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skzdarlings · 2 months

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bodyguard: the first guard | part two | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. the previously established story dyanmics: explicit violence, mentions of torture, death. chapter word count: 12,000 words.

B E F O R E

Felix is wearing itchy civilian clothes, the jeans distractingly stiff. Regardless of how many field missions he is assigned, he never gets used to undercover disguises.

“Look what I found,” Chris says, dropping into the seat beside him.

Chris looks marginally more at ease in his baggy basketball shorts and baseball cap, passing for a teenage boy on an afternoon train with his friend. They are in the passenger car outside the first class cabin, a compartment that should contain their mark but presently sits empty.

“Uh, the target?" Felix asks. “You know, the thing you just went to find?”

Chris giggles like the whole situation is funny. Felix is far less amused. This should have been an easy job: get in, kill the mark, steal back the data he took from Miroh, and get out. But so far it has been tedious.

Felix can’t even blame Chris this time. For some reason, Chris has been more accommodating lately. Chris is fifteen, almost sixteen, and Felix is twelve. They have both been active in the field for a couple years. Felix is not sure why Chris has opted for sudden compliance. He does not necessarily volunteer for jobs but he accepts them without much grudging reluctance. He will occasionally voice his worser grievances but for the most part he is keeping his head down.

Maybe it is the result of all those punishing sentences in the Cell. More than once he has been shoved down there, sometimes alone and sometimes with Miroh’s daughter. Felix would not want to spend any isolated time with her. But maybe she is intimidating enough to get through to Chris.

Whatever it is, it is working. Excluding moments like this when Chris is giggling and distracted and doesn’t seem to care about the job at all.

“Relax, Felix,” Chris says. “It’s a train. There’s only so many places he can be, yeah?”

“Well, there’s one place he’s supposed to be but he isn’t there, is he?” Felix says.

“Lighten up, mate,” Chris says. “We’re supposed to look normal. Normal kids have fun.”

Chris dumps a candy bag in Felix’s lap. Felix looks at it like it’s a bomb.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Felix asks.

Chris opens his own bag and starts eating the candy.

“That,” he says. He tosses a piece in the air and catches it in his mouth. When he tries to do it again, Felix snatches it mid-air and throws it on the floor. This makes Chris laugh.

“He was in the dining car,” Chris relents. “Four security officers. Ex-military. Piece of cake.”

“Why didn’t you say that before?” Felix asks, annoyed. He starts to stand but Chris yanks him back into his seat.

“The hell, man?” Chris says. “You gonna go ventilate the guy while a bunch of civilians are having afternoon tea? Ya think that might blow our cover? Just a bit?”

Felix frowns but he knows Chris is right. Miroh does not like a public mess. They will have to wait until the mark returns to the privacy of his cabin.

Felix does not like waiting. It is a part of a soldier’s training, but his least favourite part by far. He prefers action. With the quiet stillness comes fear, doubt.

The latter makes him sweat. He tries not to think about it. His life is his mission. Through Miroh, Felix has contributed good things to the world. Lately, it just seems like no matter what he does, the world does not stay good.

The Enemy has been dead for two years. The new enemy, his idiot heir, has holed up like a dragon guarding his hoard. He has built defences so high that not even an army like Miroh’s can breach it. There has been no retaliation, no offensive strike like the old enemy, but these deep roots are almost more sinister. Felix is starting to think this might be hopeless. That maybe Miroh is wrong. That maybe some things cannot be saved.

Felix crinkles the candy bag in his lap. He gathers himself and exhales.

“Fine,” he says. “How long do you think he will be distracted? Enough time to get the data?”

“If it’s in there, yeah,” Chris says. “Might as well check. He just started eating so we should have some time.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Chris frowns like Felix is inconveniencing him with the job they were sent here to do.

Felix is not in the mood to argue. He shoves his candy bag in his back pocket and pushes past Chris. They make their way down the aisle. No one lifts their head, the two boys disappearing in their inconspicuous disguises.

They pick the lock to the first class cabin. Felix opens the door and looks around the room, for a moment a little stupefied by the luxury. It is all deep mahogany and gold trim. Their target is an engineer who stole designs from Miroh to sell to the enemy. The wealth of this cabin exemplifies that corruption, surely.

Felix tells himself that as he rifles through the luggage. He finds a laptop and tells Chris to stand guard while he collects the data. Chris is the better fighter but Felix is better with technology.

The laptop loads. The home screen is the mark with his family, three smiling, sunny-faced children, all younger than Felix. It gives him a queasy, uneasy feeling, a feeling that should be long scrubbed out of him by now.

He blames it on the rocking of the train carriage. Physical sensations can manipulate mental energy.

He searches through the computer storage for the stolen designs. Both Miroh and the enemy are chasing government building contracts, tying their businesses irrevocably to political power and pursing relationships therein. These plans will cinch the deal for whichever party has them. The engineer who betrayed Miroh masqueraded as a potential recruit before stealing the plans.

There is only one problem; Felix knows how to read metadata and he cannot find anything that was once on Miroh’s servers. In fact, some of these designs go back years, well before Miroh even considered pursuing these contracts.

“What’s taking so long?” Chris asks, poking his head in the room. “You’re usually a computer whiz. Is something wrong?”

“The files aren’t here,” Felix says. For the fifth or sixth time, he opens what looks like the plans. Everything except the metadata matches the description. But that metadata does not lie.

These files do not belong to Miroh.

Chris double checks the corridor before joining Felix. They look at the files together.

“Isn’t that it?” Chris asks. “It looks like the right thing.”

“Yeah, but it’s not,” Felix says, his eyes darting frantically all over the screen. “Or it should be. But these, uh, these files aren’t Miroh’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this guy stole the plans from Miroh. But all these files are original. They were never on Miroh’s servers.”

There is a moment of quiet. Chris is not famous for reservation so Felix looks at him. He is embarrassed to find a pitying look on Chris’s face.

“Felix,” Chris says. “Come on, man.”

It is not exactly a condescending tone, rife with too much sympathy to be so cruel, but It sounds like Chris is saying, don’t be stupid.

Felix swallows. He looks down at the plans. The realization hits him and the words come to his mouth, rising like bile.

“We’re not stealing back the plans,” Felix says. “We’re just stealing them. Aren’t we?”

“Well, yeah,” Chris says. “You didn’t know that?”

“How did you know that?” Felix snaps back, embarrassed and upset and very, deeply confused.

“It wasn’t exactly a stretch,” Chris says. “It’s what Miroh does. It’s what they all do. You haven’t figured that out yet? You?”

Felix, who has done the most assignments. Felix, who is the most successful agent in the special-ops program. Felix, who is the best only because the real best refuses to be.

He studies Chris, this older boy who seems so confident he has all the answers. Felix does not even know all the questions. He feels that weakness and vulnerability he so hates, the entirely world suddenly unfamiliar enemy terrain.

“Look, it’s fine,” Chris says. “Just take the data and we’ll leave. We’ll tell Miroh the mark got away. He cares more about the plans anyway.”

“Lie,” Felix says. “You want us to lie to Miroh?”

“It’s not a lie,” Chris says. “It’s just protecting the truth.”

Felix stares at him. Chris, on steadier feet than Felix, sighs and pushes Felix out of the way. He loads the data onto the external hard drive himself. He then makes a show of ejecting it and putting it in his pocket.

“Let’s go,” Chris says.

Felix does not get a chance to protest because the door opens. They have no time to react. In seconds, they are joined by the mark’s security team.

Felix knows how to fight. It is second nature to him. He should not need to think.

But he does. He overthinks. He gets a look at the mark before a bodyguard whisks him away. Felix thinks of the smiling faces on those children. He thinks how he is not much older than them.

There is a growing pit of anxiety inside him. It swallows him whole.

Felix and Chris fight to get away. Chris could take all these guards on his own but he is trying to avoid severely hurting them. That distracts Felix too. Suddenly, Chris’s refusal to fight does not seem like cowardice but instead it is something Felix cannot name. Something he once saw in Miroh but doesn’t anymore.

Distracted, Felix does not fight like he usually does.

The first class cabin is a private attachment at the back of the train. The fight lead onto the outside landing at the end of the car. A guard dislocates Felix’s shoulder. The next thing Felix knows, he is tumbling over the railing. He manages to grip with his good arm, holding all of his body weight to avoid getting snagged and ripped along the train tracks.

But it won’t save him. He’s going to die. The realization hits him like any other calculation in a fight, when he measures his odds and deduces his best move.

He has none. The train is moving too fast and he is at a bad angle to jump. He has one good arm keeping him alive and no way to fight the approaching guard. Chris has taken out his own adversaries and should be retreating with the data. That is what they are trained to do. The job is more important than the soldier. In a crisis, you leave the weak behind.

Felix braces himself to let go, hoping the above-average strength in his body can also withstand slamming into railroad tracks at high speeds. He suspects even if he does survive, he will be severely injured, abandoned in the middle of nowhere, and dead to the only place he has ever known.

But the guard falls back. Chris knocks him out with sharp efficiency. He then lays the unconscious man down with almost comical gentleness.

Chris runs up to Felix. Felix wants to shout at him – everything from go away and finish the job to my shoulder hurts and I need you to save me.

Chris gives no opportunity for argument or acquiescence. He shouts, “Hold on!” Then he swings himself over the railing. He wraps an arm around Felix and hauls him into his side. Once secure, he carries them back over the rail and onto the landing.

“What are you doing?” Felix asks. He cannot slow the race of his heart, seemingly tethered to the thunder of the train car against the tracks. He is not sure it will ever slow again. He thinks he might remember this moment forever.

“What am I doing?” Chris asks. He laughs for some forsaken reason. “Just doing this, mate,” he says.

He seizes Felix by his injured shoulder. Felix winces, having only seconds to brace himself before Chris shoves his dislocated shoulder back into place. Agony washes over Felix, hot and sharp, the pain rattling him worse than the actual dislocation.

“Sorry,” Chris says. “Sometimes getting better hurts more for a bit.”

The rest of the mission is a blur to Felix, lost to the throbbing ache in his shoulder and a similar pain taking root inside him.

They make it back to Miroh’s facility. Chris hands the hard drive off to an upper level agent while Felix sees a medic. The bag of candy is still in his back pocket. He sits in the infirmary a long time, just crinkling it between his fingers. He feels like his world is crashing around him.

It is days before Felix has an opportunity to see Chris again. They are in different barracks because of their age difference, the soldiers grouped by year. When Felix finds Chris in the corridor, Chris is talking to Miroh’s daughter who lives in the barracks too. They are on their way to their bunks.

Felix taps Chris on the shoulder. Chris looks at him, his laughing expression faltering when he sees Felix. He must see something in him that Felix cannot even recognize in himself.

Chris turns to Miroh’s daughter and says, “I’ll catch up, yeah?”

She spares Felix a glance and Felix feels an unusually panicked skip in his blood. It feels like she can see his mental turbulation the way Chris can. But unlike the rest of them, she has a direct line to Miroh. She might live and act like a soldier but she is more and always will be. Felix balks under her scrutiny, worried she will see his doubt and report it right back to Miroh.

Felix is grateful when she leaves. But when Chris looks at him so expectantly, Felix no longer knows what to say.

It takes a moment.

“I wouldn’t have done the same for you,” Felix finally says. It comes out as instinctively as a punch. “I wouldn’t have saved your life. I would have just finished the job.”

Chris blinks at him. He exhales on a laugh. Then he claps Felix’s good shoulder, a touch of clear camaraderie.

“I know, Felix,” he says. “I didn’t do it so you would pay me back. I didn’t do it because I thought you would do the same. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”

Felix thought he was speechless before but now he is truly at a loss. Even his long engrained instincts fail. He is out of punches.

Chris just smiles at his confusion. With one final nod, he turns and retreats to his bunk.

Felix stands in the corridor, wounded but bandaged. He stares at the place where Chris stood, like if he looks long enough then Felix will understand what Chris understands. That maybe there is a right and wrong outside of what they have been taught. Maybe things exist outside of this place.

Maybe some things can be saved.

P R E S E N T D A Y

“Ah, it’s the classic story,” Changbin says with a sigh. “A boy and a girl, forced to share a bed. He is her bodyguard. She is an heiress. Should we kiss on the lips?”

You whack him in the gut with a pillow and he erupts with giggles.

Changbin has been your so-called bodyguard for a few weeks now. It has changed little in your daily routine as your father had assigned Changbin to your department sometime before that. The special-ops program was written off as an experiment with potential for future development, though that development has long sat arrested. Bang Chan is in your father’s direct employ while Changbin has been on different teams fulfilling different missions. When you started taking the lead on projects, he served under your direction.

It is why your father is not happy. The bodyguard arrangement was meant to assert his control over you, using an agent as his eyes and hands. Miroh is not good at relinquishing power, not even to someone like him, or maybe especially to someone like him. You have always been a good, loyal, obedient soldier and daughter. Taking over projects and assuming command was inevitable. Somehow you have wronged him by doing everything right.

Lately, your work has been meagre clean-up duty. Miroh has been accruing assets and terrorizing his way into the mess left behind by his late enemy. It is making Miroh’s paranoia even worse. He has seen for himself how this powerful house fell apart just because its patriarch died. The business was left in shambles, underlings squabbling like helpless children. It was ripe for picking.

You have been cleaning whatever mess is left behind. This week you have been cleaning out some old office buildings, primarily sifting through abandoned storage for anything useful that might have been sequestered. You are spending the night at a nearby safe house, sharing a room with Changbin. The rest of your team is scattered around the house.

Seeing as your father has relegated you with menial tasks, you have taken it upon yourself to conduct your own investigations. Your findings have been on your mind all day. It is why you do not respond to Changbin’s joking with your usual wit.

“You’re quiet, murder princess,” Changbin says. “Should I be worried?”

He drops his mask on the nearby desk then unholsters his gun. He places it beside yours. It is a testament to your dynamic that you feel comfortable disarming around each other. You would certainly never do it around your father. But Changbin is different. You are not someone who seeks true friendship but you acknowledge the necessity of teamwork especially in times of crisis. You do not fully trust Changbin as you do not fully trust anyone, but he is loyal and you reciprocate that dependability.

It is why you beckon him forward. You are sitting on the bed, feet on the floor. Changbin pulls up a chair to sit in front of you.

“The enemy had a multi-level security system,” you say. “Physical in some capacities, digital in others. My father has always been more preoccupied with offense than defense, so in that regard they were always a step ahead of us. That is the part my father is interested in. That is all he sees.”

“And what do you see?” Changbin asks. His disposition changes with the severity of your words, joviality replaced with equal seriousness.

“I don’t see anything,” you say. “That’s the problem.”

He lifts an eyebrow, curious. You show him the image on your tablet, then swipe to the next one.

“The security log is missing information,” you say. “There is no trace of anything unusual transpiring the day they were all killed. No breach, no shutdown. Everything is normal until everything is gone. Someone scrubbed every last second of data from the digital system. Someone who knew the system well enough to not just delete the surface files but to clean the server entirely.”

“So what are you saying?” Changbin asks. “You think it was an inside job?”

“I know it wasn’t us,” you reply. “I know it wasn’t any of the usual players. This family had enemies in every market. If it was one of them, you’d think they would have stepped forward to assert themselves by now. Whoever it was had no interest in taking over company assets. No interest in even sticking around. Someone went to great lengths to make the entire thing look ambiguous, to leave everyone asking more questions, to turn our heads in one direction while they disappear in the other. Someone professional. Someone technologically capable. Someone whose only motivation was escape.”

His jaw is clenched as he stares at the images, but you can see the gears turning in his mind. When he meets your gaze, you sit forward.

“Changbin,” you say. “What happened on that mission?”

He does not need specification. Changbin is usually like you, pragmatic and realistic. He does not dwell in his emotions and never for so long. It has been well over a month now but he is still rankled by that warehouse confrontation with Lee Felix.

“Ah, Yongbok,” Changbin says wistfully. His eyes are downturned but his thoughts are somewhere else. “You remember him. He always needed a fairy tale to believe in.”

That much is true. You and Changbin have always been simple soldiers manoeuvring through the morally complicated world around you. You never had any delusions that Miroh was better than his enemies, simply that one or the other was inevitable. You knew you could make a bigger impact in the fight than watching from the sidelines.

Felix was competent but naïve. He believed in Miroh unequivocally which is why he blind-sided them all with his betrayal. To this day, you do not know why he joined the enemy, nor why he stayed.

It makes sense he might have naively devoted himself to a different cause.

“What fairy tale was that?” you ask. “The enemy?”

“Chris.” Changbin looks at you beneath the sweep of his dark bangs. His smile is wry. “He asked me about Chris.”

You blink back at him, surprised by the answer. After stumbling over any number of replies, you say, “That wasn’t in your initial report.”

“It didn’t seem important,” Changbin says with a shrug.

“You have a responsibility to report back everything—”

“Yes, commander,” he says dryly. He slumps in his seat and crosses his arms. “Does it matter now? I told him Chris was dead.”

Not a lie, in a way. Bang Chan was a rebellious subject in his youth, nothing like the merciless soldier he is now. The inhuman machine was wrought through inhumane treatment. You were not privy to the grittier details nor have you ever felt an inclination to investigate. You do not need knowledge of the gruesome torture that was administered. The results are the same: the rebellious boy died. He has been gone ever since he was dragged into a basement room for correction.

“Chris,” you say. The name sits heavy on your tongue. “Why would he want to know about Chris?”

“The better question is, why didn’t he want to know about me?” Changbin retorts. It sounds like a joke, his tone jumping back into comically exaggerated hysterics. But there is a tension in his shoulders that was not there before. “You know he didn’t even recognize me? Ah! The little brat! I knew him too! I wasn’t Bang Chan, no one was … But I was there. Forgetting me… We’re all that’s left!”

You tilt your head and study Changbin, as if there are more answers in his face than in his words. Your gaze drifts to the scar by his eye. He got hit today, taking a swipe meant for you. Other adversaries have sent agents to scour the late enemy’s business remains, but they are no match for soldiers of Miroh.

Changbin joked he was being a good bodyguard. In truth, he is a good bodyguard. Your security team is competent but nothing compared to him. It has made a difference, having someone so reliable at your back, even though it has painted a target on his. Your father is not happy Changbin outsmarted him. Changbin jokes about it, as he is wont to do, claiming he can’t wait for a pummelling of his own. He is probably right. Miroh has been quiet about the bodyguard assignment but that does not mean he has surrendered. He is a strategist. He is patient if it means results.

Raising children into soldiers is a testament to that patience. You look at Changbin, arguably the last true survivor other than yourself.

We’re all that’s left.

You find yourself reaching for him. It is not like you, but lately everything seems out of character. You touch his face, drawn to that scar, a scar that should be yours. You touch it very lightly.

When you meet his eyes, he is looking at you strangely. You are not a famously affectionate character, not even with him. You rip your hand back and shake your head.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, more curious than accusatory.

“Nothing,” you say. “I mean – well.” You scrub a hand over your face. The weeks have healed the worst of your injuries, but it is still littered with scars, including the ones Changbin gave you.

His eyes linger there before he sighs and drops his head. He rubs his face too.

“We’ll talk later,” you say, suddenly feeling the weight of today, not to mention the accumulative exhaustion of the days before. “It’s been a long day.” An understatement.

Changbin doesn’t argue. You separate to use the facilities and dress down for rest. You sleep in sweatpants and a t-shirt, your weapons and shoes not far. The one bed has plenty of space. You lay down first, certain that your mind is running too fast to rest, but all that exhaustion catches up to you.

You wake some time in the middle of the night. When Changbin gets out of bed, the dip and rise of the mattress stirs you. You blink awake, watching him amble over to the window. There is a cushioned seat and he plops down, his arms crossed and his eyes on the stars.

You wonder if you look that young out of combat clothes. His hair is ruffled and the black t-shirt and pants are comfortably fitted. His face looks vulnerable and open as he stares into the night.

“You’re awake too,” he says, not looking at you.

“Obviously,” you reply. You push yourself upright. “You woke me.”

“Sorry,” he says, trying to flash you one of his jovial grins but barely managing.

“You look tired,” you say.

“Thanks,” he replies with a laugh.

“You should go back to sleep.”

“I’m on bodyguard duty,” he jokes, gesturing to you. “I need to make sure no one murders the murder princess.”

You give him a dry look that makes him giggle. Naturally his humour returns at your expense. He really is the little brother you never had.

You slide off the bed and join him at the window seat. You shove and kick like bickering children until you are comfortably settled. You sit with your legs curled up to your chest, mirror images of each other. He looks out the window and you look at him.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says, an automatic response. Then he shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t know, princess,” he says. “I don’t think you’ll understand.”

“What makes you say that?” You cannot help but feel offended even if he is probably right. You do not have heart-to-hearts, which is what this feels like, a quiet moment carved out of chaos. If everything was different, you would just be two friends talking about your normal lives.

Your life is anything but normal.

“I know you,” he answers, simple and confident. “I know who you are. Even when – well, no matter what happens, I guess.”

“Well,” the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, “that makes one of us.”

You swallow your thoughts quickly. Your innermost turmoil cannot be entrusted with anyone. It is dangerous to even think such weakness, never mind vocalize it.

Changbin looks at you with a pinch in his brow. You look away, up at the sky. You wonder about the vantage from the stars, seeing the bigger picture of your life. Your pain and sacrifices have to be worth something. Miroh always said the world was full of shadows, dark spots no regular person could clean. He was right about that. He is definitely one of them, but sometimes only darkness can fight darkness. Or so you thought. All this business with the enemy has changed things. That darkness collapsed in on itself like a black hole, taking everything with it.

“It used to be easier, didn’t it?” Changbin asks. “Just doing what you’re told… You can tell yourself it’s not your fault, that it would have happened anyway… Maybe I was believing in fairy tales too.”

You look at each other. He just sighs.

“A part of me feels like I never grew up,” he says. “I’ve always been what I am. Maybe it’s time to stop.”

“That sounds a lot like treason,” you say, realizing how dramatic it sounds after the fact. Miroh is a businessman and this company is not a country. And yet treasonous is what it feels like, a deep betrayal to the place that raised and shaped you into what you are. It feels like treachery to even think about abandoning it after everything.

“Maybe it does,” he says. He gives you another wry smile, flicking his bangs out of his face. “Does it matter? He already wants my beautiful head off its beautiful shoulders.”

“You shouldn’t be saying this to me,” you say. You’re Miroh’s daughter. Your relationship with your father might be fraught, but your loyalty is to this house and always has been. It is the only constant in this tumultuous, violent world.

“Are you gonna tell on me?” Changbin teases, so unserious on such a deathly serious matter. He just laughs at your silent but intense stare. He shakes his head as he looks out the window. “I don’t worry about that.”

“About what?”

“You telling on me.”

That stops your heart faster than the treason.

“Why not?” you ask slowly, as if you are wary of a trap about to spring.

Changbin puts a hand in his hair, shaking out his ruffled bangs. He looks normal but also not, his strong body so clearly built for violence. It is why you are shocked when he reaches out, when he touches you like you touched him, an undemanding press of his fingers along a scar.

Your startled eyes find his. It splits your focus. You see Changbin right now, older, stronger. You also see him younger, thinner, looking at you with concerned eyes as he wipes blood off your brow.

You blink again and it is just him as he is now.

He drops his hand.

“You don’t trust anyone,” he says. “I know. Ha! I really know.” He swings around, planting his feet on the ground. He reaches into his pocket then flicks open a pocketknife.

It should make your heart palpitate, a soldier with a weapon in your proximity, especially when you are unarmed. But there is no rush of blood, no fear, no worry. You just look at him, seeing all of him, young and old. You realize there has been more than one constant in your life.

The knife catches a glint of starlight, a flash of light in the darkness.

“You and I are the same, aren’t we, murder princess?” he says. “But also not. You were raised in the pen with us but it was never the same. We’re just animals to him. Raised to the slaughter, ha! But not you. One way or another, you’re going to be someone.”

You watch as he lifts his hand. He curls and uncurls a fist. He looks down at his palm.

“When it happens,” Changbin says, “Because it will happen, tomorrow or in a month or a year or whenever Miroh decides… But when I go like the rest of them… When it’s just you and you’re trying to decide who you want to be, not who your father wants you to be… When you’re trying to remember everything and you can’t decide what was real and what was just training and what was Miroh…”

He draws a slow slice across his hand, not so deep to be detrimental to his grip, but enough to draw blood in a long, thin line. You look at this small scar as if it the deepest wound you have ever encountered.

“Just… remember me,” he says. “I didn’t bleed because I believe in Miroh. I’m your soldier, not his.”

You are at a loss for words. You do not think there are any words, none that you were raised to know. You can only stare at the little trickle of blood as it runs down his wrist and drips onto the floor.

You have always felt very alone. You learned to thrive in that solitude. Even clinging to the hope of your father’s approval proved exhausting and useless. You accepted your high promontory was a lonely one.

Not even that solitude compares to the idea of Changbin gone. Even if you go weeks without seeing him, he is out there somewhere. You both keep your heads down, get the job done. Not the best soldiers, not the worst, but the ones still here.

You let instinct override your senses for the second time that night. When he makes to stand, your reflexes snap into action. You grab him by the arm and snatch the knife. He has no time to respond, watching as you slice a similar scar on your own palm.

Your eyes meet. You are unflinching, more resolute than ever. You clasp his hand and the blood smears in a signifying pact that needs no other words.

Only when the moment settles do you say, “You’re not a half-bad bodyguard.”

His laughter comes to him slowly, none of that empty joviality but a genuine burst of it. His eyes crinkle and his smiles widens and the laughter bubbles out of him.

“I’m the best bodyguard,” he says. “And don’t you ever fucking forget it.”

In the light of day, last night’s whirlwind of dramatic emotions feel tempered. You and Changbin are able to conduct yourselves with a proper degree of soldiership. Though his words and your promise are in the back of your mind, you put it away for now.

You dress in combat gear and pack your bags for another day of infiltration, investigation, and clean-up. It is hard to say how easy or difficult the day will be. If you encounter other agents, the confrontation could complicate things, but sometimes that is better than a long day with no interesting discoveries at all.

The enemy had properties scattered all over town, some active and some not. This particular office building is a very old one, seemingly long since abandoned and turned into company storage. Some of these boxes have not been touched in decades, perhaps remnants of the business as run by the previous generation.

A thick layer of dust coats the desks and boxes. At least your masks are put to work, filtering the dusty air as you trail through the building.

“Yahhh,” Changbin whines, flicking some papers off a desk. “Today’s going to be boring.”

“Yup,” you say in accord. There is no way anyone else will be here. You doubt there is anything of value to be discovered, but Miroh will harass you if you do not complete his missions as outlined. With so much tension between you already, it is better to keep your head down and complete the menial tasks, even if it is blatant busy work.

A few of your officers are sent ahead to sweep the building. It is not a towering skyscraper but several tall floors nonetheless. Your subordinates take different floors while you and Changbin take an upper level. You begin the tedious task of rifling through the abandoned documentation.

“I’m a supersoldier, not a secretary,” Changbin gripes, moving boxes with more force than necessary.

“You’re not a supersoldier,” you say without looking up from your work. “There’s no such thing.”

“I’m pretty close,” he says, flexing and kissing his bicep.

“When you start flying, maybe I’ll consider it,” you retort, dryly.

“All right, I’m not a supersoldier,” he says. He takes off his mask to grin at you. “But I am super good looking.”

You take off your own mask to throw at him like a projectile. He squeals and ducks, then proceeds to cuss you out for the next few minutes while you smile.

Eventually he takes a seat. He props his booted feet up on a desk while sorting through some papers with absent-minded perusal.

“So tell me again about the security log,” Changbin says, evidently growing bored within minutes.

You can hardly blame him. It is why you are about to reply, but your thoughts are quickly obliterated. Gunfire reverberates in the nearby stairwell, followed by shouting and thumping. Seconds later, your warning pagers are vibrating. Your officers’ voices come through the communications software.

“Hostile enemy agents breached ground zero,” they say. “Be ready for confrontation.”

You and Changbin spring into action. Your masks are unfortunately abandoned, too far to grab in a rush thanks to your shenanigans, but your bags and weapons are within reach. You swing them on and arm yourselves, racing into the corridor to join the rest of your team.

It happens very fast. One moment, this ancient building is nothing more than a dilapidated office from a bygone era, brimming with useless nothings that no one would want. The next moment, it is overflowing with enemy agents, pouring in one after the other.

You and Changbin join the other officers in the stairwell. None of you are prepared for the sight that greets you, the sheer number of adversaries that come streaming into the building at rapid speed.

“What the fuck,” you say, realizing far too late you cannot take this many agents. You have not had anything near this problem before.

You look at Changbin, both of you shooting uselessly to stop the encroach of hostiles.

“We need to retreat,” you say in unison. You nod at each other.

The message gets passed along the communicators. There is no way to escape through the ground floor, the enemy agents chasing you up the stairwell. You take out your phone to call for back-up, relaying the message directly to Miroh’s team leaders.

“Can you at all identify the hostiles?” the man asks.

“Do we know who they are?” you shout at Changbin over the gunfire and chaos.

“Ah, well they’re not friends!” he replies.

You pause in your ascent to squint down at the approaching horde. The uniform colours are familiar at a glance, but the dog tags confirm your suspicions. It locks you in place with shock and confusion, because there is no way that makes any sense.

These agents belong to the enemy. The enemy. It explains the numbers, as only that house could rival Miroh in terms of size and numbers. But it is not possible he is conducting an offensive attack because he’s dead and his business is in shambles. There is no one to conduct an operation on his behalf. It makes no sense.

Changbin grabs you by the back of the neck, hauling you up the stairs with him.

“Not the time to stop and smell the flowers, murder princess,” he says.

“It’s the enemy,” you say. “I don’t know how or why, but it’s them.”

“We’re sending a back-up team straight to you right now,” Miroh’s leader says.

You end the call to focus on your surroundings, confusing and chaotic as they are.

You watch as several of your officers are taken down. You wince at each reverberation of a gunshot that kills them. A dozen more faces flash in front of your eyes, every child in that program with you, every enemy you have killed on Miroh’s behalf. Chris. Felix. Changbin, young, small, looking at you with concern.

The reign of fire follows you. You think you will be hearing gunshots for days.

“Get her out,” one of your officer’s says into the comms, directed at Changbin. “Leave through the roof. We’ll hold them off.”

You trip running up the stairs.

You never trip, far more coordinated than the average soldier. But you hear your officer say that and your mind’s eye is overwhelmed with the image of them dying. Because that is what will happen. You should not be bothered by it. You can train a new security team. They exist for this exact reason.

But all their faces are flashing in front of your mind. Your team, the program soldiers, the First Guard. A thunderous pain rattles down your spine, a cry leaving your lips as you are inundated with visions of death that you suddenly cannot shake.

“Up, up!” Changbin shouts, hoisting you onto your feet. “You’re better than this!”

He’s right. You are a soldier. You trained for this. You were made to fight.

You push through the pain and thunder. You get your feet back under you. You race with Changbin to the roof and trust your team to do what is best.

You slam and bolt the door behind you. You look around for something to barricade it but there is nothing. Changbin meanwhile opens his pack and takes out the rappel line and harness. You have had little use for it on most of the assignments, but it is standard tactical gear when assigned any investigation or clean-up work, as it can require getting into locked areas through sky access. You almost left them behind today, knowing the building was abandoned and you would have no difficulty getting in. You are glad you decided against that.

“Here,” Changbin says, handing you the harness. “Put this on.” He ducks back down to finish securing the line on the edge of the roof.

“They’re not gonna be able to hold them,” you say, fitting the harness around yourself. It is second-nature. You hardly need to think, fastening every buckle as you stare at that closed door. “They’ll be on us in seconds,” you say. “They’ll just follow us over the roof on the line.” You grant your odds are better on the street, that you can endeavour an escape, but that is only if you get that far. Those enemy agents are going to blast down that door like it’s made of cardboard, then they will be on you.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, your adrenaline propelling every breath. You do not have time to think twice. It is why it takes you so long to notice that Changbin has not put on a harness.

“What are you doing?” you ask when he stands, completely unprepared to rappel down the building. “We have to go! Put your harness on, idiot!”

He takes the hook and locks it onto your harness, fastening it with a few skilled flicks of his fingers. You grab his hand, stopping him.

He takes a breath and finally meets your eye. The wind blows his dark bangs across his face, opening up his expression to you. You can feel the furious scrunch of your own features go lax. Just like that, your adrenaline dwindles, all that heat turning to an ice cold block in your chest. It drops to your gut.

“Changbin,” you start.

“You’re going to go down that line,” he says. “When you’re at the bottom, I’m going to cut it so they can’t follow you. It will buy you time to get to the vehicles and get away.”

“Absolutely not,” you say. “What the fuck are you thinking? You—”

“I’m your bodyguard,” he says with that wry smile. “This is my job. Let me do it.”

“No,” you say, struggling against him. You try to unhook the rappel line but he fights back, not your usual play-fighting but deadly serious. “You can’t be serious!” you shout. “We’re the same thing! If you’re staying and fighting then I’m joining you!”

“We’re not the same thing!” he shouts back. “You’re a Miroh! You need to get out of here!”

“You’re right, I am a Miroh!” you say. “It’s me they want anyway! You put on the harness! You can still get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving here without you!”

You want to reply. The words are right on your lips: I’m not leaving here without you either.

But before you can say them, all that thunderous pain fractures your vision again. Your focus splits. You see Changbin in front of you, dressed in his combat gear with the wind in his hair.

Then everything changes.

The sunny sky darkens and the rooftop disappears. You see the colour grey. It is all around you, halfway blinding you, filling your lungs so you can hardly breathe. You blink rapidly, as if that will clear your vision, but it is just more grey and the sound of faraway voices.

Then you see Changbin again, in his combat gear but years younger. Just a teenager, all skinny cheeks and sharp angles. There is no wind in his hair. There is no wind anywhere. He is bleeding profusely from a head wound, a stark slash of red in the middle of so much grey. He says your name. You hear your own voice but it is a foggy, faraway thing. You cannot make out what you are saying. When you look down, you cannot see your body. You can only see him. You can only hear him.

“I’m not leaving here without you,” he says.

Then you are abruptly yanked out of that grey. You are back on the rooftop in the sunshine. Changbin has his hand planted on your chest, securing the last piece of the harness. You hear the thud of someone kicking at the bolted door. You look there frantically. Changbin does too. Then you look at each other.

“I told you I was the best bodyguard ever,” he says, smiling.

He whips off his glove, revealing his freshly scarred hand. He grabs your bare hand, the one with the still-tender scar. He clasps your hands together and looks at you with a desperation you have never seen before, like he is trying to tell you a thousand things with just a glance.

Then he slowly lets go of your hand.

“Sorry I can’t fly,” he says.

He shoves the middle of your chest, hard. You go tumbling over the edge of the roof just as the enemy agents break the door down.

There is nothing you can do mid-air. You can only shout his name, terrified and furious and desperate all at once. You scream your emotions out until the line comes to an end, a few feet from the ground. You unclip your harness and drop to the ground smoothly.

“Can anyone copy?” you speak into your comm, looking up at the roof helplessly. You watch as an enemy agent swings over and starts to climb down the rope. You draw your gun and brace yourself.

Then Changbin’s head pops over the edge. “Copy,” he says, then cuts the line.

You jump out of the way. Seconds later, the enemy agent comes careening into the ground. The pile of rope lands on top of him.

“Fuck,” you say. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Changbin!” you shout hysterically into your comms. “Changbin, can you copy?”

He doesn’t answer. You run over to the body, searching for something. You don’t even know what, you just know that this whole situation is wrong.

It does not take you long. You roll the body over. Though his neck is now twisted at a fatal angle, you recognize the agent. He was standing in your father’s office just a few weeks ago. His name was Agent Slump. You shot him through the shoulder.

These are not enemy agents attacking the house of Miroh, they are your father’s men attacking you.

You push away from the body, looking frantically up at the roof for any sign of further commotion. You see nothing from this vantage.

You run back into the building. You let adrenaline and instinct carry you up the stairs, taking a few at a time and ignoring the burn in your thighs. This is Miroh, you keep repeating to yourself. Your father has done this. Sending fake enemies after you. Teaching you yet another lesson. You said you could handle yourself. You said your security team could protect you. Now you are running past their dead bodies, your chest heaving from exertion and emotion. You find yourself blinking back tears. You cannot remember the last time you cried.

“Changbin,” you say into your comm, tripping on another step. Your voice comes out of the comms on your dead officers. It echoes in the empty stairwell. “Changbin, answer me, please,” you say. “It’s not the enemy. It’s my father. It’s Miroh. Changbin. Changbin.”

You are halfway up the building when you hear voices below. You stop to listen. Your vibrating phone makes you jump.

“Miss Miroh?” comes a voice, then you see one of your father’s officers at the bottom of the winding stairwell. This one is not playing a part. He is in the standard uniform. There are more officers behind him. The back-up you called like an idiot.

You do not go back down. You drop your phone and race to the roof.

“Get her,” you hear the officer say, then the stairwell is thundering with footsteps as they chase you.

You no longer know what you are doing. You do not know where you are going or what you will find. A part of you is unsurprised when the rooftop is empty, that they got away, that now your father’s men can come in and play hero.

You look around for Changbin but you cannot find him anywhere. You try to tell yourself that is a good thing, that it could be worse, that he could be as dead as your security team, just a body on this roof. You try to tell yourself that he is safe. It was just Miroh. They are probably taking Changbin back to the main facilities right now. Everything will be fine.

Deep down, you know nothing will be fine. Everything has changed.

You hear the officers behind you. You look around. The building next door is too far for a regular person to jump, potentially too far for you to jump. It will be cutting it close, but it is all you have. At this point, you halfway hope you’ll fall and your father’s men will be forced to report they let you die.

You shed the top layer of your combat shirt, getting down to the tank top underneath. You are not sure it will make a difference, but every bit counts. You back up and count a few seconds, then you take a running leap off the roof. You get a grip on the next one, though not without a lot of pain. You grit your teeth and hoist yourself up, ignoring your scraped arms as you take off running. You open a skylight and drop into the building. Another empty corridor stretches in front of you.

You decide your objective it to escape. You can confront your father after, but right now you need to prove you can handle yourself. You can get out of here.

You are certain your father’s men will have the vehicles locked in. Once you escape this building, you will have to find another—

A window behind you shatters. You duck and cover your head as glass explodes around you. You roll to get away, though your limbs are shaky from everything. When you get to your feet, it is more unsteady than usual.

You turn around. You feel that sinking feeling in your gut again.

“Oh my god,” you say. “Of fucking course it’s you.”

Bang Chan stands there, cold and ungiving like the living shadow he has become. Your father likes an agent that can both disappear and intimidate, so Chan somehow feels like a terrifyingly huge figure, looming over you, despite the fact he is not much bigger or taller. His presence is hulking, as deadly and awful as you remember. He stares at you with those dark eyes over the half-mask. He is not breathing especially hard despite the fact he just took a running leap from the opposite building and smashed through a window. His body is as steady and ungiving as his gaze.

You do not waste any more breath cursing. You turn and run.

You know it is useless but you have to try. In your head, if you get away, that is a bargaining chip. You can talk to Miroh, you can show him that you were right, you can have Changbin back, and Changbin will be fine and—

You let out an aggravated cry when Chan grabs you. You manage to rip away after a few good kicks. It is amazing what hidden strength lies in adrenaline. Your heart is pumping even faster than your last fight with him.

You duck into a stairwell and jump over the railing, landing a couple floors below. You keep doing that, ignoring the fact you can hear him copying you. If you look back, it will slow you down. You keep jumping until you hit the bottom floor.

You make it a few steps before he grabs you again. This time he is relentless, a big gloved around wrapped around your throat.

That adrenaline betrays you. It is like all your training abandons you as your terror and fury rips through you. You struggle against him, your motions jerky and frantic and poorly strategized. He pins you to the wall, using his whole body to lock you in place so you stop kicking him.

“Let me go,” you say, barely above a whisper. It makes him tighten his grip on your throat. You twitch helplessly, gripping his arm uselessly, your face pinched with anger.

You are swiftly joined by the other officers. You glare at them, still digging your nails into Chan’s arm. He does not soften his grip until he is ordered, then he puts you on your feet. You stumble, your vision covered in black spots as you suck in deep, gasping breaths. It was not even just the choking, as he did not squeeze hard enough to fully incapacitate you, but as your adrenaline dwindles, your strength does too.

You trip for the third time. Someone grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you back up. You are not sure if you are more surprised or terrified to find it is Chan, looking at you with calculating eyes. You stare back at him, this manifestation of your father’s worst, most inhumane actions. You are torn between apologizing to him and kicking him again.

Then another officer grabs you. You watch with alarm as he puts you in handcuffs.

“What the fuck?” you ask. “Who’s fucking side are you on?”

“Miroh always, of course,” the officer says. “This is for your own good. You are behaving erratically. Don’t be scared. We will inform your father that you tried to flee from your own protective officers. I am certain he will do everything in his power to ensure you cannot put yourself in harm’s way again.”

You have no more words. An animalistic cry escapes from your chest, ripping through you. Even with your hands cuffed behind your back, you dive at the officer and take him down. You bite down on his ear until you taste the metallic tang of blood. He screams under you until someone rips you off him. They hold you by the back of the neck like a poorly behaved puppy.

The officer gets to his feet. Blood is pouring down the side of his neck, part of his ear torn. You spit blood at him.

He raises his hand as if to strike you. You stand there, chin jutted forward, ready to take it.

Then you realize it is Chan holding you. When the officer brings his hand down, Chan moves you. He steps in between you and catches the officer’s wrist.

Chan says nothing. He does not need to say anything. He looks at the officer and the officer swallows.

The officer snatches his hand back and straightens his clothes.

“We’re leaving,” he says. “Guard, take your charge.”

You are looking smugly at the officer. That cockiness dissipates when Chan turns around and looks at you. It has you immediately shrinking away, then flinching when he grabs your arm.

They take you to a truck. It is one of the holding trucks, the kind they use for transporting undesirables. It is obvious they always intended to lock you in chains. You have been in metaphorical chains your whole life, and it is only taking this to realize it.

You try and slow your frantic breathing. You cannot have a breakdown right now. It will only make it harder for you when you confront your father. You are already at a disadvantage, being dragged to him in literal chains. You will be completely at his mercy, and Miroh does not have mercy.

You sit on the bench in the back of the prison truck. You expect to be alone with an officer, giving you time to strategize and think, but then it is Chan climbing into the van and sitting on the bench across from you. All the hairs on your body stand up. You cannot concentrate on anything with Bang Chan in close proximity. He moves like a wild animal, something predatory and swift about him. When they close and lock the door, your heart skips beats.

Chan says nothing. He never says anything. On the rare occasion you have been in contact, you have not heard a word out of him. You seldom have anything to do with the missions he runs. They are above even your paygrade, the worst of Miroh’s work.

You swallow. He is not speaking but he is staring. He does not remove the mask. You have not seen him without it in years. He is nothing but a soldier. An army unto himself.

Your heart skips another beat. An idea slowly forms in your mind.

You are better than average. Chan is better than you. You cannot take all these agents on your own, but you could definitely take them with his help. Of course, that is an entirely hypothetical thought. It would be absolutely, completely, severely ridiculous to even try. You are certain the best reaction you will get out of Chan is nothing, just a penetrating stare and silence. The worst would probably be a snapped neck.

You curl your hands behind your back. The scar on your palm stings. You clench your jaw.

You have nothing else to lose.

“You’re not a soldier, you know,” you say.

Just like you suspected, he says nothing. He just stares at you. The truck rattles along, jostling you so your handcuffs jingle. He moves with the sway of the vehicle, hardly affected.

Your fear turns to frustration. You heave a breath.

“Did you hear me?” you ask. “You’re not a soldier. You’re a prisoner. You’re not who you think you are. Miroh has you under his control, but it’s not real. The real you is in there somewhere. And the real you—” The words come rushing up, slamming into your furiously clenched teeth, “The real you hates Miroh almost as much as me.”

Chan stares at you. That is expected.

What is unexpected is the slow tilt of his head. It makes you shiver, instinctively cowering as he studies you. His brow slowly quirks, a questioning expression. You did not know he could make such an expression.

“Are you… listening to me?” you ask.

He straightens, but he still looks questioning. It is enough for all your desperation to rush to the surface. You fall forward, slamming on your knees in front of him. You are so scarred and bruised, it hardly matters. More important is the fact he looks down, as if he is more concerned by it, though you cannot read any more expressions on his stoic face.

“Chan,” you say. “Chris. Whatever you want to be called. If you’re in there, then listen to me, please. I know you don’t know me. We hardly knew each other at all growing up. But we did grow up together. Miroh is controlling both of us. He is going to use us to do things. He—” You curl your fist behind you, needing to feel the sting on your palm. It brings a tear to your eye.

Chan is looking at you, expressionless again, but it doesn’t matter. You have to try.

“It’s not just us,” you say. “This is bigger than you and me. I have a—I have a friend—my friend, you understand, and I—”

The van comes to a stop. Chan grabs you by the shoulders and puts you back on your bench. You screw your eyes shut and shake your head. You want to scream.

When you open your eyes, you pour all your anger in your glare. It is not directed at Chan, though he is the one to catch your gaze and hold it.

You are still looking at each other when the door is unlocked. There was only a small window providing light in the cabin of the truck. A bigger slash of golden light has you wincing.

Chan is unaffected, still staring at you. An officer opens the door wider and nods to him.

“Let’s go, guard,” he says.

Chan gets up. You watch as he struts past. He jumps out of the van and lands smoothly on his feet.

Then he reels back and punches the officer. It is quick as a snap, the unconscious body hitting the tarmac in a flash. It makes you jump, the bench rattling underneath you.

You sit, petrified, confused. Chan slowly turns. You blink at him.

He holds out his hand.

“What?” you say. It comes out a rasp. You cannot manage more words. There is no way your frantic, barely coherent pleading got through to him. This man has been tortured into compliance. There is no humanity left in him, no memories, no emotions, no hopes. He does not feel anything. He does not understand anything. He is a weapon.

He is still holding out his hand.

There is nowhere to go but forward. You get to your feet and shuffle towards him. He still does not speak, nor does he look at you with any particular expression. He just holds out his arms and lifts you out of the van. When you are on your feet, you stare at each other.

He spins you around. A gust of breath whooshes out of you. You panic for half a second, then you realize he is unlocking your handcuffs.

Never mind. He is breaking them with his bare hands. You watch as they hit the ground in a mangled heap. You turn around slowly, your knees still shaking.

Chan is calm as the other officers approach. Someone asks why you are out of your handcuffs.

Chan looks at you. You do not know why or how, but he nods.

You nod back.

You are a soldier. You trained for this. You were made to fight. It is time to remind them of that.

Your father is in his rooftop garden. Miroh has a few soft hobbies like that, gardening among his favourite. He sees himself as a cultivator as much as a green thumb, bringing more life into the world despite what life he takes. It balances for him. The ends always justifies the means.

You walk into his garden. It is obvious he is not expecting anyone, much less you. He does not have time to hide his surprise. You just fought your way through all of his security measures, battered and bruised and beaten. You have not seen yourself, but you are certain your body is a canvas of violence right now.

“Hello, father,” you say.

“Go to my office,” he replies without hesitation. “We will talk there.”

“No,” you say calmly. “We’ll talk right here. Right now.”

He is holding a watering can. He puts it down without looking and it tips over, splashing everywhere. Neither of you look at it. Your eyes are locked on each other. You both know what he did today. He is smart enough to work that out.

“Where are my men?” he asks.

“Detained,” you answer. Chan is holding them off somewhere. You still do not know why or how, but there will be time for that later. You have to solve one problem at a time.

You have no real plan. You are making it up as you. All you know is that scar on your hand is throbbing.

I’m not leaving here without you.

You touch your palm, running your finger over the scar. You do not look away from Miroh as you approach him. Your legs are weak, your knees shaking, your body in agony, but you take one step after the other. Given the stricken look on his face, you think this might be more disturbing than if you were healthy.

Your injuries might have made you equal fighters, but his arm is still in a cast, weakening him too. He will not win in a one-on-one fight. He is smart enough to know that too. It is why he takes a careful, calculating step back.

“You’re injured,” he says. “Go to the infirmary. We can talk after.”

“We can talk now,” you reply, taking another step forward.

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” he says.

“Where is he?” you ask.

You are both speaking calmly, moving slowly. The watering can is slowly leaking water, gurgling in the background. Wind moves through the flowers. You hear birdsong in the sunshine. Still, in the background, it feels like the world is screaming, the high-pitched whistle of that pot at a boiling point.

“Who?” your father asks.

“I’m not playing any more games,” you say. “I’m not playing dress-up with any little secret agents. I’m not getting in any rings and playing made-up fights with your silly toy soldiers. No more lies. No more games. No more secrets. Seo Changbin is my best officer. I want him back. Tell me where he is.”

“His time as a soldier has run its course,” Miroh says. “His body is more useful than him. The initial special-ops experiment was a failure. His genetics might unlock the key to replicating the medicant. We can try again. You should want to help me. You would know better than anyone what worked and what did not.”

Your exhaustion and emotion nearly gets the better of you. You almost hurl right in front of him, imagining all the horrifying implications of genetics and keys. You imagine them taking Changbin apart, piece by piece, experimenting on him like a slab of meat.

You keep your disgust and horror down. You take another step forward.

“Give him back to me,” you say. “Right now. I told you already. I’m not playing any games.”

“You are deeply unwell,” your father says, his tone changing as he looks at you with more scrutiny. His whole face seems to darken with the furrow of his brow. “This is not like you. Go to the infirmary.”

“I’m not asking again,” you say. “Give him back to me.”

“Why?”

Because you’re my father, should be a good enough answer. You know it will not work. You know he does not care. Miroh hates you because you are his daughter. Miroh is not scared of anyone because he knows he is the best. He is scared of himself in you. You never stood a chance.

“Because he’s my friend,” you say, because that is the only truth that matters anymore.

It makes your father laugh unexpectedly. You do not break.

“Your friend?” he asks. “Oh, well, my dear, if he’s your friend, then of course I’ll suspend all my plans and operations!” He continues to laugh.

“I already told you,” you say. “I’m not asking again.”

You fly at him without further warning. He has a half-second to react, his eyes widening as he side-steps clumsily. With your mutual injuries, it is not much of a fight. After a short scuffle, Miroh kicks at your legs, your weakest point, and you double over. He swings his knee up into your stomach and it makes you fall, curled protectively over yourself. You plant your forehead on the ground, arms around you, breathing hard.

“That is how a daughter should be before her father,” he says, looking down at you in your broken little bow.

You look up as he reaches into the lapel of his coat. He has kept his gun in the same place for years. In the same place you always keep yours when you wear a long coat.

He puts his hand there and finds nothing.

You uncurl, showing the gun in your hand. You point it, cock it, and place your finger on the trigger as you stand.

“If the next words you speak are not his exact location, I’m killing you,” you say.

“Then kill me,” he says.

He must know you are running on fumes and a half-baked plan that you did not believe would work. He is calling your bluff, knowing you like he knows himself. You will drop the gun and concede. Miroh wins. Miroh always wins.

But you are gripping that gun with your scarred hand. It sends a twinge of pain shooting up your arm. You hear Changbin’s voice in your head.

You pull the trigger.

You are not sure who is more surprised. You can feel it on your own face, dripping with your sweat and blood. You lower the gun and watch as Miroh stumbles backwards, frantically patting his chest. You wonder if he is wearing any protective layers.

It doesn’t matter, in the end. You spent the last few minutes walking him backwards. If you couldn’t get the gun, you were going to grab him and threaten him with the edge of the roof.

When you shoot him, he stumbles. He falls back. He goes right over the edge.

You stand there for a long minute. The watering can has emptied. The wind has gone still. The whole world seems to stop. When you drop the gun, it hits the concrete with a clatter. It feels very strange that the sun is still shining.

You walk to the edge of the roof. You look down. Your father has loomed over the world from this perch for years, looking over the things he has so meticulously grown.

He is laying in a broken heap at the bottom of it now.

You do not know how long you stand there. The wind begins to blow again. You feel it on your face.

Then you hear a voice. It nearly makes you jump.

“What now?” it asks.

You turn around. Bang Chan is standing there in his dark combat gear, that half-mask still fastened in place. He has finally broken a sweat, his hairline damp, and his chest is moving a little faster with breath. He is human somewhere under there. Deep, deep down. You have no idea what to do with that human anymore than the soldier.

One problem at a time.

A few more officers appear on the rooftop. Chan turns. You approach him.

“What now?” you repeat. You scoop up the discarded gun and point it at the officers. Chan draws his own and does the same. You stand side-by-side, arm-to-arm, eyes on your adversaries. “Right now,” you say, “we fight.”

You pull the trigger.

The fight begins.

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan x you #chan x you #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanficiton #bang chan fanfiction #skz x you #stray kids x you

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winterzsurprise · 10 months

Text

Tags: Breeding kink, rough sex, overstimulation, creampie, he bites you. SMUT, NOT BETA READ, big dick Miguel (as always).

Words: 1.1k

I am so sorry it took so long @gracielukey :''DD, a minor subject had the audacity to give us three projects back to back. I hope you like this one tho. I hope I did your idea justice somehow :''DD

now I shall succumb back into the darkness until college ends, adios and have a great day/night everyone!

hermosa - beautiful || cariño - darling

Ever since you told him of your decision to carry his kid, it’s like a switch has been flipped on Miguel.

On the days where work doesn’t overwhelm his schedule, he researched day and night for ways of increasing your chances of conceiving, from dishes of ancient or foreign origin to books from different universes, he read them all.

Diet is out of the question, if he wants you to consume sugar or meat, you comply and if you don’t, he somehow makes you do it.

Not that you can really complain when he's got the skills on par with an immortal chef who has cultivated their skills for thousands of years. There's a reason why Hobi still comes to inner circle dinners despite how loud his displeasure is towards the organization and Miguel.

He says it’s because he’s too lazy to cook or he’s broke but you all knew it was a lie.

There’s no questioning the plenty of times Miguel took advantage of both of your enhanced endurance as superhumans, though it always ends up with you tapping out from overstimulation and muscle aches after being bent and spread wide open under him for hours upon hours.

Hell, even days if your schedule allows it.

You don’t even wanna start on the strong musky stench of sex and sweat fogging the room nor would you like to address the copious amount of cum pulsing out of you to be cleaned later on when he treats you to a warm bath at the end of every session.

A monster, that’s what your decision your sweet husband has turned into.

He once researched about your condition further and came home with a renowned determination to prove himself unique and If there's anything about that man, if he's passionate enough, he'd do anything to reach his goal.

Which brought you to your current situation.

"You're never going to leave this house until I make sure to fuck a baby into you."

You pant, pushing at his broad shoulders as pain intertwined with pleasure rockets through your trembling body, shaking legs numb on your chest after being folded and manhandled by him for the past hour, forced to take every deep thrusts that feels like he's puncturing your organs raw.

It's unbelievable how he manages to reach heights thought to be impossible.

"Fuck… Miguel! I-I can't…"

"You can take it, I’ll make sure of it."

A particular, deep thrust got you screaming and eyes rolling back as he hit your spot once again. He didn't relent after that, making sure to angle his hips just right before every push.

As his venom slowly fades away, pain starts to ricochet inside you. You were tempted to ask him for another bite but the complaining aches in your muscles had you biting back the urge.

It’s been so long since you’ve started, you wanted to rest, even just for a split second.

He halts mid-thrust, hands reaching out for yours to intertwine them before pinning your arms above your head. You immediately meet his gaze as if magnetized by it, Miguel’s eyes are dilated to the nines, void of the crimson it's supposed to be and the buzz at the back of your head grows at the sight.

When his hand wrapped around your neck, your body stiffened. Yet the fear tightening around your heart only got adrenaline thrumming beneath your skin.

Even when he's triggering your senses, you only found the threat exhilarating.

"You're not going anywhere, cariño." The thrust that followed only solidified it. "Not until I fuck a baby into you."

The cold marble countertop dug into your back as he feverishly ruts his hips. You grabbed for life onto his hands while pleasure and pain tightly intertwined in your guts. The sloppy sound of skin slapping echoed in the room, burning your cheeks with embarrassment as you’re reminded once more of how much he’s filled you up.

Tears blurred your eyes as his pace only grew more rabid with every passing moment, head going light from the overwhelming mix of ecstasy and ache.

As if it wasn't enough, he pressed onto your abdomen and your eyes rolled to the back of your head while he groaned, eyes never straying away from your stomach.

"Just imagining your stomach growing plumper and fuller with our child… Fuck."

A shiver wrecked your spine.

Your nerves fizzled with the constant onslaught of dopamine, electric currents bounced from the top of your head and to the tip of your toes. It was too much, yet you yearned for one more, hips meeting his thrusts.

"Miguel, please!" You sobbed.

"Give it to me, hermosa. I want it all."

A sudden tightness in your stomach abruptly unfurls and you came for the nth time tonight, convulsing and pathetically writhing under him.

Your body immediately complained from the continuous stimulation it received, seeing the difficulty in your crumpled expression as your eyes mist with tears, Miguel slows to a halt, cupping your cheeks and you lean into his balmy yet warm hands.

"I'm nearly there ok? Can you do it, hermosa?"

His voice felt far, as if you were hearing it from the far end of an unending hallway but you nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck for support. As he slowly gains his pace, your back arches and you find solace in the crook of his neck, sobbing and whining into his skin as he pushes into you.

Seeing the difficulty scrunching up your face, Miguel didn't hesitate to bite into your shoulder, hoping to alleviate the pain as he worked up to his climax and you shuddered.

His venom made quick work and numbed the aches as well as the ecstasy. When you came for the last time that night, you didn't get the usual rush of euphoria in your veins, instead, it rocked through you like a shiver and a couple of sharp flinches in your legs.

You vaguely felt the sensation of his arousal bursting inside you before he collapsed into your arms, finally succumbing to the temptation of rest after so long and you internally celebrated.

"You’re not allowed to touch me for a day, you monster."

He laughed, it was light and despite the fog in your senses, it still sounded like jingles to your ears.

"I'll make you your favorite later, is that enough?"

Confused by his word choice, you turned to the windows in front of the sink to see the signs of the rising sun peeking through the sheer curtains and you groaned.

It’s already somewhere around five to six AM in the morning.

You guys missed dinner because of his newfound determination. The dish you prepared after marinating the chicken for the whole day, now lay waste on the floor after being accidentally nudged at some point.

"You're going to clean that up."

"Not if we do it again.”

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader one shot #marvel fics #marvel smut #spiderman smut #spider man fics #spider man smut

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hailsatanacab · 1 year

Note

"give me a fandom and a prompt and i'll give you at least five sentences"

Ok then.

Jazz, Danny and Bruce are in the same age range, and Bruce has been harboring a massive crush on 7'foot tall Jazz since just after he began his training journey.

His kids know about and are mercyless. Danny thinks he's a bit of a fruit loop and 100% knows Bruce has a crush on his sister.

Into the future his coworkers find out that batman has been quietly pining after the Ghost Kings sister for years.

Chaos.

love that this reads as a challenge. Ok then. Write it. i will, let's goooo!

(sorry i kinda took it so that Jazz, Danny, and Bruce were all old friends but in that horrible adult way where you can only hang out with each other once in a blue moon when your work schedules miraculously align)

——

"Respectfully, Batman, you can take your "it's not necessary" and you can shove it up your arse. There's a demon the size of a skyscraper heading towards Metropolis and we need reinforcements."

"Superman can—"

"Superman can't. You do remember the part of the report I made telling you this, right? Or did your stubborn little bat brain just shut down when I mentioned magic?"

"Actually," Nightwing interrupts from the side, a shit-eating grin on his face, "I think his brain shut down when you mentioned the Ghost King."

"Nightwing." Batman growls in warning, his jaw clenching so hard Constantine can swear he hears the bones creaking.

Nightwing just snickers, and turns away to press a finger to his ear, no doubt letting the rest of the bat brood in on what's happening here... Whatever that is. All Constantine knows is that Batman is standing between him and fixing this mess for no God-forsaken reason.

Luckily, some of the more reasonable members of the League step in to try and talk some sense into Batman. It gives him some time to calm down.

"Batman. We need him. I know you dislike working with unknowns, but he's our best shot."

It actually looks like Wonder Woman might be getting through to him, Batman even opens his mouth to actually explain some things—a huge step forward for this incredibly emotionally constipated man.

Instead, Nightwing snorts and beats him to it. "Unknowns? More like—"

"Nightwing, please."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, get your head out of your arse and let me do this. The Ghost King is our only hope. I'm summoning him, no matter what you say."

For a long second, Constantine thinks that he'll refuse and he might have to resort to more violent methods of persuasion—which, honestly, Constantine has fantasised about many times during the more boring JL meetings—but eventually, Batman relents and steps out of the way.

"Fine. Nightwing, go check in with Red Robin."

Nightwing has the kind of devious smile that makes John glad he doesn't have kids.

"Oh, don't worry about it, B. Red Robin's coming here. So's Red Hood, I don't need to go anywhere."

"Nightwing—"

"Sh, it's starting." So saying, Nightwing then very obviously ignores Batman's protests with a poker face that even Constantine envies. What he wouldn't give to be able to shut the bat out like that.

The summoning goes quickly, thankfully. The lights flicker, the temperature drops, and the chalk circle erupts in green flames. Standard summoning practices, sure. Even the impromptu appearance of Red Hood and Red Robin—"Did we miss him?", "No, not yet! I got 2:37, what about you guys?"—doesn't throw him off.

It does pique his interest, though. Just what the hell is going on with them? Constantine's weighing up the pros and cons of asking them once all of this is over when the ground splits open and the clawed hand of the Ghost King begins to pull himself out of the ground.

John's a seasoned summoner. It's practically his job, he's done it countless times.

The icey fear that grips his heart, that freezes his breath in his chest, is new.

Pure, unadulterated power floods the area and he feels small, so, so small, like a child playing with things he doesn't understand. When he finally tears his eyes away from the portal, he catches a glimpse of the other magic users in the room, the same horror he feels clear in their faces. Even Captain Marvel stares slackjawed.

The pressure rises, death magic screaming in his ears, almost forcing him to his knees, and suddenly he's not so sure this is a good idea.

Too late to back out now, though.

Sickly green light pours from the crack in the ground, growing brighter and brighter as the giant figure rises, until Constantine has to close his eyes and look away. The last thing he sees are eyes, teeth, horns, a crown so bright that it burns an afterimage into his retinas.

When the light dies down and he opens his eyes again, a humanoid man floats in the centre of the circle. The ground is whole, nothing is burning, the man doesn't even have a crown. Instead, other than the wispy white hair, slightly green skin, and the—you know—floating, the Ghost King appears pretty normal. Huh.

Constantine blinks, rubbing his bleary eyes, and checks around to make sure everyone's okay. Most of the League are doing the same as him, taking fortifying breaths and trying to appear as if they've not just been completely blinded.

Most of them, that is, aside from the Gotham vigilantes.

Batman himself stands upright, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered by the whole thing and John's got to admit, he wishes he could do that, too. That was... a hell of a show.

The others, however, are waving frantically with huge smiles on their faces.

What?

There's a brief, taut silence, as everyone else tries to catch their breath.

As much as he would rather take a bit of a breather, John should probably start making introductions. Unfortunately, he only gets as far as opening his mouth before the Ghost King beats him to it.

"Oh, Ancients, hey guys! It's been forever, how are you? Look at you all, so grown up, wow—Nightwing, buddy, do a flip!"

It doesn't take much to get Nightwing going, and he certainly doesn't leave it at one flip. The whole of the Justice League and Justice League Dark watch with open mouths as Nightwing performs for the Ghost King.

What, and John can't stress this enough, the fuck?

As soon as Nightwing rights himself, Red Hood swats him across the back of the head and calls him a show off.

The Ghost King just laughs as he claps. "There's my little monkey, look at you go! And I'm loving that leather jacket, Hood, is that new? Looks good on you, really your colour. Brings out the red in your helmet."

"Thanks, Uncle D. At least someone around here appreciates fashion."

"Are you kidding me, you know I breathe fashion, need I remind—"

"Need I remind you of the Discowing incident?"

"That was era-appropriate and you know it! Uncle D, tell him it was era-appropriate!"

"It was era-appropriate, but so are crocs and it doesn't make them fashionable." The Ghost King—and holy shit, is this actually the Ghost King? Or did Constantine just accidentally summon a deceased family member, what the fuck is happening here?—turns to look at Red Robin with a smile, resolutely ignorning the argument he created. "How you doing, Double R? You get that tablet Tucker made for you?"

"Yes, thank you! It's so cool, how did he—"

"How's Tucker doing?" Batman interrupts, his hands now hidden underneath his cape.

As soon as the question leaves his lips, everyone groans. Red Robin makes a show of lifting up his wrist and staring at it intently.

"Incredible," Red Hood mutters with a shake of his head.

Even the Ghost King seems put out, rolling his eyes and answering in a flat tone as if he knows Batman isn't interested in what he has to say.

Not for the first time, Constantine feels like he's missing something.

"Tucker's doing very well, thank you for asking."

What follows is the most awkward silence Constantine has ever had the pleasure to be a part of.

All three of the Gotham vigilantes, including the Ghost King, are staring at Batman, waiting for something. Batman's cloak shifts as if he's moving his hands, fidgeting. If Constantine didn't know any better, he'd say he was nervous.

"Good. That's good, I'm glad to hear it."

Instead of saying anything else, the Ghost King just raises his eyebrows and continues to stare at Batman. Has he offended him in some way? Are they all going to die because of this?

After what seems like an agonising few minutes but could only really be a few seconds, Batman's shoulders dip and he takes a breath. "And Jazz?"

They all erupt into shouts, the Ghost King being the loudest. The only thing John can make out is when the Ghost King throws his hand in the air to point at Red Robin with a shout of "Time!"

"1:30.91, we got 1:30.91 on the clock, who's closest?"

"Did you even try to hold it in at all, old man? I'm so disappointed in you. People think you're cool. People think you're suave, I don't understand how they could be so wrong."

"Thank you for that, Hood."

"No, thank you, I won. Again. Because you're so predictable. Actually, I had one minute seventeen, so you held out longer than I thought you would."

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs loudly.

Constantine feels like doing the same thing.

Whatever. He's going to have to interrupt... whatever this is. There's still a rampaging demon heading their way that they've got to bargain for. He can untangle Batman's personal connection to the Ghost King later. Or he could leave it alone and forget everything about it.

Yeah, he'll do that one.

But before he can actually open his mouth to say anything, the Ghost King, again, beats him to it.

"So, B-Man, did you summon me here for a particular reason, or was it really just so you could ask about Jazz?"

There's a beat of silence before Batman mutters, "I asked about Tucker, too. We've not seen each other in so long, it's only polite."

"And I'm sure you meant it, you're the paragon of manners." The Ghost King nods slow and wide-eyed as if he doesn't believe him at all.

At this point, even Constantine doesn't believe him.

"It has been forever, though." The Ghost King muses, bringing his hand to his chin and folding his legs underneath him. "We should all get together sometime! If you get Alfie to make some of his cookies again, I'll get Clockwork to lend us a pocket dimension where we can spend as much time as we want, deal?"

"It's a deal."

No hesitation at all, incredible.

Hold on. Wait. John has to fight the urge to pinch himself, because this has to be a dream, right? Is Batman actually smiling? He didn't even know he could do that.

An itch niggles at the back of John's mind. He's starting to get an inkling of what's going on here and it's... weird, to say the least.

"Oooh," Nightwing singsongs, like a child in a playground tickled by the very idea of romance.

But then, who's he to judge? John's no stranger to strange bedfellows, that's for sure. Whoever this Jazz is, she must be something incredible—she'd have to be, if Batman can't even go two minutes without asking about her.

"Batman and Jasmine sitting in a tree," Nightwing continues, with both Red Hood and Red Robin joining in for the rest. "K—I—S—S—I—"

"Stop," Batman growls, completely drowned out by the Ghost King's laughter, but...

But.

It all suddenly clicks for John.

The Ghost King Phantom.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Jasmine Phantom.

Jazz.

"Holy shit, mate," John breathes, unable to stop himself as everyone looks his way. "You have the hots for the Princess of the Infinite Realms?"

The Justice League meeting room has never descended into chaos quicker.

#dpxdc #danny phantom crossover #danny phantom x batman #hoooolllyyy mackeral #it was hubris thinking i could keep anything to five sentences really wasn't it?#fucking played myself with that didn't i???#anyway here's even more words on this i hope you enjoy!!#some things that didn't make it in:#duke doesn't come to see danny because he's too bright when he's in his ghost form and it gives him a migraine - he still plays the game #though and is second closest!#damian is there he's just biding his time. it's become a tradition for damian to try and stab danny whenever he turns up #he hasn't managed it yet but danny keeps encouraging him to try again! you'll get me next time champ!#it infuriates damian to no end - no he's not doing it because he's having fun he legitimately wants to kill him shut up!#danny loves cass so much and when they do all get together they always sit together - it often ends up with cass curling up around danny #ellie turns up every now and then! she's like an honourary wayne at this point #she's always down for any pranks and shenanigans #thank you for the prompt!! it was very fun. as you can see i got rather carried away haha #thank you i hope you enjoyed it!!!#my writing #cab writes

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billthedrake · 5 months

Text

MVP PRIZE

NOTE: This is a water sports story.

The season wasn't over, but the college football team had only the bowl game ahead. In another day or so, the players would be back on campus, getting ready with a workout and a final practice. For now, the university was quiet, dead quiet the day after Christmas, and on a dark winter evening the parking lot was empty except for a pick up truck and an SUV parked two spaces down.

"You're early," Kevin Fielding said to the quarterback, whose tall athletic body seemed bulkier now that he was bundled in his parka, shoulders hunched some to keep warm.

"Couldn't wait Coach," Brock Mullins said, his voice laughing some at how absurd he must look to the authority figure. "I've been thinking about this nonstop since Championships."

Coach Fielding nodded. He knew as much. The kid didn't even have to say. It had been in his eyes in that excited on-field celebration when they clinched the conference title. Mullins was a competitor through and through, but the incentive Coach had agreed to was every bit on his mind as much as winning the big prize.

He now fumbled with the key in the lock of the metal door to the field house. Their breath condensed in the cold night air and Kevin felt the quarterback's hand cup his meaty ass through the sweat pants.

"Not here, damnit," Coach hissed.

Brock pulled it back but was insufficiently chastised. "What, Coach? No one's around at this hour."

The man paused and looked at the jock. 22, dark haired, ruddy cheeked, handsome as fuck. Kevin had to get his head examined for carrying on an affair like this. But they don't grow quarterbacks like Mullins on trees, and they don't make young men so completely and effortlessly sexy like him either. "All right, Brock,"" he relented. "You earned the right to be a little naughty."

The QB shot him a surprised smile which turned into a leer as his wide hand went back to that muscular coach ass. When he'd started college, Brock thought he was bi, but this whirlwind thing with Coach had him realized he liked men. Real men. Older men.

Already those QB fingers were dipping beneath the waistband of Coach's sweats.

Rather than get a rebuke, Fielding exhaled an exited breath of air. He'd let Mullins call the shots WAY too much. But damnit those fingers felt nice, in their direct probing deep into Kevin's crack, and zeroing right on his hole, where Brock's index finger curled to taunt and play with the elastic assring.

"Fuck Coach... you have an amazing ass," the jock hissed quietly, maybe not worried about someone hearing, somehow. "Gonna miss this when I graduate."

"A good four months away, Mullins," Coach croaked. He liked to play gruff with the kid, but truth was he didn't know what he'd do once this stud went off to the greener pastures of the NFL.

"You're not getting romantic on me are ya, Coach?" the quarterback deflected.

Only then did Kevin notice a couple of gallon jugs next to his player's feet.

"Jesus, Brock!" he gasped.

The jock now blushed. "I just wanted to be prepared," he said, contritely. He read the look for pure fear in Coach Fielding's face. "Listen, we can call this off if you want."

Kevin gulped. "I never back away from a promise," he said. "You know that."

"Yeah, Coach," came the well trained reply.

Fielding took another look at the jugs and shook his head before opening the door and ushering Brock inside.

The player flicked on the halls lights while Coach locked up behind them. If anyone came, they could make up a plausible story. And if it wasn't plausible, people in this college town would believe anything these guys said. They were practically heroes around these parts. Across the whole damn state, even. The championship had only cemented the hero worship.

From the back, Kevin couldn't help but admire the jock. Over the last year, something had clicked. Brock carried more muscle on his tall frame and just, well, walked like a professional jock. It had taken a lot of conversations and convincing during the quarterback's freshman and sophomore years to get him to take leg strength training as seriously as the linemen on the team, but by junior year Brock realized that was part of the game too, for strength and balance alike.

Now, Mullins had an incredible bubble ass in those paper-thin jogger sweats, clenching with each stride. It was a quarterback's ass to be sure, but fuck...

They hadn't talked about how this would go down. But this was Brock's fantasy, so Kevin let him guide it. It had all sounded so crazy back in October, when after a long, almost romantic session in Coach Fielding's bed, the older man promised he'd indulge his quarterback's kinkier side if they won the big title. And if they won the BCS championship, anything was on the menu. Anything.

Kevin Fielding wouldn't have to worry about the "anything" now. Even after the team's incredible season, the team would have to content themselves for being Conference champs. But what a hell of a rush it was. First time in over a decade. Not only would this make Coach Fielding's job secure, it would certainly help in salary negotiation.

But it was about more than the money. Kevin lived and breathed football. Got a hardon for success on the field, and had since he was a tight end back in the day. He used to think he was a freak, getting sexually charged by a win, but it turns out he wasn't the only one. Hell, Mullins was right there with him.

They'd first fooled around - crossed that forbidden line between coach and player, authority figure and student - in this very shower. So it seemed fitting now that Brock was leading them back toward the shower entrance, setting down the jugs. They were gonna do this here. Brock's eyes were on his coach as they stripped down, just like they were suiting up for practice. It made Kevin feel like he was in college again, one of the guys, even if he had a bigger body now... more fit than beefy but still a middle aged body.

Objectively, Fielding knew he was a good looking masculine man. Thick head of dark hair, dark soulful eyes, trimmed beard, strong ex-jock build, masculine as fuck.

But Mullins was a Greek god of a jock, only thicker in his muscle than any ancient statue. NFL-sized muscle. Already Brock was peeling down those joggers, and Kevin's eyes widened to see that amazing long, thick bone stick up, horny as fuck.

Brocks smirked as he kicked off the sweats and faced the man. "Been holding off a few days, Coach," he said.

Fielding gulped. He always did, even a year and a half into their affair. It wasn't right that this golden boy was porn-star hung, but that QB cock was insanely long. When the kid was horny, which seemed practically all the time, Mullins neared the 10-inch mark. Not overly thick, but a regular-width, almost straight piece of jock meat.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Kevin hissed as he peeled down his sweatpants. He wasn't Mullins hung, but his thick tool looked right on his thick, hairy bod.

The athlete nodded and his prick jerked. But even as he acknowledged Coach Fielding's hesitation, he felt the urgency that this just might happen. "I delivered for ya, Coach," he said, simply. Football was a team sport, and the championship belonged to everyone, but Mullins was MVP and there was no doubt their success relied on his ability and natural leadership.

"Yeah," Kevin replied, folding his clothes in a neat pile on the locker room bench. "In the shower?" he asked.

Brock cocked a grin. He picked the jugs up and followed Kevin into the tiled area.

Coach still didn't know how this was going to go down, not exactly. He watched Brock set down the water jugs and turn back to face him. The man almost chickened out, but he'd promised this to his quarterback. Moreover, the athlete was clearly excited, and the look on Brock's face made Kevin want to give this experience to the jock. Not just endure it.

"God, you're so hot, Coach," Brock said as he stepped up to Kevin and wrapped his arms around the man's solid waist. Fielding had been a quarterback in college, too, but he was much shorter, 5'11" to Brock's towering 6'6". Still, the jock pulled the man leaned down as he pulled his coach's naked body to him. They kissed, mouths parting and tongues connecting.

The make out session felt perfect to the older man, and he was so caught up in it that the first shot of warm liquid against his hair torso took him by surprise. He moaned into Brock's mouth as another jet of piss sprayed him.

"Fuck, this is so hot," the player gasped as he pulled back from the kiss. He looked down to see that thick coach muscle dripping with pale yellow drops.

Surprisingly it didn't freak Fielding out. It was just warm liquid and felt kind of pleasantly ticklish on his skin. "You holding back, Mullins?" he grinned.

Brock laughed. "It's hard to piss with a boner, Coach," he explained. "But fuck... my bladder is so full."

Kevin gulped. "Take your time, buddy."

The QB nodded. "I intend to. You're giving me my fantasy, Coach." He ran his hands up and down the older man's strong back, moving up his throwing hand to squeeze Fielding's meaty trap. "Why don't you kneel down?" he asked with clear need. "I'll get a towel for you."

Coach wished he was more turned on by this. But this was Mullins' show, his kinky fantasy. His dong was soft and thick, hanging between his hairy thighs as he knelt down on the folded towel Brock offered.

The jock meanwhile had lost only a little of his hardon. It stood out, not standing fully but long and menacing nonetheless. The slight loss of erection did the trick. The quarterback reached down and aimed his prick right at Coach Fielding's chest and let it rip.

"Jesus!" Kevin gasped as the hot spray hit his platelike chest muscle, the force making piss spray reach the bottom of his chin. He could smell it now, not acrid, but definitely salty urine.

It seemed to last an eternity, but in reality Brock's cock was bouncing up to full rigidity again. The spigot was turned off, and Kevin watched some stray drops of liquid fall from his player's cock tip. The kid really had an amazing dick.

"This is so frickin' hot," Mullins hissed as he looked down on this authority figure. He took a deep breath and added, "Close your eyes, Coach," he grunted.

"What?" Kevin asked. Not processing the request.

Brock's lust was making him impatient. "Come on, Coach. I won the fucking game. Close your eyes unless you want it to sting.

Nervous, Kevin did as asked. He clenched his eyelids tightly. Brock Mullins was a kinky fucker, more kinky than Fielding liked. But he could do this.

Brock held his monster dick and tightened his abdominal muscles to press down on his still very full bladder. The piss traveled through his urethra and shot out in a high arc that actually went well over Kevin Fielding's head until Brock pushed his prick down to hose down his coach from the forehead to the chin and back, before he unclenched his abs.

"Fuck!" the QB gasped. He'd fantasied about watersports, but this was hotter in real life even.

Kevin sensed the piss stop and opened his eyes, braving the quick sting before he refocused on his athlete. Brock had a look of excitement, but also surprise as his eyes were focused downward.

"You like this Coach," he said in in astonishment. "You're hard as a rock."

Kevin was still processing this. But Brock was right, his coach dick was very stiff between his thighs. The man felt used but in a good way, his body fur soaked with the first rounds of jock piss. It felt wild and taboo.

The man leaned up, showing off his boner to the kid. "Guess so, stud," he hissed. "Fuck!"

Brock smirked. He didn't give Coach any warning this time, but it wasn't a full piss, just a quick shot of urine he let loose. He didn't have careful aim but some splash on Kevin's chin, briefly reaching his lips.

"Jesus," the man grunted. Leave it to his star player to show him some new tricks. He looked up at Brock, their eyes connecting in shared sexual excitement. Fielding felt more than a little ashamed and a lot vulnerable. But Brock's eyes told him that the kid was into this even more that Kevin was going along with it.

Maybe the thrilled look in those hazel eyes made Kevin open to it, but as he looked up, he opened his mouth and ran his tongue along his lips. Instantly, he could taste what Brock's piss was like.

"Damn, Coach," Brock hissed. "Merry fuckin' Christmas to me."

The coach laughed as he leaned back up. "Not as bad as I feared, Mullins," he admitted.

This was beyond a dream come true for Brock. With any other man, the piss play would be hot, but having THIS man open to it was a dream come true. "Plenty more where that came from Coach," the QB said.

"I bet," Kevin said then looking over the athlete's nude torso, he asked. "You still feeling full, Brock?"

The jock nodded. "I drank a lot of water on my way over."

The man's eyes went back to that massive dick. Hard, but losing just enough of its rigidity to let loose again. He took in a deep breath. It was now or never, he decided. "Just go easy," he warned as he leaned forward and latched his lips over the tip of Brock's dick.

"Oh shit!" Brock gasped. Then, "Oh yeah..." He felt the soft tap of the man's tongue. He'd experienced coach's oral skills a lot but this was different. The quarterback worried he was gonna get too hard quick, so he just let loose with a stream before his thumb and forefinger cut off the spigot.

Kevin Fielding's dick jerked in excitement at the first contact of Brock's piss on his tongue. It wasn't that it tasted good, just the opposite. But it was the forbidden nature of the act that turned Coach on. It was a crazy intimate experience. Maybe Kevin had a kinky streak too, because he swallowed the urine and pulled off with a hungry look.

"Damn, buddy," he said, his tone almost complaining. He was a little upset that Brock had showed him he liked this, at least if it was Mullins doing the pissing.

Brock was almost hyperventilating. THIS was hands down the hottest sex of his life. The only bad thing was the quarterback might have a hard time going back to vanilla. "God, you're really fucking in to this, Coach."

Kevin felt emboldened now. He didn't answer other than to lean back to latch his mouth over that dong once more.

Brock released his pinching grip and shot another spurt into Coach's gulping mouth. It took just a few seconds for the two men to get a rhythm going, Brock easing the release of just the amount of piss that Kevin swallowed in loud gulps, each swallow turning both men on more.

Finally the flow stopped and Brock stepped back, his hardon swaying. "Too fucking horny to piss," he explained.

"You got anywhere to be, Mullins?" Kevin asked. Surprising himself, but damnit he wanted more of Brock's piss. It was a headfuck that he was enjoying.

Brock laughed. "Nah, Coach. Glad you're up for a longer session. I did NOT expect this."

"Me either, kid," Fielding laughed. His brown eyes grew more serious. "You think less of me, Mullins?"

Brock shook his head. "The opposite, man. Fuck..." The athlete wished he had a bigger vocabulary, but the swear word captured his state of mind, horned up and his mind more than a little blown. He looked down on his kneeling coach. "You really up for this, Coach?"

Kevin gulped and nodded. He watched as Brock methodically picked up one of the jugs and undid the plastic lid, popping it open and tipping up the whole thing to his mouth. It was like Mullins was at football practice on a hot August day, the way the kid gulped it down. Not all in one go, but the Coach watched half of the jug disappear down the hatch before Brock pulled it back to take a break, then resuming. The whole time, the athlete's cock was rock hard. No way was he pissing anytime soon, and both men seemed to know that when Brock finally set down the empty jug, his bladder making his lower belly swell a bit.

Piss or no, Fielding was back on that cock. Now bobbing up and down on the stick to give the kind of blow job that he knew Brock liked for longer sessions. Enough stimulation, enough pleasure, without tripping the kid's wires too quickly. The young man spread his legs and looked down on the coach fellating him.

"Can't wait to piss in your mouth again, Coach," he hissed, running his fingers in Kevin's hair, which was still damp from Brock's hosing. "Tell me we're gonna do more of this.... tell me this isn't the last time you're gonna drink my piss."

Kevin felt his heart pound. He realized this was driven by his desire for the golden boy was much as it was an innate love of watersports. But leave it to Brock to make him question that distinction. He spit out the prick and growled. "It's not going to be the last time I drink your piss."

Brock grinned and contracted his abs once more. A hard jet of pale yellow splashed right on Kevin's face.

"Fuck yes," Kevin growled. He was fucked up to get into this shit, but he now moved his head around, just as Brock was directing his stream all over from the thick hair to the mouth.

"Take it, Coach," Brock grunted. The spray stopped but as he watched Coach Fielding's mouth descend again, a beeline to that beautiful cock, Brock redoubled the pressure and pissed right into Coach's open mouth. Kevin let it pool in his mouth then gurgled it down.

Both seemed disappointed when the stream finally stopped.

"Need a break," Brock explained, apologizing. "Maybe you can suck me some."

Coach Fielding grinned. "Can definitely do that.... but you're more an ass man. Mullins."

That giant dick jerked. He knew what Coach was offering. "Yeah, I am."

Kevin had an impish look as he ran his mitt up and down that piss wet dong. "Championship MVP deserves a fuck."

"Shit..." Brock's voice was catching in his throat. The was a lot of things to navigate fooling around with his coach. Boundaries, respect... all the football stuff that could be thrown off balance by the sex. They'd tiptoes around a LOT the first year of their affair, but now had reached a good vibe. On the field or in the locker room, Coach Fielding called the shots, but in the sack, Kevin Fielding let his Golden Boy get his way.

"You got the stuff?" Brock asked. They'd experimented with a lot of lubes, and found a favorite.

"In my office," Kevin said. "You think you can take a break from the piss?"

Brock thought a half second. "I need to cum pretty bad, actually. I'm SO worked up right now."

"I can tell," Fielding grinned. He got up off the kneeling position and reached over to turn on the shower. He'd want a quick rinse not to get the remnants of Brock's piss everywhere. His player meanwhile strutted out of the shower, making his way back to Coach's office to set up. There was a spare mat they'd used to fuck before, mating right there on the floor of Coach Fielding's office.

The coach was a little contemplative as he turned off the shower. He was a little scared of himself and how out of control he'd gotten. Pissplay and fucking right here in the fieldhouse. But the naughtiness was a turn on.

No need to dry himself off, Kevin padded his way to his office, dripping on the linoleum-tiled floor on the back to the metal and glass door. He could lose his job over this, but somehow knew he wouldn't. Just as people wouldn't know Brock Mullins was a star athlete into other dudes and with a kinky side. The young man would probably make waves in the NFL and if luck and talent and hard work won out, he'd enter the pantheon of elite quarterbacks.

And if the jock ever needed a piss buddy, Kevin Fielding knew he'd take whatever booty call the younger stud made.

His big muscular body shook in that realization and he took another deep breath before opening his own office door and stepping inside.

(TO BE CONT.)

#drakestories

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prose-for-hire · 11 months

Text

Night Owl

Pairing: Spike x reader (w/ epilepsy)

Request: Spike and a reader who has epilepsy starts having seizures. They are out on a date and he looks out for them. Comfort fic.

Requested by: @blue-eyes-broken-heart (Anon Liz)

A/N: Hope this is okay for you babe and I hope you’re doing well !! I don’t have epilepsy so google was my guide on this one, if it doesn’t quite work please (please!!) tell me it can always be changed 💖

Here are some brief first aid tips on how to help if someone is having an epileptic seizure: https://www.redcross.org.uk/first-aid/learn-first-aid/seizures

You hadn’t exactly met Spike in a traditional way, he had tried to kill you and his friends at your school parents night. But, later, when he had got to know you more, he had realised feelings had started to blossom. Spike had been sweet on you, since the days you had spent together while he was chained to Giles’ tub. You were the only one who didn’t complain or taunt him when you made him blood. The only one who sat through Passions and the only one that held an actual conversation with him.

He appreciated you for that, thought you were a decent sort. But soon he began to develop these feelings for you. He couldn’t explain it, the idea of falling for a human had once been laughable to him. But you, you were something else.

You usually stayed up with him during the night, you tended to do a lot of reading and it was a time of day that you were most comfortable. Later on, he used to call you his night owl. Then, his favourite night owl. Which made you glow. You were as nocturnal as him it seemed.

Some evenings he would ask you to read out loud to him. He just loved to hear your voice. It was his favourite sound, he could listen to it for the rest of his life and never get sick of it. He loved everything about you and he told you as much one early morning that you shared together in his crypt once he was finally done being passed around the Scoobies as their hostage.

He had made the crypt extra comfortable, just for you. So that you would spend as much time as possible there. Which, you of course did. In fact, you ended up moving in. You loved your routines, the way you both had a passion for great (and some not so great) tv shows. He knew you inside and out and loved you more for it.

He doted on you and he didn’t change once you explained that you had epilepsy, a conversation you wanted to have before you moved in. He of course worried about you but he didn’t treat you as if he felt he had to be cautious around you. In fact, he didn’t change how he acted at all, he just nodded once and smiled at you, pressing a kiss against your lips and carried on telling you about this fight he had in like 40 BC.

He always looked out for you though. He once charged up the steps to the highest level of the Bronze and ripped the stage lighting out so that it wouldn’t trigger one of your seizures. To be fair, he had asked them nicely not to use them to begin with. Well, he snarled at them and threatened their lives. But, hey, you never said he was perfect.

You didn’t want perfect. You wanted his every flaw, you wanted every twisted and darkest parts of him. You never wanted him to have to hide parts of himself away. Because that was him.

Tonight was date night. He hated when you called it that, he was evil and evil creatures didn’t do date night. But when you gave him one of those looks he relented and just held your hand and walked into your date. It was already 12AM, you had enjoyed a nap together that afternoon so you were characteristically going to end up staying up most of the night. Which suited you both just fine.

He had taken you to a bar. One on the outskirts of Sunnydale that you had said you wanted to check out sometime. He had drove you both there, his insistence on being your personal chauffeur was very sweet. That was, until he started driving and then you were more focusing on trying not to fear for your life.

He drove like a bat out of hell. Though he got a bit grumpy whenever you used that particular phrasing, it reminded him of Dracula and there was some debt between them that was apparently a bit of a sore point. Not to mention that when he did drive with you in the car, his eyes were barely on the road, he was so distracted by you. Despite this he had never actually crashed. He was an annoyingly good driver except for the speed. His driving did get you to your destinations quickly though, you were never late to anything with Spike around.

You had a nice night, you laughed and danced together, he was very happy to show you off to some of the demons he recognised. You and he let loose, had a lot of fun. You eventually started to feel fatigued, seemingly from all the laughing you had been doing so he took you to sit down at a secluded table at the back of the bar.

His hand in yours, his eyes drinking in your form. He couldn’t figure out how he had got so lucky. How he had bagged someone as amazing as you. He didn’t know, but you had been thinking the exact same thing. He was everything to you. You felt so safe, so protected with him around.

He opened his mouth, wanting to tell you just how much he loved you, when he noted you were looking a little detached from the surroundings. You were somewhere else. In your head.

And then it happened. You were having a seizure. He saw that you were about to fit a split second before it even happened. With inhuman speed Spike was by your side, cradling your head so that you didn’t hurt yourself. His touch was firm and tender as he lowered you to lie down on. You were losing consciousness.

He ripped off his shirt and balled it up, putting it behind your head so that it acted as a cushion. He didn’t care that he was half naked in the middle of the bar. He couldn’t feel the cold, after all. And he didn’t care for the opinions of anyone else except you.

He had swiped a bunch of medical textbooks when he was last raiding the local emergency room for blood and had read everything that he possibly could about how to care for you in the best way possible. He rested you on your side with your head tilted back, hoping you knew he was right there with you. He glared around at the people that kept looking over. Most of them just wanted to know how they could help but he intimidated them into giving you space.

You were disoriented. Your mind swam in confusion as you remembered where you were and what had just happened. You opened your eyes, half expecting to be alone somewhere. But, of course, there he was. Your vampire.

He was kneeling beside you, his brows knit in concern as he waited for you to come to. Your eyes met his, the relief on his face evident as he squeezed your hand that you hadn’t realised he was holding. That was when you noticed his bare chest, your eyes lingering on the chiselled abs that you knew so well.

“Why are you topless?” Your eyes focused on your vampire incredulously, “This isn’t a strip club Spike! I can’t take you anywhere” You pretended to sigh and roll your eyes, a tired smile on your lips as he matched your expression.

“Let’s get you home pet” He said, reaching to take his red shirt back from under your head.

“No, uh, that’s okay. I think I’ll keep it” You smiled evilly, taking it back from him. He didn’t argue.

“Thought I was meant to be the big bad, you’re givin’ me a run for my money, pet” He took on your weight easily, one hand under your thigh and the other supporting your back. The red shirt draped around your shoulders.

“You can have-” You started to feel bad, offering to give it back. You were making him walk through the cold night, carrying you and shirtless too. But he took it as a point of pride, having the honour to carry you through the streets. Wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Looks better on you anyway, love” He smiled, leaning in to press a kiss against your cheek as you leaned against his shoulder, the exhaustion of your seizure making you incredibly tired.

You fell asleep in his arms as he cradled your form, you had never felt so safe through the streets of Sunnydale.

#Spike x reader #spike btvs x reader #spike btvs #spike #btvs x reader #btvs imagine #btvs x you #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #buffy the vampire slayer imagine #btvs #spike imagine #spike x you #william the bloody #x reader #gender neutral #gn #epilepsy

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shu-box-puns · 7 months

Text

You wanna be one of them (Tsu'tey x Reader) Part 8

Previous Chapter <- Act 8 -> Next Chapter

If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!

Word Count: 8930

Summary: Reunions and Norm just trying his best :)

Reader uses they/them pronouns.

<”Tsu’tey, you’re being ridiculous.”>

In contrast, Tsu’tey strongly believed that he was not in fact being ridiculous, and chose to say nothing. His mate was a comfortably weight in his arms, their relentless wiggling more endearing than bothersome. He welcomed it in fact, after the stressful night he’d spent tracking them across the rainforest.

His mate did not share the sentiment. They scowled up at his blank expression, apparently choosing their next words carefully. <”Let me down.”> They told him, rather seriously, pulling away from him in an attempt to make eye contact. Tsu’tey refused to meet their gaze, knowing he would lose immediately if he did.

<”Tsu’tey!”> His ear flicked at their tone, but he kept his composure. They groaned. Muttering something about him being stubborn before they scrambled for another argument. <”The palulukan fucked off hours ago! It’s safe now.”>

<”The forest is never safe.”> Tsu’tey neatly countered, and kept walking.

They huffed. <”My legs are getting stiff.”>

<”You will complain they hurt within the hour.”>

<”That is not the point!”>

Tsu’tey found himself smiling despite himself. He knew from their tone that they weren’t actually mad, a tell he’d been forced to learn or suffer through endless misunderstandings.

<”We move faster like this.”> He informed them truthfully, as he neatly leapt over a fallen log, which was just tall enough in diameter, that if his mate had been walking, than he would have to to wait several minutes for them to clamber onto it and then even longer for them to find a safe spot on the other side to slide off. The mental image caused him to snort.

The human in his arms, groaned and threw their head back, the annoying exo mask strapped over their attractive features glinting in the dappled sunlight. Tsu’tey glanced down at them, finding their languid sprawl over his arm ridiculously adorable.

Their head rolled towards him, and their eyes pinned him into place as they tried once more to persuade him. <”Surely your arms have to be cramping from holding me for so long.”>

Tsu’tey scoffed in mock offence. As if he would be so weak. He would happily carry them around for the rest of his life if they allowed him to; human or avatar. Not that he would tell them that.

<”I fear I will lose you in the undergrowth if I let you down.”> He countered mockingly, to which they promptly sat upright in his arms.

<”I’m not that small!”>

He didn’t respond, and turned his head away. His knowing smirk was answer enough.

They scowled at him, pushing at his cheek but failing miserably to actually push him away. Tsu’tey laughed, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. Finally, the tension in him had broken.

Forgetting himself, he paused in his purposeful strides to pull them further up his torso, so he could knock his forehead against theirs, only to be immediately disappointed by the dull tap of glass to his cool skin. He kept the pressure regardless, wishing their naturally warmer skin was pressing into his, sharing their warmth, instead of the glass stealing what little body heat he generated. The largely na’vi gesture was not lost on them judging by the warmth that flooded into their cheeks. To Tsu’tey’s amusement, they pouted but allowed the affection with a looseness to their body, which Tsu’tey thought would translate to a lazy tail wag or soft purring if they were driving their avatar. Although in truth, he wasn’t entirely sure. The Sky People emoted vastly differently to the na’vi afterall, what with their lack of movable ears.

<”Fine.”> They grumbled quietly, when Tsu’tey started to purr again. <”You win.”>

Tsu’tey grinned despite himself, and gave his mate an appreciative nuzzle for relenting. They scowled back, but Tsu’tey knew it was just because they wanted to be difficult.

The rest of the day continued like that, with the pair of them exchanging light banter and playful jabs as the day wore on.

The sun had reached its midday peak when Tsu’tey heard the first yips of ikran riders soaring over the canopy. He was immediately on alert, his snarky response momentarily forgotten as he scrambled to find the source of the yips. Calling back loudly, his voice carried effortlessly through the trees. His mate hissed against his chest as he stepped from the dappled sunlight of the shade into the strong light of midday, but Tsu’tey was more concerned with being noticed and hopefully hitching a ride back to the clan.

Mighty wingbeats circled overhead. And through the trees, Tsu’tey caught sight of not an ikran, but a toruk. Tsu’tey felt his muscles pull tight, preparing to throw himself deep into the undergrowth to avoid discovery, until he noticed that the mighty animal carried riders. This was no wild toruk. It carried three na’vi aboard its colossal back, two of which clung to the one in front who urged the beast of legend to elegantly bank and start to descend with graceful wingbeats. There was only one na’vi alive stupid enough to have tamed such a creature.

<”Is that a toruk?”> His mate breathed, staring wide eyed up at the enormous, orange reptile. <”I thought it moved on.”> That’s what Jake had said anyway, that he had sent the animal away now that it was no longer needed.

<”It’s Jake’s toruk.”>

<”Shit. What do you think brought it back?”>

<”I have no idea.”>

Another yip sounded from toruk’s back, to which Tsu’tey responded sceptically. The rider sitting behind the first visibly pointed, to which the animal promptly altered its course. With surprising efficiency, it managed to slot itself between the arching branches of some trees before attaching itself to a sturdy looking trunk that barely creaked under its weight.

Immediately, the rider in front was sliding down toruk’s back, and then down its wing which it extended to the floor for an easy dismount. The second rider followed suit, whilst the last clung desperately to Toruk’s spines, decked out in RDA issued shorts and matching jacket.

“Where the hell have you two been?” Jake yelled out, the moment his feet touched the ground, Neytiri at his back. Within seconds of regaining his balance, he was jogging to meet them, ears pricked and his tail thrashing with nerves.

“Are the People safe?” Tsu’tey demanded instead of answering the question. “Why did you summon Toruk?”

“They’re fine. Mo’at has everything under control. As for toruk, he came when I called.” Jake replied simply, as if that settled everything. “I explained the situation and he was more than happy to help, but that's not important right now. Where the hell DID YOU GO, TSU’TEY!”

His voice kicked up severely in volume as he approached the Olo’eyktan, a wild look in his eye as he took in the fresh bruises and wounds dotted across his skin. Those weirdly small demon eyes dipped to the human in Tsu’tey’s arms, his bared teeth slackening a fraction as they waved sheepishly up at him.

“And you!” Jake immediately started, jabbing a finger at them, “you are never going ANYWHERE on your own again! Do you understand me?”

Within seconds, he had closed the distance and practically wrestled the human out of Tsu’tey’s grasp. For once, Tsu’tey was so stunned by the protective fire in Jake’s eyes to put up much of a fight. Which left him standing stupidly to the side as Jake held his mate several feet off the ground by their armpits. “You scared me half to death!”

The human glared back at him. “I am fully grown-”

“YOU SCARED ME!” Jake repeated with a sharp shake, which caused them to yelp and grab at his arms. “I asked you to get water, not go on a fucking vacation! Where the hell have you been?”

“There were marines by the river.” His mate growled, “they overpowered me-”

“So why didn’t you scream for help?!”

“You wouldn’t have heard me with how comfortable you were all snuggled up in your bunk.”

Jake snarled at them, ears pinning back. His mate levelled him with a look Grace would have been proud of.

"Oh cut it out. I didn't bloody ask them to abduct me."

Jake chuckled darkly. "Oh I bet you goaded them into it. Probably knew there was no other way of finding their camp now that you knew they existed separately from Hell’s Gate." Jake fired back. “You crafty, brilliant bastard.”

"You give me more credit than I deserve." His mate deflected, but Jake’s attention had already slid off of them and returned to Tsu’tey. He lowered them to their feet before stepping around them to start yelling at Tsu’tey as well.

“And you!” Toruk Makto boomed, shoving Tsu’tey hard. He stumbled, too shocked to bite back. Over Jake’s shoulder, Tsu’tey watched Neytiri struggle to smother her amused look.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to link up. Just DISAPPEARED without a word! Mo’at was getting ready to make me Olo’eyktan! ME!” He jabbed a finger into Tsu’tey’s chest, his expression suggesting that the idea was simply preposterous. As if he hadn’t successfully led the People to war and then back again a few short weeks ago. “And when the fuck did you name me as your bloody successor? Surely you misspoke!”

“After my injury.” Tsu’tey grit out, ears flat. “I would trust no one else to protect the People.”

“Neytiri would have been a better leader than I ever could!” Jake snarled, his tail whipping too and fro so aggressively that the human standing beside him had to move away to avoid losing an eye.

“Neytiri is set to become Tsahik after her mother. I could not name her as my successor too.”

“Jake.” Neytiri cut in, giving her mate a hard look. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.” Jake insisted before launching straight into another interrogating question. “And where the hell is your pa’li? No wonder you’ve been gone so bloody long!”

“It is impossible to track whilst riding, you know this.”

Jake let out an infuriated sound, turning away to grab at his hair. He tipped his head back as if looking to some higher power for strength. The dramatic action was lost on Tsu’tey, as his attention was drawn away by Norm finally sliding off of toruk’s back with a pained ‘oof’.

Tsu’tey’s mate was the first to speak up. “You called NORM!?”

To his credit, the avatar driver did not look offended as he dusted off his cargo shorts and jogged over to the group, various instruments and scientific devices swinging from his large backpack.

“You called Norm.” They repeated, in disbelief. “NORM? Really Jake? What the hell was Norm going to do? Recite every known property of carnivorous flora at the bloody enemy? Throw a test tube at the fucking marines and pray the glass got in someone’s eye?”

“I panicked!” Jake argued, looking rather comical, as he bent to yell down at his friend who had their hands planted firmly on their hips. “Norm knows how to keep a level head, and lord knows we needed some of that with Tsu’tey going rogue without telling anyone where he was going!”

“I thought what I did was right.” Tsu’tey defended to which Jake threw up a hand at him with his middle finger pointing to the heavens. Although Tsu’tey had not grown up with such a gesture, he knew from the pure annoyance plaguing Jake’s features that it was meant to offend him.

“He’s got one of Grace’s scanners.” His mate cut in, “the ones Grace used to measure the electromagnetic connections between the trees. That thing can’t even pick up thermal signatures from point blank range.” As Jake scrambled to find a decent response, they lifted their attention to Norm, who was twiddling his thumbs and looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Did you just grab that out of panic, and realise too late that it would be useless?”

Norm thinned his lips, deciding to avert his gaze instead of answer, his tail diving between his legs as he was stared down by his much smaller colleague. “Norm.” They repeated, stern as Mo’at scolding one of her apprentices.

The avatar driver let out a long, defeated sigh. “It calmed Jake down when he thought I was being useful.”

Jake let out an offended scoff. “How dare you use my lack of technological knowledge to your advantage.” Behind his back, Neytiri was looking at Norm in a new light, looking mildly impressed.

“Well,” Norm exhaled, “I wasn’t willing to sit through 48 plus hours of your anxious nattering, without something to give you hope. I wouldn’t survive the headache.”

The pair promptly dissolved into bickering. With Jake accusing Norm of thinking he was stupid, to which Norm easily agreed, which in turn hurtled them off course and into an entirely new argument.

Peeved by her mate’s behaviour, Neytiri, who had been a quiet bystander until now, weaved around the pair and approached on unsure feet.

<“What happened?”> She asked simply, in that calm but authoritative tone of her’s. The one that nostalgically reminded Tsu’tey of Eytukan.

<”Sky People kidnapped them.”> He explained simply, suddenly aching to scoop them back up. He knew they were perfectly safe now with even more na’vi hunters watching out for them, even Norm would make a decent distraction if something suddenly found them, but he still felt raw. <”There was a camp beyond our territory.”>

<”Did you leave survivors?”>

<”Not one.”>

<”That is good.”> Neytiri said, which was as close to praise as she got. <”Norm-Spellman informed us of a few warrior groups that never returned to Hell’s Gate. He said they were assumed dead, but there have been whispers of human camps appearing in neighbouring clan territories.”>

<”Why was I not informed of this?”>

<”They have been successful in rounding them up alone. They did not want to spread unease among our people.”>

Whilst Tsu’tey did not like the idea of being excluded from something so crucial, from a leadership perspective, he could somewhat understand the motive of the scientists. If only a little.

An ikran shrill distracted him from responding.

Perched upon its tree. Toruk lifted its head and answered, the timbre of its low call sending vibrations through the forest. The ikran chirped in reply, before a large blue blob shot through the canopy, headed straight for the clearing.

Tsu’tey recognised his spirit brother as one would recognise their own reflection.

The ikran wasted no time in finding him amongst the group and unsettling the dirt as he dropped down at Tsu’tey’s back. The hunter grinned, reaching up to greet the beast who ducked his head eagerly in greeting. He had little care for the others in the circle, and beat his wings in joy at having finally found Tsu’tey.

Neytiri watched the interaction with a bitter note in her eye, before turning to the rest of the group and raising her voice above Jake and Norm’s bickering. “We should head back.”

“Yes. Lets.” Jake immediately agreed, giving Norm a firm shove and Tsu’tey’s mate a sharp glare. They flipped him off in return. The marine pretended not to notice, and shoulder checked Tsu’tey on his way back to toruk, to which Tsu’tey reciprocated hard enough to almost shove the man off his feet. Neytiri tutted at her mate’s behaviour, but made no comment as she followed.

“Norm.” Tsu’tey’s mate acknowledged.

“Doctor.” The avatar returned politely. “Glad to see you in one piece.”

The pair shared an odd kind of staring contest which Tsu’tey couldn’t decipher, before Norm inclined his head and retreated towards toruk.

Tsu’tey’s ikran headbutted his arm. Turning, the hunter smiled as his mount offered his neural whip. Pulling his kuru over his shoulder, Tsu’tey linked up and was immediately met with a wall of concern and pride. He ran a soothing hand down his ikran’s snout, smiling faintly.

<”Ready to go?”> He asked his mate, who was watching the interaction from a safe distance. They smiled tightly, their eyes tracking the excited wiggling of Tsu’tey’s ikran as they approached.

<”Yes. Let’s go home.”>

>_<

You were expecting to be dropped off with Norm at the compound.

You assumed that you’d spend your evening alone. Taking off your sweaty exomask and tumbling straight into your bunk without even bothering to pull back the covers. Mentally, you had prepared yourself for dirty sheets in the morning, and an earful from Jake when he eventually unlinked, for going to bed without eating or pulling out a first aid kit for your wounds.

Instead, Tsu’tey didn’t even slow his ikran’s wingbeats as the compound slid past between the trees and disappeared from view.

<”Um, the compound is that way.”> You pointed out helpfully, leaning to the side in the saddle so you could see where toruk was circling low to allow Norm to dismount.

<”I know.”> Tsu’tey replied simply, his arm around your stomach tightening to keep you firmly against him. His eyes did not stray from the distant arching rocks of the Well of Souls. <”Jake will catch up with us shortly.”>

<"Shouldn't you be dropping me off there too?">

<”No.”> He replied simply, with enough surety that you paused to question yourself.

<”You can’t seriously be thinking that taking me to the clan is a good idea.”>

<”It’s the perfect plan.”> Tsu’tey argued.

<”Maybe.”> You half agreed, <”if I were in my avatar or the clan was even slightly less traumatised by the Sky People.”>

<”It will be fine.”>

<”It really won’t.”> You pressed. <”Even you tried to kill me the first time you saw me like this, and we were friends. What are you expecting the hunters to do? Open their arms and embrace me with grins and wagging tails.”>

<”You’re being dramatic.”>

<”I’m being practical!”>

<”Just-”> Tsu’tey cut himself off, and inhaled deeply. He gave you a quick squeeze, as if to reassure himself you were still there. <”Just, trust me? Please? I won’t let anything happen to you.”>

<”That’s what I’m concerned about.”> You grumbled under your breath, but allowed the conversation to drop. And then louder added, <”fine. If you insisted. But I expect a decent head start if they start notching arrows on sight.”>

Tsu’tey did not laugh. <”It won’t come to that.”> Tsu’tey assured you. You were too tired to tell him that it very well might.

>_<

The din of clan life could be heard before the Well of Souls even came into view.

The sight was almost similar to the view you would get on the back of your ikran when returning to HomeTree after a day of hunting. Far below, the clan moved with the organised chaos of a bee hive around The Tree of Souls. The camp was alive with activity, with hunters stationed on the cliffs as guards, whereas the rest of the clan busied themselves by carrying baskets whilst others cooked or tended to weapons. Children weaved between the adults, shrieking and playing as they always had.

It was reassuring to see that everyone was okay.

It didn’t take long for Tsu’tey’s ikran to be recognised, and even shorter of a time for toruk to be spotted following its descent for the cliffs. Yips of greeting echoed from the bowl of the Well of Souls as many of the clan members paused in their tasks to point and wave.

Tsu’tey’s grasp on you tightened securely as he manoeuvred his mount onto landing on his usual perch, a neat shelf of rock that overlooked the well below. The ikran chirped as it touched down, lowering its front for Tsu’tey to dismount, and then down further to make it easier for your small legs to slide off. You smiled, patting his neck as you followed Tsu’tey’s lead.

A little ways over, toruk had also landed, with Neytiri having already leapt off and begun her rapid descent down the cliff face, whilst Jake took the time to thank toruk and offer the enormous beast a few pats down its muzzle.

<”Are you ready?”> Tsu’tey prompted, pulling your attention away from your friends and up to him. He stood proudly upon the lip of the cliff, half turned back to you with the sun back lighting him. The vision of authority and certainty.

You cast an uncertain glance over the cliff edge, down to the faces that had become familiar to you. Anxiety squirmed uncomfortably in your stomach, but deep down you knew you were safe here. Even if the clan were to react badly, you trusted Tsu’tey to get you out in one piece.

<”Let's get this over with.”> You agreed, <”I’m exhausted.”>

Tsu’tey smiled tightly, but took no time in gathering you up in one arm and beginning his swift descent down into the bowl of Souls. You clung diligently to him, watching the clan naturally migrate towards where their Olo’eyktan would predictably land.

Neytiri had already hit the ground and wove through the crowd to meet you. Na’vi you didn’t know the names of greeted her politely, offering soft questions that Neytiri either waved off or gave swift responses. Her expression was pinched but attempting at being encouraging as Tsu’tey landed neatly on his feet before crouching to set you down beside him.

<”It is going to be alright.”> Tsu’tey promised with something fierce glinting in his eye.

At his back, the clan had gone uncomfortably quiet. A thrum of unease had gone through the members the moment human feet had touched the glowing moss encompassing Eywa’s throne for the first time. Against your will, your nervous swallow was loud to your own ears. Over Tsu’tey’s shoulder, you could see the confused glances the People were shooting one another. A couple hands had lowered to knife hilts, whilst some of the younger, more skittish hunters had taken uncertain steps back.

You knew how you must look to them. Small and dirty and bruised. Weak compared to the collective threat of humanity in which they had lost so much to. You felt vulnerable like this. No longer on equal footing with the People who had become your friends. Hell, you didn’t have a thread of Omaticayan jewellery on you, let alone your bow. To those who would not see your avatar in your face, you were just another demon.

You shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not in such a sacred place.

The clan remained motionless. Waiting for Tsu’tey to make his intentions clear.

<”Wait here.”> He told you, and then straightened.

He had barely taken a step forward, his mouth opening to offer reassurance or a greeting worthy of an Olo’eyktan, before the clan surged forward to greet him. Women who had watched him grow up immediately started worrying over his injuries, whilst one or two tutted at the state of his braids. Na’vi men offered clipped greetings and firm pats on the back, glancing uncertainty at you over Tsu’tey’s shoulder but choosing not to comment. Tsu’tey took the attention in his stride, reassuring anyone who asked that he was okay and that Jake had been ultimately useless at finding him.

Between the legs of a couple of parents, you noticed the curious faces of three children peering at you. If you were to stand shoulder to shoulder with the oldest, she could’ve easily towered over you, and yet she hid. Tucking her younger brothers close to her side, whilst she stole quick glances at you, as if you would lash out if she accidentally met your eyes.

The youngest was clearly intrigued by you, whining to his sister about her insistent grip on his bicep to keep him from emerging from the crowd to look you over. He grumbled audibly, his little tail smacking into her thigh, but she refused to relent. Her lips drawn into a thin line as she firmly shook her head.

<”Where is Mo’at?”> You heard Tsu’tey ask over the clamour of many voices. To which you saw someone near the rear of the crowd break off at a hard run for the sleeping area.

Someone stepped purposefully between you and the cowering children. And you knew it was purposeful from the way the long, blue limb had stepped down and then remained, the foot facing towards you instead of Tsu’tey who was standing a little way in front of you to your left.

Your skin crawled, your dominant hand absently groping for a knife that wasn’t there as you steadily lifted your gaze to a glaring na’vi woman. Saeyla, you recognised her as, as she had been one of Tsu’tey’s students who had completed her iknimaya alongside Jake. Although you’d never spoken to her directly, you knew her for her blatant honesty and strong beliefs.

Every inhale you took through your exomask felt obnoxiously loud, even more so than before with her unblinking gaze on you. You hadn’t felt this awkward and out of place, since stepping into Grace’s laboratory for the first time. Where everyone was busy or carrying out a job, barely sparring you a confused glance, and had left you to stand stupidly in the doorway with your rucksack over one shoulder.

<”Saelya.”> You greeted politely, as you had always greeted her. With a swift dip of your chin and the ‘I see you’ hand gesture. She did not return it.

Instead, her gaze snapped up to someone directly behind you. And when she spoke, her tone was sharp and icy. <”Is this your influence, Toruk Makto?”> She asked plainly, <”convincing our Olo’eyktan to bring a stray into our sanctuary?”>

<”Stray?”> You repeated cuttingly.

It took Jake a moment to figure out what she was telling him, but he managed to translate it well enough on his own. <”I didn’t do any influencing.”> Jake replied honestly, his lips quirking up into a small grin.

Saelya’s tail thrashed. Her head abruptly snapped downwards, her eyes finding yours’ and holding with crippling intensity. “What are you doing here?” She snapped, unexpectedly switching to English. Your eyes widened in shock. You hadn’t even been aware she knew English. ”You people are not to be here.”

<”I was invited.”> You replied sharply, revelling in her surprise at your choice of language. Clearly, she had not been expecting you to be fluent.

<”You are one of the scientists then.”> She deducted, flashing her teeth as she took an intimdating step closer.

“Careful.” Jake warned lighty, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone.

Despite her height advantage, you were not unnerved by her. She would not act without a go ahead from the others. Nonetheless, it was reassuring to feel Jake step up behind you anyway, his shadow causing the light to shift. You didn’t have to look up to know that his amusement had melted into something more sinister.

The huntress stilled her approach. <”Why?”>

Jake jerked his head to your left.

Saeyla followed his gaze only to start when she found Tsu’tey already glaring back at her. With ease, the Olo’eyktan extracted himself from the crowd and approached with an unimpressed tilt to his chin. His strides could only be described as predatory.

<”Is there a problem?”> Tsu’tey asked, his tone giving nothing away. <Saeyla?”>

Accidentally, the huntress now had the attention of the entire clan, and she knew it. She shifted uncertainly on her feet, as she studied Tsu’tey’s expression carefully. When she next spoke, her voice was even and sure. <”There is a demon in our sanctuary.”> She told him bluntly as if he didn’t have eyes.

A murmur went through the clan at Tsu’tey’s back, whereas the Olo’eyktan simply frowned. Pointedly, your mate looked at you, then looked you up and down with a fire in his eyes that made your stomach twist warmly. With what could only be described as arrogance, he returned his attention to the huntress. <”I see no demon.”>

Saeyla opened her mouth with a snap, only to catch herself and visibly calm her posture. Her tone was reproachful when she found the right words. <”I have never known you to joke, Olo’eyktan. And certainly not about something like this.”>

<”I’m not joking.”> Tsu’tey assured her, in that infuriatingly all-knowing tone of his. Behind you, you heard Jake attempt to smother an amused snort.

Saeyla licked her lips. With a deciding shift of her stance, she pointed down at you. <”Demons are dangerous, Olo’eyktan.”>

<”They are.”> Tsu’tey agreed.

<”Then why did you bring a Demon here?”> Saeyla demanded, <”they are not be trusted. They are dangerous and destructive, and you should not have brought one this close to Eywa’s throne after they’ve taken EVERYTHING from us!”>

<”I understand you are uneasy, Saeyla, but know that I did not make this decision lightly. They have proven themselves more than trustworthy.”>

<”Trust will not protect us.”> Saeyla pushed, <”Demons turn on each other all the time.”> The huntress added, shooting a pointed look at Jake. <”What makes this one any different? What’s stopping it from turning on us?”>

Tsu’tey smiled, all fang and quiet anger. His eyes had flickered back to you, but were hovering just above your head, watching something. <”Look closer.”> He motioned, to which Saeyla snapped her head in the direction he pointed.

She paled.

You cocked your head, glancing over your shoulder to find that Jake had backed up a couple steps and was now beaming with what could only be described as pride. He pointedly looked up, his eyebrows quirking playfully.

You followed his gaze, only to find a single atokirina hovering above your head. The sacred seed was much larger with you this size, but it felt no more threatening than it had the day of the battle. Slowly, as if to avoid startling you, the sprite floated lower and lower until it perched upon the black plastic rim of your exo mask. You watch it wave its little tendrils. How it remained perched even when a light breeze swept across the moss, surely strong enough to dislodge it.

With your movements slow, you looked back to the huntress, to the clan who now looked upon you with a sense of awe and almost respect. You looked past them to Tsu’tey, who grinned openly, his tail swaying happily.

He turned back to the clan as Saeyla struggled to find words strong enough to debunk such a blatant sign. <”The Great Mother has spoken!”> Tsu’tey said loudly, as a ripple went through the crowd. Saeyla

<”TSU’TEY!”> Mo’at suddenly bellowed back, to which the Olo’eyktan went very still. Even from your point of view, you saw the People effortlessly parted for their Tsahik as she approached at a brisk pace.

Tsu’tey had gone stiff. His spine unnaturally straight as he watched Mo’at approach with fire in her eyes.

She broke free of the crowd and strode across the moss. Everything about her screamed pissed off. And yet her voice was light and almost relieved as she continued to speak. <”You have returned.”> She threw her hands up into the heaven’s dramatically. <”Oh how the Great Mother weeps in relief.”>

Her eyes flickered up to the cliffs, to toruk, before dropping back to the small gathering. You watched her eyes brighten at the atokirina perched on your mask, before she spun back to the people, her voice rising. <”Our Olo’eyktan has returned to us unharmed and successful. May we sleep soundly on this night.”>

A relieved hum went through the clan. Mo’at lowered her hands. <”Continue with your tasks my People.”> She instructed, and just like that, the tension in the Well of Souls broke and ebbed away.

She smiled tightly, waiting until the clan’s attention was fully off her, before whipping round. Saeyla jumped at her sudden movement, and ducked her head as she hurried away. Mo’at glared at her retreating back before, snapping her eyes back to Tsu’tey. The fury from before leapt up into her face within seconds.

<”Where have you been!”> She snarled, whacking Tsu’tey upside the head as one would swat at a persistent fly. <”No message! No ikran! Not even a hunting party to support you! What were you thinking?!”>

Tsu’tey growled his irritation, darting away. Mo’at simply followed him, her rant only just picking up speed. <”You were not! Clearly!”> She declared dramatically. <”Stupid man!”>

<”Um, Mo’at-”> You spoke up only for her to cut you off.

<”Quiet you!”> She growled, spinning her hurricane of wrath in your direction. The atokirina perched on your mask promptly took flight and floated back towards the Tree as the Tsahik approached. Mo’at pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. <”You are just as stupid, if not more so! Wandering off in the darkness, no escort, no backup, no plan!”>

<”Hey, that’s not-”>

<”And look at the state of you!”> She shrilled.

You looked down at your dirty, torn attire. Despite Tsu’tey’s best efforts by the river, your clothes had definitely seen better days.

The Tsahik’s attention slid off of you and returned to Tsu’tey, her tone gravely serious. <”I feared you would not return to us. That you would leave me to heal an already broken clan. To appoint a third Olo’eyktan in so little time. There is so much you still have to do. So much you can prove. You have been training for this position since you were a boy!”>

Mo’at was still talking, but visibly losing steam. <”Do not recklessly throw it all away because you fear we will not support your decisions. This clan has, and always will be your family, Olo’eyktan. If you ask them, the People would have gladly helped you.”>

Looking suitably chastised, Tsu’tey apologised. <”I am sorry Tsahik. I was not thinking.”>

<”I know what it is to want to protect everyone.”> Mo’at breathed, <”but you must learn to think more logically.”>

<”Of course.”>

She hummed thoughtfully as she visibly softened. <”Come. Warm yourselves by the fire, I assume you have no eaten yet.”>

>_<

<”We need to move the clan.”> Tsu’tey said calmly, his tone all business as he sat perched on a fallen log and stared into the flames. Mo’at leant over his back, applying salve to a nasty scratch. <”It is no longer safe here with the Demons lurking within the forests.”>

The Tsahik hummed thoughtfully, dabbing more ointment over the wound before replying. <”It would have been better to move once they have been sent away, but you are right, it is dangerous to remain. We will begin preparations. Come sunrise, we will leave.”>

Tsu’tey nodded his understanding, his teeth grinding as Mo’at began applying leaf bandages.

Neytiri lightly nudged your arm, you jumped, tearing your gaze from Tsu’tey’s grimace, to find the huntress knelt beside you, offering a leaf of nuts and fruit. Since dinner wouldn’t begin being prepared for several more hours, you were touched by her kindness in wandering off to forage for something edible for you.

<”Thank you.”> You breathed, eagerly reaching for the leaf. She smiles tightly, letting you take it from her before gingerly sitting down on the log beside you.

Mo’at was finishing up tending to Tsu’tey, when Jake returned to the fire with your atokirina knife in hand after realising that your gun had been lost.

He held it out, to which you smiled gratefully and reached up to take it from him. In seemingly slow motion, you realised that the arm you’d reached with had the swirl mark from Tsu’tey’s kuru tattooed into the delicate skin. Your eyes widened in realisation in comical synchronisation with Jake’s eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. Without warning, his large hand shot out and caught you by the forearm.

“The hell is this?” He asked, his tone reminiscent of a parent finding bruises on their kid. With surprising gentleness, he turned your arm over, his eyes raking over the beautiful swirls of darkened pigment.

“Dunno. Some chemical reaction from Tsu’tey’s kuru, I presume. It’s not painful or anything.” You explained simply, watching in amusement as Jake’s eyebrows somehow hitched higher.

“His kuru?” Jake repeated, “what were you doing near his-” he cut himself off with a scandalous gasp. “Tsu’tey, show me your tentacles!”

”My WHAT?” The Olo’eyktan spluttered, but it was too late.

Jake had tossed you your knife and swept around the fire towards Tsu’tey who promptly launched himself to his feet to dart away. “Back off!” The Olo’eyktan warned sharply, his hand flying to his own knife, to which Jake ignored him and kept advancing at an alarming speed.

“Just bloody show me!” The marine ordered, “it’s important.”

Tsu’tey did not look impressed, but judging by the way Jake was clearly not about to give up, he found it safer to just do as he was asked. With a withered glare, he pulled his braid over his shoulder and lifted the end so that his tendrils emerged from the end. To your fascination, the usually pastel lilac skin of them, had deepened into a plum purple.

Mo’at’s breath audibly stuttered as Neytiri let out a strangled sound. You simply stared, transfixed by the gorgeous new shade of purple. So little was known about the na’vi, it hadn’t even occurred to the science department to investigate how bonding could alter an individual’s pigment, let alone how that might impact their instincts. It was fascinating how your own body had changed because of the bond.

“You did not!” Jake laughed, stepping closer, only for Tsu’tey to drop his braid and snap his teeth at him. Luckily, the marine did not seem interested in a fight. He backed away, still grinning. “God, Norm owes me so much money!”

“You did not bet on us!” You interjected, feeling suddenly betrayed.

Jake just grinned. “Of course we did. We knew it was going to happen.”

“Since when?”

“Since he didn’t kill you on sight.”

“Fuck you. You weren’t even on planet for that shitty introduction.”

“Nope. But the cranky bugger clearly has a soft spot for you. And I noticed that on my first bloody day!”

“I did not!” Tsu’tey immediately interjected, even though the looks the others shot each other clearly indicated that no one believed his flustered outburst.

Up until this point, Neytiri had largely just been watching how things played out, But now, she was chuckling to herself, a grin of delight causing her ears to flatten uncontrollably as she looked at the mark on your wrist. <”You’re just like Kiolu!”> She suddenly burst out, pointing at Tsu’tey who’s face morphed into an expression of pure offence.

<”I AM NOT!”>

<”YOU ARE!”> Neytiri accused, cackling loudly enough to upset the birds in the trees. Tsu’tey snarled at her, darting around the fire at an unsettling speed, to which Neytiri frantically clambered to her feet. She sidestepped his clumsy swipe at her torso, still grinning with childish glee. <”YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE PUT A DON’T TOUCH SIGN ON THEIR FOREHEAD!”>

<”I DID NOT DO IT ON PURPOSE!”> Tsu’tey denied, his cheeks practically purple with mortification.

<”BUT YOU LIKE IT DON’T YOU?”>

<”SHUT UP, YOU NOSY WOMAN!”>

<”YOU’RE EXACTLY LIKE KIOLU!”>

<”AM NOT!”>

The pair promptly dissolved into an intense slap fight, in which Neytiri could barely coordinate her limbs with how hard she was laughing, whereas Tsu’tey just looked mortified.

<”Children. The both of them.”> Mo’at tutted tiredly as she rounded the fire and perched on the log Tsu’tey had just vacated. Amusement shone in her eyes as she watched the pair’s pointless bickering.

”What did Kiolu do?” Jake whispered, eyes still on the pair fighting it out across the fire.

Mo’at sighed, low and heavy as if the story greatly pained her. ”Throughout my time as Tsahik, I have had to treat all sorts of injuries, particularly the injuries of recently mated couples. The People tend to get a little,” she sucked on her teeth, searching for the correct English word. “Possessive.”

“What did he do?” Jake pressed, leaning in close like the gossip he was.

“Kiolu has always been a biter.” Mo’at said simply, “has been biting everything he could reach since before he broke Tsaheylu with his mother. Naturally, I was prepared for when he took Ayome as his mate. A beautiful couple, might I add, terribly polite and competent. Of course, Ayome had always been the brains of the pair, but no amount of intelligence could stop Kiolu from taking a clean chunk out of Ayome’s rump after they first bonded.”

Jake’s jaw fell open. Mo’at nodded knowingly at his shock.

“When questioned, he argued that Tsaheylu wasn’t enough of a claim. That he needed others to know that Ayome was taken. Possessive bastard.” She added merrily. “Gets that from his father he does.”

“Was Ayome alright?” Jake pressed.

“Of course, he gave Kiolu a matching bite right back and I ended up with two bloodied hunters cluttering up space in my healing wing for stupid wounds. I never did quite manage to get those scars to fade.” She added almost wistfully.

“Kiolu still brags about it when he has enough to drink.” Neytiri chimed in, grinning wide enough to rival the light of the fire, whilst Tsu’tey was sulking at her back. His pride had clearly taken a beating.

The conversation veered off course from there.

>_<

Tsu’tey stuck close to you as the day wore on and the People prepared to relocate, although he tried to pretend he wasn’t. You would be helping out with a task or carrying an abnormally large basket, only to find him either staring intently at you, or swooping in to steal the object right out of your hands.

And the entire time, he pouted whilst he did it, as if you had threatened or blackmailed him into taking over every single one of your chores. In truth, you found the exaggerated jut of his lower lip incredibly endearing. But inconveniences like his shadow falling over you whilst you tried to mend were not so welcome.

Pointedly, you glared up at the ridiculous man who studied your needlework with a critical stare. <”You’re in my light.”> You offered pleasantly, to which his gaze dragged up your body to your face. At his back, his tail gave an inquisitive wiggle.

You could feel the curious eyes of the women you were helping, looking between you and the Olo’eyktan. They had welcomed you quickly enough into their ranks after seeing you helping out with other tasks, but you were half worried they might turn you away now that Tsu’tey was being a distraction.

To your surprise, your mate looked pointedly at your face, his eyes dragging over your exo mask, before he turned on his heel and strode away with purpose.

<”What was that about?”> One of the women whispered to her neighbour, whilst another simply shrugged.

Your face flamed as you returned your attention to your work and ducked your head.

All too soon, Tsu’tey’s feet reappeared in your peripheral just as your mask beeped that it was in need of a fresh battery. You frowned, noticing the oxygen light had begun to flash.

Wordlessly, Tsu’tey knelt down in front of you, his hand outstretched with a fresh battery held carefully between his long fingers. <”Jake brought them earlier.”> He explained at your bewildered expression, before pushing the battery more urgently at you as the annoying beeping of your mask began to rise in octaves.

<”Thank you.”>

<”You’d be lost without me.”> He sighed dismissively, as you fiddled with your mask.

By the time you had switched out your batteries, your mate had sat himself down at your back, and gently pulled you back against him so you now had a rather comfortable backrest to lean into whilst you worked. It was hard to suppress your pleased smile, as Tsu’tey loosely wrapped his arms around your stomach and dropped his head so that his chin rested on the crown of your head. It should have been an uncomfortable position for him, all curled up and stiff, but his tail thumped rhythmically against the moss as a soft purr vibrated down your back.

The women you were sat with exchanged knowing looks but wisely did not comment on how attached to you Tsu’tey suddenly was. Usually, he would take steps to touch you subtly, instead of draping himself over you like this. Nostalgically, it was like you were back under HomeTree, finding excuses to stay as close to each other as possible. Oh, to think how far you had come from those simpler times.

Too soon, eclipse rolled in and the clan began to bed down for the night.

It went without question that you would not be returning to the compound tonight. Instead, Tsu’tey wordlessly ushered you towards his sleeping mat.

Whilst he busied himself with unstrapping his jewellery and weapons, you glanced towards your vacant avatar. From this angle, the still body looked as if it were merely star gazing and had accidentally nodded off. Its face was relaxed and open, its freckles glowing in time with its sleepy heartbeat.

Large hands reclaimed your attention, and you turned to find Tsu’tey already laid out across his mat. He was trying and failing miserably to hide his eagerness as he lightly tapped the expanse of mat he’d left for you to lay down on.

Rolling your eyes, you complied. Setting your knife down alongside Tsu’tey’s within easy reach, you curled up on your side with your back to the man, who immediately curled his arm securely around you, as if he had done it countless times before. It was easy for him to pull you in close and tight so you wouldn’t be able to move in your sleep and disrupt the position of your mask.

You nodded off almost immediately to the soft rumble of Tsu’tey’s purr.

>_<

The fires were dim and the clan was still aside from the few hunters who kept watch on the cliffs.

You weren’t entirely sure what had woken you. Tsu’tey was still curled up against your back, his breath even and his grip secure. Whereas the night was still with only the trees to rival the steady light of the moon.

Movement by the embers of the closest fire, caught your attention. And sure enough, there was Jake’s avatar staring blankly into the dying flames, with Neytiri lying a small distance away on their normal mat. Something was off though. He seemed curled in on himself, his head bowed and his tail curled tight around him like one would hug themselves with their arms for reassurance.

Instinctively, you tried to get up to check on him, only to be abruptly reminded of how much stronger na’vi are than humans. With all the strength you possessed in your arms, you tried to sit up, but Tsu’tey wasn’t budging. If anything, he snuffled softly before pulling you an extra inch towards him, his tail flicking up to curl around your ankle. Ultimately, there was no hope of escape.

With an amused huff, you instead craned your neck as far as you could towards the lone figure.

“Jake!” You whisper shouted, feeling satisfied when the marine’s ears flared in acknowledgement. Guiltily, Jake lifted his head to meet your gaze, something distant flickering across his expression. “You alright? Why are you back?”

For several long, tense heartbeats he didn’t respond, and that in itself made you anxious.

Without success, you tried to wiggle out from under Tsu’tey’s arm, only to exhaust yourself before you could get a good angle. Collapsing back down on the mat with a quiet groan, you decided that this was a good enough - and comfortable enough - place for a conversation.

“I didn’t go.” Jake eventually admitted, guiltily avoiding your gaze.

Your brows furrowed. “You need to rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

“I know. I’ll be able to handle it.” Jake insisted, his tone just falling short of being reassuring. In fact, his quiet statement had the opposite effect on you, because now you knew there was something wrong. And judging by his silence, and resigned tone, it was something that had been eating at him for a long while.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He said too fast. Too dismissively. A world away from the Jake who’d been chewing you out for getting kidnapped only hours before. This Jake just looked and sounded exhausted.

“Jake?” You repeated more firmly, feeling Tsu’tey’s ear flick at your tone. You ran a soothing hand over his arm, listening to his breathing evening out again.

The marine curled in tighter on himself. “I said, nothing!” He snapped defensively.

You sighed and opted for a different approach, the kind of question only Grace would have the balls to ask. “How long have you been linked in, marine?” The following silence told you all you needed to know. “Since this morning?” You prodded, to which Jake ducked his head and glared hard at the embers. “Since last night?” A guilty downturn of his ears. “Oh my god you’re bloody ridiculous.” Your accusations were met with only silence. “Please tell me it hasn’t been more than thirty-six hours?”

“Thirty-two hours actually.”

“That is not better.”

“I know.”

You sighed. “What’s going through your head Jake?”

Jake lowered his gaze to his lap with a heavy sigh. He seemed to come to a conclusion in his mind before he looked back to you, his golden eyes burning even in the darkness. “Do you-” he faltered, cutting himself off with an irritated growl. You kept all comments to yourself whilst he found his words.

He tore his eyes from the stripes along his thigh and turned to look at you, his eyes shining with uncertainty. “Do you ever get the feeling like everything is backwards?”

The question hung between you, heavy with tension and unspoken connotations. You swallowed, having feared this was where the conversation was going. You weren’t unfamiliar with this situation, everyone who went through the Avatar Programme, at some point, got so invested in their avatar’s life and abilities that they found it hard to stop. This was different, you knew. This was more than a forest trek gone right and a desire for more time in the link.

Jake swallowed loudly. “Like this,” he motioned to his avatar body, his hands visibly shaking, “is the real world, and back there,” he motioned vaguely in the direction of the compound, “is the dream?” Another swallow and a sheepish glance away. “I feel wrong in my human body, but this body, it feels right. Do you get that?”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“I think I want-” he steeled himself, shoulders squaring as if he were about to address his commanding officer who he would need the approval of. “No, I know I want to go through with the consciousness transfer.”

You felt your stomach drop. Abruptly, your mind was back in your avatar, on a horrible day after a series of dreadful events. Anger festered in your heart as grief pricked your eyes. You were looking down at the body of Grace, the glow of Eywa’s influence fading from the vine wrapped around her fragile form.

You blinked, and it was Jake’s avatar staring back at you blankly, tension lining every limb.

“Ah.” You forced out, struggling to keep your voice steady. “And how long have you been contemplating this?”

“Since the battle.” Jake admitted, “Quaritch forced me out of my avatar and I was defenceless. I was going to die. And if Neytiri hadn’t interfered I would have. That body, it’s like an exposed limb that I forgot to put armour on before getting into a fight. And I can’t live with the constant fear of being slammed back into it without a moment’s warning.”

His golden eyes were shiny and raw with unspoken emotion now. And at that moment, you didn’t see Jake the marine, or Toruk Makto. In fact, Jake arguably looked more human than he ever had in his other body. Even with his flattened ears and sparkling freckles, he looked like the Jake who had recently lost his brother, but had found home where he had never expected it to be. There was a vulnerableness to him, a fragility that you knew would shatter into a thousand pieces if you chose your words wrong.

“I understand.” You said, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “I truly understand Jake.” You promised him. “But for now, both of your bodies need to sleep.”

“You’re right.” He admitted with a soft chuckle.

“I often am.”

He simply chuckled, sounding and looking far too drained to rib you back in return. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that, he rose slowly to his feet and shuffled back to the mat he and Neytiri shared. You craned your neck to watch him go until he slipped beyond your view.

<”Sleep Yawne.”> Tsu’tey mumbled sleepily by your ear, his arms applying a comforting amount of pressure around you. Against your will, your eyelids fluttered as you cuddled closer against him, allowing the glass of your mask to press into his chest.

Come morning, the ikran would be tacked up and loaded with supplies, and the clan would file its way outside of the shelter of the Well of Souls. As the People sang and encouraged one another, an RDA chopper would whizz across the sky, carrying the compound towards a safe new location.

But for now, you simply basked in Tsu’tey’s comforting presence and wondered how you got so lucky.

Previous Chapter <- Act 8 -> Next Chapter

#tsu'tey #avatar #tsu'tey x reader #protective Tsu'tey #human reader #Jake being a worried mess #Norm is done with his shit #Neytiri is the only sane one of the bunch #Mo'at is tired of the lot of them #tension #I just know Mo'at holds all the village gossip in the palm of her hand

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silvrash-797 · 4 months

Text

Thanks to @webhead3345 for the idea!

Echoes of the past (pt 1)

Febuwhump Day 4+7: Obedience/suffering in silence

Part 2

Read on ao3

The newly dubbed Legend sat at the edge of the camp, watching anyone with a knight’s title or wearing armor or chainmail warily. Warriors, Time, Wild, Sky, Twilight…over half the group, he couldn’t bring himself to trust them. Sure, the knights of his time weren’t actively chasing him anymore, but nothing could change the fact that they had, and now the sound of chainmail triggered about a dozen fight or flight responses.

Speaking of…Legend flinched as the Hero of Warriors approached, shoving the memories of rattling chainmail, gleaming weapons, I’m just a kid I didn’t do anything wrong I swear to the side.

“You okay, Legend?” Warriors asked, face apparently full of concern, though why a knight would be concerned for him he couldn’t fathom.

“Fine,” he muttered, trying not to curl into himself. Make yourself small, hide, they’ll go away pounded through his head, but he was the Hero of Legend, the Veteran of the hero business (an average nobody, his little rabbit-heart whispered traitorously). He’d been at this for nearly a decade so why is this still an issue? Stand up straight, face your fears, they’re heroes just like you. Don’t let them know you’re suffering, you’ll never hear the end of it.

The knight touched his shoulder and Legend jerked back violently, subduing a hiss at the last moment.

Warriors froze, hand half extended. “Vet, are you sure you’re okay –”

“I said I’m fine, Captain,” Legend sneered, putting as much acid in his voice as he could manage. “I just don’t like being touched, okay?”

Warriors withdrew his hands, raising them placatingly. “Okay, Vet. I understand,” he gave a charming smile. “I’m just trying to help us all come together better so we can take on whatever called us here.”

Warriors tilted his head, eyes suddenly filled with some emotion Legend couldn’t be bothered to place. “You’d…tell us, if something was wrong, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just leave me alone, okay?”

The Captain's eyes narrowed – was that sincere worry? – and he frowned a bit, but relented, turning and leaving Legend with his knight-free safety bubble at last.

-----

A few weeks later, Legend was sleeping peacefully when someone roughly shook his shoulder. He groaned, slitting his eyes just a bit to see who was bothering him in the middle of the night, it’s not even his night for watch, so why…

Firelight glinted off a metal pauldron; Legend's heart nearly stopped with fright.

The figure shook him again. “Vet, come on, we need to go!” The Captain’s voice was urgent but collected.

Legend shoved Warriors’ hand from his shoulder, groaning again as he sat up. “Captain, it is the middle of the goddess-forsaken night,” he snapped, “What in Din's name is so urgent it can’t wait for morning?!”

“Twilight just returned from patrol with Wolfie. They found a horde of infected monsters, moving this way fast. We’re splitting up camp to catch them in a pincer movement.”

Legend grumbled, but started gearing up. “Who's in which group?”

“I have the most experience with hordes like this, so I’ll be taking a small group to deal the worst of the damage to the monsters,” Wars explained. “You have the most versatile arsenal while Sky's our best swordsman, so you two will be with me. Time and Twilight will help coordinate the others.”

Legend froze in the act of adjusting his belt, blood rushing from his head and fingers turning numb. Me. Alone with knights that I still don’t trust. Against a horde of infected monsters? The mere thought filled him with such panic he was afraid he’d faint.

Legend forced himself to move again, attempting to wrangle his nerves into submission, pushing past the knot in his throat to plead for a different arrangement. “Rulie has just as much versatility with his magic as I do with my items – why don’t I go with the others and you take him instead?”

The only knight in the other group was Wild, and he didn’t remember much about it. He could work past his fear of Time's armor and Twilight’s chainmail if it meant fewer trained knights to keep an eye on.

Warriors shook his head, and Legend’s hope fell. “He needs to stay with the others in case one of them gets hurt. They don’t have as much experience with large groups of monsters as we do; it has to be the three of us.”

Warriors stood, and the percussive rattling of his armor set Legend’s nerves on fire. “Let’s go,” he was using his Captain voice, the one that brooked no argument and all but demanded total obedience.

Legend hated that voice.

Resigned to his fate, Legend shoved his fears into a box deep in the confines of his mind before following Warriors and Sky into battle.

#SilvrAsh writes #febuwhump #day 4 #day 7 #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #lu warriors #tw panic mention #gotta love diving into the alttp soldier angst #especially since that the game I'm currently playing #that little rattle that sounds when the soldiers notice link scares me every time #now Legend gets to feel that same fear ;)#will be continued on day 6

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redbleedingrose · 1 year

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okay but what if eris gets so caught up with the girls and so concerned ab giving you free time that you start to feel less important - i feel like he would freak out if he found out u felt that way and do whatever possible to make sure u didnt feel that way anymore yk?

Oh man, this is painful to think about.

To be honest, Girldad!Eris is such a loving and doting father. Not only that, he is also an amazing mate, husband, and best friend to you. I think Eris in general, does a wonderful job at making sure you feel appreciated and loved and adored, the way you deserve to be.

When Marwa and Twila were newborns, you and Eris were incredibly in sync. You worked like a team in handling your babes, and he made sure that each of you had time for yourselves and time for each other.

It was easier when they were so little... leaving them with a nanny for a couple of hours while he took you out on a day trip, or dinner, or just to spend some alone time together ;)

But when the girls turned into toddlers, they became a bit more attached to their mama and papa. They are in that stage where they become upset if either one of you is out of sight.

Safe to say, time for yourselves and each other has been limited since the babes became more needy. And Eris takes it in stride!!!! He loves his perfect little girls, spoiling them with their every wish and whim, listening intently to everything they have to say (even if it is about how Janey (Twila's imaginary friend) pushed Sienna over (Marwa's imaginary friend)).

And don't get me wrong, you love that. You fucking adore Eris and how he much he loves your babes and takes care of them. He is the best father, and he proves to you and himself every day that any fear he had about being like his father was beyond absurd. But...

But... you miss your husband. You miss your mate and best friend.

When the girls were newborns, they would be asleep most of the day, and you had uninterrupted time with Eris where you and him could catch up and talk about your days, where he could hold and kiss you, and love and dote on you, and fuck your brains out.

Now that girls are toddlers, they are constantly hanging off their papa, begging for his attention throughout the day, and it feels like you just don't have enough time with him. The babes cry whenever you try to go out on dates or day trips, and Eris relents to his girls cries, sending a burst of apology down your bond while you opt to stay in with the babes.

The only time you get to spend alone with him is late into the night, when both of you are too exhausted from your duties and babes to do anything besides cuddle, sending strokes of love and adoration down the golden thread tying you together, and fall into a dreamless sleep.

So yes, you miss your mate. You miss talking to him, and being near him, and kissing and cuddling him, and you absolutely miss his dick. And seeing him with your girls, it warms your heart like nothing else. And it also sends a shock of envy that sends you into a spiral of mom guilt. It just that... there was a slight loss that you felt. A slight emptiness that you no longer had your mates full attention at any point during the day because it was given to the babes. And you love, absolutely love that for them. You just don't like it for yourself.

And Eris, well... he misses you too. He feels it too. He feels the decrease in time that he has had with his mate. So... when you start to distance yourself from him, moving to the very edge of the bed instead of into his chest while you fall asleep, he panics.

Because you already have limited time together, and now you don't want to be near him even during that time??

And Eris knows you. He has known you. He knows every part of you, your body, your brain, your heart, and your soul. So he reads you like an open book, and knows that you are avoiding him. And he knows it is likely because you don't want to talk to him about something that is bothering you. Because thats how you are.

You are his perfect, beautiful, loving, selfless mate.

If something is bothering you, you bury it deep inside, because you love him too much to bring it up to him and possibly hurt his feelings. So... he gives you the first night. He lets you sleep on the other side of the bed, because you need your space. And he will talk to you in the morning over a breakfast date.

When he wakes, you are already gone. Your side of the bed is already cool by the time his stirs enough to reach his hand out to you. This time... this time your avoidance has Eris shooting straight out of bed, throwing on whatever clothes he can find as he sets off to find you.

You are with your babes, who are sitting at the table and coloring with their new pencils their papa bought them a couple of days prior, making some fresh pancakes for them even though your housekeepers tried shooing you off. You are an astounding mother to your girls, wanting them to eat something made and embedded with the purest of love that you have for them.

You greet him softly smiling down at your mate, as he tugs at your bond, making you aware of his presence as he tries and fails to smile back. But his babes are there. So he forces a small grin onto his face, not wanting his little girls to pick up on the fact that Mama and Papa aren't in the best place right now, and cuddles close to them on the bench so he can feed Marwa as you feed Twila.

Once breakfast is over, you encourage the girls to get dressed for their piano lesson this afternoon. And the girls moan and groan, but they listen to their mama, running with their tiny feet out of the dining room to their bedrooms where they can change with the help of their chambermaids, leaving you and Eris alone for the first time in a while.

At this point, you know he knows.

You know he knows that something is wrong, so you avoid looking at him as he turns to you. You move yourself quickly, picking up the dirtied dishes, shifting your eyes towards the forest outside shown by the window over the sink.

Er approaches you, lifting his arms to wrap around your waist, pressing your back into his chest, and resting his head on your shoulder as you try to gently push away. The movement has Eris tsking, swiveling you around to face him. You focus your eyes onto the door behind him, right over his shoulder, but he grasps at your chin with one hand, forcing you to look at him, the other hand fingering a strand of your hair and tucking it behind your ear.

"Why are you avoiding me, beloved?" he murmurs, leaning in close to brush his nose against yours, "Have I done something to upset you?"

You scoff trying to play your avoidance off, pressing your hands from behind your back into into his hips, tugging him close by his belt, "I am not avoiding you."

He shakes his head, his hand easing its way through your hair to rest at the back of your scalp, still so close to you that it is almost dizzying, "The truth beloved, I want the truth."

You hate that he can read you this well. You hate that he can take you apart, piece by piece, inspecting each part of you slowly and carefully, before putting you back together.

Because you can never hide anything from him, your perfect, wonderful mate.

So now, you have to explain your silly envy that you have for the attention your babes receive from their papa. A lump lodges itself into your throat, a heat runs up your neck and focuses in on your cheeks, as embrassament and shame makes it way deep within you. "I just miss you." It comes out unintentionally as a whimper, so quiet, that if Eris wasn't standing so close, he would've missed it. A hot tear escapes your waterline, streaking down your cheek, as Eris thumbs it away, "I miss you too, beloved."

A pained laugh rushes past your lips as all the feelings you had once held in begin to spill out, "No Eris, you are right here. So close to me. Practically on top of me right now. And I still miss you. Gods, Er, I miss you when you are with our babes. How disgusting is that? Our little babes Er. They need you so much more than I do, they need their papa. And look, you are the most amazing father to them. And you take care of them, and love them, and dote on them. And I am fucking jealous? Not even jealous, I guess. Just sad. Because I miss you. Because anytime we try to be together, just as us, as a couple, as mates, it is interrupted by our babes. And mother, I love them so much, believe me, I love them so much, I would give my soul for them. But I miss... I miss spending time with you. Uninterrupted time with you. I miss you holding me. I miss us reading together by the fireplace. I miss us making dinner together, or getting dressed and going out on those special dates that you would set up without telling me. Gods, I miss making out with you Er. I miss us fucking and I miss us making love, without worrying that one of the babes will walk in and we will scar them for life. I miss everything Er. I guess... I guess I just am feeling... I think..."

His soft amber eyes bore into yours, nodding his head in encouragement as he rubs the back of your scalp and cupping your cheek into his palm, "Go on beloved."

You swallow against the lump, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling his face a hair-widths from yours, "I think I am feeling a little neglected." Your sentiment comes out forced, but necessary. The time away from your mate was leaving you with a profound sense of sadness, even though he is right in front of you.

Your sentiment also knocks the breath right out of the high lord. This isn't what he was expecting. He knew that you missed him, and he missed you too, so much. He just didn't know that it was this much. That you were feeling "neglected" in your own words. It had bile rising to his throat as he realized, with deep-rooted self loathing he hadn't felt in a while, that he was the one that made you feel this way. Him. Your best friend. Your husband. Your mate.

He was supposed to make you feel appreciated, and adored, and loved. Because that is what you deserve, and you should settle for nothing less.

You scoff, interrupting his flow of thoughts, as if you could read his mind, "Don't. Don't do that Er. It's okay. I am fine. I just miss you."

He scrunches his nose at you, pressing a quick peck to your lips, "It most certainly is not okay. Your feelings are valid, and you don't need to invalidate them to spare my own feelings. I am so sorry beloved, I am sorry I made you feel this way," you opened your mouth, likely to interrupt him again, but he didn't let, thumbing at your bottom lip, trapping it between his fingers and give a slight tug, "I do get caught up in the girls. I get so caught up in loving them, protecting them, doting on them. I never want them to feel the way my father made me feel. I want them to know that their papa cherishes them. And I think through that, I have forgotten to take extra, exclusive, time out for their mama."

He heaves a sigh, pressing another quick peck onto your lips, "I never meant to make you feel neglected, beloved. You have to know. You have to know how much I fucking adore you. How much I need you, and ache for you. Every moment not spent with you, is so... It is so numbing. You make me feel alive. I love you. So fucking much."

"I love you too Er, so much," you lean in, brushing your lips against his once, twice, before locking them together. His lips move so softly against yours, sucking at your bottom lip before darting his tongue to meet with yours. You stay like that for a long moment.

Kissing your mate. Holding him impossibly close, until he is melting against you. Basking in the love he is pouring out, straight through the bond tying your souls.

He nips at your lips as he pulls away, "I promise to make more time for you, mate. Uninterrupted time. Because I miss you too beloved. I miss our dates and our cuddles and our talks and our kisses. I miss it all. I also miss your tits and fucking you, but let's not go there right now or else I'm going to bend you right over this kitchen counter and take you right here," you snort as a smirk lilts his face, "Let's go out tonight beloved. I'll call the nanny to watch them tonight, and we can go out to our little cottage by the seaside for the night. We can have a nice dinner that we cook together, and then for dessert... well for dessert, I am going to splay you across the table, and you are going to spread your legs open for me, and you can work out the rest."

You scoff amusedly, pushing at his chest, but his grip on your hips doesn't let you get too far before pulling you back in, "How does that sound beloved?" brushing his lips over the curve of your ear. He moves your hair over your shoulder, trailing open mouthed kisses up and down your neck, suckling at the sensitive spot right at the junction of your shoulder and collarbone, "How does that sound beloved?" he asks again, mouthing it into the small bruise forming where he had bite onto.

"Gods, yes Er," you moan into his shoulder, "Please."

#eris x fem!reader #eris x reader #girldad!eris #rose rambles #eris acotar #eris vanserra #marwa and twila #angst #some fluff #a little spicy towards the end

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1-imaginary-girl · 1 year

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Hello! This is my first time requesting so i don't know how to do this, but can you do a Five Hargreeves HC where he has feelings for reader but don't know if she feels the same so he asked Diego or Luther for advice. Sorry if it's a bit confusing. But here's the prompt (i saw this at Pinterest)

"she doesn't love me, she's not that stupid". " What are you talking about?! Ofc she loves you! Everyone could see it!"

Uncertain Feelings with Five Hargreeves (Headcanon)

Warnings: None.

A/N: Thank you so much for submitting a request! Sorry it took longer than usual to get back to you. I've never done a headcanon before but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Also, keep an eye out for a new Five one shot on the way ;)

You would have been friends with the Hargreeves children since you were five

You moved in across the street and introduced yourself

The kids immediately loved you, from your positive attitude to the fun you brought them

You made them feel like normal children

Despite Reginald’s strict protests, the children would refuse to stop seeing you

After he saw the positive affect your presence started to have on them, the old man finally relented

You were the only outsider allowed inside the Hargreeves home

It seemed all of the Umbrella kids loved you, but none more than Five

He knew there was something different about you from the moment he saw you

His little heart would beat out of his chest and his cheeks would turn a shade darker

Unlike his siblings, you didn’t mind his off-putting personality. In fact, it would have made him more interesting to you

He became a little possessive over you, not wanting to share your time with his siblings

It wasn’t hard for them to notice the change in him, but they all thought it was funny and instantly took to teasing him about it

Luckily, you liked him just as much and the two of you became the best of friends

Cut to present day and the two of you still enjoyed one another’s company

You often hung out in Five’s room. He would be working on some boring equation which he tried to explain to you but it went in one ear out the other, while you would read on his bed

One day, an alarm goes off on your phone and you curse

“Shit, I have to go,” you say

Five pauses his work and turns to watch you pack up

“Why?” he asks

“Ugh, my mom set me up for some job interview with her company. Apparently, she's had enough with my unemployment period.”

You would stand to leave and, as always, Five would walk you to the door

“Let me know how it goes,” he says as you both reach the bottom of the stairs

“Oh I’ll be calling to complain the second it’s over,” you say

You would open the door and say “Bye Five” with a smile

“Bye,” he replies as the door closes

All this time and his heart still speeds up when you smile

“Is this still going on?”

Five would hear a voice coming from the living room and scowls when he sees Luther sitting at the bar

“What are you talking about?” the boy hisses

“Oh come on Five, we all know about your feelings for Y/N. Why can’t you just admit it?”

Apparently the man was feeling rather brave to talk to him like this

Five would go to snap back when he pauses

His damned brother is right. It’s been years and he’s never even said the words out loud

He doesn’t know why, but at that moment Five’s decided he’s had enough and relents

He teleports to the stool next to Luther, giving the big guy a scare

“Jesus Five—”

“You’re right”

“…come again?”

“I…fuck it, yes, I’m in love with her. Happy?”

Five would steal whatever alcohol Luther is nursing and down it before releasing a hiss

“There you go! Good for you” Luther would say, annoyingly without sarcasm, as he pats his brother on the back

“This is pointless. I’ve said it, now what am I supposed to do?”

“You tell her”

Five hesitates. “I can’t”

“Why not?”

He hesitates again before looking down into the now empty glass. “Because she doesn’t feel the same way”

Five’s jaw would tighten as the words he fears spill from his lips

“You’re joking, right?”

Five scowls. “Why would I be joking?”

“Five, Y/N loves you too”

Five would only shake his head at his brother’s naïve optimism. “She doesn’t love me, Luther. She’s not that stupid”

“What are you talking about?! Of course she loves you! Everyone could see it!”

But Five wouldn’t hear any of it. “Stop trying to cheer me up.”

Luther would be determined to change his mind. “Five, trust me, Y/N—”

“What about me?”

The two of them were so distracted by their conversation that they failed to hear you re-entering the house. When both sets of eyes turn to face you, you panic

“Sorry, I forgot my phone upstairs,” you would quickly say with an apologetic look

Luther would try to cover. “Oh, uh, we were just talking about—”

But Five has a different idea

He isn’t sure if it was the “pep talk” with Luther or the realization of how long he has been harbouring his feelings, but he teleports in front of you

Unlike Luther, you don’t flinch

“Y/N I have to tell you something” Five would say

You would blink, caught off guard, but nod, preparing yourself to listen

Five would figure he should just rip it off like a bandaid. And when he looks into your eyes, it unlocks something in him and his feelings pour out

“I love you,” he would say. “I’ve loved you my whole life, and I know you probably don’t feel the same, but I had to—”

You would lunge at him and pull his face until your lips collide

Five would freeze at the sudden contact but quickly melt into you, wrapping his arms around to pull you in lighter

Your arms would curl around his neck

Luther’s cheering would cause both of your faces to light up red but neither of you wanted to pull away

Eventually, you would lean back and whisper, “Took you long enough.”

Five’s eyes widen. “You knew?”

And you would shrug, and say, “I had hoped.”

Then with a beaming smile, the smile that started it all, you say, “And I love you too dummy.”

He would smile back, his heart threatening to burst with the sudden abundance of happiness, and shake his head

“Come here” he would say before bringing you into another kiss, eliciting a squeal of delight from your lips

At this point, Luther would feel uncomfortable lingering around and would leave to immediately inform the other siblings of the big news

#five x reader #five x you #five x y/n #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #five hargreeves x y/n #five hargreeves #five hargreeves fanfiction #tua #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy fanfiction #tua fanfiction

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imagine-knowing-a-name · 2 years

Text

omnia vincit amor

Summary: Natasha and Y/N are best friends, but friendships change when relationships start.

Pairing: Wanda x Nat (romantic), Nat & aroace!Reader & Wanda (platonic)

Word Count: 1677

Warnings: Death, loneliness, swearing, it’s angst

A/N: In case anyone forgot I’m a massive nerd, the title is in latin. In other news I keep reading posts about aroace loneliness and making myself sad and this is just the end product? It’s isolating sometimes thinking about the future. I’ll write some actual happy aroace reader fics one day 😭

—————————————————

You couldn’t blame her. Not really. It had to be the end for one of you, and this was the option with the happy ending. Not for you, but for them, the two people you cared for most in the world. They would get their happy ending, and wasn’t that all anyone strived for?

Because, in the end, love conquers all.

——————flashback——————

You were on the sofa when Natasha approached; she was out of sight, but you knew the sound of her steps well enough to know. Even if you hadn’t, she spoke first, and the voice and teasing tone were all too familiar: “For an aromantic, you can have some excellent romance ideas.”

“Well yeah, being aromantic doesn’t stop me from being a romantic. It’s the contrary: aromantic, a romantic. Get it?” Greetings weren’t necessary, nor was properly getting up to see her. Tilting your head over the back of the sofa and seeing her upside down was more than enough in your opinion.

Natasha rolled her eyes playfully, smiling broadly despite the sigh she produced. “I got it before you even said it. How? Because you’ve made this joke before!”

“I have one joke, okay?! You’ve got to let me have this!”

“I’ll let you have it,” she relented, and you’d already started to celebrate your meaningless victory before she continued. “But only because your dating advice worked.”

That stopped you in your tracks. You sprung up fully, turning your torso to face Natasha completely. “Wanda said yes?”

“She said yes.”

“Holy shit, this is so awesome! Aww, you’re going to be so cute!”

“Y/N, calm down. She agreed to a first date, not marriage.”

“Yeah, but you’ve both wanted this for forever. And trust me, because I had to hear both sides for soooo long. Like, sooo long, so much pining. Let me tell you-”

“I get it,” Natasha interrupted, “we took a while.”

“That you did. But what I’m saying is: it’s gonna work out. I know it.”

You kept grinning, trying not to let the expression drop in front of the spy. She rarely missed changes in your mood, no matter how well you thought you’d hidden them. This time, however, you didn’t have to try so hard; she was too distracted planning her date to notice anyway.

Natasha was your best friend, and Wanda a close second, so you were incredibly happy for them. You thrived on seeing good come to them, but your insecurities started to get the better of you, and they freed themselves when Natasha paused for your input.

“It sounds perfect,” you forced. “You’ll both do so well together. Only thing I’ll be sad about is losing the role of your favourite person!” A slight chuckle followed your words, a meagre attempt to play it off as a joke rather than genuine fear.

“As if you could ever lose that role, you’ll always be my platonic favourite.” It fooled Natasha enough for her to join in with the joke, too distracted again to notice the pain behind your comment.

Guilt crept up on you for even feeling insecure. Natasha was trying to reassure you, as she’d always done, and she’d always been good with you. She’d never insinuated that a romantic relationship was beyond a platonic one, never called dating ‘something more’, but her absent reassurance made you wonder. Had she meant everything she’d said before? Or were they just well-chosen words from a time without romance?

—————————————————

Time proved that things wouldn’t be as bad as you’d thought, so the insecurity lessened over time; it never vanished completely, but it became easier to ignore. As her best friend, you were subject to hearing Natasha gushing about Wanda on a near daily basis, and from that, you got to hear how their relationship grew. According to her ‘morning after’ recap, their first date was perfect; it led to more dates, which led to actually dating, which led to Wanda moving into Natasha’s compound room.

Still, they both made time for you, almost as much as before, not wanting you to feel left out even with the new relationship. Along with just talking and hanging out in the compound, Natasha began to invite you on ‘friend dates’, days to do the things you both wanted to do. Sometimes it would just be the two of you, and sometimes you’d invite Wanda too, though since the whole point was to make sure you didn’t feel like you were third wheeling, your two friends would keep their PDA to a minimum.

Sometimes they’d try to sneak kisses and flirting past you; on the days when you were excitable and often ran ahead or were distracted by the activity. Oftentimes when you looked over at them and they were making out, you simply carried on your way and left them to it, not actually minding. But you had a reputation to keep up, so towards the end, or if things were looking to get a little too heated, you’d snap your fingers, playfully indicating for them to return to the day’s activity.

Taking them to a rom-com was a mistake you wouldn’t make again though. Nothing stopped the couple’s flirting after that.

Being with them was fun; it took away your fears and feelings of loneliness; you got to do things you enjoy with your favourite people. It should have been enough, but the isolating thoughts came crashing back as soon as you were home. While Wanda and Natasha would return to their own room for time as a couple, you would be alone, yearning for a closeness that only seemed to come with dating.

—————————————————

When it came to Avengers work, the mission groupings resulted from two factors: how much everyone’s skills applied to the mission; and how close teammates were; personal friendships tended to affect team performance positively.

The pairings evolved and eventually led to you, Natasha, and Wanda being the most frequent grouping. It had been pairings at first: you and Wanda, Nat and Wanda, you and Nat; whoever fit best to the mission. But then Natasha and Wanda had started dating, and the suggestive comments through the comms began to get to the HQ team. And so, the team stopped sending them alone, adding you to the mix; you worked well with them both, and the team could count on you to curb the couple’s distractions with each other.

Missions went on like that for months, the three of you always being sent together. You were a dream team. Sure, there’d been a few cuts, scrapes, and bruises, but mostly, they’d gone by without a hitch.

It only took one mission for that to change.

It should have been simple; subdue a few guards, retrieve the data inside the building, and leave. The assignment team had even decided just you and Natasha would be enough; only at your and Nat’s insistence had Wanda been added.

The hostiles knew the three of you had been coming; the tip-off was something you would have to sort once you got off from the mission. They’d found a way to stop Wanda’s powers, and there were far more guards than you had expected, leaving you woefully outnumbered.

From there, it went downhill quickly. Unless something changed, you wouldn’t be winning this fight. There was still one way to complete the mission, and it was the scenario the three of you attempted. You and Wanda kept fighting atop the scaffold while Natasha snuck a few floors down to grab the intel. As soon as she’d acquired it, your group would back off, giving the impression of abandoning your assault.

Only, it never got to that stage.

A shockwave blasted on the rooftop; there was nothing you could do as it hit, sending you toppling over the edge. From a glance at Wanda, you saw she suffered the same fate; she was too far away for you to grab her, too far to have any attempt at saving both of you. With her powers, the fall wouldn’t have been an issue. But they were still blocked, and she was scared.

Natasha ran to the edge of her floor when she heard the screams; the windows weren’t in, so she had the full range of view to look up, seeing you and Wanda hurtling in her direction.

Grief set on Natasha's face the instant the situation became clear. Wanda’s powers weren’t working; you didn’t even have powers. Nothing and no one would stop your falls; no one but Natasha.

Her eyes flit from Wanda’s to yours – she couldn’t save you both. You knew that, but she had just realised it. Your friend had a decision to make, and she had a split second to make it.

She chose Wanda.

Natasha lunged just in time, grabbing her girlfriend and pulling her back onto solid ground. The two stumbled, then locked in a hug. Wanda sobbed at her sudden safety while Natasha embraced her, but the assassin’s gaze was over Wanda’s shoulder. You were out of reach now, in the final few seconds of your life.

Pain and apologies greeted you when you looked up. But you couldn’t blame her. Not really. The value of romance over friendship was a fact you’d carried with you for your whole life, something that left a pain in your heart with every reminder, but it meant you knew how it would end. You’d always known.

Despite it all, you realised that hadn’t prepared you for the confirmation. So, for the final time, your heart clenched at the sight of Wanda and Nat embracing. They would have a happy ending: a marriage, family, the whole lot, everything they had ever wanted, and everything you’d known you wouldn’t get.

In your last moment, you hid the hurt that must have shone through on your face, replacing it with acceptance. Natasha was still watching; you had to let her see that she had made the right choice in saving her love.

After all, it was a well-known phrase: omnia vincit amor.

Love conquers all.

—————————————————

part 2

#wandanat #aroace reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff & reader #wanda maximoff & reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff x reader #wandanat & reader

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bunnydayss · 10 months

Text

╭─────────────.★.. ─────╮

✰ Random Skz–Pair Headcannons: ✰

╰───── ..★.─────────────╯

————————————————————————

(Please note that I do not actually ship them in real life, this is for pure fun and giggles. — It might also not be realistic lol).

Pairs included: Minsung, Jilix, Seungin, Chanlix, Hyunlix, Hyunsung

(might do a part two based on feedback/pair requests)

Listen along while you read :)

————————————————————————

. . .

::🪻 Minsung 🪻:: ( Minho & Jisung )

• Minho would see Han watching other idols’ fancams and secretly learn the dance to show him during practice, just to impress him.

• Jisung would also go out of his way to try and learn difficult dances to subtly flex his improvements to Minho, cause he looks up to him.

• Minho bridal carries Jisung sometimes, or just generally manhandles him to fit his wants (Jisung gets flustered every time).

• Jisung acts like a brat for attention and Minho teases him for it every time and purposefully avoids playing along to rile up Sungie.

• If Jisung is having a bad day, even if Minho already planned/prepped for another meal, he’ll go out to the store to grab ingredients for Han’s favorite food.

• Minho proposes first, Jisung was too shy to do it himself.

• Minho is a silent affectionate, meaning he does things to better Jisung’s mood silently. Jisung is a loud affectionate and is extremely proud of himself when he can return the favor. (“Hey look what I did for you! Aren’t I the best?”).

. . .

:: 🌻 Jilix 🌻 :: ( Jisung & Felix )

• Both would be cuddle-bugs, but Felix would be more confident asking for them, and eventually would rub off on Jisung who would slowly become more vocal about his needs.

• Both are good at switching between the one talking and the one listening. (They’re both great at actively listening and communicating.)

• Felix apologizes first but Jisung is the first one to initiate physical contact after a fight.

• They don’t fight often but if they do it’s usually due to exhaustion or pent up stress, and it’s a short lived fight (they both immediately regret it).

• Felix fondly watches Jisung fall asleep to assure his sleep schedule betters itself during a comeback (Jisung spends too much time in the studio).

• Felix proposes first but Jisung saw the ring a week ago, but didn’t mention it to not stress out Lix.

. . .

:: 🪷 Seungin 🪷 :: ( Seungmin & Jeongin )

• Rather quiet affectionates, but can be loud when it’s a special occasion or when it matters most.

• Both propose at the same time ong.

• Seungmin drags Jeongin around and Jeongin fights back but eventually relents. (Jeongin melts into Minnie’s touch and ends up whining when he moves away).

• Morning cuddles, and refusing to let Seungmin leave the bed to start the day (“impeding morning” being I.N’s worst fear lol).

• Jeongin king of denying affection but secretly loving it (Seungmin knows).

• Seungmin puppy behavior ong, and he’s soft for all Innie’s wants, in order to please him. (“I kinda want cake”, “Innie it’s 2am”, “I know…”, “What’re you waiting around for? Let’s go-”).

• Seungmin likes to tease Jeongin by purposefully being distant from time to time, just to see Jeongin seek him out for attention. (Jeongin thinks he’s sneaky).

. . .

:: 💐 Chanlix 💐 :: ( Chan & Felix )

• Chan workaholic, Felix fighting for his life to throw him out of the studio. (He probably kisses him silly to get his attention).

• Felix has Bang Chan lap rights and sits in his lap, otherwise Chan rests his head on Liz’s thighs and let’s him play with his hair.

• Hand size difference 🗣️🗣️🗣️ (Chan lives for holding both Liz’s hands in one of his).

• Chan plays his Lix’s legs when they watch movies, he traces his fingers in random patterns while Felix giggles and buries his head in his chest.

• Chan proposes first but only because Felix knew he’s a huge closeted romantic and wanted to let him have his big moment.

• Felix displays love through physical affection and quality time, Chan through acts of service and gifts.

• Chan and Felix have a great comedy dynamic, both knowing the same references from Australia.

. . .

:: 🌷 Hyunlix 🌷 :: ( Hyunjin & Felix )

• Drama queen Hyunjin and Felix plays along fondly. (It flusters Hyunjin when he does—e.g. Hyunjin stubs his toe, fake cries about it, Felix acts worried and kisses his finger better, Hyunjin blushes).

• Both love when the other has long hair that they can play with. In fact their favorite way to go to sleep is facing one another with each others hands buried in their strands of hair.

• Poke and teases each other, even when the other is in a bad mood. And if they live for draping themselves over the other, putting all their body weight on the other to lightly annoy them.

• Felix proposes first, Hyunjin got so flustered.

• Big spoon Hyunjin and little spoon Felix, but they also switch and Hyunjin finds it so cute how his hands fully wrap around Felix and meet, and Felix’s can’t with the broadness of Jinnie’s torso.

• Hyunjin loves getting Felix flowers 24/7, replaced them in the vase every morning before Lix wakes up.

• Hyunjin paints while Felix finds TikTok challenges to do. (Hyunjin also paints Felix…)

. . .

:: 🌹 Hyunsung 🌹 :: ( Hyunjin & Jisung )

• Loves play fighting, an absolute must especially with their own past.

• They’re the type to provoke one another into affection: “You wanna kiss me sooooo bad”, “I dare you” etc.

• They fight but immediately regret it due to their relationship pre-debut, so they’re scared of big arguments. They apologize at the same time, but refuse to admit it when confronted about it (“I’m so—”, “I shouldn’t have—”…“What were you gonna say?”, “Pft. Nothing”).

• Messy and messier, with Hyunjin’s artistic hobbies and Jisung’s chaotic nature, they dedicate days to clean the house together while playing music (shared playlist on shuffle).

• Jisung doesn’t like to admit it, to Hyunjin of all people too, but he loves being held and complimented. His ego (and heart) grow at Hyunjin’s small compliments, although Jinnie makes sure to tease Jisung about his like for them.

———————

Feel free to request any other pairs! (SKZ, TXT and maybe some other groups but it depends on my familiarity with them).

Don’t forget to eat and drink water :)

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imdoingaokay · 1 year

Note

hello :) i was wondering if you knew anything about elder scrolls?

cause i wanted to ask how the inquisition would handle an inquisator that was a dark elf?

look like a demon. is an elf. different world. hard times for the poor inquisitor!

So, I'm assuming you mean The Inquisitor was from the Elder Scrolls Universe and transported from Nirn to Thedas, I lowkey love that idea, so I’m rolling with it. You’ve inspired me to write something completely different, I’ll be getting it out soon.

So, this is how the DAI companions would react to a dark elf Inquisitor.

Blackwall/Thom Rainer: Blackwall can’t help but assume The Inquisitor is a demon at first. When has someone looked like a skinny, short Qunari with blood-red eyes?

They have to be a demon? Right?

However, it doesn’t take long for him to realize that The Inquisitor isn’t a demon and a rather polite person. He does reel back a little when The Inquisitor explains how long Dunmer lives. If anything, he becomes more curious about Dunmer and makes an effort to refer to The Inquisitor’s race as Dunmer rather than Dark Elf.

Romanced, he’s mostly the same, he just puts in more and more effort to learn about Dunmer culture. But don’t expect him to start praying to any Daedra.

He doesn’t have much of an issue with the whole age thing until he realizes how old he is. All of a sudden, he’s worried about how The Inquisitor will handle his eventual death, as he’s most likely going to die before them. It takes some reassurance from The Inquisitor before he feels truly feels comfortable, but he’ll always feel bad that he’ll leave them so soon.

Cassandra: Cassandra is convinced that the future Inquisitor is a fade demon who murdered the divine. But she decides to keep them alive for the sake of The Breach, which can only be solved by their damn hand. So she relents.

If the Dunmer Inquisitor is very religious, they have a hard time initially. After all, it’s rather strange for Cassandra to accept that some people worship different gods than the Maker. She’ll get more comfortable eventually, it just takes some time.

Romanced, it’s mostly the same again. Only that she enjoys listening to her lover speaks in their native tongue and hearing the stories of The Dunmer. The Tale of The Nerevarine is her favorite. The age discussion doesn't happen until it slips from The Inquisitor, and the pair have to talk fairly long about the plan for both of them. Cassandra eventually lets it go but is still worried for her lover's sake.

Cole: “You’re not from here.” He says plainly when the pair are alone and away from immediate danger.

“You’re not used to this place. Not used to Thedas. Do you want to go home?” He asks, curiously watching The Inquisitor furrow their brow.

“They thought I was a demon too.” He eventually offers, “But you stopped them from kicking me out. Thank you.”

Cole doesn’t see The Inquisitor as a demon, he can’t, after all. There is nothing of the fade, nothing evil about them. They’re rather nice.

Reading their mind can get hard, there are many faces, many creatures, Cole has never seen and can’t put a name to. The hurt, fear, and loneliness that The Inquisitor may feel are unique. And Cole will do his best to understand.

Cullen Rutherford: He struggles the most. He almost draws his sword when they first meet, if it is on the battlefield. He immediately assumes that the future Inquisitor is a fade demon. It is only Cassandra, who immediately introduces Cullen, and dissuades him from cutting down The Inquisitor.

He grows respect for them over time, and once the Battle of Haven is over, he finds himself curious about Dunmer and their history. He struggles to separate The Inquisitor from the Fade, as he can’t tell the difference sometimes.

Romanced, it takes a minute, he needs to feel comfortable first. Once he feels comfortable with The Inquisitor, he ends up falling for them, fairly quickly too. He’s embarrassed and ashamed of himself at first. Because he thought they were a literal demon. Getting married to him is also a little difficult if his spouse expects a Dunmer wedding, not because he’s unwilling, but because having one will be hard. That man will put on all the traditional Dunmer attire and do the whole ritual if asked, he knows it's difficult to find everything.

Dorian Pavus: Fascinated, absolutely fascinated. He asks questions, so many questions. They range from the history of the Dunmer, to how someone like The Inquisitor came to be at the Conclave.

This man defends The Inquisitor with his life. He knows life is tough to be an elf… but to be an elf that could easily be mistaken for a demon? He can imagine it’s tough. He’s always there to support his friend, whether it be an occasional spell that gets thrown in the face of some snobby noble, or a glass of wine, maybe even a shoulder to cry on.

Romanced, he behaves more or less the same. He flirts and is interested in Dunmer history, and all that jazz. But he finds himself growing more attached, more… infatuated. The romance continues as normal, but it’s more… curious. Once again, the age issue comes up, but Dorian isn’t too worried about it. He’s so caught up in just being alive with his lover that he doesn’t have time to think about the far-off future. One day, it’ll hit him, but he’ll be with his lover for that.

Iron Bull: For a second, he actually thought The Inquisitor was a Qunari at first. He thought that their parents were Tal-Vashoth, and they just had a short, skinny kid. Now it disturbed him that Ben-Hassrath, had no information on The Inquisitor, but they’re Tal-Vashoth, maybe their parents were good at hiding. But once the rumor gets around that they’re from another world? Maybe he starts questioning it. But the second he sees The Inquisitor? He knows they aren’t Qunari. He also recognizes that they aren’t a demon either. But the red eyes? Yeah, those freak him out.

Also, don’t call him a grey orc. He finds it funny one time, and after that, he gets annoyed.

Romanced, he’s basically the same. He’s one of the most accepting LIs out there. The age thing isn’t an issue. He loves his kadan, and when he dies, he can only hope that they move on. They deserve that.

Josephine Montilyet: Poor Josephine. Now she has to work overtime to really quiet the rumors of a demon invading The Chantry. She never really thought they were a demon, though she was still nervous around them at first. The red eyes can be off-putting when one first sees them.

Aside from that, the woman is fighting for her life against the rumors and the comments of nobles. She constantly tries to defend her friend, but it can be hard, especially when someone is from a different world.

Romanced, it’s basically the same. Maybe there are a few comments here and there about The Inquisitor being a Dark Elf, but that’s about it. The age issue is probably an issue as well, Josephine just gets worried about her lover and how they’ll handle her death. But with some reassurance, the thought slips away. And she becomes preoccupied with just living.

Leliana: She’s frustrated at first, she’s never heard of this creature and has no idea what they are. As far as she knows, they killed the Most Holy. But she relents when Solas explains that they aren’t a Fade Demon or a normal type of elf. But after they awaken, Leliana gets a chance to ask a few questions. Dunmer is not the name she would choose, but if that’s what they are, that’s what they are.

She has a slight fondness for them over time, having a growing respect for them as they continuously prove themselves worthy of the title “Inquisitor.” Also one of the only people who end up asking “How did you get here?”

If The Inquisitor doesn’t know, she leaves it. But if The Inquisitor knows, she wants an explanation. And The Inquisitor better not lie, Leliana will know. But Leliana would probably drop it in that case too. Something tells her that it wasn't The Inquisitor's choice, and even if it was, it couldn't have been easy.

Sera: So they’re elfy, but not the “normal type” of elfy. She’s super confused and gets extra confused when they ever explain anything about themselves or their history. She ends up asking The Inquisitor to stop talking about it, as it gets to be too much for her to handle. She is also super on guard when it comes to their appearance. The red eyes seriously freak her out.

Romanced, it takes longer for her to feel comfortable enough for a romance. Aside from that, it moves pretty normally. Maybe more arrows get shot once Sera feels the need to defend her lover, of course. The age issue isn’t brought up too much, as Sera is like Dorian in the sense that she feels she has no time to worry about that sort of stuff.

Solas: Confused, The Inquisitor is an elf, but not his version of an “elf.” Probably one of the first people to explain that The Inquisitor (then, Herald) isn’t a demon or from The Fade. He respects The Inquisitor, and will most likely ask questions about them and their people. Another thing that he finds interesting is how elves enslaved humans, not the other way around.

He also thinks the stories of The Tribunal are… interesting too. He seems to get a little uncomfortable with the whole story of their rise and fall as if he can slightly relate. Other than that, he likes hearing stories of their people and respects them for their culture.

Now… I don’t think he would romance a Dunmer. I genuinely think it wouldn’t happen. I mean, maybe it would, had there been more time for him to get to know The Inquisitor (sort of like how he could’ve romanced a human or a dwarf had they gotten to know each other more over more time.) At most, he develops a little crush on them, but he’ll NEVER say anything, even if The Inquisitor returns their feelings.

Varric Tethras: Now this is a twist! An elf leading The Inquisition is something he didn’t expect, but someone from a completely different world? The Maker himself couldn’t write something better. He’s very welcoming and happy to make The Inquisitor feel less like a monster and more like a person. If The Inquisitor is like some other Dunmer and a little racist, it throws him off big time. He’s surprised when he learns about Dwemer and how they weren’t really short. And the whole thing with the Falmer? Varric is happy to distance himself from the idea of being a Dwemer and may ask The Inquisitor to refrain from referring to him as that.

Romanced, he behaves mostly the same as he would if they were friends. He’ll go above and beyond to make The Inquisitor feel comfortable. Even using Carta connections to find items that may remind his lover at home. He's always nervous about the age issue, but, like Bull, he hopes his lover just moves on from him. Varric doesn’t think a guy like him is worth never loving again for.

Vivienne: She treats them like a demon at first, she’s cordial but wary. She never lets The Inquisitor know her thoughts. Not until she realizes she needs their help with the snowy wyvern.

If The Inquisitor decides to bring her the actual heart, she uses it, and can’t help but feel ashamed. She does an excellent job of hiding it, of course, but she can stop the overwhelming weight of guilt that washes over her when The Inquisitor arrives with the heart and without another word, goes to help someone else. From then on, Vivienne is much warmer to The Inquisitor, maybe even considering The Inquisitor a friend.

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she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 24 days

Text

Don't Go Blindly Into the Dark

Summary:

To hide that he can't read, Jan Van Eck has been forcing his son to pretend he's blind since he was eight years old. Wylan is now attending Ketterdam University, and meeting Jesper Fahey may very well be about to change his life. But is he safe to tell Jesper the truth? And what will Jesper say if he does?

Jesper is struggling to weigh up his life in the Barrel and his life at the University of Ketterdam, and there's a good chance that his growing debt is about to make the decision for him. He hasn't attended class consecutively for months, but maybe that will change when his newest project includes partnering up with Wylan Van Eck. But can he really leave the Barrel behind him? And how long can he keep up the pretence of who he thinks Wylan wants him to be?

Tags: @justalunaticfangirl @lunarthecorvus

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know :)

Content warnings for this chapter: abuse, violence, child abuse, ptsd, reference to kerch indenture laws

AO3 link

Chapter 9 - Wylan

If he hadn’t been terrified someone would see him and start asking questions, Wylan would have run all the way home. As it was he walked as fast as he thought he feasibly should be able to, his heart in his throat, too distracted to pay proper attention to his cane - not that it mattered. No-one else on the Geldstraat used one like his, so no-one could accuse him of using it wrong. Probably. He wasn’t really sure. It didn’t make him any less nervous every time anybody saw him. Every time he saw anybody. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Wylan Van Eck was not blind.

Actually, that’s not true. “Wylan Van Eck” was blind. He had been since the accident, when he was eight. But Wylan wasn’t. Wylan was an idiot and a liar and almost definitely a terrible person. And what was he supposed to do now?

It had been fine when he sat opposite Jesper in the library, complaining about economics. It had even been okay when he thought they might be flirting. It had been okay because they didn’t really know each other and Jesper didn’t really care who he was talking to; Wylan had seen him around the campus before flirting with anyone who looked his way. Wylan just wanted someone to talk to for once. He’d begged his father to let him go to university, and even when he finally relented all he’d said was:

“I thought you trusted me enough to believe me when I said this was a bad idea, Wylan. But if you need to discover it for yourself, I will let you go - just don’t expect sympathy from me when everything goes wrong. You are trying to force your way into a world in which you do not belong,”

And then, of course, there were strict rules to accompany the agreement. They couldn’t risk anyone finding out about Wylan’s deficiencies, could they? For every one of them Wylan found the tiniest, silliest defiances he could muster. He had to be home from class immediately, but he could get there as early as he liked and would sit alone in the library for hours every morning - not even doing anything for fear of being caught, just sitting alone anywhere that was not the house. He was supposed to avoid talking to anyone if he could, so he picked classes that would mean he had to do group projects. They were stupid things, inconsequential, but they meant something. Wylan didn’t know if his father hadn’t noticed he was doing these things on purpose or if he was just letting them slide, but either way he was going to cling to them for as long as he could.

“What happened to this being boring as hell?” Wylan had asked Jesper only yesterday, stupidly joyful to discover he was sitting next to him.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it will be. But you’re smart, and I’m sitting next to you,”

Oh. Right. And here Wylan was foolish enough to think he might have made a friend. His first friend, since Anya.

But anyway, if Jesper wanted to use Wylan because he thought he was smart then he was going to be sorely disappointed. Wylan was not smart. Wylan was useless.

Wylan didn’t remember an exact moment when his father realised that he could not read. He hid it for as long as he could but he must have been six or seven, he supposed, because there had been a long time of trying new methods to teach him even before he started claiming he was blind. Even before his mother died. Wylan had heard them arguing about him several times, but he couldn’t bring to mind what they’d said. And then his mother was ill, and then she was gone. It was all rather blurry. Rather sudden.

There was also the problem of the Heartrender. Wylan’s stomach dropped like a stone when she walked in - his vision was imperfect through the Tailoring but it was hardly worth real complaint over and he knew that it was her. Did she know? Had she come to accuse him of his lies? What if he’d done something wrong when she was at the house, and his father had punished her like he promised he would Anya? Maybe she was here for revenge.

But Nina - for that was how Jesper introduced her, now - didn’t even show a sign of recognition. She leaned over Jesper and batted back his flirting like they were old friends, even though they’d only met a few days ago, and chatted happily to Wylan about biology until he eventually convinced himself he should join in before they both questioned why he’d fallen quiet. She loved biology, and she was good at it - but she should be, he supposed, if she was a Corporalnik. And yet when Jesper had questions, he turned to Wylan. And Wylan had been stupid enough to convince himself that meant something. He had been so suddenly, unexpectedly, and naïvely enamoured by the idea of finding friends in Jesper, Nina, and Inej that he had not only stayed after class, but he had stayed until sunset. And as soon as he stepped through the door at home he was met by the consequences of it.

His father didn’t shout. He didn’t even look that angry - just tired. Weary.

“Why didn’t you come home, Wylan?”

Wylan looked at his shoes.

“I was studying,” he mumbled, “I lost track of time. I’m sorry,”

A brief moment passed.

“You are not to attend classes at the university anymore,” said his father, simply, like he was telling him to wash up before dinner, “Go upstairs and prepare for this evening, it’s lucky you haven’t arrived so late as to burst in upon the event and embarrass us both”

Wylan had forgotten about this evening. His father was hosting a dinner party for the rest of the Merchant Council; Wylan would have to spend the entire night sitting quietly but still acting engaged, answering awkward questions, and trying not to spontaneously combust. Perfect, that was just what he needed today.

“No, father please-”

“We had an agreement, Wylan, and you’ve gone against my wishes. Besides, with your concerning grade in your business class I think we both know what’s happening here don’t we? I tried to warn you,”

You are trying to force your way into a world in which you do not belong.

Wylan felt his cheeks heat.

“That’s one class!” he found himself crying out, which was probably the worst decision he could have made.

But why did Jan Van Eck only see the struggling business grade? Wylan wasn’t even failing business, he just wasn’t doing as well in it as the others. Why couldn’t his father see the soaring grades in the sciences that Wylan and thrown himself at and buried himself in, in some desperate attempt to make up for all his other failings? He could see now that it had always been a lost cause, that there was nothing he would ever be able to do to apologise for the hurt he had caused his father with his uselessness.

“Please, father, I promise you I’ll-”

“Don’t talk back to me, Wylan,” his father’s eyes flickered dangerously, but his voice remained level, “You are not to attend classes any more; I shall submit your withdrawal from the school tomorrow morning and if you are going to argue with me then you will stay in your room until such time that I’m convinced you won’t foolishly run off and leave yourself privy to any potential danger again. You are vulnerable, Wylan, and if you aren’t sensible enough to keep to the house yourself then I will be forced to do it for you,”

It was nothing he hadn't heard before. Nothing that hadn’t been done before. Wylan’s bedroom locked from the outside, and had done so for about as long as he could remember.

“Please-”

“One more word, Wylan, do you hear me?”

And Wylan didn’t know why he did it, didn’t know why he was stupid enough not to just fall silent and do as he was told. But he lifted his chin and said:

“I don’t care. I want to continue attending university,”

He registered the sting afterwards more than he did the slap itself. His cheek was burning and his neck hurt from moving so suddenly. The unwelcome bite of tears pressed into him and he tried desperately to quash it before his father noticed.

“What you want, Wylan,” his father hissed, as Wylan suddenly realised he was being dragged stumbling up the stairs, “Is entirely irrelevant to what any of us need. Now stay quiet, and I will speak to you tomorrow,”

And then the door was closed and Wylan heard the lock click shut. He gripped his cane so tightly that his knuckles turned white and he might have snapped the ridiculous thing in two, and then before he really knew why he had thrown it across the room and collapsed onto the carpet. He pulled his knees to his chest and let the waiting tears spill onto his face, bursting from his throat in sobs even as he held his nose to try and force them to be quieter.

Years ago, after a lousy reading lesson and a similar message of crushing disappointment from his father, Wylan had been sitting on the floor of his bedroom like this when Anya found him. She wasn’t supposed to come into the main house; she was a Grisha Healer, indentured to Wylan’s father after fleeing Ravka, and she was not officially allowed anywhere but her room and the Grisha workshop unless specifically summoned. But she risked it, to come and find him.

“Anya- what are you doing?” he’d whispered, panic rushing in his throat, “he’ll-”

“I could not leave you all alone, could I?” she smiled, moving slowly away from the door she had leant against when she hurriedly pushed it shut.

“But-”

“He won’t find out,” she whispered, “and if he does it is my fault, not yours. Promise,”

It wasn’t himself that Wylan was worried about, but he kept quiet and linked his index finger around Anya’s.

“Promise,” he breathed.

Wylan didn’t know the details but he thought Anya must have left a while before the civil war broke out, because she just seemed to always have been there, and was only a similar age to him - surely she was too young to have been fleeing the fighting? He had never asked her. Maybe she just didn’t want to end up being part of the once-compulsory draft - no-one was less inclined to unnecessary violence than Anya was.

“And yet now I find myself wishing I was a Heartrender,” she’d said to him, stolen into his room to sit on the floor and hold his hand, “so I could make your father sorry for this,”

Wylan just shook his head.

“It’s not his fault,”

It was part of Anya’s job to Tailor Wylan’s scars, and his eyes too. She hadn’t been told the truth, of course - like when Nina came to work on them, she believed the cloudy layer it brought of Wylan’s eyes was an inescapable byproduct of the process and not the real reason she’d been hired. But Anya was kind and sweet and easy to talk to. Wylan ended up telling her all of it, and as soon as she knew what she was doing she was horrified.

“I can not be part of this,” she’d told him, at first, “I do not want to hurt you like this,”

But Anya had never hurt him. Wylan had hurt her; he didn’t know exactly what he’d done but he knew that she was his only friend in the world, that he had pushed his father too hard, and that one day Anya was gone.

“She’s no longer under my employment,” his father had said, the last time he ever mentioned her.

It was the only explanation Wylan had been given. It was the only one he dared to ask for.

Because whatever had happened to Anya - and he had no illusions of it, he knew his father had probably sold her like a bolt of cotton - was entirely Wylan’s fault.

Now he lay on his bed, listening to the dinner party downstairs, mulling over his father’s words. Did he even want to go back to university? He couldn’t tell Jesper the truth, but he couldn’t go on lying to him either. He was evil, and cruel, and Jesper had looked at him like that… Wylan thought of Jesper’s hand on his, his fingers in his hair, his lips moving closer to Wylan’s. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lie to him - but there was no way of telling him the truth. What would Jesper say if he did? What would he think of him? Maybe this was for the best. Wylan couldn’t face Jesper, he couldn’t face Nina, and if Inej and Nina were here together then he was deluding himself about befriending her as well. The only class he properly looked forward to, except in the past week or so, was mathematics and he already knew almost everything they’d been learning. And his grade in the business and economics class was terrible. He didn’t know what he was doing. It was every proof Jan Van Eck had ever needed of his son’s failings. Wylan listened to the muffled conversations of the dinner party two floors below, the footsteps of staff passing by his door, the distant clattering sounds in the kitchen downstairs, and wondered if anyone had asked where he was. If they had even noticed that he wasn’t there. When the next morning came and his father came to speak to him, Wylan was still lying on his side in the previous day’s clothes, tears tracing down his cheeks. If he’d slept he didn’t remember it.

“You were right,” he whispered, “I never should have gone,”

Van Eck sighed, and Wylan turned slowly to see his father shaking his head. He sat up on the bed and pulled his feet in to perch cross-legged.

“I tried to warn you, Wylan,”

You are trying to force your way into a world in which you do not belong.

“I know,” he murmured, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking, “I’m sorry,”

And then the tears came again. His father sighed again.

“Don’t cry, Wylan. It’s unbecoming,”

Wylan wanted to sob that it didn’t matter, because everything he even did was unbecoming, there was no part of him that was not considered such. But he just lowered his gaze, and apologised again.

“I’ve submitted your withdrawal for you,” said his father, as though it were a great kindness to have done it instead of putting Wylan through the shame of doing it himself.

It probably was.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Take a day. You need to think everything through, and I want you to properly understand that this was a mistake. Then maybe tomorrow we can discuss alternate options for your future,”

Alternate options? Wylan wasn’t sure what he meant by that. University has been his one chance; to find a pathway, to prove to his father that he was worth something. But he’d been wrong. What other options could possibly be left?

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