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[eduzek]

[itonlinetraining]

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[shailendrachauhan12]

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[saintzweig]

you stood timidly under the disappointed gaze of your tennis coach, patrick zweig. he clicked his tongue, his hands on his hips as he exhaled through his nose in frustration. you lost another match, which meant that you're now out of the tournament. a vital one, you needed to get your rankings up for this season so you trained and trained and trained and yet, everything he taught you didn't seem like it stuck in your head.

now you're stood on the court, him on the opposite side. you knew he wasn't gonna let this go so easily, but the punishment he gave you now is different, not like the ones he gave before. your legs shook, struggling to keep the ball in play as waves of pleasure shocked through your body. he made you wear a remote controlled vibrator under your skirt while you practice. turning it on to the highest level before leaving it on the bench.

your usual grunts as you hit the ball were now replaced with whimpers, you tried your best to not drop the racket or fall to your knees. eyes tearing up in both pleasure and humiliation. you hated this, hated how smug he looked as he stood on the other side of the net. this shouldn't feel good– it's disgusting, unethical and icky. but that didn't stop your core from throbbing or the flutters in your stomach as you let him watch you in this state. or the slick dripping down your leg and mixing with your sweat.

[luvrxbunny]

mini blurbs 2 ─ ★ joel miller x f! reader

a/n: ngl. some of these are blurb sized blurbs but i was just too lazy to give them their own post 😇

wc: 992

warnings: 18+ MDNI, cum in pants, voyerism(?), dry humping, piv, blowjob

-> dbf!joel who gets invited to the family bbq/pool party only to lose his shit the second he sees you. he ends up (uncharacteristically) being the first person in the pool because there’s no other way to hide how hard he is.

you eventually feel bad, watching him float around the empty pool, and decide to join him.

so he has to touch himself while you’re talking to him. you’re so beautiful in the sunlight, your skin basically glowing. you’re just slightly sweating, letting joel’s imagination conjure up insane scenarios.

to top it all off, you start touching him. you notice his silence along with his sweaty and red face. you assume it’s the heat, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead then his cheek, and commenting on how hot he feels.

his hips repeatedly jerk towards you as he cums into the netting of his shorts. trying to keep his voice steady as he lets you know that he is perfectly fine.

-> dbf!joel who is disgustingly depraved. like he lurks around your room at night, sometimes just standing out in the hall to hear you moving around in there. you catch him spraying your perfume on his shirts on multiple occasions.

you don't technically know what he does with the shirts but you know that when your dad has him in the guest room, he thinks the walls are a lot thicker than they are.

-> finally convincing joel to send you a full body video of him cumming and he shocks you to your core when it’s just a video of him sitting back, full body in frame, his thick hairy thighs and huge arms grabbing your attention instantly. he’s looking directly at the camera as his cock bobs between his thighs, twitching and leaking everywhere for the camera before tensing up and spurting across his chest. joel’s head flies backwards as a deep groan rattles from his chest as he paints it white. he comes down with slow chants of “oh baby-” and "fuck, sweetheart." before going silent, just huffing into the air.

when he looks back down at the camera you can see a blush over his cheeks as he reaches for it. you can tell he's looking at himself not the camera when he gives you a “hope that was alright.” and a soft, timid smile before it ends

you respond with “come over right now.”

-> trying to give joel a blowjob for the first time. he's basically bouncing in his seat as you get on your knees. you take your time unzipping his pants, smiling at the way he moans at everything you do. his breathing picks up once you reach for the band of his breifs, his hands coming to the side of his chair, gripping so hard that his knuckles almost turn white. you take a moment to take in his state, all disheveled despite the fact that you've done nothing but undress him.

he rewards you with a desperate, breathy "i'll do anything".

his hips are fucking into the air as he keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling. you concede, wrapping your hand around his dick and shocking a moan out of him. you finally lean forward to place your lips on his tip, licking at his slit softly, relishing in his salty taste. he sucks in a sharp breath and never exhales.

you pull off of him to giggle at his reaction, maybe lick up his shaft. but the second you come off, his hips pump into the air, humping his dick against your cheek before cumming all over your face.

he groans like he got kicked in the chest, completely out of breath and so gravelly you know his voice will be scratchy afterward.

“mmm fuck. m’sorry. m’ so so sorry, love. s- so good.”

-> joel who wraps his arms around you so tightly that they shake when he cums. no matter what position. he’ll either rearrange the both of you so he can wrap you up or he’ll figure out a way in the position you’re in.

if he’s fucking you in doggy then he’ll lean down and wrap one arm around you. to make up for the missing arm, he’ll rant about how much he loves you in your ear.

his favorite position to have you in is spooning. first, because it's convenient. second, because he can wrap both his arms around you and pull you against his body as tightly as he wants.

sometimes he'll lock you in place and flip onto his back, planting his heels into the bed before beginning his relentless pace into your crying cunt.

-> in a van for a supply run with joel, tommy, maria and some other unknown characters. maria and tommy are upfront with the goons taking up the middle seats. you had to beg joel for this but you guys are in a cuddling position. joel sitting with his back to window, one leg straight and the other planted on the floor. you're sitting between his legs, leaning back against him but sitting straight enough to just turn your head if you want to kiss him.

but the road is more worn down than either of you expected. you try to act like you haven't only been focused on the hot bulge digging into your back every time the van bumps over a rock but once you feel the hot mass begin to harden and expand, you realize you're not the only one struggling with those thoughts.

with some more begging, a lot of neck kisses, gentle caressing, and soft, desperate words to joel. you're now in the same position but bent at the waist, giving him perfect access to your perky ass.

he's having way more fun than he'd care to admit but you can feel it. he was cautious at first, stopping anytime someone said something he thought might draw attention to the back, or even when the van got too silent. but know he's going at you. he's bringing your hips back directly on his cock like he's fucking you.

and he has no problem draping himself over your back to lean in your ear so you can hear him cumming in his pants for you

[nocturnesmoon]

Safety Nets

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish x GN!Reader Wordcount: 6k Tags: Polyamory, established relationship, Hurt/comfort, a LOT of comfort, the guys take care of you, that's the fic CW/TW: Military inaccuracies? canon typical violence, insecurities, heavy self doubt and self blame, minor character death, A/N: This is probably inaccurate mission and military wise but idc i wanted to write something like this for so long- though i am open to constructive criticism if you got some notes. (Read on Ao3)

-You come back from a mission that shook you to your core, the boys help you back on your feet as they always do-

The wind raged like a storm in your ears, despite the heavy earmuffs which sat too tight on your head, you could hear it clearly. When you closed your eyes, you could imagine it being a hurricane, a wind so strong it would scoop you up and carry you to who knows where. One that would tear you apart and leave no remnants of who you were.

The thought seemed nice, to be taken away and to never return. To be freed from not having to face your own failures in the disappointed stares, that awaited down on the rapidly approaching platform. Your body rocked with every little swerve of the helicopter, no longer having the strength to go against the motion.

"Lieutenant?" Your head snapped up to the soldier in front of you. You ignored the crack in your neck and the ache that pooled into your muscles. He'd been calling on you a few times now, his concerned eyes searching your face for an answer. "We're about to land sir," the soldier let you know, you couldn't muster up a verbal response, only a nod to acknowledge you'd heard.

Ever since they had picked you up on the site, they had that look of pity. It made you squirm, feeling all too self-aware of the way your clothes were caked in mud and blood. Your bones hurt, and your joints felt like snapping in half. You had spent the majority of the mission running, believing that you wouldn't make it out. You had fled, and you had left them behind.

The size of the heli was too big for just you, the soldier, and the pilot in the front. The space felt like caging you in, reminding you of your failure, of who you had lost. Your eyes threatened to shut, the exhaustion whispering in your ear that it would all feel a little better if you let yourself drift away into sleep.

Except every time your eyes slipped closed it wasn't darkness you saw, it was their screams, their blood, and their gore. The cracks you heard when one of the bullets pierced someone's skull echoed in your ears, as if you were still down there on the battlefield.

You were pulled back into your own head, your mind running laps to go through the mission once more. Every single second accounted for so you could dissect your failure. How each one of them had fallen, one by one they dropped like they were nothing. How you had ran with what was left of your team, until one got caught in a bear trap and pulled under falling debris, and the other was shot in the stomach.

You had hoped your head would fill with fog, that it would help you forget and suppress the last few moments of that soldier’s life. His name had been Jacob, his callsign Wisp, he had been difficult to deal with but his progress under your guidance had been noticeable. You hated how it was only now you could remember every little thing about him. Before you didn't care, you did your job in training him, guiding him, but you never made an effort to know him. You wished your brain would stop remembering every little thing now, making you feel all the more guilty.

You wished your brain would do that thing it's supposed to do, block out the traumatic memories so you didn't have to deal with them. Yet they were there still so fresh in your mind, like an open wound, his last words repeated over and over in your mind. You'd think someone's last words would be scared, or sentimental or a sweet last wish. Not his, no he decided his last wish was to let you know just how much you had failed them all.

Over and over again you replayed that memory, how his blood had mixed with the dirt and gravel under you both. You remember how his hand had clutched onto your arm, digging his nails through your sleeve and into your skin. He had pulled you down with him in his final moments, uttered those words into your ear with so much disdain the tone would have rocked your core on its own.

"This is your fault, you led us here."

There was more to his words, you were sure there was but maybe your brain was doing part of its job now. You could only cling to every part of the memory you could before it slipped away into the fog. It was only when someone gently nudged you that you snapped out of your own mind once more. "Sir?" your body went rigid at the touch and the voice, and you fought the distinct urge to disarm the person that was in front of you.

It was the same soldier that had been with you ever since they found you. He had been careful around you ever since he saw the casualties, walking on eggshells around you as if you were a loose cannon, maybe you were. "Sir?" he repeated, being a little more patient now that he had your attention, "We're here."

You felt your stomach drop, nodding slowly and glancing towards the opening doors, the platform outside. You could already glimpse at the two people that were waiting for you, they had probably been on edge for days. It only made you more guilty how you must have worried them, ever since your call for immediate evac. You weren't even sure you could reassure them once you got down there, you weren't sure you wouldn't just collapse to your knees the moment you were within their vicinity.

"Do you need help Lieutenant?" the soldier in front of you hadn't moved, it surprised you slightly, having been sure he would be just as eager to get off and way from your stench of death. For a moment you want to say yes, tell them to get someone to carry you, because your knees would give out the moment you went to stand, but how would that look for you. A new promising Lieutenant, the first op you led after you got your new rank and it turned out like this.

You didn't dare look up at the soldier, too afraid that your own eyes would give you away. You considered for a moment, to tell the soldier to go get the only two people who would know what to do. The only two people you would trust enough to become vulnerable with. "No..." your voice barely comes through, but he seems to register it, his legs moving quickly to get down on the platform. It was time to face them.

It had been a long few days ever since you said goodbye to the two of them. 72 hours since you had left on the plane with the promise of being back sometime the next day. 24 since Johnny had started complaining about your absence. 6 since Simon had been alerted of the fact you had called for immediate evac, that the supposedly simple mission had gone wrong in every way possible.

He hadn't relayed all the grueling details to Johnny, just that the op had gone wrong and that you might come back a little rattled. Simon wasn't entirely sure what had gone wrong either, he just knew there was casualties, and the team wasn't coming back in one piece. The scot next to him was restless, practically jumping in place from anxiety, watching intently as the heli descended and the doors opened.

Simon kept one step in front of him, knowing the man all too well, and even though his eagerness is shared within Simon's own veins, he knows that you might not be in a state that could positively receive that. He knew the both of you inside and out, the years he had spent with both you and  Johnny allowed him to know you in ways he didn't think possible.

He was quick to find out exactly what made you both tick, what set you off, what made you happy and what would comfort you. He didn't like the uncertainty; it was a rocky start when he was still mapping out your emotions. By now you all knew each other well, like three puzzle pieces that fit together, you had found each other and filled out the holes in each other’s lives. Certainty was assured when he was with either of you because you both knew he needed it.

This was new, this was an uncertainty he didn't like. He had no idea what you would be like when you came down to the platform, down into their arms once again. Not to mention the fact you and nobody else had come out yet only churned that unsettling anxiety in his stomach further.

"L.T?" the sound of Johnny's accent filled his ears, his shoulders managing to relax just a little. He wasn't alone in this, he reminded himself, Johnny would be here to figure out how to help you as well. Johnny's pinky curled around Simon's, his urge to pull them both away from the public area would have overpowered if it wasn't for the fact, they were waiting for you.

The pilot had gotten out almost as soon as they landed, but you were still nowhere. He could just peak inside, trying to look for you or anyone else he would recognize. He only caught a glimpse of your form, hidden behind another soldier who was speaking to you. "What's taking 'em so long," Simon mumbled quietly, his mask obscuring his already quiet speech.

Johnny let out a heavy sigh, the hold his pinky finger had was surprisingly strong. They shared the anxiousness, the uncomfortable knowledge that you weren't okay. "Ah dinnae ken" he answered, trying to angle himself so he could get a better look at you. Unfortunately, there wasn't a lot he could see at the distance.

They waited, as patiently as they could, the inconspicuous grip they had on each other also served to hold themselves back. Their resolve was wearing thin, and they both knew it, that soldier was talking to you about something, something they didn't know about, and they didn't like it. Simon almost completely lost it when he saw the soldier emerge without you, but his attention was quickly turned when you appeared not long after.

Your walk was slow, in no hurry to get back to them, it should've been the first sign. You looked around as if you were confused, as if you hadn't walked down this path a hundred times before. Johnny wasted no time bolting forward, closing in on you with the clear goal that you were his target. It startled you and Simon almost wanted to berate Johnny in that moment for being so quick with his movements.

Though what Simon saw almost made him want to have a little more time to prepare. The look in your eye rattled something foreign in his bones. It was something familiar, something he had seen in himself once upon a time. Something terrifying he'd never have wished upon you, how it felt when his bare soul had been chipped away at. He looked behind you, expecting some other members of your team to perhaps clue them in on the horror that had occurred.

The hit felt even harder when he realized, you were the only one.

By the time they had gotten you inside and settled in the tub you were a little more present. Your awareness a little higher from when they were on the platform. You had barely spoken a word to them, so vary of threats on every corner that you didn't even let your guard down for them as you usually did.

Only when they had managed to drag you inside, convinced you that your report could wait for later, and gotten you safely inside the space of your own quarters, did you settle. Johnny had carefully helped you out of your clothes, taking the task of cleaning you up and settling you into the safe atmosphere that was them.

He had whispered soft praise in your ears as he removed layer after layer, meanwhile suppressing the want to berate you for each little wound he found on your body. He knew you didn't need the extra scolding, the pure shock from the mission would be enough for you. However, he still felt that sting of hurt in his heart, knowing that neither he nor Simon was there to look after you, to take care of you.

He was well aware that you were capable on your own, you wouldn't have made it this far if you weren't good at what you did. If your rank wasn't enough to go from, then your other various accomplishments on your resume was. But when he saw you like this, with the silent knowledge that you could've been wiped out along with the rest, it put a dark cloud over his mind.

He helped you slowly lower yourself into the bath Simon had previously prepared. You winced in pain when the warm water touched your wounds. None of them were severe enough to cause major worry, but that didn't mean they didn't hurt just as much. Your movements were sloggy, relying on Johnny to not lose yourself completely.

"There ye are," Johnny mumbled quietly, forcing a soft smile on his lips in hopes you soothing you. You let out a shuddering sigh, doing your best to relax into the warm water. You pulled your legs close to your chest, resting your tin atop your bruised knees. "Oh leannan," he gently presses his lips to your temple, cradling your head in an attempt for comfort.

It feels like you're not fully present, watching the world from a third person view that doesn’t exist. You have half of your comfort with you, his hands grabbing the washcloth and slowly moving it over your skin. You look around the small bathroom, trying to locate the other half of your comfort, the missing equation.

"Si..." You're taken aback on your own voice, the croak and soreness of it all leaving you wondering whether you had yelled or screamed more than you thought. You tried to think back on it, settling your mind into the mission again but it made a headache form.

Johnny's motion came to a slow stop, his eyes catching your pleading ones. He knew what you wanted, but he wasn't the one that could give it to you. "He's comin' soon," he does his best at keeping your calm, "S'ok jus' relax." His free hand finds your cheek, making you focus your vision on him.

You lean into it, your body trembling slightly beneath his touch. It was warm and safe, two things you hadn't felt ever since you left. He moved the washcloth over your face, rubbing at the dirt that had infested itself on your skin. His eyes never left your face, his attention and devotion completely yours. His eyes fell on your trembling lips, before quickly flickering upwards to see the tears prickling at the corner of your eyes.

"S'ok love, yer okay" He lets the washcloth rest on the edge of the tub so he could take your face in both hands. His forehead leans against yours, bringing you close and gently coaxing you into more contact. "Just breathe with me aye, he'll be back in no time" your eyes fluttered closed, listening to his instructions, glad that you were able to let go of the part of your brain that needed to make decisions.

Fortunately, he was right, as he often is.

Heavy footsteps could be heard and then the creak of the door, it made you snap your eyes open, their searching beginning once more. They landed on the tall brute, Simon's eyes fixated on you since the moment he made his way into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and made his way towards the tub, planting himself on the toilet seat right next to it.

He was still wearing his mask, tired eyes searching your body and gliding over the wounds in your traumatized state. He lets out a deep sigh, reaching his hand up to his mask and slowly sliding it off. You had seen his face so many times, by now it shouldn't affect you anymore, yet still you can't help that feeling you get when you see him shed the mask in front of you and Johnny. The trust he has in the two of you makes your heart flutter.

The look he's giving you almost makes you feel ashamed, even though you know that he's just concerned. He's always been, that's why he's so harsh on you, on Johnny, even on occasion Garrick. You're pretty sure the only reason he isn't like that on Price as well is because of his higher rank and better experience. He's trained you hard so you could overcome anything, but no amount of training could prepare you for this kind of thing.

Johnny leans back, allowing Simon more space to move closer. You move before he does, leaning your body slightly to the side. The sound of splashing water went deaf on your ears, even as Johnny yelped from some of the water going overboard. Your chin ended up nestled atop Simon's thigh, his eyes never leaving you as you moved. His hand coming down to rest on the back of your head.

"How we doin' pet?" his voice of gravel is like a blanket for your soul, the years of smoking giving him a voice that makes you shiver. In truth you don't feel like speaking, you don't feel like answering at all. You know you have to; you can't hide forever but you still hope they won't inquire about the mission just yet.

You let out a huff, almost hoping that the answer would suffice for Simon, but he keeps looking at you with those expectant eyes. "I don't know," you whisper quietly, letting your eyes fall, your body going slack against the side of the tub.

Simon nods in response, a hum of understanding going out to you. "S'fine, you don't have to know right now," he tells you, giving you the peace of mind to just have a non-conditional existence between them.

Johnny picks up the washcloth again, guiding your arms in his direction so he could continue his work of getting you clean. They're both quick and efficient with cleaning you up, Simon's rough voice filling the room as he updates you on things that's happened since you were gone. It's not much, mostly trivial things you don't care about and will likely forget, but it keeps your calm, giving you something else to focus on.

"Ye should've seen Cap he was livid," Johnny's laughs and you muster a smile, hearing about his latest misadventures, and the dumb thing's he'd rode Gaz into. His hands run over your scalp, working in the shampoo and grimacing when he takes out a small clump of dirt. "Aye darling, how the hell did ye get so caked in mud anyway," he sighs, parting your strands to get to the nape of your neck.

You bend your head down to allow him to work through your hair without straining his arms. "I..." you do your best to think back, but the number of times you fell down and scraped against things were a blur. "I think i tripped a lot...it was a muddy area," You held back a pleasured groan, as Johnny worked his fingers over your scalp, small goosebumps going down your back and arms.

"I don't really remember," you admit and let out an exasperated sigh. Johnny finishes up your hair, going for a little longer than necessary in hopes of keeping your enjoyment going awhile longer. When he pulls back to reach for the shower head, he boops your nose, leaving some soap on your face. His mischievous grin is infectious, and it manages to tug the corners of your lips upwards. The way his eyes light up when he sees your half smile makes your heart hurt, you've worried them so much, you're still worrying them.

As soon as they got you out of the water you were clinging to them like a leech. Refusing to let go of the precious contact you've already established with them. They move you around between them, molding you to them as they do the teamwork of getting you dry. Simon peppers soft kisses to your lips and cheeks while Johnny moves the towel over your back.

Even after they're done getting you as dry as they can, they keep you there. Sandwiched between them they hold you tight, and in tune each other. Johnny's head nestled in the crook of your neck and Simon's chin resting on top of your head. It's a stance that squeezes you tight, your own head getting light from the amount of love they try to squeeze into your bones.

It makes your heart burn, and your eyes sting with tears. Your breathing coming out in small gasps, as you end up choking back on a sob. Every single little thing coming crashing down on you now that you know you're safe in their arms. They've always got you, ready to catch you in case you fall. That hasn't changed, and being so subtly reminded by them brings it all out.

"Breathe," you aren't sure who says it, the disorienting feeling not alleviating even as they accommodate you. "Good Good," you recognize Simon's praising voice when you manage to take a few deep breaths. The tears never manage to fall but you don't doubt that they both know just by looking at your pathetic state.

"Love, we need to treat your wounds," he starts off quietly, not having any haste to move you, "Johnny'll go get you some food, and then we can get you settled into bed, okay?" He's making it sound more like a question, but you know it's just to make you aware of their next movements.

Even so you can't help but cling to Johnny's presence as he starts to unattach himself from the cuddle. You look up at him with pleading eyes, hoping he would stay if you just used puppy eyes enough. You almost think he'll budge as he moves closer to you again, his lips descending onto yours for a chaste kiss. Reluctantly he pulls away again, "Be back soon, ah promise ye."

Before you can protest and force him to stay, Simon scoops you up and places you on the bathroom counter. Distracting you from Johnny's quest of finding food that will be easily digested. He holds your face in his hand to keep your eyes on him, while the other one rummage through a cabinet.

You had gotten extremely lucky all things considered, the worst of your injuries the long scrapes on your back from sliding down a hill with sharp rocks. The rest included rough bruises, sore joints, and jumbled mind. Your other teammates had been much less fortunate, led right into their death by your own incompetence.

You're softly called back to reality, Simon gently rubbing his thumb over your cheek and calling your name. You don't know how long you were zoned out, but it was long enough to give him that worried glint in his eye. "Sorry..." you croak, swallowing thickly to hold it all back but this time it's not as easy.

The tears come slow and quiet, the shake in your body forcing them out of your waterline and down your cheekbones. He gently wipes them away, pulling you in closer to his body again and cradling you against his chest. "You survived," he reminds you, "You're still here."

You want to nod along with him and take in his words to keep close. But you don't know if you agree with him, you survived but should you have? Why did you survive and not Jacob, not any of the other soldiers who trusted you to see it through.

Simon placed a soft kiss to the top of your head and then leaned over you to get a look at your back. He gave no reaction to whatever he saw as to not make you panic, though from the bleeding warmth in your back told you it probably wasn't looking the best.

"Lean back for me pet," he instructs you, slowly plucking you from his chest. With a reluctant sigh you lean back and look down at yourself. Your eyes trailing over every little bruise that littered your body. Simon was silent as he took care of you, giving you gentle squeezes over small kisses after every little wince you made.

When he was done treating the visible wounds, you could hear Johnny rustling around outside the bathroom. The only thing left was your back, the one you dreaded the most out of all your wounds. Simon leaned back just as Johnny came back into the room, a set of your clothes hanging over his arm. He places it on the counter and picks through it, handing you a fresh set of underwear, sweats, and t-shirt.

"Wait with the shirt, need to check over your back," Simon reaches over for the underwear and sweats, helping you into it and lowering you back to the floor. You stretch out your limbs, groaning as you feel the exhaustion in your body, your joints popping when you stretch your arms above your head.

Johnny takes your hand in his own, smiling at you and leading you into the bedroom. "Ah found ye some soup, there wasn't a lot to choose from at this hour," he told you as you crawl onto the bed. You glance at the nightstand, the soup bowl steaming and looking good enough to make your mouth water. The little chocolate bar next to it makes you smile, just until Simon guides you to lay on your stomach.

The real pain is about to start, you think. His hands smoothe over your back, avoiding the ridges of your wounds and grabbing the salve. "It'll be quick, am sure" Johnny lowers himself onto the bed next to you, mimicking your way of laying. His head right next to yours, his loving eyes staring into your own and the giddy smile he wore made you huff out the air in your lungs.

"Hi"

"Hi"

His hand reaches out and caresses your cheek, gently running his fingers over your scalp. He does his best at distracting you from the pain in your back. "How ye feelin'?" he asks quietly, his thumb running over your cheek and fixating on your lip.

"Like shit," you scoff and turn your face into the mattress. You feel Simon's hand run over your back, the aching pain making you whine into the sheets. His hands hesitate, smoothing over unscarred skin as an apology before going back to his work.

The work on your wounds is tedious, and when he finally pulls away your eyelashes are wet. The clutch you have on the sheets beneath you is starting to hurt your knuckles. Simon's touch leaves you, but you don't take any action to turn or move. Someone else guides you to move, the difference in touch leading you to believe it's Johnny.

He moves you closer to him, slowly turning you up so you're sitting and leaning against him. He gently helps you into a t-shirt before moving you around like a ragdoll once more. You're settled between his legs, your back to his front and his big forearms wrapped around your waist. He buries his head in your neck, squeezing you and inhaling your scent as if it's the only thing he ever needs.

"C'mon, you need'ta eat," the bed dips as Simon gets back on it, this time having the bowl of soup in hand. He settles in front of you both, reaching forward and gently rubbing your calf. "And we need to talk," he knows you don't want to, that you'd rather bury it deep. Unfortunately for you, he also knows where that will lead you, and the sooner you put it into words for them the easier you'll be able to process it.

You take the bowl from him, agreeing to at least eat something. You couldn't remember when you last had gotten something nutritional, your stomach felt like a gaping hole that was trying to eat itself. You brought the spoon to your lips and savored the taste. Despite the limited options Johnny had still managed to get the things you liked.

"Don't wanna talk," you mumble between your bites, trying to ignore the look Simon is giving you by staring into your swirling soup. "There's nothin' to talk about," You swallow thickly, ever since you had been back you had been fighting the thoughts that urged to trap you. They were just waiting for you to trip in your careful state, they would pull you under the bridge, drown you into the water until you couldn't breathe through your panic.

Simon didn't let go of your leg, rubbing slow soothing circles into your calf. His full attention was on you, and there was nowhere to hide from the man in front of you and the man behind you. Johnny placed a soft kiss to your neck, and mumbled into your skin, "We know ye don' wanna, Leannan, but when ye came back ye were like a Ghost."

When you didn't answer they elected to let you eat in silence for a while longer, unaware to the emotional storm inside your body. You knew that you would have to make that report eventually, that they would hear about the details eventually. But actually, being met with the demand was something else entirely.

You didn't know if you could bear their reactions, the thought of them being disappointed in you made the anxiety roar. You didn't want them to realize that all the time they had spent being proud of you for your achievement had been wasted. That you were nothing of what you promised to be.

You only realized how shaky your hands had become again when you raised the spoon to take another bite. Simon let out a soft sigh, before taking the spoon and bowl from you so you didn't spill on yourself or Johnny. "Darling?" the question was laid bare for you, he gave you the opening to start talking, to confide in them like you always did.

Your hands fall to your lap, right along with your sight. You try to calm your own nerves, trying to rationalize the stirring thoughts in your head. After an elaborate breath, that is more like an exhausted sigh, you find your words. "It was supposed to be a simple op, and it was in the start, find the target and neutralize him," you start quietly, grasping your own hands together.

"But once we were there and set up, nothing went as planned," you lightly shake your head along to your words, "They knew we were coming and hunted us like dogs." You swallow thickly, noting how the shakiness had nestled into your voice. "I tried to reroute our objective; we tried getting out of there, but this was unlike anything I had ever been up against."

Johnny's hand came to encapsulate your own, stilling your shakiness and you freeze up. Feeling all to self-aware all of a sudden, how the attention was on you, as they listened like you were the most important thing in the world. It was both a warm and agonizing feeling, their protectiveness was nice, but it was also scary.

"We were so close to getting out but...they were faster and I...I couldn't..." you choked back on your own voice, feeling the hotness burn on the back of your eyes. "They were better..." you admitted in a whisper, "If I had taken a different route maybe we could have avoided the trap, maybe we could have gotten the drop on them before they got to my team but...."

The feeling of Simon's hand cupping your cheek made you halt, teary eyes meeting his in temporary shock. "It wasn't your fault love," the sincerity in his voice rocks something deep in you, "There was no way anyone could've known." You tilt your head to the side slightly, you wanted to argue, to tell him you could've done a thousand things better.

"Aye, ye acted just how ye were supposed to, ye kept a level head and guided the rest to the best of yer ability," Johnny briefly took over. His voice was hot on your ear, his quiet whispers just as reassuring as the hand on your cheek, "Ye did everything ye could, and ye survived because of it."

"But they didn't..." You sank further into Johnny, sniffling as you held his thumb inside the little cocoon, he made of both of your hands. "They died because of me," you try to argue, despite being grateful that they didn't seem mad you almost wanted them to lash out, to give you right, to let you feel like a monster.

"They didn't die because of you, they died in action, trying to complete the mission they were given," Simon's voice turned a tad harsh, the determination to get through to you all the more prominent. "They knew this was a possibility when they signed up, you did everything you could for them, and the way you make it up to them is to keep going," he told you sternly.

"I know what it's like, to have people fall under your command," he sighs, "S'never not tough, and it's all too easy to fall into the spiral of whose fault it was." You paid close attention to him as he spoke, he always had a captivating way of speaking, just like when he dished out orders, he commanded authority in his mere presence. "It's somethin’ that happens love, it's important to mourn and assess," he looks you directly in the eye, "But it's also important that you know, it makes you neither monster nor failure."

You never knew whether to love or hate the way he could read your brain like had he telepathy, or personal access to your every little fear and sorrow. "It doesn’t make it feel any better," you said quietly, tilting your head into his palm, nuzzling against his skin.

"I know" he puts the half-finished bowl on the nightstand, "Gonna hurt for a while, but we'll be here with you through it." He gave you a half smile, moving closer so he could place a kiss to your forehead. "We're not going anywhere, ain't that right Johnny?" he glances to the man behind you.

"Aye," Johnny's chest rumbles with a hum, his lips placing a trail of loving kisses over your neck. "Not gonna let those nasty thoughts get to ye," he whispers and slowly moves you as Simon directs. Johnny gets you on your side in the bed, your back pressed even further into his chest. Simon gets out of the bed but only for a brief moment. The lights turn off above you, and soon after the bed dips.

You sigh when you feel Simon's skin on your own, his lips find your cheek as he settles in with you and Johnny. His arm supporting both you and Johnny's heads, his other hand coming over you to hold onto the man behind you after moving your hair out of your face. Compressed between them like this always felt like heaven, the pressure they put on your body was grounding and reminded you that you weren't alone.

"Sleep now," Simon's voice rumbled, "We'll be here when you wake up, and we can try again."

They were always here for you, even when you didn't know you needed the extra support. They had worked with you for so long, you had changed a lot with them and for the better. You felt safe with them, no matter how many times you would fall, they would always be there to catch you and get you back on your feet.

Reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated<3

[lacontroller1991]

Feo, Fuerte y Formal (The Ghoul/Cooper Howard x F!Reader)

Main Master List || Misc Master List

Summary: Cooper sees you again for the first time in over 200 years

Warnings: 18+ Strong Language, Sexual Suggestions, Divorce, Canon Typical Violence

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Feo, Fuerte, y Formal. Words Cooper Howard spoke over 200 years ago back when he was at the height of his career. Back when he had a profitable career, a beautiful home, and a beautiful family. He had fame, wealth, and a future. Until it all came crashing down. When Vault-Tec had initially dropped him from their promotional team, he was relieved, glad to be done with the corporation that was planning the destruction of the world, but with Vault-Tec dropping him, Barb did too. Once Barb found out why her Pip-Boy was acting strangely, she had it double checked by the science division to confirm her suspicions before taking it to Cooper to confront him. His mistake was that he denied he had anything to do with it. If he had lied about this, what else has he been lying about? Yet, it was mutual. Both were caught destroying the very core of their marriage, trust.

The divorce was quick to follow. Despite having the best lawyer he could find, Barb had Vault-Tec, and Vault-Tec could buy out anyone, leaving him with a whopping sum of $30,000 - compared to his net worth of 2 million - and Roosevelt. 

Of course with the biggest name in the country dropping him from their team, his agent promptly dropped him, blacklisting him from Hollywood, ending his career. His one way of making money was no longer profitable. In a way, he was relieved. Hollywood wasn’t what it used to be. It used to be a beacon of hope, a place for everyone, the American Dream. What a load of bullshit. 

If there was anything to make it all tolerable, it’s the time he got to spend with Janey and you. You had come into his life when he wasn’t looking for it. Your bar had practically become his home, but when you got tired of seeing him drunk as all get out and passed out on the bar you quickly offered him a couch to sleep on at your place, and the rest was history. 

Until the bombs dropped, and everything changed. Again. Cooper doesn’t know exactly how he survived. He doesn’t know if it was sheer rage keeping his heart kicking, or if it was the drive to find you or Janey. He knew Janey was somewhere in a vault, safe with Barb, but had you been lucky enough to secure a spot in one, or were you part of the 90% that didn’t have the means to afford a spot.

200 years later and he still doesn’t know. 

Feo, fuerte, y formal. He has ⅔ of them on his belt. Ugly and Strong. Long ago are the days where he was dignified, not that he gives two shits. He did initially. His handsome features quickly hollowed out with his hair coming off in chunks, giving him a ghastly appearance. It took some time to get used to, but after 50 years, he learned not to care. Not like there were people lining up to be with him anyways. If anything, his ghoulish features gave him an edge in everything he does. No one really tries to mess with a 200 year old bounty hunter who has zero qualms about skinning you and eating you, alive or dead. Still, it’s lonesome walking the wasteland without anyone by his side, whether he likes to admit it or not.

The town is quiet by this time of night. From his best guess of the moon in the sky, it’s a little after 1 in the morning. Walking along the streets, he eyes the closed vendors, save for one on the corner. Piquing his interest, he stalks over to the stand, eyes focusing on the elder woman in a pair of dirty coveralls.

“Get lost Ghoul, before I kill ya.” It’s a threat that he doesn’t doubt that she’d act on. Taking a step closer to the stand, he raises his hands, eyes trained on the way she inches closer to the gun undoubtedly hiding below the counter. 

“I ain’t here to cause you any trouble. Was wondering if you had some vials.” Slowly, he places some caps on the counter. He still has four vials, but having more never hurts.

“I done told you,” the lady cocks her gun, pointing it at his head but he’s unfazed, “get lost ghoul.”

“Now Janet, is that any way we talk to customers?” The additional voice causes Cooper to freeze in his spot, his blood turning to ice. That voice, it sounds familiar. A woman moves from behind him to next to him, leaning against the counter. You’ve got to be kidding me. If his heart hasn’t beaten since everything went to shit, it sure is now. 

“We have strict rules, just because you’re special doesn't mean you can tell me what to do.”

Watching from the corner of his eyes, he rakes your body up and down as you sigh. You don’t look a day over the last time he saw you and you still have that radiant aura about you. He surely has to be hallucinating. 

“It’s your store, but wouldn’t you like more money? He’s obviously not feral, just help him out. For me?” Cooper watches as you bat your eyelashes with a smile while the older lady grumbles ‘fine’ and reaches into a bag, shoving vials onto the counter. 

“You owe me big time missy.” With a smile, you take a hold of the vials, nodding your head in appreciation.

“Of course Janet. Just let me know when you want to cash in that favor.” Grumbling again, Janet scowls at Cooper before slamming the window shut and turning off the light. “Here you are. Don’t normally see new folks around this area.” Cooper tilts his head lower, allowing the cowboy hat to cover his eyes as he takes the vials from your hands, your soft looking hands. Oh how he misses those hands. Without a word, Cooper shoves them into his coat pocket and turns around, wanting to get the hell out of there before you try and make more conversation. There’s no way it’s her. She’s been dead, long dead, he thinks to himself, footsteps making a quick pace but you catch up to him, stopping right in front of him with a hand to his chest, causing him to growl. “I understand you probably want to carry on for the night, but why don’t you rest for the night? I have a couch in my living room and some fresh water. I don’t know if ghouls drink water, but I have some.”

He halts for a minute, his hat still covering his eyes and he sincerely hopes that your hand can’t feel his heart beating through his chest. She’s still too pure for this world. “Ain’t you scared imma eat ya?” 

“Pfft no. If you do then oh well. If there’s anything I’ve learned in this world, it’s to take things as they come.” With each passing moment, he feels his resolve breaking. He’s spent years looking for you, and here you are, offering him a place to crash like the first time. Is he going to deny you this time? “Just for the night?”

Sighing, he thinks about it for a moment. He’s ugly now and burnt, there’s no way you would remember him. “If it’ll get you to shut the fuck up.” 

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“Welcome to my humble abode. It’s not much, but with how shitty this planet is, I say it’s pretty nice!” Cooper takes a second to look around. It’s not like your previous apartment with sturdy colorful furniture and plants in the windowsill with Cash playing on the radio, but it’s still oddly, you. Barely noticing your disappearance, your reappearance in front of him causes him to lightly jump. How the hell did he not hear you? “Sorry to startle you. I brought some blankets.” “I don’t need blankets,” he grumbles, eyes still hiding behind his tipped hat, one that you wore from time to time when you would roleplay with him. From behind the rim, he watches as you shrug your shoulders, setting the blankets down on the couch before clapping your hands.

“Don’t blame ya. It’s hot as hell out there. Can I get you any food? Water?”  His eyes follow your frame as you pull out a chair from underneath the table, gesturing for him to sit while you grab food from the cupboard, fixing him what seems to be a PB&J? 

“Why are you being nice? Nice people get killed up here.”

“Believe me, I can handle myself. I’ve killed. It’s hard not to up here.” You set the plate down in front of him, taking the seat to his right. Picking up the sandwich, he inspects the bread, hesitantly taking a sniff before taking a bite, moaning softly as the creamy texture of peanut butter balances out with the fruity jelly. Did PB&J ever taste this good?

“Where the hell did you even get this stuff?” You shift in the seat next to him, crossing your arms while he munches on the sandwich. Fuck, he misses actual food. “Stole it from a vault.”

“A vault?” It’s abrupt. She’s been in a vault this whole damn time? 

He can tell that he struck a sore spot, but now he’s too intrigued. Seeming to notice that he won’t drop the subject, you let out a sigh, cracking your knuckles. “Yep. I was there when the bombs dropped. Went to my dad’s house to check on him but he dragged me with him to a vault and put me in a cryogenic pod. Woke up two years ago, found out some fucked up things, left with a shit load of food and weapons, never looking back. I mean… the stuff down in the vault… FUCKED up.” 

Cooper leans forward, swallowing the rest of his PB&J. “Go on.”

“Well, different vaults have different experiments. Mine was an interconnected vault but something always seemed off. Now I get being nice to your neighbors or whatever, but there is no reason the people in that vault were that nice. It’s like they were overly optimistic. So weird.”

Cooper huffs out a laugh, memories of you always supporting him no matter what flooding through his brain. “You were always optimistic.” The words slip out of his mouth causing the both of you to freeze. Internally cringing, Cooper wishes that he was strapped to the tip of a nuclear bomb and exploded, 20 times over.

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” He can feel your eyes raking over him, trying to make a connection and he wonders if you have yet or not.

“Not until today.” Shoving the plate aside, he quickly gets up and makes a move toward the door but he has to give credit where credit is due. You’re fast and standing in his way, gun cocked and aiming at his head.

“Not so fast cowboy, who the fuck are you and how do you know me?” He avoids making your gaze but you’re unrelenting. 

“I ain’t no one, you’d be wise to let me leave.” He tries to move past you again, but you block his path, using your gun to knock off his hat, revealing all of him to you, his hazel eyes meeting yours, causing you to gasp. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. She knows. “I can explain.”

The gun decocks with a soft click and drops to the floor, a pair of arms flinging themselves around his shoulders, dragging him into a soft body. She’s even softer than I remember. It takes everything in Cooper to not sink in your grasp. It takes everything in him to not take you in his arms and make up for lost time. 

“I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were too. You still making it a habit of inviting strangers into your house?” His arms hang by his side, not daring to return the hug, afraid of what would happen if he did. Seeming to take the hint, you let go of him and he doesn’t miss the hurt in your eyes and he wishes he can take it away, but it’s better this way. You don’t want to mess with him. He’s a monster. It’s all he’ll ever be. The Cooper Howard that you know is long gone like the world that you both knew. You deserve someone who doesn’t eat ass jerky. You deserve someone who isn’t addicted to drugs. You deserve someone who doesn’t have one foot constantly in the grave. You deserve someone who is handsome, not ugly.

“Only handsome cowpokes like yourself,” he would smile at your jest, but now he’s insecure. 200 years of living on his own forges him to be as tough as steel, removing any feelings he may have had, but one hour in your presence? It has the old him rearing his head, but a thought creeps in his mind, and he runs with it. Surely you’re mocking him.

Sneering, he takes a step toward you, opening his posture to make him appear larger. “You can’t really mean that. You think it’s funny making fun of me?”

“What?”

“Calling me handsome? I ain’t handsome.” He can tell that you can see right through him and his bravado. He knows that you can see his feelings behind his mask. 

He hesitates as you take a step toward him, hands reaching up to take his face between your palms while his breathing hitches. He hasn’t had tender affection in a while. “Cooper, it’s clear that time hasn’t been kind to you, but if you think that I really care about looks then you’re not as smart as I remember you. When have I ever cared about your appearance?”

“You digged my hair if I can recall.” He tries to play it off, but fails and you know it, so you call his bluff.

“If your skin is this rigid now, I can imagine how the rest of you must be.” He blushes, hard. “I’ve missed you.” He moans softly as you place a lingering kiss against his lips, his arousal growing rapidly in his pants. The kiss ends too soon and you’re pulling away, eyes blown wide as he gets a good look at you. 

“I’ve missed you too. More than you could know. What say we use that couch for reasons other than sleeping?”

“Sounds mighty fine.”

[batsplat]

agassi/sampras please tell us more! the only thing I know about that rivalry is that sampras was very boring and they they disliked each other. but the way you talk about it sure makes it sound fascinating!

in a nutshell, the appeal is this

"pete. as always, pete"

imagine your whole career ends up being defined by one guy who you consider the "quintessential opposite" to you, who feels incomprehensible to you, who comes seemingly out of nowhere to beat you again and again and again and again. who is everything you could never force yourself to be. who seems entirely comfortable in a life that torments you. he denies you in what should have been your crowning moment. and then he ends his career by denying you again. inescapable and inevitable

agassi hated tennis with a passion. he hated tennis throughout his career - the sport he was never given a choice but to play, the sport he was forced to excel at. it's not an uncommon story in many respects, an ambitious father who sought greater things for his son... a cocktail of lofty expectations and the pressure applied to achieve them... the predetermined path in life agassi had been moulded to follow. and all of this forms the foundation for his fraught relationship with the sport (x)

as a seven year old, he already dreamt of quitting the sport, of just walking away and playing with his siblings, sitting with his mum - anything but tennis. except even then, it wasn't that simple. as much as he wanted to flee the sport, something about it also forced him to keep coming back for more. as he details in his autobiography:

Doesn't that sound nice? Wouldn't that feel like heaven, Andre? To just quit? To never play tennis again? But I can't. Not only would my father chase me around the house with my racket, but something in my gut, some deep unseen muscle, won't let me. I hate tennis, hate it with all my heart, and still I keep playing, keep hitting all morning, and all afternoon, because I have no choice. No matter how much I want to stop, I don't. I keep begging myself to stop, and I keep playing, and this gap, this contradiction between what I want to do and what I actually do, feels like the core of my life.

his father's favourite training method was to use a ball machine that andre nicknamed 'the dragon' - quite deliberately designed to look frightening, making andre flinch every time it shot balls at him. it spat out balls in unpredictable ways, all to make it impossible to hit it the same every time and forcing agassi to adjust anew for each ball. he was constantly instructed by his father - an iranian erstwhile boxer - to take the ball earlier and earlier, training his reflexes and adaptability through sheer brute force of repetition. what was being forged in the process was a game that was built to react to what the guy on the other side of the net was doing. in tennis, you can win both by attacking and by defending, by acting and reacting. agassi was moulded to do the latter

My father says that when he boxed, he always wanted to take a guy's best punch. He tells me one day on the tennis court: When you know that you just took the other guy's best punch, and you're still standing, and the other guy knows it, you will rip the heart right out of him. In tennis, he says, same rule. Attack the other man's strength. If the man is a server, take away the serve. If he's a power player, overpower him. If he has a big forehand, takes pride in his forehand, go after his forehand until he hates his forehand. My father has a special name for this contrarian strategy. He calls it putting a blister on the other guy's brain. With this strategy, this brutal philosophy, he stamps me for life. He turns me into a boxer with a tennis racket. More, since most tennis players pride themselves on their serve, my father turns me into a counterpuncher - a returner.

the biggest and most important weapon in tennis is the serve, and sampras had one of the best serves this sport has ever seen. like agassi a child of immigrants, his personal history is largely free of the angst of agassi's tale - though it should hardly be surprising that he had a strict father of his own to push him along his path. the type who was perfectly willing to make his disappointment felt whenever pete didn't live up to his exacting standards, even if pete was generally a pretty obedient kid, attentive of what his father demanded of him. take this anecdote about young pete speaking to a reporter after a big win at juniors level (from sampras' autobiography):

The next day, on the very same court, I lost something like 6-1, 6-0 to Mal Washington. I mean, he really schooled me. So after that match, the same reporter went over to Mal and got an interview from him. My dad pulled me aside and said, "You see that guy who talked to you yesterday? Now he's talking to Mal, because it's all about how good you are every day, not one day."

tennis parents. gotta love them

anyhow, sampras says he learned his lesson - and he also learnt to live by his father's straight-talking, honest ways. blunt and to the point. sampras was generally a considerably more straightforward character than agassi, "boring" as some might put it. he didn't hate the sport - he was good at it and he wanted to be better, always working tirelessly towards that goal like the perfect professional he was. to that end, he had to make some major adjustments to his game as a teenager, making the radical switch from a two handed to a one handed backhand and uprooting his whole style of play to make him the ultimate attacking player

But there were uphills and downhills, and my toughest challenge was changing my mindset from grinder to attacker. I had to learn to start thinking differently, and more. A grinder can lay back, waiting for a mistake, or tempt you to end points too quickly. An attacker has to think a little more: Flat serve or kicker? Charge the net, or set up a groundstroke winner? Is my opponent reading my serving pattern or shot selection? As a serve-and-volleyer, you attack; as a grinder you counterattack. The basic difference between attacking and defending is that the former requires a plan of attack and the latter calls for reaction and good defence. In both cases, execution is paramount.

'serve and volleying' as a playstyle has basically died out in the modern game (it still exists as an occasional tactic), but back then it was extremely common. the principle is straightforward enough: you hit a big serve and then you follow the ball, so that when your opponent returns it, you can hit the next ball out of the air (the volley). it's the purest attacking playstyle imaginable. it simplifies every service point, focuses everything in on the execution of just a few strokes. ideally, most rallies won't last longer than three shots - serve, return, first volley, rinse and repeat. short, fast, and sweet. when it is executed well, it is as lethal as it is efficient

agassi and sampras were part of a high profile quartet of american players to turn pro in the late eighties. the first of these to win a slam was sampras' childhood archrival michael chang, still the youngest man ever to win a slam at only seventeen years of age. the fourth member of this quartet was jim courier - who had trained in the same academy as agassi as a teenager and had generally felt neglected when compared to the star pupil. young agassi was a prodigious talent with unique style and flamboyance that served to grab the public's attention; he was the one who hogged the most headlines and carried the loftiest expectations on his shoulders, anointed the new flag=bearer of american tennis... and he was soon coming under increased pressure to finally crack on and win one of these slams. an immensely promising junior, the next big thing in american tennis, the guy who was supposed to rewrite the history books... by 1990, at just twenty years of age, the public was already threatening to lose patience with him

I go to the 1989 French Open and in the third round I face Courier, my schoolmate from the Bollettieri Academy. I'm the chalk, the heavy favorite, but Courier scores the upset, then rubs my nose in it. He pumps his fist, glares at me and Nick. Moreover, in the locker room, he makes sure everyone sees him facing up his running shoes and going for a jog. Message: Beating Andre just didn't provide enough cardio. Later, when Chang wins the tournament, and thanks Jesus Christ for making the ball go over the net, I feel sickened. How could Chang, of all people, have won a slam before me? Again, I skip Wimbledon. I hear another chorus of jeers from the media. Agassi doesn't win the slams he enters, and then he skips the slams that matter most. But it feels like a drop in the ocean. I'm becoming desensitized.

in 1990, agassi competed in two slam finals. the first was on the clay of roland garros, the fetching pink of his kit (see below) drawing plenty of headlines as he (very satisfyingly) beat both courier and chang on the way to the championship match. then, in the final, he lost in straight sets - in large part because he was terrified his precious hairpiece was going to fall off. which is definitely a story that deserves more space than it is being provided here... look, go read his autobiography, it's worth it

the next slam final was on home soil, conducted in the frenetic cauldron of the arthur ashe stadium. this was agassi's coming of age tournament at the slam he most wanted to win. he had scorned wimbledon, dismissive of the stuffy atmosphere and the grass courts and the strict dress code. he simply could not be bothered to travel to australia in order to compete at the australian open. roland garros was perfectly fine - but really, it was the us open in all its boisterous exuberance he wanted to conquer more than anything. and the us open crowd was ready to watch their new great hope win. agassi beat boris becker in four to advance to the final, eagerly awaiting his opponent - either the decorated john mcenroe, or a nineteen year old kid who had previously never gotten past the fourth round of a slam. sampras and agassi had already played when they were kids, with agassi in his autobiography remembering a match back when sampras was nine years old and agassi was ten. they had faced each other for the first time as professionals in 1989 on the italian clay... agassi had previously dismissed sampras while watching him practise, critical with his team of sampras' ruined backhand in particular. in rome, agassi beat sampras easily despite the improvements sampras had made

I beat him, 6-2, 6-1, and as I walk off the court I think to myself that he's got a long and painful slog ahead. I feel bad for the guy. He seems like a good soul. But I don't expect to see him again on the tour, ever.

the following year, in 1990, they play again and sampras wins in three - fittingly on the way to his maiden title. later that season, they meet for the first time in a slam final. now, look, the problem with narrating this rivalry is that the perfect narration already exists. it is agassi's autobiography 'open' and is available at all good bookstores etc etc. here is the most relevant excerpt:

It doesn’t seem possible, but the kid I thought I’d never see again has reconstituted his game. And he’s giving McEnroe the fight of his life. Then I realize he’s not giving McEnroe a fight—McEnroe is giving him a fight, and losing. My opponent tomorrow, incredibly, will be Pete. The camera moves close on Pete’s face, and I see that he has nothing left. Also, the commentators say his heavily taped feet are covered with blisters. Gil makes me drink Gil Water until I’m ready to throw up, and then I go to bed with a smile, thinking about all the fun I’m going to have, running Pete’s ass off. I’ll have him sprinting from side to side, left to right, from San Francisco to Bradenton, until those blisters bleed. I think of my father’s old maxim: Put a blister on his brain. Calm, fit, cocksure, I sleep like a pile of Gil’s dumbbells. In the morning I feel ready to play a ten-setter. I have no hairpiece issues—because I’m not wearing my hairpiece. I’m using a new, low-maintenance camouflaging system that involves a thicker headband and brightly colored highlights. There’s simply no way I can lose to Pete, that hapless kid I watched with sympathy last year, that poor klutz who couldn’t keep the ball in the court. Then a different Pete shows up. A Pete who doesn’t ever miss. We’re playing long points, demanding points, and he’s flawless. He’s reaching everything, hitting everything, bounding back and forth like a gazelle. He’s serving bombs, flying to the net, bringing his game right to me. He’s laying wood to my serve. I’m helpless. I’m angry. I’m telling myself: This is not happening. Yes, this is happening. No, this cannot be happening. Then, instead of thinking how I can win, I begin to think of how I can avoid losing. It’s the same mistake I made against Gómez, with the same result. When it’s all over I tell reporters that Pete gave me a good old-fashioned New York street mugging. An imperfect metaphor. Yes, I was robbed. Yes, something that belonged to me was taken away. But I can’t fill out a police report, and there is no hope of justice, and everyone will blame the victim.

what I can contribute are some high quality screenshots of agassi's mid-match beleaguered frustration at perfect pete who was currently in the process of mugging him

and here's agassi pulling sampras in at the net after losing in straight sets, 4-6 3-6 2-6

Hours later my eyes fly open. I'm in bed at the hotel. It was all a dream. For a splendid half second I believe I must have fallen asleep on that breezy hill where Philly and Nick were laughing about Pete's ruined dream. I dreamed that Pete, of all people, was beating me in the final of a slam. But no. It's real. It happened. I watch the room slowly grow lighter, and my mind and spirit grow palpably darker.

it is a brutal loss for agassi. not only has he once again been denied a slam - but it's happened at the hands of a direct peer, a compatriot, a nineteen year old american who has flown relatively under the radar until now but has snatched away from agassi the title that he felt should have rightfully been his. agassi had already become a frequent target for media storms, most memorably with the infamous 'image is everything' canon marketing campaign that had been widely used to mock him - but now, here was the proof anyone needed that this overhyped, cocky showman wasn't anywhere near as good as he'd been cracked up to be. it didn't help that sampras provided such an obvious contrast to agassi... quiet, more reserved, outwardly humble, less showy and less prone to drama and with a far more clean cut image... really had way more of a sweater boy aesthetic going for him y'know

tennis is a fundamentally conservative sport that is ill at ease with its own conservatism. the soul of the tennis fan secretly longs for a little glamour, a little excitement, something with a little more flair and thrill than the purist should strictly allow. when confronted with excessive emotion, when exposed to the true messiness of competitive fervour, the response of the fan is conflicted. on the one hand, the spectacle is exhilarating, to be celebrated, stimulating in the controversy it causes. but on the other, transgression is something to be repudiated and to be punished. the tennis fan averts their eyes but cannot look away, eager to capture every detail of how the gentleman's sport is being defiled by the newest freak show. the tennis fan begs for players to feel every emotion deeply - then jeers at them for losing their heads. the tennis fan hates sampras for being dull and lacklustre, for winning points as quickly as he can and refusing to provide much in the way of a show. the tennis fan hates agassi for being a loose cannon, for feeling so much and never quite living up to his potential as a result, for being so loud and vocal and obvious in his imperfections. sampras is a robot. agassi is a clown. sampras lacks personality. agassi lacks conviction. it is distasteful how hard agassi finds the life of a tennis player, but sampras finds it far too easy entirely. the fan loves to hate agassi, but sometimes they forget to think about sampras at all

the rivalry and their two respective careers develop from there. agassi has to go through a third slam final defeat, a horrendously painful five set affair against his old enemy jim courier at roland garros that leaves many doubting he will ever get over the line. but at last he secures his first major in 1992 at wimbledon of all places - the slam he had once upon a time had so little respect for he did not even bother to attend. sampras in all his precocity struggled for a while to adjust to a slam champion's life and took until 1993 to add to his own collection... beating agassi once again on the way to snatching agassi's wimbledon crown off him. there's a lot of stuff in those few years I'm going to skim over for the sake of brevity... like the final the two of them played where sampras was really ill right before the start and agassi agreed to a delay, only to be beaten by a revitalised sampras... that 1993 wimbledon match and sampras' nasty habit of catching agassi by surprise... or all their davis cup exploits (the main nation-based event in men's tennis, basically think like the world cup) where they both faltered and won as a team

let's pick up the narrative again in 1995. agassi had won his second slam at the back end of 1994, finally taking the us open title he so craved. and so, at the start of 1995, he made the enlightened choice of going - hey, you know how there's four slams on the tennis calendar? how about showing up to all four of them! yeah, not kidding, 1995 was the very first time agassi made the trip down to australia for the first slam of the year. which is a teensy bit unfortunate, because it turned out he was actually brilliant at that tournament. in 1995, he was the second seed at the tournament (sampras, of course, being the first) and scythed his way through the draw, making the final without dropping a set. sampras, by contrast, was progressing nowhere near as smoothly. his long time coach, tim gullikson, had been suffering from seizures for a few months and was flown home for tests after going through another seizure while practising with sampras. in his next match, sampras faced courier, fighting back from two sets to love down to level the match. then, in the fifth set, he broke down in tears during the changeover and struggled to contain his sobs while playing the next few games. courier asked whether sampras wanted to come back to finish the match the next day... something sampras interpreted as a sarcastic comment, which pissed him off enough to get him to regroup and focus once again. he went on to win the match. this is another part of the story that will not get the attention it deserves in this post, and there's a lot more to be said about how sampras describes the incident in his autobiography - his frustration with the narrative that he had finally shown how he was 'human' after all. it is this incident that is still what the tournament is perhaps remembered the most for. gullikson passed away the following year

and so sampras faced agassi in their second meeting in a slam final, fourth meeting in slams overall. agassi had gone through a major style rebrand since the last time they'd played, at last forgoing the hair he was so closely associated with (aka ditching the finicky hairpiece that had been distracting him in slam finals) and embracing the bald pirate aesthetic

perhaps a little more importantly, agassi won the match in four sets, claiming his first australian open title at the very first time of asking. I was going to check if I had any particularly insightful notes about the match - but mostly it's stuff like pointing out that the first set ends on an agassi double fault and the second one opens on a sampras double fault (#mygoats), plus enlightened commentary like this

we'll leave the sophisticated match analysis for another day

and here they are in their respective autobiographies about the conclusion of that tournament

"a tournament that I seemed destined to win" // "tennis has nothing to do with destiny"

and from there, it was game on. 1995 was basically the year of their rivalry. after the australian open final, they immediately faced off in both indian wells and miami. as sampras describes it, the increased exposure meant the general sports fans had more and more opinions about the pair of them and their rivalry: "we presented enough of a contrast to make people feel passionate about why they preferred one of us to the other". that season also featured an increased marketing push from nike to make this rivalry A Thing while the pair of them spent the year hashing out the number one ranking. we're talking joint marketing campaigns, interviews, all that shebang... once again, I won't be able to do this time period justice here - but at least in passing you do have to mention nike's famous "guerrilla tennis" ad campaign (see here), where they would play on makeshift courts set up in city streets. as sampras put it:

The campaign was brilliant, and it was an enormous success. And it worked because, instead of "Pete or Andre?" or "Pete vs. Andre" driving Nike's promotions, it became Pete and Andre. There was a welcome, counterintuitive feel-good message conveyed in them. The commercials helped further interest in the game and our rivalry. It also caught the true nature of our relationship. We had plenty of differences, but we were friends.

an important thing to remember, right - sampras was generally keen for the agassi rivalry to flourish because it helped him too. it helped combat the perception that he was boring, that he had a dull game too reliant on his serve (especially on the speedy grass of wimbledon, where he increasingly excelled at), that he had too little of a personality to capture the imagination of the masses. it also helped his relationship with nike, who he often didn't see eye-to-eye with - the agassi rivalry brought those guys on side because of how marketable they were as a unit. in his autobiography, sampras points out that players are only ever seen as good as the quality of their opposition, and agassi always had the potential to be sampras' ideal career rivalry. agassi becoming a more consistent, prominent rival was good news for the both of them... but, well, often it was sampras who got the most out of the whole thing

given we're in 1995, at this point I do need to throw in a top three anecdote from agassi's autobiography that just like... nails who both of them are As Guys and what the dynamic between them looked like

if my archrival said in his autobiography that I sounded more robotic than his parrot, I would do something that would get me on national news (more on that later)

so then... it looks like they'll meet in another slam final that year, at wimbledon. as agassi so nicely puts it,

In the semis I face Becker. I've beaten him the last eight times we've played. Pete has already moved on to the final and he's awaiting the winner of Agassi-Becker, which is to say he's awaiting me, because every slam final is beginning to feel like a standing date between me and Pete.

cute

of course agassi goes on to lose that match, after which becker makes some disparaging comments about agassi - prompting some fun drama that does also deserve more space than it will be provided here. the long and the short of it is that agassi vows vengeance and sets of on his "summer of revenge", going on a massive tear on the american hard courts. he defeats sampras in the final of canada, is unbeaten all summer going into the us open... at the us open, his hot streak continues - and he gets the great satisfaction of beating becker in the semis. revenge completed. 26 wins in a row

but of course, there's one more match to go. and it's the one that matters most of them all. it's also the one that agassi loses. "no matter how much you win, if you're not the last one to win, you're a loser. and in the end I always lose, because there is always pete. as always, pete." it's the brutality of tennis, the relentless inescapable cycle that so tormented agassi... there's always another tournament immediately on the horizon - and most weeks, defeat is waiting for you at the end of it. a lot of weeks, it was sampras who was waiting for agassi. after the glorious high of that entire summer, agassi had been brought back down to earth. he would struggle for years to recover

I've always had trouble shaking off hard losses, but this loss to Pete is different. This is the ultimate loss, the ueber-loss, the alpha-omega loss that eclipses all others. Previous losses to Pete, the loss to Courier, the loss to Gómez - they were flesh wounds compared to this, which feels like a spear through the heart. Every day this loss feels new. Every day I tell myself to stop thinking about it, and every day I can't. The only respite is fantasizing about retirement.

this began agassi's unravelling, the downward spiral that would consume the next two years of his life. eventually, he dropped out of the top hundred entirely. it was in 1997 that he infamously failed a drug test and managed to escape punishment plus cover the whole thing up (he had indeed taken crystal meth). he barely played tennis at all during that year. it would take him until 1998 to regroup and recommit to tennis, to decide that he wanted this enough to fight for it anew

in the mean time, let's bring in two encounters between sampras and agassi in fittingly liminal locations - one in a plane and the other in an airport. these brief moments of letting their guards down - of talking to each other as people - that are described in their respective autobiographies... both reckoning with the vast differences between the pair of them. first, there's late 1995, where agassi was already evidently struggling with the mental impact of the us open loss - as well as with the injuries that ruled him out of playing the davis cup. in a gesture sampras appreciated, agassi turned up anyway to support his team. here is sampras's account of a flight on agassi's private jet to los angeles:

I sensed on that flight that Andre was struggling. He quizzed me very closely on how I lived my life, and seemed dumbfounded to learn that I had moved to Tampa solely for my tennis game. I told him that I missed my family, and Southern California, but considered it a necessary trade-off. He admitted that he wouldn’t give up living in Vegas, or his lifestyle, in order to be the best player in the world. The contrast was clear and striking, although Andre made that point at a time when he was feeling a little disillusioned by the game. Through all of that, though, I always believed something that others, particularly people who didn’t know Andre very well, doubted. I always thought that Andre was a sincere guy. When we spent time together out of the limelight, he was always honest and frank—and I respected him for that. Davis Cup was always a good time when Andre was around. He was, at times, downright exuberant. He frequently let his guard down in Cup practices, screaming and yelling about any little thing, just for the fun of it. He seemed to get a kick out of stirring things up, creating drama, taking little things and making a big deal out of them. He was emotional, and he liked to whip up others’ emotions. At other times, we sat around in the locker room and talked about this or that, mostly about sports, and it was very comfortable. Andre was inquisitive. He liked to compare notes on players and he was eager to see how others perceived the same things he was thinking about. Andre had a great grasp of strategy; it was a great asset, given the type of game he played.

and then, two whole years later in 1997 - here's agassi about a meeting they had in the airport:

Walking up to the gate, who should I see but Pete. As always, Pete. He looks as if he's done nothing for the last month but practise, and when he wasn't practising, he was lying on a cot in a bare cell, thinking about beating me. He's rested, focused, wholly undistracted. I've always thought the differences between Pete and me were overblown by sportswriters. It seemed too convenient, too important for fans, and Nike, and the game, that Pete and I be polar opposites, the Yankees and Red Sox of tennis. The game's best server versus its best returner. The diffident Californian versus the brash Las Vegan. It all seemed like horseshit. Or, to use Pete's favorite word, nonsense. But at this moment, making small talk at the gate, the gap between us appears genuinely, frighteningly wide, like the gap between good and bad. I've often told Brad that tennis plays too big a part in Pete's life, and not a big enough part in mine, but Pete seems to have the proportions about right. Tennis is his job, and he does it with brio and dedication, while all my talk of maintaining a life outside tennis seems like just that - talk. Just a pretty way of rationalizing all my distractions. For the first time since I've known him - including the times he's beaten my brains out - I envy Pete's dullness. I wish I could emulate his spectacular lack of inspiration, and his peculiar lack of need for inspiration.

even these short excerpts should hopefully give you a sense of how differently they approached the process of writing their autobiographies, as always in itself very revealing. agassi is honest to a fault, forthcoming in his confessions even when he's not necessarily doing himself any favours - unsurprisingly, the crystal meth story caused quite a stir at a time, given he had successfully evaded a ban and had managed to cover the whole thing up. he does not spare sampras in his account, willing to compare him to a parrot or marvel at his lack of need for inspiration. it is a sincerity that does not necessarily feel malicious, but certainly is brutal. agassi's narrative is harsh, self-effacing, darkly comedic - he stresses how he really didn't take sampras seriously until sampras was beating his ass, talks up how sampras' commitment to tennis was clearly the far better approach than his own... and yet there is inevitably something pretty insulting in how baffled agassi is by sampras' simplicity, by the pure, unencumbered drive and discipline that made sampras such an excellent competitor. by how boring sampras could be

by contrast, sampras was far more reserved in his autobiography, providing a straightforward account of his career that really did mostly just focus on the tennis of it all - hardly a bad book, but one that lacks agassi's flair and skill for narrativisation. there is a rebellion of sorts in sampras' restraint... he's painfully aware of how he was perceived, rankles at it repeatedly in his autobiography, and you hardly need to read between the lines too much to get a sense of how much it really bothered him... but if there's one thing to understand about the guy, it's sampras' incredible stubbornness. if the people wanted a show, he was even less likely to provide him one. if they wanted drama and gossip from his autobiography, he would provide them with no such thing. and it's fair to say that sampras did not exactly appreciate agassi's approach

we'll circle back to sampras' reaction to the autobiography in a minute, but I wanted to bring in these quotes now... because sampras does capture something quite key to their rivalry in a way that is a touch more honest than he was willing to be in his autobiography. agassi hated tennis and always wavered in his commitment towards it, trying to fill his life with all sorts of other pleasures, travelling around with his entourage to make the tour life somehow bearable to him. it never came easily to him - and at several junctures, most notably after his long slide down the rankings set off by the 1995 us open sampras loss existential crisis, he had to make the conscious decision to try and give his all to the sport. sampras was always willing to make those sacrifices, whenever they were demanded of him. he was willing to move wherever he needed to, willing to eat and breathe and sleep tennis if that is what he needed to do to win. professional sports doesn't always reward the biggest personalities - in fact, as said sports become ever more demanding and the level rises further and further, if anything athletes cannot afford much of a life outside of their chosen domain. no time to grow up properly, to experience much of what the world has to offer, to figure out who they are outside of the sport... hey, no time even to start up too much drama where it isn't necessary - because are there many things more inefficient than media shit storms? in some ways, sampras represented the future of the sport. agassi, in all his impetuous talent, could in a sense be considered a relic of the past

that is not to say, of course, that agassi was not massively successful in his own right. and somehow he did what felt ever so implausible - he successfully completed his comeback, making it all the way back to the top of the sport when he had been so summarily written off. in 1998, he made an unprecedented jump from 110 to 6 in the rankings - and in 1999, he came from two sets to love down to win the roland garros title, completing his career slam by winning all four majors. this is one achievement that sampras could not match, having never progressed past the semifinals of the slow clay of roland garros that has tripped up many an american. (oddly enough, that's actually the slam all three of sampras' american peers had won, but courier was a natural surface specialist and chang was a grinder so it just kinda happened that way.) agassi reached the wimbledon final only to lose to sampras once again, then won the us open. and eventually he managed to snap sampras' record streak of six consecutive year end number ones (a rare record that has actually remained intact), capping off his most successful season to date

let's skip ahead once again, and talk a little more about what was possibly the most revered match the pair of them ever played. once again, it was the us open to host their showdown,taking place in the quarterfinals at what was now very much in the twilight stages of their careers. this time let's get some of sampras' thinking about that particular match and how it fit within the narrative of their rivalry:

It was fitting that Andre was the last man standing when it came to my rivalries. Andre was toughest during that great summer of 1995, and then again near the very end of our careers, culminating with the night-session quarterfinal at the 2001 Open—a match that was the crowning moment of our rivalry and, to me, our toughest and greatest battle. Volumes have been written about my rivalry with Andre, and from every perspective. In my heart of hearts, I know he was the guy who brought out the best in me. He had ups and downs, which accounts for why we didn’t have more confrontations, especially in big finals. But Andre was still the gold standard among my rivals. Nobody else popped up as frequently, over as long a period of time, to test and push me to the max. For most of our careers, we really couldn’t have been more different—in personality, game, even the clothing we wore. Our lifestyles were radically different. Andre always seemed bent on asserting his individuality and independence, while I tried to submerge my individuality and accepted the loss of some personal freedoms. Andre was Joe Frazier to my Muhammad Ali, although the personalities were kind of flipped around because Andre was the showman and I was the craftsman. Wherever you lived, we were your neighbors: I was the nice, quiet kid next door on one side, and Andre was the rebellious teenager on the other. Yet as Jekyll and Hyde as we were, and as much as people liked to emphasize the very real differences between us, there were powerful, deep similarities between us, too. The Gift we both had shaped our actions and lives, posing challenges as well as offering opportunities. First-generation Americans (Andre’s father, Mike, was from Iran), we were both champions but outsiders who crashed a sport dominated for most of its history by white Anglo-Saxon Protestants. That never bothered me, because the American Dream fulfilled its promise to my family, a few times over. Because we had both been prodigies, we grew up in the public eye, under scrutiny. It was easy to stereotype us—Andre was the brash, flamboyant showman, I was the reticent, old-school, boring guy. Who was hurt more by the stereotyping? Who knows? What I am sure about, though, is that we were tough, albeit in different ways and with different goals. When we reached the top, we cast frequent, nervous glances across the divide between us. Andre and I always made it our business as individuals to know what the other guy was doing.

as I am aware this post is already far too long, I won't dissect this passage too much. in any case, sampras addresses the sense of absence caused by agassi's inconsistencies elsewhere in his autobiography too... agassi made sampras better, always, agassi pushed sampras to new heights, agassi provided sampras with a legitimacy and also excitement the public would not have otherwise afforded him. but agassi wasn't always there. and the rivalry was ultimately far less kind to him

"in my heart of hearts, I know he was the guy who brought out the best in me" // "he says I bring out the best in him, but I think he's brought out the worst in me"

that entire section is one of the stronger parts of sampras' autobiography, which I'm also resisting the temptation to include in full. I will, however, include just a little more of how sampras describes how the pair of them match up:

Andre had to think a little more about the nuances of the game than I did. Against top guys, he needed to set things up for himself in order to play his most effective game. At his best, Andre was the consummate puppet master, jerking his opponents all over the court. Thankfully for me, he was also a little bit at the mercy of what his opponents could do. My game, by contrast, was much more about what I was going to do, and whether or not the other guy could stop it. The big question for me on every surface but clay was, Okay, what do I do to break the guy? That was because I always felt confident that I could hold my serve. Andre didn’t have that luxury—at least not to the same extent that I did. [...] The overarching theme, in my eyes, was that if I could make it a test of athleticism and movement, things would break my way. I had the fast-twitch-muscle advantage. By contrast, Andre had amazing eye-hand coordination; he was unrivaled as a ball striker. The idea was always the same: avoid becoming the puppet on the end of Andre’s string. Avoid getting into those rallies in which I found myself trying to get the ball to Andre’s backhand, while he’s cracking forehands and jerking me around the court.

sampras does go into more detail about how the actual tactics between them played out, but in a brave act of restraint I shall not discuss any of that. it does, however, tap into one of the central tensions of tennis - namely the curse of the counterpuncher. sampras acted, agassi reacted. in a way, it always felt like the match was on sampras' racquet, win or lose. sampras had the weapons. agassi had the wits. sampras could blast his way past agassi, if he could just summon up all his discipline to execute to perfection. agassi had to try to cling onto his nerves while going all he could to trip sampras up. the curse of the counterpuncher - the helplessness of being beholden to another player's whims... especially brutal when facing someone with sampras' painfully excellent weapons. and sampras had one more great weapon at his disposal: his mentality, that unflappable presence that graced him one of the most ridiculously good tiebreak records you'll ever find. from the moment sampras snatched that us open title away from him way back in 1990, agassi was always going to have to look over his shoulder, eternally wary of the threat posed by sampras. because perfect pete at his very best might have just been a little too much for andre the prodigy to handle

the 2001 us open quarterfinal has gone down as one of the very finest matches in that tournament's history. agassi had come into the tournament the number two seed - sampras, suffering from a slump in form, had been seeded only tenth. it played out over four sets, all of them tiebreaks, with not a single break of serve. the home crowd was riveted for the entire contest and enthusiastically celebrating both of their heroes for the spectacle they provided. you already know who won

so then, both of them slowly but surely reaching the end of their careers, their slam counts tailing off as injuries and frailty scupper them... sampras' decline was earlier and sharper, finding himself struggling after securing his fourth consecutive wimbledon title in 2000. agassi was generally ranked higher during that time and had won the australian open title in both 2000 and 2001. after wimbledon, sampras went for two full years without winning a slam, and retirement looked increasingly imminent. but in the end, they managed to put on one last show - and where else but in the same place where they had contested their first slam final in 1990.

At 4 P.M. on a calm and bright Sunday afternoon in early September, I looked across the net and saw the same person who had been there twelve years earlier, almost to the day, when I played my first Grand Slam final: Andre Agassi. The Andre I saw in 2002 was someone very different from the kid I had seen in 1990, and it went well beyond the fact that the multicolored mullet had become a shiny bald head, and that lime green costume was now a fairly plain, conservative shorts-and-shirt tennis kit. I saw a seasoned, confident, multiple Grand Slam champion who was in full command of his game—a game that could hurt me. This was no stranger. This was my career rival. This was the yin to my yang. Over time and through rivalry, though, our identities blurred a little and parts of our personalities had jumped from one to the other, like sparks sometimes do across two wires. We had a lot of shared history now. The sharp edges had been worn down and the contrasts muted. We were elder statesmen, celebrated champions, co-guests of honor at the Big Moment one more time. In many ways we were just a couple of nearly worn-out tennis players looking for one last shot at glory.

as always, pete

agassi was the favourite in that match. but that's the funny thing about tennis - all this stuff in between, all these matches, talk of form and confidence and all of it, you'll find it has a nasty tendency to not matter at all. because you already know how this story goes. tennis, in particular on the men's side, writes its narratives in advance and then begs us to act surprised when everything unfolds as expected. every once in a blue moon, you will have something different - an australian open 1995, where everything had been disturbed just enough to throw up a different outcome. but otherwise, there is no amount of form or confidence in the world that can change the inevitable. it doesn't matter that agassi was supposed to be the prodigy who would claim his glorious first slam in 1990. it doesn't matter that agassi had been on a 26 match winning streak in 1995 and had bested sampras just a few weeks before. it doesn't matter that agassi was facing a washed up version of sampras in 2002 who had lost touch with his 'gift' and had been staring down the barrel of retirement for the better part of two years. when they faced each other on that stage, at the most important tournament of them all to agassi, they both reverted to type. agassi got a slow start, felt the match slip away from him, as sampras blasted through him - and only two sets in managed to mount any sort of resistance. of course, it was not enough

it turned out to be sampras' last professional match. he announced his retirement a year later. the last time sampras ever played, and it was denying agassi on one final occasion

one more thing before I wrap up this post - a coda of sorts, because the story just wouldn't be complete without it. because there's one more rather infamous story from agassi's autobiography. here's agassi talking about the lead up to that us open 2002 final, lying in bed the night before that match and remembering a moment from a few years prior:

Sipping Gil’s magic water before bed, I tell myself that this time will be different. Pete hasn’t won a slam in more than two years. He’s nearing the end. I’m just starting over. I climb under the covers and remember a time in Palm Springs, several years ago. Brad and I were eating at an Italian restaurant, Mama Gina’s, and we saw Pete eating with friends on the other side of the dining room. He stopped by and said hello on his way out. Good luck tomorrow. You too. Then we watched him through the restaurant window, waiting for his car. We said nothing, each of us thinking of the difference he’d made in our lives. As Pete drove away I asked Brad how much he thought Pete tipped the valet. Brad hooted. Five bucks, tops. No way, I said. The guy’s got millions. He’s earned forty mil in prize money alone. He’s got to be good for at least a ten spot. Bet? Bet. We ate fast and rushed outside. Listen, I told the valet, give us the absolute truth: How much did Mr. Sampras tip you? The kid looked at his feet. He didn’t want to tell. He was weighing, wondering if he was on a hidden-camera show. We told the kid we had a bet riding on this, so we absolutely were insisting he tell us. Finally he whispered: You really want to know? Shoot. He gave me a dollar. Brad put a hand on his heart. But that’s not all, the kid said. He gave me a dollar—and he told me to be sure to give it to whichever kid actually brought his car around. We could not be more different, Pete and I, and as I fall asleep the night before perhaps our final final, I vow that the world will see our differences tomorrow.

and just to quickly add this, about the end of that final:

Now he's serving for the match, and when Pete serves for a match, he's a coldblooded killer. Everything happens very fast. Ace. Blur. Backhand volley, no way to reach it. Applause. Handshake at the net. Pete gives me a friendly smile, a pat on the back, but the expression on his face is unmistakable. I've seen it before. Here's a buck, kid. Bring my car around.

this is probably the most infamous part of the autobiography, excluding anything related to crystal meth. I buried the lede somewhat when I was talking about sampras' reaction to the autobiography - more than comparing him to a parrot or calling him uninspired, this was the bit that really got traction. it's just such a brutal story in an understated way... this is the kind of impression that sticks with you, the slander that stands the test of time. perfect pete the multi millionaire is a bad tipper

which brings us at last to indian wells 2010. an exhibition event the pair of them participated in at one of the most prestigious tournaments in the united states (second only to the us open), done for a good cause to raise money for charity. it was a doubles match they participated in, both partnering up with top players who were reasonably prominent at the time - all in order to put on a show for the crowd. for a good cause. over seven years after the conclusion of their rivalry, more than enough time for any old wounds to heal. what followed is quite possibly the only worthwhile moment indian wells has ever provided us... I hereby present to you a clip of two guys who are definitely over it, engaging in some entirely friendly banter, for a good cause, as a playful continuation of their respectful rivalry, which is fine because they're over it, so it's all fine and it's for a good cause. here you go:

now, honestly I would just recommend you watch this four minute video, because I think it's quite tricky to quite get across in words how the vibes gradually get more rancid. it's the little details that often get left out when this historic event is recounted that really make it - agassi's "you always have to go get serious, huh pete" is a personal favourite of mine. but to give a summary of the main points... sampras imitates agassi's famous pigeon-toed walk (the result of being born with spondylolisthesis, a back condition where one of your vertebra slips forward). then, agassi mockingly and repeatedly alludes to sampras being a poor tipper. which sampras follows up by straight up attempting to murder agassi

well, not quite, but he does use that lovely powerful serve of his to hit right at agassi - rather than diagonally across the court, where your service really should be going. also the serve is supposed to go like, into the box that's just on the other side of the net. whereas sampras' serve was travelling at a trajectory that took it oddly close to agassi's head

what's delightful to me about this clip is how they're both trying to play it off as a joke, even though you can tell that they're both visibly losing their tempers. look at the faces of two men just having a laff

shout out to the commentator for saying the rivalry between the retired players seemed to be stronger than the one between the current players. which - well, yes, that is true! this is what a proper rivalry looks like

they both got plenty of criticism for this episode - and agassi ended up both publicly saying he'd been out of line and messaged sampras to ask if he could apologise in person. and they did move on from the controversy, playing another exhibition the following year with no incident. here's what agassi said then:

isn't this great. isn't every word of this just great. like man he just gets it. isn't this great

still, beyond just being a fun bit of drama, it is a revealing moment between the pair of them. sampras is right that they both usually tried to avoid too much controversy, inclined to keep things civil and resist too much mudslinging in the press. sampras, after all, just wasn't really the type - and agassi had other things to worry about, never in a real position of strength in that rivalry. and yet, sometimes the mask slips just a little. the two of them often didn't understand each other, didn't really know each other at all, but they managed to get under each other's skin nevertheless. sampras was everything agassi couldn't be - and the reverse was true too. agassi couldn't find it in himself to copy sampras' pure dedication towards the sport, whereas sampras could never match agassi's flair and charisma. at times, there's a whiff of contempt in how they judge each other, cataloguing the other's shortcomings and incapable of imagining what it must be like to walk in the other's shoes. agassi could not dedicate himself completely towards tennis. sampras was uninspired. agassi was flighty. sampras was simple. a touch of envy, a little more contempt, and a whole lot of bafflement

for all that he won eight grand slams, in many ways agassi's story is one of failure. this is how much of his autobiography is framed - around hating tennis, around needing to be brilliant at it, over having to cope with loss after loss after loss. so much of tennis is about trying to find ways to process failure. it's all about failing... in matches, where even the winning player typically wins a little more than 50% of all points played and generally will lose quite a few games in the process. in tournaments, where all but one player will emerge from each event the loser. and even if that one has been won, the next tournament and potential loss is generally right around the corner. agassi hated that life, and yet he still took a couple years longer than sampras to walk away from it. and for agassi, the inevitability of that ultimate, final, inevitable loss was tied ever so closely to the existence of pete sampras. once more with feeling: "no matter how much you win, if you're not the last one to win, you're a loser. and in the end I always lose, because there is always pete. as always, pete." it's a bittersweet narrative - for all of agassi's success, for all that everything did turn out well for him in the end... it's always there, inescapably so, that lingering sense of inevitability. that helplessness. maybe the hand of destiny, after all. agassi was never able to overturn that narrative, no triumphant changing of the script or final triumph or any of it... and that'll hurt, and it'll always be a little bit sad. but he learned to live with it - and eventually found his own happy ending. there's something to that, isn't there?

[theblueflower05]

Yawnyewla(Broken Heartedness) | Part Two

A/N: It has been a crazy month or so, real life has brutalized me. Sorry you guys are getting this chapter later than planned Avatar + the Omegaverse has been my comfort lately. @cinetrix you have been especially supportive and I lova ya bby. Thank you for making me some Mega Neteyam to keep my writing brain on! The art below is made by her and omg right?

Word Count: 10k+

Warnings: Alien sex. Alien Genitalia. Oral sex(female and male receiving), Fingering(female and male receiving) Cursing. Angst(it’s me, duh) and mild talks about past grooming. Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics.

Summary: You’re the Metkayinan Olo’eykete in training, but sometimes even you buckle under the crippling pressure. Will Neteyam be there to comfort you?

Omega Neteyam x Female Alpha Reader

Series Masterlist

<Part One

Part Three>

You only ever touch me in the dark,

Only when we’re drinking can you see my spark.

And only in the evening would you give yourself to me,

Cause the night is your woman and she’ll set you free

-Lies, Marina and the Diamonds

Your life had always been ruled by carefully crafted routine. Early mornings as the sun rose on the glittering sea, and late nights after most were tucked away.

Being the eldest daughter in any family came with its own list of responsibilities. But for you, the eldest of the reigning Olo’eyktan and Tsahik who also happened to be an Alpha, it seemed like you had been born with duty running through your bloodstream. Burdened with glorious purpose.

It had been clear from an early age just what was expected of you. A life, lived for your people, was your destiny.

And at most times that was okay.

You were happy to serve, it was in your nature to care for others. Good Alpha’s, your mother had taught you, are not ruled by ego. Or violence. Strength comes from within, is a honed skill like fishing or net weaving. Strength is taking care of your family. Helping the elderly and the young. Making sure everyone has a full belly before they lie their head down for bed.

You we're a good Alpha, or at least you tried to be. You knew you could be if you tried. If you could just be calm for long enough to focus.

Ronal liked to say that you were more like the ocean than anyone she had ever met. She had birthed the sea incarnate- with its strong crashing, never faulting, waves. It’s vastness. It’s life-giving vitality.

And its wild nature.

There was something unsettled about you. Deep down, you would never be still. There was a need to learn. Explore. To fight and scream and run. An untamed side of you that Ronal and Tonowari had watched with equal parts amusement and hesitancy during your childhood.

From a young age you’d jumped from the highest cliffs. Sailed out past the reef. Engaged in fights with warriors twice your size, Limping away from tussles with a crimson tinged grin and your big blue eyes sparkling.

The older you get, the more you try to temper it. You desperately attempt to shove it somewhere hidden and out of sight. You can't be what anyone wants you to be with all of this restlessness inside of you. You can't support your father's throne or keep your people healthy-

There’s no room for it. For you, at your core. In your soul.

No one wants a wild woman.

You’d heard it before, it had left a bitter taste in your mouth and a stain on your heart.

In your younger years you were a bit of a trouble maker, but you’d like to think you'd reformed. If only a little bit. It’s not like you truly had the time to get into messes anyway.

Especially not at this time of year.

Though it’s sacred, a time for joy and festivity, it’s exhausting. To say the least. With the Iknimaya ceremony and The Return of the Tulkun looming in the very near future, the village of Awa’atlu was a buzz.

There’s preparations to be made. And endless list of duties to fulfill-

And yet, this migration cycle, you lag.

Usually, you run around like an austrapede(chichen like creature) with its head cut off. Heading to your parents every word. Not getting a moment to truly breathe, your sole focus on making sure that the ceremonies went smoothly-

Something else entirely has your attention. A certain golden eyed man that had bewitched you completely.

You thought you had known infatuation before Neteyeam.

You've certainly had crushes before.

There had been others who caught your eye, definitely.

But this? You’d never felt anything close to this. You think about him when you awake in the morning and before you fall asleep. When you’re not with him, you're aching for the moment that you can find time to slip away and get your hands back on his hard, muscle corded body. Your mind constantly assaults you with images of him. His broad shoulders and long braids. His mouth, swollen and puffy. His deep moans as you bring him over the edge-

“Look at you” Your good friend, Akime, grunts through a laugh. Breaking you from your reverie.

You’d been sat with a group, working on repairing weapons for the Great Hunt that would ensue after the Iknimaya trials.

But Neteyam had walked by with his father.

Doing something mundane, toting heavy woven baskets to the big main Mauri for dinner. His arm muscles bulging in a way that had you greedily tracing his form. He’d only given you a small nod in acknowledgement as he passed. An even smaller smile.

“Shut your mouth-and focus on your whittling. I pity the poor soul who ends up with that lopsided spear” you retort with a roll of your eyes.

You're not embarrassed about being caught ogling. You knew you weren't the only one. The Omiticayan transplant was one of the most gorgeous Omega’s that had ever stepped foot on the islands. Everyone was a bit dazed.

“He’s very pretty, I'll give you that. But he’s so stand offish- I could never see you with a mate like that, yawne(beloved)” Akemi was your closest confidant outside of your family.

A Beta who stood much taller than you and had the brawn of two men but was the kindest Na’vi you’d ever met. A gentle giant so to speak. He wore his dark hair pulled into a loose bun at the nape of his neck most days and black ink tattoo’s swirled around most of his body. A decorated warrior and hunter with the tattoos to prove it.

Everyone had assumed the two of you would mate, until he met his husband. Another Beta Male from one of the smaller islands. The two had all but raised Akemi’s cousin, Roxto, after the abrupt and tragic passing of the younger boy's parents.

“He’s really not,” you sigh, shaking your head as you sharpen the blades.

“Oh? I don't think I've ever heard him speak more than a few words at a time. And he always has that look on his face- like he swallowed a Wonwon fruit(lemon like fruit)”

Neteyam has many skills, you’d learned as you’d spent endless hours training him. Being a social butterfly is surely not one of them. He clams up around big groups, gets nervous and awkward. You find it endearing, even though you know the Omega is really hard on himself for it. He’s actually really funny and easy to talk to when you get to know him.

“He’s shy, be nice” you chide your friend easily. “There is nothing wrong with him not wanting to gab all day with any and everyone”

“Hah! I guess your loud skxawng ass can talk for the both of you. You never shut up” Akemi dodges the small shell you throw at him “But really, he’s so different then what you usually go for-” Akemi goes on and if it was anyone else you’d shove them off. Tell them to mind their own business.

Neteyam had made it clear that he wanted to keep what the two of you had under wraps, at least for now. And even though that wasn't what you particularly wanted, you respected his wishes.

“And what is it I usually go for, pray tell?” your brow bone rises, confrontational and curious.

“People just as annoying as you” Akemi dead pans and you can’t help but snort “You like Na’vi who challenge you. Who are just as bold and loud and daring. Is he not too…soft for you, my friend?”

In the past you had been attracted to men and women who matched the spark in you. And it had always ended in misery. In yelling and fighting and you questioning if you're meant to be alone because in partnerships you seem to always chase away the other.

But with Neteyam it’s different. He isn't a challenge, he doesn't want to knock you down a peg or make you change…he only wants to be your equal.

“Just because he’s quiet doesn't mean he’s soft” you defend the Omega like he’s your own, because that’s all you want. You want to wear his bite “He’s actually the fiercest warrior I’ve ever trained. His skillset is unmatched. I mean, I can keep up with him. But just barely”

Akemi chews this over. Continuing to carve at the spear in his hands “It sounds like he’s impressed you” and that's not an easy feat. You both know. “I'm excited to see his performance for the Iknimaya”

You are too. You can't wait to watch Neteyam shine.

The ocean had not been his chosen terrain, but oh. How beautiful it had been to watch him master it. He rode Tsurak like he had been doing so for years. Uses the crossbow like it had been made just for him.

You liked your partner's competent, and Neteyam checked every. Single. Box.

“If he has you caught in his net, why don't you announce your courtship?” Akemi questions because he knows he can. That he’s your best friend and that you and those walls and that strong strong heart can be open with him.

You hesitate. Chew on your lip for a moment.

“He’s not ready for anyone to know yet” the words are hard. You get it. Neteyam’s not a fledged “adult” member of the Metkayina yet. But many court before their rites, before mating.

“Y/N…”Akemi sighs and it makes your hackles rise.

“It’s fine. It makes sense. He’ll come around after his Iknimaya- that’s the only reason why” you insist to your friend. To yourself.

Akemi purses his lips before he speaks. Choosing his words wisely “I hope that is the case, I truly do. But…you’re my closest friend. I only want your happiness, and investing your feelings into someone who doesn't reciprocate isn't the smartest move, yawne. I just don't want to see you fall into any old patterns”

He doesn't want to watch you pledge your love to another man who's going to stomp all over your feelings. It’d been devastating to bare witness to last time.

You don't like to speak of it. Try not to even think of it. But it doesn’t take from the fact that it had happened.

“I will be fine” You insist, a smile plastered on your face, fake as can be “I’d like to think i’m not that stupid anymore”

Akemi’s nostrils flare “You we’re never stupid, you were young. And vulnerable. You know that right-”

“Please” you interrupt him, head shaking firmly “I don't want to get into this now” or ever.

Most people know not to push you.

That you’d fight back tooth and nail when you feel threatened- but much like your family. Akemi isn't scared of your claws and slick mouth. He’s very much going to push the issue- but is interrupted before he can.

It’s Ao’nung and Roxto, coming down the beach.

Rough housing, tails bumping each other. Even if he hadn't been Akemi’s kin, Roxto would be your favorite of your little brothers friends. He kept Ao’nung in check.

“Y/N!” your brother calls as he approaches- “Sempul wanted you. Says he needs you to help with the Mauri renovations or something.”

He plops down beside you, all the way in your personal space, and you give him a look. Overgrown man-child. Whatever was he going to do when mother had the new baby and he wasn't the youngest anymore?

Roxto stays standing, greeting you politely like the good boy he was. Akemi had done wonders raising him. He turns to his cousin and speaks about plans for dinner for their grandmother.

“When?” you question. You really had hoped you’d be left out of that project, you weren't much of an architect and painting and plastering all day was b o r i n g beyond compare.

“This afternoon” Ao’nung continues.

“But I’m training Neteyam later” you push, your stomach dropping at the thought of not getting to spend your usual time with the Omega. It seems like these days the trainings were few and far between- and after his Iknimaya, he wouldn't need them at all.

“Not today. Tsireya’s gonna have all of ‘em, free diving practice I think” Ao’nung continues, as he reaches for your canteen. Taking big sloppy drink.

“But-”

“Fathers orders, not mine” Ao’ shrugs and you know that he’d had no part in the decision making. Was only an unfortunate messenger.

Still. You snatch your leather canteen with a hiss, standing up. “That's mine, you little freeloader. I hope you’re going to be helping Tsireya with her lessons, your still on thin ice from the Lo’ak incident”

“I am going to help!”

“Good, you better be nice to them” you warn as you gather your belongings and prepare for an afternoon of helping out with Mauris instead of with your sweet Neteyam. Your mood soured greatly.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve been nice lately, have I not? Roxto, haven't I been nice?” Aonung turns to his friend who does nod.

“As nice as Aonung can be, yeah” Roxto agrees and Neteyam punches his shoulder playfully, insisting that he had been a damn saint.

“Uhuh. Keep it up. Tsireya will tell me if you so much as whisper one sideways remark. You boys have a good rest of your afternoon” You give Ao’nung a pointed stare, ruffle Roxto’s hair, and pat at Akemi’s shoulder as you depart.

“We’ll continue our conversation later, Y/N!” Akemi warns, your back already turned.

You just wave at him without turning back- happy to have escaped the trauma laden conversation.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You end up crawling into your bed that night, dead tired. You don't even burrow under your bed mat- instead you lie atop the covers. You have splinters under your nails from the hay like palm that was used to construct the pods. The afternoon had been long and boring, just as you’d known it would be.

But the worst part is that you hadn't gotten the chance to see Neteyam. To taste his saccharine kisses. As you stare at your beamed ceiling you think of only him.

When you fall asleep his face is behind your eyelids.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After days and days of activity that had seemed to keep the two of you apart, you’re ready to snap. Antsy and eager and needy for just a moment of Neteyam’s time.

The Omega doesn’t seek you out- he just gives you those tiny little smiles and private glances across the fires during communal dinner. It drives you mad, your fingers itch to run through his hair. Your lips want to rerun that familiar path down his chest-

You know he has to miss you as much as you miss him…right?

You don't allow those seeds of doubt to plant. Instead, your brain, desperate for the chemical rush that came with being around Neteyam, begins to plot on how you’d get to see him next.

As you go through the motions of your day, there’s only one thing on your mind and that is the fact that you need to see the Omega.

You have to ask around to figure out where the eldest Sully sibling is- he’s helping out in the orchards. His expertise tree climbing skills of great use.

Hidden in the shadows of the tropical trees, you wait. Lurking like a predator. You feel like a puluakan stalking her prey as you watch Neteyam from a far. He’s helpful and polite, his usual quiet self as he works with the other Metkayina to harvest the ripe fruits and vegetables.

While everyone else starts to head back- he stays. Neteyam insists that can get the ones from the tallest trees on his own. He’s happy to be useful.

Perfect.

You’re a hunter, tried and true. The only place in life where you could hone in on your thin patience, be quiet. Take your time. You move quick and silent, closer to your target. Your heart flutters fast, visibly beating in your throat and your kuru tingling with excitement.

When he’s nearly within arm's reach, right there, you’re prepared to pounce-

-Of course, he pounces first.

A brutal flash of clashing blue as the two of you collide.

It takes all of your strength, years of training, but somehow it ends up with him pinned to the thick base of the Yovo tree. Panting and staring down at you with wide tawny eyes. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk.

“Hi” Though you’re a little breathless from the scuffle, you grin.

One of your hands on his shoulder, fingers digging into the hard muscle there. The other pressed against his waist. So close to him that you can feel his body heat.

“Hi” he’s so beautiful it hurts to look at him for too long. Of course, what most don't know about Neteyam- is that he’s a smart ass “You suck at stalking. I could hear you coming the moment you stepped out of the bush”

“No I don't” You cajole, a bubble of laughter building in your fast expanding chest “We’ve barely spoken in a week, and the first thing you do is be mean to me? It’s almost as if you didn't miss me at all”

“How are you gonna know to correct your form if I don't tell you?” He jests, struggling a little in your grip for good measure.

You give him a warning hiss.

This little game the two of you liked to play was usually fun, the push and pull of it all. A teasing filled hunter and prey routine that more often than not ended with Neteyam spreading his thighs as he finally let you have him.

You hadn't kissed your boy in days. You didn't have it in you to wait.

“I was hoping you’d want to tell me something other than how shit you think I am at hunting” you sigh, deep, for dramatic effect.

“What kind of other things?” Neteyam’s eyes keep flickering from your own, down to your mouth. His pink tongue peeks out, runs across the plush of his bottom lip and your knees feel a little weak.

“Things like you’ve missed me” you disclose, because you just can't help it. “Cause I’ve missed you”

You can feel him loosen under your hands, the fight draining. His ears twitch, lowering a bit, and his gaze goes unbearably tender.

“I’ve missed you” he confirms after a moment and it's all you need to hear.

You lunge, groaning the moment you're able to feel his kiss. It’s warm and wet. Full of little nips licks that drive you wild because they feel way too good. An all consuming kind of good- you feel him in your bones. When you release him, your grip on his shoulder falters, his arms wrap around you strong and tight.

You pull away, lips tingling and shiny “How much did you miss me?”

He groans and presses his lips back to yours, annoyed as you keep the kiss shallow. Pecks and light presses while he tries to force his tongue into your mouth. You herd even closer, caging him against the bark. His snuffles, cool air through his snout in annoyance “Y/N, come on”

Instead of responding, your hands begin to drift, fingers dragging across his indigo skin as they take their feel. Oh, this body. How you adored it. His strong shoulders and broad torso, all of that rippling muscle so sensitive and clenching under your touch. Your lips leave his, kissing sloppily across his cheek and down the hinge of his jaw. Stopping only when you can press your face into the place on his neck, right behind his ear, where his scent gland was pumping out that hypnotic musk.

Neteyam’s pheromones are like nothing you’ve ever encountered. They’re knock you on your ass strong, for one. You’d been able to smell him from across the beach the first time you’d met him-back when the Sully’s had descended from the sky. For two they’re foreign and unlike anything you’d previously encountered.

He smells of pine, herby and sharp. Of honeyed tree sap. Of fruit you’ve never learned the name of and the dew that stuck to the foliage in the mornings. It tingles in your nose as you inhale deeply, getting greedy lungfuls of his essence. Very much the scent of a virile young Omega in his prime.

Neteyam gets all shivery when you scent him like this. His head lulls to the side as he presents his entire smooth neck to you like a fucking prize.

It’s heady, the way he gives himself to you. How are you not supposed to be in love with him?

“Missed you so much” he whimpers as you lap at the gland “You’ve been so busy. I- ah, oh-” his speech is broken up. Overwhelmed by your mouth assaulting him and your dainty hand attempting to slip under his tweng “I didn't want to bother you”

You don't pull away when you speak, can't manage to tear your mouth from its ministrations. Instead, your words vibrate right into his skin “Please bother me, paskalin(sweet berry). Bother me all the time”

His laughter is as sweet as his scent, and you want to bathe in it.

Neteyam is an indulgence and you're gluttonous for him.

Screw your duties, whatever was waiting for you back at the village could do just that. Wait. It’s a bit scary how quickly you’re willing to put everything on the back burner if it meant you could spend just one sun drenched afternoon with him.

He looks good, in the shade of the palms. His eyes closed and cheeks flushed as the two of you ravage each other. Your hips knocking into one and other as you desperately rub against him through the layers of your clothing.

You’re completely wrapped up in him. You don't realize how much time you’ve spent just kissing him. You know that you’re needed for just about a billion different things but as you taste his spit you can't remember to care.

When you begin tugging at the cords of his tweng he sobers a bit, squirming. “What if someone sees, the gathering group might return”

“Fuck them” you mindlessly mutter, working at the blasted knots. You want his cock. You need to taste him on your tongue.

Neteyam huffs in amusement, reaching down to undo them for you. He always makes it look so easy with those long nimble fingers.

When he’s freed from his confines, your quick hands are all over him. Pawing at his bare inner thighs, groaning when your fingertips run along his dripping slit. You can already feel his manhood, rock hard, and poking out from the protective sheath of his body.

Neteyam is gorgeous and so, so sensitive. He’s throwing his head back, braids grinding against the bark as you play with him. Getting him all wet and messy between his strong thighs.

“Oh shit- shit, Y/N” he wheezes as you grasp his member in your hand, stroking him until he’s standing proud and fully erect.

Neteyam’s very much well endowed. He’s got girth yes, but Eywa he’s long. You wonder what it would be like to take him inside of you. You’re so sure that he would hit places that no other had before. You clench around nothing, can feel your knot internally swell, just dying to contract around him and milk him dry.

You can't, sadly. Not yet. Or you’d lay him down and sit right on his cock this very moment.

Instead you give him everything else. He’s moaning low in his throat as he squirms, and his hands disappear in your hair. Your eyes fight the urge to roll when his fingernails skritch at your scalp just right.

You're sinking then, down onto your knees. You want to taste him and your eager mouth envelopes his mushroom cock head at once. His earthy sweet taste explodes across your tastebuds and you don't know who moans louder, you or Neteyam.

You enjoy giving oral pleasure, you always had. It makes you feel powerful. You control Neteyam as you suckle on his manhood. When your hands come to play, inching down towards his hole he grunts and bucks hard. Your throat constricts around him with a gag.

Its so sexy. The way he chases his release makes you burn.

His virgin hole is tight, the muscles tense as you circle it with your fingers. The sounds Neteyam gurgles above you make it clear that he doesn't want you to stop. It’s a beyond snug fit as you push a single digit in.

The darker man practically sings. His abdominals clench and you’re pretty sure he’s about to blow-

When suddenly his hands fisting your locks go from holding you close, to pushing you away. You’re only haughtily confused for a moment.

The two of you freeze.

Sensitive ears twitching as the sound of crunching footsteps in the distance.

The orchard is large and full of fruit trees and bushes, making an escape without getting caught is easy enough. You slip behind an enormous berry bush, hidden easily by the thorned shrubbery. You’re vibrating with the thrill though, as you and Neteyam avoid being spotted. Just barely.

You don't think you would have minded if anyone would have caught you on your knees pleasuring your beautiful Omega.

Neteyam on the other hand doesn't look as happy as you. He actually seems kind of spooked. Crouching low and alert as the voices hum in the distance he re-ties his tweng with shaky hands. He doesn't relax until they pass and even then his shoulders stay tense.

“It’s okay, I never get caught, don't worry” You press a comforting hand to his side, and he sighs. Leaning into your touch despite himself.

You can tell the moment of passion is over and you hate it, although it probably is for the best.

“I have to go” you’re mournful of the fact” I’m sure they’re looking for me, back at the village”

His face falls, a little frown that’s cuter than it should be marring his features “Okay…”

You cup his cheek on your palm, making him look at you “We’ll get to be together soon, yes? I’m going out of my mind, I need make you come again”

Neteyam bites the inside of his lip hard “Soon” he agrees.

It takes everything for you to leave him in the orchard and not drag him straight to your bed.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

There are more moments like these as the weeks go on.

Stolen flashes of intimacy.

The two of you sneaking in kisses and groping touches wherever you can. It's always white hot, and over way too soon and somehow you feel even more desperate and strung out after them. Like you’re only getting a taste of what you so desperately want to savor.

You think you’re handling it pretty well. Hiding your split attention-

It all comes to a head at dinner.

The Inknimaya celebrations are only days away and the largest Mauri, the communal one right in the center of the village is packed to the brim with buzzing Na’vi.

You’re sat with your family and a group of high standing village leaders at the head of the meal. Tsireya on one side of you and your very pregnant mother on the other. Your Father sits, right in the middle, and Ao’nung to his side.

There is discussion of the rites and who will be present to officiate them and witness them.

You’re barely listening, so exhausted it’s hard to keep your eyes open. You could blame it on your busy day but really, it's because you and Neteyam had spent last night tangled in each other until the early hours of the morning eclipse.

You meet his gaze from across the crowded room.

Neteyam looks as tired as you feel. And still, he grins. A barely there thing just for you. When his hands move it’s subtle movements while no ones paying attention.

He signs, just the way you’d taught him. Only one word.

Tonight.

“Y/N- are you listening?” It’s your mothers voice, firm and cutting and breaking you from your own head.

“Of course” its an automatic lie as you pick at a piece of fish from your plate. You hadnt heard a thing she’d said.

She gives you THE look. A severe one that could make children cry. Good thing you aren't a child anymore.

You try not to feel too embarrassed by her obvious chiding as you rejoin the conversation.

“We were speaking about the First Hunt- there’s been many Nomura(giant man o war style jellyfish) just beyond the reef. Y/N, what is your stance on this matter?” An elder says, voice weary and weathered.

“This is not out of the norm for this time of year. All will be fine, we can set up a perimeter around the young hunters performing their rites” you nod, affirming him while not feeding into the hysteria. Elder Makiao was an anxious man after all.

“Are we sure that’s smart?” The cutting comment is made by the person you like the least.

Vaeyu is an Alpha and vetted warrior from a good family. He has high standing in the clan, and sits on your fathers council. Tall and broad, with dark ink splashed across his angular face and his meaty right arm almost blacked out with intricate tiny tribal markings.

He’s always got something to say and you sincerely wish that you could tell him to shut the fuck up.

Politics don't work that way, unfortunately. “Why would it not be smart? It is tradition, we will perform the rites as we always have, will we not?”

He nods, mulling it over, his lips pursed “Of course I would like to see them performed as they should be but we have…different members attempting this cycle. I would hate for any of our new Omiticayan friends to be put at even more of a disadvantage then they already are”

A surge of protective anger rages through you- years ago you might have lunged at him. But you’ve learned better, about controlling your own feelings. And about dealing with scum like Vaeyu.

You try to keep the appearance that you’re unaffected, for you know it will only fuel him if he can tell that he’s bothering you “I’m assuming you’re talking about Neteyam?” and you want to kill him for doing so.

“The eldest of the Forest children, yes” He goes on and really. The disrespect is dripping from his tone like venom. The fact that he hadn't even had the decency to refer to Neteyam by his name makes

“Neteyam is not a child” you speak slowly and control your tone. Not allowing your pheromones to spike with your annoyance “He’d already passed his rites back home, and is only repeating the process here out of respect”

Your father, ever observant, can see right through your attempt on staying civil and cuts through the tension with his deep timbre “She is right, he has shown nothing but competence since arriving. And from what I have seen, has excelled in training. I trust my daughter's abilities as a karyu. The boy will be given his chance as all others are”

Tonowari is cheif; he’d always given his people the freedom to question him. The openness to have meaningful conversation.

But everyone knew that directly challenging him is off limits.

“Ah. I see” Vaeyu deducts, using his sharp bladed knife to peel the skin of a fruit “Of course, Olo’eyktan. I trust your judgment. We will just have to hope he can keep up; you know the smell of blood draws those nasty creatures in”

The talks stray onto different topics and you try to get over the bitter taste left in your mouth.

You never want Vaeyu to speak of Neteyam again. If it was up to you the older warrior wouldn't even be able to look in his direction. Neteyam was too good for the likes of him.x

You’re more than happy when the man gets up and makes his leave, retreating for the night with his pregnant mate. Once upon a time the sight of his hand on her lower back and her cradling her stomach would hurt you. Now you’re just relieved as you watch them leave.

Your sister gives you a sympathetic pat on the hand.

The dinner on your plate is picked at, you can barely eat with the excitement of seeing Neteyam again bubbling. Tonight is going to be special. You’re going to give him the necklace you’ve been working on. He liked to act bashful, but you knew he loved your gifts and this one was the most important yet.

You offer Ao’nung the rest of your food, not wanting to waste, and try to make your exit.

“You have been very far away as of late”

Of course it can never be that easy.

Your mother is Tsahik for a reason. She is all knowing, with her keen eye and sharp senses, the tribe likes to say she has special Eywa given powers and you believe it. You just absolutely hate when she uses them on you.

Of course she’d notice you being off, even when you we’re trying so hard to keep it hidden.

“I am not sure I know what you mean” you feign innocence “I have been tired, and very busy, yes”

“No” she continues in that tone of hers. Her eyes that are more green than blue boring into you “That is not it. You have been distracted, and if you do not wish to tell me I will not pry, but I need you to recenter”

“Sanok-” you start with a grumble.

“During the festivities, there will be Metkayina from neighboring islands coming in. I want you to think about what we’ve spoken of, about you finding a mate this cycle”

Your ears pin to your head and you can feel your face get hot. No, she’d spoken and when you’d try to insist that you are not going to go through with an arranged marriage she’d dismissed you.

“I am not interested-”

“In performing your duty? You will be Olo’eykte, you will pass the title down to your children. You need heirs, Y/N. By the time I was your age I was already pregnant with Tsireya” Ronal softens, she can tell how uncomfortable you are but this conversation is vital “I want to give you the space to choose. There will be many eligible Na’vi, all looking to court”

You’re tense all over. By the ways she’s speaking you’d think you were an old woman and not one who had just celebrated her twenty first name day.

“Tell me that you’ll at least think about it- Tonowari, please. Help me here. This is important is it not” Your mother plays dirty and calls your father in for backup.

There is not much on Eywa’Eveng that you could deny your father. You are dedicated to him. Closer to him than anyone else.

When he speaks its gentle and encouraging “We just want you to be happy. You are at the age where you should be starting your own family, I want to meet my grandchildren”

You feel trapped, impossibly so.

Mating had been the one thing that you’d refused to surrender to your chosen destiny. Being the next Olo’ekyte could have everything else but you so deeply wanted to find someone who loved you.

You want to tell them that you think you’ve already found a mate. You’re sure your mom wouldn't like it, wouldn't think Neteyam is suitable but your father would support you. You just know it.

It’s not the time.

Instead you just not tersly “I will consider it. Am I free to go?”

“My daughter…” Tonowari frowns, wanting to reach, but keeping his hands at his side anyway.

“Please. I am tired”

Your father just nods. You dont stay around to hear the worried words your family shares.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The moons are high in the dark, star speckled night sky as you lounge in soft grass. You’d never spent much time here, in the little island forest, before Neteyam and yet now it’s become your oasis.

The hidden spot where you could come and release everything. Your fear and doubts are harbored by the trees. They’re good secret keepers.

“You’re distracted tonight” Neteyam remarks as he meets you in the meadow. It always takes him a little longer to get there, he has to wait for his family to fall asleep before he takes his leave.

“Sorry”

You try to put on a brave face, but when he lies down next to you, both of you on your sides facing on another, and places a large, callused hand on your hip you melt.

He doesn't have to say much to make you soft for him, he’s spent months tenderizing your heart.

“Talk to me” Neteyam urges softly as his thumbs rub patterns into your hip bone. “What happened?”

You close your eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the comfort. “I’m just tired, Tey. I feel like- I can never really satisfy anyone, you know? And I try really hard to.”

He hums in understanding “I do know what that is like. Is this about your parents?”

Your silence is the only answer he needs. You, after all, are rarely ever silent.

“Back home I was going to be Olo’eyktan and while I accepted it, I was always kind of dreading it. Counting down the days until any semblance of my life being my own was over” you don't know it, but he’d never told anyone this. You listen raptly “The responsibility of making sure everyones taken care of, its alot”

You smile, because yeah. Alot is an understatement.

“I’m just letting you know that I know how it feels. Truly. And whenever you need to; we can talk about it, one eldest sibling to another” Neteyam’s kind words go straight to your head. They make you feel dizzy, so cared for and adored.

He’s what you’ve always wanted. All of your fantasies and desires rolled into one. You’re convinced that Eywa had brought him to you. Carried him to you by ikran back on the strong east wind.

You want to mate with him. More than anything, you want to bond him. Would it scare him off if you told him so? You don't want to lose what hasn't even had it’s chance to fully develop.

“I made you something” Your words seem to shock him, if only for a minute, and he groans and rolls his eyes.

“Another gift? Really, Y/N?”

“Don't pretend you don't love them” you tease as you reach for the small satchel you’d brought with you. You grab at its contents and hold it tight in your hand. You’re nervous, terribly so, as you present the jewelry to Neteyam.

This isn't like the spear, or the blanket or the fruit. For Metkayina, this is serious business.

“Oh” he says as you hand over the necklace that you’d spend countless hours working on. “It’s is gorgeous, wow”

He takes it from you and marvles at the care you’d put into it. The necklace is made of leather, and adorned with pieces of carefully polished dark blue seashells. In the center dangles a single pearl, black as night and rare. You’d shucked an endless amount of clams to find one that felt right.

“Do you accept it?” you question as his eyes trace the piece of jewelry.

“Well, I have not rejected any of your gifts yet” Neteyam jokes dryly “I’m not about to start now.”

He doesn't know then. That if he accepts it then he will be accepting your hand. That he will be agreeing to be your mate. In Metkayina tradition, he’d give you a necklace back, one that would sit right where his bite would on your delicate neck.

He requests that you help him put it on but you decline.

This isn't something to adorn tonight, if he still wanted to wear it in the cold light of day you’d be happy to help him fasten it. Once he puts it on, he can never take it off. You’re sure he isn't aware of the fact and you wont trick him- but also don't have the energy to tell him in that very moment.

“Well I can't wear it because your being weird” Neteyam starts, brows knitted “But I still wanna thank you for it”

“Thank me, huh?” you smile as you reach to pet at his braids. Sweet, sweet man.

“Mhmm” Is all Neteyam says as his hand travels from its place on your hip, down, To play with the hem of your pink skirt. It's very clear what he wants, so you roll over onto your back and spread your legs, making it easier for him to get it.

He works you out of your coverings with ease.

Your needy pussy is sticky- strings of wetness stretch between it and your tweng as Neteyam peels it off. He groans at the heady sight. His nostrils flare and his mouth waters.

“You talk so much about how good I taste” Neteyam grumbles into your skin as he presses deep kisses into the skin of your belly, sinking ever lower. Over your naval. He traces the pretty swirling ink of your tattoos, the ones that cradle your hips and lead him right where he wants most.

He mouths at that tender crease between thigh and labia “But your cunt is Eywa sent, I swear. So sweet”

You're panting, chest concaving intensely as his face disappears between your thick thighs. You feel no shame at him staring at where you’re drenched and throbbing for him. If anything you spread wider, showing him the pretty blushing insides of your light blue gash.

Neteyam dives in, nose first. His snout rubbing at your lips, inhaling your essence eagerly. You can't help but smile, happy that he loves the way you smell. That it’s reciprocated. Two of you so compatible.

When his wide tongue laps over your puffy slit, catching on your swollen nub you cry out. Your hands fly to the back of Neteyam’s head, holding onto the braids for support. Tugging ever so slightly, just on the right side of painful. You hump at his face, shoving him closer.

Neteyam’s a messy pussy eater, he dedicates his whole being to getting you off. He uses his entire face; his mouth but also his nose and his chin and cheeks. Soon enough hes completely messy, covered in your slick as he sloppily feasts on you.

“Oh, Great Mother!” you wail when he sits up a bit, hooking your thighs over his broad shoulders, before digging back in. He’s everywhere, there's not one part of your sensitive core that he’s not licked against. “Neteyam!”

When you come for the first time, it's with a violent arch of your back and a squeal. The pleasure makes you seize and shake as it washes over you in a tidal wave. Neteyam rides it out, his mouth following your arching pussy- drawing your orgasm out beautifully.

As you start to come back down, his chin is pillowed on your inner thigh and he's looking up at you with pleased amber eyes. So shy and proud of himself for being able to get you off. His face is sticky and gleaming with your cum. You never want to forget this image of him, you want to engrave this memory somewhere deep and timeless. You think that you will need to visit the Spirit Tree soon.

“Felt good?” he verifies and you grin, nodding, still coming down.

“So good, I love it when you tongue fuck me” you sigh, still spread out for him. Your pussy aches- from over sensitivity. From the need to be touched again.

Neteyam just blushes a little at your vulgar words, sometimes you forget that he’s still very new to all of this. Each time you guys are intimate, he explores a bit more of his sexuality.

He holds your gaze as his fingers begin to toy with your folds. There’s something so erotic about it all, the way that the two of you never break eye contact. Communicating silently as Neteyam rubs at your hard clit. Sharp jolts of pleasure make your hips twitch. But still, you try to be still. Encouraging his tentative touches. When his digit swirls around your hole for a moment before sinking deep your eyes roll until they close and your head presses back into the ground.

You’re meant to be filled, your body designed to squeeze around whatever enters it and not let go. It doesnt care if its a cock or fingers or tongue, your pussy is greedy.

Neteyam bites his bottom lip bloody as he watches your core hungrily eat his fingers. First one, and then two, and then before long he's pumping all there in and out of your wet snatch. A part of him wants to tuck his thumb against his palm and shove his entire fist inside-

He’s rock hard in his tweng, undulating against the ground as he watches your hips chase his hand.

“Knot my fingers” he begs over your pathetic sobs “Please, I wanna feel it.”

It’s too much.

His eager words paired with the constant perfect rhythm in which he’s pumping his digits in and out of you. It’s not hard to grant his request. You cry out as you come, again. This time, you don't stop your body from doing what it instinctually needs to. You reach down between your legs to grab his wrist, firmly pressing his hand to your pulsating pussy. If he wants to feel, you’ll let him. Your knot swells inside of you, impossibly tight, as it locks around Neteyams long fingers.

His wide eyes stare up at you in unfiltered awe as he feels you from the inside. It’s wondrous, like nothing he’s ever experienced. He feels very special in that moment, that he gets to share this with you. Very special and very fucking horny.

“Holy shit” is his clumsy, blunt response to it all. You giggle fondly and shake your head.

“Do you like it?” You inquire as you rhythmically pulse.

He groans and presses his head, his entire face into the safe plush flesh of your thigh “I do” he admits “I want to feel it around my dick so bad”

That starts a whole new round of neediness and the two of you go at it like animals under the bright moonlight, surrounded by fluorescent flora and fauna.

You’d sworn that you’d be smarter- wouldn't stay out as late so that you could go through the upcoming day a little less exhausted but by the time the two of you are done, the sky is painted pinks and purples and the morning eclipse is dawning.

You’re lying with your head pressed to his chest and your leg thrown across his both of his. You know you should get up but you don't want to make the long trek back to the village. You whine about the decided meeting spot as the two of you sit up, knowing that you need to get ready to return.

“Why do we have to go sneaking around in the bush? I do have my own Mauri, you know” you’d sassed him, as you look for your top in the grass.

“And what if someone catches me coming in and out of your place? Yeah, no. I don’t think that is a good idea”Neteyam had protested, flustered at even the thoughts . It would be so obvious.

A frown tugs at your lips at his words. “Would that be so bad?”

There's a pregnant pause before he speaks again “I mean…I thought we had agreed to keep this private. If people start seeing me sneaking in and out of your home at all odd hours it’s not going to be hard for them to put together what’s going on”

Your heart drops a bit at that, and you feel more naked than you had moments before. “What are you…ashamed of what we’re doing?”

“I’m not ashamed…I just don't want that label, Y/N” Neteyam sighs like you’re being unreasonable and it’s like ice water in your veins. “I don't want people to look at me differently because of this”

It's hard to speak around the lump in your throat “Because of what? Me courting you? Why would that cause anyone to feel differently about you?”

“It's just, it’s different for you. There are different expectations in place. You’ve done this before.-”

“As you love to remind me” the laugh that escapes you is humorless as you locate your top and slip it back on. You already feel vulnerable, there's no need to psychically be so too. “ I’ve never once held it against you or made you feel bad about being a virgin, but you constantly throw the fact that I've been with other people in my face.”

“That’s not it-” Neteyam insists as you stand, he tries to reach for you but you side step in and grab your tweng instead. He looks so lost, like he’s trying to untie the knots in his head. You know that Neteyam has a hard time transmuting his thoughts into words and usually you’re patient with him but right now? Right now you’re too hurt to wait for him to find the words to insult you with. “I dont- I dont care if you’ve been with a ton of other people, It doesn't matter to me. That’s not why I feel uncomfortable with the village knowing”

“The mere fact that you’re so eager to call it a ton tells me that it does” you're wrapping the ties of your covering around your tail and ignoring your shaking hands as emotion bubbles up violently “I’ve only ever been intimate with three people, including yourself. Did you know that, Neteyam? I’m not the huge whore that you think me to be”

Neteyam looks down at the ground shamefully. He hasn't even reached for his own tweng yet. It’s like he’s stuck, his head going a mile a minute. Too fast for his body to catch up with.

“When I told you I wanted to court you I wasn't lying. I’m not sure what that means to you, or the people back in the forest, but here it means that I see you as a potential mate. I didn't realize that you’re too embarrassed of me to see me as the same” you’re going to start crying, you can feel it.

This moment had already happened to you, years before. You’d already been rejected by someone you thought wanted you- you never thought you’d allow yourself to happen again.

Eywa, how fucking stupid can you be?

The familiar feeling is devastating. You feel soiled and used.

“If you can just be reasonable- If we can-can talk. I don't know how to make you understand that this isn't all about you” Neteyam is stuttering, finally reaching for his own tweng but you’re checked out.

How does one be reasonable when their heart is breaking?

“It’s fine. There’s nothing to talk about. I’m sorry that I misread this whole thing. My mistake.”

You’re off before he can get another word in, storming through the foliage as fast as your feet can take you. The tears that had been building only fall once you’re out of eye sight.

You can hear him calling for you, pleading for you to come back.

You leave him there, half naked in the woods.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Iknimaya ceremony comes all too fast.

The days since you and Neteyam’s fight in the forest had all been a blur. You were too busy to focus on your fractured feelings. No one had even truly known about the two of you, so it’s as if life moves on as though it had never even happened.

That might be what’s most painful about it all.

You have duties to fulfill, and you’d like to pretend like they keep you from focusing in on that pain. You help where you’re needed- and even where you’re not. It’s left you drained and bone tired, but distracted enough to maintain.

As you and your sister get ready for the long day, she notices how sluggish you are. Dragging yourself through the motions.

“When was the last time you slept?” Tsireya asks as she watches you dress.

“I’ve been busy as of late, Reya” You take care as you ready yourself. Donning traditional Metkayinan ceremonial drab- your blood-orange tweng is intricate and the shell headpiece you wear connects with your barely there top. You brush your long midnight hair until it’s glossy and bouncing, the ends of it reaching the base of your tail as it falls down your back in waves.

You’d always had a healthy dose of vanity.

You know that you are attractive, pretty. Shockingly so, as you’d been told. Blessed with thick eyelashes and feminine features. Your whole life,many have spoken about how favored an Omega, to which you’d never taken offense. You’d inherited your mothers looks, as had Tsireya. Small. Compact. Unexpectedly vicious.

You use your looks as a weapon, just as everything else, your little sister is well aware of the fact. She knows that you’re overcompensating with appearing attractive for the fact that something has happened.

“I’m worried about you. You can try to fool everyone else, but you’re not fooling me, sister. I know that somethings wrong” Tsireya is sweet, but firm. She’d always had that air around her.

Caring yet severe. She was all Alpha no matter what people might think about her docile temperament.

“It’s not like speaking about it would change anything” you mutter, if anything, it would bring the pain front and center.

“Don’t be a coward, Ma Y/N. You know better than anyone that the only way over something is through it” Tsireya’s blunt, but without an ounce of malice.

She knows how to handle you and knows that tough love is oftentimes better than coddling like comfort when it comes to you.

It works.

“Neteyam rejected my courtship”

“You lie” she accuses in a gasp, and you just glare at her. “But- he’s so interested in you”

“Obviously not” it’s flippant. You don’t even want to meet her eyes. You’d been under that impression too.

“Something is being lost in translation here, sister. Neteyam likes you. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I can feel it everytime the two of you are around each other” your sister insists and it’s like salt in the wound.

“Sometimes things aren’t what they seem. It’s not as though this is the first time I’ve been wrong about someone’s intentions for me” the words are hard to admit and taste like acid in your mouth.

“Neteyam couldn’t be any more different than Vaeyu. The two might as well be night and day- this situation can’t be the same” Tsireya insists and you bite your tongue.

“No they’re not the same. But their feelings, or lack there of, are”

Vaeyu had never been particularly kind to you but there had been a time when you naively believed that he truly cared about you.

Before your Iknimaya, which should’ve been the first warning sign, the older warrior had courted you.

He, like Neteyam, had wanted to keep it a secret.

Vaeyu took your virginity before telling you that as an Alpha himself, he would never mate with another Alpha.

You were too much for him. Not at all a suitable mate. He’d be embarrassed to be with you…

The scene that had played itself out just nights before in the forest with Neteyam had been all too familiar.

“Just once” you start, voice shaky as you focus on holding back all the hurt you've felt “I’d like to be wanted back. Truly. By someone who sees me as I see them”

“Oh, Y/N” Tsireya breathes as she grabs your hands and holds them tightly.

You don’t have the time to weep, but it feels nice, standing in your Mauri with your sister for that fleeting moment.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Metkayinan Iknimaya is a difficult and dangerous task to achieve.

The Akula hunt is fierce. An entire team of warriors working to bring down the wild beast. Many had died in their efforts. The massive sharks are armored with very few weak spots. They’re extremely difficult to kill.

Today would be no different. There would assuredly be some injuries- you give a brief prayer to the great mother for no casualties.

The to-be warriors line up on the shore and your mother, Tsahik Ronal, passes each. Chanting over them, and drawing a line across their face- from temple, over the bridge of their noses- to other temple, with white paint.

May the Great Mother take you into her arms. The Sea is your home before your birth, and if you should die, you will return to it in the afterlife.

You try to keep from staring at Neteyam, who’s tall and fierce and armed with the spear you’d given him.

The two of you only meet eyes briefly as he mounts his Tsurak. Right before he sets out. There’s so much unsaid and there’s no time to say it.

Instead you give him a firm nod.

You’d trained him. Had seen him in action. He could do this. You have full faith in him.

He only nods back.

The hunt makes you jittery, lights your blood on fire. You love this. Watching hunters draw first blood and make a clean kill. A primal part of you is dying to get in there. To join the fight.

It all happens in a rush- one minute the warriors are out on Tsurak back, headed for the deep. It’s harder to see where what’s going on as you stand with the crowd on the beach but you know from experience the energy filled pursuit that is going on right under the surface.

This year- it’s quick.

So much quicker than the years prior.

The crowd murmurs, almost confused, as the hunters return to the beach in record time.

They are no longer children.

Behind them, they haul the large carcass of a fully grown male Akula. Ropes secured around the body, netting and the waves helping transport with the sheer bulk of the creature. Sticking out of his left eye, perfectly launched, is the spear that you had crafted for Neteyam.

“Our hunters have returned, as fully blooded men and women of the Metkayina!”

Your father booms in pride, his warm cries whooping along the people as they join in. They’d made it back, all of them, with minimal damage. In record time. With one of the biggest catches you’d ever seen.

There’s hugs and tears. Everyone seems to be embracing one another. The pride is felt village wide and it’s a communal high.

“We will feast tonight!”Varyu cheers, and hoots follow “Tell me, who made the fatal blow? It is as clean a kill as I’ve ever seen”

You already know. You’d known since you’d seen the carvings on the wood- but the newly fledged Hunters push Neteyam forward and confirm it.

Vaeyu’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets. It’s comical to say the least.

Neteyam is humble, as he always is. It was a team effort, he claims.

His family beams at him. Jake whooping and Neytiri’s misty eyed. Lo’ak is grinning from ear to ear and Kiri and Tuk clap and cheer for their brother.You remember Lo’ak telling you about how his older brother had been the youngest in their village to ever make a clean kill. You’d been impressed then.

Right now? Right now you are stunned. So proud that you can barely speak. All of those training sessions where Neteyam had doubted his ability to adapt had paid off.

He’s a warrior, as he’s meant to be. Neteyam has reclaimed his place in the world.

Your father goes to Neteyam and places his hands on his shoulders. Beaming. “You have done well and proved yourself amongst are people. I am proud to call you Metkayina”

You want to cry. You’ve never felt such emotion. You know how much this means to Neteyam and all you want to do is go over to him and embrace him.

“As the hunter who solidified the kill, you have first choice during Fertility Season. Tell me, son. Is there anyone who you want to lay claim to?” Your father speaks of the tradition. If the kill can be traced back to a single warrior- they earn the honor of having their pick of mates.

It’s ancient, dated, and most decline. You’re expecting Neteyam to do the same.

Instead, he focuses on you.

It doesn’t feel real. This must be a dream. The docile introverted Omega you’d gotten to know would never lay a claim on you, so boldly. In public. To your father much less.

And yet, he does.

“Ma Y/N” Neteyam calls to you clear and true. He’s chosen these words carefully; they don’t stick to the roof of his mouth “I am yours if you’ll still have me.”

Only then do you notice that the black pearl necklace that you had strung together for him hangs around his throat.

A clear symbol of his acceptance of your courtship.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

I’m so sorry to end it there on that cliffhanger but guyssssss. We all know she says yes. She’s down so bad for him lmfao

To my omegaverse besties @tru-blubelle @imperihoe @tiredmamaissy and Cinetrix thanks for all of the inspiration and support!

Omega Neteyam is my fucking religion now. I swear. I’m never getting over how perfect he is. Ughhhh. Sweetest bby boi who deserves the actual world. I love writing the juxtaposition of someone who is so incredibly physically attractive- and yet so socially awkward. He really doesn’t know how gorgeous he is. People expect him to be more suave because of his chiseled features and he’s really just an introverted guy who hates being the center of attention.

Okay so lots to talk about here! I introduced some OC’s! I feel like whenever I get to read about a Na’vi OC I’m like instantly in deep because it’s such an interesting culture and they’re such an interesting people!

I adore Akemi. He’s just an all around good guy who stepped up to the plate and took Roxto in when he had no one. Akemi’s husband is also a fun colorful character and I can’t wait to introduce him to you guys in the next chapter!

Vaeyu fucking sucks lmfao I wanted to write a smarmy Na’vi for the realism of it all. He’s everything bad about Alphas. He totally groomed the reader, if that wasn’t clear enough in the story. Tonowari would have him banished if he knew about it because he’s a protective dad and also a good man who hates creeps.

If you need a visual guide to how I picture Na’vi Male Omega’s genitalia you can find that here!

And if you have any questions about my A/B/O Head Cannons or the way that I’m structuring secondary gender in this story, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Neteyam goes into heat next chapter(I had to split this one into two because it was at 18K words long) so get ready for some wild ass smut😂

Please remember that interaction is key when it comes to fanfiction! I'd love to talk to you guys! Let’s escape to Pandora together!

My Taglist for this story is currently OPEN, but full disclosure that if I take the time to give you a tag, I am going to be expecting some sort of feedback.

@thehoneymushroomhealer @persy-the-nugget @tallulah477 @sakurayuki8655-blog @cumikering @adaiasafira @thatonegirlwiththebeanie367 @akkibear @a-blog-name-2023 @weasleytwinwheezes @siimiasoi @blueslxt-primary @haji-me-mashite @mightyneteyam @kiri-tuk

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.03 ~ ♆

“ Let the 67th Annual Hunger Games begin, “

{{ finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, etc

{{ word count }} 4.5 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} The tribute Parade comes and goes as training begins and the next two weeks all but fly past. Then after an intrusive interview the day of the Games arrives.

{{ a/n }} Super quick “highlights” up ahead !! This chapter jumps around a bit and is much faster paced than normal but i swear it makes sense in the long run I just didn’t want to bore you all with regurgitated details to be revealed later on. enjoy!!

You didn’t see Finnick again.

Not even after arriving in the Capital on the train platform. A small piece of you had started to regret your outburst, but a bigger part was too stubborn to admit that. Besides, the likelihood of you seeing the boy again was slim. Thatcher was right in saying you’d be “whisked away” because everything moved incredibly fast from then on.

Your transport to the Tribute Center was quick and efficient. You were barely able to settle before a prep team all but kidnapped you and whisked you away once more to the Remake Center to prepare for the parade and opening ceremonies of the Games.

The prep team’s techniques were invasive, to say the least. Almost every inch of your skin was examined, prodded at, scrubbed, washed, plucked, waxed, moisturized, and polished when they finished the lengthy cleaning process. Even The dried blood under your fingernails had been picked away. As more time passed, the more you really did start to feel like some kind of show animal or “prize-winning salmon” leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

Managing a weak thanks as you’re handed a flimsy gown to cover up with, your prep team gives a nod before leaving. That too-clean feeling from the train ride sends pinpricks up your spine again as you sit up to slide the gown on and peer around the sleek room. It’s wide open and similar to some kind of medical bay, although much more modern than the small clinics back in District 4. Peacekeepers line the outside wall along slanted windows. There are many smothered voices behind plastic, vinyl curtains used to separate the small prep rooms down the open corridor. It’s safe to assume you’re surrounded by the other Tributes.

A stylist introduces herself to you as Hyacinth, briefly explaining the vision behind the luxurious garment as it’s pulled from a protective sleeve on the hanger in her hands. Every set of Tributes was given costumes to match their District’s core industry to wear throughout the parade. District 4’s costumes, obviously, represented their many fisheries. The garment was difficult to distinguish from any other fishing net made on your ports back home, but as the stylist began to wrap the intricate material around your exposed skin it began to look more like a costume.

You were right about the ensemble being mostly netting. Thankfully, you were provided a bodysuit that had been airbrushed to match your complexion and painted details to resemble gills across the sides of your ribs. Large iridescent blue-green fish scales had been woven in and across the netting on your chest as if splattered there, crawling up your collarbones and wrapping around your shoulders. More scales were placed down your arms towards your fingertips, and the same process was applied to your legs with a sticky substance. The bottom of the netted costume had more scales adorning the hemming, their colors changing under the lights. You were left barefoot, which you felt was a bit dangerous, but you were too focused on their intricate handiwork to object to. Your hair was left in its natural texture, although Hyacinth laid a few pieces just how she wanted them. Ear cuffs made to resemble fins wrap around the shell of your ears. Your makeup was painted on in colors to match the color-shifting scales, and your fingernails and toes were painted an ocean blue.

“You look absolutely stunning Darling,”

Hyacinth had stepped back to admire her finished product, and you couldn’t help the insecurity churning your insides. A bathing suit revealed more than a netted outfit, but you couldn’t help feeling completely exposed. “I-It is very beautiful. Thank you,” You try not to stumble on your words as you do a small twirl in the mirror. Hyacinth’s smile spreads, and she gives a giddy clap of her hands, largely appreciating the flattery.

“Wonderful Darling!! Now, come, come, we must get you downstairs. Your chariot awaits!”

You’re ushered away from the small prep room and quickly transported from the Remake Center to an open-air stadium for the Tribute Parade. Upon entering a large open hall connected to the stadium floor, you notice the twelve shiny mental chariots pulled by beautiful inky Clydesdales. The horse’s mane and tails are freshly groomed, and their coats shine in the stadium lights. You can’t help thinking what magnificent creatures they are as you approach. The other Tributes around you are resigned to themselves, talking only to their stylists or one another. Your district partner and their stylist are already beside your chariot as well. You offer a small hello but wander over to the beautiful inky-colored creatures attached to the chariot.

One of the Clydesdales gives a soft whinny as you gently reach out to stroke its mane. You’d only seen horses less than a handful of times but had always admired the strong creatures. The remaining minutes you have before the opening ceremonies begin are spent stroking the horse’s strong neck and muzzle while whispering sweet nothings to the creatures.

Once an announcement is made that the ceremony is about to begin, you give the horses a sweet smile in farewell before stepping up onto the chariot beside your District Partner. You hadn’t noticed the odd look they’d given you, but their eyes quickly averted upon you meeting their stare. That familiar anxious knot twists your insides as the gleaming chariot lurches forward to follow the procession. Your knuckles turn white from how stiff your grip on the front of the chariot is.

The parade runs smoothly, though you find the loud cheers and hollers of the hundreds of thousands gathered to watch the event extremely overwhelming. Bitterness sets in your jaw as you remember they only care about the entertainment your death will provide. Your promise echoes through your mind as you take your eyes from the grandstands to look ahead toward the President of Panem, Coriolanus Snow.

You will not die.

Training begins in the morning, bright and early. There’s officially less than two weeks before the Games. All twenty-four tributes are transported to the Training center from their quarters and dressed in nearly identical uniforms consisting of black athletic long sleeves and pants with sleek black combat boots. Burnt orange accents run up the side seams and across the shoulders of their uniforms. The only distinction between Tributes is their district number embroidered on their backs in the same burnt orange as the accents on their clothes.

You scan the large training area as everyone spreads out to show off their personal strengths. Shifting your weight between your feet, you try to focus on your brief discussion with mags over breakfast. The goal of the training is to be observed by potential sponsors who can send aid in the arena. The more sponsors you get, the better your odds of potentially surviving. Your goal wasn’t to gain as many sponsors as possible by showing off but instead focusing on honing your skills to survive without the extra gifts. With a deep inhale, you make your way to a tall rope course that stretches the expanse of the upper levels of the hall and get to work.

The first few days spent in the Training Center, you work on getting through the ropes course, then getting through the course with weights, then doing both things while being as light-footed and silent as possible. You try to distance yourself from the other tributes, especially the growing pack of careers. Your best bet is to blend in and remain invisible to keep others off your back. Tensions increase after the first week, and a fight inevitably breaks out between the careers. Two female tributes are arguing for power within the alliance, ending in the pack dividing in two. You can only hope the grudges they now carry become their downfall in the arena as you resume your knife-throwing practice.

You’re not the best, but you manage to at least hit the target a few times. By the end of the next day, you’re hitting the target, although nowhere near the center or any crucial extremities on the human cutout. It would be enough to slow an opponent but nothing lethal at long range. You tried to push away the bile that threatened to rise in your throat whenever you remembered the high possibility of actually facing another human being with these knives. You hoped it wouldn’t come down to that, but your rationale knew better. The claim you spat in that bronze-haired boy’s face rang in your ears.

“I’d rather choose death than a life with blood on my hands.”

You scrape by with a score of six during the private Tribute Showcase, nimbly traversing the ropes course with a heavy weight on your back with barely a sound. Your goal of staying under the radar had worked.

Tonight, Hyacinth was fawning over another luxurious garment designed for your impending live audience interview with the ever-charismatic and flamboyant Caesar Flickerman. The stylist monologues her vision while zipping the back of the ensemble. Your costume tonight was made to represent the sea itself, a deep aquamarine bodysuit covered in various droplet crystals hugging your form, and a makeshift cape of the same deep color fades into layers of progressively lighter sea greens and blues, mimicking the sea foam of rolling waves on the coast. The many layers of the waterfall cape move in a satisfying cascade down your back to the floor, trailing behind you.

You’re given slim boots to match the bodysuit, and your hair is pinned up to showcase your bare back and the excessive cape. Ear cuffs nearly identical to the ones you wore during the parade wrap around your ears, and your makeup is honed more to accentuate your natural features than cover them. The polish on your fingernails is a muted sea green that causes a twist in your chest. The color reminds you too much of a certain bronze-haired boy.

Regret flashes through you again.

“Alright, Darling, shoulders back. Head high, you’ll be a spectacle no one will look away from,” Hyacinth coos as she brushes the fabric across your shoulders and adjusts finishing minute details. You offer a small smile with a sweet thanks before she loops your arm in hers and leads you toward the wings backstage. You really weren’t fond of the many cameras or prying eyes that awaited beyond your shadowy safe haven out of view, but you didn’t have a choice but to smile and play the part.

The male Tribute of District 3 is wrapping up their brief interview, and that anxious knot contorts harshly inside your chest. Soon, the interviewer and interviewee stand, shake hands, and the Tribute exits stage left.

“Now, Our next Tribute hails from the northern end of our beloved District 4,”

Caesar chirps through his introduction, and a nudge from behind urges you forward at the call of your name. You startle forward but manage to keep a sureness in your steps. The bright flashing lights and mechanical snaps of cameras form an overstimulating cacophony between the roar of the Capital citizens. The host of tonight’s event is adorned in sparkling silver, from the top of his slicked-back hair down to piercing eye contacts and a monochromatic tux that you could’ve sworn was closer to chrome from the gleaming shine.

You offer a wavering smile as you approach the host. Caesar Flickerman motions you to the seat beside him as he descends to the eggshell-colored swivel chair. You take your seat, adjusting the cascading cape to flow over the arm of the chair to remain because of the audience. A chorus of “ooo’s” and “ahhh’s” reverberates through the auditorium, and you can’t help the burning flush at the tips of your ears. “You look absolutely stunning tonight, my Dear,” Caesar compliments through a picture-perfect smile. You nod in thanks as he dives right into the questions.

“So, how has Capital life been treating you?”

“Uhm, it’s been very.. different, to say the least,” You stumble a bit through your response, but Caesar simply nods and leans out to the crowd with that picture-perfect smile and a laugh. “Well, what’s the most?” and a chorus of hoots and laughter rises from the audience again. Your faux smile falters, and your hands wring together in your lap anxiously. “It’s just more..extravagant than back home, is all. More colorful.” You reply shakily. The host nods in encouragement before moving on to the next question.

“Well, a little birdie whispered that a certain Sweetheart of the Capital arrived with you on the Tribute’s train. Our beloved Finnick Odair, one might say. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is there possibly a star-crossed lovers situation on our hands?”

Your blood runs cold as the phrase leaves Flickerman’s lips. He’s leaned forward, clearly on the edge of his seat, with the microphone pointed towards you, and the auditorium falls deathly silent. Your throat feels tight as all you do is stare in pure disbelief. “W-What?” You choke out, bewilderment on your face as your ears flush red from a burning embarrassment in your chest. The audience scoffs in disappointment at your response, and your confusion grows.

Caesar’s expression shifts as his smile falters, his eyes all but telling you to answer or make something up so he can move on. You stutter in reply while firmly shaking your head from side to side,

“No, no! It’s nothing like that at all. Honestly, I find him more irritating than anything. Besides, I’d never fall for a stuck-up Peacock like Finnick Odair in a thousand years!”

Your embarrassment turns into anger at the question as the audience groans in further disappointment, a few “Boos” echoing through the rafters above. However, much to your dismay, a few conspiring whispers slip through under all the noise that signifies your words weren’t taken as truth. This makes your blood simmer as Caesar barks a laugh, slapping a tanned hand on his silver knee.

“Ah hah! Well, that’s a mighty claim my dear, but I’m not so sure you’re well believed seeing that blush on your cheeks!”

Your jaw sets as you sit through two more equally ludicrous questions about your life before you exit the stage and return to your living quarters for the night. Upon returning to the Tribute Center and changing out of your ocean blue costume with the help of Hyacinth and her team, you immediately sink into the heavenly warmth of the large tub in your private washroom. However, not before receiving a thorough chew out from Thatcher over your once again “unprofessional behavior” when answering Caesar’s questions and for apparently “disrespecting” the Capital’s Darling.

Gently, you scrub yourself clean but remain in the comforting heat and steamy air till the water is frigid, trying to soak in the pleasuring warmth as long as possible while enjoying the brief privacy the washroom allows. Eventually, you drain the tub and towel yourself off, slipping into soft, lightweight bottoms, similar to the ones Finnick had thrown at you on the train, and an oversized short-sleeved tunic.

Finnick.

Unwanted pinpricks of regret stab your chest again, and a crease forms between your brows as the remembrance of the bronze-haired victor brings the interview questions surging back to the front of your mind. You grip your toothbrush tighter as you try to push away the embarrassment from earlier tonight. You didn’t know or understand how a rumor like that could even be an inkling in someone’s mind. You didn’t even see the boy at the station platform, and what business was it of a bunch of old snobby Capital Elites to reach after the love lives of children picked to slaughter one another in less than a day? Your stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought.

Once you finished preparing for sleep, you pad your way over to your bed and find a comfortable seating position before flipping through a few of the ‘sleep aids’ with a small metal remote. The floor-to-ceiling windows in your luxurious, Capital-provided, bedroom flashed between different sceneries till you landed on one of the waves crashing on a foggy shore. The muddy sand of the beach drifted under the lull of the tide. Occasionally, seagulls cawed from the clouds above.

You knew you should be doing something with your last night of so-called ‘freedom’ before the Games begin tomorrow, but all you can do is stare at the waves. You wonder how your siblings and father are faring like you have every night since your departure from District 4. You could only hope they were learning to adapt with you being gone. Trying not to spiral over your fate, you drag your hands down your face to scrub at your eyes with a heavy sigh and thick swallow.

“I can do this…”

You mutter the mantra to yourself as you internally review the strategies Mags had made you memorize. There weren’t any clues given as to what the arena entailed. Rumors had been overheard in the Training Center, but the Gamemakers never repeated an arena. There could be anything in that dome of death tomorrow. The waves continue to crash on the screen, the whistle of a breeze blowing through the tall pines just beyond the beach that helps keep you grounded.

You could do this. You had to. Your father’s only word in farewell echos like many others.

“Survive,”

The morning comes too soon. You didn’t touch much of your breakfast even though you know you need as much energy as possible. Mags gives a pointed look your way, and you begrudgingly force a few bites down. Afterward, Mags, Hyacinth, and you are escorted by peacekeepers to a flight hanger near the Tribute Center. You receive an almost bone-crushing hug from your mentor that you graciously return with equal vigor.

“Thank you, for everything”

You murmur into the older woman’s hair. You feel her tears dampen the tunic covering your shoulder. Forcing yourself to pull away and wipe the tears from the elderly woman’s face as she signs her care for you. You offer a sweet smile and other thanks before a Peacekeeper takes your arm and leads you onto a hovercraft. Hyacinth follows, and you're pushed into a seat.

“Your arm,” The Peacekeeper orders while reaching out their hand. You hesitantly reach out, and they quickly place a device with an abnormally large needle into your arm. You grimace at the sting as a trigger is tugged, and a small glowing object appears beneath your skin. Your arm is dropped, and you place two fingers lightly over the slight bump caused by the device. “Don’t touch that. It’s your tracker.” The peacekeeper remarks, and you startle, returning your hands to your lap. The flight is long, but you don’t doze off as adrenaline pumps through your core. Tucking stray flyaways behind your ears, you look across to Hyacinth, who offers a solemn smile. The hovercraft eventually lands, a group of Peacekeepers in stark white uniforms meet you, and you’re quickly led to a small room.

The room is bare bones with only a rack containing your uniform for the Games, a small desk, and an overhead lamp. Two peacekeepers stand guard outside the door, and Hyacinth helps prepare you one last time. The uniform doesn’t give much away about what to expect of the arena besides its colors. Consisting of dark brown hiking boots, slim-fitted pants with multiple pockets in burnt umber, a warm brown skin-tight tank top, and a lightweight khaki-colored windbreaker. The possibility of a dry, warm climate arose in your mind as you examined the materials of your uniform. Hyacinth gave you a sad smile as she fixed the hood of your jacket.

“Good luck my Darling, it’s been my pleasure to know you.”

The stylist’s smile is sad, tears brim her eyes, and you can’t help feeling emotional. This was it. She would be the last person you saw before the Games began. You wrap your arms around the tall woman in a hug, surprising the stylist, but she gently accepts and returns the gesture. You give her your thanks before an announcement comes through a speaker somewhere in the room that the countdown is about to begin. With a thick swallow, you step towards the glass elevator indicated to ale you up into the arena. You hesitate, a shaky inhale entering your nose before gingerly stepping onto the panel. The glass door wraps around with a slick “shink” and your whirl to face your stylist. But she’s already left the room, probably unable to watch another one of her tributes enter the thunderstorm of the Hunger Games arena.

You don’t blame her.

A moment passes before the platform you’re standing on begins to rise, and your gaze turns skyward. The light is bright, causing your sensitive eyes to squint. You take note that you’re at least in an outdoor setting. The air that kisses your skin is dry and warm as your platform fully breaches the earth into the arena. Your head swivels as you take in the surroundings as a bright yellow countdown has begun in the sky above via hologram.

The arena of the 67th games was a ravine.

Half the tributes are spread on your side of the steep, open-mouthed drop, the other twelve across the wide mouth on a parallel cliff. There are trees behind, but there are no weapons because they’re all in the center across a woven net. The footholds are wide. If you’re not careful, you’ll trip and either plummet to the rushing water miles below or succumb to a Tribute’s attacks. Weapons and supplies are placed on a tarp in the center of the woven bridge. The Cornucopia. Maybe things would be over sooner than you thought.

The countdown is halfway.

Wetting your lips, you take a glance down and fight the urge to vomit, hearing someone else already do so over the side of their podium at the descent less than a foot from the cliff edge. Layers of cliffs jut out in makeshift ladders and walkways with alcoves to possibly hide in, but you quickly realize the only source of fresh water will be the rushing river at the bottom of the ravine. Glancing back up, you quickly try to stop the blanking panic in your mind as you try to recall everything Mags had taught you. Your best bet was to run. You can use your jacket as cover and get to the bottom to hide while everyone is too busy risking the crawl to the weapons. There was bound to be edible plant life at the bottom, or worse, you hunt for something better on the way down.

Ten seconds left.

Nine,

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

One,

“Let the 67th annual Hunger Games, begin.”

A bell sounds, and all hell breaks loose. No one yells, only the fierce grunts as Tributes race for the Cornucopia. You don’t see your District Partner, but you don’t stay static long enough to see the carnage that ensues as you bolt in the opposite direction. Two other Tributes bolt after you but veer straight into the trees beyond. Your heart feels like it’ll burst from your chest as you sprint down the edge till you find a slope to take you down. Falling to a slide, you slip down to another cliff as the first canon booms.

twenty three left.

Two more canons burst through the arena as you continue your rocky descent. Children are screaming above you, and you hurl what little substance is in your stomach as a body falls in front of you with a sickening crunch. The blood splatters across your skin, and you bite back your terrified scream. You have to keep moving.

Another canon.

Twenty left.

You dare take a glance behind and luckily manage to escape unnoticed. But you don’t hold hope on that factor as loud snaps reverberate down the canyon. Someone was cutting the net to the Cornucopia. There’s more screaming as you nimbly jump from the rocky slab you stood upon down to a jutting-out cliff, narrowly avoiding a fall to your demise. A pained scream catches in your throat through gritted teeth as your shoulder makes contact and you roll across the red earth. A dampness coats your tongue with a metallic taste of copper. Blood.

Forcing yourself to stand, your knees nearly fall out from under you, but you remain upright as you take another running jump to an even lower rock platform. By now, someone shouts above the screaming, “Go that way!” and you force yourself to move faster. You don’t have time to see what the voice originating the order meant. All you know is you have to get away. You land chest first on the edge of the cliff, and the wind is knocked from your chest. Blood splatters on the gravel, projected from the cough of air escaping your lungs. It’s an effort to pull yourself back up over the edge, slipping on sliding feet for a foothold on the rock wall, but you manage. There’s the crunch of boots above, and your terror amplifies tenfold as a spear shoots past you down to the depths. “S-Shit..” you gurgle on blood as you take off running once more, choking down small gasps of air that never seem to reach your lungs.

You can’t stop.

Another canon goes off and you hear another body fall to the depths, following another grotesque crunch of bone and muscle on rock.

Nineteen left.

A metallic clatter fills the expansive cavern of the ravine, and you spare a fleeting glance above just as the netting of the Cornucopia plummets. Metal cases, weapons, backpacks, and other supplies become entangled in the tarp they had rested upon as debris falls. Cases shatter and clang on the many cliffs. You do your best to evade the sharp debris but aren’t fast enough as a blade slices across the back of your left leg. You’re brought to your knees by the searing pain but again force yourself up, barely remembering to grab the small blade and continue your descent. White hot pain shoots ribbons through your entire leg, but you keep moving, albeit slower than before. Two more canons.

Seventeen Tributes left.

Seven children already dead.

You could only hope your canon wouldn’t fire anytime soon.

Another canon, sixteen left.

You will not die.

{{ taglist }}

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore

[eduzek]

[dustykneed]

can you share some of your mirror verse hcs?

(gladly! ... as you can see this really got away from me in terms of length and i am SO sorry in advance for springing a whole short essay on you skdjsdh)

to open with a bit of a shocker, perhaps, well, the way i interpret the mirrorverse, i just... cannot see mirror mcspirk happening. now don't get me wrong! i think mirror spirk is absolutely possible, and in fact highly probable, and not even as just a sleeping together thing. i think their dynamic could absolutely yield a form of co-dependent emotional attachment on a highly personal level. everyone defines love differently, but i think that in the mirrorverse, if not love, it is certainly as close as you could get. but mirror mcspirk i actually can't see, believe it or not, and this is for a couple of reasons:

the thing about the mirrorverse is that it is all about the death of humanity (not humans, but for what we know as the human capacity for empathy, kindness and hope. i've seen the mirrorverse described as "the universe where no hope can survive". i think that is a very apt summary of what i explore here.) one key assumption of my interpretation of the mirrorverse is that the characters themselves, initially, are no different from how they are in any other universe at the core, and it is the varied external factors of the universe in which they exist that produces the people they become.

to examine the effects of the mirrorverse on the triumvirate, we might begin by looking at the original triumvirate's relationships with the concept of "goodness", with reference to the principles of ethos, logos and pathos.

one of the fundaments of kirk, as a character, is his relationship with goodness as a choice. he represents ethos, morality, in that his goodness is the result of a conscious decision to be good, to do good, as far as possible, to pick the least of any evils if he absolutely must and even if it is difficult, to keep going for the greater good. in the end, it all boils down to his core motivation to be a net force of goodness on the world, or in other words, to train his eyes on the bigger picture when interacting with the situation at hand and to believe that goodness can always prevail in the sense that he will have a net positive impact on the world around him.

spock, on the other hand, is arguably characterized by his relationship with defining goodness. his struggle to reconcile logic and emotion goes hand in hand with his desire to know if, and why, what he is doing is right-- logos. other vulcans rationalize displays of emotion by interpreting them through the lens of logic. spock, i think, is unable to do this because while he has been taught that emotions are illogical and undesirable, and internalizes this to perhaps a far stricter extent than most vulcans due to being held to unfairly high standards to prove himself "vulcan enough", he recognizes on a subconscious level that there is no inherent contradiction between logic and emotions, and that goodness is a mixture of value judgements and rational, ethical methodology.

but mccoy, i think, is a little different, in that goodness in itself is what defines him as a character. instead of ethos (making the right decision) or logos (understanding what makes something right), mccoy's pathos (an unrefined, innate compulsion for goodness; something similar to mencius' theory of good human nature) is not a conscious decision or a principle of action, but a visceral, impulsive, desperate, sometimes irrational and neurotic need to do good no matter the cost, simply because he instinctively knows that it is the kind thing and therefore the right thing to do-- which, sometimes, makes him disregard the bigger picture, and, ironically, do the wrong thing out of irrationality.

(to digress-- i actually think that kirk is actually far more logical than we sometimes give him credit for, especially in the context of spirk. the dynamic of a logical, stoic character and an emotional, affectionate character whose very souls find solace in one another is a hugely compelling and moving one, and i cannot fault people for applying that dynamic to their relationship-- but, well, by virtue of being relatively less direct associations of their character dynamics in the context of slash, i think what happens sometimes with spones, mckirk and mcspirk is that in the process of fumbling around for ways to fit them together believably, people often end up doing a greater degree of exploration of their character dynamics and nuances that is like catnip to me xD)

for kirk and spock, as men whose worldviews are rooted in tangible logic, where the goodness they have seen is the driving force for their pursuit of morality, i do not doubt that without external proof of goodness as a feasible, worthy path, the same traits that grant them their steadfast belief in humanity and hence their great devotion to goodness will be the traits that drive them to turn away from that goodness in the mirror universe. in a world where hope cannot survive, where cruelty and ambition are the only constants, kirk's resourcefulness prompts him to adapt to his environment and seek what he sees as the bigger picture-- ambition and power. spock, a being of logic, observes that cruelty is simply how the world functions, and as a result applies this science to his interactions with it, seeking power not because of a specific ambition, but, again, because it is a logical course of action according to his observations.

i see spirk as highly probable in the mirrorverse precisely because of how alike they are in this regard. they are capable of great compartmentalization of personal sentiments in order to do what they consider "the right thing", or take the "logical course of action", and this is what makes them effective in command roles, where dwelling on the implications of a wrong decision could either kill you from the sheer crushing guilt, or kill more of your men because of your indecision. they are comfortable in their pursuit of power by use of force because they have internalized the rules of the mirrorverse, and are able find solace in each other because they are evenly matched as opponents and a force to be reckoned with when in alliance, which gives them the space to develop that personal attachment and tension in the first place.

but mccoy? mccoy's goodness isn't rooted in logic, and as a result, this facet of his character largely remains untouched even in the face of the greatest cruelties and atrocities his world can offer. his great stubbornness (or illogic, or perhaps even self-delusion) lends him the ability to, against all odds, still believe that people are inherently worthy of kindness and compassion. he believes in good without ever having experienced it, because his belief in good is illogical by nature.

i have no doubt that mccoy would possibly love kirk, and spock, in part simply because he resonates subconsciously with the capacity of kirk and spock to show great kindness. it is possible that he sees the apparitions of what they could have become, had the world not been so unkind to them, and his love for them is tinged with an undercurrent of mixed grief and disgust, and pity. but fundamentally he doesn't trust spirk-- and because of that i think he could never bring himself to truly fall in love even though he has the capacity for it, because that would require betraying his love for humanity.

i think, based on the way mirror kirk and spock likely treat mccoy, as technically their subordinate (and especially in mirror mirror, when mirror spock mind melds with mccoy to figure out why he saved his life without so much as a moment's hesitation, because he doesn't see mirror mccoy as a threat, so why would a mccoy from a softer, kinder universe ever be anything more?) i wouldn't be surprised if they saw mccoy as... lesser. you know? they know that mccoy isn't capable of seeking power the way they do. that makes him weak. i think they trust him far more than anyone else other than each other, perhaps less out of respect for his profession or character, but more because they are able to clear him as a possible threat, as something too pathetic to seize power even when given the chance. they definitely have some interest in his motivations-- like you would a pet, or a plaything, because kindness makes you a target, a weakness, and a liability. a fascinating study, but ultimately, inadvertently disposable.

and it makes sense, in a way, that they are unable to bring themselves to ally themselves with mccoy the way they have each other, because in the mirrorverse, to believe in kindness is a death sentence. they might pity mccoy or regard him with contempt borne out of inexplicable regret, the same way mccoy pities them, for his wasted potential as an asset (and maybe even as a partner). by insulating themselves against their inevitable loss of mccoy, conciously or otherwise, they save themselves another hurt in their world where hope is a lost cause.

(i definitely have more bouncing around in my head about mirror bones especially, but i think 1.5k words is enough for one sitting LMAO so sorry i think i'm halfway in finals mode still. but this is why i could never take literature lol i can never help myself and it takes a lot out of me xDD)

(oh and @callofdooty i think the mirrorverse as a place where no hope can survive quote was from you during our conversations about mirror bones! but either way i think you might enjoy this hahah)

[chevvy-yates]

[NC_RES]_00002731 mercs_Steyr_Scharfenberg_008_JI.file ///core:_stuck_on_u.file\\\

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⚠️ READ: Please do not repost/reupload any of my art here or to any other platform, or I will be forced to do anything to get it annihilated.

lovely Summer props by @breezypunk. 🏝️

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First:

Brudi, I built a whole jungle beach and you almost see nothing of it when I took the pics lol. Anyhow I have my own private big jungle beach now bc I managed after a few fails to save it as a preset! Idk if I can edit it afterwards but I'll find out. It's funny bc while creating/building it didn't seem so big/huge/wide but when taking photos it's like the water is 150m away from their place they had set up the chairs lol. I just pretend it was falling tide, alright.

Here's a behind the scenes of it:

somehow I imagine V to do this all day in his net world. Like he has a program similar like Minecraft but more realistic where he constantly builds stuff like that but with a vaporwave-y touch ofc.

Now back to the pics: Yes, even my boys are sometimes just boys!

Also still. Yes! Ryder goes out into the sun. Yes, he's got more of a tan than Vijay and yes, Ryder likes this colorful pride floatie. And yes, Ryder has a good time. This is me trying to show more that Ry is not always the angry cool raver dude™ in all black. I still think he's interpreted a bit wrongly by most, like I know everyone sees a different Ryder than I do. With the right people aka closest friends around he is having a good time as he trained to ignore Beast away and as long as the mood is good, Ry feels good (ofc he keeps also playing fine a lot).

Also Vijay on the orca floatie is GOALS, okay!

PS.: It was not V who built that perfect sand castle — it was Ryder who refined it bc V's base was more like some piles of sand (he's more keen to built stuff like that in the net rather than in real life).

And the water is not blue because well … Night City is a fucking hell of a polluted city …

[taralen]

Wowee, five days late, but here is my April Fool's Day picture! What's the joke here? Well, that's the joke! There isn't one at all except for one foolish woman's endeavors.

This is a drawing of my Addison lady, Thetalan (aka Theta), loosely based on the Fool Card of a tarot deck.

During the 1990s, Theta was a naive White Addison lady who fell deeply in love with Spamton G. Spamton, the BIG SHOT himself! Years before he burst into stardom, the two had a chance encounter in 1993 when Spamton was still building his wealth. While Theta was working at a sports arena on her first day, Spamton approached her stand to buy beer for him and his friend. However, he noticed her lack of training and, as a small gesture of kindness, showed her how to properly pour a beer from the tap before handing her a generous $20 tip. This encounter embedded into her very SOUL; Theta never forgot him, and her adoration for him grew into unconditional love in the years that followed.

Like the fabled sun in their world without one, she gazed upon his visage in awe and often said, "Someday, I want to be just like him and shine brightly above the city lights!"

Despite her best efforts, he rose higher and higher while she remained nothing more than a regular Addison. However, this did not stop her from believing that someday they would surely talk again!

Thoughts of love swirled in her mind, inspiring her to write him many poems, but she never had the courage to mail them. Then, one day in 1997, Spamton announced the opening of a dedicated PO box to send him fan letters with the possibility of reading his favorite ones on TV. This was her chance to finally get him to acknowledge her love for all to witness!

She rushed to her desk and poured all her devotion onto the paper, confessing every thought and feeling she had since their initial encounter. With a heart-shaped seal, she sent the love letter off, praying that he would find hers, remember that small moment they shared, and let all of CYBER WORLD and the neighboring Dark Worlds know how much he meant to her.

Every episode of the SPAMTON LOVE NETWORK sent her heart pounding. Surely there would come the day he'd find hers in all those piles of fan letters? She never gave up hope and believed he would read hers one day!

However, by 1998, Spamton's sales and net worth declined. The SPAMTON LOVE NETWORK was canceled in 1999 when a mysterious health condition robbed him from going on stage again. Crestfallen, Theta sobbed, knowing she'd never hear her "prince" announce her words of love. She prayed from the core of her SOUL, hoping he read her letter despite everything and kept it close to his heart.

[charlotteking23]

NOT ASHAMED

Older reader (by a few years) x Eric

I was reading in the library and yes Dauntless had a library. It was a secret many people didn't know only the elders knew, luckily I stumbled upon it a few months ago and came back every day.

I was waiting for the new initiates to arrive. I worked as a trainer and worked in the division of armed defense.

I heard the door swing open and walked in Eric, Baby I was looking for you, He said while sitting next to me. Sorry Eric, I got caught up in the book, I said smiling at him. The new initiates are coming Max wants you down by the net, He puts his hand on my thigh squeezing it every so often. We left the library making our way to the net, Eric gave me a quick kiss on my forehead before leaving to go on the roof.

I talked with Four complaining to him why he was so single and it was about time he had a girlfriend. I don't know why you are so bothered? Four said crossing his arm not even sparing a look in my direction. You're so lonely, I feel bad- but before I could finish the first jumper landed on the net immediately I knew this abnegation transfer had caught the attention of Four.

I left early after all the transfers jumped down from the net, I didn't feel like touring the initiates just wanting to go home. Shawna and Tori invited me to eat at the mess hall but declined to respond that I had to sit with the transfers. I sat next to Four between the candor and loudmouth.

I wasn't paying attention to anything the transfers were talking about only spacing out thinking about what came first the chicken or the egg. All I know is that Abnegation transfer has a death wish but Oh four and that transfer the TENSION damn I can see from a mile away.

TIME SKIP

It was another training day, eat, deal with people, and go home. Eric has been extra moody these past few days because the abnegation had talked back to him, which was stupid for him to do to her.

I watched the initiates fire their guns, noticing that Drew could not hit the target for life, so I helped him. Drew you need to strengthen your core and try not to flinch when firing the gun. What Drew said next made me want to punch so hard, I heard you used to sleep around with the higher-ups in exchange for favors, Drew said.

Ok, first I started laughing at Drew thinking I was younger than Eric.

Drew, let me give you a reality check, I am older than Eric I was a trainer when Eric first came to Dauntless as an initiate. That really shocked Drew but don't worry a few 20 laps around the compound and a little demo fight of me fighting him and me winning, work wonders. Eric came later hearing the news of Drew and well Drew won't participating in training for the next week.

Author note:

Sorry, If this wasn't good, I tried but I couldn't think of many ideas I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

[dqzaiie]

who do you think will join the port mafia?

thank you for the question, anon!

i’m not entirely sure which ada member will be transferred to the port mafia, but i do believe this is best determined through the process of elimination.

the preface this, i am ruling out the clerks, as i don’t believe they would be beneficial to the port mafia. it would be quite unproductive of mori to choose one of them. (unless he chooses naomi to force tanizaki’s hand? though i don’t particularly believe in that theory.)

okay, let’s begin.

core agents:

while mori does want a member, this is not to the agency’s detriment. therefore, the pillar members are very unlikely to be chosen—these members being fukuzawa, ranpo, yosano, and kunikida. we can effectively rule them out as follows: fukuzawa’s ability maintains stability within the ada, ranpo’s deduction isn’t suited for a mafioso, yosano has been deemed off-limits, and kunikida is fukuzawa’s successor.

kyouka:

another agent who i believe is unlikely to be chosen is kyouka, as kouyou and mori have both shown to be impressed by her resolve to better herself, and i can’t imagine them forcing her back into the mafia after all of that growth. kouyou especially—she has given up on trying to take kyouka back, and is actively trying to keep her from the port mafia now.

as for members who are possible contenders, we are left with dazai, tanizaki, atsushi, and kenji.

atsushi:

i don’t really believe they will choose atsushi. to my knowledge, he still requires all men are equal to have full control over his ability, and if he were to leave the agency, fukuzawa’s ability would no longer have an effect on him. he has been training, but i don’t think he’s had enough time to master byakko yet.

however, i could see why he would be chosen from a narrative standpoint. it would provide the audience a new perspective, and allow further development for many characters. we cannot entirely rule him out, especially since the port mafia has been gunning for him since day one (though that was due to a contract from the guild. still, i suppose it stands.)

dazai:

i’d hope mori wouldn’t pick dazai, though, i have seen some compelling arguments as to why he may be chosen. in forcing dazai out of the port mafia, mori has shown to hold some regret, despite having chosen the “optimal solution”.

there is also the case of potential foreshadowing in the osamu dazai and the dark era light novel, with mori saying to odasaku, “…dazai’s capabilities are astounding. i’m sure in four or five years, he’ll have killed me and taken my place.” this takes place when dazai was eighteen, which would place him at around twenty-two or twenty-three.

all things considered, i don’t think it’ll be him. dazai has made too many strides toward fulfilling his promise to odasaku for mori to take him back now, and in disrupting that, i believe there would only be a severe backlash. i think mori will keep dazai’s executive position open and available to him, not force him back into it.

this leaves us with two possible agents: jun'ichirou and kenji. i have seen extensive reasoning as to why either of them may be chosen, and to be honest, i’m quite conflicted myself.

kenji:

kenji’s ability would be very useful to the port mafia, but his naïveté might be a disadvantage. he also may fall under the same category as atsushi in not being able to maintain full control over his ability without fukuzawa, but he has been shown to have precautions in place, so i cannot confirm that he needs the safety net. he is certainly a valuable asset to both organizations, and i don’t believe he would be opposed so long as he is protecting the agency.

tanizaki:

tanizaki has been the fan favorite for “most likely to be transferred over”, and i can’t say i disagree. initially, he was my pick as well. it has been foreshadowed multiple times, with hirotsu claiming his ability is suited for assassination, to tanizaki attempting to kill mori, and even jun'ichirou outright volunteering himself in yosano’s place. he has been shown to not be opposed to killing so long as he is protecting naomi and his friends. this idea is expanded on in the third light novel, untold origins of the detective agency.

“…tanizaki felt he was mediocre at his job, held mediocre principles, and had a mediocre sense of justice…”

i believe that he very well may be chosen, as this would provide him the development which his character has been severely lacking.

however, i wouldn’t put it past asagiri to disregard those statements entirely and find a way to surprise us—it’s just what he does lol.