjoying a peaceful moment.

-She glances over at you and sees your calm expression soaking it in. But she feels her cheeks heat up.

-??? Why was she blushing!? She quickly excuses herself and rushes off to her room, quickly closing the door.

-Her heart was pounding, cheeks were heating up… She takes a look in the mirror to make sure.

-Oh no… She really was falling for you. 

-She sighs heavily and plops down into her bed thinking about all the moments you shared together… Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to fall for you…

~Masterlist & Rules~

Like my writing? Please consider sending me a Ko-fi! ☕

#pjo x reader #leo valdez x reader #frank zhang x reader #percy jackson x reader #annabeth chase x reader #hazel levesque x reader #jason grace x reader #piper mclean x reader #fluff #x reader

[deepouterspacecandy]

Desolate Devotion

I challenged myself to bang something out in under an hour and landed on this short piece. Abby rescues reader from being held captive. Thank you so much for reading my work and for the kindness so far. Violence and sexual themes. 18+ only.

There’s nothing Abby wouldn’t do for you.

So, when you’re captured during a raid gone wrong, and Isaac turns a blind eye to the survivors, she wastes no time loading her belongings into a Humvee and embarking on a rescue mission.

Under the scorching midday sun, your shirt becomes soaked with sweat, clinging to your skin. Your wrists throb with pain from being tightly bound, and the intense dehydration makes you question if the flickering shadows are just figments of your imagination.

You notice them again, out of the corner of your eye, dancing on the wall beside you.

The weightless touch of the light on your boot, gradually climbing up your thigh, compels you to find where it’s coming from.

Abby.

She’s casting reflections using a small mirror she keeps in her pocket.

Locking eyes with you, she raises a finger to her lips, silently urging you to keep quiet. The sour taste in your mouth intensifies as you mentally assess the countless adversaries you’ve come face-to-face with. The place is crawling with enemies, both alive and infected.

You can’t help but feel a knot tighten in your throat at the perilous situation she’s in.

In no time at all, she makes her way through the gardens of the captors’ base, and she’s by your side. Once she lays her gentle hands on your aching arms, her breathing becomes erratic, the adrenaline rush catching up to her.

She skillfully cuts through the ropes that bind you and cradles your face in her shaky palms.

“I’m here,” she whispers, shifting to press a tender kiss to your bruised knuckles.

“We’ll never make it out,” you whimper, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the past three days. “I’m too weak, Abby. Just go.”

“Pay attention,” she says, fixing her intense gaze on you. “Because I’m only telling you this once.”

Taking a brief pause, she scans the surroundings just beyond the building where they’ve kept you captive. She rests her sweaty forehead on yours and continues.

“I won't abandon you, ever,” she breathes, her voice quivering. “Do you hear me?”

You feel your head nodding, but you can’t figure out where the energy is coming from to make it happen.

“Is there anyone else?” she asks.

 “They fought like hell, but they—nobody made it out.”

Her eyes squeeze shut, and she pulls you close. Among all the fallen comrades who’ve perished over the years, the fear of losing each other has always been the most profound.

“It can never be you,” she rasps, her hands entangled in your hair. “Promise me.”

“Abby.”

The sound of gunfire reverberates through the air, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. She hands you a weapon and inspects her own.

“Promise me,” she orders, her eyes wide and deadly serious.

“I promise.”

She hauls you up and guides you through the tall grass towards an opening in the chain-link fence. You hobble against her side until you reach an empty train car.

As she hands over her canteen, you manage to wheeze out, “How did you even get here?” But she only shakes her head and keeps you moving stealthily toward the beach.

Your mind is a whirlwind.

“Abby, I can’t swim—not like this.”

She gestures ahead, a boat catching your gaze as it rocks steadily by the shore. As she scoops you up, the cool sensation of the water lingers on your fingertips before she carefully settles you into the skiff.

The engine roars to life, the refreshing mist soothing your sunburned skin as the boat slices through the waves.

“Where are we going?”

“Home,” Abby says, reaching for your hand and placing it against her racing heart.

“But Isaac—”

“Fuck Isaac, that’s not home anymore,” she bites, her face twisted up with disgust. “I’m done with that asshole.”

She delegates steering the boat to you so that she can properly tend to your injuries, and it’s only the beam of her flashlight keeping the vast darkness from swallowing the both of you whole. You fervently pray to the ocean deities, with the saltwater relentlessly pounding against the vessel, hoping that the engine will endure until you reach land.

“I thought I wouldn't get to see you again,” you shout, your words carrying over the howling wind. “It was worse than dying.”

Abby deftly snaps a strip of medical tape with her teeth, securing the bandage over your wounds. When she looks up at you, bright stars emerge from the mist, casting a luminous glow from above.

The fog crackles with electricity.

With a firm grip on your legs, she lifts herself until you are eye level.

“Nothing will ever keep me away from you.”

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby anderson #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian