#suicide run challenge

[rachymarie]

High-masking mfers could practically beg the healthcare department for help for months with tears in our eyes* and they will still say "soz but you're not suicidal so you don't need help but here's a weekly educational group for an illness you don't even have and u are not allowed to talk about anything but the specified illnesses which you don't experience making you feel more alienated and isolated than ever lolz"

[mariocki]

Fat Man on a Beach (HTV, 1974)

"I'm going to read some more poems now. Erm. It may be that if you want to go and have a cup of tea, this would be a good time. I know that's what you masses are like. The mention of poetry and off you go."

[dismalzelenka]

.

[absolutelyzoned]

every time i get told to look for a job i want to kill myself a little bit more

[dreamstar-moonlight]

👆👆👆

The himbo, malewife, goofball -fication of percy jackson is such a crime by both the fans and riordan. It has made Mr not like percabeth as a couple because in all posts and in later books annabeth is such a girlboss, while Percy's dumb and can't fight his way out of a paperbag without her. All the posts are about how annabeth will be an architect and percy would love to be a trophy husband.

Even the humor in the books went from Percy's sharp wit and snark to 'my pancakes can't drown because I'm a son of poseidon.'

And now this recommendation letter bullshit.

Honestly now I'd wish percy just separated from annabeth (but they remain best friends.) He stays home with his family, becomes a camp counselor, helps young demigods, holds God's accountable and eventually becomes a social activist. (I also dislike him doing something marine biology related. It's clear he hates academics but he always wants to help people. Him helping demigods and mortals is such a wholesome profession for him.)

I fully agree with the first half of this, though I slightly disagree with part of the latter.

The later-series and fanon mischaracterization of Percy is at least a solid 50% ableism minimum, full stop. He's being warped into a very stereotyped ADHD character and the exact reason why he's being characterized as "dumb" is because of ableism. Percy is a very intelligent character! That's exactly why he's so in sync with Annabeth and they're such a strong duo! It's just generally Annabeth is more book/academically smart.

I disagree with where you say he hates academics - because that's one of the common misconceptions about his character. Percy doesn't hate learning or academic subjects! He's not even bad at them! We know explicitly that when he is in an accommodating environment he is interested in learning and gets significantly better grades! Percy only dislikes school because it is generally an environment that systematically he struggles with. It's literally just he has a learning disability (two, actually)! That's it! When his learning disability is accommodated for he does well! It's almost like that's what accommodations are all about! We know this from the first series! It's discussed pretty in-depth! Percy isn't a dumb character and he doesn't hate learning, he's just been let down by school systems so much that he's inherently distrustful of them. If they actually accommodate him though then he does just fine!

And that's exactly what CHB was all about and why New Rome University was supposed to be such a big thing for him! CHB is a learning environment geared for demigods. NRU is a demigod college. Both inherently imply an environment meant to cater to and accommodate students with ADHD and dyslexia! They are both systematically structured to be able to accommodate him! Heck, CHB and CJ even both address in the wider themes of the series a metaphor about how ADHD and dyslexia are commonly seen as childhood disabilities, and how it can be more difficult to find accommodations into adulthood because of that attitude but those disabilities don't just go away - that's why CHB is a summer camp but they talk about how demigods outside of CHB don't often fare well. The metaphor there is those who are not getting help or accommodations are struggling. Because that's how that works! This is a fully intentional metaphor from the first series! CHB is never framed as being perfect for demigods, because one of the entire central conflicts of the series is Percy and Luke going back and forth about this flawed system meant to help and support them but still letting people fall through the cracks. The "claim your kids by 13" thing is a metaphor about how acknowledging a child's disabilities (and possibly getting a diagnosis) earlier/as early as possible means they will have more time to learn and build up resources and support for themselves to be able to use later in life. One of CHB's major flaws is that it can accommodate demigods to a certain point, but it can only do so much before those demigods have to leave (the metaphor being accommodating school systems when those disabled students do not have any other forms of accommodations in their lives.)

And that's why Camp Jupiter was framed as being so revolutionary for Percy because it had an environment acknowledging that this is not just a childhood disability, adults with ADHD/dyslexia exist too and still need and deserve accommodations, AND is a place where those accommodations are available. That's why Camp Jupiter and NRU are treated as such special and important things to Percy, because it's essentially Percy being shown this type of thing can and does exist and it is available to him. It is an option he never thought was possible. Percy never thought he'd be able to go to college because he would not be able to go through school without accommodations, but NRU proves otherwise.

The part that's absolutely stupid is Rick then proceeded to retcon NRU so that apparently it's not a full college and Percy still has to take classes at normal mortal college which DEFEATS THE ENTIRE PURPOSE OF NRU EXISTING. Rick has fully retconned that demigods struggle past the ages of 16-18 when they're on their own (see above elaborated metaphors) and in doing so we have fully killed all symbolism in literally all of that. It's so stupid. And by having the plot of the CoTG trilogy entirely be that Percy is not actually allowed access to NRU in the first place because he is a son of Poseidon and has to do extra to even be accepted is stupid!

All that to say, I agree the marine biology feels like a huge cop-out and a disservice to his character by reducing him to just a son of Poseidon. The literal only reason why it's the default option people take for him is because oh, fish thing, fish guy. But I feel like everyone ignores the really obvious answer for what Percy would want to do which is - writing. Both his parents are writers/authors and he clearly admires that about them. Percy likes telling stories! He canonically is already a published author in-universe! That's what the books ARE in-universe! The first series fully exists in their universe and Percy is the author! This is explicit canonical information! Percy canonically has help physically writing it down (accommodations) but he is still the credited author! Percy is a writer! Already! Canonically! Why are we making him a marine biologist he already has a profession that ties into his character significantly more. Like you said, Percy likes helping people. That's what the books in-universe are supposed to be for! It's point blank at the beginning of the series! Book one! The thing everybody quotes all the time! The books exist because it is Percy trying to give advice to other demigods who don't know what's going on yet! It's Percy's writing down his experiences to help new demigods understand and contextualize their experiences so they can understand themselves better and figure out what's going on - WHICH IN ITSELF IS ALSO A METAPHOR ABOUT ADHD/DYSLEXIA! Because the core of the series has and always will be built around ADHD/dyslexia! Percy as a protagonist EXPLICITLY was created so that ADHD/dyslexic kids could see themselves as a hero!

Sorry that all was a very tangential rant but my point being: Absolutely. Percy in newer stuff in the franchise and in fanon is horrifically mischaracterized in ways that are functionally either fully ableist (shoutout TSATS for just outright claiming Percy is intentionally lazy and skips school out of disinterest, which is like the number one ableist attitude towards kids with learning disabilities) or a complete erasure of Percy's disabilities. Also I think he should be a writing major not a marine biologist.

[opbackgrounds]

This idea is so, so important to the series in general, and Brook in particular. There are times in One Piece where people die for noble causes, and others where people act knowing that there's a good chance that they could die, but knowingly choosing death over life is never portrayed in a positive light.

As someone who views One Piece through the lens of Romantic literature, this is really important because historically the Romantics, er, well, romanticized suicide and death and the historic last stand. It's doubly interesting to me as a Japanese story, with Japan having its own long, complicated history with the concept of honorable death.

One Piece directly challenges both of these ideas, with life and living being romanticized instead, even if that means you have to get on your knees and beg for it like Brook does with Ryuma later on.

And it's a tightrope that story has to balance. Nami willingly lived under to boot of the man who killed her mother for years, but there came a time when enough was enough, and both she and the village had to stand up and fight for her freedom. She carried that lesson to her fight with Enel, even though she was hopelessly outmatched and would have been reduced to a greasy smear if Luffy hadn't shown up to save her. Within the context of the story both instances were portrayed positively, with Oda indicating through his writing that she had made the correct decision.

But that's not what's happening here. This is Luffy being willing to run away at Sabaody because he knew the Pacificas were too strong. This is Usopp lambasting the samurai at Wano for rushing toward their deaths rather than living to fight another day.

It's Brook knowing he made a promise to a friend, and doing everything in his power to keep it, even if it meant looking like a sniveling coward groveling at the feet of his own shadow.

[sayruq]

Amid Israel’s ongoing genocidal war on Gaza, maternal healthcare faces excruciating challenges. Deliberate and systematic Israeli attacks on hospitals and medical centers, and critical shortages of humanitarian aid, including medicine, have created a crisis that is endangering the lives of both mothers and newborns. The situation is critical. There are an estimated 50,000 pregnant women in Gaza and some 180 births every day. Israel’s decision in October to prevent food, water, fuel and electricity from entering Gaza created a desperate situation. Inadequate nutrition, exposure to cold and hot weather, the absence of clean water, and poor sanitation weigh heavily on the wellbeing of women and children. The circumstances force them to consume contaminated water, heightening the peril of dehydration and waterborne diseases, particularly among vulnerable groups such as expectant mothers, new mothers and young children. Fuel shortages and the constrained capacity of the few remaining medical facilities exacerbate the difficulty for women in labor to access hospitals. Um Amin, a mother with a few children, confronted with the harsh reality of displacement, recounted her family’s struggles during Israel’s aggression. As bombs relentlessly fell on their neighborhood, reducing their home to rubble, Um Amin had to seek refuge at a school run by the UN agency for Palestine refugees (UNRWA) in the northern Gaza Strip taking only very few belongings. She was pregnant. And in the school there was little by way of basic necessities such as clean water, food or even clothes for her children. She considered moving south, where food might be a little more accessible. Her husband refused, causing conflict between them.He feared not being able to return. And while she believed that the Israeli army was attempting to force them to leave, she also felt it was a matter of life and death for her children. “It was heart-wrenching to witness my kids fighting over scraps of bread. My 4-year-old started stashing away bread in his pocket for later. I was shocked. Before the war, I never slept without knowing my children were fed. Now, most of the time, I am certain they never feel satisfied.” Her entire motivation to carry on became a matter of feeding her children She denied herself food for their sake, but had also to remind herself of the child within her. “The baby inside me is also a priority, so I had to eat too.” She found the balancing act incredibly challenging, an unbearable burden of motherhood. “I am going to share something I’ve never told anyone I know: I contemplated suicide to escape the weight of this responsibility.”

After the Israeli army unexpectedly stormed al-Rimal, a Gaza City neighborhood, for a second time, Um Amin panicked and fled again, this time going from the UNRWA school to a relative’s house. But her fear caused her to enter preterm labor. A doctor, at the nearby al-Sahaba medical center, had to resort to a cesarean section. It was hell, Um Amin said. There was insufficient anesthesia and she could feel the scalpel cutting into her body. There was no electricity; the doctor had to use a handheld flashlight to see. Um Amin’s cries of pain could not drown out the crashing of shells around her. The operation left her utterly drained. She couldn’t believe she was still alive.She needed nourishment to recover what she had lost during the bleeding and to breastfeed her son. But hunger was stalking Gaza. Food was scarce, there was no white flour in the markets, and Israel was blocking aid trucks from entering the north. “All I had to eat was bread made from animal feed and water. When I had my other children, I relied on foods rich in animal proteins, but it was impossible this time. The price of meat was five times higher than normal.” Unable to adequately breastfeed her child, she had to find infant formula. But the price was multiple times higher than it used to be and more than she could afford. Eventually, she was forced to buy formula that was past its expiry date. “You might blame me, but there was literally no other option. I didn’t have enough money. It wasn’t clumped together, so the doctor told me it could still be used.” She would never find out. Due to the lack of clean water, she prepared the milk with non-potable water from a well. The baby refused to drink.

[deanmarywinchester]

I fear I’m writing this now. contains things such as “tashi making patrick go back on vyvanse, to make him stay focused/as some sort of House MD-type show of ownership, as long as she’s coaching him,” “the relationship getting worse for art and patrick the closer patrick gets to winning because as far as tashi is concerned, coaching is like marriage and tennis is the same as sex,” and “a fancam captioned ‘died 1963, born 2021, welcome back JFK, Marilyn, and Jackie O’”

watching the sequel to Challengers now in my mind palace it’s about the world’s first three-way divorce after tashi coaches patrick to a career-end flame out in the quarterfinals of the US Open at 34

[writersmess]

DEATH WISH LOVE | EVAN BUCKLEY

gif credit

Pairing: Evan Buckley x fem!reader

Summary: Buck never thought he could love someone like that. Especially not someone with the same death wish love as him.

Warning: Anxiety crisis, near-death experience, hospital, crying, ansgt.

Word count: 2.5K

a/n: My God, I can't believe it's taken me over a year to get back. I missed this place so much. It's been an intense, crazy year. I finally got my dream job at the best hospital in Latin America. I'm so happy, but at the same time it's demanded everything of me, working long shifts almost every day, but its the price I have to pay. I hope you like this one, it was based on the song Death Wish Love by Benson Boone, which as soon as I heard it I immediately imagined something with our dear Buck. I confess I thought I'd do something angsty, but I don't think I have that capacity, he already suffers so much that I just wanted him to have a happy ending this time.

Masterlist

................................

You were the new firefighter in 118, and also new to the city. In order to follow your dreams, you left your hometown with everyone and everything you knew. You craved for bigger things, you wanted the big city, you wanted Los Angeles.

The team welcomed you with open arms, which was unusual to you. You weren’t used to this or neither known by your affectionate gestures, but apparently everything was an excuse for a hug at the station. It was a bit hard to get used to all this affection, especially when you came from a place where you were always by yourself.

That was one of the main reasons you became a firefighter, you have walked through fire every single day of your life, why not make it your profession?

You were a source of curiosity between the team, always so quiet and so resistant to everyone's affection. It was hard to win you over. Especially because you had a rather difficult personality, you were fearless at work, you weren't afraid to go into the fire to save lives, you did it without thinking twice.

To Bobby you were a cause of concern, and sometimes the reason why he was having trouble sleeping. He knew this personality very well. It was the same one he had struggled for years to learn to deal with, the one he had to fight with so many times, he was very familiar with this death wish love, it was the same as Buck’s.

The blue-eyed man on the other side, couldn't understand why he couldn't take his eyes off you. Ever since you arrived a few months ago, your image has been running through Buck’s mind. You've become a challenge for him. But not in a bad way, he wanted to get to know you, he wanted to understand you. But you didn't make things any easier for him, especially when today was the first time he'd seen you laugh.

"You're drooling" he snapped back to reality when he heard Eddie mocking next to him.

"Shut up" Buck said, turning his gaze back to you playing with his niece.

You had a beauty he couldn't explain, an angelic one. You had this steely gaze and looking at you felt like suicide. He would fall to his knees if you asked him to. How could someone so delicate also be so dangerous?

The way you were reluctant to follow Bobby's orders, you'd walk into the fire without a second thought. You would take risks without thinking about your own safety, just thinking about everyone else. He saw how hard you worked, he saw how mad Bobby got when he ordered the building to be evacuated and you were always the last one to leave. You were intriguing and he was fascinated.

It was so strange for you. Being in Maddie's living room, with everyone gathered together like a big family, laughing and telling funny stories. The team met once a week, with all the families together, the children running around the living room, the smell of food in the air, the voices, the laughter.

You accepted the invitation after a few months of refusing, and now you spent the week looking forward to the moment when you would be together again.

Sometimes when you got home from a meeting, you cried. You cried because you never had that, you never had anyone who cared about you. You were an unexpected pregnancy, your parents didn't planned you, they didn't want you and that was never a secret to anyone.

And that's why you were surprised when one day you arrived early at the station and Hen had a cake for you that you had once said reminded of what your grandmother used to bake.

Or when another one Eddie handed you a drawing that Chris made specifically for you. Of the two of you playing together.

Or when Maddie sent you, through Chim, the cookies you said you loved one day while you were having coffee together.

Or when Bobby invited you to have lunch with him and Athena on a Sunday ‘cause he knew you were going to do it alone.

Or when Buck gave you a book he'd heard you say was your favorite during a conversation.

*

It was mid-afternoon on a Sunday. Your hands were shaking, your heart pounding. The words your father had once spoken echoed in your mind. "You will never be loved". But you were at a table with 118's entire family, and you felt loved. Maddie told you about the gossip from her work. Karen hugged you from the side every time you passed by her. Hen included you in every conversation. Athena calmly answered all the questions you were curious about her work. So why did you feel like an imposter? Why was your father's voice echoing inside your head? Why were you on the verge of an anxiety attack?

"I'll be right back" you muttered to the girls, but you realized how shaky your voice sounded. You were pathetic.

You barely made it to the bathroom, your legs buckled and you sat down in the corner of the room. You could hardly breathe, it was hard to pull in the air. Tears streamed down your face. Your heart was racing. Your hands were shaking.

You heard your voice being called from outside. Damn. You couldn't calm down, your hand was on your chest as if it could make the pain go away.

"Hey, hey. I'm here. Calm down, I’ve got you" it was Buck.

His voice was just a whisper in your ear. You let a sob escape your lips. Pathetic. You felt his arms around you, until you were all wrapped up in his arms. Why was he doing that? Why did he care?

He stayed there until you stopped crying. You were still in his arms, and it was so warm, so safe. Sighs came from your lips, and you couldn't imagine what a mess Buck's head and heart were in. He wanted you in his arms, not just now.

"I'm sorry," you whispered and tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let you, so you stayed.

"You don't have to talk about what's going on in there, but the day you feel like you need a hug to cry into, you've got mine" your eyes filled with tears again. "And don't ever apologize for it"

*

The smiles on your lips were becoming constant. And it was Buck's favorite image. You were letting people through your armor, you were letting your guard down, and it felt good. You now baked pies and cakes for the station on your days off, recipes learned from the girls after a few long afternoons of chatting and coffee.

Your laughter was contagious, and the boys would always crack little jokes to get them out of you.

Your eyes were now looking out for a pair of blue ones, all the time, everywhere. Eyes that were always looking back at you. Your hands were always looking for an excuse to bump into Buck's, just to feel that shiver run down your spine every time. And he would find any reason to text you, until the excuses became routine. You woke up every day with a good morning message and went to bed with a good night one. The little touches now became big gestures, Buck loved to brush your hair out of your face and tuck them behind your ear. And you loved to run your hand over the birthmark above his eye. You loved when his warm lips traveled up your neck to your lips. You loved when his hands ran over your body always so slowly and so gently, bringing goosebumps wherever they went. You loved making love with him. How he worshiped your body, how much he worshiped you. The way he made you feel loved.

You had a hold on Buck, and you didn't even know it. He had become attached to you, attached to the idea of having you by his side. The nights with you were the ones he could truly rest in, the mornings where he woke up to your soft kisses on his face, were the ones he would keep forever in his mind.

But he could feel that you were still resisting his feelings, and he was terrified of losing you. Buck was in love with you. It took months for him to realize that, but he did it. He loved you.

But one thing has never changed. And as Buck followed the loud murmurs coming from Bobby’s office, where he knew you were at, he kept in mind the danger you were in at every call. He couldn't lose you.

"Hey, what happe-" he couldn't finish the sentence when he saw you walking out the door, since you brushed past him, bumping into his shoulder, without even looking him in the face.

Buck made his way to the room, where he saw his captain wiping his hands across his face, letting out an exhausted sigh.

"She'll end up dead if she keep acting like this, Buck"

"I know"

"After the last call, if she doesn't change her behavior, I'll be forced to suspend her."

"I know."

Buck couldn't lose you.

You couldn't talk to Buck yet, you were so nervous after your conversation with Bobby. You were trying your best, how could he tell you that you had a death wish love? You were saving lives, and it didn't matter if it cost you your own. You didn't care.

A new call ecoed through the station. It was something big. A fire in a shed. People were working at the time, so there were many likely victims. You were anxious, just as you were before any call, but you were ready for it. You were born ready.

"Be careful," Buck told you before you got off the truck and you nodded. You were always careful "I love you"

You turned surprised to Buck, you'd never said that to each other before. It disconcerted you.

"Buck, I-"

Before you could say anything, you heard Bobby calling you to give instructions and you had to run.

I love you.

The words echoed in your head as you entered the burning building. No one had ever said that to you. You didn't even know the weight those words carried.

"Sir, follow this path and the fireman will take you to the exit."

It was so hot. You'd already lost count of how many people you'd pulled out of the line of fire. Your head was heavy. It was getting hard to breathe.

"Evacuate the building now," you could hear Cap saying over the radio. Everyone agreed and gave their location. You were about to respond when you heard something.

It was a call for help.

You could have sworn it was a call for help.

"Captain, I'm in the east side, I hear someone screaming for help. I'm close, I can get them out"

"Negative, the building will collapse at any moment. Get out immediately"

Your vision was blurred.

I love you.

You couldn't go out and leave those people to die, so you went ahead. The way to the door was difficult, there was a lot of rubble, and when you opened it, you froze in place.

It was empty. The fire danced in front of you, mocking you. But the cries for help... you've never been so wrong before.

I love you.

“It’s empty” you murmured at the radio.

Bobby was shouting your name from the other end of the radio. You turned around, but it was so hard to breathe. You tried to find your way back, but everything was spinning. Buck was now calling your name.

I love you.

His words were running through your head. Your steps were now slow. The way out, you couldn't find the way out. You could hear the fire laughing at you. Stupid. Pathetic. You heard an explosion behind you, and it threw you off balance, bringing you to the ground. You'd been walking through fire all your life, and now it would finally take its place back. Your siren buzzed in your ears. That would be the end of you.

I love you too, Buck.

The moment Buck came out of the building and didn't see you outside, he tried to go back. But hands held him in place.

This couldn't be happening. No, no.

Bobby called your name on the radio and you didn't answer. It's empty. That was the last answer they got. You weren't answering. An explosion. On the east side, where you were.

Buck's knees gave way, and he went down. All eyes were on the exit of the building waiting for you, waiting for a miracle. But it never came.

Buck screamed, and he would scream until his lungs gave up.

Time seemed to stop. Buck's screams were the only noise to be heard. And another explosion. Tears rolled down trough some faces. No one could believe it. This couldn't be happening.

Buck couldn't lose you like this.

"We found her" some voice echoed over the radio.

Buck's heart could stop any second now.

But the building was collapsing.

He broke free from his friends and ran into the building, dodging all the fallen and burnt obstacles, and he saw you. You were in the arms of a fireman. He ran up to you and carried you out of the building. As soon as you stepped onto the sidewalk, the building collapsed. Buck held you in his arms with all his strength and ran, feeling the debris fly past you.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" was the first thing that came out of your lips when he put you on the stretcher and he shut you up, pressing his lips to yours.

Buck analyzed each of your wounds alongside Hen and Chim and you could see the tears streaming down Buck's face, the ones that were also streaming down your own.

You were still struggling to breathe, every inch of your body ached, and you felt on the verge of losing consciousness. Until you succumbed to the darkness that was calling your name.

*

You woke up a few hours later in hospital. Your hands were being squeezed and you could feel something wet running down over them. Tears.

Buck had his face in your hands, he had never felt so afraid before. And when he heard your voice calling him, it was as if he could finally breathe.

"I'm sorry, Buck, I-I don't know what happened-"

"I almost lost you today"

Your heart broke into a million pieces. You did this to him, your recklessness, your impulsive behavior. It was your fault.

"I'm sorry"

Tears were now streaming down your face and he moved closer, running his hands gently down your cheeks.

"I was terrified of losing you. I'd die if I do."

"I would never leave you"

"Promise?"

"I love you, Buck. And I'll love you to death"

"Please don't let it be soon"

You smiled. No one had ever loved you like that.

"It won't."

[gotham-daydreams]

First Sightings

Day 1 {Challenge Masterlist}

It's just another day in Gotham, until it isn't.

[Yandere Batfam × Gender Neutral! Cop Reader]

[Warnings: Mentions of Suicide and brief mentions of blood.](Note: Unless otherwise specified, it's to be believed that actions involved with harming, hurting, or heavily injuring the self are not talking about the Batfamily or the reader. Still, you have been warned.)

Just some set up, enjoy!

---------------------------------------------

It was another bright day in Gotham. With traffic bustling, the streets full of all sorts of people, and everyone going about their daily lives, as if the city they lived in wasn’t so dangerous after all.

Duke was doing his usual patrols, staring bright and early as always - wanting to prove himself just as capable as his siblings as always, along with just generally trying to keep everyone safe while the rest of his family got some much needed rest. This is his city too, after all, and Duke would be damned if anything happened to it on his watch.

Though, as always, there wasn’t much to do. Even if there was the occasional petty criminal that tried to do some small crime they thought they could get away with - like now, with some shady guy running away with a… potted plant? Geez, Duke never thought someone would steal just for some home decor, but hey, he’s seen people try to steal weirder and smaller things during his life for one reason or another.

“Hey! Heads up!” He shouts, not giving the criminal any time to react as he already deals a swift kick to their back, knocking them down to the ground. The pot in their hands goes flying in the air as they let go of it unexpectedly, but Duke is swift to catch it, and keeps his foot on the criminal’s back. “Where are you even planning to bring this? You don’t even have a car to get away in? Man, you are seriously unprepared.” Duke chuckles, raising a brow as he looks down at the criminal. Just where was this guy planning to go, anyway? Back home? To wherever his other criminal friends are? Who knows, though Duke didn’t have enough information to really guess, now that he thought about it. This guy was unprepared, more so than Duke was expecting, actually.

Nevertheless, a petty crime is still a crime, prepared or not. So, going through the usual routine of his with things like this, Duke just restrained the criminal, and notified the GCPD as always.

While Duke was doing that, the criminal seemed to shake their head, and looked around, as if snapping out of a trance. The man’s brows furrow, and he looks to the young vigilante - only to struggle when he realizes what the young hero is doing, “HEY! What’s the big idea?! Let go of me you- you yellow weirdo!” The man barks out, actions as rough as his voice.

Again, Duke chuckles, “Nothing much, just handling petty thievery. Say, what was your idea for the pot? Doing some home decoration or something?” The man looks at the vigilante, seemingly more confused than before.

“The hell are you talkin’ about? I didn’t do nothin’-!” “Right, okay. I know it’s just one pot, but it’s still something that isn’t yours. Honestly, I’m just wondering why you didn’t pay for it, and only just stole one of them-”

“I DIDN’T TAKE NOTHIN’ EITHER!” The man shouts, only to take a quick breath when he sees that all the barking isn’t doing much, “Look- I dunno what you’re on about, I was just trying to go about my day! Now, if you would just let me go, I’m sure we could clear this whole understanding-!”

Duke sighs, “Are you even from around here? Seriously, who do you think you’re trying to fool with all that bullshit?”

The man scoffs, pointedly looking away, and ignoring the stares people give as they pass. “Fine, whatever, then.” He mumbles gruffly, seemingly giving up… that is, until, Duke is almost finished tying him up - then the man suddenly springs into actions as in one swift action he uses his leg to hook around the put, and kick it up to the vigilante, its content spilling out and causing Duke’s grip to loosen just enough for the man to stand and make a run for it.

It’s a miracle what a batton straight to the head can do, and it’s especially helpful that with enough strength it can knock someone out.

Huffing, Duke brushes the dirt off of him with one hand, seeing as he somehow caught the pot with his other. Though, it’s only now that he realizes the strange contents, making him furrow his brows.

Did dirt… always look this red?

Not knowing what to do about that little detail, Duke ignores it for now, and just continues with his ‘routine’ as he finishes apprehending the criminal who didn’t get very far, and went to return the pot to the floral shop. However, when he got there, he noticed that some of the employees were moving pots and bags of dirt out of the shop.

“Uh, I believe someone is looking for this?” He spoke out, holding up the almost-stolen pot in his hand, with only a small amount of dirt now left inside, the plant… missing, now that Duke was paying more attention. Was there anything in there initially? Was it just… a pot of dirt? Did floral shops even sell things like that?

Before Duke could delve into his own questions too much, a short woman approaches him, age written on her face as it sags her skin and wrinkles it, but still, she offers a sigh, and moves to take the pot off of the young vigilante’s hands, “Yes, thank you. It all happened so fast- he just came right in and snatched one for our calla lilies! Though, for a man who looked so focused, he sure didn’t get very far…” she huffs, shaking her head. The vigilante could only nod, and offer a hum.

Just as the woman was about to turn away, likely to go back to her job, Duke spoke up, “Hey, what’s with all this, anyway?” He gestures to the three or so employees who have been moving pots of varying sizes and bags of dirt from in the store, to outside and setting them to the side, out of the way. As if going to throw them out, or something along those lines - either way, the intent was to get rid of them, that much was obvious.

The woman stops, glancing at the work being done before looking back at Duke, “Just a bit of cleanup, so to speak. Woke up this morning and found that some of the dirt was turning a deep red. Don’t know what it is, but it’s affecting the plants, since- see, look here,” she gestures for one of the employees to come over, and when they do, the woman moves some of the dirt by the flower - showing the lower stem and roots. They look an odd, almost abnormal shade of red, like a strange mix of pink the further up the stem it goes, but the deeper in the ground it grows, the darker it gets, almost turning into a sickening shade of magenta, and so on. “I’m sure you can tell, but I’ll confirm- that’s not supposed to happen. Maybe it’s a virus or something, but we don’t want it to spread to the other plants, so, we’re getting rid of it. All of it.” Handing off the pot in her hands to the employee, she waves them off, letting them get back to work.

Though, with that she just sighs and shakes her head, “Honestly, haven’t seen something like this before, but what can you do? It’s a shame since it got to a lot of the pots, but anything that looks remotely wrong, we’re trying to just toss out. God bless those folks from Star City- said they’ll get rid of it, and hey, less work on our hands. Not like anyone else is willing to help out, but then again, this is Gotham.”

Now that caught Duke’s attention.

“Star City? Ain’t that a few ways away? What the hell are they doing here?” He asks, raising a brow.

The woman shrugs, “Beats me, but that ain’t my problem. Now- if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a job to do and a shop to run, kid.” With that, the woman walks back into the store, and Duke is left on his own once again. A little confused, he lets out a small ‘huh’, but ultimately leaves it at that, but does look at the work being done one last time.

It’s only then that he notices people walking out of an alley nearby, taking some of the pots and bags of dirt the employees are putting down, and loading them into a truck that he could barely make out within the shades of darkness. Huh, weird. How… convenient. Weird, a little suspicious, and Duke was honestly skeptical, but they weren’t breaking any laws, right? Could he just leave this be as is? Though, what would anyone need for a bunch of dirt and plants that were probably dying or something? Sure, there was a certain someone that came to mind, but did that really make sense? This didn’t feel like Ivy, but who else could it really be? Was there someone new at play? Something else going on? Or was it really just some weird plant virus, and was he just overthinking this?

Sighing, Duke just shook his head at himself. He could leave it be for now, though he couldn’t deny it - for people outside of Gotham, they sure looked shady like any other Gothamite. If the lady hadn’t mentioned they were from Star City, Duke honestly wouldn’t have known otherwise, and it was usually easy to tell when someone came from out of the city - so that was saying something.

Regardless, Duke was clearly out of his element here, so he went to just go back on patrol…

… There was no harm in wasting one small tracker though, right? It was just one, after all, and besides - it couldn’t hurt to follow his gut just this once.

-----------------------

Finishing up the last criminal, and apprehending them as usual, Duke took a breath. Patrol was get about finishing up, and besides the usual hiccups and such here and there, everything went relatively smoothly - but damn, the dirt on his suit from earlier was still being stubborn, maybe he could ask Alfred to help him clean it when he got back-

“Hey! Don’t go off just yet,” a voice calls out, and Duke looks in the direction… only to be met with another unfamiliar face. One thing was for sure, though, they definitely weren’t from Gotham. “You’re the Signal, right? Wow, it’s incredible to meet you in person, and to see you in action! Though, I guess you’re about to call it, huh?” The vigilante can’t help but blink at their words. They were from out of town, and knew him? Well… that didn’t happen very often. Hell, some people in Gotham still don’t know who he is - not that Duke did this job for fame and recognition, but still it felt strangely… good? Refreshing? To be noticed and even recognized by an outsider?

Still, knowing he couldn’t just stand there like an idiot despite how surprised and taken aback he is, Duke clears his throat, and manages a, “Uh, yeah. Somethin’ like that, I guess.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he takes a quick breath before adding, “Anyway, what do you want-?” “Oh! I don’t want to take up too much of your time! I just wanted to give you something- y’know, as a thanks for doing what you do, and a general token of appreciation. ‘M sure you don’t get that a lot around here, but not everyone can do what you do, y’know? So, here! It’s just a little something, and besides, you look like you could use a small pick-me-up for the road.” The person hands Duke a small bag, and a coffee cup. It was a little suspicious, maybe, but it wouldn’t hurt if he just… takes it, right? No need to eat it, he can check it later - but he’s allowed to take it right? Not like he has to eat it. Definitely not. Nope.

Though, even as he does, Duke can’t help but be confused, “Wait, hold on- who are you? Why… do this?”

The person seems to blink at the question, as if not expecting it for a moment before they snicker to themselves, and shake their head, amused, “Right, sorry. The name’s [Last Name], just got transferred to Gotham for a case. No need to be skeptical, I’m a cop, and here, for proof- I’ve got my badge on me,” rummaging through your pocket, well, there it is. Your badge…

Huh, what’re you doing all the way from Metropolis?

Still, it does make Duke feel a bit better. Not entirely, granted, but some form of better regardless. Didn’t explain everything, and obviously he wouldn’t be any less careful, but again, he’d take it. For now.

“So… you’re on duty now?”

That gets another snicker out of you, “Not ‘til later, but that’s not important. I won’t keep you any longer, I’m sure you're as busy as a bird, yeah? Well, then we best be going our separate ways.” Before Duke even gets a chance to respond, you already turn on your heel, and begin to walk off. Waving behind you, a last, “See you soon,” is said and again, Duke is left by himself, and to think about that odd little encounter.

Were people from Metropolis this friendly? Bubbly? Personable? Weird? Well, anyway, Duke just looks down at the brown bag and coffee cup in his hands. The gesture was nice, if there wasn’t anything weird about what you gave him - even if the gesture itself was strange, and Duke definitely wasn’t used to it. How could he be? Forget about Gotham being Gotham for a second, how was he, as a vigilante, as a hero supposed to handle this? Was just, taking it and accepting the gesture, really the best move? Sure, you caught him a little off guard, but what did that say about him? Especially if a civilian can just sneak up on him like that.

The only thing Duke can figure to do now is just leave it be. It would be weird to give it back, and push comes to shove he can just throw it away. Nothing wrong with that, and it wasn’t anything personal either. Just… caution. Nothing wrong with being careful.

… Okay, he has to stop over thinking this. He’s been standing here for too long anyway, he has to get a move on. It was just a nice gesture, and he already accepted it. He can just throw it on the way back home, no big deal. There’s nothing to think about, nothing to mull over or debate. He should just focus on finishing up, and getting home so he can finally get some homework done, and turn in for the night. That’s all. That’s what should be on his mind.

Duke takes one final breath, before doing just that as he heads home. Brushing off the odd but short interaction to the side, and leaving it be for now.

… So, Metropolis, huh?

--------------------------

When the night rolls around, Gotham is as it always is. Trouble. Though that’s nothing new, and especially not for the vigilantes that protect the city - but if that’s a good thing or not is the part that’s up for debate.

Regardless, just as the day had gone and went relatively smoothly, so did the night - so far, anyway. Couple of thieves and gangs here and there, some sightings of henchmen and trying to put dents in the plans of bigger, more dangerous villains, and even some smugglers - which, Cassandra and Damian were able to track one group in particular much easier thanks to Duke following his gut. It was strange, to track down a truck just full of weird soil, but hey, this was Gotham, nothing phased any of them anymore. Even if that led to a small group, which seemed to be holding some weird ceremony or meeting  - Cassandra and Damian quickly dealt with it, and moved on with their night - going to take care of another small batch of criminals that were nearby and trying to break into a bank. Though, again, nothing noteworthy.

It was almost strange, but it was also good to not have a night that wasn’t exciting or thrilling. Left a little room to relax, especially for those that did this practically every night, so it was at least a little nice. As nice as a night in the city could be, that is, but refreshing nevertheless.

Honestly, even Bruce was starting to become a little convinced that nothing of note would really happen - that is, until he was going over something with Gordon on the rooftop of the GCPD. It started off normal enough, with plans being discussed, possibilities and near certainties thrown around, along with what the GCPD could do and so on, though all is interrupted by a new face.

“Commissioner! Officer [Last Name] has new information on the case-! Oh, um, am I interrupting something?”

It’s easy to tell when someone isn’t from Gotham, and when you’re someone like Batman, that becomes even easier to tell. Honestly, if he had to take a guess, he’d assume the officer was from one of the bigger cities. Maybe Metropolis, considering the accent and how the officer spoke, seeing as he lacked the certain gruffness all Gothamites held at the back of their throat. For Cassandra, it was how their body language read. Even if she couldn’t exactly deduce where the officer had come from, she could see they were new in some way, and obviously nervous like any rookie was when they see them for the first time. Damian… well, he didn’t care, and scowled at the sight of the officier regardless. After all, what kind of idiot just comes on the roof like this, and strolls up to their superior so casually? Don’t get him started on that tone.

Gordon, meanwhile, turns to the new face, and sighs, “You’re fine, what’d officer [Last Name] find?”

With that, the officer explains what was relayed to them - something about finding another one of the locations for some kind of cult, things of note that were found at the scene, more mentions of ‘that event’ again, and how the officer that found out this information got a hold of one of the members and wanted to know if it’d be possible to bring them in for questioning.

“And what happened to the other cult members at the scene?” Gordon asks gruffly, quirking a brow when he hears that you were only able to bring in one person, especially when it sounded like there was a whole ceremony going on. Surely there had to be a couple more than that, right? Not to mention that you couldn't have gone in by yourself, Gordon didn’t peg you for the type, not to mention that it just didn’t make any sense to assume that - were all of you folks from Metropolis just so incompetent that all you could manage to do was catch one guy?

The officer fidgets, seemingly nervous at the question, “Well… you see commissioner..” he drags on for a moment, averting his gaze for a moment before looking back at Gordon, “The rest killed themselves before they could be cuffed.”

What?

“How?”

The officer continues to fidgets, but a noticeable and physical effort is made to steel himself, “We’re looking into that right now- some shot themselves, others seemed to take some kind of poison- which took effect when they bit something in their mouths. We- we tried to stop some of them so that we could take in more members! Though… some already, uh, ‘got to it’ the moment we arrived.” It was more than obvious that the officer added that last bit about their efforts to lighten the situation a bit, though it was quickly ruined by that last thing he managed to say. Still, he tried to add, “There was only a handful, no more than nine members at the scene, but… well…” he noticeably swallows.

“I think it’s best you read the report when you’re… done with whatever you’re currently discussing, commissioner.” 

Gordon can really only stare at the officer for a moment, before sighing heavily and rubbing temple, “Is this normal?” He asks.

The officer seems taken aback by the question, “Pardon?”

“You’ve been on this case with the others who came in, yeah?” Gordon doesn’t wait for a response as asks, “So tell me, is this behavior normal?”

“Well- you see-”

“Just answer the question, son.”

“...” The officer grows quiet, before giving a hesitant nod, “Yes, commissioner.”

The only response Gordon can give is a harsh huff before he pulls out a cigarette, and lights it, “Just my god damn luck.”

Underneath the cowl, Bruce furrows his brows. Usually when strange activity starts to spike, he’s the first to know about it. He should be the first to know about it. However, besides an odd feeling he’s been having for the past few days, he hasn’t seen anything notable during his patrols. The fact that this was news to him immediately struck Bruce as a problem, and a very big one at that. If there was a cult in Gotham that killed themselves the moment they got caught - he shouldn’t know about it. Caught onto it first, but how had he not until now? Until tonight of all nights?

Aiming to correct this problem quickly, Bruce takes a step forward, “Commissioner,” he calls out gruffly, voice low, and holding a certain edge to it now. One that was more prominent now.

Gordon looks over to Batman as he takes a brag, letting the smoke escape his lungs with a harsh exhale, “A cult of sorts has been running around, trying to do who knows what, or why. Apparently, these guys,” he gestures to the officer who’s now standing there awkwardly, just a few steps away from the door, “have been following and trying to put a stop to this group for a while now. Even followed them all the way from Metropolis- and insisted on offering help, since we got enough problems to deal with here.”

They came all the way from Metropolis? Well, that didn’t make any sense. Especially considering the hero that looks over that city. How has this cult been able to come all the way to Gotham? How do they even still exist to begin with if they came from Metropolis? Something isn’t adding up here.

“Metropolis?” Bruce then looks to the officer, who immediately tenses under the gaze of the vigilante, “Who's behind the case?”

“That- that would be officer [Last Name]- uh, sir?” When Bruce narrows his eyes, the officer corrects himself, “I- I mean detective Greenwood!”

The older vigilante huffs through his nose, but accepts the response for now. At least this gives him places to start, even if it’s not much right now, Bruce could work with it. He’s worked with less before.

Even so, he moves onto the most obvious question, “Is the detective here right now?”

“I don’t believe so- I don’t think he even came in tonight,” talk about convenient, “but- but officer [Last Name] should’ve just gotten back, and- and some of the others are around the station!” Bruce only looks to the door, and out to the city before looking back at the unnamed officer.

As if understanding the silent ‘command’, the officer shuffles to the side with a slight shiver, and Bruce walks through the door, going down into the station. Cassandra and Damian, who have been watching and just sort of listening to everything, look at each other. Some kind of silent conversation seems to pass in between them before Cassandra offers a shrug, and Damian sucks his teeth. As they move to follow after Bruce, the officer moves away a bit more, and eventually looks at Gordon once the younger vigilantes head down the stairs.

“Are they… always like this?”

“You get used to it.”

———————————

It wasn’t hard to find the people the unnamed officer was talking about as Bruce could see a couple of people moving someone in cuffs to a prison cell, and the blood on some of their clothes also gave them away. They were only small splatters, but evident all the same, and the smell gave away what couldn’t be seen regardless. You seemed to stand out - having the most blood on you, and given the explanation from earlier, it was obvious who did and didn’t rush in immediately. The sight… must’ve been gruesome.

Regardless, despite how busy the station was, Bruce was able to make his way through without much trouble - people naturally moved out of his way, and despite moving silently, it’s like everyone knew to avoid him and not get in his way. The same could be said for Cassandra and Damian, albeit for different reasons.

Getting information was relatively easy, and most of the people in your little group were fairly cooperative, which definitely helped. Everyone shared the extent that they knew about what was happening, and gave some information about how it related back to some things they had seen in Metropolis, which in itself was especially interesting and appreciated. The main thing Bruce could take away was that whatever was happening was nothing new. If anything, the only thing ‘new’ about it was the sudden transfer from Metropolis to Gotham - to which, only you were skeptical if that was even new at all. Aside from that, however, most of what you and the other officers who came in from Metropolis had seen in Gotham, you’ve seen before. For how long? Well, Bruce had yet to get a definite response, and only you seemed to get him closer to an actual number than anyone else.

Speaking of, you were the only one who had personally come up to him first, saying, “You’re Batman, correct? I assume you’re here to talk about the case? I’m officer [Last Name], and have been working with detective Greenwood the longest.” Which wouldn’t be so odd if not for the small detail that you had also introduced yourself first. You were straight to the point, mentioned your position, relation to the case, and really, it was a little too convenient if Bruce had a say about it.

Regardless, speaking to you was just as easy as it was for the others, and if anything, Bruce hardly had to speak at all - like you already knew the information he was going to ask for. Your words were short, kept to the point, but not vague or misleading. Despite your monotone, almost cold voice, and looking as if you had no energy left, you explained what you could and gave what you were able to with what you personally experienced, but also had learned by working so closely with Greenwood. You held the same tone and directness when Damian rarely pitched in a remark or question of his own.

Safe to say, when the night came to an end, and the family headed in for the night, Bruce didn’t even bother trying to sleep as he got straight to work. It was time to catch up on some things, and he’d be damned to fall behind on things happening in his city.

[kastalani123]

The Riordanverse is, ultimately, a children's series so it's expected that the nitty-gritty, darker details of certain things get omitted. Still, I think it'd be interesting to see the demigods, each raised for slaughter in their own way, be the soldiers, the victims, the prey that they grew up to be for both godly and mortal reasons.

Percy always keeps Riptide in arm's reach, always keeps his fingers curled around it, ready to unsheath it every waking moment. He sits and stands with his back flush against walls, eyes and ears always open to seek the slightest hint of danger. He trusts Paul, he trusts Chiron — he still watches every minute shift of their expression, of their body for warning signs. He keeps outside Dionysus's range, ensures he always has an open exit within reach. The smell of alcohol makes him dizzy, nauseous; his thoughts leave his body sometimes, when it gets bad enough.

Annabeth keeps a packed bag at the bottom of her closet when she stays at her family's home; she has places she can stay and her parents and Chiron have been good, but her feet still itch when they frown a time too many. Nobody knows she still sees spiders sometimes, feels her skin itch with their crawling. She makes Percy swear he'll never leave the room before she wakes up unless it's truly necessary. She puts boards on her bed's edges so she'll never fall while she thrashes from nightmares; falling would only make it worse.

Leo sits far from any open fires and leaves if people start roasting meat; Plan C is used sparingly once he isn't constantly fighting for his life. His tool belt can't make food, but it stores more granola bars than he could ever carry without it. He makes himself near-unnoticeable earplugs after New Year's and he avoids looking at himself; his body is too whole for being blown to pieces and half the time he's sure the chunks are rotting around Camp Half-Blood where they should've fallen. He tries to keep from unnecessary interactions; he can't have things tying him to some place, not when he's mapped out dozens of escape plans. He smiles longer and wider than ever before.

Hazel doesn't wear jewelry; the only exception is a wooden bead bracelet Nico gave her after she rejected a golden necklace. Walls close in around her, dust and liquid clog her throat, stones crush her bones– she comes back to the present. She clings to affection like a drowning man to a piece of wood, but keeps watch for signs that it'll turn against her. Silence haunts her every step; she keeps an MP3 player and headphones with her at all times to drive it away.

Frank gathers up his form and pours it into a mould of himself, does what he can to keep it from spilling through the cracks. His fingers are littered with scars and scratches, with a trail of broken mirrors left behind in their wake. There are always voices arguing in the back of his mind — not his father's, but not his own, either; just a phantom screech pulsing through his head. He drowns them by sinking into new responsibilities, new dangers, shaping himself to fit while trying to remain himself. The crackle of burning wood follows him everywhere he goes and he can do nothing to down it out — only stare at whatever he had managed to save from his suicide to remind himself he does not need to worry about it; he has already crumbled into ash.

Piper dives into Oklahoma, into mortality, like she'll suffocate without it. She remains far from everything, though not far enough to be out of the loop, because she needs to know about every prophecy, every end of the world, every step and challenge her friends face. She calls them on a bronze-infused phone, not a rainbow, even if the camera and the notifications and the everythingness of it blind her like a spotlight and the thrum of electricity runs through her veins like venom. She paints her face a bit misshapen here, a bit discolored there, a bit unsettling everywhere, and Shel understands. She understands and she loves her and she says it's beautiful not in aesthetics but in the potential protection it provides, as Piper intended.

Jason had learned every rule with the mere intention to break it, to tear through the chains of military life that had been clamped around his throat for as long as he could remember. He had chased life, rather than the survival he had clung to for so long — packed every second of his ticking down time with it. Finally with freedom, but so little time with it, he snatched every piece of it he could: a mortal highschool, a movie theatre, a mall shopping spree, a room of his own — all carefully documented in stacks of journals, ever breath of air and glimpse of the sun, with copies upon copies stashed away so that his memories could never again slip away like sand between his fingers, so that his friends had something of him left, after his life of nothingness.

[zarameraki]

˖°🦇 ࣪𖤐 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝 ˖°🦇ִ ࣪𖤐

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 mention of suicide 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 unprotected sex 𖥔 bodyguard x senator’s daughter 𖥔 porn with plot 𖥔 banter 𖥔 sarcastic mmc x fmc who’s tired of his bs 𖥔 neck kissing 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 praise 𖥔 soft toji 𖥔 biting 𖥔 nipple play 𖥔 toji’s not an ass for the first time 𖥔 close proximity 𖥔 dirty talking 𖥔 bathtub sex 𖥔 small pillow talk 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 5.9k

: ̗̀➛ notes: this is my first one-shot and of course it had to be about my favourite unhinged man. i promise it’s good, y’all. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

You hated being the senator’s daughter—burdened by the title you never chose. Despite the grandeur that surrounded you, you despised the life you were born into. The opulent dinners, the endless social events, and the constant scrutiny from the public were chains that bound your spirit.

If you had any spirit left to spare.

You yearned for a life of your own, away from the suffocating expectations that came with your father's political stature. You resented the polished façade you had to maintain, the carefully crafted image that hid your true self. The constant presence of the media felt like an unrelenting spotlight, casting darkness over your desire for anonymity.

The large ballroom was ablaze with sparkling lights and the murmur of conversations mingled with the soft strains of a live jazz band. You found herself at the center of attention, a reluctant participant in the grand social affair, unwillingly cornered by a persistent suitor your mother had chosen from the roster. Apparently, his family wealth and business ventures were the most fascinating topics he could think of.

You wore a forced smile and desperately sought a way out of the conversation. Your eyes darted across the room, searching for an escape route.

". . . you see, our corporation has been at the forefront of innovation for decades," the suitor boasted, gesturing expansively with his hands. "We practically built this city. My great-grandfather was a visionary, and my father has expanded our influence globally. I'm destined to take it to even greater heights."

“How wonderful,” you muttered. The suffocating aura of the suitor’s self-importance lingered in the air. Just as he reached out to place a possessive hand on your arm, a deep, graveling voice cut through the conversation.

“Careful,” warned Toji. His eyes, sharp and vigilant, locked onto your suitor’s hand, which froze in mid-air. “Take a step back, and we won’t have a problem.”

The suitor, momentarily taken aback, withdrew his hand with an affected chuckle. "Ah, my apologies. I was only admiring your bracelet. It's exquisite, really."

You shot Toji a glare as you replied, "Thank you for your compliment. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be returning home now. Senatorial matters to attend to, you understand."

His eyes narrowed, and he attempted to regain control of the situation. "But surely, darling, you wouldn't want to miss the grand finale of the evening. There's a surprise performance that my connections secured."

Before you could respond, Toji stepped forward, a stern expression on his face. "The evening is over, Mr. Mahito. She has other obligations to fulfill."

Mr. Mahito, a name you’d forgotten at his ‘hello,’ glared at Toji but wisely chose not to challenge the imposing figure. With a forced smile, he nodded and said, "Of course, I understand. Until next time."

As if.

Toji couldn't help but scoff under his breath, earning a side glance from you. "Does he ever run out of compliments for himself?"

You sighed. "He's harmless, Mr. Zenin. Just trying to impress, that’s all."

"Harmless, maybe, but annoying as fuck."

You eyed Toji with curiosity. "Why the sudden interest in my love life, Mr. Zenin? Jealousy, perhaps?"

He smirked, a rare hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "Jealousy? Princess, I guarantee you, I'm far too professional for such bullshit.”

You shot him a playful glance. "You know, if you were a little less broody and a bit more charming, you might have a chance."

His facade cracked, and a genuine smile played on his lips, that scar stealing your attention again. "Charm has its time and place.” He opened the back door of the limousine and nudged you inside. “I prefer to keep you safe."

Toji was insufferable just as he was tall. Dressed in a compressed black t-shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders and chiseled torso, he exuded an air of quiet intensity. The long, dark tendrils of his hair poked his half-hooded eyes that always carried a mist of amusement. He was a silent guardian who navigated seamlessly between your shadows and the limelight.

You remember the first day your father had introduced your newly assigned bodyguard. All you could do was ogle the devilishly handsome man and pray your father and his security detail didn’t hear you swallow too hard or sit with your legs clenched together.

You appreciated the fact that he was fantastic at his job. At least in the first couple of months. But after you’d started your fourth year at university, Toji practically glued himself to you.

It was like he was your shadow, and you couldn’t escape. You get it, Dad was a senator, and security is essential, but did they have to assign you the clingiest bodyguard on the planet?

You’d gone on a blind date a few weeks back with yet another pretentious finance head, and Toji had himself stationed on the table adjacent to yours. When your date had stepped out to use the bathroom, Toji leaned over the table, and you remember how his biceps had flexed and that infuriating smirk played at his lips.

"Princess," he drawled, using that irritating nickname he's given you. As if being the daughter of a senator automatically made you royalty. "You should smile more. It might help with those lines forming on your forehead."

You hoped he choked on his own smugness.

But then there were those moments when the loneliness crept in, and the isolation became too much to bear. In those moments, his sarcastic banter was a lifeline, a distraction from the weight of your responsibilities. You found yourself craving the very company you claimed to detest.

You caught him smirking as you glanced in the rearview mirror, and for a moment, you forgot about the suffocating expectations, the political games, and the constant surveillance.

It's just you and Toji.

The soft hum of the elevator filled the air as you and Toji stepped into the sleek, mirrored enclosure leading up to your apartment. You looked like you had just stepped out of a battle with a jungle cat. Your eyes, once vibrant, were now shadowed with fatigue, and your normally impeccable hair fell in disarray around your shoulders.

You sighed, the weariness evident. "I can't believe this day. Non-stop meetings, interviews, endless parties, and galas. I feel like I've been running a marathon in heels."

"Well, at least you made it out in one piece, Princess."

You fired him a tired glare. "Don't call me that. You know I hate it."

"Sure thing, Your Highness," he replied, a teasing edge in his voice.

As the elevator smoothly ascended, your legs wobbled, and you swayed slightly. Without thinking, you reached out for support, your hand landing on Toji’s muscular arm. He felt the sudden weight and turned to look at you, eyebrows raised to the roof.

"Whoa there, easy," he said, his voice softer than before.

You blushed an outlandish shade of red. "I'm sorry. I'm just so exhausted. I didn't mean to—"

Toji cut you with a grin, his tone filled with mock concern. "Princess, if you're going to faint, at least do it gracefully. No need to ruin my reputation as the best bodyguard in town."

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile played on your lips. "I'm not going to faint. Just a moment of weakness. That’s possible for even women like me, you know."

He chuckled. "Well, weak moments can be dangerous, especially in this line of work. You never know who might take advantage."

The elevator pinged, announcing their arrival at your floor. You straightened up, a renewed sense of determination in your eyes. "Thanks for the concern, tough guy, but I'll manage." You punched in the key code of your apartment door, the security light flashing green. "You can head home now. I’ll be fine from here."

"Oh, absolutely, Princess. But you know the drill—protocol and all. Can't leave the precious cargo unattended until it's safely delivered to its destination."

Your patience was wearing thin as you turned and brushed chests with the jester in black. “Mr. Zenin, for the hundredth time, I don't need an escort to my front door. I can handle myself."

Toji chuckled, the sound low and teasing. "Sure, sure. But what if a rogue pigeon attacks you on your way in? Or a gust of wind blows too hard, and you lose your balance? It's a treacherous world out there."

“We are indoors. There’s no rogue pigeons or a windstorm.”

Toji wore his stubbornness alongside his pride. “Just doin’ my job.”

You sighed, realizing arguing with him was futile. "Fine, come in if it makes you feel better, but then you're leaving."

"Sure," he said, holding the door open with a flourish as you entered the sterile, monochromatic apartment. From the high ceilings to the marble flooring, it was all your mother’s idea. For God’s sake, it was your apartment. You wanted earthly tones, Persian rugs, and a cat. A European tabby. You have wanted it since the day you were born because being an only child was like living in a house full of ghosts.

Your heels hit the floor with a muted thud, and your shawl cascaded down in a haphazard swirl as you brushed it off your shoulders. You sunk into the plush armrest of the couch, sighing deeply as you closed your eyes, attempting to shake off the fatigue that clung to you like a second skin. You were beginning to regret the three glasses of champagne to tune out tonight’s event.

"So, I’m guessing you’ve got another glamorous night in the political arena tomorrow, huh?" Toji asked.

You opened your eyes, your gaze meeting his, and managed a weak smile. "You have no idea. Sometimes, I feel like I'm caught in a never-ending dance of smiles and handshakes."

He pushed himself off the doorframe and strolled toward you. "Well, lucky for you, I'm a decent dance partner. Just not sure about my smile and handshake skills."

You wanted to tell him he had a nice smile, that the scar really added a touch of mystery to him—a mystery that kept you on your toes. He also had really large hands that you found yourself staring at during meetings or drives.

You ran a hand through your hair, loosening a few strands that framed your face. Toji’s eyes lingered on you, a subtle appreciation in his stare. Without thinking, he stepped in front of you, his fingers gently tucking the stray hair behind your ear.

"You've got a talent for getting yourself into these messes, Princess," he remarked, his voice low and intimate. His touch lingered, brushing against your cheek and then down to your neck. Unintentionally, his fingers traced the soft skin.

Your breath caught, the unexpected contact sending a shiver down your spine. You met his eyes, finding a silver of vulnerability in his usually cheeky behavior. For a moment, the air crackled with an unspoken tension. Toji, realizing the accidental breach of boundaries, withdrew his hand, mumbling, "Got a bit carried away there."

Your tired eyes softened with a mix of surprise and something else you couldn't quite place. "It's okay, Mr. Zenin. Just . . . let's just chalk it up to exhaustion.”

He straightened up. "Yeah, exhaustion. That's exactly it."

Nodding, you stood from your spot and awkwardly patted his shoulder. “You can see yourself out."

He raised a fascinated brow at the gesture, the scar curling up in a half-smile.

As you made your way upstairs to the bedroom, you couldn't shake the feeling of Toji’s calloused fingertips circling from your ear, knuckles softly brushing your cheekbone and down to your neck. The sensation lingered, sending shivers down your spine.

You entered the bathroom, the cool tiles beneath your feet a stark contrast to the warmth building within you, turning on your bathtub’s faucet. The running water drowned out your racing thoughts as you undressed. Your fingers traced the curves of your body, and your eyes, filled with self-doubt, studied your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The image staring back at you was proof of years of dieting imposed by your mother's relentless pursuit of the perfect political image.

You sighed, shoulders slumping, yet the boulders of burden settled upon them refused to fall. As you raised your head, you caught a glimpse of someone in the reflection behind you. “What the f—” A chill ran down your spine as you turned around, heart pounding.

There, in the doorway, stood Toji, his green gaze fixed on your face.

“What the hell are you doing here?" you demanded, wrapping your arms protectively around your breasts, hand covering your lower region.

Toji’s eyes softened, his usual sarcasm substituted by concern. "I heard you talking to yourself. Thought you might need some company."

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "That's not an invitation to barge in!"

“I'm your bodyguard, and part of my job is to make sure you're secure, even if it means guarding you in your own bathroom.”

“I'm perfectly safe in my own bathroom. Besides, you're not my babysitter."

Obviously, he ignored you and took a step closer to the tub, his eyes never leaving yours. He turned off the faucet just as the water was at the perfect level. His hand dipped in the steaming water. “Hot.”

“Oh my god, get out!”

“Get in.”

“What?”

“Get your ass in the tub.”

You rolled your eyes but didn't back down. "I'm not getting into that bathtub with you hovering over me like a hawk."

Toji sighed exasperatedly.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by a crack in his patience. "What's so urgent that you can't leave me alone for five minutes?"

He hesitated for a moment before smirking. "I want to wash your hair."

"Wash my hair?" you echoed.

"Yeah. I heard it's the latest trend in personal security."

You shouldn’t have chuckled, but you did anyway. Everything about this situation had blown out of proportion, escalated from zero to a million, and put an interesting mark on your otherwise professional relationship with your bodyguard.

Toji extended his hand, a silent invitation. You were at his beck and call in five seconds, lowering your hands from your bare body, and not once did he check you out. However, the tick in his jaw and the subtle flare of his nostrils easily gave him away. You accepted his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm against yours—his touch was firm yet gentle. You gingerly stepped into the embrace of the steaming water, sinking low until it covered your shoulders.

Toji wet your hair before squeezing a handful of shampoo into his palm, his hands strong yet gentle as he began to work the lather into your hair. His fingers moved in rhythmic circles, massaging your scalp with a skill that spoke of experience. The sensation of his touch, combined with the warm water, created a cocoon of comfort. The tension in your shoulders seemed to melt away, replaced by a strange but welcome calm.

"Seriously, though, why are you doing this?” you asked. “Bodyguards aren't typically known for their hairdressing skills."

Toji flashed a wry grin. "Rumor has it that a well-groomed princess is a happy princess. Plus, it's in the fine print of the bodyguard handbook—section 37, subsection B: 'Haircare Duties.'"

“But I’m not a princess.”

“Not to me,” he murmured.

As the water streamed down your back, you closed your eyes, surrendering to the tranquility of his caretaking. "Mr. Zenin," you whispered, your voice a gentle hum, "this is a side of you I never knew existed."

He chuckled softly, continuing to pour water over your hair. "I wear many hats, Princess. Tonight, I'm just Toji."

Your eyes opened, meeting his gaze. “Toji.”

He paused for a moment, his hands still in your hair. The only sound was the rhythmic patter of lingering water droplets leaving the faucet. You could feel the shift in his demeanor, a subtle tenseness that hadn't been there before. It was as if the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees.

He cleared his throat, a nervous habit you had never noticed before. “First time you’ve said my name.”

Oh.

In a daring move, Toji let his fingers linger on your neck, his touch feather-light. Your breath hitched in your throat, or maybe it was his hand curling around your trachea that stopped it. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours. If he kissed you now, you would never look at your bathtub as a source of taking your own life again. If he kissed you now, you would never look at him the same again. If he kissed you now, you’d drown in it. It would be the only time you willingly would without coming back up for air at the last minute.

Your hand reached up and cupped the back of his head as a green sign. Toji leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. The world seemed to hold its breath as he lingered there for a moment. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, he parted your mouth with his tongue, seeking permission, and you welcomed him wholeheartedly.

But as quick as the kiss happened, the quicker he pulled back.

“Fuck.”

Your heart sunk.

Fuck, indeed.

Confusion and hurt flickered across your face as you struggled to comprehend the sudden twist in your actions. You hadn't considered the consequences, the potential risks that a romantic entanglement could pose to both of you. The weight of your privilege and his responsibility pressed heavily on both of your shoulders. "Toji, I thought . . .”

He suddenly stood, and you reached out with your hand, grazing his arm, frightened that he was going to walk away and leave you wallowing alone in your guilt. "Well, well," he drawled, the corners of his mouth lifting in a sardonic smile. Slowly, he tilted your chin up with a gentle touch. "I never thought I'd see the day when the senator's daughter would be so desperate for her bodyguard's attention."

A flush of embarrassment crept up on your cheeks, and you tried to pull away, but Toji’s grip on your chin remained firm.

“Desperation suits you, Princess," he continued, his tone light but with an undercurrent of something you couldn't quite place. "But remember, we're playing with fire here."

"You're one to talk, Mr. Zenin. Who kissed who first?"

His laughter echoed throughout the bathroom. "Touché, sweetheart. Touché."

You lowered your eyes, hugging your knees to your chest. “Whatever. You can leave now.”

“Leave? Not a fucking chance.” Toji’s boisterous laugh made you jump. He started taking off his shirt and tossing it aside. “It’s your turn to wash my hair.”

“W-What?”

He responded by unbuckling his belt and lowering his trousers, leaving him in his boxer briefs. Your hands covered your eyes when he was completely naked and incredibly erect. “What, you’ve never seen a naked man before, Princess?”

“Once,” you mumbled. You weren’t a virgin, a secret only you knew. It was during the first-year of university when you’d hooked up with one of your mother’s best friend’s son. Both your families had high hopes of an engagement, but you were against the idea. Thank goodness for that. He’d lasted about five minutes into the sex before collapsing on top of you. It was a painful disaster.

“You just signed a man’s death wish,” Toji said, settling into the tub with you. The water sloshed around him, cascading over the edges of the tub and creating small puddles on the marble floor.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” you whisper breathlessly.

"Taking a bath? Now, now, sweetheart. Don’t be mean." He reclined against the tub's porcelain edge, the water clinging to the contours of his muscular frame. “Why are you so far away? Come here.”

Your body defied your intentions as it glided away from the corner, moving towards him. His left leg extended while the right one bent, with the cap of his knee emerging from the water. Your small hand cradled it, guiding you closer until you were seated just inches away from his erection.

Toji splashed water over your face, causing you to yelp in surprise.

“Toji!”

“Eyes up here, sweetheart.” He tilted his head back, accentuating the chiseled contours of his jaw. His chest resonated with laughter. “You’re so pretty when you blush for me.” His large hand slithered to your nape and tugged you forward, claiming your lips in a feverish, powerful kiss, where his teeth pulled your bottom lip and sucked on it. It frustrated you that, once again, he broke away first, leaving you to whimper. “Turn around. On all fours.”

The questions fizzled out on your tongue. “Are you going to . . .”

“Fuck you?” He arched an eyebrow, the damp strands of his hair swaying in sync with the tilt of his head. “Fuck yes.” His lashes lowered, giving his eyes a dangerously dark glint. “Unless you don’t want me—”

“No!” The words slipped out before you could stop them. “No, I never . . . I want you to.”

“To what?”

Oh, he was really a dick. “I . . . want you to fuck . . me.”

He wet his bottom lip. “How do you want me to fuck you, sweet girl?”

Your chest rose and fell in synchrony with the ebb and flow of the situation. “I don’t know. I’ve only had sex once.”

“Baby, there’s a major difference between having sex and being fucked.”

On cue, your legs instinctively clenched in an attempt to find relief. “Are you clean?”

Toji raked his fingers through his hair and made a spinning gesture with his finger. Your body followed the motion, turning away from him and gripping the tub’s edge. “Wanna know a secret, Princess?”

“Uh, sure.”

The heat emanating from his chest pressed against your back. “I got a check-up the day I was assigned to you.” A sentence that visibly made you shudder. Of course, the insufferable bastard had planned this circumstance ahead. “I knew that sooner or later, I’ll have the senator’s daughter naked and needy underneath me. That I’ll have my cock buried deep within the tight walls of her sweet, sweet pussy, as she milks every last bit of my come. That I’ll watch as it drips out her hole and down her soft thighs.” He extended his arm and delicately lifted the drain plug with his fingers, allowing the water to gracefully swirl away from the bathtub. “I jerked off to the thought almost every night.”

“So, you accepted this job just to get a chance to sleep with me?” Your confidence tanked, and your body prepared itself to leave the tub. “Go to hell—”

Toji wrapped his palm around your hair three times, pulling it taut as he drew you back, pressing you firmly against his chest. “I wasn’t finished talking.”

“Let me go!”

“Know what I do when I escort you to your apartment, Princess?” He wasn’t gentle with cuffing his hands around your neck, immediately silencing you. “I wait like a fucking dog outside until you’re asleep. Then, I walk back in, clean up around your kitchen and living room because you’re too tired to do your chores, and after playing your maid, I tuck you into bed. I watch you sleep, even letting you hold onto my hand, until the moon exchanges for the sun. And I’ve been doing this for the past six fucking months.” He jerks your head to the side, his glare cold and cutting. “So, no, Princess, I didn’t accept this damn job to fuck you. This was just a side perk.”

"Oh," was all you could manage to say. The mystery behind the polished kitchen sink, the mugs and dishes neatly stowed away, the meticulously organized closet, and the unexpected peaceful nights of sleep settling within you finally unraveled. The source of your newfound stability, one that encouraged you to gradually wean off your anti-anxiety medication, was none other than your bodyguard who, unbeknownst to you, had been quietly tending to your well-being in the shadows.

Toji's gruff voice murmured near your ear, interrupting your contemplation. "You're mine, not only in body but in soul, sweet girl. No one—absolutely no-fucking-one—gets to lay a finger on you when I'm around. I won't let you out of my sight, not even for a moment."

You nod, curving your cheek and giving him a simple, soft kiss. “Will you wash me afterward?”

“Every time.”

“Will you sleep alongside me?”

“Every night.”

“And day?”

“Every day.”

“You promise?”

Toji didn’t answer, and you didn’t want to push the fantasy any further given your roles.

You’d made up your mind and rested your head back on his shoulder, a smile naturally splaying at your lips. “Don’t hold back, big guy.”

Toji kissed the side of you neck and nudged you forward so you were gripping the tub’s edge once again. His calloused, rough hand ran down your spine and settled on one-half of your ass. “So soft here.” He delivered a forceful slap, firmly grasping the flesh between his nails, stretching your skin taut, then spanking you again and again and again until your pussy was practically salivating for his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so wet already, baby.” He spat on his fingers and slipped through the slit of your soaking pussy, circling your swollen clit in fast motions. “When’s the last time anyone’s fucked this neglected pussy? Made you spread your legs and rubbed your pretty, puffy clit?” You moaned and broke into choppy gasps, pushing your ass closer to his fingers. “Your private tutor didn’t teach you a lesson on patience?”

“Toji, please.”

“Shh. I know, I know.” He mocked your desperation, gathering your hair in his fist. “Let’s see how many fingers my sweet girl can take.” Toji drove in two digits before you could blink, a maniacal chuckle escaping him as he skillfully moved them in and out, savoring the sounds of your pleasure-filled cries. “Yes, baby. Oh, yes. One more, okay?” His ring finger forced itself in, eliciting a groan from both of you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He rested his thick fingers inside your warmth for a minute, feeling you clench and suck him in.

“Toji— Too much—”

“Not enough, sweet girl.” He began moving, easily hitting the spot that had your toes curling inwards. “You can take it, baby. I know you can take it.” You proved him by grinding back on his palm. “That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Such a good girl.” The squelching sounds crowded the bathroom, your release seeping out of you without you knowing. You cried out as he relentlessly thrusted his digits, gathering your sticky mess on his fingers and bringing it to your lips. “Taste how sweet you are.”

Your mouth covered his slick, white-coated fingers, tongue wrapping around them and suckling them deep towards the recesses of your throat. The sounds of you gagging made him grunt and sink his fingers ever further before pulling them out abruptly, strings of your saliva and release bridging the space in between.

Toji, with a sly grin, licked his fingers clean, shooting a playful wink at your flushed and flustered demeanor. “Delicious.”

Arm around your waist, Toji easily carried you back and turned you around so you were facing him, straddling his sturdy thighs. A rugged exhale escaped his lips, akin to someone who had endured a grueling day of manual labor. With muscles flexed, he extended his arms on either side, creating a protective barrier around the edge of the tub.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, drinking in your figure.

“Thank you.”

“No, baby. You don’t say “thank you” to me if I compliment you. You say “I know,” and move the fuck on.” He rubbed his hand up and down your thigh, cupping the side of your waist. You jumped when he flicked at your stone-hard nipple. “You’re sensitive there, huh?”

You mumbled, “Everywhere.”

“Speak up, sweetheart.”

“Everywhere,” you said with a volume that made him tip his head back and study you through the hooded slit of his eyes. “What you did, with your fingers, it felt good. Really good.”

“I know,” he replied, winking. “Want me to make you feel fucking fantastic, sweet girl?”

You nod, anticipating his next—

“Sit on it,” he said languidly.

“What?”

“Sit on my cock, Princess.”

He truly had a way with his words.

And you had grown accustomed to them.

Rising on your knees, you stumbled forward and aligned yourself on his ramrod erection, white beads of pre-cum leaking from the pink tip. He gripped the base of it, allowing you to sink down on his long, girthy length.

“Shit,” he breathed out, head lulling back.

“You’re—You’re too big.” The words strained out of you as you sought a comfortable position to move in. “Oh, God. Toji, I don’t think—”

He swallows your following words with his lips, cradling your flushed face in his hands. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. “It’s okay, sweet girl. Get yourself comfortable because, in a minute, I’ll make you forget the word ever existed.”

“Oh, God.”

“Toji, baby. The name’s Toji. Fucking say it.”

“T-Toji . . . ”

He lowered his head and grasped your left breast, fondling it like a stress ball as if his stress levels were beyond the roof. You mewled when he pinched your nipple and stretched it out, heating it between his fingers. His lips latched onto your right breast, cheeks concaving as he sucked hard.

You were a lost cause at that point, watching him nibble the swollen bud between his teeth, giving you that devilish smirk. “Fuck, baby. Your nipple tastes so sweet.” His tongue circled around it, pulling it taught in his mouth. “Maybe I should make you a mother just so I get to taste the milk that’ll leak from them.”

“You’re so dirty,” you whispered, ignoring the sudden film reel of you and Toji and your children gathered around a Christmas tree in an apartment smaller than this, in a life quieter and more private than yours. You needed clinical help.

“I know you’re thinking it.” He released your nipple with a pop and kissed your lips. “Soon, sweetheart.”

Soon?

Toji didn’t allow you to overthink anymore before grappling your ass and raising it high off his cock, until only his tip remained in you. “Hold on tight.”

He pounded you down.

You yelped and stabbed your nails into his shoulders, shouting out, “Fucking hell!” which, obviously, made him burst out laughing, all while ramming you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt.

“Toji—ah!”

Tears streaked down your cheeks, which he quickly wiped away with his tongue, kissing each eye as if it were your mouth. He thrusted up into you in a staccato rhythm, gripping your nape to keep you steady in place. Your high-pitched whines and empty complaints fueled him to push both of your limits.

“Don’t let this get to your head,” Toji gritted out, a layer of cockiness in his voice, “but I’ve never once fucked anyone in this position.”

Well, that made you feel special, you supposed.

Actually, it made you want to try harder to please him. If you did well tonight, you could try every position in his book. So, you pressed your hands against his pecs and swirled your hips in circles, slowing his thrusts so you could take control. He was fascinated by your body, by your sudden superiority, settling his hands on your waist while you rode him insistently.

“Look at you riding my cock, baby,” Toji muses. “Look at you go. Just like that, come on. I know you can move faster.” He admired the movement of your breasts, the sweat-beads that crystallized on your skin, how your drowsy eyes rolled to the back of your head. You felt his cock twitch uncontrollably within your hot, sticky walls, felt the thick tip of it penetrate the spot that pushed you to the precise of your orgasm.

But your exhaustion caught up to you faster than your climax, causing your body to grow limp and slump against his chest. Toji embraced you, settling one hand on the back of your head and the other on your ass.

“You did well, baby,” he whispered into your hair.

“Don’t lie to me. You didn’t come.”

“Neither did you.”

You nuzzled your nose in the crook of his neck, circling your shaky arm around his strong neck. “I’m close, Toji. I’m almost there. I promise.”

That’s all it took for him to drive back up into you, grunting expletives and praises in your ear—fuck, oh, fuck, ah, fuck, such a good girl, my sweet fucking girl, oh, your pussy is so tight, so pretty, made just for my cock—while holding you flush against his sweaty chest. You kissed his temple and clutched his hair, breathing in the scent of your lavender-honey shampoo and his natural musk. He continuously mumbled, “Come on, baby, come on. Come for me. Come on my cock, sweet girl.”

And you did. With a cry that hitched in your throat, with your nails dragging down his shoulder blades, with his teeth sunk into your neck, with your bodies sweat-struck and panting like wild horses.

Toji drew you back and ran a hand on your cheek, brushing away the damp strands sticking to your cheek. “Good?”

You breathed out through your open mouth, the organ inside your chest hammering to break out. “Fan . . . tastic.”

He smiled warmly, not the arrogant-cocky kind you were used to receiving, and pressed his lips to yours. No tongue, nothing. Just a simple, chaste kiss. “Time to wash up, Princess.”

Switching from the tub to the shower stall, you began to wash Toji’s hair with your lavender-honey shampoo. You anticipated his complaints, but all he did was sit silently on the seat, using a loofa to clean your body. He complimented the curves of your figure, even taking a sneaky nip at your breast, then chuckling at your reaction. Like a gentleman, he dried off your wet body, combed through your wet hair as he blow-dried it, and then it was his turn, but of course, he forced you onto his lap while you did.

“How’d you get this scar?” you asked as you two lay in your bed, naked with your limbs tangled with each other. For the past hour, all you’ve done is trace your finger over his brows, his sharp, pointed nose, and his lips. “You don’t have to tell me—”

“Family. That’s all.”

“Okay,” you whispered, snuggling your face under his jaw and wrapping your arm around his torso as far as you can.

“You’re clingy, aren’t ya’?” he teased, hooking your leg over his hip.

“Was I too out of character for you, Mr. Zenin?”

You felt his smile on your crown accompanied. “You’re not a character, Princess. You’re a real person.” His hug around your sore body tightens as if you’re about to escape any minute. “It’s overwhelming how real you are, Y/N.”

“Did you just call me by name?”

He raised a brow, voice laced with charming sarcasm. “Was I too out of character for you, Y/N?”

Your hand cupped his cheek, stroking the scar by his lip. “You’re perfect, Toji.” You kissed the wound, the middle of his lips, and the tip of his nose for a good measure.

“Stop acting cute and sleep, Princess. You’ve got a tea party in the morning.”

Groaning, you decompress in his hold. “Goodnight, Toji.”

“Night, sweet girl. Dream of me.”

“You, too.”

“Always.”

[fireheartpages]

survived | b.d.

bodhi durran x reader chapter five. series masterlist summary: everyone has their demons, you just chose to run from yours. straight to basgiath war college. and definitely not towards the grinning tall, dark, and handsome marked rider that seemed too kind to be in a hardened place like the rider's quadrant. when you catch his attention and bond a conundrum of a dragon, you finally feel like you can catch your breath. until your signet develops. word count: 2.4k notes: second person pov, reader uses she/her pronouns, has a dirty dancing nickname and a last name. this one’s kinda heavy! mentions of struggling with self worth and trauma, talks about death and an allusion to suicide. if you hear someone buzzing with excitement, it's just me, don't worry! this is the idea i had stuck in my head, for quite a few reasons, and i wanted so badly to get it out on page and now its in my hands ah. not even kidding when i say this concept was eating me alive form the inside out. this feels like the closing chapter, so tbh idk if im gonna write anything more. if i come up with something, or anyone has any requests, i’ll get my pen to page tho :)

You were a good student. A great one, even.

You were top of most classes, feeling like you needed to prove something, and if you weren’t top, one of your friends were, and you were right behind them. And it was true—you were an incredible rider. You could stand on Shocair’s back, and shift your weight and she would bank with the direction. You’d taken up archery, another thing you excelled at. Your aim could use some improvement, but you were getting better. A little more practice, and you could consider yourself a decent shot. And despite your signet not developing yet, you were perfecting your smaller magics. And at sparring—

At sparring, you were okay. Kind of.

You could hold your own, and you were quick. Fast feet and good reflexes, but it was as if you didn’t know how to use those skills.

You were not top of challenges, to say the least.

“Yield!” you gasp, face to the mat as a boy from Second Wing attempts to crush your windpipe. “I yield!”

He lets up, laughing at you, and you roll onto your back, catching your breath. You blink a few times, willing the spots from your vision, but it gets darker and—

No, there’s just someone standing over you.

“Hi, Bodhi,” you rasp up to him.

“Hi, Baby,” he says, extending a hand.

“Hi.” You’re panting a little, but at least your vision is focusing.

“That was…”

“Pathetic. I know.” You wipe the sweat from your forehead and a tear from your eye as your wrist gives protest. You probably smashed it with a bad punch.

“I was not going to say that,” he says, grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. That corner of his lips was one of your favorite things at Basgiath.

“It’s okay,” you say. “At least I’m aware of it.”

“I can help,” he says, a little too quick to be casual, but you don’t mind. It makes you smile.

Your brows raise. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He drops your hand, and only then did you realize he was still holding it. “We can practice sparring.”

“You just… want to help me?” You furrow your brow. “Out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Uh—” He falters. “If you teach me how to ride like you do, I’ll teach you how to spar.”

You nod slowly. “Sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you say, fighting a losing battle with your smile. His eyes were dancing. “When do we start?”

“Now.” He offers you a hand, and leads you over to an empty mat.

“You’re quick, and you’re smart, and when you win, it’s by outsmarting your opponent,” he says over his shoulder, coming to stand in the middle of the mat. He removes his daggers, tossing them on the floor beside the mat and leaving one strapped to his arm. He spins to face you. “Easy money.” He taps his arm where the remaining dagger sits. “Take it from me.”

You shake your head. “Okay.”

You lunge, going for his feet, and he jumps, landing and taking a knee that knocks your own until you’re kneeling, and he’s on top of you, pressing you to the floor. You feel his laugh rumble through his chest against your back, his breath on the side of your face.

“Did I say easy?” he teases.

“You dick—” You struggle, but it’s futile. He lays there for a beat longer, pinning you with his body weight, and you have a flash of an image in your mind, him on top of you, in between your hips—

“Focus.” It's Shocair. Your next exhale is a thanks.

He relents, standing up, offering you a hand, and you’re barely on your feet again before he twists it behind you.

“Take me down,” he said, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You—you falter. Fuck. This guy is distracting.

He wrenches your arm away, pushing you away from him, and you’re helpless as you step out and back into him. He pulls you close, and there’s no viciousness in it, no mirth—he’s near gentle as he wraps an arm around you, over your neck, and his other hand disables your free one. He kicks the back of your knee again and beings you both down until you’re kneeling.

“What do you do now, Baby?” It’s your name, but it’s so obviously not, and he’s grinning. This asshole is kicking your ass without even trying and he’s still. Fucking. Grinning.

Gods, you suck at this.

No, actually, fuck this.

You twist your neck so you’re nose to nose with him—kinda, you have to look up to see his face, and he’s already looking down at you. You suck in a breath, looking at his lips. His grip loosens.

Your twist, dragging your joined hands behind you until you’re facing him and you let your body weight fall back. He lands on top of you, right as you knee him in the balls.

He doubles over with a gasp, and you take the opportunity to head butt him. You hear the impact, and you shove him off of you. You jump up, snatching the dagger from his arm band.

“I did it!” you shout, victorious.

“That’s my girl,” Shocair sends down the bond with a beat of pride.

Bodhi rolls over, clutching his face, and you offer him a hand. He takes it, and it takes more strength than it should to get him standing. You rub your forehead where you had hit him, a little sore. This man is pure muscle, even in his face.

He takes his hand away, and it’s bloody. Your eyes widen, a gasp slipping from you.

“Oh my gods. I’m so sorry!” You rush to him, hands cradling the side of your face.

“Nah,” he says, grinning even now. “All’s fair in love and war.”

Your stomach clenches at the words. “Please tell me I didn’t break your nose.”

He shakes his head. “I think the bleeding’s stopping, so, no, not broken.” He tips his head back.

“No, wait,” you say, placing a hand on the back of his neck. “Forward, or else all the blood is gonna end up in your stomach.”

Bodhi flinches. “I don’t have anything to stop the bleeding.”

You glance around frantically, looking for something, anything, before landing on your own t-shirt. You grasp Bodhi’s dagger—now yours, by the laws of the codex—in your hand and rip a band of it, cropping it to your navel before handing the black fabric to him. He takes it and presses it to his nose.

“You did not have to do that,” he says, words muffled.

“I broke your nose. Yes, I did.” You gently pull his hand away, examining his face, cradling his jaw with one hand. Besides being beautiful and a bit red, and smeared with blood, you didn’t see any bruising.

His eyes trace your expression, landing on your lips, and he just… stares. And stares.

“I think you’re okay,” you say softly.

“I know I am.” He’s grinning again, invisible string tugging that corner up. Your hands are on his face, and this is your chance—you run your thumb along his lips as if you could smooth out his smile—but you don’t want to. The way it tilts to one side is quite possibly your favorite thing about him.

“You have a bruise forming.” His thumb comes up, brushing the skin of your temple—presumably from where you had nearly broken his nose.

“It’s your snout,” you whisper.

"Hey." His grin softens, and he leans down, pressing a kiss to the bruise.

“Shit,” he says, reaching up and wiping the cloth over it. “Sorry, blood.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of you as your heart rate kicks up again. And he just stares at you again, like his gaze is stuck.

“I love your laugh,” he says, like a secret, like it’s a whispered admission.

“Your smile,” you responded, equally as quiet, and suddenly you’re little kids at a sleepover, sharing secrets by candlelight, “it’s my favorite thing about you.”

That just widened his grin, and you let your ambitions run free, running your thumb over his bottom lip, cleaning off the blood that had spilled as you beam back at him.

He’s looking at your lips, and he leans in.

Someone drops a weight across the gym, and it makes you jump, creating space between the two of you, and there’s some mix of longing and disappointment in his eyes as you stop back.

“I should go,” you say. “Sorry. About your nose.”

“Sorry about your head,” he says.

You’re walking away, grabbing your flight jacket when he calls, “Tomorrow? Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Let’s go flying tomorrow evening,” you say over your shoulder. “I have a thing or two to show you.”

“I’ll be an eager student!” he says, and you smile all the way back to your dorm.

You let a mender fix the blossoming bruise on your temple when your vanity wins out. The next morning, Shocair has some choice words for you, all of which you ignore, in favor of playing the almost kiss over and over again in your head.

(You don’t even bother to block you out, and it’s something like excitement, or contentment that fills your chest every time you think about how he was looking at you, and you realize it wasn’t your emotions at all.)

You’re sitting at the table in the library, next to Violet and Rhiannon as you comb over another textbook on signets. You and Violet had taken to sharing notes you find, seeing if you can figure out how to get your signets to develop. Rhi is practically doing Violet's physics homework for her.

Dain is here, for some reason, probably because he’s panting after Violet—and everyone can see it. You’re pretty sure this is some attempt to get back in her good graces. She’s having none of it. The four of you are sitting in silence.

You’re just on a rather interesting part about the reflection of a signet on the rider when you hear,

“I just don’t get it.”

You turn, a little unable to suppress the way your nose scrunches up at Dain’s voice. “What did you just say to me?”

Dain looks at you, confused. “What?”

“Did you not—”

“Hush.” That was Shocair.

“Thought I heard something,” you say, the panic down the bond making you heed the warning. “Sorry, never mind.”

The girls don’t even spare you a second glance, just go back to the work in front of them.

“New subtleties must be taken into account when we investigate causality in quantum mechanics and relativistic quantum field theory in particular. In those two theories, causality—” It’s Rhi’s voice, and you look up, wondering why she’s reading aloud, but—

Her lips aren’t moving.

“Despite these subtleties, causality remains an important and valid concept in—”

“Shocair,” you send down the bond.

“Take a deep breath,” she says into your mind.

You do as told.

“Stretch, like you’re tired.”

You again do as she tells you, throwing in a fake-stifled yawn as you do so.

“Get your things and come to the flight field. Now. Make up an excuse.”

“I’m getting tried,” you say, your pulse kicking up.

All three sets of eyes turn to you.

“I’m gonna head out.”

“Should I—”

“Do you want me to walk you back to your dorm?” Dain asks.

“No,” you say, a little too quick. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“That was weird.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“Does she—”

You clamp your eyes shut, and you try your best not to run from the room.

“Shocair.”

“Get here. Now.”

“Tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” you send to her, panic rising in your throat.

“Run.”

You do so, taking off and making it to the flight field in mere minutes.

“Shocair!” you shout.

She’s in front of you, navy scales glittering in the morning light. She wordlessly extends a leg to you, and you climb on, willing tears not to fall.

She takes off, and you’re not even sure where you’re going. She just flies, and you don’t unseat. Don’t stand, don’t ride the wind as if you were the one with wings. Just grip her pommel for dear life until she lands on a cliff side, leg extended for you to dismount.

You step off, and there isn’t a soul around you. The cliffs almost remind you of home. There’s no ocean at their base, but the view is beautiful nonetheless.

Did she bring you here so you could end it yourself, before anyone else has the chance to? To give you the dignity of choosing your own death?

“Tell me this isn’t my signet,” you say, a whisper on the wind, and you hear shuffling behind you. When you turn, Shocair’s head is lowered, her eyes lidded as the first tear falls. She blinks slowly, and it’s like an apology as she touches the tip of her nose to the center of your chest.

“Tell me I’m not an inntinnsic,” you plead, as if you could ask the gods themselves to change it.

Shocair says nothing, just nuzzles against your chest.

“I survived,” you say. It comes out a sob. “I survived the rebellion. I survived my father, and fleeing to the other side of the province. I survived parapet, and the Gauntlet, and Threshing, and every challenge I’ve been faced with—all of it. I have survived, and my own mind is going to be what kills me?”

“I will protect you.”

“You can’t protect me from the law!” You’re crying in earnest now, and you’re pretty sure this sort of weakness is what would prompt another dragon to kill their rider, but Shocair is looking at you with her own mix of worry and rage—and something akin to an apology. “They’ll find out! And if they don’t, what am I supposed to do? Pretend like I never developed a signet, and it just never affects me?”

She blinks, and shifts until your palm lays flat against her nose, like she had at Threshing. When she’d chosen you.

“I chose you for your mind,” she says, repeating those words—the ones from that day.

You sink to your knees, tears streaming down your face. Shocair settles into the grass in front of you, and you bend until your temple is touching her nose. Sobs wrack your body, and you can’t breathe, but it doesn’t matter. The world had stopped spinning, anyway.

This was it. This was the end. There was no surviving this.

[bluesturngold]

i have trans men and trans masc individuals in my life who i love and care about, when i was working in education the trans kids i knew best were trans masc, as a suicidal 18 year-old-college student at one of my lowest points ever the person who most got me to accept being nonbinary was trans masculine. i love and care about trans men and trans masc people and i fully believe you are vital to pushing trans rights forward: trans separatism is a bad idea and we are worse off with a fractured community.

but please understand, i have a trans feminine perspective, and a white person's responsibility to my trans women and trans feminine community members of color. nobody's perfect, but i have enough trust in my own understanding of intersectional transfeminism to know that if white trans women won't speak up against the transmisogyny in LGBTQIA2S+ communities on tumblr we're fucking over every trans woman who has it worse than us.

the issue has been escalating for the past couple of years, we saw the rumors and backlash spread about rita after her ban that followed her to other social media websites, we saw the trans women of color who stuck up for her and ended up banned as well, and we continue to see a new trans woman practically every day, regardless of whether the post contains eloquently phrased concerns or is venting personal frustrations, vilified for speaking candidly about the impact transmisogyny has on their lives, especially when factors of race, class, and disability frequently keep trans women and trans feminine people so isolated the only place they can retreat to is a web platform where we're liable to get banned if we criticize how it's run or harassed into hiding if we criticize how community members treat us.

trans men and trans mascs absolutely have unique challenges at the intersection of transphobia and the misogyny associated with being assigned female at birth, but the frequency with which the concept of transandrophobia is wielded as a cudgel to try and put trans women and trans feminine bloggers 'in our place' after we express concern about trans guys perpetuating transmisogyny is absolutely enough to make anyone paying attention think that might be the only reason it's ever brought up.

when trans women and trans feminine people on this site rail against the way we're treated by 'transandrobros,' look at the sorts of behavior we've had to deal with:

arguing for the ability to call women 'guy,' 'dude,' 'man,' other masculine terms accepted by patriarchal society as 'genderless.'

they/them-ing trans women and trans feminine people who don't have pronouns in bio but are talking about being a woman.

they/them-ing trans women and trans feminine people who have pronouns in bio excluding they/them.

they/them-ing trans women who have pronouns in bio including both sher/her and they/them but making a point of using they/them to degender her as punishment for arguing, or to diminish her standing as a woman when arguing about topics where it is essential: patriarchy, misogyny, transmisogyny, etc.

insisting trans women who lament not being born a cisgender woman are lucky because trans masculine dysphoria exacerbated or ruined certain experiences which cisnormative society associates with cisgender womanhood.

insisting trans women who lament not having specific childhood experiences which cisnormative society associates with cisgender women are lucky because trans masculine dysphoria exacerbated, ruined, or led to a decision not to participate in those experiences

making false equivalencies between non-trans women/trans feminine people facing transmisogynistic harassment, violence, etc. as accidental targets when the current global anti-trans hate movement is collectively focused on eradicating assigned male at birth transgender women and transfeminine people.

arguing trans women and trans feminine people on the whole are or were 'male socialized,' or universally had a period of benefiting from male privilege prior to coming out, when there's a ton of smart and incisive writing on tumblr and elsewhere which spends time breaking down the way assigned male at birth kids are bullied, ostracized, and abused while being kept from truly being considered a 'man' when attempts to correct beliefs, behaviors, mannerisms, etc. that patriarchy finds undesirable fail.

labeling trans women or trans feminine people expressing how fed up we are with arguing about the existential threat transmisogyny poses 'radical feminists' or 'radfems,' which has been used for the past decade on tumblr as shorthand for trans-exclusionary radical femininsts who support gender critical feminism and thus primarily target trans women and trans feminine people for the worst of their harassment campaigns.

dredging up years old trans women and trans feminine peoples' interpersonal drama by calling trans women 'baeddels,' and specifically using it as shorthand to frame trans women's grievances, complaints, and discussions of transfeminine separatism as if they're hatefully spawned from 'cruel and irrational disdain towards trans men' when it is self-evident to anyone who understands the origins and escalation of the discourse and has a shred of sympathy for the trans women involved that the proposal trans women become even further isolated is born from a profoundly tragic reliance on social isolation as a means of self-defense which is ingrained in many trans women due to abuse and harassment suffered during our formative years and then again after we came out or began transition.

suggesting transmisogyny is a ploy by white trans women and trans feminine people to better compete in the oppression olympics when the most at-risk transgender people (among all gender expressions, globally) are trans women / trans feminine people of color, and Black trans women / transfeminine people in the USA specifically, with trans women's already greatly diminished earning potential (see here) we can assume that's also impacted by intersections with race, class, and disability, which is theorized to push additionally marginalized trans women even further out into the fringes. (i say 'we can assume' because the surveys available regarding economic discrimination against LGBTQIA2S+ people frequently combine all transgender identities, and the one big report that does didn't publish the ethnic makeup of each group, which again drives home the point i'm making about the intersection of race not being taken seriously enough.)

i included brazil alongside global and usa statistics because in terms of raw numbers it had the most reports of trans people being slain annually. i know brazil's a huge country so a higher number is to be expected compared to a lot of the smaller and less populated countries represented in the global report, but it's gut wrenching, and i'd be doing those i know from brazil, and their trans community, a disservice if i didn't mention it.

also transmisogynoir in the usa is horrific, not only with how it's reflected in the murder statistics but also trans women already have the one of the worst pay gaps relative to cis white men of any demographic in the usa, and pay gaps in the usa get so much worse when race is factored in, then combine that with the typical transphobia and transmisogyny and racism in any given workplace in the usa and it's no wonder trans women of color and especially Black trans women are pushed to the margins of society struggling to make ends meet, which can lead to dependence on abusive partners or reliance on sex work:

other statistics from the TGEU global report indicated most reported murders happen on the street, which does really underscore the extent to which being a trans woman or trans feminine person in public frequently involves considering what safety measures you can take.

seeing people who aren't trans women or trans feminine talk about 'boymoders,' boymoders becoming a meme, boymoders becoming sexually desirable to trans men and trans masculine people and cisgender chasers is difficult. i totally understand the trans women who sexualize it— sometimes if you find it hot you can diminish the chokehold the grief it causes has over you— but also it's one of the few ways trans women as a marginalized group have to navigate daily life. and when you consider the intersection with race, the 'boymoder hoodie' could very well still be a death sentence for a Black trans woman. even if a Black trans woman totally does pass, cis and intersex Black women/cafabs living as their assigned gender already get treated as if they 'fail to pass' by white supremacist anti-trans advocates and the media outlets that further their narratives because they have the twin goals of trying to paint Black women as inferior to white women due to the racist white supremacist standards for womanhood set by the white men who wield the most power under global systems of upholding patriarchy whilst causing even more grief for Black trans women.

it's hard for a lot of trans women and trans feminine people, especially those who are socially isolated in-person and seek community online, not to plan out ways to live day-to-day whilst minimizing the risk of being seen by a stranger, usually a male who already thinks our decision to embrace femininity is contemptible (due to misogyny), who might have been convinced all trans women and transfeminine people are trying to take over women's spaces and the traditionally-women-delegated teaching and childcare industries in order to be rapists and pedophiles, thus believing the disgust they've been made to feel at the sight of any trans woman who doesn't perfectly pass is righteous and they're doing society a service should they kill us (due to transmisogyny).

the second most common place for a trans person to be murdered according to the reports where location was known is within a residential building, and the murderer is most frequently someone the victim knew. i've seen this talked about on tumblr before, but there's another huge intersection between transphobia, racism, economic status, and whorephobia such that sex work is the most frequently held occupation in cases where an occupation was known. trans women of color have it especially bad by every metric, and trans women of color are frequently more likely to turn to more dangerous avenues of sex work (in-person v.s. online) because of white supremacist patriarchy's use of economic discrimination to keep people of color in poverty.

in essence, what i hope your take away from this post can be, is that we will argue in circles forever with absolutely no tangible benefit to anyone other than transphobes when we're treating everything trans women and transfeminine people complain about as overblown or purely anecdotal when in so many cases it demonstrably is not. transphobes don't want trans men or trans masculine people to exist either and they are willing to say and do some heinous shit to try and get trans men and trans masculine people to detransition not excluding murder, but the numbers and the rhetoric transphobes are pushing around trans women and transfeminine people now and for the past few years encourages the worst, most violent and reactionary members of global society to enact horrific life-ending violence against trans women and trans feminine people as if it's a public service.

that is why trans women aren't in the mood to debate the 'validity' of tma v.s. tme; transmisogyny being equivalent to transandrophobia; whether it's fair to say a trans man or trans masculine person is in some way discriminated against for being a man (systemic oppression against men doesn't exist so while you totally do experience some unique transphobic discrimination it can't be connected to maleness through any historical context, just in the context of men's rights activism, which is reactionary and generally based in misogyny, sorry); or why it's extremely basic disrespect for a man to say 'what's up my guy' or similar to a trans woman and then double down on it being 'gender neutral' when she says it's not cool with her (the debate over this is contentious which is why people should default to not doing the thing the trans women may or may not be comfortable with, which is just basic courtesy even if you disagree).

this is a polite and well reasoned request for folks to recognize trans women are serious when we point out the severity of the hate aimed specifically at us. incorporate the broader context of the systemic threats we face in the world we're living in right now, and the way those threats have gotten worse and worse over the past 8 years. when you see a trans woman online recounting or explaining her own oppression to vent, or in hopes of finding comfort in shared experiences and with the assumption she'll be taken seriously and treated with basic respect, it's not reasonable to start an argument or go vague blog her. understand that this impulse, encouraged by trans exclusionary radical feminists and gender critical feminists as well as mainstream media and our cisnormative misogynistic patriarchal society is liable to exacerbate the severe social isolation problem trans women and trans feminine people already have, putting our safety at risk.

if i still haven't conveyed at least a decent amount of the ever-present intersectional pressures of transphobia, misogyny, and race that make these tumblr arguments over who's oppressed in what ways and which of them are worse than others feel like an existential crisis for trans women and transfeminine people, i know it usually takes more than one tumblr post to change a person's point of view. still, though:

if you recognize yourself in the complaints she's making, that's an opportunity to reflect on what harm your words and actions may have contributed to the situation and how you can handle things moving forward. maybe apologize and promise to do better, y'know?

(and if all else fails... keep scrolling, no vague blogging, it doesn't hurt you to leave her alone.)

[ak319]

I absolutely love your yandere Arthur stuff- though I really have the curiosity to see him suffer. I was wondering how he'd go about if the reader, in a desperate attempt to escape, ended up getting really really hurt (if she survived or not, up to you.. but make it real heart shattering please)

Thank you and keep being awesome!!

(AN: So, I got two asks (TW) relating to suicide and the other two I added cuz I thought they lined perfectly with the plot that came to my mind. So saddle up as this is going to be a tough one, do read the warnings, and also thank you to all the anons for reading and sending the asks!)

Warnings/MDNI: Suicide, angst, forced prostitution, the reader is underage. (15-16), not incest, strictly platonic, abuse// I don't condone such behaviour

It had been almost a week since you’d run, from everything that had suffocated you. An older woman in her 50s, a widow with two married daughters, had found you and decided to give you shelter. You couldn’t have been more grateful to Linda, and you even felt for her, living alone in a small house with only her animals for company. What you hadn’t expected, perhaps in your own naivety and desperation, was that choices made in haste often became someone else’s chance to shape their own life for the better.

You were dusting off a vase when you noticed two men approaching the fence on horseback. Anxiety bubbled in your stomach. Even the faint sound of hooves and the sight of those hats stirred reminders of your brother, of the camp, memories Linda knew well by now.

“Linda, there are people outside,” you said, voice tight with unease. She looked up from her book, her expression unreadable as she rose. With an air of certainty, as if she’d anticipated this, she opened the door without even glancing to see who they were.

“Good mornin’, Miss Linda.”

The men stepped inside, their eyes sweeping over the small room before landing on you, a young girl, untouched as they were told, standing tensely in the corner, cloth in hand.

“Is she the one?”

“Yes. Her name’s (Y/N),” Linda replied without hesitation, her tone strangely casual.

Your eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Um, Miss Linda?” you murmured, hoping for some explanation. But when you looked at her, the warmth she’d shown when she’d found you, empty-handed and alone, was nowhere to be found.

As their conversation continued, realization dawned painfully fast. This wasn’t an innocent meeting. She had sold you, to men who clearly had no good intentions.

“NO!” you shouted, thrashing as one of them seized you, his grip iron-tight. Panic surged through you as you struggled, tears stinging your eyes.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS? LINDA!” you screamed, your voice cracking. “You have daughters of your own!” But the other man quickly moved to hold you down, binding your wrists as dread washed over you. No, this can’t be real, you thought, desperately praying for a miracle, for anything.

“I don’t have daughters,” Linda replied flatly, her gaze fixed on the money roll they handed her. “I live alone. You fell right into my trap, girly, this is what I do for a living.” She didn’t even look up as they gagged you, ignoring your cries and pleas as they dragged you from her house, indifferent to your terror.

⋆⋆⋆

It had been three months since they’d dragged you into this unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers with cold eyes and colder hearts.It was useless no matter how much you begged or how hard you fought. The punishments, the beatings, the days locked away in dank cellars, became too much to bear.

"It's always a fun challenge to tame young ones like you,"

Eventually, the fight drained out of you. Bit by bit, you surrendered. You gave up on freedom, on dignity, on every cherished memory. You tried to convince yourself it wasn’t giving up, that they had taken it from you. But deep down, you knew the people around you would laugh at that. A woman, giving in? As if you’d ever had a choice.

Even if... even if your brother somehow found you, what would he say? If he saw you here, saw all that had happened, would he forgive you for running away? He will, he will because you're the only one he has left. It was a lie you whispered to yourself just to make it through the endless nights.

But still, despite everything, you prayed. Prayed that somehow he’d find you, that he’d come and take you back. That he’d see past the shame, past the bruises and broken pieces, and remember the sister you used to be. You clung to that thin thread of hope, fragile as it was, because it was the only thing left that still felt like yours.

⋆⋆⋆

Arthur hadn’t had a moment’s peace since you disappeared. The guilt and fury festered into a dark cloud over him, filling every waking moment. Every step, every job he took on, only seemed to twist the knife deeper, because how could he even think about anything else while you were out there alone?

He lashed out at everyone. Every misstep or delay was another reminder that they’d failed to keep you safe, to keep you close. It stung him that no one had been there, that Dutch’s assurances and promises meant so little when it came down to it. The camp members bore the brunt of his fury, his paranoia that they might’ve even helped you leave simmering just beneath the surface. And though they knew better than to push back, they held their patience, trying to calm him, even if it was like talking to a wall. How could these people not take care of you? It was the only thing he had asked Dutch for in exchange for giving his all, his best with his every breath.

Still, he couldn’t rest. Every day he pushed himself, scanning faces in crowded towns, following trails that led nowhere. He’d never admit it, but he was scared, scared of what might’ve happened to you. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw you for himself, safe and within the bounds of camp again.

⋆⋆⋆

It was one of those days where Chief, the man who forced you to call him that, as if it somehow dignified his cruelty, had you paraded through saloons to attract new customers. The older, more experienced girls absorbed most of the men’s attention, giving you brief respites where you could linger near the corners, gaze averted, trying not to see or be seen. This was your coping mechanism: be present but remain hidden, fading into the shadows, preserving the last shreds of yourself.

Chief rarely paid attention to your position; he was usually too engrossed in gambling or drinking with his cronies to notice. So long as you didn’t step out of line or attempt an escape, an impossible feat with his guards stationed outside, he didn’t care where you lingered. For these few stolen moments, you could almost feel invisible, protected by the wall at your back and the murmur of unfamiliar voices.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.

Charles. Right there, across the room. Your heart thundered, your breath catching in your throat. He was here, and the realization struck you like a blow. You must’ve stared too long because his eyes landed on you, recognition dawning in his gaze. You could see his shock twist into something harder, his face darkening as he took in your presence here.

His eyes were locked onto you, and he rose from his seat, his gaze sharp and unyielding, scanning every inch of you with a dawning recognition. Each step he took made your heart pound harder, a mix of disbelief and terror twisting in your chest. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe, as you pressed yourself further against the wall, as though it might somehow swallow you up.

“(Y/N)...?”

His voice was low, laced with disbelief and something that almost sounded like relief, but there was no mistaking the tremor in it. Your throat tightened, and a thousand unspoken words tangled there, as if your body itself was rejecting the reality of being found.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your tongue felt heavy, paralyzed by shame and fear. The silence was broken by Chief, who was now at your side oblivious to the storm brewing, chuckled and tightened his hand on your shoulder. "This is Cherry, my newest one. One of the youngest, too," he taunted, a sick grin spreading across his face. "Would you like a taste, sir?"

Charles didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he was on Chief, his fists swinging. You watched as Charles’s rage took over, each blow landing harder than the last, rendering Chief into a bloody, unrecognizable heap. The noise and chaos around you faded, replaced by a surreal, dreamlike silence.

You wanted to move, to say something, anything, but shock held you frozen. The reality was hitting you all at once, Charles had found you. After all this time, your prayers have finally been answered. But along with the relief, dread crept in. Charles was here, yes, but what about Arthur?

Arthur. The thought of facing him filled you with a hollow, bone-deep fear. What would he say? What would he do when he saw you like this?

“Arthur’s been looking for you. Day and night, he’s been looking. And he’s… well, you know how he is.” He paused, his gaze turning serious. “But he needs to see you. Needs to know you’re safe.”

"I--can't....Charles," he was the second after Arthur whom you called a brother, if this was your condition in front of him, you dreaded facing your real one.

"He...will --no, please." No, this wasn't how it was supposed to be, you should have been happy to go.

"The hell I am leaving you here!"

"Charles, no, you don’t understand!" you protested, your voice trembling as you recoiled slightly from his touch. “Arthur… he’ll be furious! He’ll-”

“He’ll be furious if he finds out you’re here, too,” Charles interjected, his tone sharp yet laced with concern. “But I can’t leave you here. You deserve better than this.”

You nodded slowly, still numb, letting him lead you outside, where the guards who usually kept watch were already scattered, backing off after seeing Charles’s wrath. He didn’t let you go, staying close as he guided you through the quiet streets.

With a final glance back at the saloon, you took his hand, feeling a mix of fear and gratitude surge through you. As you climbed onto the horse behind him, the reality of what lay ahead crashed over you like a wave.

⋆⋆⋆

All the guilt and frustration that Arthur had felt at himself and the others had now morphed into a seething fury. He could barely contain the storm brewing inside him as he stood there, fists clenched, watching Charles bring you back to camp. You stood behind him, your head bowed, and he could feel the weight of your shame even from a distance.

When Charles, with his broken and hesitant words, explained where you had been and what you had endured , Arthur felt a rush of bile rise in his throat. Hearing that you had been forced into such a degrading life, turning into a whore, no less in front of the whole camp, set off a wildfire of rage within him. It felt as if every cell in his body was screaming, torn between the desire to protect you and the urge to just shoot you and then himself.

“Why…?” he managed to croak out, his voice barely above a whisper, but the intensity of his gaze was like fire. You could only let out a whimper, too overwhelmed by shame and fear to answer.

“Arthur... it's not (Y/N)'s fault-” Charles began, trying to explain the circumstances, but Arthur cut him off sharply, the anger bubbling over.

“I AM ASKING HER, CHARLES, SO SHUT YOUR MOUTH! I ASKED YOU SOMETHING!” His voice thundered across the camp, startling the others who had gathered to witness the confrontation.

Silence fell over the clearing, all eyes on you as Arthur took a step forward, his expression a mix of pain and fury. You flinched, feeling the heat of his anger radiating off him like a tangible force.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a rabbit caught in the glare of a predator. You could see the way his fists trembled, the way his jaw clenched, and it terrified you. “I---I didn’t mean to,” you stammered, "I am s-sorry...please."

Annabelle, having enough interjected. "Let the child breathe Arthur! You are scaring her for no fucking reason! You should be happy she's been found you dumbass!"

“Stay out of this, Annabelle!” Arthur snapped, the violence in his tone making everyone around him tense. “You don’t know what she’s done. You don’t know how she’s made me suffer!”

Hosea, who had been observing quietly, spoke up as well, attempting to de-escalate the situation. “Arthur, we need to think this through. She’s back now, that’s what matters-”

But before Hosea could finish, Dutch stepped in, his voice commanding. “Enough! This isn’t helping anyone. Arthur, take a breath. We’ll sort this out, but you need to calm down.”

Arthur’s fury seemed to intensify, the frustration boiling over. “Calm down!?” he spat, eyes dark with rage. “She thinks she can run away from me, become a whore and come back like nothing happened? I’m not letting her off that easy!”

With a sudden, swift movement, he seized your arm, dragging you towards a nearby tent. You stumbled, panic rising within you as you felt the grip of his hand, the anger radiating off him like heat from a fire.

“Arthur, please!” you cried, but he didn’t respond, his jaw set in a hard line as he pulled you along, ignoring the protests from Annabelle and Hosea.

"If anyone comes near me, I am gonna gut em' alive!"

“Arthur, think about what you’re doing!” Annabelle called after you, her voice strained with concern. “You can’t just take her away like this-” Dutch silenced her with holding her shoulders. "Don't you dare go near him! He's not in his senses-"

"SO GO AND STOP HIM!"

But he was already inside the tent, and the flap fell shut behind you with a heavy finality. The moment you were alone, he released you, stepping back with a mixture of anger and desperation. “Why would you do this to me? To us?” he demanded, his voice low and intense.

You backed away and fell onto the cot. "Just...just listen and I'll explain-

"Oh really? Did you enjoy your adventures? See, I was right. This is what they fuckin' taught you , what that bitch Anne, taught you. That fuckin' school!" He grabbed you by your jaw to make you face him. That's when you saw the tint of hurt in his eyes.

“You think this is a joke? I’m a joke? You fuckin’ ran our family’s name, my name, into the mud. I can’t even--” He threw you back onto the bed, the impact rattling through your bones. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Arthur, I’m still me,” you whispered, through sobs. “I’m still.... your sister."

"IF YOU WERE YOU WOULD HAVE LISTENED TO ME AND STAYED HERE!"

He was right, you should have listened and stayed here, chasing your dreams only led you to more nightmares and even now, it seems there are more to face.

You could barely catch your breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you scrambled to find words that might bridge the chasm between you. Taking a shaky breath, you wiped the tears from your cheeks.

"You should be lucky I haven't shot you yet. If I was the one who found you, God knows what I would have done. Stay in this fucking tent until I say so, and don’t show me your face." His voice was low and dangerous, a growl that reverberated through the air like a thunderclap.

You flinched at his words, the truth of them hitting you like a slap. You had been trying to convince yourself that you were still worthy, still, the same person who had left the camp. But standing in front of him, the reality crashed down. You were not that person anymore, and you didn’t know how to return to her.

⋆⋆⋆

Annabelle and the others came to check on you, their voices a distant murmur as if they were speaking through water. You barely registered their presence, lost in a maze of your thoughts, every path leading back to Arthur’s harsh words. What had you expected from him? A comforting embrace? A gentle reminder that you were still his sister, despite everything?

You couldn't help but wonder if you were truly as heinous as he implied. Were you still his blood even? The questions tormented you, each one sharper than the last. You knew the truth of his overprotectiveness, it stemmed from love, from a desire to shield you from the dangers of the world. Yet here you were, the very thing he had feared, tainted by your stubborn quest for freedom and adventure.

Pushing the flap of his tent aside just enough to peek in, you caught sight of him, his back turned to you, oblivious to your presence. Just like he turned his back today on you. Funny.

With a deep breath, you stepped inside and placed the note in his satchel, the fabric brushing against your fingertips feeling heavier than it should.

You took one last glance at your brother, the weight of your choices pressing down on your heart, then slipped out of the tent, moving stealthily toward the supply wagon

When you retrieved what you needed, you returned to the privacy of your tent, the familiar space feeling more suffocating than ever. You sank onto the cot, the cold metal of the weapon glimmering in the bits of moonlight that managed to seep through the fabric.

Taking your time, you pondered everything that had brought you to this moment. You searched desperately for a glimmer of hope, but all you found were dead ends. Before returning with Charles, you had imagined a future where your brother might forgive you, where he could overlook the darkness of the past and allow you both to move on, forgetting the pain that had laced your life. You were even ready to let go of the past, but that hope had shattered just as quickly as it had formed.

With a final breath, you cocked the revolver, the click echoing in the silence of the night. The weight of it pressed against your skin as you brought it to the side of your forehead. At that moment, the tumult of emotions surged, fear, regret, and an aching desire for peace, threatening to consume you whole, and it did.

⋆⋆⋆

3 hours.

It had been three hours and the camp was thick with an oppressive silence that weighed heavily on everyone. The men came and went into the tent, each trying to mask their sorrow with bravado, yet their eyes betrayed them, glassy, haunted. Annabelle’s wailing filled the air outside, her cries echoing like a banshee’s lament, punctuated by shouts of blame that pierced the quiet. Yet through it all, Arthur couldn’t hear anything; he couldn’t see anything except your limp form cradled in his arms, and the world faded to grey around him.

He was convinced it was just a nightmare, an illusion crafted by his mind to torment him.

“Arthur...” Charles’s voice broke through the haze as he placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders, his grip steady yet heavy with gravity.

“We...gotta bury her. Please.” The weight of those words hung heavy in the air, an inevitability that Arthur couldn’t bear to face.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head vehemently as if denying the truth would somehow alter the reality before him. “Only dead people are buried. She’s...she's just sleeping.” The fervour in his voice rose, desperation threading through his tone. “Mum had to always snatch the covers from her because she refused to wake up...she'll wake up soon...I know."

His memory of those mornings washed over him, a bittersweet recollection that clashed violently with the present. The warmth of your laughter, the way you would bury your head deeper into your blankets, evading the morning sun, flared in his mind. Arthur’s grip tightened around you, as if holding you closer could somehow anchor him in this cruel moment, could make you open your eyes.

“Arthur, please.” Charles’s voice trembled with a mixture of compassion and urgency. “We have to let her go. We can’t keep holding on.

“No, I said fucking no. Don't you come near, fuck off!" Arthur growled, the denial thick in his throat.

But all Arthur could think was how cruel it felt, how unbearable it was to even entertain the idea of accepting it. You were his baby sister, his blood, the only family he had left, the one he had been given responsibility by his mother, and the thought of your absence left a hollow pit in his stomach, a void that threatened to swallow him whole. He pressed his face against your hair, clutching you close to his chest, inhaling the scent of you, soft, sweet, and achingly familiar. He murmured incoherently, swaying back and forth like a child himself.

“No,” he repeated choked out, tears streaming down his face. “I won’t lose her, not like this. Not ever. GO AWAY!”

It had taken every man in the camp to separate Arthur from cradling your body. His grip was ironclad, his anguish palpable as he held you against him, as if the sheer force of his will could resurrect you from the depths of despair. They had to pry his fingers from your lifeless form, his cries piercing the stillness of the evening like a gunshot.

As they prepared the grave, the earth was turned and the makeshift coffin formed from an old wooden crate. Each shovel of dirt that fell felt like another piece of Arthur’s soul being buried alongside you. The men worked in silence, their hearts heavy with grief, knowing they could do nothing to ease the torment radiating from him. Charles stood to the side, his own heart breaking.

Even Hosea wasn't able to comfort anyone at this moment. He couldn't fathom that a girl like you, who had so much to live for, for whom he silently had promised to be a guardian of at this camp, was gone. Just like that. He will never forget how you cared for him as a daughter would for her father. Making sure he ate his meals, assisting him with chores and sipping morning (coffee/tea) with him as he read the local news alongside you.

Finally, the moment came. Arthur stumbled forward, the weight of your absence pulling him down as he lowered you into the ground. The first clod of dirt landed with a finality that echoed in the silence of the camp. Tears streamed down his cheek, cutting a path through the grime and dust of the world around him. It felt like a betrayal like they were burying not just you but every memory, every dream he had cherished.

The men finished covering you and when it was done, they stepped back, leaving Arthur alone with his sorrow. He sank to his knees, a hollow shell, fingers digging into the earth as he pressed his forehead against the freshly turned soil. It was all he had left of you.

Dutch approached cautiously, his heart heavy as he watched Arthur, the man he had come to rely on, the strongest in his camp, unravelling before him. “Arthur, my son.." he said softly, “we need to get back to camp. You can’t stay here like this.”

Arthur didn’t budge, his body rigid, his eyes fixed on the grave. “I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, voice low and filled with pain.

“Please,” Dutch urged softly, “it’s time to go. You can honor her memory at camp. We’ll make sure she’s remembered.”

But Arthur only tightened his grip on the soil. “I don’t care. I’m staying here. I won’t leave her. I can’t…she's alone here.” The darkness of the night and you being alone made his body tremble. With that, he lowered his forehead to the cool earth, the pain a constant pulse in his heart, echoing with every breath he took. At that moment, he felt as though he had buried a part of himself alongside you.

"Just...be sure to come back, son."

With a heavy heart, Dutch turned away, leaving Arthur to mourn. And as the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, Arthur remained there, kneeling by the grave. For God knows how long.

That was the last time since Dutch saw him. Arthur went away from the camp, at least for the whole 4 months. Wandering and coping. Even after he came back, nothing was the same anymore. Pearson's stew tasted worse than ever, its blandness a stark reminder of the joy you used to bring to their meals.

Annabelle had left shortly after your passing, her heart broken beyond repair. She broke things off with Dutch, her fury spilling over. Blaming him, blaming Arthur. This time, Arthur didn’t disagree with her. There were moments when he caught glimpses of hate and blame in Hosea’s eyes too due to that night, moments that cut deeper than any bullet.

That night he had shrouded his fear with his rage because he didn't have the heart to hear any further, anything of what you had endured because he knew he couldn't bear it. Due to this utter selfishness of his, he forgot about your pain, denied to offer his shoulder to you.

Hey Arthur,

I know I’m leaving, and I wish I could tell you that everything will be okay, but I need you to understand something important, none of this is your fault. Please don’t let yourself carry that burden. You’ve always tried to protect me, and it breaks my heart to think that you might blame yourself for my choices. I don’t want you to live with regret, feeling like you didn’t fulfil some promise to Mum. That’s not what she would have wanted for either of us. Neither Dad.

As I write this, I want you to remember the better, more joyful moments we shared when we were young. The laughter that rang through our home, the endless promises of going on adventures we dreamed of as we rode in town with Dad.

You always looked out for me, and always kept me safe, and I will forever be grateful for your protection. You did more than any brother could. But you must know that the path I chose was mine alone. I was foolish to step outside when you even said not to and I got lost along the way. It’s not a reflection of you or your love for me. I don’t want you to carry the weight of my choices as if they were yours to bear.

I want you to live your life without the chains of guilt holding you down. Don’t let this tragedy rob you of your future. Pursue your dreams, even in this hard life of an outlaw and embrace the adventure that awaits you because I have seen how much you enjoy doing what you do even if I was not in favour of it. Find joy in the little things, just as we did when we were young and remember that we are forever connected by the love we share as siblings.

If you find it within you, forgive yourself. I hope that one day, you can look back on our memories with a smile instead of sorrow. I’ll always be a part of you, a part that encourages you to keep going, to live fiercely and fully.

Take care of yourself, okay?

With love,

(Y/N)

Arthur’s fingers lingered over the page of the letter, the ink slightly smudged from his own tears. Each word felt like a dagger in his chest, a reminder of the weight he carried, the weight of his past actions, of his failures as your guardian. He carefully placed the letter beside the photo of you both, sitting together, a snapshot of somewhat happier times, a month after he and you arrived in camp. The Morgans, written at the bottom, as Dutch had called you both. Your eyes were not smiling, they were empty of the mischief and the liveliness which you always held. It clearly showed how unhappy you were being separated from the home you held dear to your heart. He dragged you into this life when you barely had the chance to enjoy your childhood. And he failed to see this at the time, blinded by only his promise to keep you at his side.

I’m still.... your sister.

I’m still.... your sister.

I’m still.... your sister.

That plea of yours haunts him to this very day. With a heavy heart, Arthur rose from where he sat, the sun casting long shadows over the camp. He made his way to your grave, each step a reminder of the distance between them now, a chasm he had never imagined would grow so vast.

He knelt down, pulling a few wildflowers from the ground nearby, bright yellow blooms that reminded him of your bubbly laughter. They were vibrant, like the memories he held close to his heart. As he laid them gently atop the grave, a swell of guilt washed over him, choking him with the realization that you had taken the blame upon yourself.

You had written about not wanting him to live with regret, but how could he not? The dark and violent tendencies that had seeped into his life had cast a shadow over everything, over the once innocent and wholesome relationship, filled with just laughter, jokes, care and bickering, and now they had taken you away from him. Arthur thought of the times he had let his anger consume him, the threats he’d made in fits of rage, the moments he failed to protect you in the way a brother should.

"This is on me," he murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "You didn’t deserve this... none of it."

He brushed his fingers over the grave, feeling the cool earth beneath, as if trying to connect with you one last time. He wished he could tell you that he’d change, that he’d find a way to channel his fury into something constructive rather than destructive. But the truth was, that change seemed too far away, and the regret felt too real.

The flowers seemed to wilt under the weight of his sorrow, and he fought the urge to crumble right there beside you like he did every day when he visited you. Maybe, just maybe a simple word of sympathy from him that night could have prevented this, "I’m so sorry, (Y/N)," he choked out, his heart heavy with guilt. "I’m so damn sorry, m-my little Chumchum."

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over the camp, but for Arthur. He stayed there, kneeling at your grave, wishing he could turn back time, wishing he could have been the brother you needed, wishing he could have saved you from the darkness that ultimately claimed your light. Even after killing and gutting alive the ones involved, from Linda to those men, nothing could calm his heart.

It might take a lifetime to heal from your death, but it would take a thousand more to forgive himself.

(AN: Did you cry? I sure did. PS. This was the first time I wrote on this topic so just wanted to say that if you know someone who is going thru smth or even if not, just be kind to others around you and value each other's presence. And if you are goin thru smth be sure to know that this life is a gift and also a test and there is always someone out there who is waiting for you and loves you with all their might, every cell in ur body works for YOU. Thanks for reading, stay hydrated and peace ‎♡‧₊˚)

[kazekagevi]

Bonds Beyond Words: If Eywa Wills It

PART ONE PART TWO

Pairing: Aged-Up!Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Word Count: 3.1k 

Tags: dark themes, indirect mention of r*pe, suicide attempt, eventual NSFW, aged-up! Neteyam, reader has PTSD, Neteyam dislikes humans (except for you), eventual jealous/possessive Neteyam, future Olo'eyktan! Neteyam, interspecies slow burn, angst, fluff, probably OOC, POV’s all over the place, forgive the inconsistencies. 

Summary: You, a competent researcher and writer, awoke from cryosleep a year ago, only to be imprisoned by the RDA—they intended to force you and many other women into a selective breeding program to kickstart human repopulation. However, you, the other prisoners, and allied wardens formed an escape plan; it was carried out, but you are the lone survivor. 

A/N and Disclaimer: This is my first x reader fic! This is also my first fic on Tumblr in years! I've been reading a lot of ATWOW fics and thought I would write my own. I am also challenging myself to write in present tense (I'm a past tense girly), so please forgive any grammatical errors. Hope you enjoy <3

This story contains explicit content and is only appropriate for audiences 18+. MDNI. Please do not repost my work. 

The tracking device beneath your skin feels like a ticking time bomb—although you’re certain it doesn’t have the power to detonate, should the RDA find your location before the prison sector’s power unit comes back online, it could still bring mass destruction to this region of the extrasolar moon. As if the RDA hasn't done enough of that already. 

As you walk barefoot through the unfamiliar forest of Pandora, you wonder if this is heaven. Surely, you must have died along the way—you survived the initial jailbreak, then the evasion at dawn, and managed to remain mostly unscathed from the chopper accident. On Earth, you’d feel compelled to buy a lottery ticket. The thought alone makes you chuckle, and your mask fogs in response. Your laughs, albeit quiet, turn maniacal. Maybe you hit your head hastily fleeing the first bunker, or got thwacked by metal shrapnel in the crash. 

If you live, the escape will count as a partial success. Living would make you a hero; but as darkness falls on this foreign planet, you silently wish you had become a martyr like the others instead. 

You’re completely defenseless. You have nothing more than your respirator mask that won’t stop fogging due to your panicked breaths, and the clothes on your back. You adorn an oversized jacket that you stole from the valiantly deceased helo pilot, and your prison uniform—it’s nothing more than a flimsy, green hospital gown. 

You should know more about this place. You were chosen among an elite class of writers to research alien life on Pandora. You loved traveling and writing about new cultures—studying language, customs, and history. It was your pride and joy, your life’s work. Yet, the nightmare started the day you woke from cryosleep and you were forced into a tiny cell with three other women. In your year of imprisonment, two of them had already been selected into the breeding program, while you and the other, Claudia, were awaiting that same fate. 

You almost slip on a patch of sludge and break your fall by grabbing a tree stump. 

You do know, however, that this hostile environment will kill you if you don’t find the tribe you’re searching for. Certainly, your luck will run out soon. 

So, you stop laughing, blink away the tears in your eyes, and regain your focus. You’d slap your own cheeks if you could, but your mask renders the act impossible. You have to survive, or else the girls’ and allied wardens’ deaths will be meaningless. 

As you continue on your path, the mud starts to dampen, coating the soles of your feet. You presume this is from a recent rainstorm, or perhaps you’re nearing a water source. You swallow hard—inevitably, you’re thirsty. But if breathing Pandora’s air will kill you, the water will likely do the same.

As you carefully wade through the soppy terrain, you repeat the same phrases under your breath like a prayer or mantra. Even if you suffered amnesia and lost all your memories like a slate wiped clean, you could suffice to lose it all, except a few words which you memorized in Na’vi. 

Using these phrases would determine if you lived or died, assuming you weren’t slain with an arrow on sight: after introducing yourself in the language, you must tell them you seek asylum with the Omatikaya clan at High Camp and Max knows you’re coming. Lastly, you needed to say there is a tracking device under my skin, please cut it out. 

You recite these phrases again, except this time you mess up the grammatical structure on the last part. You winge, correct yourself, and continue on your course.

The planet begins to dim as time passes. As you avoid tripping over tree roots and crushing delicate flowers, you notice Pandora’s subtle glow. The bioluminescent spots that dot the terrain look like freckles on skin. It’s the first time you’re seeing the real thing up close, instead of in a tiny photograph. You’re as enamored as you are terrified. 

Your feet hurt and your shins ache when night fully settles. You’ve been traveling by foot for hours. Imprisonment and preparation for forced motherhood meant there was little opportunity for exercise in the compound. Your body isn’t used to lifting heavy things or globetrotting long distances. 

As you use the last of your energy reserves to think—to consider stopping in a safe area for a break—a tremendous force stops you first. 

This is it, you think. You know you're going to die. 

The force is a Na’vi, whom you cannot see. From their position behind you, an arm wraps around your abdomen, lifting your smaller body off the ground like a doll. The Na’vi lodges their elbow into your stomach, knocking the wind out of you, all so they can wrap their large blue hand around your small, human neck. Despite the panic, you notice how controlled the Na’vi’s grip is—just enough to hold you still without choking you. It feels like a strange paralysis. Your oxygen mask fogs as you pant in distress. 

“Why I should not kill you?” The Na’vi asks in broken English. The timbre of the voice leads you to believe this one is male. 

Say the thing! your mind reels. You resist the urge to flail your limbs. The slightest movements make the Na’vi tighten his grip—at this very moment, you notice his other hand holds a dagger to your throat. The space between your skin and the blade is miniscule, as is your proximity to certain death. 

So you do it, you say the thing. Except, it comes out all wrong:

“My… My name is Asylum at High Camp,” you stammer in Pandora’s native language. 

The Na’vi makes a sound of confusion. You won’t know until later, but Neteyam thinks your pronunciation is mechanical, unpleasant, and downright horrible. 

Your chest heaves wildly and your heart thrums in your chest like a drum. The realization hits like a truck. “Wait… No, that’s not right,” you say in English. Your jagged breaths aren’t allowing oxygen to circulate in the mask properly—the same goes for your brain. 

The Na’vi growls against your ear. You’re running out of time. You gather the last of your composure. 

You tell him your name, properly this time, then continue with your monologue. “I-I seek asylum at High Camp, Max knows I’m coming,” you sputter like a dying engine. 

The Na’vi makes another sound of confusion, yet still seems dissatisfied. He gently presses the tip of the knife to your throat. 

“No! Please!” you beg. Your hands instinctively wrap around his glowing-freckled forearm, but you don’t tug. 

The Na’vi freezes. You can’t see it, but something is happening. 

Neteyam’s hairless brows furrow when a woodsprite lands on the edge of the blade he inherited from his maternal grandfather. The woodsprite lingers there, teetering on the edge. Then, it slots itself into the small space between your skin and his knife. You can’t help but cringe at the slight tickle of its tendrils against your collarbone. 

“Eywa,” Neteyam whispers to himself. His voice is so quiet that you cannot hear. 

The woodsprite travels over your clavicle and settles against the skin just below it. The woodsprite glows with vibrance. The light winks at Neteyam. He knows it's a sign. The tip of his knife drags gently against your skin, sending shivers up your spine. The woodsprite flutters away once his knife is over the spot where the tracker sits beneath the surface. His lips part—the area feels hard when he knows it shouldn’t be. 

Your eyes widen. You remember your lines, like an amateur actor taking the stage for the first time. 

“There’s a tracker!” you shout in English. Your shrill voice catches even Neteyam—the future Olo'eyktan—off guard. 

“A tracker?” Neteyam retorts, his voice laced with aggression and uncertainty. He doesn’t recognize that word, but your tone implies grave danger. 

You nod. “There is a tracking device under my skin,” you say in the Na’vi’s native tongue. “Please, cut it out!”

Fright flashes upon Neteyam’s face. Mentally, he’s reeling—were you sent here as bait from the sky demons? Is he falling into another one of their traps? Images of the tracker the Sky People lodged into the tulkun’s fin on the reefs of Awa'atlu flood his mind. His heart feels heavy when he thinks of Ro'a and her cub. 

Physically, however, Neteyam does as he’s told. He would never willingly take orders from Sky People, but he knows in this instance, it’s the only way to protect himself, his family, and his clan. He must abide by these orders for the greater good. 

Neteyam moves swiftly as he pins you against the nearest tree. He holds you there by your neck. Your eyes meet for a brief moment, then he zeros in on the neckline of your hospital gown. He uses his thumb to feel for the tracking device, raises his knife, and cuts. 

Pupils blown wide, you study his face in the moment of reprieve before he slashes at your skin. His eyes are bright yellow, like tiny suns or egg yolks. His lips are full, and as he grimaces, he reveals a shiny set of white teeth. His ears point backwards: he’s agitated. His tail swishes from side to side. He wears his hair in braids. Around his neck, he adorns an ornamental choker necklace. 

You howl through your teeth. Your jaw is clenched. The pain is unbearable, but at the same time, it’s the best kind you’ve ever felt. Even if this Na’vi should kill you right after, at least in your last moments, you’ll feel free. 

Blood pools around his knife as he cuts through the first layer of skin. He tries to ignore your cries as he presses his long fingertips into the open wound. He pulls when he feels a small piece of plastic; with a bit of effort, he dislodges it from your body. 

You sigh in relief when the Na’vi removes it, but the pain lingers—it worsens when you press your fingertips against the wound to stop the bleeding. Your eyelids are heavy. You feel lightheaded. 

The Na’vi removes his grip from your neck, only so he can destroy the tracker. Neteyam notes that trackers he’s encountered in the past tend to beep, light up, or some combination of both—this one has neither of those attributes. The uncomfortable knots in Neteyam’s stomach begin to untie, but he cannot give up his resolve. His work is unfinished. 

He presses the tracker against the tree bark, grunts, and he hacks away with his weapon.

Even as you’re bleeding—potentially to death—you continue to study the Na’vi’s physique and stature. This one in particular is muscular and athletic, and presumably taller than average. The way his muscles move under his blue skin is enchanting, and the way his freckles glow, you might as well be looking up at the night sky. You’re certain this will be your last chance to witness life on Pandora, or life at all—might as well bask in it. 

The tracker is chopped and diced into small pieces, like how you used to cut vegetables back on Earth. The Na’vi looks pleased with his work. Then, his hairless brows furrow again, he spits into his hand, and throws the pieces as far as he can into the Pandoran wilderness. He hisses. You think it’s some kind of power move, but you’re not quite sure, and you definitely don’t have the gall to ask. 

Neteyam stands still for a moment, bloodied hands on his hips. He has yet to face the elephant in the room—or in this circumstance, the tawtute against the tree. 

That blood is only yours. Your eyes roll into the back of your head; you see stars upon realizing just how much you’ve lost. 

---

You wake to the sounds of beeps and whirrs.

All is quiet. You’re in a small room with white walls. The lights are dimmed. Your breaths are slow and relaxed—but as the cogs start to turn, you begin to question if you’re safe or not. 

Pain shoots through your shoulder like a strike of lightning as you sit up in the cot you’ve been sleeping in. You wince loudly, and the noise echoes. 

Your mind briefly recalls the events of the last twenty-four hours, leading up to the encounter with the Na’vi. Evidently, it wasn’t a dream or figment of your highly active imagination. 

Your clavicle has been wrapped in a thick bandage. When you pull back the thin blanket that covers the rest of you, you realize the dirt and grime that covered your feet and legs has been washed away. 

You sigh in relief. You think you’re safe, until you discover that your old hospital gown has been replaced with a brand new albeit identical one—one with the Resource Development Administration’s logo on the tag. 

Your heart feels heavy. 

The escape was unsuccessful. The mission failed.

It makes sense now, as your vision swims through the confined space. This must be it—this must be where they took Seraphina, and Leah, and Clover. This must be where the girls who get picked go. Where they are prepared. Where they are taken. 

You sit there for a few moments, then begin to hyperventilate. The Na’vi male must have left you there to die, and the RDA must have tracked you down anyway. Given that they lost all of their prisoners in the jailbreak, it made sense. They would do anything to get you back. 

You shatter like glass.

Tears prick your bloodshot eyes like thorns. You pluck each wire from your arm like guitar strings, separating yourself from any machines. They continue to beep, but at a different pace, like a sounding alarm. 

You search the room for an escape. You spot a pitcher and sponge on the counter adjacent to the bed. 

In the laboratory across from the infirmary room, Max looks up from his microscope when he hears a loud crash. He jumps up from his swivel chair and dashes across the hall, opening the infirmary door. 

Max has no choice but to undertake—you have a large shard of glass in your hand, and you use all the force in your tired body to resist. He grimaces as you continue to aim for a critical slice on your opposite wrist. His words fail to soothe. 

“Norm!” the unfamiliar man calls. “We’ve got a cutter!” 

Footsteps thump down the hall, then another man enters. “Holy shit,” he says. “What the hell is going on?!”

“I don’t know!” Max shouts back. 

Norm, in his human form, hops over the pile of broken glass, and crouches to meet your bleary, downcast eyes. “Hey… Hey! Stop! You’re safe here!”

You can’t stop the tears from coming. You shake your head and continue to thrash in Max’s arms. “To hell with you RDA fucks!” you spit at him. 

Norm’s eyes fall shut when a glob of saliva hits his left cheek. He counts to three before responding. “We’re not with them!” He grabs your wrists. “Calm down! You’re at High Camp!”

You freeze. You choke on a loud sob. “What?” you ask weakly. 

“I’m Norm,” the one crouching before you says. “That guy, behind you, he’s Max. We’re scientists allied with the Na’vi. This is the stronghold. You’re in our laboratory.” 

You sniffle. The room goes silent. “But this gown?” you croak, showing him the logo.

Norm sighs. “We loot supplies from RDA… That’s all.” 

“Take a deep breath,” says Max. You do as you're told, and your muscles relax. Max docks the glass shard from your hand and eases his grip. Norm nods in approval. “One more,” Max adds. Inhale. Exhale. “You’re alright now.” 

Inevitably, you start crying again. But this time, your tears are joyous. The tension breaks like ice—it’s melting. You’re awash in relief you thought would never come. It’s euphoric. It’s blissful. You’re free. 

A year of suffering and imprisonment is released in your loud sobs. Max catches you before you can fall to your knees on the remnants of the broken pitcher. Neither of them know what to say, so they say nothing. 

Norm, the one on the floor, wipes his cheek with the collar of his shirt. Then he reaches into one of the infirmary cabinets, procuring a dust pan and small sweeper. He does his best to clean the porcelain shards quickly and quietly. “Get her an Ativan,” he mumbles to Max on his way to the disposal bin. Max swallows his nerves. 

---

You’re moved into another room in the facility after your incident in the infirmary. When you come to, you feel slightly embarrassed. You didn’t even check to see if the door of that room was unlocked, which it was. 

“I’m sorry about your pitcher,” you tell Max as he returns from the linen closet with the blankets you asked for. 

Max chuckles. He wants to say he’s more than sorry about all that’s happened to you. He was aiding and abetting the lead warden—the one who came up with the masterplan. “Don’t worry about it. That pitcher meant nothing to me,” he assures. 

You crack a crooked, uneasy smile. The Ativan is starting to take its effect. Max smiles back.

You feel grateful. The scientists here have been nothing but kind and patient. 

You can’t help but also feel grateful to the Na’vi male who presumably saved your life. You don’t know where he is, how to find him, or if you’ll see him again, but you feel indebted. You want to ask Max how you can show your gratitude, but that will have to wait. 

“Thank you,” you say. “For everything.” 

Max nods with a crestfallen smile. “If you need anything else, I’ll be around in the lab all day. Norm will be spending some time as his Avatar, so he won’t be around until later,” he says. “You were out for two entire days, I’m sure you’re hungry. Feel free to have anything in the walk-in or pantry. We don’t always have meals together as a crew, but tonight we’ll have dinner together,” Max explains. 

You’re left alone once Max is sure you’re settled and calm, and won’t break the vase on the coffee table that he does care about. 

---

A/N: Feel free to leave any and all feedback on this chapter! Reblogs and likes are greatly appreciate. In part two, Norm and Max will discuss your arrival with our king, Jake Sully. <3

NEXT CHAPTER: PART TWO