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jillianallen14 · 1 year ago

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Dear Baby Bats - Goth Band Recommendations

As a middle sibling goth (I’ve been in the subculture for 10 years now, so not a baby bat but not an elder goth either), let me turn you on to some bands because we do not gatekeep in this house!! Also, if you want consistently good lesser-known & brand new goth band recs, go follow Awfully Sinister on TikTok and Instagram. He’s a DJ & has great recs. I've found so much music through him because it's really hard to keep up with all the new bands cropping up every year. You want to avoid the goth subreddit because they are extremely gatekeeper-y and argue over labels constantly. It’ll just confuse you, and they are not nice over there.

If you’re very new to the subculture, and you haven’t yet listened to all of Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Sisters of Mercy, Christian Death, Cocteau Twins, Clan of Xymox, Joy Division, and Depeche Mode, go do so now. You'll want to know which of them you really enjoy the most because it will help you know which sub-subgenre(s) of goth you want to watch out for, and it'll tell you what to look for to find it. For example, Sisters of Mercy is the gothic rock subgenre, Christian Death is deathrock, Cocteau Twins is ethereal wave, Clan of Xymox is like the original darkwave, Joy Division is classic post-punk, etc. I haven’t included industrial, despite its proximity to the goth subculture, just because I actually don’t really know that many industrial bands beyond Skippy Puppy, Ministry, and Throbbing Gristle. Some other goth/goth-adjacent staple bands (that are very popular and very influential) that you should listen to if you haven’t already are The Damned, Killing Joke, The Cult, and Adam and the Ants/Adam Ant). I didn't know where to put She Wants Revenge or London After Midnight either, but they're also great.

I’ve bolded some of my absolute must-listen to goth bands, and I've put monthly Spotify listeners for each band so you know which ones deserve WAY more love. And in my pre-list ramblings for each OG band, I've given you some key terms to look up so you can more easily find music that's similar to what you enjoy. Okay, here we go:

If you like Bauhaus:

Bauhaus is a hard one because honestly, nobody really sounds like them, and they aren't really that closely associated with a specific sub-subgenre of goth. They were post-punk, they were art rock, they were experimental, they were sometimes very punk and at other times very gothic rock. They liked to call themselves “dark glam rock” (all four members are massive Bowie, T-Rex, and Iggy Pop fans), but you’re gonna have a hard time finding bands that sound like them if you look that term up. They probably have one of the most unique sounds of all-time. They’re my favorite band (I even have a tattoo for them, like I am devoted lol), but even I have a difficult time finding other bands that scratch their particular itch for me. These bands I’ve listed are as close as you’re gonna get to Bauhaus’ general vibe imo.

Virgin Prunes (80’s band that is technically deathrock but has the same absolutely unhinged, danceable sound that Bauhaus has, so they’re going here; one of my favorites; no one else does it like them and no one else ever will; I would actually give my left foot to see them live); 13.2k monthly listeners (this is actually physically painful to me, how is it this low!!! don't walk, RUN to go listen to them)

Alien Sex Fiend (80’s classic unhinged goth); 77k monthly listeners

Sextile (modern band that has some very Bauhaus-sounding guitar work at times but with heavy industrial influences); 147k listeners

The Danse Society (80’s unhinged goth; has similar experimental vibes to Bauhaus imo; one of my fave goth groups); 36k listeners

Sex Beat (80’s); not even really on Spotify

Ritual Howls (modern band; I don’t know why it gives Bauhaus, but it does; one of the few modern bands that scratches that particular itch for me); 45k listeners

The Agnes Circle (modern band; one of my favorites; they have the right Bauhaus-like atmosphere for me); 52k listeners

Traitrs (I can’t explain why they remind me of Bauhaus, but they do; another one of my fave modern bands; they make me want to start levitating and doing the Ian Curtis dance in the same way Bauhaus does lol); 239k listeners

Paralisis Permanente (underrated 80’s; they have a lot in common with Bauhaus’s sound actually, def give them a try!); 54k monthly listeners

The Birthday Party (80s band, totally unhinged; they’re less dark and atmospheric than Bauhaus, but if you take one listen to their album Junkyard, you’ll know exactly why I put them under this category haha; Nick Cave is the vocalist, which is amazing); 54k listeners

Tones on Tail (80s; Daniel Ash & Kevin Haskins of Bauhaus formed this group; I’d put Love and Rockets as well, which is all of Bauhaus’s members except Peter Murphy, but Love and Rockets weirdly bears little resemblance to Bauhaus’s music; but if you just generally want more of Bauhaus members' work, Love and Rockets is great, too); 81k listeners

Dalis Car (80s; collaboration between Peter Murphy and Japan's bassist; their music is extremely weird, so only listen if you really love the batshit insane Bauhaus songs or if you really live and breathe Peter Murphy like I do lol; their description on Spotify is so fucking funny); 7k listeners

I'd also recommend listening to Daniel Ash, David J, and Peter Murphy's solo work. They're all great!! Peter also did some amazing collaborations with Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails); the version of Reptile that they did together is better than Nine Inch Nail's original version imo, and you can find that entire session on Youtube!

If you like Siouxsie and the Banshees:

Siouxsie is another one that's hard to pin down sound-wise because again, they don't really fit into one specific sub-subgenre, so all of these recs are just goth bands with female vocalists who have the same kind of powerful vocals that Siouxsie does.

Second Still (modern band, one of my faves; singer sounds a lot like Siouxsie to me at times); 69k listeners

Skeletal Family (80’s band; has the same “women in punk” vibes that Siouxsie has); 55k listeners

Xmal Deutschland (80’s band; has the same powerful vocals that Siouxsie has; makes you wanna go stupid go crazy the way the Banshees do); 73k listeners

Secret Shame (modern band w/ woman singer; has the same rage that Siouxsie songs have to me, especially early Siouxsie); 6k listeners (let's get those numbers up, folks!!!)

Rosegarden Funeral Party (modern band w/ a woman vocalist); 57k listeners

Mephisto Walz (90s & 2000s; sounds so much like the Banshees at times); 56k listeners

The Creatures (80s; a Siouxsie Sioux & Budgie side project); 34k listeners

Madhouse (listen to Repulsion! 80s group that’s technically deathrock, but I put them under this category because the singer has Siouxsie-like qualities); not really on Spotify

Strange Boutique (90s; vocalist is Monica Richards of Faith and the Muse & Madhouse; this is probably my favorite project of hers); 112k listeners

If you like Depeche Mode:

For Depeche Mode enjoyers (which DM is kind of on the fringes of what’s considered “goth,” but they’re so entrenched in the subculture that I included them anyway), you’re gonna want to delve into goth playlists that have a lot of EBM (electronic body music) and modern goth that leans towards synthpop/synthwave. So those are the kinds of playlists you’ll want to search up for similar sounds to DM.

Nuovo Testamento (modern band; combines post-punk and pop elements in a way that’s very similar to Depeche Mode; lots of fun live, and they have a good sound); 25k listeners

Boy Harsher (modern band; relies heavily on synth; feels like it should be playing at every goth club); 558k listeners

ULTRA SUNN (modern band; singer sounds like Dave Gahan); 217k listeners (they just blew up on tiktok recently, which explains why this just skyrocketed since the last time I was on their Spotify page lol; good for them, good for them, they deserve it)

Ministry's first album (called With Sympathy), which was synthwave/synthpop before they went industrial (this is one of my all-time favorite albums)

French Police (modern band); 252k listeners

Closed Tear (modern band); 152k listeners

Night Sins (modern band); 33k listeners

Panic Priest (modern band; vocals sound decently similar to Dave Gahan & there is a lot of reliance on synth; In All Severity is a gorgeous song); 5k listeners

Fad Gadget (underrated 80’s; I just feel like if you like DM, you’re also gonna like Fad Gadget); 58k listeners

Martin Dupont (underrated 80s cold wave/synth pop; Inside Out is one of my favorite 80s songs); 26k listeners

If you like The Cure:

You'll be hard-pressed to find a goth band that wasn't influenced by The Cure, so I really can't give you any key terms for what to look up lol. They also changed their sound so frequently that it entirely depends on what era of The Cure's music you're looking to find similar music for.

Vision Video (modern band; combines post-punk and pop elements like The Cure does; one of my fave modern goth bands; they are INCREDIBLE live); 52k listeners (I'm gonna need y'all to get a song or two of theirs to blow up on tiktok expeditiously lol)

Urban Heat (modern band; great live); 36k listeners

The Chameleons (80’s band; very underrated; they are also very good live); 167k listeners

House of Harm (modern band, very new; also very good live; has pop elements); 44k listeners

Deceits (modern band, another very new one); 28k listeners (it's crazy how much this number has grown the past two months because it was in the single thousands not that long ago; everyone say thank you, tiktok)

Drab Majesty (modern band; their instrumentals remind me of The Cure); 172k listeners

Double Echo (modern band, one of my faves; their instrumentals also remind me of The Cure); 15k listeners (let's get these numbers up!!!)

The Bolshoi (underrated 80’s band that combines new wave and goth elements in a similar way to The Cure); 114k listeners

The Essence (underrated 80s band that sounds so much like The Cure it’s actually insane, but they’ve got their own sound too; they’re like a perfect blend of all of The Cure’s different sounds); 25k monthly listeners

The Glove (80s; a Robert Smith side project with Steven Severin from Siouxsie and the Banshees); 25k listeners

Crimson Ivy (80s band; singer sounds so a lot like a more yelly version of Robert Smith sometimes); not on Spotify

Miss Teen America (brand new band from NYC! They only have one single out right now, and it’s well worth listening to); 940 monthly listeners (y’all know what to do!!! Let’s get those numbers up, up, up!) link to their single: https://open.spotify.com/album/4nvdZeUVLLrMv3tEziCqm7?si=2WVS7-eYQLGR7Id3wLiKhg

If you like Clan of Xymox:

Most of these bands will be modern ones because Clan of Xymox was honestly way ahead of their time. (They are also amazing live, so go see them before they eventually call it quits!) For playlists that are full of their vibe, you’re gonna want to look up “darkwave” playlists and also some EBM. Clan of Xymox pioneered darkwave, so any darkwave band you listen to is gonna be influenced by their sound in some way or another.

Harsh Symmetry (modern, very new; very heavily relies on synth); 29k listeners

Ssleeping Desiress (modern band; instrumentals similar to Xymox); 55k listeners

Twin Tribes (probably my favorite modern goth band; they are fucking incredible and so good live!); 276k listeners

ACTORS (modern band; heavily relies on synth); 86k listeners

Mareux (modern; heavily relies on synth); 4.8 million listeners (this is wild!!!! everyone say thank you, tiktok)

Sixth June (modern); 23k listeners

Plastique Noir (modern); 40k listeners

Rendez Vous (modern); 160k listeners

Minuit Machine (modern); 97k listeners

The Frozen Autumn (90s & 2000s); 31k listeners

If you like Christian Death:

All of these recs will be deathrock recs or goth bands that heavily leaned on punk sounds. So if CD is the OG goth band you’re most fond of, you’re gonna want to delve into deathrock playlists for similar sounds.

Asylum Party (80’s band); not on spotify

45 Grave (80’s band); 47k listeners

Voodoo Church (80’s band; probably my favorite out of this bunch; I actually like them more than Christian Death); 7k listeners (let's get these numbers up immediately!!!!)

Ausgang (80’s band); 2k listeners (WHAT; they deserve so much more, damn)

Corpus Delicti (90’s band; they are very good; they sound the least like Christian Death on this list imo); 26k listeners

13th Chime (80’s band; very underrated); 6k listeners

UK Decay (you know, I actually don’t know what era they’re from; unhinged sound); 1k listeners (omg)

Super Heroines (underrated 80’s band; Eva O formed it); 2k listeners (you see what I meant about underrated?)

Specimen (80s band; this one could have just as easily gone under Bauhaus tbh, but the vocals are generally higher pitched than Peter Murphy’s, so I put them under this category); 102k listeners

Sex Gang Children (80’s band; just so unhinged & I love them for it); 27k listeners

Suspiria (90s, I think? I don’t actually know); barely on Spotify but 27k listeners

Theatre of Hate (80s); 7k listeners

Bloody Dead and Sexy (2000s, I think); 44k listeners

Mescaline Babies (2000s); 3k listeners

Acid Bats (2000s; Mexican band with Spanish lyrics); 2k listeners

Altar de Fey (80s band; formed in San Francisco!!); 23k listeners

Twisted Nerve (80s band; classified as “gothic punk,” so I felt this was the best category for them; they’re great; their sound also reminds me of early Siouxsie and the Banshees and Killing Joke); 2.5k listeners

Play Dead (80s); 8k listeners

Limbo (underrated 80s; if you like Bauhaus & Virgin Prunes as well, you’re gonna like this band); 413 listeners

If you like Cocteau Twins:

Cocteau Twins’ early sound is usually categorized as “ethereal wave�� goth, so those are the playlists you’ll want to look up if you enjoy their early sound. If you like their later sound, you’re gonna want to lean more towards shoegaze for similar vibes. Admittedly, ethereal wave is one of the goth subgenres that I know the least about, so I’m not gonna be much help here.

Dead Can Dance (80’s band; NO one, and I mean NO ONE, was doing it like Dead Can Dance; so fun to dance to in the goth club); 332k listeners

Lycia (90’s band; their music is very transcendent); 20k listeners

Linea Aspera (modern band; gorgeous woman vocals; honestly, their music is just very beautiful); 67k listeners

This Mortal Coil (formed in the 80s; some songs feature Elizabeth Fraser & Robin Guthrie from Cocteau Twins, but even the ones that don’t still have an ethereal vibe similar to CT; Sixteen Days/Gathering Dust is just like the best song ever); 310k listeners

Autumn's Grey Solace (2000s); 62k listeners

Faith and the Muse; (90s); 22k listeners

This Ascension (90s); 4k listeners

Strawberry Switchblade (80s); 400k listeners

If you like Joy Division:

All of these bands will be ones that sound very classically post-punk, so those are the playlists to search out; emphasis on "classic" because post-punk is a very broad term that gets applied to a lot of music. I would argue that Joy Division has had the most influence out of all the OG goth bands on the current goth sound/goth renaissance we're going through right now, so there are a LOT of bands out there for you if you’re a JD fan.

Molchat Doma (modern band); 2.5 million listeners (wow lol, they've grown so much over the past two years, it's actually insane; good for them)

Soviet Soviet (modern band); 152k listeners

Fearing (modern band; very good live); 30k listeners

Ploho (modern band); 146k listeners

Pink Turns Blue (criminally underrated 80’s band; they are SO good live); 98k listeners (this is an actual travesty, this band is way too good to not even be in the hundred thousands)

The Sound (another incredibly underrated 80’s band); 119k listeners

This Cold Night (modern; has the deep vocals of Joy Division and the driving bass but more stripped back than JD); 150k listeners

Bleib Modern (modern; has very similar vocals to Red Lorry Yellow Lorry, which is a band listed under the Sisters of Mercy section of this post, so if you end up liking this band, you should also listen to Red Lorry Yellow Lorry & vice versa); 36k listeners

Lebanon Hanover (modern; has the existential angst that Joy Division always ignites in me but more stripped back); 936k listeners (this is crazy, holy shit!!!!!! go, Lebanon Hanover, go!!)

She Past Away (modern; deep vocals); 226k listeners

Belgrado (modern; woman vocals!); 18k listeners (they deserve better than this!!)

Leonora Post Punk (modern; Mexican goth band w/ Spanish vocals! They’re amazing! They have those deep vocals you want when you’re looking for a similar sound to Joy Division); 56k listeners

O. Children (modern; has the deep vocals & interesting bass lines that Joy Division was known for; great band); 29k listeners

If you like Sisters of Mercy:

This is one of my least favorite goth subcategories, which is odd because I actually love Sisters. But if you’re looking for a lot of music that sounds like SoM, I’d suggest delving into the 90’s and early 2000’s goth music scene. Search out those playlists. A lot of the 90s and 2000s goth bands were very derivative of Sisters of Mercy.

Rosetta Stone (90’s band); 54k listeners

Miazma (modern); 10k listeners

Red Lorry Yellow Lorry (another criminally underrated 80’s band; one of my fave goth bands); 40k listeners (THEY!! DESERVE!! BETTER!!)

Dreamtime (modern); 65 listeners (ouch lol, please go show them some love)

Fields of the Nephilim (80’s, I think; if you’re a metalhead, you’ll probably appreciate this band); 95k listeners

The Merry Thoughts (80s); 19k listeners

The March Violets (underrated 80s; might be a controversial opinion to put them under SoM, but I’m standing by it); 69k listeners

Horror Vacui (modern; it’s kind of a stretch putting them here tbh, but I couldn’t figure out what other category to put them under); 44k listeners

The Sisterhood (spin-off Sisters of Mercy group that was formed by goth king Andrew Eldritch himself); 3k listeners

The Mission (formed by former Sisters of Mercy members; Wasteland by them was actually one of the first songs to get me into goth music); 180k listeners

Eyes of the Nightmare Jungle (late 80s & 90s; every time a song by them comes on, I’m convinced it’s a Sisters song until the singer starts singing lol); 13k listeners

Ex-Voto (formed in 1982, but most of their albums on Spotify came out in the 2000s; this band is like if Fields of Nephilim had a baby with Clan of Xymox & then sprinkled some industrial techniques in); 6k listeners

Also, if you want a 1500-song, 105-hour goth playlist that’s constantly growing, here you go. The name of it is a dig at my ex lol: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6jCV530pMmOEmDHj4CLNka?si=cEVKiyAwQpaieGiV2pMyqw

#goth music #Bauhaus #the cure #Christian death #Siouxsie and the banshees #goth #post-punk #baby bats #music recs #Joy division #Depeche Mode #clan of Xymox #sisters of mercy #Cocteau twins #Spotify

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theorist-fox · 3 months ago

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Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

Summary: Simon has to lie low and go dark for an undefined period of time. While trudging along the unbearably long, dark alley that's his life, he finds the light at the end of tunnel, and it's shaped like you. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun.

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his.

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin.

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him). His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required, or needed. Wanted.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this.

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday.

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking.

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he��s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream.

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere.

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight.

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole.

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #jealous simon riley #ghost x reader

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 4 months ago

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Chapter 2: What A Great Freakin’ Way To Start The Day

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When you decided to work with Butcher and his merry band of supe hunters to take down Homelander, you never expected to be saddled with a sullen, grumpy, jerk like Soldier Boy when the job was done. The more you’re around him the more you hate him, but you can’t help but wonder, is he really as big a jerk as you think? Reader is a supe with plant powers. This takes place in an AU about a month after the end of The Boys Season 3, in which Butcher has let Soldier Boy continue to work with him on his team. (I'm real bad at summaries, please forgive me!)

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers (Not in this chapter), Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy,

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), swearing, mentions of sex, sexual innuendo, sexual tension. Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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The morning begins the same way it always does, with your neighbor Mike blasting "I Will Always Love You" in his apartment at exactly 8 am just as he had each day since you met two years ago. It was the only constant in your life, but at least you didn't have to use an alarm clock anymore. The sound of Mike belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs was enough to wake everyone in the whole building, including the people on the eighth floor, five stories above him.

But because Mike bought the super’s probably illegally made cologne and because the super was dating Mike’s mother, something that made you regret supe hearing very much, it never stopped despite the numerous complaints.

Then again it was Annie's favorite thing about sleeping over, she liked to scream the lyrics back at the wall and jump on your bed like a crazy banshee. Honestly you hoped that it would stop after Ben had pretended to be your boyfriend, that Mike would finally figure it out and give up.

Guess not.

You sit up in your bed, stretching your hands over your head while humming the chorus under your breath, but you were more of an ABBA fan. If Mike had decided to serenade you with "Take A Chance On Me" or even Aretha Franklin's "You're All I Need to Get By," you might have looked at him differently.

The memory of the dream of his mullet smothering you in your sleep momentarily passes over your mind, causing a shudder to travel down your spine. Or maybe not.

Your bedroom was similar to your living room, covered in plants. Trailing jasmine and bougainvillea blanketed the wall behind your bed in deep red and white, budding lavender, lilac, and honeysuckle sat in pots along the top of your dresser, and a blush colored rose bush, that never went out of bloom, stood proudly in the corner. The only difference was that there were two large piles of books almost as tall as your ceiling, some old some new, braced beside the rose bush like Roman columns. You kept trying to remember to buy a bookshelf, but each time you thought about going to pick one up, Butcher usually called and asked you to help out. Both piles were covered almost completely in pothos and more hung from the brick walls above your only window, that opened the floor length pale yellow curtains with a flick of your hand.

An annoyed purring sound greets your ears as the honeyed light from the now open window wisps over your covers. Bean, your cat, stalks up from the end of the bed, his yellowed eyes narrowed with annoyance at being woken up so early while his charcoal gray coat turns lighter in the brilliant sunlight. Last night he had been in your bedroom when you got home, which meant that he hadn't been around Ben when he came in.

A good thing, because Bean hated just about everyone except Butcher, which you thought was weird. But whenever Butcher dropped by to talk to you Bean always came over to look for rubs, while hissing at anyone who tried to interrupt them. Hughie was actually afraid of Bean, and because Bean was a cat he immediately picked up on this and purposely would jump on the couch next to Annie so Hughie couldn't sit there, Bean also followed after Hughie to the bathroom and waited outside the door to swipe at his ankles whenever he would come out.

But you didn't love him any less.

He puts his paw on your thigh lightly extending his claws to get your attention.

"Oh are you talking to me now?" You smile, rubbing him behind the ears. "I thought you were angry because I woke you up?"

He purrs and pushes his chunky gray head against your hand, but startles when the song switches to "My Heart Will Go On" which causes Mike's mother to join in to his karaoke session.

I'd move if my apartment wasn't so damn cheap.

"Maybe they should take the show on the road. Huh buddy?"

Bean purrs his response while pushing his head further into your hand.

His mom wasn't that bad of a singer, in fact, you thought that you remembered eavesdropping on a conversation between her and the super when she talked about a career as a cabaret singer a while ago.

"Come on, let's see if Gramps killed any of my plants." You smile down at your cat. "If he did I'm going to turn him into a tree."

Bean purrs in agreement.

You get out of bed, adjusting your shirt back down over your shorts before walking to the door with Bean following behind you. You step out into the cool hallway, with more enthusiasm than usual as you try to escape the butchering of the Titanic's soundtrack and collide into something warm and wet.

It takes you exactly seven seconds to realize that the warm, wet, thing that your face is currently stuck to, is in-fact Ben's chest, his shirtless chest. Why he's standing in the hallway outside your door, soaking wet and wearing a towel you have no idea. All you know is that your face is physically laying against the warm flesh of his pectoral muscles.

"Why are you NAKED?" You scream as you peel yourself off of him and turn your gaze away. Your face felt so warm that it was like you'd been standing in front of a volcano for too long and you were sure that you had blushed to the roots of your hair.

You'd only seen him without his shirt on once, when the door to his bedroom was cracked at the apartment he shared with the rest of the group. But it was from the back and you had been walking by to go to the bathroom, and you hadn't looked…

Well, you may have stopped for a second to admire the powerful muscles on his muscular back and maybe thought about waiting for him to turn around so you could see if the front was as good as the back… but you hadn't.

And he certainly hadn't been soaking wet then, and it made you hate him more now, because no one should look as good as he does soaking wet. You personally knew that you looked like a drowned poodle whenever you stepped out of the shower, but him? Soldier Boy looks like he just finished filming a shampoo commercial.

You could see it in your head, him standing under a crystal blue waterfall with the water splashing against weathered rocks before running through his soft brown hair, curving around his broad shoulders, down his toned stomach straight down to his-

NO. Not gonna go there. You could feel your skin heating in embarrassment, almost as if you thought he could read your mind.

"I'm not naked doll, I mean I could be if you wanted me to." He smirks as he hears your heartbeat begin to pick up and reaches for the end of his towel. The towel that was almost too small to wrap around his waist and left very little to the imagination.

"NO!" You shout holding up a hand to stop him, but again brush the front of his chest.

Fuck, you could zest a lemon on those abs.

"Are you sure?" Ben smiles wider, taking a step forward. He's so close that you can smell your grapefruit mint shampoo on him and feel the humidity and warmth of his body as he stands there. For some reason the fact that he used your shampoo, and smelled like your soap, made you feel warm and tingly. It was almost hypnotic. You hated how much you liked it. "Because you're turning that cute little red color you always do whenever I'm around, and your heartbeat is kinda fast."

"No. I don't." You grit your teeth together. "Why are you standing outside of my door naked?"

"Maybe I was waiting for you to come out." His hand presses against the doorway next to your head. "You know, I already took a shower, but if you wanted I'd be happy to get back in with you."

"No thanks. I don't need a shower and I wouldn't shower with you if it was the last shower on earth and I hadn't bathed in forty years." You purse your lips. "Oh right, that happened to you."

Ben frowns at your mention of his time in Russia. You didn't often tease him about being trapped in a lab, you knew that it was a sore spot for him. Plus you'd seen the footage of exactly what those doctors did to him and it was enough to make you want to book a one way ticket to Russia and personally show them what happened when a tree got shoved up your ass.

You open your mouth to apologize.

"I was going to ask if you have any other clothes here. Mine are still wet from last night." He raises an eyebrow, but the humor is gone from his eyes.

"Oh. Um. I can take a look." You turn and walk into your bedroom, trying not to feel awkward about bringing up the lab.

He was a jerk, but he didn't deserve a reminder of how shitty the last forty years have been.

Truthfully, you weren't sure if you had anything that would fit him. Ben was a lot bigger than you, taller and broader. You usually did wear things that were a little big for you, but you didn't think that Ben would fit in any of them.

Maybe I have something from when my brother was here last time.

Darren often dropped by when he was in the city visiting his friends or had a new "business" venture. The ones that never seemed to last and the friends that always seemed happy to spend the moan you "loaned" him for his "best idea yet" as he always phrased it. But he hadn't been by in at least a year.

"It's really green in here too." You hear Ben say under his breath.

You didn't think that he was going to follow you into your room, you thought he was going to stay in the hallway, but no, he had followed you. And he made the room feel even smaller than it was with his broad shoulders and over six foot stature.

The sunlight from the window glinted off his still wet chest and it made your throat uncomfortably tight. For the love of chocolate pudding, WHY does he look so good all the time?

"You can wait in the hall-"

"Wanted to see your bedroom." He smirks. "Though I think that you wanted to show it to me last night-"

You ignore him and turn back to your chest of drawers while Mike and his mother switch to "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction. You wince as they begin.

"Do they always do that?" Ben asks.

"Yep. Since I moved in." You sigh, shuffling through your t-shirts.

"He's really got it bad Sweetheart. Maybe you should throw him a bone. Kinda seems like the poor guy needs to get some ass-"

"If it's any of your business- which it's not- I do not like him that way."

"Well they're a little loud." You feel Ben take a step closer to you. "But I bet you and I could give them a run for their money. We are in your bedroom after all, might as well make the most of it."

"I didn't know that you liked Karaoke. I'll keep that in mind for you 105th birthday party."

"What? No I meant-"

Bean purrs loudly from his position on your bed and you wait for the telltale sound of Ben shooing him away when Bean tries to puncture Ben's impenetrable skin with his claws, but it doesn't come.

You glance over your shoulder. Are you kidding me?

Bean is sitting on your white plush comforter, rubbing up against Ben's hand, purring while Ben scratches him behind the ears.

Traitor.

"Didn't know you had a cat." Ben says continuing to stroke his hand down Bean's spine, who stands up and turns so Ben can have a better angle.

"I didn't peg you for a cat person. Kinda ruins the whole all-American Man image you have going on."

He shrugs. "I like dogs more, but I don't hate cats. Usually they don't like me very much."

"I wonder why that is." You grumble watching Bean lean into Ben's hand again. "His name is Bean."

"Bean? Why?"

"Because when I got him I was trying to grow green beans in the linen closet and he would sit outside the door and screech until I gave him a green bean to play with."

"You were trying to grow green beans in the linen closet?"

"Yeah. Seemed like a good idea, but they like the bathroom more-" You finally find the oversized Led Zeppelin shirt your brother left the last time he crashed at your apartment and a pair of jeans. "A lot of my plants like the bathroom more actually."

"I was going to ask you why the bathroom floor and wall was squishy."

"It's moss. It thrives in humid environments." You hold out the clothes for him.

"Uh-huh." He frowns at the clothes for a minute. "So you're saying you wouldn't want a guy to serenade you like that?" Ben nods his head towards your bedroom wall, just as Mike and his mother begin to belt out the chorus. "Thought girls liked sappy shit."

"I'm not a fan of One Direction."

"Right. You like ABBA more." Ben turns towards your door to go back to the bathroom to change.

Shock momentarily spikes in your chest. "How did you know that?"

He freezes as if you caught him doing something bad, turning slightly towards you. "Um- well, you hum their songs a lot."

"When?" You cross your arms over your chest.

"Whenever you're on stake outs. Sometimes when you're reading those files or waiting for Annie at the apartment." He shrugs. “When you were walking last night you were humming ‘Fernando.’"

He noticed that?

"How long exactly were you following me?"

"Long enough." He raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to keep me talking because you want me to change in here? Because I would be more than happy to drop this towel and show you what a real man looks like Sweetheart."

"Don't flatter yourself Gramps. If you drop that towel the only thing that'll happen is Bean will think you brought him a green bean to play with." You roll your eyes. "Now get out of my room. I have to change."

Ben begins to say something, but the vines hanging above the door push him out into the hall and shut the door behind him.

That felt good.

After you put on a white t-shirt, your favorite pair of jean overalls and your dark green converse, you make your way out into the living room. Ben is there, lounging on your couch like he owns it. He’s wearing the jeans and t-shirt you gave him, but you can't help but notice how the clothes are just a little too small for him. The way his muscles pull at the t-shirt, the way the jeans hug his thighs and butt-

He's getting way too comfortable here. You think to yourself to avoid the thought of how good he looks on your couch. How it almost feels natural that he's sitting here in your living room, inhabiting your space.

"So what's for breakfast doll face?" He leans his head back to gaze at you with a mischievous smile that makes a warm tingle travel down the length of your spine.

"Well, I'm going to have oatmeal and you're going to have whatever you want I guess?"

His eyes darken. "Whatever I want?"

"Calm down Gramps I meant that there's cereal in the cabinet." You roll your eyes to avoid thinking about the kiss last night and then thinking about how it felt for your body to be pressed against his in the hallway when you ran into him. Which inevitably leads back to the waterfall fantasy and-

No. No. Not going to do that. Not with him. He's just good at getting women into bed, he doesn't care about you. You think about how he remembered that you liked ABBA. That doesn't mean anything. He doesn't see me as anything more than a conquest and he probably remembered that because he's changing tactics and trying not to act like a creep.

“You’re not going to pour me a bowl?” His smirk pulls down in an attractive pout.

“I think it’s simple enough for your little brain to do.” You don’t turn around from the kitchen cabinets, grabbing a raspberry from the refrigerator and popping it in your mouth. For some reason you noticed that whatever you grew tasted better than anything you bought at the grocery store. You hoped that it didn’t mean that your powers supercharged whatever you grew and that it was actually radioactive or something.

Because that’s exactly what I need, to turn bright green.

“There’s nothing little about me doll.”

“Can’t you ever have a conversation with someone without it revolving around sex?” You grumble banging around in your cabinets to find your instant oatmeal.

It was a valid point and you were tired of getting whiplash every time Ben acted caring and then flipping back to horny manchild.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ben laughs. He stands from the couch and makes his way into your kitchen.

It was hard not to notice how small each room in your apartment looked with him in it. His head was only a foot below the ceiling, not to mention the kitchen was only composed of six cabinets, a small sink, a microwave shoved into a corner, a stove top, and a refrigerator that only came up to Ben’s shoulders. Your bathroom was worse, sometimes the shower was small even for you and you didn’t know how Ben fit in there.

He probably had to duck down to stand under the shower head.

And then as you thought that, the image of Ben standing under a waterfall comes creeping back, making the strawberry plant on top of the fridge, the raspberry vines, and the blackberry vines covering your refridgerator burst into bloom.

Thankfully Ben didn’t notice, because he was rooting through the white top cabinet in the corner for one of the cereal boxes.

I’d never hear the end of it if he saw that happen.

You glare at the plants in question, eyes shifting to a deep green as the flowers develop into fresh fruit to cover your slip.

Ben pulls out a box of Lucky Charms, but frowns at Lucky on the front cover, who is throwing a handful of marshmallow charms into the air around him.

Guess he's not a fan.

“If I’d known you were going to sleep on my couch I would have gotten Bran flakes and prunes for you.” You smirk as you pour water over the oats in the bowl before placing it in the microwave to cook. “I know people your age need that kind of thing sometimes. Gets the bowel moving.”

“Make fun of my age all you want.” Ben steps around you to grab the almost empty bottle of milk from your refrigerator. “One day you’ll be happy to find out just how experienced I am.”

“Keep dreaming.”

His dark eyes meet yours. “You’re all I dream about baby.”

You can feel his breath on the side of your neck from how close he is to you, the kitchen seems smaller than it ever has, and he leans forward, sensing your hesitation. One of his hands goes on the kitchen counter to your right, the other places the milk down and then braces on the counter to your left caging you against him.

“Do any of your lines actually work?” You say, throat tight.

“You’d be surprised.” He smirks wider, green eyes sliding up and down your body.

The air in the kitchen electrifies, something passing through the air between the two of you that makes you feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest. His eyes are softer green now, reminding you of the color of fresh leaves on an oak tree in spring, bright, strong, and full of life. His body is pressed gently against yours, the strong muscles of his abdomen laying on your hips, muscular arms making sure that you don't walk away.

You try not to think again about how good he looks in your apartment, how calm and relaxed he seems when he’s away from Butcher and not wearing his uniform.

Standing here in your apartment, he looked normal, human. Sometimes it was hard to remember that you were, when you could do what you did, when you saw him get hit with a car and shove it away with one hand.

He was still ridiculously attractive, the kind of attractive that you’d read in romance novels and in classic Roman literature, the kind of beautiful that people wrote poetry about, the kind of ruggedly handsome that made smart girls stupid.

You were really feeling that last one. Because you were desperately trying to hold on to your dream of being with someone that understood every part of you, but Ben was making it hard.

It wasn’t that the idea of sleeping with him was terrible. It wasn’t. It was far from terrible it was the idea of having sex without feelings that you didn’t like. You didn’t want to sleep with him because you knew that he only saw you as something to be possessed not as an equal or someone he cared about. Soldier Boy only cared about himself, that was apparent.

He’s only interested in you because you haven’t given in. You think to yourself. It's all about the thrill of the chase, nothing else. I'm worth more than that. I'm worth more than one night.

“In fact, I think it’s working on you doll.” Ben leans down towards you so close you can feel his words in the air between your faces, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say no.

That made you pause. Ben didn’t seem to be the type of man who was patient. You’d walked in on him making out with numerous women on the couch back at the apartment he shared with the rest of the team, saw how he took control, saw how he didn’t seem to wait for them to say no or really say anything at all. Not to mention one time when you walked into the shared apartment and could hear Ben with one of his "dates" in his bedroom. Nothing about that seemed patient at all.

But this Ben standing in your kitchen was different. He was almost smiling, dark hair still damp from the shower curling on his forehead, the t-shirt damp around the collar, jeans a dark blue, and the smell of your shampoo fills your senses again all over again. It made you wish for this person all the time. The one that you could see yourself falling in love with, not the racist, sexist, and inappropriate jerk that seemed to dominate his persona at all other parts of the day.

Funny, the only time you’d ever seen Ben like this, was when the two of you were alone- well sometimes- other times he annoyed you without end and made you want to jump out a window.

But why? Why only around me?

The feeling in your chest grows. It jumps from synapse to synapse, pulses along your skin, buzzes in your blood, tangles through your hair, and radiates through the air like a sound wave. Your eyes drift down to his lips remembering exactly what it was like to kiss him last night. How he seemed to consume you whole, how everything else fell away, how Ben curled himself around you, how he-

Your cell phone rings, breaking through the moment, and making you remember exactly why you didn’t want to give in to Ben and remember the kind of person he was.

You push him away and pull your cellphone out of your pocket. Butcher's photo and name appear on the screen.

Shit.

"Hey Butch, what's up?" You look away from Ben, forcing yourself to calm your racing heart.

Ben perks up at the mention of Butcher’s name.

“Do you have any idea where Soldier Boy is?”

“Soldier Boy?”

“Seems like our blunt smoking man out of time has vanished. Been trying to text him all bloody morning.”

At least he doesn’t know that Ben is here. That’s good. I’d never hear the end of it if-

Ben snatches the phone from your hand and holds it up to his ear. “What the fuck do you want?”

The softness was gone, his eyes had hardened again, and the spell was broken. Ben was no longer relaxed, his shoulders were tensed and guarded, jaw set.

It didn’t take a genius to know that Ben didn’t like Butcher. Sometimes you wondered why Ben decided to stay.

Probably because the alternative was being frozen like Han Solo next to his son.

When Ben had knocked Homelander out, you hadn’t believed it, and despite Ben’s arguing Butcher wanted to keep Homelander a supe, and just put him on ice. You had no idea why, especially since Butcher had been gunning for him forever, but had the sneakiest suspicion that it was because of Ryan.

But you didn't blame Butcher for that, watching your father get killed in front of you seemed traumatic, not to mention Ryan was still reeling from watching his mother die.

You turn back to your microwave to pull out your bowl of oatmeal with a groan.

Now Butcher’s going to mock me endlessly about going home with Soldier Boy. We didn’t do anything! Well…

Your mind flits back to the searing kiss you shared and to five seconds ago when whatever the hell just happened.

“You want me to meet you in fucking Jersey?” Ben laughs.

You choose not to eavesdrop on the conversation, instead you busy yourself with sprinkling brown sugar onto your breakfast and plucking a few more raspberries from the vines.

“Fine.” Ben almost growls before holding out the phone to you. “He wants to talk to you.”

Of course he does. Maybe I can pretend to lose the signal with a piece of paper or a candy wrapper.

“Hello-“

“You crazy wanker.” Butcher chuckles into the phone. “Guess your night was a little more exciting than mine eh? Oi Hughie, you owe me a tener!” He shouts to Hughie who you can guess is sitting nearby.

“What? He’s with y/n! No way!” You hear Hughie shout back, muffled but there.

Damn it he’s gonna tell Annie. She's going to start sending me pictures of babies photoshopped in supe suits.

“You guys were betting that he was here?!” You shout making eye contact with Ben who only smirks before he busies himself with getting a bowl for his cereal.

“He left about two minutes after you did. Said some bullshit about a smoke break.” Butcher is smiling and you know it. “How was he? Was he as good as all the girls say?" Butcher coos on the other side of the line.

“Nothing happened-“

“Sure it didn’t Cherie!” You hear Frenchie crow. “Hopefully you got to relieve some of that tension no?”

“I hate all of you.” You grumble, and before Butcher can say anything else you hang up the phone and glare at Ben. “This is your fault.”

“What do you mean sweetheart?”

“You just had to follow me home!”

“You shouldn’t have been walking out there alone.”

“I do it all the time!”

“Not anymore.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not going to let you walk around alone in the middle of the night.”

"Like hell. I don't need a babysitter!"

"I think you do-"

"No I don't. In fact why are you still here? Why haven't you left?" You shout, snatching your bowl of oatmeal before moving to the wobbly kitchen table that you smooshed up against a window that looks out onto your fire escape.

"Because I tend to like morning sex. It's a great way to start the day. Thought you'd be interested." Ben winks as he sits across from you, barely fitting in the wooden chair.

Your phone buzzes where it sits on the table beside your bowl. When you flip it over, you see the text from Annie.

Annie: YOU SLEPT WITH SOLDIER BOY?!!!!

You: I'm not going to dignify that with a response.

Annie: That's a yes. TELL ME EVERYTHING!!!

You sigh and shovel a spoonful of oatmeal into your mouth, eyes drifting up to the top of your phone screen focusing on the time.

"SHIT! I'm late for work!" You shout before shoving as much oatmeal as you can into your mouth.

"Work?" Ben looks up from his bowl of cereal confused as you begin to run around the room.

The half-eaten bowl of oatmeal falls into the sink with a resounding crash, Bean's cat food lands haphazardly in his bright green food dish, and you practically run to your tote bag that hangs on a peg by your front door.

"I told you. I work at a plant shop." You glance back at your barren coffee maker mournfully. The thought of trying to get through the day without coffee seemed impossible, not to mention you didn’t have time to grab one on the way to work from your favorite shop just around the corner.

"I thought you were joking."

"No. Some of us have to work for a living." You run your fingers through your hair quickly pulling it back in a loose ponytail.

"You should leave your hair down." Ben says from the table watching you.

"What?"

"It's prettier when it's down."

"I don't have time for your misogynistic comments. Come on let's go."

"What?"

"I'm not going to leave you here in my apartment alone. You don't have a key."

"You could give me yours-"

"HA. No that's not going to happen. Come on." You tug on his muscular arm, trying to get him up out of the chair, but he barely moves.

“You know you could call out of work and we could spend the day in bed.” He smiles, eyes tracing your figure. “I mean you look good baby, but I think you'd look even better naked. Plus, Butcher and the rest of those fuckers already think we slept together so we might as well-“

“Not a chance Gramps. Either get up out of the chair and leave through the door or leave through the window. It’s your choice and I have no qualms with throwing you down to the street. But please don't make me do that because I can't afford a new window."

Ben rolls his eyes, but finally gets up to follow you. He actually tries to open the door for you, but you place your hand on his chest.

“Nah uh uh. Bowl in the sink. I’m not going to clean up after you.”

Ben sighs and mumbles something under his breath that’s lost in Mike’s inhuman screech of “Love on Top.”

Yeah. What a great fucking way to start the day.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist for this series let me know :)

(Photos for series picture found on Pinterest)

Taglist: @roseblue373 @mrsjenniferwinchester @corruptedcruiser @winchesterwild78 @the-super-who-locked-wizard

@criminalyetminimal @52ndstreeet @bitchykittenconnoisseur @anna6307 @libby99hb

@faephoria @possiblyafangirl @jqtaro

#soldier boy x you #jensen ackles soldier boy #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy/ben #the boys fanfic #jensen ackles #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy fic #the boys amazon

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itsnevercasual · 9 months ago

Text

Sweet Creature

harry styles masterlist

pairing: kinda dark!harry styles x reader

summary: harry’s mother finds a girl on the side of the street one day while harry’s away. he hears about her for months, until he finally decides to see for himself. expecting her to be an undercover rat, he is surprised to find a girl more similar to a deer in headlights.

warning: kinda dark harry kinda alludes to him doing illegal, mafia type stuff but it isn’t specified. third person writing instead of second, READER DOESN’T USE HER REAL NAME!!! she will eventually just not yet.

—

harry had been hearing about some girl non-stop. by who, you may ask?

his mother.

his sweet, kind mother somehow found a girl who was living on the streets, took her in (gave her his room!), and is obsessed with her.

“oh, harry, she’s just the sweetest! gemma says she’s like a kicked puppy, but she’s just so sweet. this morning, i woke up, and she’d cleaned the whole house! and i asked her why, because i obviously didn’t tell her to, and she said she figured she should. you’d love her. proper sweetheart.”

and honestly, it was sweet. he probably would like her if he wasn’t the way he is. because the way he is, he thinks it’s a trap. he thinks she was never really living on the streets, and it’s a ploy. someone found his family and is trying to ruin it.

but, of course, he’d never let his mother know of the way he actually is and thinks, or what he does for a living.

“she sounds lovely, mum. what did you say her name was?”

“she says it’s belle. she’s always singing some french song. i think she lived in france before she got here.. i’m not sure. she isn’t very talkative.”

“she got an accent?”

“a little bit of everything, hazza. when will you come visit? i think you have to be the one to tell her that your room is hers now. she keeps saying ‘harry’s room’ and ‘your son’s room’. i feel horrible!”

“she’s probably just weary mum. if she was on the streets before, she probably just doesn’t want to jinx it.”

“you’re right.. gosh, she won’t even let gemma and i buy her things. she just borrows gemma’s clothes and apologizes a bunch for it. i’m not sure what to do.”

“i’ll come visit soon.”

—

and he did. a surprise visit in the middle of the night, because he was convinced he’s find this belle girl doing shady things .

except when he snuck in the front door, the house was quiet.

alright, he supposes, she’s stealthy.

so he goes upstairs and quietly opens his bedroom door.

and that’s when it’s a little louder. a girl is twisted and turning and mumbling in her sleep on his bed.

all she is saying, from what he can hear, is no. no, no, no, no, no. please, no.

and he feels a little bad, so he walks over to tap her. when that doesn’t work, he shakes her.

her eyes snap open and she has probably the worst reaction possible in this situation.

she fucking screams. like a goddamn banshee.

and sure, it lasts for maybe five seconds, probably four, but she definitely woke his mother up. and it’s so loud, he backs up to the doorway.

gemma was probably still passed out. she would sleep through the world ending.

“hey! it’s just me, calm down!”

she squinted at him through the darkness before yanking the chain on the lamp, turning it on.

he could hear her practically hyperventilating from the doorway.

she let out a sigh of relief when she recognized him from the photos in the living room.

“you really are jumpy, huh?”

“i woke up to a random man hovering over me,” she deadpans.

he almost laughs.

“it’s my room.”

and it’s like a fucking switch. her breaths are staggered and labored, but she still rushes out a whole ass monologue. kicked puppy, indeed.

“oh, my god. i am so sorry. i forgot. i can— i can take the couch— you probably want to sleep in your bed. i’m sorry, anne didn’t say you were coming by or else i would’ve cleaned up—“

the room is spotless, probably cleaner than when he stays in it, but harry doesn’t say that.

“i’ll just.. grab my blanket and stuff and go to the couch. i’m so sorry, i didn’t know—“

“relax,” he finally says. “i knew you’d be in here. i was just.. grabbing a pillow. didn’t realize mum was serious about you being jumpy.”

“oh.. uh.. are you sure? i can take the couch—“

“belle— belle, right?” she nods. “go back to bed. i have slept on plenty of couches. i will survive.”

“i feel bad.”

“well, don’t.”

he should feel bad. she is very clearly not dangerous unless she is a phenomenal actress.

“you’re not mad, are you? because i can sleep on the couch—“

“jesus, are y’gonna cry?”

“i can’t help it! i’m sorry!—“

“what on earth is going on— harry! what did you do!” anne asked as she rushed through the doorway, moving to sit next to belle.

“i didn’t do anything!” he defends.

“he didn’t do anything, anne,” she repeats. “just.. frightened me, is all.”

anne gives her a look before pulling her into a hug, and she just flips another switch and instead of watering eyes, she sobs.

who the hell is her acting coach? maybe he could take a few lessons.

“h, go get her a cuppa.. and there’s those baby yogurt melts in the cupboard.”

he doesn’t comment on the fact that belle is at the very least 19, and probably shouldn’t be eating baby food.

—

the next morning, belle made her way downstairs quietly. she was surprised to see harry making a cup of tea this early, but she didn’t say anything, not wanting to disturb his peace.

she adjusted her earbuds in her ear (anne offered to buy her better ones, airpods or something, but she was fine with her earbuds, even if the wire was a pain in the ass), so they didn’t fall out as she walked.

once she made it into the kitchen, she walked into the pantry, grabbing some random granola bar.

when she turned, she jumped. harry was right behind her. well, in front of her now.

“sorry,” she mumbled, moving out of his way.

he muttered something she didn’t understand.

“um.. sorry about.. last night. i’m kind of jumpy.”

“i noticed.”

he was very short. he didn’t seem to like her much.

“you can.. uh.. take your.. room back.. if you want.”

“it’s yours. i’m fine.”

“are you—“

“i’m sure.”

rude. why was he so rude? what had she done to him? well, besides scream at him, but in her defense, he was just hovering over her! that’s weird!

—

harry still didn’t trust her after a week of being there. she kept to herself for the most part, although he was pretty sure he heard her and gemma giggling in the middle of the night.

he just couldn’t figure out who sent her. why she was here.

his mother explained her freakout when he showed up eventually.

“you gotta be careful with her, h. she’s like.. a bunny, in a way. if you aren’t careful in how you approach her and speak to her, she bolts. first day she was here, i asked her what happened, because she had this horrible cut on her cheek. locked herself in your room for a week. i think whatever put her on the streets is a sensitive topic, and was difficult for her.”

“i jus’ dunno if i trust her, mum.”

“well, i do. she’s sweet, she just needs to warm up to you. she warmed up to me and gemma after about a week or two.. and she’s been more jumpy when gem brings michael around. so.. she might just need a minute.”

“the whole thing just seems.. shady.”

“she’ll tell us when she’s ready. and until then, you’ll make her feel welcomed. speaking of, i’m gonna go wash her clothes. poor girl won’t let us buy her anything. she just has these same clothes she had and a few things gemma convinced her to use.”

—

a/n: little thing i wrote on a plane, part 2 soon-ish maybe

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles oneshot #harry styles au #harry styles angst #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry imagine #harry oneshot #harry fic #harry #styles #harry and belle #sweet creature series

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starry-bi-sky · 6 months ago

Note

Cannon Danny, Danyal Au and CFAU met, waht does each other think of the other and do they get along?

I'VE TALKED ABOUT THIS BEFORE WITH FRIENDS IN DMS! WOOO I'M GLAD YOU ASKED! beCAUSE.

Cfau Danny and Canon Danny get along, but Danyal and Canon abso-fucking-lutely do not. It's hillarious. Danyal is appalled that this fucking white boy is another version of him -- that Al Ghul arrogance and pride really shines through here, you can’t get rid of all of it.

Cfau Danny is a sleeper agent, honestly. I'm putting all three of them around the 15 age range because any younger and CFAU won't be as Sleeper Agent. Him and Canon get along pretty well because they’re both pretty similar to each other when CFAU's not in active grief. CFAU is a bit rough around the edges, and canon is surprised by his smoking habit and sharp tongue, but he’s a relatively friendly dude. Just snarky and no-nonsense at times, and intolerant of bullshit.

However the moment a ghost fight starts?? BAM. he shifts into a house of horrors who can and will rip out your throat with his teeth. Banshee boi haha. Canon is floating there all “???? HUH???” watching as Danyal and CFAU full on tackle the opposition.

Canon Danny watches in 4k as Danyal hunts Skulker down mercilessly and tears open the “damn poacher’s” suit with his bare hands. Vlad is only safe because he isn't showing his face (yet).

Frankly all of canon’s rogues are gonna have a blast meeting CFAU and Danyal. They’re both two different flavors of unhinged violence, and they’re on the opposite side of the spectrum. One is an elegant storm of blades with years of fine-tuned practice, and the other is the brutality of the backstreets and Gotham’s cruelty; messy, bloody, and merciless.

Canon and Danyal will eventually start getting along, but they’re pretty — well, correction, Danyal is pretty hostile to canon at first. Its a combination of tension, stress, and frustration with canon and what Danyal perceives as canon’s incompetence. Danyal struggles to understand how canon is anyway a version of him beyond the name and halfa status. He starts understanding better when he sees Phantom fighting and sees his resourcefulness and quick thinking.

I have this funny mental image of the three Dannys all in the quad at school (with Sam and Tucker). Danyal is sitting on the table giving off Major Gargoyle vibes, warding off Dash and other bullies through pure "Little Orphan Tom Riddle" Energy alone, while CFAU is standing off to the side with Canon showing him how to throw a proper punch. Sam and Tucker are staring at Danyal, or they're just casually eating their lunch.

Dash isn't going near Danyal with a ten foot pole, but he'll try his chances with Sleeper Agent CFAU who, despite the "edgy" smoking thing and more alternative style, acts and looks almost the same way "Fenturd" does. He gets socked in the jaw the moment he goes over and grabs CFAU's shirt, and CFAU releases the full verbal force of Crime Alley's fist down unto him.

----

To properly answer your question:

Canon Danny: Thinks CFAU is pretty cool, and views him as kind of like a cooler, terrifying version of him. He's off-put by the smoking thing and totally thrown off by CFAU being a banshee. He's only heard from word-of-mouth about them, and it sounds like a shitty existence to be in permanent grief. He's glad he's never had to fight one.

If this is purely canon Danny and not DPxDC adjacent-canon Canon Danny, then he's glad that Gotham doesn't exist in his world because holy fuck that place sounds like the home of nightmares. But he also kinda wishes there was a Jason in his world, the guy sounded like a really good friend if CFAU is to be believed, and Danny needs more of those in the world. He's infinitely more grateful that Dan is nothing like how Rath sounds. Because Rath sounds like something straight out of an apocalypse movie. (Granted, Dan could be argued to be the same, but he gives off more 'generic supervillain' vibes.)

He thinks Danyal is an asshole at first who needs to get that stick out of his ass, along with his head. But once they start getting along, he finds him rather funny and enjoys his dry wit, along with CFAU's. He's unnerved by Danyal's willingness to kill if necessary, but he admires his dedication and love for his little brother (if Danyal brings him up). He knows he'd be in the same boat with Jazz or Ellie if he was in Danyal's shoes. He recognizes that their core fundamentals ring the same, even if the both of them tend to show it differently.

CFAU Danny: Thinks Canon is pretty cool too. Is thrown off and very unsettled by the idea that Jason might not exist in this world, and that he and this other Danny aren't friends. He genuinely just. cannot comprehend the idea that well, and if he thinks about it too hard he's going to go into a Banshee-Grade Level Grief Spiral and nobody is gonna wanna see that. Soothes his own nerves by telling himself that this other him will meet Jason eventually.

Kinda thinks Danyal is also a jerk, but he recognizes that it comes from a place of fear and general self-defense. He's seen other kids do similar stuff in crime alley where they completely close themselves off from other people -- hell, he does it. It's a safety mechanism, so he's more empathetic with him. They're not buddy-buddy with each other at first, but they're certainly not hostile like Danyal is with Canon. Is entirely baffled and thrown off by the fact that Danyal is related to Bruce fucking Wayne when Danyal tells them about his brother Damian. Can't help but ask about Jason and if he's alive, and is insanely jealous but so happy when Danyal confirms that he is.

Danyal Al Ghul: Homie hates this fucking white boy at first. Canon Danny's general playful behavior and inexperience drives him up a wall because he's incredibly tense and in an alternate dimension. He unintentionally slips back into a League Training mindset, and criticizes Danny's every move during a fight. He eventually apologizes, but just like his father, it's like pulling teeth because he's emotionally constipated. Canon asks Danyal if he was in pain while saying anything, Danyal readily admits to yes, he was. But not because he wasn't sincere about it. Afterwards, Canon still kinda annoys him, but once DAnyal reframes his mindset into viewing him more like a civilian and being more like Ella, rather than being an alternate version of himself, his mistakes become easier to bear.

likes CFAU! They both took one look at each other and thought "wow there is something Fucking Wrong With You" and instantly shared solidarity in that. CFAU is still a sloppy fighter in Danyal's eyes, but he recognizes his own bias, and at least CFAU is ruthless and swift with it compared to Canon. He silently.. mourns??? pays respects?? He Has Somber Emotions about CFAU being a banshee, and offers him basically the Danyal Equivalent of "that's rough, buddy". He's very weirded out about how neither of these Daniels are related to his father, and are not Damian's brother. Has no idea who this "Rath" and "Dan" are because he doesn't (to his knowledge) have an alternate evil self.

#dpxdc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #danyal al ghul au #childhood friends au #cfau #starry asks #dpxdc crossover #cfau 🤝 danyal: you have something dark and violent lurking beneath the thin layers of your skin and it awaits release. i'll drink to that #they all eventually create a brotherly bond and somehow CFAU is the eldest. Danyal nearly gets into a catfight with Danny again #and cfau just sighs like a weary mother and goes 'i need a fucking smoke' before leaving to do just that.

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maculategiraffe · 1 month ago

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so I know I said from (the TV show) was just lost (the TV show) again but I take it back. it is lost times banshee. of the long and honorable "makes no damn sense! compels me though" genre of television serials. also (with the exception of one extremely wooden child actor) everybody generally looks and talks and acts like how an actual person might. the one thing that's getting me hopping mad is how crisp and clean and freshly ironed everybody's white blouses are and honestly it's bugging me the more because generally the show looks fantastically dingy. like it's good enough that when it's not good it's noticeable and jarring, but it's not good enough that there aren't times when it's not good. if you see what I mean

anyway this one girl was crying because she had been manipulated by sinister forces into doing horrible things and she said something like-- and again, it sounded like something a person might actually say in real life:

"they destroyed the only person I ever get to be"

and man. that line. really got me. I don't know. the only person I ever get to be

what will you do with your one wild and precious life. who do you want to be the only person you ever get to be.

#from #psir

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nelkcats · 2 years ago

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Not an Atlantean

Since Clockwork informed him that his wail had evolved, Danny decided that he should try it. But he couldn't do it on land since he would destroy the whole place so he flew to a desolate place in the sea. He was sure that he could test it without destroying anything there.

When he finally decided to use it he noticed that his wail had sung to some sort of cry of suffering. Which wasn't much different from before but it made him sound like a wounded animal. Danny frowned wondering if that meant the old ghost with "Banshee".

To the citizens of Atlantis, Danny sounded like a wounded merman. But while some features fit right in as soon as they peeked out of the water (the fangs, the green eyes, and other features), they noticed that he had no tail...maybe he was only a descendant?

Arthur, excited to teach the human about his true ancestry, came out to congratulate him. The halfa was very confused when they led him to Atlantis. Noting that the boy could perfectly survive underwater, the citizens of Atlantis "confirmed" their suspicions. The boy was a descendant of their people, but how could they ask him without bringing back bad memories?

On his part, Danny was very confused, but everyone was extremely nice (he didn't notice that his ghostly features could easily be mistaken for another creature). Honestly, the halfa was more interested in asking how the stars looked like from the open sea.

After a while Danny noticed that something weird was going on (everyone was too shy??) and Arthur kept talking about letting him stay in the palace and learning directly from the King. Well, the halfa still didn't know where he was or what was exactly happening but seeing a King would surely help him when he was crowned so what could go wrong?

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rokishimizu4 · 2 months ago

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Orphan almost breaks a Bat rule

(I’m gonna focus more on my second blog when I��m done with Cass, Bruce, and Damian, because I’m in a TMNT faze and want to write some 12! Casey x Turtles) I do ship Cass and Steph and in my AU they act like they are married, but Steph treats the Wayne brothers like her brothers-in-law)Mostly because they are fucken cute together and honestly, Steph isn’t adopted by Bruce. (Cass is because her and Damian, Jason, Dick, and Tim are sister and brothers, don’t @ me)

It wasn’t uncommon for Cass to people watch and targets a certain person, either because the person in question was a BatFam villain, just a threat in general, or did something to her family.

But, the person in question checked none of the marks and she found it almost strange with how often she finds herself following the person in question when she is not on patrol, spending time with family, or on her dates with Steph.

Cue Cass silently following a woman that reminds her of a field of flowers and trees on a warm summer day, with bees and birds relaxing, just listening to the songs that the wind writes.

She keeps the target’s car in sight as she jumps from roof top to roof top, in her full Orphan outfit when she notices that something else was tracking the same car as her from across the street.

The other person seems to notice her, but focuses on the car and even jumping onto the moving, at full speed down the busy street, car without hesitation.

Cue Cass jumping onto the same car and hanging onto it along with the stranger, only to realize that the person is wearing a dark red/purple oni mask with glowing gold horns, and a screaming mouth full of white tiger-like teeth.

However, before she could figure out if the person is a human, demon, spirit, or something else, the car jerks to a full stop and threatens to buck the her and the other person off.

Four armed men pile out of the car and starts trying to shoot at her, in the middle of the still very busy street with a shit ton of innocents to protect.

“Get the kids and take off!!” One man screams at the people still in the armored car as the masked men surround the outside of the car with guns pointed at Orphan and the strange person.

Orphan quickly jumps off of the car and attacks the first man with a batarang and hitting another man’s gun out of his hands with a kick.

However, as she focuses on the men around her, the guns going off near her and the innocents around her, that she barely notices the car trying to speed away from the scene. At least until the car splits in half, horizontally.

The battle freezes for that moment as the strange person slowly pulls a razor sharp electric guitar out of the severed armored car, that was built like a smaller version of an armored bank truck, with ease.

The person then plays a few cords the electric guitar, which was not plugged in anything, and the front part of the car starts to crumble onto itself like a paper ball.

The men surrounding Orphan drop their guns and put their hands up, begging for the person to stop, to let the two men in the car go, that the two men were the only ones of the group to be forced into kidnapping the kids.

The men start to crumble under the invisible forces of the stranger’s playing as Orphan watches in shock and growing horror as the people around her start to crumble as well, grabbing at their ears and begging the person to stop.

But the stranger continues to play, playing note after heavy note until the bad men ears’ start to bleed from the sound.

Orphan slowly starts to hear the music from the stranger’s electric guitar, like first a soft whispering that continues to grow in volume and tone until it starts to sound like a banshee’s song on full blast.

Orphan silently screams in pain as she uses one hand to cover one of her ears, and uses the other to pull out her katana and rushes the stranger, unconsciously aiming for the middle of their throat.

However before her blade could make contact with the stranger’s neck, a black/purple goop rushes out of the severed back end of the car to quickly cover the two of them completely.

Next thing Orphan/Cass remembers, she wakes up on the roof of the Gotham City Police Department with Stephanie shaking her awake and crying her eyes out.

“Cass! Cass wake up!!!”

After returning home with Steph not leaving her side, she learns that the kidnappers and around 50 people were hospitalized for ruptured eardrums, and at least two of the six kidnappers suffered from broken legs as well as ruptured eardrums.

”Oni, Banshee song, ears hurt. No more electric guitars, please.”

#batman #batfam #barbara gordon #tim drake #bruce wayne #cassandra cain #damian wayne #dick grayson #stephanie brown #duke thomas #jason todd #batfam headcanons #batfam shenanigans #symbiotic reader #Pied piper OC #Hellscream OC

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local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti · 3 months ago

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So proud of Myx for winning Best Junior Courser and earning her Junior Courser (JC) title today!

She won food and $20 so it’s great that she can finally help pay the rent! Honestly what a Girl Boss for winning money by Running So Fast and Good.

Also the reason she won is because there were plovers in the field and she still wanted to murder the plastic bag instead of the birds. I was kind of amazed we were awarded Best because I missed the “Tally Ho” twice due to Myx yelling for plastic bag murder in my ear.

The judge asked if I was hearing impaired in the nicest way possible and I was like “yes” because of my sensory issues. But anyone would be hearing impaired with the sound of a whippet banshee scream in your ear.

Just god’s perfect princess goblin living her best life 😍👍👑

#mikasa noodle #whippet #lure coursing #whippetry

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torukmaktoskxawng · 1 year ago

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tsamsiyu ta'em - the road to success

Masterlist - part seven

Summary: With her brother's family gone, Kayla gets to work becoming one of the People.

Pairing: Ronal/Tonowari/Original Female Character

Tag: #tsamsiyu ta'em fic

posted on ao3

Word Count: 9k+

Taglist (bold indicates “could not tag”): @mooniequeen @shit-i-say-shit-i-think @heart-an0n @amiets2 @slutforsmut4ever @yeosxxx @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @sucker4angstt @inolaphoenix @andyfromku

Warnings: canon-compliant, canon-typical violence, mature language, adult content, slow burn, polyamory, found family, cool aunt agenda, alien/human (technically avatar), jake sully sister agenda, time skips, I'm trying to hurry up and get to the good parts so bear with me, fluff, angst, adopted spider, tags to be added

A/N: Holy shit, you're telling me I have to stretch this fic out until 2025 now?! *deep breaths* We got this, ya'll. We waited thirteen years for a sequel... we can wait a little longer for the next one... *crying 'cause I'll be thirty-one when the last movie comes out*

More determined than ever, Kayla gets to work on earning her ikran. The faster she tamed a banshee, the faster she can search for Spider and hopefully bring him home. She didn't know Quaritch-- Hell, she didn't think she ever would considering everyone believed he was dead, but from the stories Kayla has heard, he sounded like a tyrant and she couldn't afford to think about what might be happening to Spider or if he was even still alive. That last thought she tried not to think about, instead she kept herself busy trying to work her way up to her Iknimaya. She desperately wanted to fulfill the promise she made to her nieces and nephews, hoping for their sake -and Spider's- that the kid was unharmed and still kicking.

Even she could admit that she worried for the teen, scared of what Ardmore could be capable of. The general was stone cold, inside and out, and Kayla couldn't imagine that her former superior was ever good with kids. If Ardmore is as incapable of empathy as Kayla had previously claimed, she could only imagine what harm that could mean for Spider, and honestly, it kept her up at night.

So she tried not to think about it. Instead, she worked hard trying not to be a nuisance to the clan. From dawn to dusk, she would do her part to see that the clan was working like a well-oiled machine. She tended to the ikran, but only to the ones who had riders or who had lost one. Norm explained those banshees were safe for her to care for since the ikran only know one rider in their whole lives. She helped weave any necessities, like baskets, despite still being a little worse for wear at the task. She didn't take part in many festivities, but she sang and cheered from the sidelines. Although she couldn't hunt yet, she helped clean any kills made during the day. Now almost a pro in the language, she would bless the body of the creature, thanking the animal for its sacrifice and bidding its soul return to Eywa. Kayla was still hesitant about the existence of the Great Mother, but she did what she had been taught in order to earn both the People's and Eywa's respect.

The Omatikaya were strong under Tarsem's orders. He was younger than Neytiri, likely only a child during the Last Battle of the Hallelujah Mountains fifteen years ago. Jake had complimented the wisdom Tarsem had for his age, but Kayla was skeptical at first, remembering what she and Jake were like at Tarsem's age. Then again, Tarsem was not a child of Earth, and Na'vi at his age had a great many accomplishments that even Kayla was envious of. Kids on Earth could learn a lot from the kids of the Na'vi, and the thought alone only made Kayla think of Spider until she was spiraling again.

Tarsem was surprisingly respectful of Kayla, which she can only assume was an advantage of being the former olo'ektan's sister. He took it upon himself to help her perfect her archery skills and even brought her on some of his own hunting parties. It was a breath of freedom she had never gotten under Jake's leadership so she greatly appreciated Tarsem's. Even though she wasn't given permission to kill anything, it was a great learning experience. Norm accompanied Kayla on some of these hunting parties and he praised whatever skills she showed off, always claiming that she was getting better.

But that wasn't good enough for her, and looking back, Mo'at claimed that even the forest recognized Kayla's determination. The tsahik spun a tale about how Eywa gave Makaylasully her blessing that night, and the next day Kayla had gone hunting with Txe'la and Meui. They returned by midday with a killed and cleaned yerik dragging behind Kayla and wide smiles on each of their faces. The whole clan was happy for her, much to her surprise and excitement, the adrenaline still running through her veins. Norm and Max had apparently placed bets on when she would make a kill and Max walked away with a priceless bottle of whiskey Norm had been saving. Kayla wasn't gonna let Norm live that down.

To make up for doubting her determination, Norm offered to tag along when Kayla went to claim an ikran. Tarsem also accompanied Kayla along with one other young Na'vi warrior ready to ride. They all trudge back to the rookery, the same one Kayla had been visiting to tend to the banshees who wouldn't try to kill her. Now, with the knowledge that the only one that would try to kill her would be hers, Kayla had to admit her confidence was through the roof, and later she would talk about how reckless and stupid she looked.

"Has there ever been an ikran in history who didn't want to kill their rider?" Kayla mocked a whisper to Norm when he explained this behind the waterfall leading up to the rookery.

The smile he gave her was genuine and sweet, "Kiri."

Her eyes widen and her jaw drops, "Kiri?"

"Yeah, she was young, younger than most Na'vi kids when they first gain an ikran. She had simply asked the beast to be her friend and that was that."

Tarsem scoffed, but it was fond and playful, "That girl is touched by Eywa. I could place her in front of Palulukan and she would befriend it... if her mother didn't kill me first, of course."

Kayla snorts and tilts her head back to feel the mist of the waterfall against her face, calming her excitement even as Tarsem leaned toward her, "Would you like to go first, Makaylasully?"

"Hell yeah," she grinned, opening her eyes that were practically sparkling with determination, "Let's get this over with."

"Got your catcher?" Norm had asked even though he was already staring at the wrapped-up frond strung to Kayla's hip.

She only nods and heads out without looking back, worried that she'd have second thoughts if she did so. She had been getting better with heights since her first trip into the rookery, getting used to the drop-offs ever since she forced herself to continue coming back here to tend to the ikran. Kayla purposely kept her gaze in front of her, stubbornly keeping herself from looking down. Already, she could hear the familiar flap of heavy wings and air-piercing screeches, her nerves slightly calmed with the familiar environment she had purposely gotten herself used to for this moment.

Walking out into the heart of the nests, Kayla was completely surrounded by ikran, all of various different colors and sizes. Some greeted her with loud roars and some even fled the scene before she could even look at them. It greatly narrowed down her search. She kept her steps slow, making sure to make as much eye contact as possible with every ikran she came across, just to see if they were going to willingly take the bait. None did, however, flying or crawling away whenever she got too close with the banshee catcher now unwound and dangling in her hand. Each time she thought she had met her match, she took that last step forward and the banshee would suddenly retreat in fear and distaste. A small bit of doubt was beginning to form in her gut. Maybe none of the ikran would choose her. Maybe they smell the drive to rescue Spider off of her and decided that her suicide mission was not worth their lives.

Whatever they smelled, it only angered Kayla further... but she wasn't the only one.

Kayla had sensed her before she ever saw her. The avatar stopped in her tracks when the hair on the back of her neck stood up, then slowly turned her head off to the left, in the direction where she had sensed danger.

It was a large female, likely older than those who usually choose their riders. Just goes to show that both she and Kayla were awfully picky and determined. The ikran was a light green, close to the same colors found on reef ticks or the neon signs outside Kayla's apartment back home. Scattered across the old girl's back in complicated, intricate design was bright, extraordinary shades of purple, striking like lightning bolts across the vast, wide wings when she spread them open to show off the threat she was. Kayla smiled, teeth glimmering in the sun at the clear challenge. Both the avatar and ikran hiss at one another, showing off their fangs in the midst of the stand-off. Norm and the others stood off to the side, eyes and smiles wide in wonder, whooping and hollering in chorus as encouragement for Kayla.

"You got this!"

"Sivako!"

The cheering sent a thrill down Kayla's spine as she began to rotate her wrist and twirl the meresh'ti cau'pla in the air, faster and faster as the stand-off drags on. She keeps her eyes trained on the ikran's, which clearly aggravated the creature to no end. Eventually, the banshee took the bait, enraged by the eye contact until she couldn't take it anymore. Jaw open wide, the ikran lunged forward with a fearless hiss, diving down to Kayla without a care in the world.

She's only given a split second to dive out of the way of those jaws before Kayla is forced to throw the frond without even aiming. Once she side-stepped, Kayla whipped the catcher around like she practiced and watched with amazement as the item dutifully stuck and wrapped firmly around the creature's jaws, clamping it shut. Thank Eywa for razor palms.

"Yeah, Kayla, show her!" Norm cheered, blue fist raised in the air.

Kayla's mind could barely accept the fact that she got the beast muzzled in just one go before she was forced to remember that the ikran don't immediately give up after said muzzlement. Her harsh reminder came in the form of the banshee swinging its whole head back in her direction, hitting Kayla squarely in the nose, the blunt force drawing a large crunching sound to ring through the air and even make Tarsem cringe. Kayla flew backward from the impact, tumbling through the rookery and startling other ikran to fly away. Dizzy, Kayla shook her head to try to rid the fatigue and struggled to her feet, groaning in pain as she stood. With the ikran momentarily forgetting her in exchange for trying to get the muzzle off, Kayla takes the time to bring the back of her hand up to her face, pressing gently against her nose. When she drew her hand back to see, Kayla immediately recognized the blood, a crimson liquid running down her blue skin.

The avatar snarled, death glare piercing into the ikran's flesh, "What a bitch."

It was muttered under her breath, but the ikran reacted as if she had heard it. Whipping its head back in her direction, the banshee hissed dangerously back at Kayla, lowering its neck to get in a charging stance, and rearing its wings back. Kayla didn't wait it out this time. This time, she was pissed and instead took charge, screaming in frustration as she ran full speed ahead at the creature.

When the ikran reared her head up to possibly strike down against her opponent, Kayla took her opening and dove, just in time to miss the brunt force of the ikran's jaw hitting the dirt where Kayla had once stood. Briefly stunning the beast from the harsh impact, Kayla casually whipped her kuru braid around and stood in the juncture of the banshee's neck, and grabbed the creature's own tswin. The ikran isn't given any time to react before tsaheylu is formed, the tendrils of Kayla's queue mending with the creature's.

"Enough!" Kayla demands out loud.

All screeches from the surrounding banshees suddenly became a buzzing white noise as everything else in the universe halted between the Na'vi and the beast. The ikran stopped struggling, her entire frame shivering in response to the bond. Kayla lets out a gust of air, exhausted and in disbelief. Behind her, she could hear Norm and the other Na'vi cheering, whilst the rest of her senses were now focused solely on her new spirit sister.

After catching her breath, Kayla lifted herself up onto her new mount, settling her legs on either side of the ikran's strong neck. Kayla runs her hands up the creature's neck, feeling a pleasant shiver run between their bond as if the ikran was mimicking a purr. Norm eventually jogged up to the pair, beaming up at them, "Wow. You made it look so easy!"

Kayla flashed an unimpressed look down at her friend, blood still dripping out of her nostrils. Norm nervously chuckled before pointing his arm out in the direction of the open sky, "Don't let me keep you waiting. The first flight cements your bond and it's best you go now rather than later. Remember what I told you."

Kayla nods, briefly thinking about how it felt to command a direhorse forward before her thoughts are interrupted by the ikran screeching in response and flapping its powerful wings. Shit, Kayla forgot the beast could hear her thoughts. She's barely given enough time to cling onto the ikran before it takes flight, nearly knocking Norm off the edge before he narrowly dodges the wings.

For a moment, the flying felt an awful lot like falling, but not like Kayla could blame her ikran. After all, the only thing her rider could think about was her fear of falling, therefore the beast had no choice but to do just that. They fell for what felt like hours, Kayla keeping her screams inside her head as she clung onto her mount for dear life, just waiting for them to finally crash at the bottom, but it never came. By the time Kayla was brave enough to open her eyes, she realize they were still falling, not exactly calming her fear of heights. Steeling her legs and squeezing them around the ikran, Kayla yells over the wind, "Straighten out and glide!"

The ikran did as told, immediately catching the wind underneath her wings and slowing their descent, drifting peacefully through the sky instead. Kayla took a moment to catch her breath and relax her heartbeat, blinking rapidly against the brightness. Her arms shook like a leaf but she forced herself to keep her grip firmly on her banshee's two queue antennae like reins on a horse. As they soar peacefully through the air, Kayla relaxes enough to look around, but never down. Her breath is stolen by the sights-- much similar to the first time she rode an ikran as a prisoner. It was so quiet up here, unlike all the other sounds constantly in her life, like the murmurs and yips of the Omatikaya clan and the beeping machines at the biolab. Up here, no sound touched her, and Kayla felt all the muscles in her body relax.

Her ikran calls softly into the wind, grabbing her attention. The creature is far more docile now, calm and serene. The banshee ate up Kayla's attention like a cat, much to her amusement, the creature shaking her muzzle when Kayla scratched the right spot with her nails. Such a mighty, elegant creature, needs a mighty, elegant name. Kayla took a moment to ponder on a name as the soft wind brushed gently through her hair like a mother would to her child. The avatar and ikran were gliding instead of flying, but neither complained as Kayla's thoughts were elsewhere. She wanted to think of several names before she could decide on one, but for some reason, she couldn't get past the first one that came to mind without much thought process. She didn't have a clue why she thought of that name, but it came to her within a split second. It was an Earth name, but one born from Greek mythology and just as mystical as her newly found friend. It fit so well, for some reason.

Eclipse was slowly approaching so Kayla decided to turn back, telling her ikran where to go with only her mind and returning to the rookery. There, she could hear Tarsem and Norm before she could even see them as they whooped and hollered in greeting. The young warrior that traveled with them was gone, likely out flying their own new ikran, while Norm and Tarsem stayed behind to greet the new banshee riders upon their return. Kayla's descent was a little rough, like trying to feel the rollback when hitting the brakes of a car for the first time. When the ikran landed, Kayla hopped off and disengaged tsaheylu, taking a moment to run her hand over the length of the beast's neck in gratitude.

The ikran chirped in fondness just as Norm approached with a wide grin, "What'd you think?"

"I'm speechless," Kayla beamed, adrenaline only now beginning to wear off.

Norm laughs and placed his hands on his lips, looking up and down the length of Kayla's new ride with a smile that can only be described as amazement, despite the fact that Norm's seen it all for fifteen years. Apparently, you can never really get used to it, "So! What did you decide to name her?"

Kayla shrunk in on herself, turning a little bashful while trying to hide her smile, "Promise you won't laugh?"

"Promise."

"Thena."

~~~~~~~~~

When Kayla and the young warrior both returned on top of their ikran, the whole clan erupted in triumph and celebration. And they were not the only ones who were happy for the new warriors. All the scientists-- both avatars and humans alike, ran out to Kayla and her ikran to either embrace her or offer their congratulations. Kayla soaked up the praise with pride, smiling from ear to ear, her tail leisurely swaying to show her contentment. Preparations for a celebration were made as night closed in, with dancing and music and several firepits all circling each other to accommodate the amount of Na'vi and humans taking up the space. Mo'at had blessed both Kayla and the young warrior for their achievements then led the dancing and songs.

Even Kayla found herself dancing and singing willingly, despite her prior insecurities. She would get small bursts of sadness throughout the whole night, thinking if only her family could see her now. The Sullys had only been gone for a week. Had they stayed just a little bit longer, perhaps Kayla would've been able to go with them now that she achieved what was holding her back. She never had time to pity herself, however, since either a friend of hers or a complete stranger would easily pick her up and pull her into the next dance. Both Na'vi and humans danced, together in person and spirit, sharing the same ideals for the future and for once not fighting each other.

After hours, the celebration was technically over and the Na'vi were all settling down for the night, but Norm and Kayla were far from done. Now back in their human bodies, they decide to continue drinking in celebration of Kayla's success in the confinements of her trailer. She had burst out laughing, already a little tipsy, when Norm snuck in the whiskey he stole back from Max that night.

"Shh! You want me to get caught?" Norm snapped at her under his breath, though he, too, was smiling as he closed the air decompression door behind him, "I had been saving this bad boy for a special occasion and I'll be damned if I let Max take that from me."

They drink out of some old glassware that had been left behind in the trailer back in the war and Kayla had recently cleaned and utilized them. They drank at the small dining room table that had been dusted and cleaned once more, but Kayla had kept some of the old things in their place out of respect. She understood that Jake and Norm once spent months here, confined to these four walls with only each other for company. Well... each other and the two women Kayla now spotted from the picture lying on the table, right where she left it.

She takes a sip of her drink before sliding the picture over to Norm, placing her finger above the redhead standing behind Jake, "So is that Dr. Augustine?"

Norm took a moment to tilt his head back and swallow the remains of his whiskey before inspecting the photo. His eyes widened comically as if forgetting he had left these pictures behind when surrendering the space to Kayla, "Oh! Yeah, that's what Grace looked like."

"She's pretty," Kayla hums behind her glass, maneuvering her finger to point at the woman in the ponytail and aviators, "And her?"

Kayla carefully watched as Norm took his time answering again, his eyes carrying some sort of heavy burden while staring at the photo of the woman. He swallows down whatever emotions were swimming behind his eyes, quickly sobering up while nodding, "That's Trudy. She used to fly all us scientists around."

"So you all knew each other pretty well?"

"Yeah. She tried to fight and help the Na'vi in the end."

Kayla caught onto the past tense words and slowly tilted her head toward him, "What happened?"

"... Quaritch's ship shot her down during the battle."

The faraway look in his eye brought Kayla to the conclusion of a certain mystery she was trying to solve in her head. She solemnly nods as she states, "You guys were a thing."

"I guess," Norm shrugged, staring down at his whiskey glass with a small smile, "Enough to scar Jake for life."

"You miss her? Her and Grace, I mean?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

Norm propped both of his elbows on the table, leaning forward to inspect the picture more closely, although it was likely an excuse to hide his face from her, "Thanks."

"Wow. That sounds familiar." She tries to joke, though it falls flat on her tongue when remembering her first interaction with the man sitting in front of her. She gently nudges his elbow with hers, "We sound like two broken records."

Norm scoffs halfheartedly, "Jake didn't seem as thankful when I gave him my condolences the day we met. 'You sure you guys are related?"

Thinking back, Kayla made a small 'iffy' motion with her hand, "Jake, uh... well, he had heard it all by the time Tommy's funeral came around. Over time he got sick of hearing people say they were sorry."

"Not you?"

Kayla simply shrugged, "Not many people said sorry to me."

"What...?" Norm leaned back in his chair to get a better look at her, confused and maybe appalled, "Kayla, how old were you when Tom died?"

Her blood runs cold when she realized she had said too much. Finding it hard to look Norm in the eye, she instead focused more on watching her whiskey swirl around in the glass she gently rolled in her hand, "I think I was... maybe eighteen?"

Norm's eyes widen while doing the math in his head. And as a scientist, it wasn't hard for him to solve the puzzle that had been troubling him since he met Kayla. She was clearly younger than Jake, but for some reason, she had treated Neytiri as if the Na'vi woman was younger than her. Putting that into perspective and adding Kayla's age during the time she lost her brothers, Norm felt sick to his stomach, "And Jake left soon after?"

One single nod.

"Eighteen years old... and no one thought you needed any condolences?"

She shook her head, expression impassive, "For Jake... I guess people thought since they were twins, Tommy's death was harder on him."

The snarl Norm let out was deep-rooted and vile, "That's stupid. Seems like everywhere I go, someone puts Jake on a pedestal."

The words made her freeze, eyes slowly flicking back to Norm out of suspicion, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean--" And just like that, Norm exploded, laughing out of disgust, a side of him that Kayla had never seen, "I spent several years training for the opportunity of a lifetime. I worked my ass off to get to Pandora, to learn under Grace, to have my own avatar, and to learn and experience this world as one of the People. But then I get here and all of that is freely handed to Jake, a guy who only read a manual on neuro-links! It felt like a punch to the gut, and honestly, it felt as though Tom's memory was being flushed down the drain all because of his jarhead dropout of a brother! Jake wasn't even grateful for everything he had been handed until he met Neytiri."

Kayla's eyes briefly widened at the new bit of information, then she relaxed her expression and nodded, trying to hopefully defuse the situation, "All it takes is one person... Up until now, you didn't appear jealous of Jake."

He shook his head, "I haven't been for a while. Back then, Trudy helped. After that, I just accepted and even admired Jake. He's one of my closest friends," the compliments plummet, however, when Norm meets her eyes again, a shadow forming over his face as past years of resentment began to flood, "But after meeting you? I'm sorry. I didn't know I wasn't the only one he screwed over. But all the shit he put you through at eighteen-fucking-years-old?"

Norm abruptly stands, the chair beneath him scooting back in protest as he begins to pace the room, trying to relieve his anger somehow, but it only appeared to make it worse as his voice gradually rose, "It's not fair. It's screwed up and it only reminded me of the last time I saw Jake get everything handed to him while leaving others in the dust. Even now, he's upped and left, leaving the rest of us behind. Leaving you behind. I've never had a sister, but if I did I would rather shoot myself in the face than abandon her, especially if she was only eighteen years old!"

The small trailer rings in the aftermath of his shouting, the silence only interrupted by Norm's attempts to catch his breath. After realizing what he said, he shrunk a little and guilt immediately replaced the anger. Kayla only carefully watched him, face blank as she observed his behavior. He tries opening and closing his mouth to say something, anything. How he was sorry for his attitude toward Kayla's brother, how he shouldn't be complaining when his past doesn't compare to hers, yadda yadda yadda. But the words don't come, and even if they did, Kayla wouldn't have given him room to say anything.

Instead, she stood up without warning and without any inclination of what her next move would be. Face still blank as paper, she took the two steps forward needed to raise her arms and proceed to pull Norm into a hug. The embrace shocked Norm at first, causing his whole posture to stiffen under her grip, but eventually, it smoothens out and he allows his arms to wrap around her, holding her back.

Kayla let out a shuddering breath, a newfound appreciation blooming in her chest for her friend. It was... nice. Nice to have someone, for once, tell her that she had every right to be angry, instead of telling her that Jake was a different man and that he would never do that to her again. It was nice to finally have someone in her corner, to tell her that her feelings matter and that she's not alone in the resentment and betrayal she felt all those years ago. She has never had anyone like that in her life since her brother Tommy died.

For a moment, even for just a split second, she allowed herself to imagine Tommy being there for her here and now as she whispered into Norm's shirt, "Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~

Kayla took Thena out for flights every single day, though they were not meant for fun and exercise. Thena could tell through their bond that they were on the hunt, searching for something... or someone.

They flew several different routes, always keeping their eyes downcast at the forest canopy below, hoping to catch any sign of Spider. Kayla knows that the kid could very well be strapped down in Bridgehead, but on the off chance they took him off-site, Kayla wanted to be able to spot him before he was missed again.

Norm often tried to accompany Kayla on these flights, flying on top of August, his ikran. He couldn't fly with her every single day since he was trying to juggle this and all the work that was starting to pile up back at the lab, but he wanted to try just as hard as Kayla was to find the kid. He had watched Spider grow up, and even though he wasn't his guardian in any way shape, or form, Norm still helped raise the kid, along with all the other humans who were accepted into the Omatikaya clan. Norm cared for the kid just as much as Kayla did. Norm appreciated Kayla's loyalty and dedication to the boy, even though she had only known him for a little under half a year. She was determined to bring him home, even for the sake of her nieces and nephews. In many ways, bringing Spider back could mean that the Sullys could also come home, just as long as Spider never gave Quaritch or Ardmore any information about Jake or the High Camp. So even if Kayla didn't care about the kid -which would be a lie she could tell herself and it still wouldn't be true- it was still vital that Spider be rescued if it meant Toruk Makto could return to lead the war efforts.

Some days, Kayla couldn't be persuaded to take a break. On other days, she was so exhausted from wind burn and all-day flying, she could hardly lift a finger. On these particular days, she'd cut the neuro-link and let her avatar recover while she did work around the camp as a human. These were the days' Norm could find something to keep her mind off of things so she wouldn't someday snap and likely hurt someone, mostly herself.

Norm was beginning to run out of ideas before he stumbled across some old, recovered data that they had taken with them after evacuating Hell's Gate. When he briefly looked them over, he came across quite the nostalgic discovery that he just had to share with his new friend. Downloading the data onto a flash drive, he went in search of Kayla and easily found her in the greenhouse with Max, listening as he gave her a rundown of every plant they possessed in the manmade shack.

Norm made his appearance known and asked Kayla if she could come back inside, "I need to show you something."

They both made sure Max had everything together to continue by himself before they made their way back into the lab, walking into the first door and waiting for the oxygen to become breathable before taking off their masks and heading inside. Norm brings her over to a private corner of the lab and wheeled out a chair in front of a computer for her as he explained, "Apparently, all of Jake's old video logs are still available, stored away in our old database. I thought... listen. After our talk the other day, I thought I should apologize for how I ranted about everything I despise about your brother. Obviously, you have a lot more to hate about him than I do and I shouldn't have made it all about me."

She scoffed, brushing off the apology like water on a duck's back, "I don't think you did."

"Even so, I'm sorry. I think you should see these video logs," Norm offered the flash drive to her, "I'm not trying to justify his actions, but I just thought you deserved to see these because, in a way, it'll catch you up to speed on everything you missed in your brother's life. And you deserve to know all about it, including the parts he left out."

She raised her eyebrows and had to blink to bring herself back to reality, remembering to reach out and take the drive from him before nodding, "... Thanks, Norm."

He left her to it, leaving her in the lab by herself for privacy. Kayla sat down in front of the monitor, her movements slow as she inserted the flash drive, waiting for the information to load with bated breath. Within moments, nearly hundreds of video logs flash over the screen, scrolling up all by itself until it got to the very top of the list, stopping right at the thumbnail of the first video log. Kayla touched the screen, clicking the first video log and it sprung to life before her very eyes. Her breath is caught when the screen reveals a younger, human Jake, sitting as if he was right across from her at the table. He stared directly at her, looking just how she remembered him before all this happened. He had buzzed his hair before leaving for Pandora and Kayla could see his tattoos peeking out from under his T-shirt. He looked like a marine, his voice kind of monotone as he spoke into the video log.

Log Entry: 01

Location: SCI MOD

Researcher: SULLY, J.

P.I.: AUGUSTINE, G.

Date: 05/19/2154

"--And the concept is that every driver is matched to his own avatar so that their nervous systems are in tune... or something. Which is why they offered me the gig because I can link with Tommy's avatar which is insanely expensive-- Is this right? I just say whatever to the video log?"

Kayla's eyes widen and a brief laugh escapes her when Jake looks over his shoulder and the camera reveals a younger Norm and Max looking back at him. They all look like babies in these videos, younger than Kayla has ever seen any of them. After the first video log, she was much more anxious to get the others started. She had gone through each and every one of them, bug-eyed most of the time but otherwise quiet as she eagerly listened to her brother's voice.

Log Entry: 12

Location: SITE 26

Researcher: SULLY, J.

P.I.: AUGUSTINE, G.

Date: 05/30/2154

This log was different compared to the rest. The setting was different and Jake looked a little different. Something had shifted in his attitude. Maybe it was the lighting or the rest of the atmosphere, but Kayla noted how her brother looked more alive than ever compared to the previous videos. Behind Jake sat a familiar red-haired woman, looking into a microscope, either completely unaware of Jake's video log or intentionally ignoring it. Kayla could briefly see Norm moving around in the background again before her attention returned to Jake as he spoke,

"Okay. This is video log twelve, time's twenty-one, thirty-two-- Do I have to do this now? I really need to get some rack."

He had turned around and Grace did not hesitate to turn him down, glaring back at him, "No, now. When it's fresh."

Kayla snorted, amused by this older woman who knew how to straighten out her hard-headed brother. Jake turned back to the camera, huffing in annoyance just as a live version of Trudy walked past him and off-screen, "Okay, location: shack and the days are startin' to blur together. The language is a pain, but, you know, I figure it's like field-stripping a weapon. Just repetition, repetition. Neytiri calls me skxawng. It means 'moron.' Norm's attitude has improved lately. It's good he's back on board, but he thinks I'm a skxawng, too."

Kayla couldn't help the laugh that escaped her lips, trying to imagine what it must've been like for Norm and Neytiri to teach a dumbfounded Jake. Neytiri always appeared complimentary when it came to teaching Kayla her ways, and Norm was more than happy to help, but with Jake, fifteen years earlier, it didn't appear that way. Kayla continued to go through each of her brother's video logs, taking notes in her head when important information popped up.

Log Entry: 42

Location: SITE 26

Researcher: SULLY, J.

P.I.: AUGUSTINE, G.

Date: 06/29/2154

"--My feet are getting tougher. I can run farther every day. I have to trust my body to know what to do. Every day it's reading the trails, the tracks at the waterhole, the tiniest scents and sounds. She's always going on about the flow of energy, the spirits of animals. I really hope this tree-hugger crap isn't on the final."

"This isn't just about eye-hand coordination out there, you know," Grace interrupted, again sitting at the microscope behind Jake, "You need to listen to what she says. Try to see the forest through her eyes."

"Excuse me. This is my video log here." Jake snipes back at her, pointing back to the camera with his thumb. He then turned back to the camera and continued. Several video logs after this were just a compilation of what Jake had learned from Neytiri every day, one after the other.

"--With Neytiri, it's learn fast or die."

One--

"--I talked Mo'at into letting Grace into the village. It's the first time since her school was closed down."

--After the other.

Every video log told a story, even if it was just Jake rambling on about his day. In a sense, it made Kayla feel as though she was there. She felt as though she was sitting across from him as he was telling her all the cool, new things he learned, kind of like how she used to tell him and Tommy about her day after school when she got home.

Sometimes Jake steered away from his Na'vi teachings and would rant about the people he was practically living in that trailer site with. He talked about the sight he came across when he returned from a long day and wheeled into Trudy and Norm in a compromising position. Kayla had laughed, especially after seeing how horrified Jake looked from reiterating the story, his face paling at the memory.

Other times, Kayla would often watch Jake drift from his thoughts, slowly shutting down from exhaustion. One video log was just Jake slowly falling asleep until he was out cold, his head leaning into his hand that he had propped up for support. It must have been late into the night and cold as Grace finally approached Jake from behind, her shawl wrapped warmly around her as she quietly leans over to inspect him. The older woman bore a fond expression, her smile small and gentle as she leans over Jake to turn off the camera, ending the video log.

Kayla would smile at those moments. She appreciated Grace in more ways than one now. She felt as though she knew so much more about Dr. Augustine than she did before, and in a way, Kayla was able to get to know her the same way Kiri did, by watching her in videos like this one. Seeing a past version of Kiri's birth mother just casually walking around in the background of Jake's video logs felt so domestic and at the same time haunting. Grace never knew Kayla, yet the older woman was putting a smile on her face, even in death. Kayla made a mental note to one day find a way to thank this woman for everything she had done for Jake.

When there were happy videos, there were also heavy ones, reminding Kayla of her reality and the world she now lives in.

"--I'm trying to understand this deep connection the People have to the forest. She talks about a network of energy that flows through all living things. She says 'All energy is only borrowed, and one day you have to give it back.'"

Log Entry: 87

Location: SITE 26

Researcher: SULLY, J.

P.I.: AUGUSTINE, G.

Date: 08/13/2154

Jake looks tired, thinner, and has an unkempt beard in this video log. Kayla could hardly recognize him. Even on Earth, he never allowed himself to look this bad. His words are as heavy as the bags under his eyes, "Everything is backward now. Like out there is the true world and in here is the dream. It's hard to believe it's only been three months. I can barely remember my old life. I don't know who I am anymore. They're not gonna give up their home. They're not gonna make a deal. For what? Lite beer? And blue jeans? There's nothing that we have that they want. Everything they sent me out here to do is a waste of time. They're never gonna leave Hometree."

Yet again, Kayla felt as though she was actually there, experiencing it all through Jake's eyes. He makes several more videos, talking about every event that led up to the battle, then the videos are abruptly cut off. The next and supposed final video was dated days later after the fight was over. Kayla felt her eyes water as Jake spoke of Grace, Trudy, and even Tsu'tey's deaths, along with several others, but she firmly kept her emotions in check, not allowing a single tear to fall. Jake tells all the events he could remember happening during the battle, then spoke of the aftermath.

Log Entry: 98

Location: LINK CENTER

Researcher: SULLY, J.

P.I.: AUGUSTINE, G.

Date: 08/24/2154

"--The aliens went back to their dying world. Only a few were chosen to stay. The time of great sorrow was ending. Toruk Makto was no longer needed. Well, uh, I guess this is my last video log. 'Cause whatever happens tonight, either way, I'm... I'm not gonna be coming back to this place. Well, I guess I'd better go. I don't want to be late for my own party. Yeah, it's my birthday, after all. This is Jake Sully signing off."

Kayla had let out a long, gust of air, leaning back in her seat to process all of this. Looking around, she noticed the sky outside the biolab getting darker, close to eclipse. She must have been sitting there for hours as her back and legs began to scream at her. She groans, ready to stand up and move around before she looked back at the screen and froze.

There were more video logs after that.

The thumbnail for the next one made Kayla freeze. Instead of the Jake she knew growing up, she could clearly see the face of his avatar, piercing yellow eyes staring directly back at her. Her eyes flick over to the date, noting that the next one is only a few weeks after the last log. Her fingers shake as she moves over to click on it, letting the video come to life.

Sure enough, the Jake she had been learning to know sat in front of her, or more so the camera. He wasn't in any environment she recognized, the camera was now placed in front of scenery of trees and plant life. Jake looked to be alone, no one wandering around behind him, as he sat his tall self down on top of a large root sticking out of the ground, facing the camera while his ears flick nervously, "I, uh... I guess I have a bit of explaining to do. I thought I was done making these video logs, but... if there's any chance that this data finds its way back to Earth, I... I wanted this to somehow get to my sister."

Kayla's eyes widen, fingers growing cold as Jake spoke, and this time, he spoke directly at her, "Hi, Kayla. You probably don't recognize me but in case you haven't been told, it's your brother, Jake. I have so much to tell you if you haven't already been told. Needless to say, I can walk again, just not in the body you're used to seeing me in. I'm healthy, I'm the leader of my clan, I have friends, and... I'm gonna be a father pretty soon."

Kayla sucks in a sharp bit of air, eyes starting to water again as he continued, "I just thought you might wanna know. I understand if you don't. If you could, I bet you would tell me to go to Hell, but... if there's a chance that you can see this, or even hear this, I just wanna let you know how I'm doing. Alright. Uh... Jake Sully, signing off."

The video barely has time to stop before Kayla is greedily clicking on the second one, not hesitating this time. A nonconsensual smile graces her lips the second the next video plays, revealing a small, Na'vi baby settled peacefully in Jake's arms as he spoke, his voice so soft and gentle, Kayla barely recognized him.

"Hey, Kayla. I thought you'd want to meet your nephew," he tries his best to lift the sleeping baby up to the camera without disturbing the child, and Kayla takes the time to count all of the baby's fingers and toes, recognizing the baby immediately before Jake could properly introduce him, "This is Neteyam."

A tear slips down her cheek as Kayla smiles uncontrollably. Jake obviously can't tell by her reaction and continues to monologue as he brings the baby to nestle back in his arms and stare down at him like he was the most precious thing in the world, "Neytiri named him. It means 'not the end' or something like that. She wanted his name to be a sign of new beginnings after everything we've been through. A sign of new life after war. It's a good name. I like it because it's similar to hers. He looks very much like his mama, don't you, little man?"

He cooed softly to the baby, who made no noise or reaction, still very much asleep. Jake's smile is so contagious, it was hard for Kayla to stop. Jake finally looks away from the child and stares directly at the camera, "I guess I'm a dad now, huh? Not sure whose bright idea was that. Who would've thought? Anyway... I hope you're safe wherever you are, Kay. And I hope, somehow, you know that you're an aunt now. I'll try and make more video logs as Neteyam gets older for you. Okay... Jake and Neteyam Sully, signing off."

She immediately wipes away her tears just as another video pops up. This time, the baby that Jake's holding has more hair and even has eyebrows and more fingers and toes. Jake practically holds the child up to the camera with just one arm, making sure his hand was supporting the back of the neck so Kayla could get a better look at the baby's face.

jake was beaming, proud and joyful, "Hey, Kayla. Meet Kiri. She's technically not mine by blood, but Neytiri and I adopted her. I'm not sure if I've mentioned or if you know about her, but Kiri belongs to my friend, Grace. She... she's unable to care for her, so we decided to step up and love her as our own."

Kayla felt her heart melting at how gentle Jake was for Grace's child. As Kiri begins to fuss, Jake brings his undivided attention to her, whispering softly, "Isn't she beautiful? Hey, baby girl, shh, it's okay. Kiri's name means 'light' I think, but it's also similar to Grace's Na'vi name."

Jake looks back at the camera, smiling and ranting like one would when telling someone their favorite subject in school, "You see, the Na'vi don't have the letter 'G' in their alphabet so they substitute it with a letter that sounds similar. 'Grace' in Na'vi is 'Kìreysì'. 'Same goes for my name. The Na'vi don't have the letter 'J' either. My name is technically Tsyeyk. I guess if you were here, your name might stay the same, I'm not sure. They have all the letters of your name in-- you know what, never mind. Even Kiri looks bored."

Kayla laughs as Jake holds Kiri up to the camera again, "I suppose that's it for now. This is Jake and Kiri Sully, signing off."

The next video is yet again, a different baby. This one also has eyebrows and ten fingers and toes, but it wasn't Kiri. This one's hair was shorter and their limbs were everywhere, unable to stay still in Jake's arms. Jake, on the other hand, was getting a kick out of it, even when the baby kicks his ribcage, "Kayla... this is Lo'ak. He's a feisty one. Neteyam and Kiri are still so little, it's a little odd to have another one already, but it's nice to have them all so close in age. I don't think they understand that they have a little brother now. I tried naming this one instead of Neytiri this time and I don't think it's half bad. So I think lo'a means 'amulet' and Lo'akur means 'Toruk Makto Amulet' which... if you don't already know, I'm also called Toruk Makto. It's a long story."

Jake's smile is soft and yet... sad at the same time, "He's... already so much like me, or at least that's what Neytiri says. It's both exciting and terrifying. Can you imagine? A little mini-me running around? Pandora's gonna have some problems."

Kayla rolls her eyes but in good faith, smiling as Jake holds Lo'ak up to the camera for her to get a better look, "That's all for now. Jake and Lo'ak Sully, signing off."

The video changes again, but this time, the dates are further apart and Jake looks as though he's aged a bit. In his arms is, yet again, another baby, but she's smaller and bears Na'vi traits like Neteyam. Jake's voice is soft while lifting the sleeping baby to the camera, "Tuktirey. Ain't she a cute one? The kids can't pronounce her name right so we just call her Tuk. The closest Lo'ak has gotten is Tuk-Tuk. She came as a surprise. Neytiri and I didn't know if we were gonna have any more rugrats."

Kayla laughs at the reference, immediately silencing herself when Tuk began to cry. For a moment, Kayla thought she had woken the baby before stupidly remembering that this was a video of the past. As Tuk cried, Jake shushed her gently, patting her bottom and holding her in the crook of his neck. He had become more of an expert between video logs. Jake chuckled to himself before looking at the camera, "I guess we'll have to cut this one a little short. This is Jake and Tuk Sully, signing off."

Thinking that would be it as Kayla got to the last of her brother's kids, she stood up to stretch. Turning around to try and relieve the stress in her back, she froze when she heard another video begin to play, "Kayla... I'm sorry."

Whipping back around, Kayla saw Jake, alone, sitting in front of the camera. He's older, yet again, as he rubbed his face tiredly, struggling to get the words out, "I miss you, Kayla. I miss you so much. I wish I could find a way to reach out to you. I wish I had taken you with me. You would've loved it here. I... I just hope that wherever you are, you're safe and you're happy."

Despite her resentment, Kayla's heart breaks seeing her brother like this, broken and regretful. Jake clears his throat, trying to rid it of emotions while his gaze shifts uncomfortably, tail wagging nervously behind him. He was looking around as if afraid he would be caught before whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You deserve better. You deserve a brother like Tommy instead of the asshole you got stuck with. I don't regret leaving Earth. Staying there any longer would have killed me. But leaving you there was my ultimate regret. I failed you as a brother, and watching my boys love their sisters unconditionally is a constant reminder of that. I don't want my boys to end up like me. I want them to be their own person, to stop trying to be like their father who would abandon his sister at the drop of a hat."

He sucks in a sharp breath, the words clearly making an impact on him as his tail and ears lower in distress. Jake had always been one of those people who couldn't cry unless he finally said certain words out loud to make those emotions a reality. As long as he didn't say anything, he wouldn't cry, like when Tommy died. He hadn't said a word during the funeral, but Kayla has expected it from him. He didn't cry when their parents died and he didn't say a word back then, knowing he would.

His breathing is shaky when he tried regaining a bit of composure, looking off to the side instead of directly at Kayla, "I miss you... I wish you were here."

The video ends and it's finally the end of the logs. Kayla checks the date of the last video log and realized it was filmed almost a year before she arrived on Pandora. She was already on the way.

Kayla sighs through her nose, in and out, "I miss you, too."

~~~~~~~~~

Norm never asked what she found on those video logs and Kayla never said. Instead, she got back to work finding Spider. Again, Norm would join her on occasion, but realistically he couldn't as long as she could. Norm had tried finding the link limits between a driver and their avatar but hadn't been as successful as Kayla. She's proven she could go far and beyond with the link, going days without breaking it. Perhaps it stems from whatever soldiers learn during military training. All that discipline tends to stick around for a long time, and perhaps that discipline is why Kayla can resist the urge of jumping between human and avatar. Norm once told her that Jake's record in the neuro-link was sixteen hours straight, to which she scoffed and puffed out her chest, "Amateurs, the lot of ya."

Most of the time, Kayla is flying by herself, her, and Thena, constantly searching for Spider and sometimes not returning home for days at a time. She knew it was suicide to fly anywhere near Bridgehead, so she had to spread her search elsewhere. But knowing Ardmore, she wasn't stupid enough to keep Spider anywhere other than their headquarters.

Kayla would spend countless sleepless nights looking for the kid, and every day she was left disappointed, losing hope little by little. Lost in her haunted thoughts, she nearly falls off of Thena when she suddenly receives a call from her earpiece, shattering the calm, muted winds around her.

"Dirty Falcon to Desert Fox, do you copy?" Norm's call sign rings through and Kayla hurries to answer, pressing her fingers to her throat mic.

"I copy, Dirty Falcon, over."

"Send your air traffic, over."

Kayla takes a glance down at the compass she now had attached to the bottom of her songcord "About twenty clicks west, over."

"Report back ASAP. We got a call coming in from Devil Dog, over."

Her blood runs cold, the very mention of Jake making Kayla worried that something was very, very wrong, "Copy that, Dirty Falcon. I'm Oscar-Mike, over and out."

She turned Thena around so fast the ikran hissed at her with distaste, despite feeling the urgency through their bond. Kayla had commanded her banshee to fly as fast as she could with the promise of large slabs of meat later. And no ikran can say no to a tasty bribe like that. Thena flew as fast as the wind could carry her, and within no time, they returned to High Camp. A horn is blown to warn people of her arrival and to let people know she was a friend and not a foe. Before Thena could properly land, Kayla was already disconnecting tsaheylu and jumping down, her feet landing on the floor of the cave mouth gracefully. Her eyes had not looked anywhere else other than the gunship covered in warpaint being loaded up with what looked to be a lot of medical supplies. Humans and avatars were assisting one another with the task and so Kayla beelined for them, immediately spotting Norm in his avatar.

"What's going on?"

"Kiri had a seizure."

Kayla's heart plummets, "What?!"

"Kiri had a seizure and she hasn't woken up," Norm was in scientist mode, serious and logical as he goes around packing up some last-second supplies, "Jake has asked us to come and help her in case the tsahik of the Metkayina can't do anything."

The Metkayina? This was the first Kayla has heard about any of this. Was this where Jake had taken his family? With nothing else on her mind other than Kiri, Kayla firmly nods her head, "What can I do?"

Max walks up to the towering avatars, face mask on and ready to fly, "I think it would be best if you flew separately on Thena. If the Metkayina village sees a rogue gunship flying toward their home, they might turn us away if Jake's unable to stop them. With an ikran by our side, we'll have a better chance of landing and helping Kiri."

"Okay. Let's go."

A/N: The reason why I named Kayla's ikran Thena is the same reason Kayla named her… because it was the first name that came to me at the top of my head and for some reason, it stuck. It just felt right. singing It's tiiiime to meet the love interestssss!!! Next chapter :) Thank you for the support and for hanging on so long!

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