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godihatethiswebsite · 4 months ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Two - The aftermath

So many of you came out of the woodwork for this story and I couldn't be more grateful for all the kind words of encouragement! I'm truly flattered by the amount of love this received for being something that randomly popped in my head on a whim ❤️

I'm glad I was able to get this part out so quickly. It might be a tick before part three, but I've already got some of it worked out. I'll still try to keep chipping away at it while I work on my other series~

Trigger warnings: swearing, angst, depression

“I saw them the other day.”

“...saw who?”

“My scent matches.”

There’s a pregnant pause as your therapist of four years takes the information in, caught off guard by the abruptness of the statement but also the further implications behind the words.

Dr. Miranda has been your life raft and confidant ever since you’d first gone to your family with the appalling reality of your newfound situation. An omega like yourself; she specializes in the treatment and rehabilitation of women who've endured abuse at the hands of their packmates and the dredges of society. Highly recommended by the United Designation Resource Center for psychological trauma.

It had taken you over a week following the incident to gather the strength to confront your fathers on the thorny subject - too ashamed of admittance and too anxious of their response. And even then it was done over the phone in the most uncomfortable video call of your life, the dour atmosphere so at odds with that blessedly clear mid-afternoon sky, its temperate climate and soft summer breeze carrying along an enchanting melody of carefree innocence.

Inside, it was raining.

The wretched bond was a gravity well, sucking you down into a chasmic abyss and siphoning your once bountiful vibrancy. Responsibilities fell by the wayside, locked away in your self-imposed prison as if the globe would simply stop moving if you only ignored its rotations. Not until both your fathers made the three hour flight up north did you muster the courage to finally remove the makeshift barricade guarding your front door, talking through the deceptively difficult act with them on the other end of the phone as the two alphas supported you during the twenty five minutes it took to overcome the all-consuming panic and usher them inside.

They stayed with you for the better part of the month, taking over where depression had failed you in your efforts to function alone. Your parents allowed you space to look after yourself, clearing away the physical filth of your living quarters and, in doing so, sweeping away the cobwebs of your teetering sanity. They scrubbed at putrid greasy plates while you scoured tainted flesh under a scalding hot stream, the dead skin cells contaminated by his poisonous touch spiraling down the drain along with your tears.

The harsh truth of the matter is that there is no escape from your own body. You come screaming into this world given one to do with as you will, to mold and shape based on lived experiences with no regard for the decisions and circumstances made outside your control. There is no space to slip between the weaved threads of time, no hands to turn counter clockwise when you make a mistake. Just a grim acceptance that the life you once aspired to was forevermore out of reach.

There was only so much to be done given your situation. As much aid as your family offered, they were as helpless of bystanders as the soul in your meat suit. Chores were completed, accumulated bills paid, a hearty meal piled high on your plate combating the recent gauntness of your face. You were cherished and fussed over like the wee babe found scattered amongst family photos in your childhood home, cradled in their arms when the horrid presence came calling, dragging a hot poker through your insides and causing mental anguish at all hours of the night.

The more time they spent around you, the more apparent it was that you could no longer stay there. The closer the proximity to your bonded alpha the more power he held to disrupt your life.

That's how you landed in Dr. Miranda’s lap. Before you'd even set foot on the tarmac arrangements had been made for a new life in a new city on the other side of the country - spiriting you away on a mission to regain your independence, the distance easing the damage he could do even as the strained bond churned.

Initially dreading having to confess the horrors you’d endured to some random unknown, she’d worked diligently to soothe your broken nerves in both demeanor and environment. A kind omega in her early forties, the subtle crows feet and laugh lines only accentuated her cheerful personality, disarming in her ability to draw out your insecurities and work with you through the trauma in a way that didn’t feel intruding.

Dr. Miranda was a veritable well of understanding, always encouraging of whatever pace you set, careful of the fragile boundaries constructed to guard your heart from further damage.

She operated as part of a larger business that provided therapeutic services and catered to all designations alike. You’d been thrilled to find there was a separate entrance away from the cacophony of the common room, bypassing the headache of having to wait amongst strangers and leading directly to her office in the back right corner of the building.

The space itself was considerably cozy, low lit warmth all plush and homely. The spacious couch against the back wall invited you to stretch out comfortably, decorative pillows available in a colorful assortment of textures - catering to a discerning omega’s personal preferences. A small diffuser wafting light refreshing mists operated as both a handy descenting spray and an emotional pick me up. Every accommodation purposeful, given special care for your emotional easement and wellbeing.

You appreciated the effort she put into making her office feel more like a living room than a sterile setting. It was easier for you to converse when it felt like you were speaking with a friend.

Bit by bit, Dr. Miranda coaxed you from the sheltered recesses in which you’d burrowed; not just a guiding hand through the concrete dust and collapsed rubble, but a mentor recovering your confidence, reminding you of the path you once walked independently and peeling back the suffocating layers that kept you from standing on your own two feet.

In hindsight, you probably could’ve broken the news of your scent match a bit less abrasively - probably should’ve led with it too.

The pair of you had been engrossed in a topic that was moreso a follow up from your last session rather than anything of actual import. Your brain had been functioning on autopilot the past twenty odd minutes, making sounds vaguely human enough to get by without requiring proper attention. Honestly, most of her words had been drowned out by the incessant buzzing in your ear that had been slowly growing in volume, throat clenching and knuckles flexing, more aware of the sweat dripping down the back of your nape than anything she had to proffer.

Eventually the dam just broke. The words slipped out like grease, lubricated in a film of oil too slick to be contained and begging to be addressed.

There’s a struggle on her face to try and maintain some level of professionalism after the sudden revelation. Knitted eyebrows spiked before smoothing back down, jaw almost dropping until she remembered herself and switched it from an ‘o’ to a relaxed flat line. She mirrored your own position on the couch from her velvet wingback chair, sitting cross legged with an air of casualness. Her only remaining tell was her hands fidgeting in her lap as if her fingers itched to shake you down like a coconut tree or pry your brain open like a valuable specimen.

Knowing the scarcity of scent bonding, this may have very well been the first time she’s come across this scenario - whether in her personal life or from her spot opposite you in her seat.

“How are you feeling about the encounter?” A loaded question if ever there was one, giving you plenty of breathing room to start the conversation however you needed and giving her a chance to compartmentalize.

You tried to focus on the initial emotions, remembering that first brush of sweet alpha pheromones on your olfactory senses. The rush of endorphins as your inner omega staked her claim with that first gulp of built up citrus infused drool.

“I didn’t know I could feel like that...” There was a breathy quality to your tone as you visibly brightened, gazing at the plush rug in the center of the room without actually viewing it, a glow to your smile that was soft in your reminiscence. “They don’t prepare you for that first whiff at the Academy. It’s almost like…”

How could you explain in the span of a few sentences what the most ardent poets struggled with over the course of a lifetime?

“It’s like when someone grows up not being able to breathe properly and they don’t even realize it’s a problem. To them it’s normal to be in a constant state of dyspnea because that’s all they’ve ever known. No one else might be complaining about it, but no one’s asked them about it either. They just assume that's how your lungs are supposed to function and carry on none the wiser.”

Dr. Miranda nodded along, ever patient as you attempted to spew out your thoughts in an at least semi-coherent structure.

“But then, one day, they’re walking behind a guy who’s fumbling with his attempt to shove a small object back in his pocket and watches as it falls to the sidewalk. They pick it up off the ground like a good citizen; strike up a conversation. Ask him about the strange contraption the guy calls an inhaler - learns there's another way to breathe. And so they go home and tell their mom what’s been going on with them and she takes them to see the doctor who gets them one of their own. And when that first dose of medicated mist gets sucked into their lungs…”

The image of a wide eyed innocent gasping in a world full of untold possibilities as if reborn from the ashes of their previous life, no longer chained down by the invisible restrictions tethering them to the globe, eyes glistening full of wonderment at how something so small can be something so cosmically life altering.

With each new breath, they soar.

You’re pulled out of your musings and back to reality as your own lungs expand, something weightless shimmering in your gaze, glassy eyed and perfectly at ease. “Now I know why they call it living.”

The words are floated around the space with a sort of reverence akin to hearing a favored childhood fairy tale read aloud at their mother’s knee. Something wistful and longing and filled with effervescent hope.

“Sounds heavenly...” Her own voice was just as breathy, living vicariously through the moment she herself hasn't experienced. Curling her legs up under herself, Dr. Miranda encouraged, “tell me more.”

“There were two of them,” you went on, smile turning playful and newly invigorated. “The first one was just this big bulk of an alpha. I mean, seriously, he was properly huge!” Animated arms opened wide for emphasis, your grin reaching almost the same diameter. “Built like a fucking linebacker or something. I can only imagine what he must do for a living. Kinda gives off scary vibes, but like… in a non sketchy way? He dresses a bit like a drug dealer, but feels more like a gym teacher. Maybe that’s just me being biased ‘cause he smells like a cupcake, I dunno.”

The energy you gave off was infectious. Dr. Miranda couldn’t help but join in with amused laughter, endeared to the way you were lighting up the room. It wasn’t often she got to see you like this, glimpsing the lighthearted woman you were before the accident. It was a welcome sight after so much negativity. “And the other?”

“Fuuuuck me, Doc.” You groaned good naturedly, head falling back to rest against the spine of the couch as your limbs went limp. “Swear to god he was the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life. Gorgeous smile. Like, I’ve always been a casual fan of coconut, but after that encounter…” You shuddered. “I just wanna roll around in an entire box of fucking samoas.”

“And do these tasty specimens have names?”

Just like that, you wilted.

The temperature shifted rapidly, a violent change that dragged out of your whimsy and back into a world where life didn’t discriminate between those deserving of heaven and those who broke their way in to taint the ghosts at peace.

She picked up on it immediately, back straightening as if you weren’t the only one in the room with a chill suddenly dripping down their spine.

Your admission came from a voice far more fragile than she’d heard in a very long time. “...I never got to ask.”

Recounting the excruciating memory was like shoving needles underneath your nailbeds, bringing up the other person in the room keeping you from wanton bliss, describing the torture you’d endured witnessing them existing with their own omega unaware of the damage she’d inadvertently done. You relayed their moment of recognition and sympathy. The confusion on the poor omega’s face.

How you turned tail and fled like a coward from the scene.

“I panicked,” came the strained confession, stumbled out in a frantic rush that spoke volumes of your frazzled mental state. “I-I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t just waltz up to them all willy nilly and throw a wrench in whatever the hell kinda life they’d already built. I mean, she was right there! How was I supposed to fawn over the men who should’ve been mine to keep when they were never mine to begin with?!”

You flinched away from the unwanted flashback of silvery bite marks, the pale white indents plastered on her skin displayed proudly beneath the collar of her coat like an olympic medal. So at odds with the ones mirrored on your own flesh, hidden now under a thick cotton turtleneck that you fought the urge to scratch.

Dr. Miranda listened closely, keen eyes analyzing the familiar body language and monitoring your growing levels of distress. She watched as you picked apart a loose hanging thread with jittery deftness until inevitably too much unwound and fluffy white stuffing poked out between the seams of the pillow clutched like a life jacket to your chest.

“I can only imagine the hurt you must’ve felt in that moment…”

Where once your voice had been full of life, now there was only a grave emptiness. Color had been sucked from your aura the same way it had been from the room. There was no hiding from your devastation in the tiny office, the frayed threads of the cashmere pillow a reflection revealing the true turmoil roiling beneath the skin. It rotted from the inside out, exposing the vulnerable squishy interior and keeping you reliving the same brutal lacerations again and again and again.

“...I hadn’t even considered it a possibility, you know…?”

Hadn’t allowed yourself the concept of hope.

“And suddenly it was right there - the answer to all my problems. For a brief moment, I was shown a glimpse of a better life. A future… one where I didn't wake up with earth shattering headaches and relentless nausea and I’d actually have energy to do more than just be a useless fucking couch potato and there could be laughter and healing and–”

You weren’t sure at which point in your stream of consciousness you’d started crying, nor when you fitfully clawed into the padded fabric, shredding the delicate material as it twisted and stretched in your trembling hands.

“I wish I never ran into them at the store... I wish I could’ve kept living in stupid fucking ignorance. At least then they could’ve just stayed made up characters in my head. Anything would’ve been better than this–” you spat angrily, chucking the mangled remains of the pillow on the ground and gritting your teeth through the onslaught of tears. “Having them ripped away from me like some sick fucking joke! Like the universe hasn’t already crushed my hopes and dreams and laughed in my face for wanting a normal fucking life!? Well guess what, gods? You win! Okay?! You fucking win! Take my heart! I don't want it anymore!”

Consoling arms encapsulated your quivering form, the comforting florals of Dr. Miranda’s airy omega scent projecting like a protective blanket and overpowering the tart bitterness of your once sweetened pear turned ashen in your mouth.

The floodgates opened. They couldn't be stopped.

“I’m just so fucking sick of this!” Your screams of devastation become muffled against the softness of her pink knitted sweater, harsh blubbering sobs broken up by heaving gasps as you mourn the life you’ll never have. “I hate him... I hate him! I don’t wanna do this anymore! I just want my fucking life back!”

There are no words that can fix the lesions of the heart. There’s no comfort of a better tomorrow that she can wax poetic whilst drying your tears. Sometimes grief cannot be mended - only managed. And sometimes that means accepting the bad days with the learned knowledge that not all anger is made of evil.

Holding you close, lulling you into a guarded safety with a placating purr, she grants you reprieve from the mask that you wear.

Not much more was discussed in the aftermath. The remaining time was dedicated to helping you stabilize from the emotional trauma, bringing you down carefully to avoid dropping into a catatonic state. She’d witnessed it with you before - at the start of your visits. When the grief was still too near and your triggers splayed out like a million mouse traps all primed to go off. Avoiding them was all but impossible in those early days. Three hours of your life were forever lost to time, the only proof of its occurrence the foggy aftermath filled memory of cold dampened skin and sweat soaked weighted blankets clutched tight in a dark room, uncontrollable trembles wracking your form and a bone deep exhaustion as if you’d just ran ten miles.

Dr. Miranda never once left your side.

Trudging your way back to your vehicle, the air inside the car was only mildly warmer than its outer counterpart, sinking into the rigid cloth seats and listening to the laboured clicks of the old engine grappling to turn over in the bitter cold. Snowflakes gathered on your coat began to melt as it finally gave way, puttering to life and filling the space with dense heated air.

You huffed out a loaded sigh, absentmindedly scratching at the already abused skin as you felt his presence poking experimentally across the bond. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate without him adding his delightful input, sniffing around your emotions like a trained bloodhound attuned to your melancholic brooding.

He was a spiteful thing; had been since he first opened his eyes the next morning from his drug induced stupor and found the pretty thing he’d coveted had just up and vanished. You never knew when he’d invade the sanctity of your mind. The flicker of amusement from his end was the telltale proof this was all just a sick game.

The bonds didn’t allow any actual communication. There were no words passed back and forth, no sudden powers of telepathy. Just intense sensations - emotions conveyed as though tangible and speaking ideas down an invisible phone line.

The whole point of a mating bite in the first place was to bring a further cohesion to the packs. As an omega, you were the fixed point in space around which all other members orbited. A mediator of sorts; it was your job to smooth the serrated edges of an alpha’s instincts, regulating their emotional needs and nurturing them to achieve a sense of balance - and vice versa.

An omega’s naturally empathetic nature meant you were frequently prone to becoming easily overstimulated. It was an alpha’s duty to soothe your frazzled nerves.

He liked to abuse his privileges.

Sometimes he went days without pestering, others his tiresome machinations seemed unending. The longest reprieve had been just shy of three weeks, lured into a false sense of optimism that just maybe he’d overdosed and freed you from his haunting clutches. His return was a hot knife stabbing into your skull, grinding and drilling like a makeshift lobotomy for the clinically insane.

You were grateful for the miles between now softening the blows. Once he’d begun to feel the strain on the flight to your current city whittling away at the strength of your bond, he’d lashed out in unbridled fury. You’d spent the first leg of the trip huddled on your knees in the airplane stall, his mental punishment sawing into your ribs and expelling the simple breakfast you’d eaten an hour prior.

Sobs of anguish turned to tears of relief as time went on and his reach stretched thin across the continent.

The bond withdrawals came afterwards. His presence still lurked in the tether that binds you, but no more than a casual thought in the back of your mind, the quiet voice that whispers on the edge of a canyon daring you to ‘jump’.

The bond withdrawals were now the worst of your worries. It was hard to function on a day to day basis when the same distance granting you a second chance caused you to become physically - sometimes violently - ill. Instances like that, Zofran was your best friend.

Buckling your seatbelt, you waged an internal battle over whether or not to do the responsible thing of making a second attempt at grocery shopping (despite your best efforts over the past two days, you hadn’t yet figured out how to miraculously will food to materialize in your barren pantry). Statistically speaking you were most likely safe from another encounter… unless they’d pulled a you and hadn’t left with their wares either.

But if you didn’t have the luxury before to keep putting it off then you certainly hadn’t acquired it now.

Math was on your side as you emerged with a full cart of goods and a lack of new therapy material. You’d still been the most skittish paranoid thing ever, scurrying quickly through the aisles like the CIA was out to get you, scanning your periphery and emerging quickly from the self checkout lanes to hurry towards your car. But just because you’d been successful in your venture doesn’t mean you weren’t followed along by fuzzy raised brows and curious - if not judgemental - looks.

It was an odd notion - being terrified of the one thing that should’ve made you feel secure. It was all you could do to distract yourself from the frustrating realization that this was a game you’d be playing for the foreseeable future unless you shelled out the extra cash to bypass doing the chore yourself.

That would have to be a worry for another time. Right now, all you desired was to curl up in your tiny studio apartment with a home cooked microwaved meal and lose yourself in the diversion that was the food network channel.

But first: caffeine.

You ignored the nagging ghost of responsibility tugging at your ear as you pulled into a parking spot alongside the main road, stepping out of the warm confines of your car and hurrying inside the nestled hole in the wall you frequented a few times a week for a caffeinated boost.

Large crowds still bothered you even with the reassurance he wasn't there, as if he could somehow physically slink out of the bond formed between you and hide amongst the chittering rabble waiting for an opportune moment of weakness to strike. Thankfully you’d arrived after the mid afternoon rush - although there were still a few stragglers with the same mindset as you eager to escape the frosty air with something warm on an otherwise picturesque snowy winter’s day.

The chiming bell above the door hailed your arrival, festive drink flavors assaulting your nose and instantly watering your mouth. Smoky chestnut praline, rich peppermint mocha, enticing caramel brulee. Cranberry laden pastries, chewy gingerbread cookies; all folded together in a Christmasy mix laced with the pleasant aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.

Your mind zeroed in on exactly what it wanted, pinpointing the most succulent fragrance amongst the bountiful bouquet, cutting through the sea of heavy pheromones belonging to the other patrons and hitting something raw inside your weary soul.

The veritable nectar of the gods.

A rich shot of bold espresso. Sweetly caramelized with smooth, creamy, chocolatey undertones. It zapped your spine with a jolt of adrenaline, awakening your senses while simultaneously soothing them. The first relaxing sip of a perfectly hot beverage. The golden liquid flowed down the back of your throat and alleviated the tangled knots still keeping you on edge, settling like a sturdy hand on your shoulder and allowing you the chance to breathe easy.

Something about the blend had your inner omega preening, ears perked up and startling a small purr from your chest that had you blinking down at your torso in surprised confusion. You’d barely stepped foot inside the cafe and suddenly the craving had expanded tenfold, something ravenous and feral urging your steps towards the counter that you had to fight to withstand.

Shrugging off the intense hunger as a simple lack of shoving something slightly more substantial in your mouth before leaving this morning, you adjusted the strap of your purse more securely on your shoulder and raised your eyes level to the awaiting interior.

Right into the most alluring shade of brilliant azure - sparkling like sapphires and already fixated on you.

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neteyamsilly · 2 years ago

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i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best | 4

summary ;; A father protects, that's what gives him meaning. Jake Sully has failed. PART 3 | PART 5 pairings ;; dad!jake sully x reader, mom!neytiri x reader, sully family x reader genre ;; pure angst and family feels notes / explanations ;; PLEASE READ AUTHOR NOTES. I explicitly said in the previous chapter I would NO LONGER BE TAKING TAG REQUESTS. You're just going to have to check my profile every now and then. I also will not be re-tagging the peeps I did in the last chapter’s replies, it’s just a lot 😭 I'm sorry for the inconvenience and thank you for your understanding! Now I present you, the long awaited angst and groveling of Jake. Enjoy! Please excuse my mistakes if you see any. Thank you so much for the lovely comments and support, I hope the angst hits the way you wanted it / was expecting HHHHH

It’ll shine better, Jake mused to himself, rotating the lumpy amber around in his fingers to better reflect the sunlight streaming in thin rays from the hands of the dense flora above, once I dip this in that polish oil. It’s not entirely unsalvageable.

At least he hadn’t scraped too much in attempts to give it a rounder shape, the bug at its core you were gushing about to the point of waking him up at zero dark thirty was still intact. He had been summoned from his dreams to look at a cool rock.

Jake couldn’t not gift it to you as something to be permanently worn after that.

The problem? He was ass at this. Always had been. No drop of craftsmanship in his bloodstream at all when the Na’vi were particularly fond of their ornaments and accessories, making it themselves, in fact.

Songcords were put together from beads, bones and stones, virtuosity was a must intrinsically woven into everyday life, methodized and irreplaceable since it wasn’t as if mass production could ever be a thing in Pandora. Everything was handmade.

Jake’s worst enemy beadwork was in their clothing, for example, even in braids — his maladroit at it may or may not be why he wore his hair in plain dreads now.

He wasn’t an artist or a creator, his hands were more comfortable being fit around a gun or a knife than slipping effortlessly in the rhythm of weaving or the act of making. All his end results were dreadful enough to be bullied relentlessly by his kids — except for you, that is. You absolutely loved them for reasons your mother or none of your siblings could understand.

Jake’s blundering conscience would melt at the sight of your eyes shining and the biggest smile almost splitting your head in half as if he had just handed you the world every single time he gifted you the newest of his clunky handiwork. He didn’t know why that made you the happiest. You’d been that way ever since you saw him carving and personally adding a bead to his songcord about how he got his firstborn daughter to utter her first word: dada.

It was important to him, so, down it had gone into Jake’s life story; putting official significance to the moment he never wanted to forget in the same thread that carried the story of him becoming Toruk Makto, just beside Neteyam’s first word, which was also dadada. (Neytiri had Lo’ak’s mam, and Kiri’s perfectly articulated mommy.)

Ever since that day, you had made grabby hands at the bead all the time when he picked you up, teethed at it like a puppy trying to grab a toy, tried to rip it off to make it yours — anything, until Neytiri made you one, but no, you wanted it from dada.

So dada started making you little trinkets.

He didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing you never grew out of receiving gifts from your dad he himself cringed at. Jake wasn’t one to complain, not when someone in this life would feel such enough joy to purify thousands of blighted souls upon receiving his ugly personal work. It made him happy, stroked his ego to high heavens that his sweetheart was doting on dada to see the imperfect as the most fascinating.

That’s why he had taken on the daunting task of making a bead for you out of the amber you’d fixated on, rasp in one hand, sitting on a thick log that cut into the little stream he and his family were spending leisurely time that day, one leg pulled to himself and one feet in the water up to his ankle. Even though he had half an ear on his four children playing around in the shallow water of the creek, all the screams and squeals of joy felt weak compared to the contained huff of amusement that escaped from his mate who had come up to Jake while he was way too engrossed in his task.

His eyes shifted to Neytiri, watching her hop on to the log in one agile move. “Don’t laugh.”

“I am not laughing,” Neytiri said, crouching to sit, her mouth twitched upwards as she looked at the amber in his hand.

“I have eyes, Neytiri, I literally see you laughing.” His face used to burn at her openly teasing about beadmaking, but his oldest daughter’s attentions had restored his bruised confidence over the years. The slander wasn’t taken lightly these days as Jake had proudly relabeled the odd shapes of his work as a creative choice. “Right to my face.”

“You’re mistaken.”

Jake made his jaw drop, overacting his bafflement. “Wow, gaslighting? Really?”

Neytiri hit his arm lightly. In her terms, it was light, at least. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s something you shouldn’t do to your mate.” He turned his back to her, giving a look over his shoulder. “You’re abusing me. I’m being abused.”

“Baby.”

“No amount of pet names are gonna fix my broken heart.”

“No. You are a baby. I’m insulting you.” Neytiri hadn’t even laughed, but the uplifted timbre of that sentence sure did make Jake snicker in disbelief. “If you can’t take it, maybe you should leave beading to me.”

“I would say they are fashionably off,” he defended. You carried them with delight, so why shouldn’t Jake take more pride in his work? “And you said practice makes perfect years ago, I remember the exact words—”

“Years ago. You still haven’t gotten any better at it.” Neytiri was his biggest supporter and criticizer at the same time. “And you became a part of the clan back in the day in three months Jake. Never a more unbelievable thing to me than this.”

“I’m trying alright?” He turned back to the bead, or, vaguely bead-shaped amber, if technical terms were involved. It still had a whole adventure to embark on until it could receive the noble title of a bead. “She likes what I make, at least.”

“It’s because she’s your daughter and anything you do is out of this world. Beauty in the most unlikely places. A child’s love is pure that way.” The unexpected hypnotism of poetry in that sentence alone pulled Jake’s gaze to Neytiri’s, and for a moment, he could physically feel his heart within his ribcage being squeezed, tethering on painful, but with a joyful tinge. “She doesn’t have standards yet.”

Well, that hurt. “Damn.”

“Damm!” A pair of small and branch-thin arms wrapped around his neck from behind, and something, or rather, someone, latched onto his back. “Rahh!”

Jake should have been suspicious of how silent it had gotten halfway into his talk with Neytiri. Turns out, you had swam underneath the log to get out of his line of sight, climbing with the stealth of a bug to come up undetected.

Well, mark Jake down as impressed, you weren’t able to do that without being spotted until today, this was another wonderful milestone for you — you had learned impressively, taking advantage of his distraction, avoiding making noise and using water to your advantage. Neytiri must have given you some pointers.

And now he was wondering if his mate was in on this all along, purposefully disturbing his peace so their kids could see an opening to pounce on him.

“Oof!” Your hold on him was something he could break out of any minute with how adorably strong you were exerting yourself to make it, but he wanted to play along more than anything. Jake was acting panicked, swinging his body left and right from the waist, but really, it was just a light warm-up exercise with the easiest deadlift possible. “I’m being ambushed!”

“I got you now, Toruk Makto!” You wrapped your legs around his torso, and he felt like this was just a piggyback ride with extra steps. “Watch this, mom!”

Oh, it’s on.

Discreetly handing Neytiri the amber, Jake stood up, bringing you up with him and fighting a smile at your clipped squeak as the height became too much too quick, causing you to cling onto him stronger. He reached behind, and within seconds, he had you in his hands, holding you from the armpits and dangling you above the stream, your kicking legs beating the air, and he cackled like a villain threatening to fling the hero from atop of a skyscraper.

“You got me? Please.” He loosened his grip the slightest amount to give you the illusion he would let go, and you stopped struggling to scream, catching his forearms. “A measly thing like you? Conquering me? I’ll show you why I’m the king of the skies! Here I come!”

Making sure you wouldn’t get hurt, Jake threw you into the water as gently as possible, but made the angle entertaining enough so you would go flying. He wasn’t sure who’d screeched the highest, your three siblings who had you spearheading this little operation with full trust in your capabilities, or you reacting like you were falling down from an ikran midair. Either way, he was enjoying bullying his kid a bit too much.

Emerging from the stream and shaking the water off too akin to a wet dog, your first action was to shield your siblings, open arms and whole body and all. “Nete, run! Protect Lovak and Kiri, I’ll save you!”

Jake’s evil smile looming on his kids wavered at that.

You had problems with some letters even at the big age of eight, two vowels next to each other in one word was one of them, along with the confusion of “f” and “b”, and sometimes “p” — it made for hilarious misunderstandings Jake had to fight to be a parent about instead of busting a lung from laughing.

One of the many unforgettable events was deemed “The Fish Incident” between Jake, Max and Norm. He had been recording Neteyam’s first catch on his own to add it to the cute memory pile he and his mate would watch in the future after all their children eventually moved out to pursue their paths. You happened to be present that time, watching intently as your big brother shot a particularly giant yellow fish, eagerly jumping down to the pond to get it and showing it to the camera with a shy, yet proud grin on his face.

“Good job, boy!” Jake had cheered. “Say I got that fish!”

Out of the camera’s frame and making little jumps on your toes, you’d blithely yelled. “Yeah, you got that bish!”

The rest of the footage was shaky and out of focus, the microphone hadn’t picked up any sound but Jake’s uncontrollable laughter, kicked off by an exploding snort of shock.

You and Neteyam had no idea why, but after he’d stopped recording with tears streaming down his face, wheezing because he couldn’t stop laughing, you’d joined to laugh and play with him regardless, mirroring his excitement.

Later though, Jake had to actively make it so you wouldn’t have to say the words kitchen and pitch (and obviously, fish) out loud, at least, in front of Neytiri. He didn’t want to abstain from having a little fun himself, so under no circumstance was she allowed to find out and correct you. And he had it going strong for a while until it slipped when he was talking about a scientist friend over at Hell’s Gate called Richard and you repeated it as “Bitchard”. The word had somehow weaseled into your English lexicon as well, and Neytiri wasn’t illiterate enough to be oblivious to what you’d merrily blurted.

Good old days. Jake sometimes missed hearing you curse innocently. Neytiri had to take that source of joy away from him. Discouragement and warnings would be given to his kids if they knowingly cussed, of course, Kiri calling Lo’ak penis face was something he’d immediately shot down, but this was harmless, he thought. He could have let you be blissfully unaware until the day you learned the meaning of the words, or gain consciousness of the articulation errors as you grew up and naturally fix it yourself. It was only a natural part of a child’s growth.

But he had other entertainment. The obligatory consonant you had to sometimes add to two different neighboring vowels if it was too difficult for you to pronounce, for example. Your little brother was a victim to this. Thankfully, Lo’ak wasn’t bothered to be called Lovak by his older sister, somehow thinking of it as a nickname, but Jake could bet his ass the boy would use this as infinite ammo against you once both of you were older. He would of course forget how you always protected him in play fighting like right now, of course, maybe you would remember enough to accuse him of ungratefulness, and perhaps Lo’ak would declare he didn’t recall anything such as that.

How bittersweet of a thing it was to drift into imaginations of how his kids would be like when they grew up. Like the stinging ache Jake always got when he was confronted with the sadness of losing his children forever one day — the need to put every minute with them in a bottle, and the feeling of time slipping through his fingers, the same old melancholy each time: when it first dawned on Jake that you’d successfully sneaked up on him just now, when Neteyam had captured his first fish all on his own without assistance, when Lo’ak showed him the knife he had successfully carved by himself to get his approval, and when Kiri had tended to a scratch wound of his better than her grandmother did with precocious wisdom on her face.

Jake was making every moment count. Just like this one.

“Nobody is safe from me, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow your house in!” He jumped down from the log with the grace and intimidation of a leopard who had been disturbed while eating up the tree he’d dragged his meal on, splashing water everywhere. “What will you do, o’ mighty hunter?”

You loved being called mighty hunter by him, he saw the sparkle in your eyes.

“Noooo!” Kiri cried, pulling on both Lo’ak and Neteyam’s arms huddled behind you. “He’ll get us!”

Your thought process, completely spooked by Jake, was painfully visible. But surprisingly, you yelled, “Scatter!” with the experience of a rave addict who would take a forty and smash it on the ground as the police closed in on the party grounds. And his kids ran in different directions, like a group of cockroaches when someone approached them, they all ran in different directions.

Sloshing water all around to make it more terrifying, he got Kiri first, hauled her right over his shoulder when she made for Neytiri, thinking her mother could protect her, but no. Jake was inevitable. Lo’ak gave him a weak challenge trying to step around him, getting Jake to confuse his steps as if they were playing basketball, but this was his dad he was facing and not Spider, these tricks didn’t work on veterans, so now he was flush to Jake’s side, tail facing forward, carried like some strapless bag, it didn’t even put any strain on the man’s bicep. Neteyam was the last, hiding beneath the water level and holding his breath, but the little nose peeking out for air gave him away, and Jake had him up the other shoulder in seconds, the boy didn’t have enough time to run away even though he’d spied from underwater that Jake was coming for him.

Three out of four. That left only his eldest daughter.

You were nowhere to be seen. The delighted and struggling giggle-cries of the three kids in his arms and shoulders didn’t help at all to Jake taking his surroundings in with a keen ear, all senses attuned to spotting the stray.

A rustle from above.

“Attack him!”

He didn’t have enough time to see just which branch of the trees cocooning the creek you had climbed on before all three in his arms turned on him, flailing around together in unison to get Jake to fall down and kneel, and it surprisingly worked, he couldn’t even recover between the blink of a time between them getting off the way and you jumping down on him. The height at which you did that knocked all air off his ribcage for a second as he tried to retain balance, and you took that chance to sit on his shoulders, your legs dangling from each one, grabbing onto two dreads on his head as if they were the tails of Toruk he once had held onto like leashes.

Jake had to give this one to you, damn. When had you become a student of the art of strategizing?

But, defeat was defeat. He had to play his part. “This can’t be!” He opened his arms, making it seem cartoonishly like he had been incapacitated. “I’ve been… bested?”

“That’s right!” The cockiness was dripping from you as you pulled on his dreads. “I’m Toruk Makto Makto now. The first of my name!”

Your siblings started cheering battle cries, repeating the word.

Don’t laugh, he ordered himself. Toruk Makto Makto, what a title, oh Jesus Christ.

“Alright, alright, you got me, mighty hunter.”

“So I win?”

“Yes, you win.”

He was going to have two less dreads on his head if you kept pulling on them like this. “Hell yeah!”

After hearing the declaration, his other children also joined in on the ‘Hell yeah!’ train. Jake supposed he could let this slide for now, you guys were too happy, he wouldn’t sully it.

“You’re gonna rip my hair off, get down now.” You understood play time was over from his tone, and obeyed, hopping down his shoulders when he lowered you into the water, immediately attempting to rush to your siblings’ side to be celebrated, but Jake had something else in mind. “C’mere for a sec.”

He pulled you to the edge of the stream where water met grassy land, dipping his hand into the wet soil under your confused gaze and bringing his fingers up to trace a pattern on your face.

The reaction was instantaneous. You pulled back. “Ew, mud!”

“Hold on,” he gently warned, or rather, encouraged.

You let him continue whatever he was doing then, albeit not losing the laughable concern along the way. “What’s this?”

“Well, you’ve tamed Toruk Makto before an ikran. My mighty hunter should be painted accordingly, no?”

He pointed down and you followed it with your eyes. Seeing your reflection and the ‘V’ shape with a dot on your face in the water, you stopped yourself from touching it with the impulse control that kicked in at the last second, looking up at Jake, jumping up and down, unable to contain the energy, knowing exactly what he did just now. He’d recognized you as a prospective hunter candidate. “Thank you, dad!”

Jake could swear his insides liquidized at that. “Always, sweetheart.”

“Will you paint me like this when I finally get an ikran, too?”

“Of course I will.” He actually wanted to cup your cheeks and plant a little kiss at the adorable flat of your nose but the mud would be ruined, so he pet your braids instead. “As will your mother. It’s what family does.”

At the time, Jake didn’t have the slightest inkling that the paint would end up being your own blood.

Neytiri’s bloody hands — your blood, his child, his child, his baby Jake’s entire day would stop at seeing one tear on her face — had been stroking your face, trying to hold on to you anywhere she could to soothe your flaming pain as you were squirming like a dying animal fighting for the next breath. His heart beating right behind his eyes in a massive pulsating headache, Jake was too desperate fighting his swelling panic with each noise that ripped from you to notice they had left the vague pattern of Iknimaya paint pattern in their wake.

She did.

And her following anguished, gasping shudder as her shaking hands hovered above your contorted face, tracing the air along the lines the blood had left on your face ended up hitting him right in the gut. He couldn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t let this random twisted sign sweep him into the roaring waterfall of torment, your life was on the line.

Jake didn’t have any coherent memory of running back to the mouth of the cave from the family tent. One moment, he was back with his brain fried from thinking about Quaritch in the aftermath of an hour that had just taken twenty years from his lifespan, avoiding the inquisitive silence of his kids who hadn’t gone back to bed yet; and the other, Neytiri was screaming in the distance with terror worse than the anguish he’d heard her go through upon losing her father and her home. Jake had all but flown there, mind blank in swirling, spasming panic.

Neytiri had told him he had a strong heart the first time they’d met. No fear. Even though Jake was aware he was being disliked strongly, this quality of his she had remarked on, honest to her soul.

But she was wrong.

That fearless fortress heart of his had begun to crumble the moment he learned of Neteyam’s existence. And with each and every new addition to their family, Jake had been rehabilitated on what fear truly was, like a baby learning a language.

Losing. It was all about losing.

He would wake up from terrorizing, choking nightmares with the sensation of his family being violently taken away from him when his children were in his arms, sleeping peacefully all along. He couldn’t stop it. It had spiraled out of control after the sky people came back, turning him into a paranoid, angry man who was ruled by fear. He worried for the safety of his family every day, obsessed over it — beneath the impenetrable iron mask of a leader his whole clan was leaning on, Jake was nothing more than a weak, emotionally crippled father who would lose it the more his children grew up to take reckless actions he made worse by the inability to govern his fear-curbed anger. He called it tough love.

That tough love had resulted in this. Loss. Loss. Loss he had tried his damnedest to prevent. It was blood slipping through his fingers from a wound he had no way of stitching back together.

The more he pushed to block the bullet entrance point, the more you fought Jake, making feral yowls that weakened into animalistic whimpers and throaty whines that all but ripped his heart off muscle by muscle, your hits and scratches didn’t faze him, but the noises. Eywa, the noises. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you’re in pain, I know, I know, I’ll make it go away, please hold on, c’mon.” The droplets of sweat that had formed in the matter of seconds rolled down his face. You had begun to hyperventilate from the accelerating pain because of his efforts. “C’mon sweetheart. Breathe for me, breathe for dad, okay? You gotta breathe. Breathe!”

You were unhearing, lost in the overwhelming, blinding, deafening agony he couldn’t anchor or shield you from. The grunt of desperation that escaped his sore throat rattled his carbon fiber infused bones.

Jake didn’t have time to think. His reason had flown out the mountains to be able to force one single word to form in his mindscape. He just knew he had to stop the bleeding, propelled by concentrated instinct. You were struggling too much for him to have a solid hold on you. Everything, too slippery. Too much blood. Too fucking much. The sickening smell of iron bit at his senses.

(Was it the liver? The spleen? Pancreas? One of the major arteries? But Na’vi biology wasn’t the same as humans. Fuck.)

Then, you were being restrained by a third party, Neytiri was too devastated to make that reasonable decision, and in his peripheral vision, he saw it was Neteyam who had sat down on your legs, restricting your movements with incredible strength. Jake couldn’t even bark at him to go away with how much Neteyam looked in control, a rock he and Neytiri both could draw strength from. Behind him, Lo’ak was a stone statue just standing there, frozen, his eyes not leaving your bloody abdomen.

When you let out a yelp his heart could no longer stand, he yelled, “Bring a stretcher!” to nobody in particular, out of his goddamn mind. Lo’ak jumped at it, coming back to his senses, hesitating what to do for a second before he was off to god knows where. He had to take you to Norm’s, and then a doctor—

A tiny, trembling voice he couldn’t recognize as Neteyam’s reached his ears. “Dad…”

The boy was looking at you, blown eyes shining with unshed tears, upper set of teeth sinking in his shaky bottom lip.

You had gone slack in his arms.

He hadn’t even seen the moment, didn’t stop putting pressure on the wound as the dread assaulted his body. And a biting shiver went down his spine before Jake also looked down on his eldest daughter. Your eyes weren’t closed all the way, halted gaze focused on something to the side, one tear rolling down your temple.

“Don’t do this to me.” Jake couldn’t breathe as he shook his head, he was about to lose it, about to tumble down the edge he could never climb his way up from. In denial, he didn’t lift his hands, losing all strength in his upper body and gradually collapsing forward as his forehead found yours. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, not like this. Please, not like this.”

The last thing you were looking at was the ikran you’d gotten.

Jake didn’t feel that very ikran making its way to their side, flapping its wings, didn’t feel anything to react when a snoot reached down and ever-so-gently nudged you, like you were asleep and it was given the duty to wake you up in the morning that day.

Your ikran nudged you once. Twice. Thrice. Each push was harsher than the other.

You didn��t wake up. Your eyes didn’t get their light back.

A paralyzing numbness took over Jake’s body, all his neuron ends stunted. The moon stopped spinning, time stopped moving, he ceased existing, all at the same time.

A piercing ringing stabbed his ears, took away his hearing. He didn’t hear Neytiri scream louder than the ikran, you were ripped from his arms, and he couldn’t move to do anything about it, just staring into the distance, at nothing, bloodied palms facing upwards in his lap.

It was Neteyam who tried to stop his wailing mother from going mad with grief, trying to get her to set down your body from her crushing embrace even though he couldn’t take his misty eyes off your body. It was Lo’ak, frantic in his run even though his panic-frozen face gave away nothing, who had rushed back with Mo’at and Kiri. It was Tuk who had thrown herself into his arms for a hug Jake wasn’t in his body to reciprocate, his seven year old child, in tears, comforting him when Jake, as the adult and the father, should have had his shit together and be the provider of comfort.

Instead, all he could feel was the blood on his hands, one small part in his mind making him focus on that one amber with a bug inside he’d carved for you, years ago, now in your hair.

The tears didn’t come. His world was shattering all around him, but not one tear made it to the surface.

Someone was talking to him, but Jake wasn’t there, experiencing the moment behind a thick veil of silencing glass.

“Open her mouth, Jakesuli.”

He looked at the source of the muffled sound breaching the ringing in his ears, painfully empty and unfeeling. It was Mo’at. In her hand, a woodsprite gently floated in the air and landed before it repeated the motion again. It was as if his brains had been emptied from his skull. He didn’t understand. He didn’t see. Tuk was clinging to him, Neytiri doubled down in waves of cries in Neteyam’s arms. Jake wasn’t there.

“Open her mouth so I can keep her spirit here longer,” Mo’at said. “Do it now. We do not have much time.”

And Jake could breathe again, his soul slinged back into his body, feeling returning to the tips of his fingers, kicking into action.

He cradled your body from the cold ground you were lying on, bringing his shaky hand to your tightly shut jaw. Your body couldn’t have been experiencing rigor mortis, so you must have been clenching your teeth to the point of your jaw locking to fight the pain, and he was nearly blinded from the sheer strength with which he had to hold back from hugging you. But he eventually opened your jaw with a sickening pop that made him visibly grimace, and Mo’at guided the woodsprite to slip inside the cavity of your mouth.

The bioluminescent dots on your body began to flicker the moment your mouth was closed again. Jake gave a shuddering breath at the sign of life, hands unsure if he should continue to cover the wound again.

“Eywa has allowed her to remain. For a while.”

“Oh Great Mother, thank you!” Neytiri took one of your hands, pressing it against her cheek and kissing it over and over again. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Bring her to my tent,” the Tsahik simply stated, and Jake didn’t even stop to consider how he should be taking you to the science guys, how they were probably going to say you needed a blood transfusion and surgery right after they got the necessary tests such as MRI and blood analysis out of the way. Kiri, sniffling weakly, took the crying Tuk away so Jake could carry you. He couldn’t comfort his girls the way he wanted to, couldn’t attend to Neytiri as their sons consoled her and got consoled in return in a tight hug together; he was on the move, heart about to beat out of his chest.

He took you in his arms and clutched your unconscious and ashen blue body tightly to his chest, your head lolling in the crook of his arm, arriving to Mo’at’s tent faster than she did — and oh, how small you were compared to him, how fragile and vulnerable. The attitude made you appear bigger than you actually were, and Jake was reminded how you were still a child from how light his daughter was, like a fleeting bird. He’d forgotten. It had been forever since he last held you like this that he couldn’t bear to lay you down on the mat. If only he could hide you away within his ribcage, away from the pain and the suffering, forever.

“Everything in this world is borrowed,” she told him, an incense was burned, salves were prepared, tools he had no idea on what they were used were brought out. Plants, herbs. Jake stood there, helpless. “Even this child, Eywa has lent to you. She is borrowed from the bosom of our Great Mother, entrusted to you. Entrusted.” Your freckles were still flickering, and Tsahik’s tone, clipped. “I will converse with her. Ask if she plans to call her daughter back home today.”

Ice washed over Jake. “No, you gotta heal her, Mo’at, I can't lose m—”

“Everything in this world is borrowed. Each breath. Each heartbeat. All children. All gifts from Eywa.” Her eyes bore into him. “I can only ask.”

Neytiri pounced on him as soon as he stumbled out of the tent, beaten and spent despite not having one scratch on his body, upon Kiri’s entrance to assist her grandmother in tending to you.

“Your fault!” He was violently pushed back, only able to take in the woman’s bloodied, wrathful face, tear tracks freshened with saltwater she couldn’t stop shedding. “This is your fault! I told you! I told you to fix this!”

Jake was aware other clan members were watching even if they weren’t out of their homes, he was Olo’eyktan, their leader, his pride would have taken this to their own tent had this been any other debate, but now, he couldn’t give a flying fuck. Bruising his back was the weight of a failed father instead of the ornamental piece of the clan leader, it was unbearable enough. She was right. There was nothing else to be said. His mate was right.

“Mother, please,” Neteyam was right beside them in a flash, holding Neytiri back and shielding his father from her. His sunken eyes found Lo’ak and Tuk crouching at the edge of the tent, huddled together, the youngest having the crying hiccups as her older brother had an arm around her, himself looking traumatized enough.

“Don’t, boy.” Jake put a hand on his stone-hard shoulder, moving him aside. Neteyam took one hard look at Neytiri half-circling his father in long strides, and decided it was best if he took care of his siblings instead even if he wasn’t told outright. He ushered Tuk and Lo’ak up and away, to the other side of the tent where they wouldn’t disturb their parents by staying in the field of vision.

Jake should have been the one to take control, but Neteyam had stepped up for it — he was a kid, too, eldest child or not. What the fuck am I doing?

In his tumultuous sorrow, every piece of the fortress Jake had put together was coming down, every decision re-evaluated, emotion overtaking what he once thought as logic. His fault. His fault. He had ruined his children, all of them. He had thought embracing the iron will of a war chief would allow him to be a strong father figure, but it had only alienated his family.

You had died in his arms.

Jake contained every storm in a box inside his body, Neytiri lived those storms, she was strong that way. He would take it. Her eyes were only seeing red at the moment, the grief and wrath of a wronged mother. “Yeah, it’s my fault,” he told her, something between a whisper and a sigh. His kids deserved to hear it. “I know.”

“She is dying because of you!” Jake couldn’t escape the truth by closing his eyes, but he did anyway, like an automatic body reflex against detecting something would be hitting him. He swallowed, his mouth was drier than a desert, no relief was found in the action. “My daughter! My child! Your child!” She pushed him again, hissing. Jake didn’t do anything to stop it. “All because you told her to go today—everything, everything… All because you didn’t reach out to her. She hid that.” A shiver shook her voice. “That… because of you. You! She thought you would be angry!”

Violent horror seized his heart, ears pinning back on his head, knuckles clenching so light blue they were almost white. “I would… I would never—how could I ever—?”

But it was in character, wasn’t it? Jake always getting angry over worry for his children. Going crazy because they could have gotten hurt. Fear grows into anger, worm eating away the bark of a tree into poisonous snake. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, chest rising and falling in big breaths, there was no air.

“She said you hated her. Over and over again, she said you hated her. Not to call you because you would hate her for it, Jake!”

Bitter guilt and glacial shock rose from his stomach, choking him, his eyes looking at anywhere but Neytiri’s blazing golden eyes, to his children who sat together seemingly away from them but blatantly listening, to the tent flames were barely illuminating the shadows inside. His legs were weak. All that he had been breaching behind a wall to prioritize your safety flooded rancid to his mind.

Jake got angry at you all the time that you’d expected it at your most vulnerable. That he would blame you, reprimand you for his enemy’s actions.

His memories were attacked by all sides. That you had gone off on your own for the Iknimaya everybody should have been there for, he should have painted your face personally for. That you have been hiding the bleeding out from the moment Jake had found you pinned down by the dead body of an avatar, from the moment you’d answered positively to the question of if you were hurt or not, with that rifle he’d thought you didn’t let go because of how the events had shaken you. He opened his mouth, a gaping fish, but no words came out, mute and voiceless.

Hate you? Hate you? Hate his own child he would burn the whole world for?

His child. Suffering in silence when her nature was anything but silent. Afraid of her father when she was the most fearless of his kids when facing him.

You thought you weren’t loved.

“What have you done to our children? What has this family become? What are we if our children are too afraid to come to us in their darkest hours?” Neytiri was snarling, both fury and grief battling inside her, teeth gnashing so hard they could sharpen a knife. “What child does not seek her parents when she is hurt?”

Unseeing, Jake couldn’t stand anymore, staggering towards a particularly large rock and sitting on it, he raised his hands to rub his face but stopped when he saw the blood.

All yours. All his daughter’s who he had failed. Who had died in his arms thinking she was hated because Jake was a shit excuse of a father you couldn’t trust to say you were hurt that you would take the risk of dying so he wouldn’t find out.

His daughter’s blood, on his hands.

He put his elbows to his legs, crossing his wrists to lean his forehead on, yet unable to hide his shaking hands even if he managed to hide his face. Jake couldn’t comprehend any of this, crushed beneath the skyful of burning hot shame and the guilt dwarfing him — tears he couldn’t seem to shed found life in his eyes at him trying to blink away the memory of you clinging to your ikran at the flight home. You had been suffering the whole time and all he could think about was Quaritch when he should have been thinking of you.

“What child would rather hide her injury than let her father know?” It shocked his spine like lightning, and Jake visibly flinched, fists clenching and unclenching. “Explain this to me!”

Shame. Shame. Shame. Jake was about to throw up, rocking back and forth.

He had nothing to say. Nothing could ever excuse this. He couldn’t wash away all your moments from this night, all a cursed film strip haunting his every breath accompanied by thorns that ripped apart his insides.

“If she lives,” Neytiri said, pointing a curled hand at him, slowly, scarily calm, but shaking with mastered rage. If she lives destroyed Jake. “We would be lucky if my mother doesn’t decide to perform Stxel’eveng as Tsahik!”

Jake’s head shot up at the word, his arms dropping altogether and meeting his mate’s tortured stare. As Olo’eyktan, he had to be taught the traditions and ceremonies to the point of talking in his sleep from overlearning — this one was a long lost one the clan hadn’t performed for a long time, as the Omatikayan were faithful and loyal to Eywa and her teachings.

Stxel’eveng was the shortened word for ‘Gifting of a Child’ — an adoption ceremony within Na’vi that didn’t even have the word ‘adopt’ in their vocabulary, simply because it was almost non-existent, most Na’vi didn’t even know the existence of such a tradition. If the parents were unable to care and provide for their child, mistreated on purpose or neglected them to the point of no return, they were to be publicly dishonored by the gifting of said child to another willing family. A knot would be formed between the three, one thread bound around the waist of the mother signifying the womb, one thread fastened to the queue of the father, and the final thread to the wrists of the child as if they were captive. The knot, then, would be severed by Tsahik to symbolize the dissolvement of the familial relations in Eywa’s eyes.

The biggest shame a Na’vi could bring upon their name.

“No,” Jake muttered, his mind going blank yet again. Fuck the shame. Damn his name. He couldn’t lose you. It’s a stone in his throat he can’t swallow, whales on his tongue he can’t speak to save himself.

“Pray to Eywa it doesn’t happen. Because if I was Tsahik, I would do it.” Neytiri turned away from him, pushing the heel of her hands on her damp eyes. “I cannot bear this shame, Jake. I can barely breathe.”

He quivered like a baby leaf caught in a storm, a couple more tears rolling down his cheeks. “Neytiri…”

“I lost my daughter today. She slipped from my fingers. I watched her die.” He lowered his head at her grief, vision swimming. “How am I a mother when I can't feel her pain? How am I worthy of being her mother when I saw my child’s pain and just sat there helpless? Why would the Great Mother ever want to send her back?” She just kept going, not having any mercy on Jake’s soul. “Where was I when she won against her ikran? Where was I when she had her first flight? Where was I to protect her from those demons?”

A father protects, that’s what gives him meaning.

Who was Jake Sully?

“Lo’ak, come back here!”

Both of them turned just in time to see their youngest son running away from the back of the tent they’d been hiding, Neteyam following a couple steps before he stopped to look back, probably at his sister.

“I’ll get him,” Jake said, soulless and absentminded. Neytiri didn’t respond, stalking back to Mo’at’s tent, just kneeling in front of the entrance, wrapping her hands and tail around her knees. Tuk turned the corner, scampering towards her and finding refuge in Neytiri immediately wrapping around her protectively.

Jake wasn’t allowed to comfort his mate.

But he could get to his children who needed it. Trust, Neytiri had said. Honesty.

Walking up to Neteyam, he put a warm hand behind his rigid back, and felt the taut muscles relax underneath his touch, another wave of shame hitting at the inability to recall just when he had last comforted his boy.

“Get Tuk. Go home. Rest.”

Neteyam turned to him, scandalized. “We will stay.”

“Neteyam—”

“Dad—sir, please. I can’t leave my sister.”

That sir was a splash of acid on his already weeping heart.

It dawned on Jake that Neteyam was the one witnessing your moment of death. Death. A surge of nausea shot up from his esophagus, and he didn’t stop himself from hooking an arm around the boy, careful of using his hands not to get blood on the eldest, pulling him into a much awaited embrace. He hadn’t allowed him to be a kid.

“It’s okay, Neteyam,” he croaked. “She’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Neteyam’s arms didn’t wrap around him, unfamiliar to the gesture — crumbling Jake’s already broken heart into dust, but he did shiver, fighting the tremble. He simply said, “I pray so.”

He was still trying to hold it together — for everybody’s sake.

Jake felt the boy’s tears on his skin, and didn’t let him go when he tried to step back to wipe them, letting Neteyam cry silently as much as he wanted. He owed the boy that much, as his father. It was the least he could do.

Jake would stitch this family back together. He had to.

Washing the blood off his hands had taken a while. Jake wasn’t let off easy, cursed by the remaining line of bloodied dirt in his nails.

He found Lo’ak at where it all began. The mouth of the cave where your ikran was disturbing the other ones with restless chittering, reminding Jake of a wolf howling all night at the full moon.

His youngest son was transfixed by the blood staining the ground. Just standing there, looking at it. Jake couldn’t protect him from the sight. Not anymore. He himself could barely stomach it.

“Is sister going to be taken away?” was the first thing he asked Jake, not looking at him still.

Jake didn’t know if he meant death, or Stxel’eveng.

“I pray not,” he told Lo’ak, honest for once.

And like him, the boy wasn’t sentimental or emotional enough to bear his wounds to another, even to a family member, and fell silent. “It has Toruk’s colors,” he said instead, referring to your ikran’s red, orange, yellow and black patterns. Looking at the creature, Jake tried his hardest to stand up straight when he discerned all the blood coating its neck and back from the natural red color disguising it. “I wanted to fly with her.”

Pulling him into a side-hug, “I’m sorry, Lo’ak,” Jake admitted, causing him to finally break the trance he had on the blood. Speechless at his father, proud and strong, admitting he was wrong out loud and that he was being hugged when it wasn’t like his father at all to show them casual physical affection. Jake knew what must be going through his head, he would be thinking the same if his own father had ever taken responsibility for wrongdoings, as well. “It’s my fault you didn’t get to.”

Lo’ak’s mouth was hanging low. “Dad…”

“But you will,” he said, determined and full of hope. He had to be. For his children.

“You think so?”

“I pray so,” he quoted Neteyam. “Your sister is stubborn. She will pull through. Don’t lose faith in her.”

Lo’ak’s grip on his forearm was painful.

“That ikran’s lost the half of its tail fins,” the boy sniffled, thickening his voice to hide the tears. “How did it get all the way here?”

It stung in Jake’s chest. The same way you’d hidden that injury. Your ikran was fueled only by the desire to get its rider to safety, it seemed.

It would never fly again.

Jake looked down at Lo’ak, only to be met with him avoiding his look, still concerned with hiding the tears. “Loyalty,” he said. “Devotion. Sometimes you don’t want to lose the things you love no matter what, that desperation gives you enough strength to push through any trial by fire. You would do anything. Anything.”

And sometimes it was fear that did it, but he didn’t mention that to Lo’ak to not put salt on their family’s injury. Jake didn’t want to think about how terrified you must have been, or he would actually go insane. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of you not making it in the end. He had to keep going. He had to push forward. Be the father this family needed him to be.

“Come on, boy,” he pulled Lo’ak gently. “Let’s go back.”

Your ikran whined at this pitifully. Jake tried not to think. He tried not to imagine what your reaction would be upon learning you would never fly together again, and had to put down this ikran that had been devoted endlessly to you if you wanted to get a new one.

Jake didn’t think. Because if he did, he would actually go insane from the pain.

Mo’at and Kiri emerged from the tent only in the morning, by which the whole family was cocooned in Jake’s embrace for the first time in years before the sky people had come back. They all had scrambled to get up, waiting with bated breath for one syllable of good news as Kiri slipped into Jake’s arms, one wink from falling asleep while standing. He kissed the girl’s head, soothing her, hoping this could be you eventually. He had been praying for it like a madman.

“Eywa has accepted to bestow your daughter back to you, Jakesuli,” was the only answer Mo’at had for them, no word about your physical wellbeing. “But only if she accepts as well.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You must go speak with her. At the Tree of Souls.”

taglist: @ihonestlydontknowwhattonamethis@alohastitch0626 @jackiehollanderr @lucciera @qvrcll @iloveavatar @velvtcherie @ssc7514 @goldenmoonbeam @neteyamforlife @itsluludoll @jakesullys-bitch @blubrryy @sully-stick-together @arminsgfloll @alice121804 @noname2246 @justthingzsblog @eywamygoddess @m-1234 @ellabellabus07 @hellok1ttycake @dakotali @bluefire12348 @abbersreads @yellooaaa @aimsro @octavias-next-meat-bite @nikqdn @nao-cchi @spicycloudsalad @yeosxxx @heybiatchz @winxschester @elegantkidfansoul @eichenhouseproperty @kakimakiloh @dueiosy @liyahsocorro @dimplesxx @tigresslily@n8ivatar @strnqer @lillybbyy @jakesullyssluttt @r3dc4ndy @myheartfollower @gcldtom @bunnyrose01 @aceofheartzzz @ghoulbli @slasherfcker505 @ducks118 @megsthings @graykageyama @gwolf92

@thotd-f1 @httpjiikook @nipoxe @fussel9913 @gloryekaterina @nxptury @thesheelfsworld @heyyitsmaiaa @anyasullyyy @rey26 @in-luvais @em-100 @n7cje @kpopslur @holysaladapricothero @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @maviee @grxcisxhy-wp @me-marilm @n39ro-chann

#dad!jake x daughter!reader #dad!jake sully x reader #jake sully x reader #jake sully x daughter!reader #dad!jake sully x daughter!reader #sully family x reader #mom!neytiri x reader #neteyam x sister!reader #neytiri x daughter!reader #lo'ak x sister!reader #kiri x sister!reader

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rjalker · 7 months ago

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okat I am writing this dream on my phone and not fixing typos

There was a little Black girl who was arounf ten years old who was playing outside with her bicycle. She left he bicycle somewhere to play in a stream and when she came back her bike was gone. She decided to wait and see if who ever had stolen it would bring it back since she didn't want to go home without it and get in trouble. So she kept waiting even though it was going to be dark soon and she was supposed to go home before the sun set.

She ended up waiting until 3AM.

Then she finally gave up and decided to go home and to keep her parents from. Being mad she hatched a plan to pretend she's been chased around the entire time by wolves who had also stolen her bike. Her plan to convince them of this was to sneak into her bedroom window. Take her cheetah Halloween mask out of the closet, and wear it while running around her backyard and howling like a wolf so if they looked out they'd hear the howls and see the fur and be convinced there were real wolves running around theor house

So she started doing this and then we cut to inside the house where her parents were in the living room watching TV in the dark. Her dad was missing one eye and kept dropping his glass of water.

They heard the howls and obviously knew it was their daughter and went to the window to look out and see what she was doing. Her mom yelled out that she could just come inside since they knew it was her.

We cut back to the kid and she was a ated that her ruse had been seen through, and decided to run and hide in the bushes by the shed.

And then she found a hole in the ground under the side of the shed and decided to climb under it.

Her parents realized what she was doing and ran out after her, calling for her to come back because they weren't mad and this was going really out of the way. Her mom went down first and the scene became animated (it was live action before). The tunnel wasade of blue stone in rotating endless triangle shapes. It seemed too small for anyone to fit through but they all kept climbing anyway and shrunk as they went.

They came out in a cavern, and the kids mom and dad looked around trying to find her. They heard a howl in the distance and turned to look, but this was from a real wolf who was running towards them. Then they felt a tug on their shirts and turned around again and their daughter was smiling up at them, and they thought "damn it she's too cute to be mad at".

The cheetah mask she has been wearing had come to life when she took it off, so there was a bipedal cheetah kid also there.

The wolf who'd been running towards them jumped up at the mom and began to lick her face and it slowly began to get revealed that they were King and Queen of this secret realm and theyd had to go to Earth because of a curse, and all the wolves here were their friends and this one was a puppy, the rest were giant and carried people around.

A groundskeeper showed up to welcome them from their exile while they were looking around the armory and it was also sneakily revealed that they had adopted their daughter, which she knew, but they were keeping secret from everyone else. She had broken the curse by climbing down the passage since she wasn't included in the original curse's intent. Her parents were not aware of this, they thought the curse had just expired.

They grabbed suitabt royal attire from the storage room and followed the groundskeeper off to get to their kingdom again.

I couldn't clearly see any of the characters except the cheetah kid who had an exaggerated football head. The animation wa sort of s in the style of Courage the Cowardly Dog....

Edit: here's the cheetah.

Football head

[ID: a black and white stylized and symetrical digital drawing of an anthro cheetah. Her head is very large with an exaggerated sideways oval shape like an American football. She is covered in stripes and spots with a white belly and large eyes with slits for pupils. End ID.]

Hello I am making this whole dream and all the characters and this art public domain because it was such a fun story. If I knew how to animate id animate it but alas. Oh well now other people can do it.

If I remember anyone's names at some random point today I will let you know but I highly doubt it.

#Rjalker has weird dreams #Described images #art

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clear-what-i-was-seeing · 2 years ago

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Get to know me

tagged by the wonderful and amazing @petrowriting!! thank you <3

Share your wallpaper:

This one’s my home screen, I took a photo of a cabbage when I was like 12 years old and did something to invert the colours and have had it ever since lmao. My lockscreen is this fanart of Will Graham because it’s amazing and gorgeous and I’m obsessed with it

The last song you listened to: Through Me (The Flood) also by Hozier alksdaslkdhf. i’ve been obsessing so much it’s such a good song. i have maybe described listening to this song as a religious experience too many times for someone who has never had an actual literal religious experience

Currently reading: 100 pages into the Red Dragon book and it is a trip lmfao. it’s so fun seeing the ways the dialogue was repurposed, and the prose is wow, but ohhh boy. thomas harris. babe. get help<3

Last movie: Jane Austen Book Club! i love grigg very much despite his stupid name. gonna start alternating between hugh dancy and mads’s movies bc I’ve been doing that accidentally I think lmao. Last three movies I did went like Confessions of a Shopaholic -> Charlie Countryman -> Jane Austen Book Club. but on the other hand I deeply need to watch like four hugh dancy movies as soon as possible for emotional reasons

Craving: For it to be like a week from now so I’m healed from my wisdom teeth surgery. also to have no work or responsibilities for a month and just be able to write and read hannigram fics aslkdf.

What are you wearing right now: this is my first time not being in pyjamas since getting the aforementioned wisdom teeth out lmfao. black pants and dark blue t-shirt

How tall are you: 5’3 </3

Piercings: love the aesthetic yet terrified of getting it done and also them catching on things. I got these clip-on gothic glow-in-the-dark dragon earrings a bit ago from a targeted instagram ad (my first and last time ever doing so) because I have zero impulse control, and they broke immediately.

Tattoos: none, but have been microwave-spinning the concept of getting a hannibal tattoo since I watched. the heart from primavera would be so cool

Glasses? Contacts?: Glasses, my eyesight is deeply blurry without them

Last drink: classic water, big big fan of the stuff. reminds me of nbc hannibal because because there was water in the show a lot

Last show: watched two episodes of The Last of Us at like 5am yesterday, it was great. also perpetually rewatching hannibal by getting everyone I know to watch, and then watching with them

Last thing you ate: soft tofu in broth. there are, not a lot of vegan post-wisdom-tooth food options (also I’m very picky lmao), so I’ve been rotating between that, vegan ice cream, mashed potatoes, and vegetable smoothie for like 3 days.

Favorite color: ohhh this is painful, is it a cop-out to say all of them? Big big fan of purple, orange with purple, green, and blue.

Current obsession: it’s been hannibal and nothing else for 9 months now, and im going strong

Unrelated obsession: not sure if this counts exactly but there’s a writing app where you set a timer and start typing, and if you stop typing for longer than 5 seconds it deletes everything, and it’s so cool. I’ve been calling it stream-of-consciousness writing in my head for like a year bc it’s like a personal stream-of-consciousness even though ik that is not how to use that term alksfhd. I do 3 or 5 minute sprints and store them in one document, then have a second document where I edit and refine, and for a few I’ve put them side to side and colour-coded all my changes and it’s so fun

Any pets: two cats! Miles, my grey one, is extremely sweet, and possibly too smart for his own good. My other one Chico has a very adorable snaggle-tooth, and is incredibly stupid <3. he’s very bad at knowing what direction he’s going or recognizing any parts of the world around him and I love him very much.

Do you have a crush on anyone?: only in that vague abstract way, almost without direction, catching little wisps of the concept of the feeling from scattered bits of interactions with the world around me

Favorite fictional character: im absolutely refusing to choose between hannibal and will so im listening them both and you can’t stop me

The last place you traveled: i’ve literally gone nowhere since the pandemic started </3. i’m in Canada and the furthest I’ve been is just one city to another in the same province like 1.5 hours away. Hopefully going to Italy in the summer though!!

Tagging: @stranded-labyrinth, @valentinsylve, @elvislefilm, @disaster-vampire, @sacha-da-1, @dreamed-itself-waking, @em0fagz, @cannibaltranssexual, @hisjimct, @im-urchin, @ghostforwhat, @f0undationsofd3cay, @det395, @a-pigeons-soliloquy, @mysterist, and anyone else who wants to!

zero pressure, also i’m always v forgetful with tagging so if i missed anyone sorry and ily!

#clear posts #me #tag game

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rosedavid · 1 year ago

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10, 30, 45 & 49 ^_^

thank you so much!

10. How do you decide what to write?

Very good question, as I have so many ideas rotating in my head like a rotisserie chicken right now. Usually, it's just what I have inspiration/motivation for in the moment which is why I find it difficult to stick with a single fic or two.

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

Yes! I think the fic I wrote that was most out of my comfort zone was my no dialogue Schitt's Creek fic: The Sound of Silence. I am very much a dialogue person. It feel it's where I thrive as a writer, and description/emotions can be a struggle. So I'm proud of writing that one, and I definitely think it reaffirmed that description and dialogue both have power in their own ways.

45. What’s something you’ve improved on since you started writing fic?

Everything, I think? I know lots of people who don't write fic shit on it, but honestly, without it I wouldn't be NEARLY as good of a writer as I am today. I truly believe reading and writing fic is an invaluable tool for improving your writing in general. Sometimes, I go back and read stuff I wrote way back when, and I'm so amazed with how far I have come.

If you need an ego boost with your writing, please do yourself a favor and read just a few lines from something you wrote a long time ago.

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

As I mentioned above, I have like 8 different AU ideas, and unfortunately, I don't think it would be wise to try to write them all at once lol. I have a few in particular I've been trying to work on, but I struggle plotting out AUs.

Actually, if anyone has experience with writing AUs and is interested in chatting with me about them, please do!!

That all being said, I wrote this line on my phone last night, but this is from a bakery au I started working on a bit ago :)

TK needs a break from this unending stream of superfoods.

send me some questions for fic writers!

#thank you again! this was fun #911 ls #schitts creek #ask games #asks #leave-a-whisper #911 lone star

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joshriku · 2 years ago

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tag games dump yippee!

i fucking love talking let me just dump thoughts. tagged by @ray-gurl thank you thank you :3 i'll be tagging some people but feel free to snooze this off hehe @lucky-lesbian @rivertigo @cuddlingsun @highstrionics

top 5 no skip albums!

i actually don't know what my favorite albums off the top of my head so i'll consult with the spotify stats they never lie.

bad love by key: oh my god. literally no skips. the best album ever made. the day this dropped it made me a worse person and i still am. i have almost 1k streams on this. it's bad for me. i can't even tell a favorite song i love all them so much.

sam's town by the killers: i have 800+ plays on this. it's SO bad for me. i hope bling, why do i keep counting, and this river is wild all beat me up together i love them so bad throws up brandonf lowers was so fucking insane i love you the killers

black holes and revelations by muse: this is unfair bc muse is my favorite band in the entire fucking world but oh my god. even though i love absolution and origin of symmetry i do skip some songs but this one? i skip NOTHING. i sit through it. i feel EVERY SONG!

delight by baekhyun: um..actual masterpiece of a mini album AGAIN..thanks baekhyun for my life maybe? ghost-love again the songs that you are.

that being said the war by exo you mean THE album of all time no skips no skips for real even the songs i used to think were a skip aren't actually one i was just young and naive.

shinee's don't call me which is unfair bc all the shinee albums are entirely solid but don't call me has i really want you and body rhythm and kind sooooOOO..

next game yippeee thank you sm @shawoluvs :DD

☆ three ships ㅡ 3 ships i keep rotating in my brain would be um charles/erik (movies) charles/erik (comic) charles/erik (turtle/eagle). JK but it is cherik. also raven/irene :3 and lately it's my fucking little rarepair that not even the freaks on tumblr care for (lorna/monet). it's hell out here

☆ last song ㅡ eat your young by hozier :3

☆ last movie ㅡ i think it was spider-verse again LOL i love that fucking movie!!!!!!

☆ currently reading ㅡ i'm re-reading the book thief! it's been like 10 years since i read it and now i'm doing it in english lol

☆ currently watching ㅡ currently i'm watching the adventures of sherlock holmes 1984 but here and then i just watch arrested development over and over again.

☆ currently consuming ㅡ well right now i'm watching my friend play resident evil 4 so that's my current consumption. in general i'm just consuming comics and viddy games lol magneto.....

☆ craving ㅡ coke im ngl i just had dinner so LOL

yay! thanks again! :3

#tag games #woo woo wooo

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thusspoketrish · 3 years ago

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Showers in the Malfoy-Potter Household

Domestic, tooth-rotting, fluffy Married Drarry!!! Written for the prompt Fresh over at @drarrymicrofic. 2.3K words. Thank you to @curlyy-hair-dont-care for the thorough beta xx

I. That One Time with the Gloves…

“Bugger, I need to shower!” Harry shouts to the empty sitting room as he steps through the Floo, shoulders tense as he kicks off his muddy shoes, waving his wand to send them to the hamper and clearing the residual mess on his and Draco’s Brazilian Macchiato Pecan hardwood floors. On socked feet, Harry dashes up the stairs towards their ensuite, disrobing along the way as the charmed grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway strikes 14:00.

Any minute now, Draco will Floo back in from brunch with Narcissa and Lucius—the very brunch Harry said he couldn’t attend because he pulled Sunday rotation at the Ministry. In truth, he had actually signed up for THE GREATEST WEEKEND QUIDDITCH MATCH EVER!!! between the Department of Mysteries and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry had been surprised to learn that the DoM swots were a bunch of dirty playing wankers—their self-important swagger causing a stir on the ground and a gloriously brutal match in the air. Harry’s pretty sure he bruised his ribs when he struck the muddy ground at the end of the match. But even with his injury, Harry couldn’t help the wicked grin that crossed his face when Timmons, the DoM’s Seeker, watched in horror as Harry staggered to his feet, punching his Snitch-full fist triumphantly into the air.

The glory. The power. Harry feels like a warrior—he feels like a bloody beast!

The little white lie and a skipped brunch with the in-laws were worth it!

Once in the bathroom, Harry uses his wand to send his scattered muddy clothes to the hamper downstairs and turns the water on scorching hot. Stepping under the spray, his sore muscles relax. It’s absolutely blissful, and he can’t help the happy moans that escape him as the water sluices away the mud and sweat from his highly earned, brutal win. He chuckles darkly to himself. Those wankers from the DoM will be sucking on this one for months to come.

The shower curtain is pulled to the side, starling Harry so badly that he nearly slips, his head whipping around to face his smirking husband.

Draco sticks his head into the shower, making sure to avoid the stream, his eyes flashing. “Well, well, well. Look who’s getting so fresh and so clean after a hard day’s work.”

Harry huffs, covering his nipples with both hands as he says, scandalised, “Merlin! You scared the bloody hell out of me!”

“I’m sorry,” Draco says, sounding far from it. “I was so eager to see my husband after a lengthy morning away from him that all I could think about coming up the stairs was giving him the best shower blowie he’s ever had in his entire life…”

Harry grins. “Babe, I’ve missed you so much,” he says eagerly, stepping back under the spray. “Come on, get undressed and join me.” When Draco doesn’t move, Harry gestures inward. “Come on...come now…”

“Yeah, okay. Let me just…” Draco pulls from behind his back Harry’s dirty Quidditch gloves, dropping them into the shower as Harry gasps. The fresh dirt mingles with the water, swirling down the drain. Harry could’ve sworn he sent those gloves flying into the hamper.

Draco’s smile is shark-like, eager, and ready for blood. “Imagine my surprise when these came flying into my chest on my way up the stairs. I was so curious, I decided to have a quick search of the laundry room hamper, and lo and behold, I found all of your Quidditch gear, sweaty and smelling of fresh mud and grass, darling. Must’ve been one hell of a rotation this morning, huh?”

Harry holds up his hands. “I can explain—”

“Oh, really?”

“Er, yes…” Harry starts, running a hand through his soaked hair. “Babe, it’s those wankers from the DoM’s fault! They’re a bunch of posturing arseholes and someone had to put them in their place.”

Draco crosses his arms against his chest. “Ah, right. And that someone had to be you?”

Harry smiles sheepishly, shrugging. “Well…you know I’m the best Seeker in the Corps.”

Draco harrumphs, tilting his chin up and leaning against the wall next to the shower. “So, you know what this means, right?”

Harry bows his head. “Yeah…” he says sadly, shaking his head.

“What?”

Harry sighs. “No more Mimosa Sundays at Malfoy Manor?” he asks hopefully, peeking up at Draco through his wet, shaggy hair.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know the mimosas at my parents' are bar none.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know…so, no blowie for me?”

“You’re damn right,” Draco says, yanking his head back and sharply pulling the shower curtain shut.

Harry grumbles to himself, turning back to the shower to rinse his hair. A minute or two passes before the shower curtain opens up again, a fully naked Draco stepping inside.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t start grovelling the proper way: by sucking my cock,” Draco says with a smirk.

Harry laughs, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist. “How did I land such a deeply compassionate, forgiving husband?”

“With that sinful mouth of yours, obviously,” Draco drawls, placing his hands on Harry’s shoulders to slowly push him down onto his knees.

II. That One Time Draco Was Trying to be Seductive...

Harry’s entering their bedroom, half an egg mayo sandwich in hand, when he notices Draco standing before the wardrobe mirror. “What are you doing?” he asks, pausing near the door.

Draco turns around, his arms spreading wide as he pops one narrow hip outward. He’s draped in an intricate floral-patterned gold bathrobe. “Do you like it? It’s new, darling. Just arrived from Italy. Rocco-inspired, heavy-weight close-knit silk lined with black satin…isn’t it gorgeous?” Draco purrs.

“Er…it’s quite something,” Harry says, biting into his sandwich.

“Neanderthal,” Draco tuts with a scowl before turning back to the mirror. He slides his hands reverently down the sides of his body as he tilts his head to the side. “It feels like fucking sex,” Draco whispers, his eyelids drooping.

Harry chokes on a bit of egg. Draco grins, ferally, as he faces Harry again.

“I have a surprise for you. Get undressed and meet me in the bathroom,” Draco says imperiously.

“Right now?” Harry asks around his sandwich, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. “Why?”

Draco runs his hands down the front of his bathrobe, his eyes fluttering shut. “The things I’m going to do to you the moment you slip this robe off my body…”

That’s all Harry needs to hear as he sets his sandwich down on the nightstand to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor before levelling Draco with a heated stare and a wolfish grin. “Is that right? Well, go on, then. I’ll meet you there in a minute,” Harry says, now unbuttoning his trousers. When Draco heads towards the bathroom, Harry picks his sandwich back up and shoves the rest of it in his mouth before getting undressed.

When he’s fully naked, he opens the bathroom door, the entire room filled with fragrant steam so thick he can barely see Draco.

“Er?” Harry says, stepping into the bathroom. Draco stumbles forward, wand in hand.

“I think I may have overdone the steam a bit,” Draco says before promptly pitching forward. Harry misses him by just an inch because he can’t bloody see, and Draco lands face first on their tiled floor.

“I thought it would be sexy,” Draco whines from his position on the floor in Harry’s lap after Harry Rennervates him. There’s a red patch on his forehead and a trickle of blood coming out of his left nostril that Harry cleans up immediately.

“You were! You were so sexy,” Harry urges softly.

“But there was no arse groping. No kissing. No fucking. It was all so unpleasant!” Draco cries.

“Aw, babe. I’m sorry. I think we should take you to St Mungo’s just in case…”

Draco sighs, sitting up but swaying slightly. “Fine. Alright. But let’s not tell them the visit is due to my failed attempt at seduction.”

Harry stifles a laugh. “Of course not. C’mere,” he says, helping Draco to his feet. “You can seduce me after the Healer has ruled out a concussion, okay?”

“Okay. But only if you promise to take my new bathrobe off with your teeth later…”

III. That One Time with the Mongrel…

Draco’s writing out a pros and cons list to determine if they’ll be purchasing a cottage in Cornwall this summer when Harry appears in front of him, a black towel cradled against his chest that’s moving.

Draco quirks an eyebrow. “What in the fresh hell is wrong with that towel?”

Harry chuckles and pulls the towel back. Pressed against his chest is a tiny, muddy little Beagle.

“No,” Draco says firmly, setting his quill down.

“Wait! Don’t be so quick about it! C’mon, babe, she was all alone in the alley by the Ministry! No mum or dad in sight. I couldn’t leave her there!”

Draco closes his eyes against the utterly heartbroken look in Harry’s eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course, Harry would bring home an orphan, Draco had been preparing himself for this day since they married four years ago, only, he thought said orphan would be a wee babe, not a filthy mongrel. He exhales, nods, and opens his eyes, hand dropping away from his face. “Okay. Well. I refuse to have this mongrel in our house looking and smelling the way it does.”

Harry’s face lights up as if Draco has promised him the moon, and the stars, and all the love in his entire being. All over again.

“So, can we keep her?” Harry asks excitedly.

“Yes, Harry. We can keep her.”

Harry surges forward to press a kiss against Draco’s mouth, taking Draco off guard but aiming perfectly, nonetheless. Draco can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat as Harry begins to litter kisses all over his face, the mongrel caught between them. “You’re going to love her, I promise. Just look at her! She’s bloody adorable, isn’t she?” Harry says, holding the beast out to Draco.

Draco’s nose scrunches up as the dark-eyed creature stares up at him. She’s so small she could fit in Draco’s cupped hands, but her smell is atrocious. “Sure…” Draco says slowly, leaning away.

Harry hums happily. “I think we should name her—”

“—Beasty,” Draco interrupts, gaze flickering up to Harry. Harry rolls his eyes.

“No, silly! We should name her Pepper. Because she sorta smells like black pepper.”

Draco wants to suggest to Harry that perhaps they need to visit St Mungo’s to get his nose examined, because the last time Draco checked, black pepper smelled absolutely nothing like faeces. But he refrains, the joyous look on Harry’s face well worth going along with the madness.

“Sure, darling, whatever you want. Pepper it is. But she’s going to need a bath.”

Harry nods. “Right, yes, let’s take her upstairs to our bathroom.”

Draco smiles tightly. “Ah, no. I just had that tub put in. I don’t want this mong—Pepper staining the porcelain.”

“Oh, right, right. Okay, well, we can bathe her in the tub down here.”

Draco links his fingers together over his list. “Yes, excellent idea. So,” he starts, eyeing the now droopy-eyed, stinky monster. “Should we use a Petrificus Totalus or—?”

“DRACO!” Harry gasps, looking completely horrified. “We can’t put Pepper in a full body bind, are you insane? She’s a puppy!”

Draco frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. “She’s covered in grime and you expect me to manoeuvre this beast into the tub with its full cooperation?”

Harry glares at him. “She’s the sweetest thing, and I’m sure we won’t have any problems getting her into the bath, okay? Just follow my lead.”

Draco shrugs. Harry hasn’t led him astray yet.

When they finally enter the downstairs bathroom, tub now full of water at the perfect temperature and a mild soap, Draco suddenly gets an armful of Pepper as Harry begins to shed his jacket and jumper.

Draco stares down at her.

She is quite cute, with her large, bulbous black eyes, long, floppy ears, and wee-frowny mouth. Draco believes he can actually come to love this gross little beasty.

“Let’s get you all fresh and clean, sweetie,” Harry says, taking her back from Draco to place her in the water.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

As Harry struggles to keep a hold on her, Pepper lifts her paws away from the water as if it’s fire, wild yelps escaping her as she struggles out of Harry’s grasp, dropping into the water first before lunging straight at Draco.

Draco catches her, her tiny little body soaking through his very nice, very clean jumper.

“Fucking fuck, fuck…” Draco mutters, staring down at Pepper, warmth exploding in his chest. She’s shivering against him and the anger and shock immediately leave his body as he cradles her, a defeated groan escaping him as a section of his heart unlocks and opens up to this little beasty.

Harry laughs. “Merlin, you are just so bloody adorable,” he says.

Draco scoffs, even as he stares down fondly at her, rocking her in his arms. “She’s a menace, that’s what she is.”

“No…I mean you,” Harry says, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses, cheeks dimpled. Draco can feel the heat of a blush spilling across his cheeks as Harry leans forward to kiss him. When they part, Harry glances down at Pepper before meeting Draco’s eyes.

“We’re building our little family,” Harry says proudly.

Draco opens his mouth to say something mocking, but can’t, not with the ball of emotion that’s suddenly lodged in his throat. Instead, he blinks several times, glancing down at Pepper who’s staring up at him with her large eyes, tail wagging.

“Oh,” Draco says softly. “I suppose we are.” He sniffs. “I think it’s best if we get Beasty Pepper to the vet instead, maybe they can help us give her a proper bath. Shall we?”

Draco smiles as Harry drapes an arm around his shoulders. “Yes, let’s do it, babe,” Harry responds tenderly.

#drarrymicrofic #Drarry Microfic #Drarry fic #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy #Drarry #Drarry Squad #short fic #fluff #so much fluff #established relationship #harry x draco #married drarry #All fluff and zero pain #which I'm finna embrace as my new normal #hahahaha

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automaticneon · 4 years ago

Text

Clouds

Chapter 1: Automatic Love (NSFT)

Baron Helmut Zemo x Reader

Summary: “When desires go unfulfilled, they turn into needs”

Clouds is the most technologically advanced dollhouse in Madripoor. It’s a void for people to escape into, or at least the lucky few that can afford to visit.

And Zemo is very lucky.

The reader meets a strange new client, a man of mystery and poetic language and when she uncovers a secret most valuable to Helmut Zemo, their relationship goes from professional to something much more profound.

A/N: It’s essentially a Cyberpunk AU, but you don’t need to know a thing about the game! I’ve just borrowed the names of locations and the concept of Clouds. The reader is essentially a high clas s*x worker, if that isn’t your cup of tea, this probably isn’t the fic for you!

If this was high-end, there was no way to tell.

At least that’s what Zemo thinks as his car pulls up outside the mega-building. It’s an unsightly structure but not uncommon for this area of Madripoor, about fifty-storey’s tall and covered in vibrant LED screens.

For a minute he considers instructing his driver to take him back to his apartment in high-town so he can pretend this never happened. He had been averse to this idea already, but a friend from his military days had been convinced he should try coming here. “It’s cutting-edge” is what he had been told, but what exactly cutting-edge meant was a mystery to Zemo.

“Would you like me to wait for you, Sir?” the driver asks, snapping Zemo out of his thoughts.

The baron swipes his hand over his face, taking one last look at the building outside the window before responding.

“No, I’ll call when I’m done.”

He reckons his driver knows what he’s doing here. Mega-building H8 was known for only one thing, its position on the layline between high and low town meant it was frequented by all wealthy inhabitants of Madripoor. Mobsters and politicians alike congregated at this monster of architecture, hopeful of its contents and desperate to go unrecognised.

And now they can add a Baron to that list of unfortunates, Zemo thinks with resignation.

He leaves the car before the embarrassment can fester in his chest.

The building is worse up close than at a distance.

Climbing the flight of concrete stairs Zemo is transported from the sidewalk and into the belly of the beast. The entrance to the megabuilding is a low-ceilinged sprawl of street-vendors and food stalls. It’s loud and busy, but Zemo has no problem blending into the crowd. He weaves through the stream of people, illuminated by neon signs that grow increasingly vulgar in their images the deeper into the building he moves.

Eventually, towards the back of the building, he finds the metal gates of an industrial-style elevator. He slides the grate open and steps inside to find the space is lit by multiple illuminated advertisement screens rotating through various commercials, each more obscene than the last. For a moment Zemo takes the moral high ground, musing with distaste about the sort of men these adverts are geared towards. He takes the moral high ground until he remembers what he has come here to do. Defeatedly he admits to himself he has no right to feel lofty.

The illuminated keypad flashes at him, and he reaches out to input his destination.

Floor 12 – CLOUDS

The elevator is slow as it climbs past the levels of cheap apartments and eventually comes to stop at level 12. As Zemo goes to open the grate again, he wonders if he’ll be greeted by some of that high-class sophistication he was promised.

He is not.

This floor is much like the entrance hall, only this time it’s a balcony that wraps around the interior of the mega-building and faces down into an open-air atrium. Zemo notices that the elevator he steps out of does not go any higher than this level, the floors above must be the luxury apartments and must have their own entrance. He begins to follow the neon signs again.

“I don’t get why you’re so hung up about this?” A man near him says to his friend. Zemo bristles at the strong American accent, but carefully allows himself to eavesdrop.

“I don’t know, man,” The friend responds “It just feels wrong, you know? Like I’ll be cheating on my girl with one of these dolls”

“But that’s just it! These girls are dolls, man. They’re not real. It’s like sleeping with a blow-up-doll. No difference”

“You know that’s not true; the difference is they’re real. They’re made of flesh.”

“That’s what makes them great though. They’re dolls made of flesh.”

Zemo moves on before he can hear anymore.

He follows the signs until he reaches a wide hallway into the building, and there at the end is the rather simple looking entrance to Clouds dollhouse. The low ceiling of the hallway allows for little decoration, but he supposes a place with such an infamous reputation needs little in terms of advertisement. Soft pink neon signs flash the name of the establishment, and beside the double glass doors a glitchy hologram of a woman dances away. As he approaches, a pre-recorded voice rings out from a speaker at the base of the hologram.

“Looks like you could use a little automatic love.”

He refuses to acknowledge the projection.

Inside clouds is arguably worse than outside. The hallway is lined with tattered posters and it smells of something cheap and artificial. When Zemo enters the small, empty reception the lady behind the desk looks up with a smile.

“Welcome to clouds, where we always know what you’re looking for.”

None of you can hear a thing from the changing room.

“Do you think he’ll fire her?”

“I’m not sure. Depends how angry the client was,”

“Shut up I’m trying to hear,”

The room falls silent as Divine presses her ear to the door.

Moments ago the dressing room had been full of the usual chatter as you and the other dolls prepared for the evening shift. There was nothing to indicate the night would be anything but normal, that was until a few minutes ago when Woodman, the caretaker of dolls, had knocked furiously at the door and demanded that Azure come to his office down the hall for an immediate meeting.

“Is it just Woodman?” you ask. Azure could be abrasive at times, but she was certainly one of you favourite colleagues and you desperately wanted her to avoid being fired by management.

“I think so. I can’t hear anyone else.” Divine says, leaning back from the door.

“She’ll be fine, I’m sure,” one of the other dolls assures the room “She’s been here the longest. If they haven’t fired her yet, I doubt they ever will.”

“True. We can’t let this ruin a good Friday night. Five minutes until we need to be out in the booths, girls” Divine announces, and promptly returns to her table to finish her makeup.

Moments before the timer goes off the dressing room door flies open, and Azure stalks back to her table in silence. She’s not upset, but you can see the frustration hidden behind a poor attempt at offhand indifference. You want to ask if she’s alright, but the aggressive way she’s searching through her desk drawer makes you think it’s better to leave her be. The other girls do the same, cautiously looking over at her but making no attempt at conversation.

When the timer rings out you take one final sip of water and head to the door, grabbing the key-card for booth three as you leave.

“Welcome to clouds, where we always know what you’re looking for.”

The pink light of the glowing reception desk illuminates her face from below. That, combined with her uncomfortably bright smile makes the receptionist look like some sort of robot from a sci-fi film. Zemo lets out an amused huff at the very ambitious welcome promise.

“With all due respect, how could you know exactly what it is I want.”

“Clouds always knows. Your deepest desire – we find it. You’ll have your needs fulfilled – and maybe much more. ‘Less’ is not a word we use around here.” The receptionist replies.

“And how is that supposed to work then,” Zemo questions with a tilt of his head.

“Our algorithm searches your social media. With your permission it will create a personal profile based on any information if can gather, including personal preferences for you partners appearance. The algorithm will then select a doll for you, and create an experience based off that information.,” She slides a form across the desk “of course we ensure this is entirely confidential, this form confirms our promise.”

“I’ll admit I’m impressed. However I do not have a social media presence I’m afraid.” Zemo responds.

He couldn’t lie, the process seemed interesting. It was obviously a successfully programmed algorithm if the establishment had such a strong reputation. He found himself for the first time tonight not entirely doubting his choice to come here. He was interested to see what they would do for his situation.

“In that case I’ll have to ask you a few general questions to select a doll for you. If you are unsatisfied with their performance, you’ll be entitled to a refund at the end of the session.”

The receptionist begins to read a series of questions from her computer screen, gender preferences, what sort of experience he’s looking for. She concludes with organising payment, and the price is eyewatering even with the slight discount she applies since they cannot use the algorithm. When all is paid and signed for, the receptionist asks for a safe word. Admittedly it throws Zemo for a minute.

“It’s company policy” she says.

“Pontiac” he says bluntly, after a moment of thought.

“Fantastic.” The receptionist enters his response to the computer “Welcome to clouds. Serenity will be waiting for you in booth three.”

Zemo passes through another set of double doors and finds himself in a labyrinth of pink lights. The walls are lined with black, opaque glass and every so often a blue neon number protrudes from the wall indicates the booth behind it.

It doesn’t take long for him to find booth three, but he pauses before pressing the button to open the door. He takes a breath, collects his thoughts and lets his head and shoulders drop. He doesn’t want to look at his reflection in the tinted glass. Five years ago the thought of coming to a place like this would never have touched his mind, even in his questionable youth he had always been opposed these places. The risk that they were run unethically was far too great for his conscience. But he was not the man he was five years ago. Since Sokovia he wondered if he had a conscience at all anymore.

He presses the button, and the glass panel slides open.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the room. It’s dimly lit, faint blue and purple lights shine against the walls that are lined with the same dark, opaque glass as outside. There’s a chic, white sofa against the left wall, and against the right is a simple bed.

Sat atop it, kneeling with her thighs spread and covered by a short black night dress is the prettiest girl he’s seen in years.

He’s handsome, is the first thing you think when the glass door slides open.

It’s rare that you ever receive a client you’re inclined to call attractive, even the most conventionally attractive men that come here bring with them such a foul soul that it taints their appearance. Not this man, though.

He’s smartly dressed in dark trousers and a well-fitting grey jumper. His hair is styled nicely, it’s either brown or very dark blond (you can’t tell in the coloured lighting). He carries himself well, but after a year of working here you’ve grown accustomed to seeing through the façade’s of your clients. He’s apprehensive. Unsure if he belongs here. Hesitant.

“You must be Helmut. It’s nice to meet you,”

You try to make your voice sound soft and gentle, cocking your head to one side to beckon him in. You get the sense he wants something authentic, or at least that’s what his profile had said when it was sent through from reception moments ago. No porn-star moans or obscene pick-up lines tonight.

He collects himself, and the harsh line his lips have been pressed into relaxes as he enters the room. The glass panel slides shut, trapping the two of you in the bubble of the booth. It’s tranquil. You think he must need that.

“And you must be ‘Serenity’” He responds, crossing the room to sit on the sofa. His eyes don’t leave you as your ‘name’ rolls of his tongue with amusement. You can hear the next question in your head before he even opens his mouth again.

“So what’s your real name?”

They always ask you that. They ask every doll that. The clients are desperate to form a connection with you. To brag to their friends that they have a special relationship with a doll at clouds. You’ve never told anyone your real name before, it’s against company policy. Clouds attracts the rich of Madripoor, and rich in Madripoor usually means dangerous. It’s for your own protection more than anything else, you really don’t need work following you home.

You picked a name the day you were hired and that’s the name every client has known you by. This man will be no different. You begin your usual response:

“A name is a name, Helmut. A title. An advertisement of who you are. I want my name to tell you exactly who I am, so that you can know everything about me. I want to bring you peace.”

He adjusts his hips and rests his arms across the back of the sofa. He regards you quietly, and you’re positive he can tell that your response was a deflection. His eyes squint slightly, and a flash of humour appears in his dark pupils.

“Well I hardly think that’s fair. You get to call me by my name, but I don’t get to know yours?” He lets out a huff of laughter “Actually, I don’t think I’ll let you use my name. We should be equals, should we not?”

You admit you’re enjoying this. The smooth accent and playful tone of his voice keeps you interested. You swing your feet around so that you’re sat facing him on the bed, reclining back on your palms to match his casual stance.

“What should I call you then?”

“You said a name is just a title. So then my title can become my name. You can call be Baron, Serenity” He says your name like it’s some sort of inside joke, taunting you to give up and tell him who you really are. You won’t be so easily swayed.

“So what’s a Baron doing in Madripoor then?” You say with genuine curiosity. If it weren’t for the NDA’s you’re forced to sign you would be buzzing to tell the other girls who you’re spending the night with. You can’t imagine that aristocracy visits this place frequently. “And do you drink?”

“I do, thank you” he says, and you hop down from the bed and walk to the low table in front of the sofa that carries a few glasses and a bottle of expensive-looking alcohol. You know he’s looking at the satin hem of the night dress as it tickles to top of your thighs, and when you bend down to pour him a glass, you make sure he gets a tasteful peak at your cleavage.

“I’m here to work, actually.”

Did aristocrats work? You thought they were just for show.

“I’m… translating some documents. It’s taking me a very long time,” He continues, watching intently as you finish preparing his drink.

“A Baron and a translator? Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate” You loop around the table, perching beside him on the sofa and handing him his drink.

“It’s more of a personal project I suppose, but a very important one” he says, accepting the drink with his free hand. The one that rests behind you on the back of the sofa comes up to rest between your shoulder blades. It’s a very gentle touch, just the tips of his fingers making contact with yours skin and moving in a tiny little circle. He’s testing the waters with you, seeing how receptive you are. It’s almost gentlemanly.

“It must mean a great deal to you. We could talk about it, if you like? We can talk about anything you want to,” You reach up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, enjoying how he melts into the action.

“Anything but your name?” He shoots you teasing look from the corner of his eye, and you give a little strand of his hair a small playful tug in response.

“Anything but that, Baron”

“Tell me something else about you. Like why you came to Madripoor, I can tell you weren’t born here.”

Jesus you can’t tell if this man is a pest or just being polite. It’s unusual for him to be asking these questions of you, most men would usually have you on your knees by now. You hum and give him one last stroke down the back of his neck, before climbing off the sofa and walking back towards the bed.

“Very perceptive. I’m not from Madripoor, no,” you crawl onto the bed, taking your time so that the baron can take a good look at where the night dress rides up over the curve of your ass “but we’ve only just met, and only my friends get to know my life story.”

You settle yourself comfortably at the top of the bed, lying down and propped up on your elbows so you can maintain the measured look he’s giving you.

“Perhaps I should come over there and get to know you better” he says calmly, with the barest hint of a suggestive undertone.

Thank god he’s dropped the topic of your true identity. You can handle sex; you don’t need an interrogation tonight. Slipping into character you drop your voice to a low whisper and cock your eyebrow.

“Perhaps you should”

The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile as he accepts your little challenge. In one fluid motion he downs the rest of his drink, places the empty glass back on the table, and rises to walk towards the bed. No, he stalks towards the bed with a natural swagger that admittedly makes your chest squeeze tight.

Within a second he’s onto you, slotting himself between your parted thighs and pressing his lips to yours. Your baron kisses well, is the only thing you’re capable of thinking as he uses his body to push you down into the cushions. One of his hands slides up your body, skimming across your neck before coming to rest below your jaw. He doesn’t squeeze, just gently holds you in place so that he can kiss you how he pleases.

After a moment he tilts your head up slightly, pausing the kiss so he can look down at you. You reckon you look a picture of arousal, pupils blown and cheeks flushes as you catch your breath. Your baron seems to agree; he’s looking at you like the cat that caught the canary, and you shiver when his grip gets just a fraction tighter on your jaw.

“So pretty,” he praises quietly as he dips down to skim his lips over your pulse.

The tender pressure makes you whine and arch up beneath him and he acknowledges you with a hum and a hand on your breast. As he continues his assault on your neck, the free hand on your chest squeezes the flesh softly, finding your nipple beneath the silky fabric and circling it with his thumb.

When it pebbles to his satisfaction he pulls away and you keen at the loss of contact. He tuts, pulling down the straps of your nightgown and peeling it down below your chest, shuffling down slightly so that his face is level with your now exposed torso.

He breathes out against your nipple before latching onto it, with one hand he squeezes your neglected breast and the other slides from its place on your jaw to the base of your neck. Again he doesn’t squeeze, just exerts a level of control that lets you know where he wants you. If you wanted to you could break free, but why would you want that? The way his thumb begins to circle your pulse point has you practically melting into the bed, the thought of telling him to stop can barely manifest in your mind.

You reach down to dig your fingers into the baron’s back, instead only making contact with his expensive-feeling jumper. You huff in disappointment and pull him from where he’s entertaining himself with your tits, meeting his hazy eyes that are riddled with confusion.

“I thought we were trying to get familiar with one another?” you ask, and his eyebrows pinch in confusion “How are we supposed to do that when you’ve got so much between us?”

The baron’s face melts in amusement, and he reluctantly pulls himself away from you to pull the jumper off and start undressing fully. You take a moment to catch your breath, watching him peel away his clothes to reveal his impressive body. He’s slender but impeccably well-toned, his torso is covered by a light dusting of hair that leads your eyes down to the impressive bulge in his underwear.

Tonight should be very entertaining.

Your sit up, reaching out to run your hand down his chest but before you can begin to pull at the waistband of his underwear, his hand shoots out to grab your wrist.

“I don’t know where you think you were going, but I was quite enjoying myself” he says roguishly. He gathers both of your wrists into one hand and pins you pack against the bed, with both hands restrained you have no choice but to let him bury hid face into your neck again.

This time he uses his free hand to skim along the inside of your thigh, getting high enough that you think he’ll reach the apex between your legs but instead he trails his fingers back down towards your knee again.

You whine in frustration as he continues his cycle of teasing up and down your leg, he ignores you until you tug against his grip on your wrists. He makes a low noise and quickly tightens his hold on you. The sudden movement sends a chill down your spine, and for the first time in a long while, you feel genuinely inclined to beg a man.

“Please-” you breathe out shakily “I want-”

Your voice cuts off suddenly as his hand moves boldly to cup your pussy. You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as his fingers move through your folds, and he hums happily when he finds your clit with his thumb. Slowly he circles it, applying just the right amount of pressure to have you wriggling in his grip.

“This? Is this what you want?” he asks, and his voice has dropped at least another octave.

You shake your head furiously. Right now this is just not enough, you can feel his dick rubbing against your leg and you’re beyond desperate to have him fuck you open with it.

“No?” he says with feigned innocence “What is it that you want then?”

“More” is all you can get out “I want you in me. I’m wet enough, see?”

Your baron seems unconvinced. He circles a finger around your entrance before pushing in, rocking it gently inside you as he tries to decide if he thinks you’re really ready. He continues for a moment more before adding a second finger, now with two fingers stuffed in you and his thumb still working on your clit you’re almost ready to cum. It’s making you desperate, and it doesn’t help at all when he buries his face in your tits again.

Finally he lets your wrists go and immediately your hands grab at whatever part of him they can, eventually you settle with gripping his shoulder and hair as you try desperately to urge him to fuck you. He gets you right to the edge, literal moments away from finishing on his fingers when he pulls them away from you with an obscenely wet noise.

You let out a frustrated, desperate whine as he separates from you. He looks down at you with satisfaction as he takes in your flustered state.

“Stay still, you’ll get what you want” he says, and he reaches for his pants to retrieve a condom. It takes him a minute to pull himself free of his underwear and put the condom on. In your desperate state it feels like an eternity.

He positions himself between your legs, lifting the hem of the nightdress so he can get a good view of your pussy whilst he lines himself up. He pauses before he presses forward, looking up at you for any last-minute hesitation.

You nod your consent instantly, not trusting yourself to get any words out.

When he pushes in you think you might cum from that alone. He’s a perfect size, long enough that you feel as though you could feel him in your belly. When he finally bottoms out you can’t help but squeeze him tight, and he slumps over you, his face tucked into the side of your neck and swears in a language you don’t recognise. He nudges his hips forward as if to get deeper than he already is. The both of you gasp out at the sensation and he repeats it a few times, just the tiniest movements of his hips that causes him to rub against something deep inside you.

He pushes himself up on his forearms so that he can get a good look at you. In turn, you get to see the state of him as well – his eyes are impossibly dark and glazed over with something wildly lustful, his once pristine hair hangs dishevelled over his reddened forehead. Your baron’s lip curls wickedly as he sets a punishing pace, pushing you deeper into the sheets. It feels like he’s trying to fuck you through the bed.

His previous teasing had done a real number on you, and within minutes you’re moments away from cumming. You don’t think you could get much out of your mouth other than pathetic little whimpers right now, instead you reach up and pull the baron down for a deep kiss, one that he melts into fully.

When you do cum it’s fucking incredible. You’d never use a word that strong to describe a client before, but your baron brings with him many firsts for you. You cry out into his mouth as he picks up the pace to ride you through your high, your fingers dig into his shoulder so tightly you wonder if you’ve drawn blood. If you have, he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything it spurs him on as he fucks you to the point of oversensitivity.

He finishes just as you think you can’t handle anymore. His hips stutter momentarily, and tremors run down his spine in waves. The entire time he’s rambling in a foreign tongue against your skin until his pants of exhaustion overtake his ability to speak.

Your baron collapses on top of you but you hardly have the brainpower to care that he’s crushing you. Instead you reach up to run your fingers through his hair, listening to him as he catches his breath against your chest.

You yourself are struggling to even out your breathing, it feels as though you’ve run a marathon and the man on top of you seems thoroughly amused by that.

“Come now,” he says as he smooths a hand up your side “I wasn’t that good.”

You can hardly help the genuine laugh that escapes you.

“Humility doesn’t look good on you baron.”

The man in question huffs out a laugh before peeling himself away from your sweat-slicked body.

“I suppose I should make myself scarce. I imagine you have other, much more interesting clients to see tonight” he says, moving to sit on the side of the bed.

“You can stay and talk if you want, it’s entirely up to you. You paid for this, after all.” You say, secretly hoping he’ll stay for just a minute longer. You don’t intend to entertain anyone else tonight, but part of you is quite intrigued by your newest client.

“Well in that case I have one final question I’d like to ask” he says as he slowly begins to dress himself again.

“Ask away.”

Once his trousers are securely over his hips he pauses to look at you. There’s a soft expression on his face, as if he already knows he’s not going to get the answer he wants.

“What’s your real name?”

You really shouldn’t be surprised that he’s asked again. Truthfully, it’s not the question itself that’s thrown you, it’s how tempted you are to answer it. His voice is so compelling at the moment that your name nearly springs from your tongue without you noticing.

“Oh baron,” you say quietly “you know I can’t tell you that.”

His lips press together in acceptance, and for a second his eyes leave yours. As he begins to get ready again, he gives his response.

“It was worth a shot.”

#my writing #clouds #baron zemo #helmut zemo #baron helmut zemo #baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #zemo x reader #baron zemo x y/n #helmut zemo x y/n #marvel x y/n #tfatws x reader #tfatws #marvel

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prettyyyboyluke · 4 years ago

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Umm I was wondering if you could maybe do an imagine where cal is like her brothers bad boy friend and the reader is innocent ... or that's what everyone thinks...umm idk if you're taking requests but if you could do this I would really appreciate it🥺

y/n’s brother’s a sophomore in college, and once he graduated high school, he had moved out and gotten his own apartment. one with two bedrooms so she could have a place to stay when going to visit him. granted, he was only two hours away, but it was still nice since she didn’t have her parents helicoptering her. y/n was lucky to have a brother like tyler, the two were very close and were open about lots of things. so of course, he didn’t mind her and a few of her friends joining him and his friends for movie nights or small kickbacks.

that’s exactly what tonight was, a kickback. y/n was more than excited because tyler invites his best friend over each time, and he’s the hottest guy y/n’s ever seen, at least that’s what she thinks. curly black hair with blonde streaks, tall and muscular, tattoos dispersed all over his body, she practically drools every time she sees him. she thinks there are no flaws for him, except he’s that “i don’t date,” type of guy, which leaves lots of girls heartbroken.

y/n always arrives early to help tyler set up since he’s very unorganized and needs help setting out snacks for their friends. of course, y/n is on aux because she swears by her spotify being better than her brothers, but no one has ever complained about the music.

“god tyler, how did you ever survive your semesters without me here.” she laughs.

“oh, shut up. i’m perfectly fine, just not as organized as you.” he jabs back.

their friends pile into the apartment, chatting amongst themselves about their last week of school. y/n’s about to pour herself a drink when calum walks through the front door. she stares longingly, her eyes following up his body and his movements as he says hello to everyone there. her friend nova gives her a hard jab in her side, emphasizing the fact that she is practically drooling over the new quarter zip-up sweatshirt she just purchased. she straightens up, pushing out her chest. calum looks her way, smiling at her and making his way over.

“didn’t know tyler suddenly had a bad girl of a sister.” he smiles at her smugly, and if y/n didn’t know any better, she’d say he was speaking in a malicious tone, but she knows him better than that.

she rolls her eyes at him, “shut up!” she swats at his bicep. “tyler told you about my car, huh?”

“yeah,” he laughs, “said that your whole bumper came off. i’m surprised they let you out of the house tonight, you know since you’re a little girl.”

y/n’s cheeks start to heat up, her body temperature rising as their conversation continues. “i am not a little girl, calum. just because you’re a few years older than me doesn’t mean anything!” she crosses her arms, looking playfully furious and calum wants to run his thumb across the pout on her lips.

“sure, pretty girl.” he takes her drink and takes a sip. he hums at the liquor that hits his taste buds, “i’ll be taking this,” he says, shaking her drink in front of her eyes.

when he’s a few feet away, her friends chime in. “god, he’s so hot.”

“you just know he’s packing.”

“hey!” y/n screeches softly, “he’s mine! find your own college boy to drool over.”

she makes her self another drink, thanks to calum, and joins everyone by the couch. she walks around to the end of the couch where calum is sat at, ready to sit on the love seat next to nova, but calum catches her wrist and pulls her into his lap. her cheeks heat up, again, relieved when tyler is preoccupied with the game they’re about to play.

“what’re you doing?” she hisses into his ear. “my brother’s right there.”

“and? amaya is practically sitting on top of him.” he points to the two in the small chair. she shivers and shakes her head. “see? so it’s perfectly fine if we sit together.” he moves over a bit, giving her room to sit next to him but still somewhat on his thigh, and she looks at him while she positions herself. “everything alright here, pretty girl?”

“yup! yup, everything’s fine.” she looks at the way their legs are tangled together. she cracks her knuckles, trying to calm some of her nerves. calum slings an arm around her side of the couch, making her lean subconsciously into him. she knows what he’s doing... and she loves it.

they’re about two and a half rounds into picolo, their favorite drinking game. and everyone has a very nice buzz going on. they’re on the caliente version now, so this round should be spicy.

“alright, alright!” tyler laughs, “if calum and y/n kiss, each of you can give out 2 sips. if not, you each have to drink 2 times.” tyler finishes.

her eyes widen. she had no idea what tyler was thinking at this point, the alcohol in his system streaming through everything. nova gives her that look of well! get on with it! she turns to calum, “we don’t have to, we can just drink.” she says, reaching for her cup, but calum stops her.

calum doesn’t say anything but puts his hand on y/n’s cheek, bringing her closer in. her chest is heaving, eyes flickering between his lips and his eyes. he finally closes the gap between the two, lips connecting and light smacking happening.

“it’s about damn time!” luke exclaims. the rest of the group also cheers and laughs. the kiss definitely lasts longer than it’s supposed to, but neither her nor calum mind. calum pulls away but returns for one more peck.

y/n takes her bottom lip between her teeth, racking her brain at the fact that that just happened. calum then gives her temple a kiss and returns his attention back to the game. the game continues giving everyone dares like y/n’s and calum’s, some a little riskier than others, but no one seemed to mind.

“alright alright, how about we change the game to ‘never have i ever’?” ashton suggests. the group agrees. y/n gets up to go grab a bottle of hard liquor and the small shot glasses she bought. she thinks they’re cute, they’re not the red ones like the solo cups, they’re the neon-colored ones. calum follows her to the kitchen.

he wraps one hand around one side of her waist, pulling her close to his front side. she jumps the slightest bit when his hand goes under her sweatshirt and rests for a moment before giving it a squeeze. “how was that kiss?” he whispered in her ear.

she swallowed before answering, “i-i liked it.” she said, her voice very small.

calum turns her around, “i knew you would. you think i don’t notice how you look at me?” lord, y/n thinks she’s about to fucking pass out when he traces the outline of her running shorts.

they walk back, calum’s hand low on her back. as always, she sets everything up, being a little soberer than everyone else. this time, calum sets her right on top of his thigh. she lets a small gasp leave her lips when he moves his lap up for a second. calum sits up, wrapping an arm around her stomach, making her move yet again. the material of her shorts is very thin and with calum knowingly moving his thigh against her core, he could feel what he’s doing to her.

“okay, never have i ever been so crossed i threw up in the basement of the Alpha Phi house,” michael says, clearly taking a hit at someone. y/n sees calum reach for one of the neon cups and takes a shot.

“that was dirty, i’ll get you back.” calum snarls. y/n turns around to calum, raising her brow. “it was freshman year, and those girls have still never let me back in.”

“i’ll go!” nova shouts, “never have i ever had a crush on my brother’s best friend,” she says, looking right at y/n. y/n doesn’t want to reach for a shot and take it, but she also knows that if she doesn’t nova will call her bluff. despite fighting her conscience, she sucks it up and takes a shot. she gives nova daggers while she racks her brain to think of something to get her back.

the kickback ended around an hour ago, most of y/n and tyler’s friends had left, and calum had asked tyler if he could sleep on the couch. y/n was still awake, cleaning up everything so her brother wouldn’t have to deal with such a mess in the morning. calum’s been helping y/n clean up, mostly just so he can flirt with her more.

“you know, i never really got a proper kiss from you tonight.” calum says, taking a pile of trash into the bag. y/n stands up, looking at calum.

“what do you mean? we kissed during picolo, how was that not a proper kiss?” she asks, clearly not getting what he’s hinting at.

calum takes her wrist, bringing her over to the kitchen, and sets her on top of the counter. “a proper kiss doesn’t involve all of our friends staring at us and cheering. it’s more like this,” he stops his sentence and goes in for the kiss he’s been talking about.

y/n’s caught off guard for a moment before she relaxes into calum. their lips move rhythmically against each other, their tongues going to explore the mouth of the other. calum places a hand on her thigh while the other is holding her cheek. both of y/n’s arms are around calum’s shoulders, moving closer and making his hand move up higher on her thigh.

they both pull away for a second, calum looks down at where his hand is and looks back up at y/n. she nods her head and brings his lips back down to hers. calum’s fingers make their way into her shorts, just petting over her clit while y/n rotates her hips against his fingers.

“i think we should move to your room, just in case someone decides to come out.” calum whispers.

and y/n can’t wait to see where this takes her.

#yo i really like this #👀👀#i could continue this if y'all want #neyahood #calum hood smut #calum hood imagine #calum hood preference #calum hood #calum #ch #let's gossip !!

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freebooter4ever · 3 years ago

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Living in close quarters for months on end with a bunch of men his own age doesn't bother Snafu a bit. It's the one part of the Marines Corps he actually enjoys. Like living on an island full of eye candy. Snafu became mostly numb to the sheer number of naked butts by the end of his second day on Pavuvu. With the heat and the sun, the men need very little provocation to strip their clothing off. It was distracting for about an hour and then it became commonplace.

Later, after Gloucester, after living for three straight weeks in rain and misery, under the constant threat of violent death, and then returning once more to Pavuvu, Snafu becomes numb to everything....

He's never been one for carousing - a trait his peers in high school picked up on pretty quick. He's been compensating ever since. Packing on the innuendo and flirtation, and studying how other men act towards women and amplifying it in his own behavior.

So even before the numbness set in, Snafu isn't sure he ever actually felt anything like what others seem to describe. Even though Snafu admires his daily fill of half dressed fellow Marines wandering around camp, he does it in a detached sort of way that makes him feel more like an observer than participant. And it's good, because while there are whispers and rumors about certain guys who will take a man into the woods and show him a good time, Snafu doesn't need to get involved. He gets himself into enough trouble without adding a court martial onto it.

A few days after Gloucester an envelope arrives. There's no letter, simply a newspaper clipping slipped inside and stamped. The clipping is from his hometown newspaper and the article is about their hometown hero - brave Merriell Shelton - who shot up the enemy with his 'mortar gun'.

It's truly amazing how in a small town such as his, one can go from being the delinquent orphan son of impoverished half crazed parents easily forgotten by polite society, to being a hometown hero in the span of one battle.

Everyone in K company teases him about the article, especially about the 'mortar gun' bit. Snafu enjoys it immensely. He takes pride in his notoriety. It adds to his carefully cultivated mystique. No one wants to fuck with the fast talking, mean Merriell Shelton, war hero.

In actuality, Snafu is no hero. He fights for one reason, and that's the fifty dollars a month being sent home to his kid sister. He doesn't want her saddled with being a burden to her adopted family. Not like Snafu was with their own parents.

Overall, aside from the numbness, everything about Snafu's time in the Marine Corps is going well. He has respect, he has the looming potential of death and relief, and he has a steady diet of filling if questionable food. He thinks he's got a handle on things.

Till his downfall arrives a few days after the envelope.

Eugene Sledge looks like a fool from the minute he steps into Snafu's tent. Something about him irritates the hell out of Snafu. To try and figure out what about Sledge bothers him so much, Snafu goes out of his way to run into the guy. But no dice. Nothing works.

It doesn't click until Snafu accidentally runs into Sledge in the showers. Normally Snafu showers on off times to avoid any accidents. But after one particularly disgusting round of coconut duty, Snafu is stuck washing the gritty stickiness off in the middle of the day.

At first there's just him and Pops in the showers. A typical sight - Gunney Haney is obsessively clean. Snafu ignores him, and ignores the new Boots who join them halfway through. Snafu requires single minded focus to fish out all the coconut pieces that mysteriously found their way into his hair.

Once finished, Snafu turns around and bends his head back under the stream of water to rinse. He opens his eyes after the worst of the suds are gone, and spots Eugene Sledge in the group of new recruits. They are huddled around the shower heads in the opposite corner as far away from Snafu and Pops as they can get. Snafu smirks at them as a greeting.

It's kinda fun being intimidating.

Except they aren't paying attention to him. Sledge's eyes are transfixed on Haney as the man scrubs his dick.

Admittedly, for the uninitiated, seeing Haney shower is quite a sight. The man uses a bristly GI brush. The working theory is that he's been doing it so long and he's so old that his skin is pickled enough to be as thick and tough as leather. Everyone stares and winces in pain when they first witness Haney washing his junk.

However, Sledge is unusually engrossed. Snafu feels a strange prickle at the back of his neck and a spike of annoyance over this.

Jealousy - a word Snafu's never related to before.

Once he recognizes the feeling, though, he starts seeing it everywhere. Sledge is genuinely kind, and cares about everyone in a way that would stretch Snafu thin enough to break. Sledge is the best sharpshooter in the company, beating Snafu's considerable score by almost an entire point. Sledge takes every work duty thrown at him without complaint and with stubborn pride. Sledge takes everything thrown at him without complaint, including Snafu's own malice.

And all Snafu wants is for Sledge to just fucking look at him.

The tipping point comes after Sledge's little buddy Philips rotates home without warning. The despondency Sledge sinks into for a few days makes Snafu ache with frustration. Sledge starts disappearing whenever the replacements get an hour or two off. Snafu makes it his mission to find him.

He eventually does. Turns out Sledge is running off to a secluded beach, but he never goes in the water. Instead he sits crosslegged in the sand and stares at crabs. Snafu shimmies up a palm tree and scoots across the rough bark until he's nearly hanging over the oblivious Sledge.

In Sledge's lap is a dog-eared notebook, probably a moonlight requisition from the officer's tents. Sledge hunches over the page, his hand scribbling furiously and Snafu cranes his neck till he can see what Sledge is working on.

It's drawings of crabs. Countless pages of them. Snafu straddles the uncomfortable palm tree for almost an hour, watching in disbelief as Sledge makes study after study of crab anatomy.

Instead of killing the damn invasive creatures with a shovel and burying them in the sand, Sledge draws them.

If Snafu could draw, maybe he'd finally be free of this strange fascination that's taken hold of him. The image of Sledge that one afternoon - showering, naked and lean and glowing in the midafternoon sun - burned itself in Snafu's brain. He doesn't know how to purge himself of it. At the time, he didn't even realize he'd been looking that closely at Sledge while they were in the showers, but afterwards his brain pieced the scraps of memory together and gave him a picture more vivid than what he thought he saw.

And now he sees it whenever he looks at Sledge.

Even on Peleliu, after everything's gone to shit, but somehow they got off the beach and somehow they're not dead yet, his mind drifts to Sledge. The boy strips off his shoes in the midst of battle. Snafu stops him, shoving Sledge's boots back into his chest with force.

It's the first time he lays hands on Sledge and he doesn't even register it because he's too busy being worried about the damn idiot being caught with his pants down and shoes off.

Sledge is a distraction. That's all he is.

Until Sledge fucking picks Snafu up off the ground even when Snafu is pretty sure he's already dead. Sledge drags Snafu out of his shock and out of danger, and proves he can keep his cool during battle. Cooler even than Snafu, who still runs hot whenever Sledge gets too close.

Naive little Sledgehammer grew up quick, but unlike Snafu, he did not grow up mean - he still saves worthless things fallen helpless in the sand and dirt. From that minute on, Snafu makes it his personal mission to preserve Eugene's goodness.

He doesn't anticipate Sledgehammer accepting Snafu's newfound loyalty so readily.

Burgie calls Snafu out on it teasingly during their ship ride back to dreaded Pavuvu. A painful bout of seasickness causes Snafu to lose track of Sledgehammer for a few hours aboard ship, and Snafu spends the time wandering the decks in search of him.

"Since when did you appoint yourself as his shadow, Snaf?" Burgie retorts when Snafu asks if he's seen the 'Hammer'.

"Just need to collect on my bet about him smoking by the end of his first battle," Snafu shrugs.

"Every nonsmoker smokes by the end of their first battle, Snafu. You already knew that," Burgie says, "Leave him be."

"No way," Snafu argues, "Someone needs to teach that rich boy that he don't know everything."

"And of course you'd be the one to do it," Burgie sighs.

Ironically, Sledge is the one to find Snafu in a random ship compartment instead of the other way around. Snafu is lying prone, trying to keep his half digested meal from rolling around.

"Here," Sledge says, shoving a small box at Snafu as hard as Snafu shoved Eugene's boots.

"What is it?" Snafu asks, feigning disinterest.

"Crackers. They'll help with the stomach," Sledge replies, "C'mon, let's get you topside."

"How the hell'd you get crackers on a ship short of rations?" Snafu asks. He obediently follows Eugene through the ship to the deck. Like a damn shadow.

"I sweet talked one of the swabbies," Sledge explains casually.

That news roils Snafu's gut. Jealousy again. It's lucky they made it to the deck. He staggers to the rail and pukes overboard.

"The swabby liked my accent," Eugene says and leans beside Snafu, "Think he was from northern Alabama. I told him how us southern boys have the best aim in the Marines."

Snafu finishes vomiting up the last of his afternoon chow.

Sledge sighs and places his hand on Snafu's upper back.

Snafu's glad no one else is around on this part of the deck to see his shame. He hangs on the rail and feels miserable.

"Get it all out?" Sledge asks, and passes Snafu his canteen.

Snafu takes a sip, swishes it around his mouth, and spits into the sea. And then guzzles as much water as he thinks he can keep down. He sticks his tongue out at the disgusting aftertaste and hands the canteen back.

Sledge runs his hand down from Snafu's back to his arm. Before Snafu knows what's happening Eugene is gently taking Snafu's hand and leading him away from the rail. Sledge sits on the deck and leans against the ship's wall. He tugs on Snafu's hand for him to sit next to him.

"Better to go down to one of the cabins," Snafu resists.

"You don't want to know how bad it smells down there," Sledge warns, "Trust me. Fresh air is best."

Snafu gives in and collapses next to Eugene. He tilts his head back against the cold metal and closes his eyes.

Sledge takes the box of saltines from Snafu's hands and Snafu hears rustling as Sledge opens the package. Sledge then nudges Snafu's elbow with the box.

"Eat," Sledge says.

Snafu groans and leans his head on Sledgehammer's shoulder instead. He doesn't want any ill-gotten flirtation crackers. It's a lot easier to close his eyes and pretend to sleep.

Sledge seems to not mind Snafu sleeping on him. He doesn't move away, at least. So Snafu uses it as an excuse to shuffle closer. Which is when he realizes Eugene never let go of his hand. He's still holding on. Tight.

"Snafu?" Sledge prompts. He uses Snafu's nickname like they're best buds, though they've hardly ever spoken.

Snafu grunts.

"On that airfield…" Sledge says, "Don't you ever dare do that again, allright?"

"Whatever you say, Sledgehammer," Snafu drawls, "Don't even know what I did."

"You just...lay there," Sledge says quietly, "Like you were...."

"Waiting?" Snafu tries to remember his own state of mind in that moment.

"Gone," Sledge says sharply.

"Same damn thing," Snafu gives up on sleeping and lights a cigarette.

"If you're not around who'll tell me what I'm doing wrong?" Sledge asks.

"Shit, Sledge," Snafu drawls with a grin, "practically anybody who's not you could do that."

Sledge actually chuckles. That's the thing about Eugene. He's not stuck up or prissy like Snafu'd expect him to be. He's humble, and willing to laugh at his own inexpertise.

"I'd rather it be you," Eugene adds quietly with a small smile.

Snafu sucks on his bottom lip and refuses to respond to that.

"So no dying," Eugene finishes, as if such a conclusion were a choice.

Snafu does fall asleep and when he wakes up a few hours later, Sledge's head is tipped on top of Snafu's. Sledge's long nose is in Snafu's hair and he's snoring loud enough to wake the enemy a thousand miles away. Snafu can feel Eugene's snores blowing his hair around.

Despite these annoyances, Snafu tries to freeze in place and jostle Eugene as little as possible.

Their hands are still linked together. Sledge's hand is wrapped tight around Snafu's. Snafu lifts Sledge's hand to examine his delicate fingers - long and gentle, but not dainty. Eugene has the calluses of an expert marksman, and painfully short fingernails. Snafu picks at the boy's ring curiously.

Sledge shifts and turns farther in towards Snafu's body. He draws his arm away from Snafu's fiddling and instead places his hand on Snafu's soft belly. "Stop moving," he mumbles.

"You stop snoring," Snafu complains. He bumps his head intentionally into Sledge's big nose to make his point.

Sledge ignores him and slumps more of his weight onto Snafu's shoulder.

Snafu accepts his fate and reaches over Sledge's body to steal the saltines. He opens the cracker package and starts snacking.

"Must you, with the crunching?" Sledge snarls after a few minutes.

"Got hungry, Sledgehammer," Snafu, "If you're gonna be using me as a pillow, I'm gonna need to generate extra padding."

Sledge sighs and holds his hand out, "Give me one."

Snafu complies, "If you get crumbs in my hair, I'll kill ya."

"Wouldn't be the worst thing in your hair right now, Snafu," Sledge gripes.

"Yeah? What else is up there? Pick it out for me," Snafu grins.

"Smells like you took a nap in seawater," Sledge says, "Or smoke."

"Get your long nose out of my hair then," Snafu quips.

"Once you get past the brine smell it's not so bad," Sledge mutters and doesn't move

"Yeah, well your shoulder smells like…" Snafu starts, and then cuts off when he realizes Eugene's shoulder doesn't smell like anything Snafu finds unpleasant. "Did you change your shirt?"

"Traded it for the saltines," Sledge explains, "The swabby wanted a souvenir that saw battle. I gave it to him. Stole this one off a supply crate."

"Fuck, Eugene, I thought you flirted your way into the galley," Snafu grumbles.

"Who says taking off my shirt wasn't a part of that?"

Snafu can't see it with his head on Sledge's shoulder but he swears Gene is smirking at him. "Should have just given him your pin," Snafu argues.

"Can't," Eugene replies, "Sid says they're good luck."

Snafu rolls his eyes at the mention of stupid Sid and settles back comfortably to sleep.

Eugene hooks a thumb in between Snafu's button holes in his shirt to keep his hand on Snafu's stomach. His fingertips barely brush Snafu's bare skin, and suddenly Snafu is no longer interested in sleeping.

And then Eugene's wandering fingers hit Snafu's shrapnel wound.

His response is immediate and a little shocking, "What the fuck, Snafu?" Without asking Eugene starts popping open all of Snafu's shirt buttons.

"What the hell, Sledge?" Snafu tries to back away from him.

"My father's a physician, let me look at you," Eugene orders. He manhandles Snafu's hips forward away from the wall to stretch him out on the deck. Snafu's thin wound runs from right beside his belly button to right over his hip. "Jesus, Snaf, that could turn infected."

Snafu is still trying to process the feel of Eugene's long hands gripping his hips, there is no room in his brain for worrying about infections right now.

"You're gonna need to lie down," Eugene tells him, "Here…" Sledge takes off his shirt and folds it up so Snafu doesn't have to rest his head on the floor.

"Thanks," Snafu says blankly.

"I thought it didn't hit you, you idiot?" Eugene asks.

"Naw, it hit me," Snafu smiles, "just didn't kill me."

"Wait here, I need a kit," Sledge gets up and walks off, leaving Snafu on his own.

Snaf uncomfortably folds his open shirt closed and crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously. He hopes no one will accidentally walk past this part of the ship while Snafu is stuck laying here like a patient. It takes far too long for Sledge to return.

When Eugene does finally return, he's holding a big medic kit that definitely is going to be missed somewhere.

"What'd you have to take off to get that?" Snafu asks, his voice mean, "Your pants?"

"I'll return it when I'm done," Sledge tells him in a no nonsense tone. He sets the kit down and flips it open. "I'll need to open the waist of your pants though, do you mind?"

Snafu looks to the sky to avoid Sledge's concerned gaze. "Don't care," Snafu says as nonchalantly as he is able. He wets his lips and squeezes his eyes shut.

Sledge gently uncrosses Snafu's arms and moves them to the side. When Sledge unbuttons Snafu's pants, Snafu takes a deep breath. His stomach constricts, and he knows his bones are poking out embarrassingly far. Sledge's hands are warm and surprisingly soft. Cleaning everything, and putting a tiny amount of stitches near Snafu's waistband area doesn't take Sledge long at all. Before Snafu even gets to fully enjoy the feeling of Eugene's fingers sliding over his most sensitive area, Eugene is already buttoning Snafu's pants back up and smoothing his shirt down. Snafu flicks the shirt back off, deciding if he's already indecent he might as well continue that way.

Snafu moves to sit up, but Sledge puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Stay down for a bit," Sledge says, "I want my shirt back though. Here." He scoots next to the wall at Snafu's head and then helps Snafu lean forward enough that Sledge can reclaim his stolen shirt. Sledge throws the shirt on and then scoots closer again, beckoning Snafu to lay back down.

Having his head in Sledge's lap is about a thousand times more distracting than Eugene touching his skin. There was a medical excuse for that. There's no goddamn excuse for this.

As if reading Snafu's mind, Sledge decides to up the ante and he runs his hand along the clean skin beside Snafu's wound. Sledge's hand continues up to Snafu's chest and then stops. Sledge picks at a brown spot of dried mud below Snafu's sternum till it pops off and he can flick it away onto the deck. He then massages away the sting and leaves his hand resting there.

Snafu daringly rests his own hand on top of Sledge's. He doesn't breathe even once till they're both settled and Eugene doesn't pull away.

"You need a shower, Snafu," Sledge comments.

"You gonna give me one?" Snafu lolls his head so he can see Sledge's face.

"Only way to do that now would be to toss you off the ship," Sledge says seriously.

"That a no?" Snafu guesses.

Sledge glances down at Snafu with his signature 'I know better than you, but I am also amused' expression, and then stares blankly out towards the sea. He sighs, "Sleep off the seasickness. I promise I won't snore."

Snafu silently watches Eugene's profile for a while before he finally closes his eyes.

Sledge keeps his promise. He doesn't fall asleep once during the entire time Snafu is out. Sledge does, however, eventually remove his hand from atop Snafu's chest and that wakes Snafu up instantly.

Snafu stays perfectly still, and tries to breathe as even as possible. He doesn't want Sledge to notice he's awake and kick Snafu out of his lap.

Snafu carefully peeks one eye open, and sees two hands hovering above his head holding a book and pencil.

"Writing again?" Snafu accuses.

"Hmmm," Sledge says.

"What about?" Snafu asks.

"You," Sledge responds.

Snafu smiles. He knows Sledge is just being obtuse and not actually writing about him, but still, "Tell me."

"No," Sledge refuses.

Snafu eyes Sledge's hands and attempts to determine how much force it would take for him to grab the book away.

"If you take this bible from me, I'll never let you sleep on me again," Sledge warns.

"What makes you think that's a threat?" Snafu teases. He sits up and tries to lean over to read Sledge's writing.

"Because you slept like a baby during your nap," Sledge says. He angles the book away from Snafu's prying eyes.

"Plenty of other guys in the company more comfortable than you to sleep on, Sledgehammer," Snafu says.

Sledge looks Snafu straight in the eye and dares him, "Then why don't you go find them?"

Snafu holds his gaze for a few breaths. And then wordlessly puts his head back in Eugene's lap.

Sledge calmly sets down his pencil and book, and threads his hand into Snafu's hair instead. "You know what I miss?" Sledge idly scratches Snafu's head as he talks, "Having an inexhaustible supply of blank paper."

"I still don't understand how you've managed to hold onto that one pencil nub for so long," Snafu comments. If talking means Sledge will massage his head, Snafu will do anything to carry this conversation.

"Writing in my bible is well and good, but nothing compares to a fresh blank sheet," Sledge states, "I can't believe that in school I used to tear pages up, or throw them away if I made even one typewriter mistake."

"We should find you a new pencil," Snafu continues his own train of thought, "Or maybe a couple."

"What a waste," Sledge sighs over his stupid crumpled typewriter pages.

"I bet the officers' tent in camp has pencils," Snafu muses.

"You need to borrow a pencil?" Sledge asks, "Sorry, I wasn't listening for a minute. Here, take mine." He hands Snafu the tiny nubby remains.

"Thanks, Sledgehammer," Snafu says and sticks the pencil behind his ear to remind himself later.

The first thing Snafu does on Pavuvu is go scrounging for paper. The constant stream of people coming in and out of the officer's tents makes it particularly easy to search. Snafu gets five pencils on only one run. He doesn't dare take the brand new stacks of paper. It would be too obviously missed. Instead he hunts through trash bins around the camp, and pulls out anything that looks clean and innocuous.

Snafu figures any important classified documents are being shredded or burned immediately anyway. No chance of him accidentally picking up something he shouldn't.

It takes a few days, but finally Snafu hits the jackpot. An entire stack of half used blank sheet notebooks. They're spiral bound, and the edges are dirty, and the covers don't look particularly pretty. But the pages inside are clean. Snafu takes his stack behind the mess tent and scrubs off some of the dirt stains.

A few of the notebooks are too gross to be salvageable. For these he carefully cleans his knife, and cuts out the crisp pages individually.

When he's finished he leaves his collection on Sledge's cot with the pencils resting on top of everything. Satisfied, Snafu takes a step back and surveys his work. Then realizes he can't let it look like he is doing Gene any favors. He sticks his hands out and musses the papers completely so the stacks are no longer neat and the pages aren't ordered by type. But he leaves the pencils on top. He doesn't want them to get lost or sat on.

At first Sledge doesn't say anything about Snafu's gift. The next time Snafu stops by the empty tent, the paper and notebooks are neatly stacked on a high shelf to keep it out of the way of crabs and vermin. It warms Snafu to see how organized the messy pile he left became. Even the pencils are safe and snug wrapped in a little handmade pouch.

Snafu takes the warm feeling with him to chow that evening.

"Did you wake up on the right side of the bed for once, Snaf?" Burgie asks.

Snafu brushes his comments off with a smile and sarcastic look.

Sledge looks up the minute he realizes Snafu is sitting down. "Hey," he says eloquently.

"Hey," Snafu says back. He sets his tray down and pulls out his cigarettes.

"I swear you smoke more than you eat," Sledge observes. He eyes Snafu's still mostly full and cooling plate of food.

"I only put things in my mouth if it's worth the bother," Snafu tells him, smirking.

"Are you saying warm mush isn't worth it?" Bill jokes as he polishes off his own bowl heartily.

Snafu laughs at Bill's graceless eating, till he realizes Eugene is staring. Not at Bill, but at Snafu. And looking very mournful for some reason. Unable to stand seeing Eugene looking that way, Snafu anxiously extends his hand to touch Sledge's knuckles, and then offers him a smoke.

"No thanks, Snafu," Sledge says, very unfriendly and possibly looking to start a fight, "I prefer to eat my meals."

"Has anyone gotten any letters from home yet?" Burgie changes the subject brightly.

Bill shakes his head.

"Nothing but my mother's usual package," Sledge says. He notices Snafu staring at him with quiet interest and adds with a sigh, "Yes, Snafu, I saved you your favorite jar."

Snafu smiles, "See, always worth it to wait." He grabs his unused spoon off the table and slips it into his pants for later.

"Sid still hasn't written to tell me if he made it home okay," Sledge says with a worried frown.

"I'm sure he did," Burgie says kindly.

"What about you, Burg?" Snafu interrupts, "You hear anything from Florence lately?"

"She's written, yes," Burgie says and turns as red as the canned beets Sledge's mother mailed last week.

Snafu whistles, Leyden begs Burgie to read any exciting bits aloud, and Sledge politely asks who Florence is.

"Burgie's girl he met in Australia after Gloucester," Snafu explains.

"I knew she liked me because she was the only girl not flocking around Snaf," Burgie jokes.

"Like flies to shit?" Bill snaps, "Snafu being the shit 'n ass."

"Don't think he slept in the stadium bunks with the rest of us even once," Jay laughs.

"I had more worthwhile places to go," Snafu says and eyes Sledge to gauge his reaction. He lazily takes a drag on his cigarette.

"Think we'll be given liberty in Australia again sometime?" Sledge asks. He holds Snafu's gaze steady.

"Don't care," Snafu shrugs.

"Unfortunately no," Burgie says, "I suspect we'll be run ragged till this war is over."

"At least she writes you," Bill interjects, "You'll just have to skip over thataway and pick her up before going home at the end of all this."

"Not sure how I'll manage that," Burgie takes a deep breath, "But it's true, I think she felt as strongly as I did. She expresses it well in her letters."

Bill whines that Burgie is holding out on his buddies by not divulging the content of said letters. He and Burgie get into a heated discussion that mostly consists of Bill begging and wallowing in self pity over not having any sweethearts.

Snafu and Eugene ignore them. Once Sledge finishes his meal, Snafu offers his cigarette again, and Sledge accepts. They pass it back and forth as they watch the sunset over the beach in the distance. Snafu wallows in every single touch of their fingers during each exchange.

"Speaking of mail," Sledge starts, "Snafu, did you leave paper on my bunk?"

"Why would I leave paper on your bunk?" Snafu scoffs.

"I thought maybe you were writing a letter and forgot it, or something?" Sledge asks, as though he isn't smart enough to put two and two together. No one accidentally leaves a jumble of notebooks lying around. Not when they're such a hard commodity to find.

Bill barks a laugh "Snafu writing? Can you imagine...that'd be the day."

"The only paper I ever concern myself with is asswipe," Snafu taunts. He dangles his cigarette out of his mouth and smirks at Leyden. Snafu throws one cautious glance over to Sledge and immediately regrets it.

Instead of being grateful, Sledge is annoyed. He snatches the cigarette straight out of Snafu's mouth. Sledge's fingers press into Snafu's lips briefly before he steals the smoke away, almost like a gentle punch. The unexpected touch and Sledge's deadly serious glare turns Snafu hot down to his toes.

Sledge finishes the cigarette in dead silence, and rather than stub it into the ashtray, he takes the nub and sticks it back between Snafu's lips. Sledge abruptly stands, grabs his tray, and stalks off without another word.

Leyden awkwardly coughs and gives Snafu a sympathetic look.

"Did you dump a bunch of papers on Eugene's bed?" Burgie asks Snafu for clarification.

"Fuck no," Snafu lies. They know he's lying. He grinds the cigarette into dust on the ashtray.

"Maybe I should have mentioned the Australian guys were buzzing around you, too," Jay suggests to Snafu, "Except there were less of them thanks to the war."

"Don't think that would've helped, Jay," Burgie says.

"Yeah?" Snafu says. He climbs over the mess hut wall and walks off.

#Sledgefu #Pining #Demisexual snafu #Bad germs

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animebookworm16 · 4 years ago

Text

Who Are You? - Angst

For @j3ssisam3ss

This is my angst piece for @maribat-angst-fluff-april, prompt 25 Childhood Friends

It was the middle of winter in Gotham when she showed up. A tiny girl everyone guessed to be about three. She never spoke or made a sound, but she often smiled, even on the coldest nights. The little girl would just curl up to whoever had taken her that day and smile. At first the other homeless believed she'd never make it to spring. But the little girl was full of surprises. Not only did she survive the worst of the winter, she thrived once spring arrived.

Everyone knew she had a name, no one knew what it was, but they knew she had one. They also knew she was old enough to know it. Surprisingly, no one ever tried to give her a new name. Sure she got nicknames. More nicknames than a toddler could ever hope to keep track of, but somehow she did.

The little girl grew. As all children must. And the older children and adults always made sure to enunciate whenever she was in the area, hoping to teach her how to speak. They all banded together, like they always do for the especially young kids, and kept her away from the worst of the drugs, gangs, rogues, and the overall darkest parts of Gotham. She grew, and most people started calling her Pixie. Their little fairy caused laughter and mischief wherever she went. Even still she rarely spoke, her words as few and far between as they were, were always impactful to whoever she spoke to.

When Jason Todd started living on the street, everything changed. Pixie stuck to his side like glue. She laughed, she started talking, Pixie acted like the entire five years she had been living around Gotham she had been solely waiting for Jason to show up. The ones who raised her would have felt jilted if it hadn't been for how happy the little girl looked. Two years passed and the two ten-year-olds rarely left each other's sides.

Then Jason stole the hubcaps off the Batmobile and Pixie was finally picked up by CPS.

Pixie had to be strapped down by CPS so that she wouldn't hurt anyone. Luckily for her, a young French couple had been passing by when they saw what they were doing, and demanded to adopt the young girl. CPS didn't want to deal with the girl for much longer and agreed. When Tom and Sabine found out she didn't have a name, they quickly named her Marinette Dupain-Cheng and decided her birthday would be the same day they adopted her.

The newly named Marinette was quickly taken out of Gotham and out of the country as the couple returned to Paris.

She never knew that Jason had been adopted by Bruce Wayne.

Jason was picked up by Batman and quickly adopted by Bruce Wayne. Before long he had taken up the mantle of Robin and was fighting crime. He looked everywhere for his friend but no matter who or where he asked, no one had any idea. As the months passed, Jason lost hope for ever finding Pixie again.

He would never know that she had been picked up by CPS and adopted by a Parisian couple and taken back to Paris.

In Paris, Marinette always appeared happy, and her new parents were always busy but tried to make time for her. Marinette had taken to wandering Paris. She wanted to be familiar with her new city, even if Tom and Sabine didn't always agree with her new habit.

When she started school, Marinette stayed quiet. Friendly, but quiet. This made her a prime target for the mayor's spoiled daughter Chloe. Marinette allowed it to happen and did nothing to change the status quo. three years passed in this way until suddenly Marinette was seated next to an extremely outspoken girl named Alya, who would absolutely not stand for the status quo, so Marinette filled that space, doing what she'd always done since she'd come to Paris molded herself into what everyone around her wanted. The same day she met her new deskmate, and self-proclaimed bestie, Marinette also became one of the two heroes of Paris, fighting an emotional terrorist who thrived on negative emotions (and just being from Gotham made her a prime target). Marinette became Dame Nuit, with her partner Mister Bug.

She listened to everything Plagg told her, especially the warnings and consequences of using the Black Cat Miraculous.

For the next four years, Marinette would fill every mold she was placed in. The hero, the Guardian, the class president, the perfect baker's daughter, everything.

Then the consequences started showing up. Marinette knew she had to wrap up Hawk Moth and Mayura quickly. She started pushing it so much that Mister Bug called her out one night and in a single moment of weakness she told him what was happening. What her Miraculous was doing to her.

Mister Bug immediately wanted her to stop and let him give the Miraculous to someone else, but Dame Nuit shut it down saying that even if she stopped now, the damage was done and nothing would change that. In fact, using the Miraculous, while it had started the process, was actually slowing it down. Mister Bug cried when she told him that.

Together they redoubled their efforts to bring Hawk Moth and Mayura down. Of course, Mister Bug insisted on bringing in more permanent heroes, under the guise of keeping one of the two things Hawk Moth was after out of the fight. Dame Nuit then argued that it should be the Ladybug because it's the one that can fix everything which just left them going in circles. But even still she conceded to his request for more backup.

Within six months, Gabriel Agreste and Nathalie Sancoeur had been stripped of their Miraculous and Paris was free to feel their emotions once more. All the Miraculous were returned and Marinette and Adrien revealed their identities to each other.

Adrien stuck to Marinette's side and became an unofficial brother. He helped her as the build-up of chaos in her soul took a physical manifestation, and began to destroy her

A year after Hawk Moth's defeat Marinette's entire class was granted a trip to Gotham City.

Marinette would have laughed at the irony if she didn't know it would probably be the last place she saw. It was strangely comforting to know that the city that held her most precious memories would also be the place that would hold her last.

In Gotham, Jason grew into a young man. He discovered the woman he thought was his mother wasn't. He tracked down his real mother, then got beaten half to death by the Joker only to be blown up by one of Joker's bombs.

Jason died.

Then Jason was revived by the Lazarus Pits and trained by the League of Shadows. He grew to hate Batman and wanted nothing more than to see the end of the Joker.

Years later, Jason would return to Gotham only to find he had been replaced and that the Joker was still running free, and alive. Jason tried to kill the new Robin, a kid named Tim Drake, Batman, and the Joker. He managed to end none of them.

Bruce convinced Jason to stick around and one thing led to another and Redhood became part of the Batfamily patrol rotation. He doesn't stay in the manor but he does drop in at least once a month for family dinners at Alfred's request. On the weekends, Jason would take Tim out and teach him how to spot a sniper, an assassin, what different guns look like when someone is trying to hide them, and most importantly, how to defuse a bomb. It becomes a bonding time for the two, but Jason still calls Tim 'Replacement' but now as a term of endearment.

He never forgets Pixie and she is one of the few things that kept him sane during the worst of the Pit Madness.

Then Damian shows up and Jason has no idea how to deal with the tiny Demon Spawn. It's rough going for a while but they all found their ways of bonding and before long they are one large dysfunctional family.

When Jason turned eighteen, he, Dick, Tim, and Damian welcomed a French class to Wayne Industries for a week-long tour. And that is where he thought he saw someone he would never see again.

Without his permission, Jason called out to her, "Pixie?" It was barely a whisper, but she heard it.

Her head whipped around and she stared at him, "Jason?"

He wanted to say it was a happy reunion. And it kind of was. They hugged. Her class and his brothers stared. Then the tears started. Pixie was smiling but tears were streaming down her face.

One of the other students came over and asked her in French if she was okay. Pixie shook her head and the blond boy asked if there was somewhere she could rest. Jason offered to show them a room. The three of them sat in a quiet room as Pixie cried. She kept leaning into Jason and he wasn't about to stop her. After who knows how long, Pixie dried her eyes and haltingly told Jason what was going on. She told him, how she'd been adopted and went by Marinette now. How she was dying and no one besides Adrien, the blond, knew. How she probably wouldn't make it out of Gotham.

Jason's first reaction was to want to hurt something. His second was to hold Pixie as close as he could and never let her go. Jason cried.

For the rest of the week everywhere that Pixie went, Jason was close behind. The other Waynes noticed and on the fourth day of their stay, invited Pixie and Adrien to join them for dinner.

There, a not-so-subtle interrogation went down, asking Pixie how she knew Jason. At which point, even Pixie's failing health allowed her to spill so many childhood stories about Jason that even they couldn't resist her knowledge. In return, Jason told Adrien stories he had collected about her as a toddler and little kid. It was the brightest smile Adrien had ever seen on Marinette, and the first real smile Pixie had given Jason all week. He could almost pretend that she wasn't dying.

After dinner Pixie said, "Jason, did I ever tell you about the dream I've had ever since I was a little girl?"

"What dream Pix?"

"I've always wanted to stand at the very top of the Wayne Industries building at dawn, and feel the wind at the top of the world."

"Really?"

Pixie smiled a soft sad smile, "Yeah. Do you think we could do that tomorrow?"

Jason suddenly realized what Pixie was talking about, and had to fight a lump in his throat to answer, "Yeah. Pix. Yeah, we can do that."

Adrien and Pixie stayed the night that night. That morning at about three, Jason woke them up and took them to the top of Wayne Industries. Pixie stood as high up as she possibly could. Adrien and Jason watched her with tears in their eyes. Before long, they were joined by Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin, who all wanted to make sure she wouldn't fall. Jason didn't have the heart to tell them they couldn't stop what was about to happen.

As dawn started to creep up on them, Adrien broke down sobbing, begging Marinette to fight a little longer. When the light hit her head, Marinette closed her eyes and smiled. They all saw her start to fade.

Her hands went first. Like dust. As the light increased so did her fading. Before she faded completely, Pixie walked towards them a peaceful smile on her face. Jason was crying now too. His Pixie looked like a ghost.

And as she faded completely, everyone on that roof heard her say, "My name is Jeanette. It's so nice to meet you!"

#Maribat #Maribat Fluff and Angst April #Platonic jasonette #Angst

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yeojaa · 4 years ago

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finders keep hers, iii.

read parts one and two! the long awaited conclusion! i’m sorry it turned into a friggin’ novel. i hope it does the first two parts justice, though. these kids are... idiots. i love them and you (and also the best beta reader @hobi-gif)! 💖

pairing. jjk x named f!reader. rating. explicit, ofc. tags. this is... really soft at certain parts. and then really raunchy at others. oops? but fr - mainly fluff with some smut at the end. you might need a filling. wc. 5.4k.

You’re buzzed into the building without a moment’s hesitation, the kind concierge with the gummy smile and greying temples beaming at you as you enter. “Nice to see you, Miss Lee.”

“You too, Mr. Choi.” A grin of your own is offered, gym bag hiked higher over your shoulder as you pause to chat. You’re in no rush. “Is he home?”

“I don’t believe so.” The sudden look of disapproval that colours the older gentleman’s features is almost comical, reminiscent of a disparaging parent. It’s the same expression you’re greeted with nearly every time you visit. “He left in a town car yesterday afternoon and I don’t think he’s been back since. That boy’s going to get himself in trouble one day.” As if Jungkook didn’t already - as if it didn’t follow him around, glued to the bottoms of his Italian leather shoes.

“Tell me about it.”

“You know…” There’s that twinkle in Mr. Choi’s eyes again - the one that tells you he’s about to repeat the same words he always does when he catches you alone. “A nice girl like you could get him to settle down.”

Your response is what it always is - a scoff and a laugh rolled into one. It careens off your tongue, ringing in the spacious lobby. “I don’t think anyone will ever get him to settle down.”

How true that is, you’re not sure. For your sake, you try not to think about it too much.

The old man is undeterred though, shrugging his narrow shoulders beneath the neat uniform he wears. It’s a little loose in the chest but immaculate otherwise, tie knotted in a classic Windsor and collar ironed perfectly. He levels you with that shrewd stare of his but says nothing further, simply engaging you in an unspoken staring contest.

Sometimes, you wonder how much he sees. How much he knows .

You break before he does, tearing your gaze away and blinking rapidly. He laughs, full bellied and deep from the chest. “Get on upstairs, Miss Lee.” You aren’t offended by the dismissal. “It’s always nice chatting with you.”

You remind yourself to bring him chocolates the next time you’re by. The ones with hazelnuts, because those are his favourite. A fact you only know because you’ve helped your best friend pick up a box for him every Christmas, writing the card and having him sign it right before it gets left behind the desk.

Actually, you helped Jungkook with a lot of things. Always had. It was simply the nature of your friendship - passed down by your parents and forged stronger by childhood playdates, your fair share of teenage squabbling, and college hangovers so bad they’d created an unbreakable bond.

Whenever he would need you, you’d be there - whether that meant picking him up at 4 AM from the airport because he wanted “some shitty fast food and to see you” or helping him pick gifts for Mother’s Day. There was no task too small, no moment too inconsequential.

Unconditional love, they called it.

It’s why you have no problem swanning into his apartment with the extra key you’ve had since he moved in, kicking off your trainers and tucking them neatly alongside the rows of black leather and expensive sneakers.

You do so much for him that you take where you can, indulging in all of the luxuries you’ve never been afforded. Unparalleled view, stupidly expensive toiletries, a damn jacuzzi tub .

You pull your sweater over your head - truthfully, one of Jungkook’s from college that you’d never felt inclined to give back - and toss it over the back of a barstool on your way into the guest suite. Your bag follows shortly after, deposited at the foot of the bed that exists as a rotating welcome mat to your and Jungkook’s circle of friends.

The rest of your clothes - sports bra, shorts, thong, socks - are stripped, folded, and tucked into the laundry bag you keep handy. You know you could leave them here and Jungkook’s housekeeper would take care of it, but you’ve never been too comfortable with that. Different upbringings.

The spray is like sweet relief the moment you step beneath the rainforest shower. It’s the perfect temperature and pressure, melting the sweat and tension from your bones.

But it isn't why you’re here, so you make quick work in the glass enclosure, scrubbing your body bare and lathering and conditioning your hair into a squeaky clean mess. Any other time, you’d just spend a good half hour standing beneath the head but you’re feeling particularly indulgent today.

Call it a spa day, courtesy of one Jeon Jungkook.

You don’t bother to dry off, water splashing across the floor as you step from the shower and sink into the spacious tub that overlooks the heart of Seoul. Diptyque bath oil encapsulates the room in a bubble of sweet almond, similarly branded candle burning on the ledge. The jets release a steady stream against your tired back and legs, massaging your limbs into jelly.

You can’t help the sigh of utter relaxation that rolls off your tongue, sinking into water in the same instance your shoulders do.

This is what dreams are made of. Anyone who says differently is an idiot and a liar.

“When are you going to tell her?”

You’re not expecting the voice and it breaks the silence like a thousand pound weight, shattering the calm and nearly startling you enough for you to knock your head on the edge of the tub.

There’s no reason for you to be surprised. Not really. This isn’t your home, after all. You aren’t entitled to any sort of privacy.

It doesn’t matter, though. The discomfort in your chest is unfolding regardless, lodging rocks in your throat.

Because it’s a female voice. Lilting, soft, draped in familiarity. Not someone brand new.

Your heart stutters at the realisation. The rush of blood against your eardrums is so loud you momentarily wonder whether they can hear it all the way in the living room. They must be able to - it’s practically deafening. You can’t even hear the rest of their conversation.

Their conversation .

Which seems to have ended, leaving only silence.

You suddenly remember your shoes, your sweater. Traces of you littered throughout the apartment that isn’t yours. God, you’re an idiot. He was going to kill you - or she was. You’re not sure which is worse.

You’re reaching for the fluffy white towel on the rack when you’re scared near half to death yet again. This time, by your best friend who cuts an imposing figure in the doorway, broad form resting casually against the frame. He looks surprisingly unbothered, curls pushed back from his forehead by a pair of sunglasses and arms folded over his chest.

“Jesus!” The shriek comes four octaves higher than it normally would, pitching into the open so loudly you wince. “You scared me!”

You can’t help the way you peek past his shoulder for a sign of the girl he’d brought home.

“Enjoying yourself?” There’s something amused dancing in the darks of his eyes, his mouth curving around the same emotion as he steps into the bathroom. You’d be bothered if he were anyone else, unnecessarily long legs carrying him to you in three strides.

“I didn’t know you were home.” You can’t quite meet his stare, still far too distracted by the mystery woman. Had he left her on the couch? Maybe his bedroom as he snuck you out? What excuse could he come up with?

“Didn’t know you were home either.”

He’s made himself comfortable right on the ledge of the tub, marked fingers dragging lazily through the still-scalding water. He doesn’t seem terribly in a rush. That puts you on edge.

Was he going to hide you in here?

“I wanted to relax after my run.” You don’t owe him an explanation - not really - but you offer it anyway. You figure you need to, when you might’ve ruined his Sunday morning romp session. You can’t bring yourself to address it, though. The words just won’t come, sitting on the tip of your tongue like thorns. It hurts to swallow.

Jungkook doesn’t further the conversation - a first for him. He’s normally a chatterbox.

The silence stretches on. Suffocating.

You force yourself to speak, staring down at your hands that are slowly pruning beneath the water. “Should I… go?” The way it comes is feeble, soft, uncertain. You hate it.

By the look of surprise on his face, he does, too. He cackles suddenly, like a goddamn witch. “Why?”

Heat floods across your cheeks. You wish you could blame it on the bath or the steam that still collects on the mirrors. It pulls high over your ears, colouring them tomato red and embarrassed. Surely, he knows why.

When he repeats himself, it’s harder, without any of the laughter from before.

Rather than answer, you wave a hand through the air, fingers wiggling. The universal sign for you know . It should be enough - you hope it’s enough. Your ego won’t let you verbalise it.

“Suddenly mute, baby?”

It isn’t quite mocking - teasing, maybe - but it stokes the fire that burns in the pit of your stomach and licks uncomfortably at the organ in your chest. You don’t even look at him as you nearly spit the words, petulant and far more bothered than you should be. “You’ve got a girl here.”

A laugh that isn’t quite a laugh comes, swathed in velvet and coloured blue. The effort you make to not shoot him a glare is herculean.

He’s still snickering when he speaks. “You mean my sister?”

“Your sister?” It’s more surprise at yourself that has you whipping to look at him, bewilderment tossing all other emotion out the window. Because his sister was practically your sister. How had you not recognised her voice? You feel silly all at once, the embarrassment from earlier fading into reticence.

“Yeah. I spent the night babysitting the twins.”

You sometimes forget how much Jungkook loves children - especially his sisters’. It’s hard to reconcile the family man he effortlessly transforms into when he spends most of his waking hours playing the perfect part of unaffected bachelor.

“How are they?” You ask because you care - you adore Minseo and Minhyuk - but also so you can move the conversation along. The last thing you want to do is dwell on your mistake.

“They’re good. Getting big.” He’s got that smile on his face - the one that’s softer than any other, with deep lines at the corners of his eyes. Reserved especially for the people he cares about most. Your favourite sight. “You can come with me next time. Minnie asked about you, anyway.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest.

Being liked by peers? Great. Being respected by your superiors? Rewarding. But being loved by children? It was in a league all its own - better than ice cream on a hot day.

“Sure.” You can’t keep the grin away.

That is, until he speaks again, circling the conversation back. “So, were you jealous?” His ability to piss you off is uncanny. It’s like it’s written into his genetic code, each molecule of his body tasked with ruining your day.

“No.” It’s meant to be a scoff. It’s not very believable.

“You sure, princess?” The fingers on your chin are wholly unnecessary - he’s got you caught in his stare, locked in place with nowhere to go.

“Yes, Bunny .” You know how much he hates the nickname, only tolerating it because it’s you. You can’t deny the pleasure that comes at the sight of his jaw tensing, muscle jumping in agitation. Just as he’s your weakness, you’re his, too. “Now let me finish—”

He cuts you off, sharp and unrelenting: “Get out.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out of the tub or I’m pulling you out myself.” Risen to his full height, he’s an imposing figure. Even worse, there’s something you can’t read in his expression - something that has your nerves firing wildly. Your heart rattles around in your chest, uncertain.

He leaves you without another word.

You scramble out of the bath as quickly as your confused limbs allow you, knotting the towel beneath your arms. You’re not quite sure what to do next, caught between pulling your clean clothes out of your workout bag and demanding an answer from your sphinx of a best friend.

What the hell was his problem?

Your impatience wins out as you’re tugging a brush through your hair, fumbling uncharacteristically through knots until you’re too frustrated to continue. You’re ready to tear into him when you storm out of the guestroom; you’ve got a barrage of insults on your tongue, proverbial gun cocked and ready to unload.

They melt away when you spy him on the couch, neatly wrapped bouquet laid across the coffee table.

“Come here.” It’s not a request so much as a demand - commanding and soft all at once. A small part of you wants to fire off a rebuttal; that part dies when he repeats himself, louder this time.

The seat you take beside him is begrudging, a good foot of space held between your bodies. You fiddle with the hem of your towel, turning a loose thread over and over your index finger.

“What?” It’s snippy, discontent - kerosene on the fire that burns beneath Jungkook’s skin.

“Watch it,” he retorts, though there’s no acid to his words. Frankly, he sounds more frustrated than angry, more exasperated than pissed off.

That makes one of you.

Only he can bring out this side of you - brusque and biting. “ You watch it, Bunny.”

Fingers find the bridge of his nose, a gesture you don’t see very often. Guilt blooms behind your ribcage as he rubs at the tension between his eyes. For someone who has it all, he looks like he’s a moment away from losing it.

“You’re a brat, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you retort, not unkindly.

“You’re making this really hard,” he snaps in the same instant he all but throws the overwhelming bunch of flowers at you.

You nearly drop them you’re so surprised.

“What are these for?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Did I stutter?”

If you weren’t so busy studying the arrangement of florals, you’d have some witty comeback. As it stands, you’re preoccupied by the pretty bunch of peonies and tulips. You wonder what he’s done wrong - why he’s found it necessary to soften the blow with your favourite flowers.

Your thoughts drift back to his sister’s words: when are you going to tell her?

All at once, you want nothing more than to leave. You don’t want whatever heartbreak is about to come. You’re not ready for it.

“Listen—”

He cuts you off, again. “I love you.”

You’re not sure how your face looks. You imagine you could look up flabbergasted in the dictionary and you’d find a photo of your expression right now. “What?”

Jungkook won’t quite look at you, intently focused on an indiscernible point against the far wall. When he speaks the words again, they’re full of uncertainty - but not in the way you expect. The confession is as believable as any you’ve ever heard - he really does sound like he loves you - but somehow, it’s draped in dread and held aloft by hummingbird wings. “I love you.”

He’s nervous, you realise in amazement.

“Come again?”

He meets your stare then, brow knitting with unease. He doesn’t say it again, though.

“Are you messing around with me?” You don’t mean it how it comes - a little accusatory.

“I’m not an asshole.” Except both of you know he certainly can be. You don’t call him on it, though, opting instead to peer curiously at him, hands fisted around the bouquet in your lap. “I talked to my sister. She…” He shrugs once, an almost helpless roll of his shoulders. “She told me I was an idiot.”

You’re not surprised by that. Lina had always been the one to give it to him straight.

“She said I would lose you if I didn’t get my shit together.” There’s a bit of childish petulance that works its way into each syllable - he hates being told what to do. “Said I needed to tell you or I’d regret it. Which is stupid, because we’ve been best friends forever and she’s younger than me so what does she know—” He must realise he’s rambling, something he never does. “But—”

“But?” Quiet, hopeful, coaxing.

There’s a warmth in your chest - illuminating and golden and so bright it hurts to think about. It grows with each moment that passes, spurred on by the look in his eyes and how they find yours.

Hesitation pulls the silence a beat too long. The light wanes. You wonder if the moment has passed.

And then he continues, a little more earnestly. “Was she right? Am I going to lose you?”

You’re not entirely sure what he’s asking. You don’t think he even knows what he’s asking. You try to answer anyway, as honest as you can without pinning your heart directly on your sleeve. “You’ll never lose me.”

“You know what I mean.”

Did you? “You’ll never lose me.” You’re the one repeating yourself this time, just that bit harder.

“Then say it.” Again, not a request. A prayer, perhaps. Ardent and needy - a world away from the Jeon Jungkook you know.

You don’t hesitate. “I love you.”

He doesn’t either - upon you so quickly you don’t have time to blink or think.

How he kisses you now feels different. More . It’s like being consumed entirely - changed from the inside out in ways you never thought possible. Where he touches, sparks fly, filling you like stars in the night sky. Lava rolls over every inch, dragging heat and want and need from the soles of your feet to the tip of your nose. You’re gasping rather than breathing, clawing against the front of his shirt and twining your fingers into the strands that curl over his nape.

“You never told me you could kiss like that.” It’s lacking coherence, made by a partial inhale and wild, wondrous eyes.

His response is a laugh and another kiss, forceful and adoring and utterly devastating. “Shut up,” he mouths against your lips, tongue licking over your teeth and gums like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you. Hands follow in the same amorous motions, tugging and pulling and aching for you closer; the tips of his fingers sear white hot heat over your hips, the small of your waist, the delicate bones of your ribcage.

“I’m serious...” You really are - far more than you should be. You’d been missing out on this ? It’s incomprehensible.

The sound he makes is more of a growl, playful and resounding in the cavern of his chest. It rattles your own, sending your heart on a downward spiral into the pit of your stomach. His nose traces the column of your throat, soft lips guiding him further until he’s mouthing hotly over the bare skin of your shoulder. Tongue teases, delves ever so gently into the dip of your collarbone, and swipes back up, laving over the maroon that peeks around the edge of his teeth. You can’t help but keen, holding him so closely you wonder if you’re suffocating him.

“So am I.” Each syllable is punctuated by another nip, another nibble. It seems like his goal is to bloom roses across your skin - a wreath to welcome him home, made by his own touch.

You don’t mind.

“Say it again,” he demands, hopeful and unashamed from his place against your neck.

The admission comes easily, as if it’s always lived on the tip of your tongue. “I love you.”

“Again.” You’re not ready for the way he stares at you - like he’s never done before. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and he’s awestruck. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” Hands find the familiar contours of his face, thumbs brushing over the hollows of his eyes, over the beauty mark that sits front and centre beneath his lip. Each graze follows a repetition of the confession, as if you might burn the three simple words beneath his skin - write it into his DNA like he’s written into yours. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Bunny .”

He holds you close - so tightly it feels almost as if he’ll crush you - and captures your mouth again. It’s more gentle but just as lovesick. A thousand unspoken words spill from his tongue to yours, swallowed whole with greed you don’t bother to hide.

“I need you.” It’s whiny, framed by a pout that could end wars and paired with doe eyes so wide and innocent you almost want to roll your own.

“You have me.”

“Do I?” There’s a very deliberate roll of his hips, denim of his jeans rough against the exposed softness of your inner thighs, hands manoeuvring over the partially covered swell of your hips. The press of his fingers is purposeful, digging tension into every inch. As if he might transfer some of the unadulterated need that thrums through his veins, turning his heart to jelly and brain to mush.

“Since when do you ask?” You have a point.

“You’re right,” his grin is almost lazy, drawing over his mouth in a measured crawl. “Good girls just do what they’re told, right?” His grips tightens almost imperceptibly, holding you to him almost effortlessly. You’ve been in this position a hundred times before but it’s never been this easy - like breathing.

The gasp you offer is all mock affront, hand laid palm-down across your chest. You don’t miss the way his gaze follows it before ticking lower, unabashed in its admiration. “Are you saying I’m not?”

“Don’t know, baby.” The war on your neck has resumed, teeth traded seamlessly for the softer promise of his tongue, the dry brush of his lips. It’s almost sinful, garnering sighs of affection and need from somewhere low in your throat. “Want to be a good girl for me?”

You’re not quite used to this version of him - playful and needy and not nearly as demanding as usual. A part of you wants to draw out the side of him you know is there, hidden just beneath the surface; the other wants to bask in this, all feather soft and cotton candy sweet.

“Always,” you return, with a coquettish smile and fluttering lashes.

“Always,” he murmurs, tasting it for the first time. He sounds almost giddy when he repeats it once, then twice, then a third time for good measure. You think it’ll come again, laughter rolling off your tongue as you stare into the eyes of the boy you love. Instead, he speaks in a voice full of gravel and grit, all traces of your sunshine boy suddenly swallowed whole by the darks of his pupils. “Fuck - I can’t wait to have you.”

“Then what’re you waiting for?” You don’t need to push him. You like to do it anyway. It feels right .

“You’re the worst.” What Jungkook means is you’re the best and I love you and I’m going to fuck you six ways into next week . What he means is this is the scariest thing he’s ever done but it’s all right because he has you. What he means is thank you - and how he shows it is through worship.

On the way to the bedroom, he crowds every inch of you, holding you so closely you wonder if he’s trying to carve himself into your bones. He’s firm and unrelenting, balancing you against his chest as he smothers every available inch of your shoulders in sweet, sloppy kisses. He revels in the way you cling to him like you’ve never needed anything else.

In his bed, he lays you out and strips you bare. He offers devotion with every pass of his fingers, every trail of his tongue. He wants you so badly it’s hard to focus on giving you everything you deserve, but he tries anyway. He sucks love into your neck and over your breasts, pinching your nipples between his fingers until you’re panting and he’s aching for the same treatment.

On his knees, he prays at the altar of your body, taking his time to map the constellations on your skin, the memories written into each scar and dot. His tongue follows the raised flesh that sits across your hip - an unfortunate mishap from a schoolyard dare. You whine and he nearly cries, soothing over the sensitive spot with hands and lips and tenderness. He lays kisses on each freckle, each irregular mark. From your navel to your knee and everywhere in between, he caresses and comforts, turning those blemishes into stars.

He also teases - subtly, quietly, with wandering hands and focused breaths. You don’t realise it until it’s too late, your insides molten, your pulse a thunderclap in your ears.

“Jungkook.” It sounds more like begging than anything. Exactly what he wants.

“What’s up, princess?” Spoken so casually, as if he isn’t between your legs, long fingers tracing through the slick that coats your thighs. He gazes up from behind too long strands, all wide-eyed and terribly sweet - until he pops a digit into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around the taste of you. “Something wrong?”

“Stop teasing.” You hear yourself whine but it doesn’t quite sound like you, higher pitched and needier than you’ve ever been.

“I thought you were going to be good for me,” he returns with a tut and a push of that same finger deep into your cunt. He flexes it experimentally, beaming up at you when you clench around the intrusion that’s too much and not even close to being enough all at once. “You’re so wet, baby. I just slide right in.”

As if to drive his point home, he drives another finger in, scissoring them languidly to stretch you open. It’s such a pretty sight, messy and inviting. He can’t resist a taste, dragging the flat of his tongue over and around the fingers that continue to fuck into you at a faster pace.

“ Jungkook! ” You’re shrieking, bucking against the onslaught of sensations. A shapely arm immediately cages you against the bed, palm splayed across your hips.

“Stay still.” It’s a growl, teeth bared against the sensitive pearl between your legs. Words are punctuated with the softest pressure - a silent threat that goes no further. You wonder what he’ll do if he has to repeat himself. “Good girls listen, remember?”

You’re fumbling across his shoulders, nails digging crescents everywhere you can reach. You need him so badly it hurts . “Please.”

“Please what?” That patented, stupid smirk cradles his mouth, tongue peeking out as he stares at you expectantly. “If you’re going to be so demanding, at least use your words.” He watches the way your eyes roll back into your head when he slots another finger in with the others and curls them against that particular spot that has you seeing stars. The bastard has the audacity to coo at you. “What’s wrong, baby? Can’t speak?”

You’re near wailing, gasping and whining around words that sound like his name. Angry red lines sprout across his shoulders, his arms - demands carved into flesh.

He makes a sound, wistful and resigned. You think - try to think, beyond the pleasure that’s building steadily in the pit of your stomach - that he’s finally going to give you what you need. You’re almost crying for it, moisture crowding your lashes and threatening to spill over.

Then he withdraws, all at once.

You could scream. In fact, you do, red in the face and chest heaving. “I hate you!”

“No.” He’s upon you in an instant, insistent and terribly smug. There’s a playground in his smile, childish laughter spilling into the spaces between you. “You actually love me.” He noses at your neck, the heat of his palm searing against your side as he sighs almost dreamily. “Say it again.”

You answer him with something more than love - frustration and annoyance and so much devotion you can’t keep it out no matter how hard you try. “No.”

It’s a challenge more than anything. He knows it; you know it.

He accepts it readily, just as you expect him to.

“Say it.” Enamel presses steady, heavy, into the sensitive spot right beneath your ear. He mouths over the skin that blows out red and inviting beneath his ministrations, the firm press of his fingers gripping you without hesitation. You can feel the entire weight of him against you, length nestled comfortably against your core. He repeats himself as he rocks against you, dragging the swollen, leaking head of his cock through your folds with an agonising slowness that has you clenching around nothing. “Come on, baby.”

You’re keening, adjusting your hips and grinding against him. You still won’t say it, hoping to find a rhythm in the quiet that’s punctuated by your laboured breaths and his occasional laughter.

“Just say it and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll give you everything. Promise, sweetheart.”

Framed against the late morning sun, hair spilling across his forehead in curls of india ink, he’s so handsome your heart leaps into your throat. “I love you.” It’s a wet confession, carried by a wave of emotion you don’t expect.

“I love you,” he echoes, sinking into you so gradually you feel like you’re caught in slow motion, all of your focus balanced on the tip of a needle.

It’s never been like this before. Each inch is a delicious stretch, filling you and claiming you. The drag is incredible, your walls fluttering around the intrusion and aching for more. You bite back a sob, digging into the wide expanse of his back with your nails as your mouth seeks purchase anywhere it can - over his jaw, up his neck, across his shoulders. He soothes you as he presses deeper, reassurances whispered against your temple.

“I’ve got you, baby. Let me make you feel good.” When he bottoms out, you demand more - somehow, somehow - locking your ankles against the small of his waist. He doesn’t miss the way you clench, so tight around him it almost hurts , when he says those three words once again. “I love you.”

His lips find yours and he brushes them over and over - a salve for the burn he ignites beneath your skin. It doesn’t matter that he’s both the calm and the chaos. Jungkook’s always been everything to you.

The rhythm he sets is unhurried and perfect. Each snap of his hips has his cock dragging against your walls, filling and stretching you so well; everywhere his skin brushes yours, you’re alive. There are a million nerve endings going haywire beneath your skin, flashing bright as holiday lights.

That’s what it’s like - Christmas morning . Picture perfect and filled with wonder.

He’s completely smitten when he draws back just enough to see the entirety of you - your fucked-out expression, the rose-wreath he’s wrought around your neck, the sweat that beads between your tits and tempts him to duck his head. “I love you.” It’s almost hypnotising - watching you take him, pussy dripping and needy around his cock.

“I love you,” you parrot back - or try to. It’s not very coherent, driven to a point of nonsense when his hips begin to stutter and he makes up for the loss of rhythm by slipping his fingers over your clit in circle eights.

You’re at your breaking point. He knows - can read you like the back of his hand - and holds you there, back bowing to kiss you breathless, pressure unrelenting against the bundle of nerves.

“That’s it, princess. Right there.”

The coil snaps at the third pass and there are hot tears streaming down your cheeks, his name spilling off your tongue in tandem with the erratic thudding of your heart. White spots your vision, entire body electrified as you crash headlong into an abyss of bliss. You hear him join you with a hoarse whine, a mix of your cum slipping out of you as he rides out his own high with shallow thrusts, mouth open and panting against your shoulder.

The comedown is hazy, dusted in exhaustion and a thin sheen of sweat. When he slips from you, he doesn’t go far, tugging you comfortably against his side like you’re not both a little gross. It’s not the first time you’ve fucked but it feels different.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, Bunny.”

You realise - it feels exactly like that. Making love.

614 notes · View notes

bobmckenzie · 2 years ago

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Heeey Caitie!!! 🎧 ,🎵 ,🪕 ,🎷, 🎻,🎺,🎸,🎼,🪗 for louis! [Hope these aren't too much!]

Thank you so much M!! These aren't too much at all and I had a lot of fun answering them :D I hope your day is going well and that you get to spend time with your f/o's! 💚

🎧 - How often does your f/o listen to music?

Fairly often! Sometimes he likes listening to instrumental (usually classical) music while he works–any other music distracts him too much. He also likes listening to the radio while he’s cooking, and has a portable cassette player so he can listen to music when he takes the subway or bus to work!

🎵 - How vast is your f/o’s music knowledge?

Not too vast–he knows what he likes and tends to stick with it! He listens to the radio to keep up with the latest hits, but outside of that he listens to the same artists on rotation.

🪕- Pick a song that describes your f/o.

This was such a hard pick cause I haven't made his playlist yet lskslslls but I'm gonna go with Looking For Atlantis by Prefab Sprout!! The overall vibe is playful and suits him really well, and I think the lyrics fit too bc he really would give the world to someone he’s in love with.

🎷 - Pick a song or lyric that describes your relationship with them. (Could be lyric-wise or just the overall vibe!)

when I think of my relationship with Louis I think of This Must Be The Place by Talking Heads! it's so comforting and endearing and the feeling i get from it is the same feeling i get from Lou :')

🎻- Are there any music genres your f/o hates?

He’s not particularly fond of heavy metal or anything in that realm–I make sure to use headphones when I’m listening to something I know he won’t like 😅

🎺 - What’s their preferred method of listening to music? (streaming, records, radio, etc.)

Louis likes cassette tapes! He has a nice collection and a pretty high-end stereo to play them on as well as a portable player :)

🎼 - Do they like to sing? Do they sing well?

He has a very gentle and soothing singing voice! He sings well but does have trouble staying on key sometimes hehe :’)

🎸 - Does your f/o play any instruments, and if so, how well? Have they ever done a live performance or recorded any songs?

Louis played clarinet in middle and high school! (I did too!) He took part in the school band concerts and the marching band :3 But he hasn’t played since he was a teenager.

🪗- Has your f/o been to any concerts / do they enjoy seeing live music?

He’s gone to the orchestra before with his parents and really enjoyed it! He also really likes eating in restaurants that have live music :)

#ask #louistag

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caxsthetic · 4 years ago

Text

Just Fine

Miya Osamu x F!Reader

Hurtful Truth: Sometimes no matter how long you have loved them, if they don’t want to stay, they wouldn’t stay.

Part 1 ⇛ Pt. 2

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *. GRAND MASTERLIST .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Your eyes focused on the television in front of you, the screen was the only thing that lit the dark room you were in right now. You felt safe as you laid there on the couch with huge amounts of blankets wrapped around your figure.

It calmed you down and made you forget about everything that happened in your life recently.

You didn’t bother to check your phone, knowing for certain who’s name would pop out on your notifications. You really didn’t need a reminder that someone just broke you into a million little pieces.

To be loved was something that not every human being could feel. You knew that, and the fact you actually believed that someone would love you was one thing that you would regret as you wake up every morning.

And you fall to the mirage, for the past ten years in your life.

You and him always belonged in each other's side, everyone that saw the two of you could even see how the future would unfold perfectly. They always said that you and him would end up in marriage,

And tragically, you believed in every word that they said, since it boosted your confidence that someone like you could actually have someone as majestic as him to be your significant other.

The Miya Osamu, one of the most successful entrepreneurs below thirty three, the one person that had your heart since you were sixteen,

And the one who broke your trust.

It was Saturday night, both of you were laying together on the couch in your shared house. The house that used to be empty, a house that was so cheap that the two of you could afford right after graduating from college.

But little by little, the house turned into a safe haven, renovated with all the contemporary detail as the two of you poured your blood and sweat into this house,

A house that has now become a home, the place that made the two of you believe everything would be alright. Just the two of you together, and maybe someday, filled with another little Miya.

His arms wrapped loosely around your figure while you rested your head on top of his chest. He would occasionally caress your hair gently, and you would close your eyes to feel all of his affection.

It was your weekend break when the two of you soaked in each other’s warmth; the time when the two of you closed yourself from the universe, when everything just rotated around you and him.

The atmosphere that surrounded the two of you was so serene. Though, it all changed when he appeared on the television screen all of a sudden. Your eyes lit up immediately, realising that it was your fiancé who was now being interviewed on screen.

You sat up, straightening your posture as your body leaned towards the television. Proudness welled up inside your heart as you heard him answering questions after questions that were being thrown at him.

He always told you everything about Onigiri Miya. About all the events, all of his interviews, a new branch that he opened, even all the commercial plans. He did that, because he knew you would be so proud of him. Having someone that constantly praised you was addicting to him.

But what you didn’t notice as you were so excited to see him on the screen, was the horror on his face as he remembered the reason why he didn’t tell you about this interview.

“And how about you and your fiancée? Is the wedding bell around the corner?”

“Babe, this is embarrassing, let’s just change the channel.” He pleaded, but you were too focused on the television, your eyes never leave the screen as a wide grin plastered on your face, “Babe, please-”

“Unfortunately no, please don’t ask about my personal life.”

But then, your smile was replaced with a confused look as you heard his answer.

Your name was known as the woman behind the Onigiri Miya, the support system that everyone wanted to have in their life with how loyal you were towards the one that you loved. And as your fiancé, he always answered questions about you with pride lingering on his face.

So when you saw him averting his gaze to the corner while answering the question, you knew that something was up.

“Samu, has something happened?” You finally turned towards him, “Do you want to talk about it, love?” Your eyes locked onto his face, wondering why he stayed silent and just looked away from you, “You know that I am always up to talk about anything with you, right?”

Yet the reason behind his unusual answer was something that you could never prepare yourself for. You could feel your breath hitched once he met your gaze. His eyes were filled with sadness, orbs glistening with tears as he finally dared to look up at you.

Then just like that, he averted your gaze once again, and that’s when you knew that he was hiding something from you.

“Samu,” Your hand gently wrapped around his much larger hand; you could feel how the man was trembling. Your fiancé's skin felt as cold as ice compared to yours, “Love, what is it? Please look at me, I am worried for you, Samu.”

Your fiancé let out a sigh, squeezing your hand a little before pulling away from you. You eyed him as he stood up from the couch, eyes staring down at you with remorse evident on his face.

“I-I am sorry,” His voice trembled as he couldn’t look straight into your eyes anymore, “I did something. Something bad,” Tears were streaming down his face as he sobbed.

By that, you immediately stood up, wrapping your arms around him to give some comfort,

“Sshhh, Samu, it’s alright…” You didn’t know what was it about, but the only thing in your mind right now was to make sure he would be alright, “We can talk about it-”

“But that's the thing. We can’t!” Osamu suddenly snapped, pulling himself away from your embrace as he realised that he didn’t deserve any of your affection, “This is something that we cannot talk about, (Y/N).”

“Samu, you don’t know about that-”

“I'm cheating on you!”

And at those four words, you swore you could hear your heart break. You immediately took a step backwards as you wrapped your arms around your own body, feeling the temperature dropping.

You bit your lip, mind still trying to process the words. Cheating. That was something that you never thought someone like Miya Osamu would do. Hell, it was something that you never thought any of your family or friends would do, let alone your fiancé.

“W-with who?” You were always there for him, and you knew damn well no matter who it was, the answer would tear yourself apart. However, you needed to know. You needed to know what they had that you didn’t that could make him did this to you.

“(Y/N)-”

“With. Who.” Your eyes bored into his with a look that he couldn’t fathom as you hardened your voice, “I deserve to know the whole sto-”

“It’s Rintarou.” But you didn’t expect your brother’s name to be leaving your fiancé's lips. “We happened to meet up a lot when I planned the branch for Onigiri Miya in East Japan, I-”

“That was six months ago…” You muttered under your breath when the realisation hit you. Osamu could feel the lump in his throat as he still decided to either speak or stay silent.

Although just like what you said, you deserved to know the whole story.

“We have been meeting each other ever since.” He gulped down, his voice beginning to break, “Every week, when you are busy in your office.”

Never once in your life have you thought you would be in this position right now. Tears were streaming down your face as you looked up to the man that you sacrificed everything for.

“What kind of meeting?” Right now, your voice betrayed you as it cracked a little. “How far have two of you gone?” By the forlorn look on his face, it was enough for you to know, “For god sake, Samu!”

You chuckled bitterly, dazed by the fact you have been betrayed by the two most important people that you had in this life. Right now you couldn’t even think straight. The feelings you felt right now were all too much. All that you wanted at the moment was just to vanish.

Your fiancé walked up towards you, regret evident inside his beautiful orb, glistening with tears. Because he knew, he just broke one person who was always there for him from the start. The women who supported him through thick and thin. From when he was still nothing.

You were someone who was there when the spotlight was only rotated around his brother. You were there during every breakdown, every failed recipe, every declined partnership. You were always there for him, patiently supporting him through everything.

“I am sorry, (Y/N).” His voice wavered, both hands timidly extended towards you. Solicitude struck him to the core as he wanted to pull you into his embrace, but at the same time Osamu knew he had broken you beyond repair. “I didn’t mean to do it… It just happened.”

You snorted in between your tears when you heard his words. From all the movies and television series that you have watched together with him, you always heard the same sentence numerous times already. The words that popped out...

From the lips of the character who cheated.

“Having sex with someone- no. not just somone,” You coated your pain with a snarky remarks, trying to act tough in front of the man who broke your heart, “When you have sex with your fiancé's brother everytime she wasn't around can't be excused with 'it just happened', Samu.”

Osamu knew the second he captured someone else’s lips, he could never turn it back around. He just cheated on you, someone who didn’t deserve to be treated like this. You, who would leave everything behind if that means he could be happy.

Even if that means you would never have your own happy ending.

Cheating is a taboo relationship that was made by two people who agreed to get into it, and he understood that what he had with the professional volleyball player could never end up well. Yet he did it anyway, for the last six months. With your very own brother.

It was more like a neverending nightmare for you. To have someone that you gave your whole heart to, the same someone who you spent your whole early life with, only to stab you in the back.

Two people who broke your heart were the two people you trusted the most. And each one of them was someone who you held dear inside your heart.

The buzzing sounds from your phone brought you back to reality. You groaned because once again, you fell to the unwanted memories that you were trying so hard to forget.

To have the only relationship you ever had falling apart was something that you never prepared yourself to. Up until now, you never knew how it felt to get your heart broken. From all the fights that you had with Osamu, none of them could crack the strong bond that you two shared.

The bond that was now all broken when he decided to get in bed with your brother.

You unconsciously touched your face, feeling the warm tears cascading down your cheek as you wiped it all away with your sleeves. You hated yourself because you felt so blind believing in every word that people said about how you and Osamu would last forever.

Your hand reached for your phone, wondering who in the right mind would call you this late at night. There was no way it was your ex-fiancé, because he always gave you space and only called you in your free time.

You furrowed your eyebrows when you saw the name on the screen. It was Atsumu.

Every time you saw his name, your mind would only think about his twin brother instead; you cursed yourself for even thinking about Osamu all over again. Even when the said man just broke you apart.

Without thinking, you declined the call and decided to turn off your phone for tonight. Your eyes bore into the now black screen, looking out to the reflection of your face. There used to be a glimmer of joy and warmth, but now it was just a blank expression as it stared back into your soul.

“I am sorry,” You were so tired of hearing the same sentence over and over again. “I shouldn’t have been selfish.” Your brother was a man of silence, yet here he was right now in front of the new house you were staying in, repeating the words that he said over the phone since last week.

“There’s no need to say sorry, Rinrin.” You bit your lips, eyes never leaving the ground, “You love him, it’s not your fault to fall in love with… With the same man that I l-love.” You could see how he clenched his fist, and you knew that he felt guilty over it.

There were a lot of things inside his head at the moment as he stood in front of the woman that always had her faith in him. You were the best sister that anyone could even ask for, that one family who he wanted to live the happiest life because you deserved it all.

He felt like a hypocrite because he knew he was the one who took the happiness away from you.

“I broke it off with him,” He muttered under his breath, afraid to see your reaction from the news. Right now, the realisation that he just hurt you was more painful than the fact he just broke up with his lover.

He expected you to be angry at him, saying it doesn’t matter anyway because things already happened and he couldn’t change the past. Maybe you would even curse and punch him; he would be okay if that was your reaction.

Then again, he forgot that it was you who stood in front of him.

“Why?” Your voice was calm as you looked up at him, “Don’t you love Samu, Rinrin?” His breath hitched from the question. Today was supposed to be the day he finally faced you, apologizing for all the heartbreak he put you through. So why was focus suddenly thrown at him?

“I do,” He hesitated to answer that question at first, but he knew too well that you already knew what was inside his heart. Then his eyes widened as he saw a sincere smile plastered on your face.

“So don’t break it off,” You whispered the words so easily as you reached for his hand, “I-I know how much he loves you,” For now, you really hoped his feeling was real, “He is a loyal man, and he would never do such a thing if he wasn't really in love with you, Rinrin.”

Your hand felt so warm as your thumb grazed on the back of his hand. With that little gesture, your brother broke down in front of you, hiccuping from the immense guilt that brewed inside his heart.

“I am sorry, you don’t deserve this.” He sobbed, and you couldn’t help but bring his head to your embrace anyway, “I am sorry, I am sorry.”

People told you that you were too kind for your own good. You have been wrecked by them, torn apart by them. None of them deserves to be treated right, and society would not even be surprised if you wanted to cut everything off from them.

But you were not like that, you could never act like that.

“It’s alright, Rin…” Your hand fell on his hair, holding back your own tears as you realised what it would mean to let them together, “It will be alright,” They would, but not you. Not now, not in forever.

No matter how many times you tried to shake away all of the pain, you couldn’t just undo your love that you felt for Osamu as easily as you want to. Your feelings have been there since the first year of your high school days, it was always there, since your brother asked you to watch his game.

Since the two of you broke off the engagement-for an obvious reason-, you only saw him on the television. Sometimes you still look back at all the messages that he had sent for you; laughing over the joke, smiling from his sweet words, but ended up with tears as you remember there would be no more messages like that.

So you could only stare at the blank screen of your phone, the reflection showed how your eyes glistened with tears once more.

“Oh! That’s Miya Osamu!” You jerked your head back to the television, heart beats a lot faster by just the mention of his name, “Come on, make sure you got a good angle of him.”

You chuckled, a little smile adorned your face as you saw him looking as gorgeous as ever with a black suit wrapped around his torso. He was in some kind of red carpet gala, and of course, invited there as he was one of the most successful entrepreneurs of the century.

He received a lot of invitation, but he would usually turn it down if you couldn’t be his plus one due to how busy you are with your own business sometimes. So when you realised what does it mean for him to be there, you dropped your phone to the ground,

Right when your brother appeared on the screen.

“You look so good tonight, Osamu!”

“Thank you, I couldn’t do it without his help.”

You thought you were ready to see them on the same frame. Their eyes glimmered with something that the camera could even catch,

“The two of you looked so good together, I am jealous!”

“Really? I guess we do, huh?”

From the look on his face, you knew that Miya Osamu really fall in love with the man in his arm,

“Is the wedding bell around the corner?”

It was the same question, the same question that he received a year ago at the night he confessed what he did to you,

“Yeah,”

But the answer was so different, nothing like the time when he was still yours.

“The wedding bell is around the corner for sure.”

He kissed the man beside him, a loving smile adorned his face as your brother chuckled with blush spread around his cheek.

It used to be you, to be in his embrace as he showed the world how much he loves you. It used to be you, to be the one who received his kiss and affection. It used to be you, who wore the match engagement ring with him.

Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you never gave them permission to be together. You wonder if any of you still get hurt, or maybe by time all of the broken trust would be healed, and the three of you would have a beautiful future with someone else.

Your friends told you to walk away from your past, telling you that your ex fiance and your brother didn’t deserve to be together, since both of them stabbed you from behind.

For six months, without you knowing. For six months, as you laid in his embrace with his heart belonged to someone else. For six months, you kissed the lips that had captured another.

Then again, you love them, a little bit too much that even though they were the one who took away the smile from your face, you couldn’t just let them suffer. Either from guilt, or from the heartbreak that would haunt them.

You knew how it felt since he decided to love someone else other than you, you were damn knew how it felt to love someone, but couldn’t have them anymore,

So who are you to stop two people in love from being together?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ♛┈⛧┈┈•༶ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Thanks to my bby @iwaixiumi for being my beta reader!

Tagged Lovelies:

@vventure @heccingdead @muffins-puffins @miyuswriting @nanashinanashi @vlovers-world @proplayer-kenma @kashika @cuddlyasahi @blacckdiamondposts @muffngw @baby-boy-taichi @of-heroes-and-dreams @for-ests @giyuwu-san @oli-imagines @lordeofthunder @miyatsunami @analyze-hq @benewol @allywritesimagines @iwaixiumi @hihiq @gulfwanq @the-fandom-ness @quirksandbreaths @dear-green-tea @simp4tsukkii @ladyalicevii @evermorehaikyuu @clowninfortodoroki @koutaroulovebot @daiseukis @fitriiaw @macaronnv @verbluehte

#miya osamu #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu imagine #miya osamu scenario #miya osamu drabble #miya osamu oneshot #haikyuu miya osamu #miya twins #miya osamu angst #miya osamu fluff #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu drabble #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #miya osamu x suna rintarou

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withastolenlantern · 3 years ago

Text

What do you think it was like?” Rafael asked as he hacked at the tough vegetation with his hoe, pulling the dense vines into a pile in the pathway. The soil was nitrogen poor, even when heavily fertilized, and the local flora had a fibrous root that was always threatening to choke out their transplanted species. The ground cover was too thick for the harvesters to handle, so the crops were still pulled by hand at the end of the wet season.

“Why do you always ask that?” I said, stooping down to the ground and dusting the dirt from the now exposed potatoes, gently brushing them clear like an archaeologist might some ancient, precious treasure. I pulled the tubers from the ground and put them into the cart.

“You don’t wonder?” He leaned on the handle of the hoe, brushing the sweat from his dark brow.

“I try not to.”

“Come on, Shan. If I have to have one more meeting about soil nutritiation, I’m going to kill myself. And you’re down there all the time…”

“We’re not having this conversation again.” I hadn’t come out to the fields looking for a fight, but I was always prepared for one. “Stop changing the subject.”

He frowned. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m just saying. The season’s almost over, and we’re not getting any younger.”

He put down the hoe and knelt down next to me, lifting another potato and cradling it. He looked at me plaintively. “I just… are you sure this is what you want? To spend your life toiling in the dirt? I mean, your father…”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “My father is a drunk, and he has nothing to do with this.”

“He didn’t used to be. He might snap out of it. Some of them do,” he said. “I’m just worried you’ll get bored of me, of this. It’s not a glamorous life.”

“No, but it would be our life, Rafe,” I pleaded.

“One more season. The bureau is due to review the allotments soon, and I almost have enough saved up for a down-payment on my own forty.” He kissed me gently on the forehead, then stood, and stared up toward the sky and sighed. “You honestly don’t wonder? What it was like, knowing what was happening out there?”

I stood too, matching his gaze. I put my arm around his wrist and held it gently to my chest. “Come with me. I have to check on him, and then maybe you’ll see why I’d much prefer to farm potatoes with you.”

It had been one-hundred fifty-nine years since we’d last heard from anyone outside the system. The Network had gone down July 17th, 2938, or at least that’s what the history books said. And that is only if you went by the original Earth calendar, which no one did anymore. With a twenty-eight hour day and a rotation period of six-hundred seventeen days, matching time here on New Caledonia to that on Earth was pointless. With The Network, information would take an interminable time to transit the two-hundred eighty-four light year and four relay distance between us; even then, relativity was unclear on whether there was any such thing as simultaneous events at these stellar distances anyway. For me it was irrelevant: the Earth might as well not exist, may not exist, and Sol was just a very dim star you could barely make out in the southern sky.

For us, it had been a normal Sunday, Wet Season 12, CSY 134. New Caledonia is an eccentric planet with a single landmass in its northern hemisphere surrounded by a large planetary ocean. Because of its near forty-five degree axial tilt relative to the ecliptic, the year is divided into two seasons of nearly equal length. During the Wet Season, the more direct sunlight heats the seas, driving strong currents that bring strong storms to the western coast. The moist air blows in and dumps copious rain across the western plains before climbing into the central mountain range that separates the continent, the only remnant of the clash between the two gigantic tectonic plates that formed the land we now call home. This quirk of a jetstream leaves the eastern plains beyond the mountains in a giant rain shadow, barren and dry. For this reason, all the major settlements are here in the west, and in the Dry Season, the ocean gyres cease and we hunker down for a long, cold, arid winter.

The rains were strong that Wet Season, or so the stories go. At first they though the heavy cloud cover and unstable air was interfering with communication to the satellite arrays. Minkowski Transmission provides a supraliminal link through the interstellar void, but it was still subject to the space-time warps of a heavy gravity well; we are forced to rely on more pedestrian broadcast methods to communicate with the Network Relays out in longer orbits free from gravitational interference. But they checked the dishes and the transmission center and everything was fine. Then they checked again. Then they waited until the Dry Season, and checked again. And then they waited.

We walked up the path to the main road where I’d parked my truck, and Rafe loaded the cart, only half-full of potatoes, into the rear cargo bed. “How is he doing?” he asked, hopping into the cab and pulling on his safety belt.

I pushed the ignition switch and the engine purred to life. The battery chimed a plea that it needed to be recharged soon, and I felt that deep in my soul in a way the inanimate vehicle could never understand. “He has good days and bad.”

“How much longer?”

“Too long.” I put the truck into gear and programmed the destination into the navigational system. It lurched forward, the tracks catching slightly in the soft, damp clay of the plain. “Honestly I stopped counting a long time ago.”

We made it maybe half a mile before the rain started again, at first light pricks ricocheting off the windscreen of the truck, but quickly growing to fat blobs that exploded with a violent thud. I opened the valve to the distillation unit on the roof and a slow drip of cleansed water trickled into my canteen. After a few seconds I closed the valve and took a sip; the water was cool and clear. I offered some to Rafe, but he demurred with a slight wave. “Do you think he’ll go back to his career, after?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. At the beginning they said they’d welcome him back, but I think we all expect that was just a pleasantry. I’m… I’m not sure if he could handle it, now.”

We rode in silence for a few more minutes before he spoke again. “I’m not sure he’ll approve,” he said with subtle defeat. “Especially if he goes back to work.”

“He doesn’t get a say,” I replied. I reached across the seats and took his hand in mine. I smiled as brightly as I could in reassurance. “I’ve made my choice. This is what I want, for myself. For us. He can object if he wants, but what’s the worst that happens? It’s not like we can be further apart, not after what’s happened.”

It was several days into the Dry Season before the panic really set in. The original settlers had always known it was a one-way trip out here- four hundred years was a long time in stasis, and there was never a guarantee the planet would provide a sufficient fuel source to power the generation ship’s massive thrust engines back up. So like seeds in the wind humanity scattered itself across the stars, secure in the knowledge that the Network Relays would prevent them from ever being truly alone. Mankind might diverge physically and spacially; over time genetics and environmental factors would certainly breed out several new homo subspecies. But with the Network we could at least stay connected enough to share our stories, our art, our discoveries, and what else has humanity ever been but that?

The governor made an address and appealed for calm. New Caledonia had been self-sustaining since the beginning, she reminded everyone. They’d be fine. It was always a known possibility that this might happen, and the best everyone could do was to go on with their lives. The Network would come back, or it wouldn’t; they’d keep trying to re-establish communication.

The rumors started swirling immediately. The panel show ratings skyrocketed. We watched some of the footage in school, when I was younger; one talking head insisted it could be an alien threat, splitting us up before some pending invasion. There’s never been any sign of extraterrestrial intelligence even exists, let alone in competition for colonization, the other shouted. A third argued it was a sign from God, that humanity had outreached its grasp.

A popular conspiracy stream posited that maybe it was just New Caledonia. What if everyone else’s Network connection still works, and they’re cutting us out? The opposition party saw an opportunity and ran with it- what if the government shut down the link? On purpose! What if this was all a ploy to consolidate power and rule the planet as an oligarchy? The riots lasted three days, with violence and looting in the city streets before cooler heads prevailed. The government stayed in tact, and the opposition leaders were purged for fomenting insurrection. And thus was born the New Caledonian hermit kingdom.

“I don’t think I’d even want it to come back, at this point,” I groused. “Not after all of this.”

“How can you say that?” Rafe asked, incredulous. “You’re not the least bit curious?”

I thought for a moment. “Curious, yeah, I guess. But I don’t know that it would change all that much. It’s been so long. What if it comes back and it’s just… too different?”

“Yeah but think of what we might be missing out on,” he argued. “It might have helped with The Rot. It might have…”

“Don’t,” I warned, feeling the threat of tears welling my eyes.

For one-hundred fifty-nine orbits we’d tended our flocks and tilled our soils alone. Without a broader knowledge base, technological progress slowed. In CSY 204 a plague came, some meta-organic compound released from a pit mine dug too deep. The Rot claimed thirteen percent of the population before we could quarantine it out. When I was nine they finally found a way to inoculate against it. I remembered wincing at the shot as my father looked on, relief evident in his face that I’d be spared the fate that had claimed so many lives, including my mothers.

Maybe Rafe was right; maybe someone out beyond the stars might have helped us avoid that tragedy. And maybe someone here might know or do something that could save lives elsewhere. But in the years since the Network went down, we’d persevered, raised generations on our own. And inevitably just like Rafael they would stare up at the night sky with the same wonder as those before. And then they’d also ask about the abandoned broadcast center in the empty valley beyond the outskirts of the main settlement, grown over with the local moss-analogue from years of disuse.

The truck crested a small hill, the tracks struggling for purchase in the mud as they pulled the vehicle over the incline, and we looked down into the valley where that broadcast center sat. Every two years an adult was selected by random lot to man the station, in the increasingly unlikely event communication with the Network was re-established. The government called it “The Receiver” in an effort to present it as some important position, but everyone knew it was a joke. It came with no real benefits, just a small stipend and the obligation of a community. We all prayed at the Harvest Festival that our number would not be drawn from the bowl.

My father was a proud man, an engineer who helped manage the settlement’s geothermal power station. His luck had run out eight-hundred sixty-three days ago. He swore up and down that the lottery was rigged; that the government thought him being a technical expert instead of a field-hand, that the fact that his wife was gone and his children all grown, made him expendable. He might have been right, but that didn’t absolve him the responsibility. So he’d resigned himself, and us with him, to the doldrums of minding an interface that may never come back online.

He read a book a day, or at least he claimed, and while the library did have a fair amount of humanity’s literary efforts prior to the cutoff, their plots and concerns were divorced from life here on the frontier. He took up drinking, inevitably, as did everyone else assigned to the posting. What they don’t tell you when your name is pulled from the bowl is that the sacrifice is not yours alone- the burden is your family’s to bear. My brother’s and I took turns minding him, bringing him food and checking on his mental well-being but they all had families of their own now, and I was desperate to start mine too. We were all ready to move on, and I hoped by bringing Rafael with me he could see that I was serious about starting our life together.

We pulled up outside the comms center and dismounted from the truck.

“Hang on a second,” Rafe said. “I want to talk to him.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“Just… let me do this, okay?”

I smiled and kissed his cheek gently. He went inside while I unloaded a tote filled with fresh fruits and a sandwich I’d laced with some amphetamines to help keep him lucid. The interior of the building was dark; the lights hard burned out several months ago and no one from the government could be bothered to maintain the place on any expedited time scale. I brushed some of the local vines from the threshold of the entryway as I entered. “Dad? It’s Shan. I brought some food.”

As I passed from the mottled grey sunlight outside to the dark interior I could make out blurry figures backlit by the eerie glow of his reading lamp.. They were both standing, which was odd. Dad was usually in the chair when I visited, most of the time asleep.

Rafe emerged suddenly from the shadows and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Shan. Stop.”

“What is it?” I asked, taken aback. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s… here. Let’s go outside.” He pulled me gently but forcefully toward the door.

“What the fuck, Rafe, stop it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s your dad. He…”

I shoved Rafael out of the way and stepped forward into the comm station. My father came into clearer focus, and I could tell immediately something wasn’t right. I came closer and dropped the basket to the floor in shock. His body hung limply, his feet swaying gently five centimeters from the floor. A length of electrical cord, half-stripped from the wall behind him, was wound tightly around his neck. I grabbed his feet and lifted, crying. “No no no no no, dad, fuck.” I pushed and contorted his body, trying to free him but to no avail. Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and wet.

I pulled a short table across the concrete floor and climbed up onto it, my vision blurred with anger and fear and sobs. I yanked at the cable, trying to unwind it, to free his body. I pulled and wrenched and screamed in desperation, banging on the overhead truss that supported it until I nearly broke my hand. I collapsed onto him, my hands around his shoulders, my face against his chest. His skin was cold and pallid. I was too late to save him.

“Shan.” Rafael stood in the entryway to the station. He offered his hand I took it gingerly, climbing down from the table and following him outside. He pulled me in close as I wailed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t…”

I pulled Rafe to the ground and cried for another few minutes, my chest heaving with agony. “It’s not your fault,” I whispered finally.

“It’s not yours either. You did the best you could.”

“I know.” I pulled the sleeve of my jumper up over my hand and wiped my eyes. “I think a part of me knew it would always end like this. It has so many times before. In a way it might be… I don’t know. Better? I’d always worried about what he would be like after.”

I gulped in air as my breathing stabilized. “Come help me get him down?”

“Sure,” he said, mustering a weak smile.

We went back into the station and looked upon him once more. He looked frail, fragile in a way he hadn’t before. Being alone this long, it just did things to a person. Rafael grabbed his feet as I climbed back up on the table. With Rafe bracing his weight I was able to loosen the taught cable and slip it free, and we lowered the body gently down to the table. He went out to the truck to get a bag to cover my father, and I stood silent vigil, until in the quiet I heard a strange humming noise from across the room. I turned and saw that the Network terminal screen was activated. “That’s… weird.”

I walked across and stood in front of the terminal, suddenly alive with activity. Rafe entered back in with the bag. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s not usually… on.” I leaned in close. “It’s displaying something.”

A line of dots and dashed appeared on the interface. “I… I think it’s old morse code. Dad had to learn it. I helped him practice.”

“What’s it say?” he asked, a sudden dread in his voice I didn’t recognize. I could feel my stomach welling up in anxiety as well.

“It says.... HELP.”

#was thinking about this again the other day #and then i expanded it to... this #i legit think this is one of the better short forms i've ever written #anyway screaming into the void etc

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