#and marvel uses the pattern in other ways

[boots-with-the-fur-club]

Chapter 3 of These Are Not Our Masks!

@daboyau

@that-0n3-shr00mi3-guy

@iobsesswaytoomuch

@sady-is-secretly-an-alchemist

@dluebirb

Raph and Leo snap back to attention at Draxum’s voice and arrival. He stands in front of a still open and glowing portal and has a look of pure disappointment on his face.

“You were supposed to collect your brothers and eliminate everyone else who stood in your way. Are you disobeying my orders!?”

Mikey holds onto Raph protectively.

“Yes they are! And nobody is going back with you!”

Draxum rolls his eyes.

“I should have made you all have some level of higher intelligence instead of putting it all in the purple one. This is not a situation where any of you have a choice.” His hand glows as he holds it out towards Raph and Leo.

The two of them scream out and hold onto their faces in pain.

Splinter steals one of Leo’s katanas and strikes at Draxum.

“You can not have them!

Draxum dodges.

“You fool, they were mine from the start! Now listen to my commands! Artemis! Atlas!”

Raph and Leo revert to their earlier behavior and go after both Mikey and Donnie.

“S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N! Release the nets!” Donnie commands.

“Here they come!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. shoots them out, getting both brothers caught and put to the floor.

They claw and thrash around which makes it clear the nets will not hold them for long. Another plan is needed, and fast.

“It’s a marvel what you’ve done with your limited resources. I’m sure you’ll make something better than this trash under my command.” Draxum waves his hand again.

Vines shoot up and around Donnie, completely surrounding him. A mask is held by several of them while others grab Donnie’s arms and legs.

The mask is smaller than the others, only being enough to cover his eyes. It’s metallic purple all across. There’s a goggle over one eyehole with two screws next to it’s top and bottom. The other side of the mask has gears and a geometric pattern around the eyehole.

If Donnie wasn’t in so much danger and didn’t know who it was from, he might actually be impressed.

He struggles heavily, also trying to bite the vines.

Splinter turns to help him but gets stopped by Draxum who he continues to fight with. Mikey pulls at the vines as much as he can. Every one he gets rid of has another pop up in its place.

“Donnie! BOOYAKASHA!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gives out a battle cry and starts mowing down the vines.

Draxum notices while continuing his fight and moves some vines to grab the drone. He tears him to pieces, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N’s head dropping to the floor.

Donnie’s eyes widen as his heart absolutely shatters alongside his robotic son.

“No! S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N! I’m going to turn you into lamb chops, do you hear me Draxum!?”

“Save that attitude for humanity.”

The vines with the mask slams it onto Donnie’s face.

Everything starts falling apart almost immediately afterwards.

Raph and Leo escape their nets, barreling towards Mikey since he’s the only one left without a mask.

Donnie is finally released from the vines.

That proves to be a mistake.

His fingers twitch unnaturally as he types, but he still manages to use his wrist device. Lasers start firing all over the place from different directions.

Leo gets distracted from chasing the lights, Mikey vaguely remembers when they were little and that worked on him.

Raph gets distracted trying to stop Leo from burning himself.

Mikey grabs at Donnie’s hand and attempts to get him to safety.

Donnie doesn’t move any inch.

“Leave me. Don’t go anywhere obvious. Warn April before she gets here. I’m destroying my controls for the tank. Go.”

Mikey tears up and shakes his head.

“No! I’m not-!”

Donnie slaps Mikey across the face, leaving him completely shocked and with scratch marks on his cheek.

“Did I ask you!? Do you know how hard it is to even be talking to you!? Get father and leave! Leave! LEAVE!”

Mikey runs and grabs his father’s hand instead, pulling him along as they run.

“Purple! Red! Blue! No! I will save you from this! I swear!” Splinter insists.

“What are you doing!? You’re letting them get away! Do as I say, Artemis, Apollo, Atlas!” Draxum orders.

Donnie suddenly appears next to him, having moved so fast the sheepman could hardly react in time. The wrist device is grabbed and smashed against his face as hard as possible.

Draxum shouts and reels back in pain.

Donnie tackles him, scratching and biting relentlessly.

“Artemis! Atlas! Get him off me!“

Raph and Leo move back over. Raph wraps both arms around Donnie tightly, lifting him off the ground.

Leo cackles.

It’s unsure if it’s at Draxum or Donnie.

Draxum stands up and glares down at the snapping soft shell.

“How are you able to resist my commands this much?”

Donnie spits at him.

“How should I know why your shoddy work isn’t functional!? I’ll tear you into pieces-“

“Now I remember, you didn’t steal one of my weapons. You aren’t attuned to mystic energy like my other creations. I’ll just have to imbue more of my energy in your mask. A simple solution that will also serve as your punishment.” Draxum places his hand on the mask.

Donnie’s throat hurts from how loud he screams.

Draxum smiles.

Donnie eventually goes limp, head only held up by Draxum’s hand. It falls down when he moves it away.

“Atlas, release him.”

Raph let’s go.

Donnie fails to his knees.

“Apollo, are you ready to be of use now?” Draxum questions.

Donnie lifts his head.

“Yes, Baron Draxum.”

Draxum smiles widely.

“Then it’s time you fulfill your purpose.”

Splinter portaled himself and Mikey into the tank then tossed the katana outside the hatch. It probably has some kind of a tracker, knowing Draxum.

He closes the hatch and gets into the driver’s seat. His heart aches as he knows he’s taking Raph’s place, but he presses the button to open the garage door and speeds the tank out of there.

Mikey silently sobs while sitting in his seat. Donnie might have hurt him, but he was doing it to get him to just listen and go. Maybe if he had just done that Donnie wouldn’t have anything to feel bad about later.

Splinter drives so fast that he barely has time to stop when they see April about to open a manhole.

Mikey very quickly hops out and pulls her in before Splinter speeds off again. He clings to her as much as he can, soaking her shirt with his tears. April squeezes him and decides to ignore the fact that she’s going to need a new shirt.

“What happened? Donnie texted SOS! Why isn’t he here!? Wait, why aren’t Leo and Raph here either!?”

Splinter grips the arms of the chair tightly.

“They’ve all been taken and forced to work under Draxum.”

April’s face pales.

“They’re….no way….Mikey’s the only one left?”

Splinter nods solemnly.

“I’m afraid so. Donatello warned us not to go anywhere obvious. They will look for us at your home. I know somewhere else we can go.”

“And that is?”

“LEMONADE! Todd’s special lemonade for my gue-! Oh no! What happened to you!?” Todd sets the tray with cups and pitcher down on his table and rushes over to Mikey and April.

Mikey sniffles and let’s go of April just to open up his arms to Todd.

Todd whistles and an army of puppies come running to tackle Mikey to the ground. They lick at his face, taking away any tears on it. He moves his head a bit so they don’t lick his scratch.

“Thanks Todd, I really needed this.”

“Of course! Anything for my best friend! But I could help a lot more if I knew what happened!”

Mikey sadly tells the entire story, fully filling everyone present in.

April and Splinter look even more terrified. Neither of them knew exactly how bad it had gotten. Now they’re aware that might be entirely screwed.

“Donnie did that to you….?”

“H-He wouldn’t have done it if he could help it. Even with how hard it was to talk, he wanted me to remember to warn you, April.”

She feels a little choked up that Donnie used some of his last bits of sanity to worry about her. April rejected hanging out with them today in favor of spending some time relaxing with Mayhem. If she had been there, she could have done something.

No, no time to think about that. She’s here now and her pseudo brothers need her.

“We need a plan! We can’t just let Draxum use them like puppets! Splints, what are our options?”

“If this is what I believe it to be….then I am not sure….but I do know where I can get some information. That auction house must have some of my family scrolls since they continue to sell things from my time as Lou Jitsu.”

“Then we go looking! There’s no time to waste!”

“Y-Yeah, let’s go!” Mikey tries to sit up.

April gently pushes him back into the puppy pile.

“Sorry buddy. It’s better for you to be here where they won’t find you. Todd will protect you, right Todd?”

Todd rips off his shirt and shows off a surprisingly good physique.

“Nothing will get to my pal while I’m here!”

“Okay, I wasn’t expecting all that, but my point is proven.”

“But I want to help! Leo and Donnie….they both made sure I wasn’t taken….I have to repay the favor by helping fix them!” Mikey whines.

Splinter kneels down next to him and strokes his non hurt cheek.

“My son, you can repay the favor by staying safe like they wanted. If Draxum gets you as well, it’s truly over.”

Mikey leans into his dad’s hand and sighs.

“Okay….I’ll stay. Both of you be extra careful!”

“You’ve got it. We’ll be back!” April heads into the tank again.

Splinter kisses Mikey’s forehead and follows after her. The tank speeds off quickly.

Mikey sighs.

“Don’t be sad, friend. Let me get you patched up, then you can have some lemonade and we can cook together and play with the puppies! Doesn’t that sound fun?” Todd holds out his hand.

Mikey takes it, smiling softly.

“Yeah….it does. It would just be a lot more fun with my brothers.”

Todd helps him up and leads him to the first aid area of the puppy park.

“You can always come back with them after they’re okay again!”

“You’re right. And they will be okay again!”

“That’s the spirit! Do you want a Dalmatian or Golden Retriever bandaid?”

“Dalmatian please.”

April sits in Donnie’s seat as Splinter once again drives the tank.

“So….you said reaching out to them helps a little?”

“Not enough, but yes. Perhaps if they could stay away from Draxum for longer. It wouldn’t be an easy task.”

April thinks for a second.

“If Draxum wants the guys to rule the world for him or something, Donnie would need more parts. He also can’t work fast if he’s distracted so any place he goes to has to be somewhere he can be alone. I bet he’d go to the Purple Dragon’s lair!”

“Please do not tell me that you want to try to find him there. You have seen what happened to Orange, and he told us what Red did to Blue. They aren’t themselves. He won’t forgive himself if he hurts you either.”

“I won’t give him the chance! Besides, I’ve known the guys for years. They’ve got weaknesses even they don’t know about but I do. If anyone is going to get Donnie back, it’s me.”

Splinter sighs.

“Then you want to split up?”

“Yeah! You drop me off and go head to the auction house. I’ll calm Donnie down enough for you to use whatever you find, then he can help us get the other guys back!”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Of course I am. You know I’d do anything for them.”

“Then let’s save our boys.”

After getting the address from April, Splinter changes course to the hideout.

He hopes he doesn’t regret it.

#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #2018 tmnt #rise of the tmnt #these are not our masks fic #tw scratching #feral behavior #rise draxum #rottmnt draxum #tmnt 2018 #rise fanfiction #rottmnt fanfiction #tw pain #tw mind control #rise april #rottmnt todd #rottmnt splinter #rise splinter

[bam-monsterhospital]

i know i've posted before about how against the idea of women (because marvel's full of cowards and doesn't want to have that conversation) telepaths being romantically/sexually attracted to scott summers i have been.

and while I know the actual intent behind this pattern on marvel's end and still disagree with that for obvious reasons, ...

In a vacuum? It makes sense.

Most xmen characters express what they're about on the surface, and there aren't too many layers hidden underneath. I can imagine telepaths in the world of marvel getting quickly bored by the people in that world not having anything more to offer than what's out front. Then you have a character like scott, who is designed to be deeply introspective anti-surface-read. A character the audience only gets the full picture of (/learns to appreciate) if the medium allows that glimpse into what's going on below the carefully controlled outer shell. That must be fascinating for a telepath (especially in marvel where you don't have many characters strictly adhering to this design). Not only that, it would take a telepath, or someone who is privy to what's going on below the surface (like, a non-telepath who is trusted enough for scott to open up to) to appreciate the full breadth of this character. So of COURSE the ones who react positively to the idea of scott summers would be those who know there's a lot of unseen shit going on there. It makes sense.

#scott summers #ramblings #don't mind me #unfortunately we're not in a vacuum #and marvel uses the pattern in other ways #aka: lazily #and also insidiously #lazily because: gotta repeat what's worked before #combined with a dismissive attitude towards attraction and masculinity and fjskalfda; #i could go on forever but i'm too tired to delve into that right now #xmen #superhero stuff #character stuff #character talk #hyperfixations never die #they just hibernate for a while #i'm not fully back on my bullshit #but it never went away

[daydreamerdrew]

Iron Man (1968) #58

#not Tony once again reacting to an improvement of his heart issues #with that he might be able to have the positive romantic relationship he’s been denying himself #but this time with a woman who was interested in him and so he purposefully orchestrated events and drove away from him #to get her to marry someone else #to make sure he didn’t get into a romantic relationship with her #because of those aforementioned heart issues #it’s actually interesting to me that he acknowledges his absurdity here #one of the letters in the letters page of the previous issue has someone say that they like the Iron Man that is #‘A true hero- one without neuroses or phychoses’ #which was surprising to me because I like Tony because of the issues he has #he’s that stereotype about a man who doesn’t want to go to a doctor about a health issue taken to a fantastical extreme #him insisting on dealing with heart attacks completely on his own over and over again is inherently reflective of a mental problem #on account of it just not being ok behavior #and he’s stuck in this pattern where he sabotages his own romantic relationships #and because of how interconnected his issues with his heart problems and his approach to his superhero responsibilities are #which both really emphasize not being vulnerable #even if things are going ok in one respect he’s able to use the other way as his reasoning to do that sabotaging #marvel #tony stark #pepper potts #my posts #comic panels

[writingwithcolor]

Black woman’s skin turns blue from powers; is this whitewashing/erasure?

Anonymous asked:

I have a character in a comic I'm hoping to write one day. She's a light skinned black woman(she's half white if that helps!) living in New York City during an 80s themed post nuclear apocalypse. The comic's main characters are all rock stars, so a lot of the character design elements revolve around the different rock genres. The character in question is in a glam rock band, so there's lots of bright, saturated, crazy colors involved in her design. The problem I'm having involves this one story beat where she gets mutant superpowers that give her electricity and sound based abilities. Her skin turns cotton candy blue as a result of the mutation. I'm hung up on whether or not this might fall under some kind of skin lightening or white-washing trope since it's a fairly light shade of blue. I designed her mutant look before her human look, so this was well before I'd even figured out what race she was, and I simply thought the shade of blue would compliment both the electricity powers and the fact that her hair is dyed pink. Is there a way I could still make this work? Or am I worrying about nothing?

Ideally, it would be nice to keep her brown skin tone. There’s a common comic and supernatural trend where Black people’s skin is covered up by a suit or Black-coded characters are an unnatural color (blue, green, purple, etc).

This is more of an issue when: 

There are no other Black characters of those identities besides the covered up/ ones with unnatural skin colors.

The creator adds this change to make them "special" because they do not believe Black characters, with features commonly associated with Black people like dark hair, skin and eyes, are acceptable enough for the character to stand on their own.

The supernatural special Black people are treated well by the story. The "non-special" Black people have unhappy stories and misfortune.

Other races of characters do not get their skin covered up or changed. Only the Black ones and/or BIPOC in general.

I think a quick fix for this would be for her skin to turn blue when she’s actively using her powers, at random, or other specific times, besides constantly. If she needs to be more consistently “mutant looking” Are there other ways she could change without her skin color changing or changing completely?

People with glitter on skin, light surrounding their face, and blue braids. Images from pexels.

More ideas that keep her skin brown

Hair

Her hair color changes blue or your color of choice (which could include body hair too, which would give her a more “otherworldly” appearance).

Note: If her hair is curly or natural, please keep it so! At least, the powers shouldn't change it straight.

Eyes

Her eyes glowing brighter or colorfully during power-use.

Note: If they're usually brown, they could stay brown when powers not in use, like Marvel's Storm in some versions.

Storm by Marvel Entertainment//20th Century Studios.

Skin and body

Blue patterns appear on her skin.

Blue glow or sheen to her skin without fully changing the color.

Her skin projects color and light.

New growths or changes to body, such as ear shape, wings, etc.

No matter what you decide, please make clear in your tale that she’s a Black mixed race woman. And have fun!

More reading:

How Special is Too Special? The Politics and Characterization of Stacking Special/Abnormal Traits on Mixed Race Characters

~Colette

#Black women #skin color #supernatural #superheroes #description #asks

[vampsywrites]

II — i remember her hands, and the way the mountains looked.

Synopsis: In which the Sullys approach the mountain clan for sanctuary. The Olo'eykte agrees but proposes one condition: Toruk Makto's eldest son must be promised to her daughter. Surprisingly, instead of the solemn response one would expect, Neteyam agrees almost instantaneously.

Tags: Female! Mountain Na'vi! Reader, Arranged Marriage, Sun&Moon couple, Strangers to Lovers, Neteyam is whipped, Mentions of Jealousy&Possessiveness, Romantic tension, Neteyam wanting to impress his girl, Lo'ak having the time of his life teasing the shit out of Neteyam, Reader has that Tsahik rizz

Word Count: 2.8k | AO3 LINK

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

With the village of the Iuva'ri clan now their new home, the Sullys followed you past open fields, their eyes wandering in amazement at the sights.

Everywhere they looked, the hustle and bustle of daily life surrounded them. Hunters could be seen hauling large beasts into the village, farmers had their hands deep in the earth as they worked to ensure a bountiful harvest, and weavers, with their deft hands, skillfully crafted intricate patterns into fabric.

Though the environment was not too different from what they were used to in the forest, it was still a significant change from the wild, cluttered jungle they had known all their life.

While his family was busy taking all of the clan in, Neteyam was fully focused on you. He watched in fascination as the village parted when you walked past, people practically throwing themselves aside to clear your path. From elders to children, they bowed in reverence and greeted you with warmth and admiration, recognizing you as their Tsahìk.

Through the walk, Neteyam also couldn't help but notice how your presence captured the attention of the young men and women around. Warriors, weavers, hunters – they all seemed to be drawn to you, stopping in their tracks with blushing cheeks as they exchanged hushed words. Their lingering gazes and subtle glances, their eyes which seemed to follow you like a predator stalking its prey, didn't escape Neteyam's watchful eyes.

As he observed this intense attention you garnered, a pang of possessiveness surged through his gut, and his tail lashed out in irritation.

Neteyam felt torn, battling with the internal struggle of feeling irrationally possessive. Deep down, he knew he had no right to be jealous. After all, he had no claim over you, and he had yet to truly earn your trust and affection.

The announcement of your courtship clearly took the clan by surprise. While some genuinely celebrated your happiness, others found it difficult to hide their envy. Evident by the glares sent his way from those who might have hoped to be in his place.

This scrutiny only served to intensify his emotions.

"This will be your home now," you called out, your voice calm and welcoming, pulling him away from his thoughts. Neteyam watched as you guided them to a beautifully crafted hut elevated on bamboo wooden stilts. It stood gracefully above the ground, a testament to the skilled craftsmanship of your people. The roof was steeply pitched and thatched with nipa palm leaves, while the walls were intricately woven from bamboo slats.

Tuktirey gasped in amazement, her eyes wide with childish wonder as she marveled at the hut's elevated design. "It's so tall!" she exclaimed, clearly impressed by the unique structure.

You hummed, understanding their awe and sensing the underlying hesitation in some of them.

"You will grow to like it," you reassured with a small smile. "It may be different from what you're used to, but it will keep you safe and warm. Our people have lived in harmony with Eywa and these lands for generations."

Tuktirey beamed up at you. "I can't wait to explore and learn more about your ways," she cheers, enthusiasm evident.

“I am sure you will learn well, little one,” you hum, running a hand through her braided hair.

With ease, you then moved towards the stairs, climbing up with a sense of familiarity as you began to haul their belongings to their new home. The family followed behind you, still feeling a tad bit out of place.

After ensuring they were comfortable, you began to excuse yourself, knowing you needed to give them some privacy. As you walked past Neteyam, catching his gaze, you gently rest your hand upon his chest. After murmuring a quick goodbye, you withdrew your hand and swiftly left the hut. Neteyam’s mind ran haywire, the spot where your hand had been burned with a sudden fire, leaving a lingering sensation on his skin that he couldn't shake off.

Eywa. It had only been a day and already you had an effect on him.

With your departure, the family gathered together, finding a spot to discuss the events that had transpired earlier. Neytiri paced back and forth in the open hut, footsteps loud against the wooden flooring, her mind racing with a myriad of thoughts and emotions.

"Alright," Jake sighed, running a rugged hand down his face, breaking through the tension. "We have to unpack what just happened earlier."

Neytiri nodded, her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the situation. Her eyes turned to Neteyam, concern evident in her voice as she asked, "Ma'itan, are you sure of this?"

"Oh, he sure is," Lo'ak answered for his brother, sending a grin his way. "I mean—Did you hear him back there?"

"I will accept this proposal. Only if she will have me," he mocked, mimicking Neteyam's accent in a deep, gravely tone. Kiri couldn't help but hide her face with her hand, trying to stifle her laughter.

"Skxawng," Neteyam snarled playfully and gave Lo'ak a light smack in response, which only made his younger siblings laugh even more.

"Enough, you two," Neytiri's voice rang out, cutting through the air. She shook her head in exasperation, her beaded locks swaying and rattling with her movements. Turning her attention back to her eldest, her tone dropped a timbre as she murmured, "Neteyam, this is a big decision. Are you truly sure about this? You wish to mate with that woman?"

Neteyam's gaze shifted from his brother to his mother, lips drawing into a contemplative frown as the weight of it all settled heavily on his shoulders. The significance of such a union wasn't lost on him. The mating bond was not merely a union of bodies; it was the fusion of two souls, a sacred connection dictated by Eywa. He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to express his feelings.

"I am sure," he replied, his voice steady, despite the turmoil inside him. Neytiri studied his face for a moment, catching the hesitation laced in his expression.

"You do not have to do something your heart is against," his mother whispered, reaching forward, both of her hands finding his tense shoulders, rubbing deep circles into his muscle. Neteyam felt the warmth and reassurance in his mother's touch, and for a moment, he leaned into it, finding comfort in her presence.

"That’s the thing. My heart isn’t against it. I just… I felt something when I saw her." He then hesitated, struggling to unknot his mind and put his feelings into words. "Like-Like a heartbeat."

Kiri's eyes sparkled with wonder, a look of recognition flashing behind her eyes. Her tail swished with delight as she leaned forward eagerly, the shawl slipping off her shoulder in the haste of her movement. "You must have felt Eywa's connection with her. Was it like a calling? Could you feel a mighty heartbeat?"

Neteyam froze, his gaze turning to his younger sister.

"Yes. Exactly that, Kiri," he replied, his voice filled with a hint of disbelief. "It was like… she was calling out to me in some way, as if our souls were somehow intertwined."

Kiri's excitement grew, and she couldn't contain her joy. “Eywa has blessed you with a gift, brother. Rarely do mates feel such a deep soul connection on the first time they meet."

"Soul connection? That’s love at first sight, huh?" Jake interjected, his eyes glinting as he glanced at Neytiri with a knowing smile. "Sound familiar?"

Neytiri's stern façade softened as she smiled back, unable to hide her amusement. "Yes, it does," she admitted with a fondness in her voice. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of understanding and warmth as she looked at her eldest son. "Neteyam, ma’itan, if you truly feel this connection, then it may be a sign from Eywa herself. The steps you take next will be entirely up to you."

"It's just like those stories we've heard, bro. Soulmates and destined love,” Lo’ak chimed in. “You and her, together, guided by Eywa's hand," he smirked, clasping his hands together and making kissy faces. Neteyam huffed, shaking his head.

"Yeah. It might be like that," he admitted with a touch of bashfulness.

"But let's not get carried away with the dramatics,” Neteyam sighs, snapping himself back to reality. “I still want to get to know her first. I want to take it slow.”

“Slow, huh? Is that what you call asking her to mate with you on the spot?" Lo’ak laughed.

“Lo’ak!” Neytiri hissed, glaring at him disapprovingly.

"I did not ask her to mate with me on the spot!" Neteyam snaps through gritted teeth, his voice rising slightly in embarrassment.

Lo'ak's laughter boomed through the air, thoroughly relishing the sight of his older brother's flustered expression. It was a rare occasion for Neteyam to be caught off guard by his teasing, always having a smartass rebut at the tip of his tongue.

"Yeah? Well, it sure looked like it to me," he snickered, his tail swishing back and forth in interest. Neytiri intervened, smacking him upside on the head. Lo’ak winced in response, and nursed the spot where his mother had hit him.

"Ow, ow, I get it," he groaned, lying flat on the floor. "I'll stop."

"Alright. ‘Nough of that. Come on," Jake said, with a chuckle, huddling everyone close. Once they had formed a circle, he began to address them, his tone taking on a more serious note, "Listen, I really need you kids to be on your best behavior. And I mean it."

Jake shifts his gaze to his eldest son, “Neteyam becoming a candidate for future Olo'eyktan already stirred things up enough. And I don’t even need to tell you just how messy that’s going to be.”

Neteyam heaved out a tense sigh, keeping his eyes glued to the ground. “Sorry, sir.”

“We’re gonna get through this,” Jake continued, dismissing Neteyam’s apology, his voice carrying a tone of reassurance. “Together.”

Neytiri moved closer to her husband, gently placing her head over Jake's shoulder. “What does your father always say?” Neytiri murmured, her voice soft and soothing.

“Sullys stick together…”

“Little more feeling this time!"

“Sullys stick together!”

As the night falls and the stars twinkle in the dark sky, they finally retire to their new sleeping arrangements. Neteyam lays on his makeshift bed, a woven mat made out of palm and leaves, his mind abuzz with thoughts. He gazes out of the hut's opening, where he can catch a glimpse of you in the moonlight, going about your duties as Tsahìk, checking up on a few of the sick and injured in their huts.

Your silhouette against the moonlit backdrop mesmerizes him, and he finds himself drawn to your presence like a moth to a flame. As you notice his gaze, you offer him a reassuring nod before continuing your duties. His heart swells with warmth at the acknowledgment.

With the comfort of your presence lingering in his mind, Neteyam turns onto his back, feeling a sense of peace settle over him. The gentle rustle of palm leaves outside and the distant sounds of the forest lull him into a state of relaxation. He closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall into a deep and restful sleep.

The next morning, the village awakens early. The sky is painted in hues of pink and orange as the sun begins to rise over the mountains. Knocking gently at the side of their hut, you had called for them before the sun could even fully emerge, offering to show them more of the village and its surrounding wonders.

You lead them through the mountains, showing Kiri, Lo'ak, Tuk, and Neteyam the ways of life in this breathtaking terrain. The trees stand tall and proud, similar to those in the forest they once called home, but here they bear a different kind of energy, surrounded by majestic mountains which hold ancient tales of the ancestors before them. The group walks amidst the trees, their senses heightened by the subtle sounds of wildlife and the fresh scent of earth.

As you lead them further, you come across vast rice fields, a breathtaking sight of lush green beauty stretching as far as the eye can see. The fields seem to come alive with the morning sunlight. The stalks of rice sway gently in the breeze, creating a mesmerizing dance, captivating the forest Na’vi.

Amidst the exploration, Neteyam's keen eyes spot a group of mountain climbers in the distance, scaling a rocky hill.

"What are they doing?" he questions, his curiosity piqued.

"They're practicing for the coming-of-age ceremony," you say, your gaze following the climbers. Neteyam's curiosity turns into intrigue, and he listens intently as you begin to explain.

"It's an ascent to the clouded peak," you share, pointing to a towering mountain in the distance, its summit shrouded in mist. "At dawn, the candidates gather at the base. It is the tallest mountain in the region and they must set out on a journey to reach the summit."

Lo’ak whistles, grimacing while he sizes up the daunting landscape before him. "We have to climb that?" he asks incredulously.

“Only if you want to. Your Omatikayan ikinimaya should be enough for you to be recognized in the clan,” you assure him with a pat on his back.

Neteyam stays silent for the next few minutes, his faraway gaze directed towards the rocky mountain. Suddenly, he startles everyone by speaking up, the words slipping from his mouth causing your eyes to rip wide open.

"I want to partake in it," he says, his voice steady and resolute. The sudden declaration shakes everyone, and his siblings turn their attention fully to him, waiting to hear his reasoning.

You too gaze up at him in disbelief. "Are you certain?" you ask, wanting to ensure that he fully comprehends the challenges that lie ahead. “This is no simple feat—”

"I am strong," Neteyam interrupts, sounding a little harsher than he had intended, but it was important to him that you knew of his abilities. "I will be able to train for it well."

Your milky eyes drop to his battle-hardened body, sweeping over his broad shoulders and the ridges of his defined muscles, glistening softly in the sun’s glow. The scars etched on his skin tell tales of past battles and trials, a testament to his experience. Neteyam holds his ground, finding himself flexing subconsciously under your gaze.

"I know you are strong," you retort.

"Yes—"

"But the warriors of the forest are different from those of the mountains," you cut him off with a pointed stare. "It is not just about physical strength; you will have to learn how they train, their techniques, and their ways of life," you begin to move towards him, a challenging look in your eyes. "It is difficult to fill a cup that is already full."

Neteyam's jaw clenches, his gaze unwavering. "Then I will empty my cup. I will adapt," he asserts with passion. "I will prove myself not just to your people but to myself as well. If I am to be chief, I have to embrace your ways."

"Pretty sure you just want to impress her, bro," Lo’ak quips. Neteyam scowls at his remark and, in a swift motion, drives his elbow straight into his younger brother's side. At the impact, Lo’ak immediately folds, nursing his side as his face contorts in pain. “Fuck!”

Ignoring Lo’ak, Neteyam turns back to you, his expression steadfast and unwavering. In that moment, he feels an overwhelming longing to prove himself to you, to earn your admiration and love based on his own merits, not just because of any preconceived notions or expectations.

His determination shines like a beacon, and his sincerity tugs at your heartstrings. It's as if he's baring his soul before you, showing you the depths of his desire to be someone you can truly respect and admire.

With a hum, you settle back, your tail flickering behind you in intrigue. If the rumors carried by the wind from clan to clan about him were to be believed, then you should have known he would want to partake in the ceremony.

Such a bold spirit, evident in those golden eyes of his every time he spoke. The mountains around you seemed to echo with approval, as if Eywa herself was acknowledging his resolve.

"If you are that eager, then I will teach you," you say, the decision firm in your heart. It feels as if a weight is lifted off his shoulders at your acceptance of his offer. Neteyam hums, trying to maintain a stoic expression but the telltale flicks of his ears and tail betray his anticipation and eagerness.

"Do not be mistaken, though. I will not baby you," you add with a daring lilt in your voice. You begin to walk away, the swing of your hips matching the sway of your tail. "Let us hope you can keep up, mighty warrior."

That seemed to only fuel the fire within him further.

Neteyam’s chest rumbles in a deep laugh, a fanged grin stretching across his cheeks. "Yes, ma’am.”

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

see you in the next episode where the reader works her future husband's ass to the ground xoxo

TAGLIST: @rainbowsocks @milktealvrr @strawberri-blonde

#💫—vampsywrites #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam x reader #neteyam sully #neteyam #neteyam x you #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam x y/n #neteyam fic #neteyam fanfiction #avatar neteyam #avatar #avatar x you #avatar x reader #avatar x na'vi reader #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam sully x you #atwow neteyam #netyam sully #atwow #avatar the way of water

[megalony]

Stay With Me

This is an Eddie Diaz imagine, requested by the lovely @klovesreading, I hope you all like it. Feedback is always lovely.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem@sj-thefanthefan@hellsdragon@im-an-adult-ish@crazylittlethingg@allauraleigh@onceuponadetectivedemigod@ceres27@avyannadawn@noonenuts@sleepylunarwolf@coverupps@justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @topguncultleader @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyjen @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream

911 Masterlist

Summary: After an argument with Eddie, (Y/n) picks up an extra shift at work. Both of them wish she didn't when she gets shot on duty.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Y/n) hauled off Eddie's hoodie that she had been wearing all afternoon and slung it over the back of the dining room chair before she headed through into the kitchen. It felt strange to have the house deathly quiet and barely alive like this. But she had just taken Chris to spend the night with Evan since they hadn't had a lot of time together recently and Chris was starting to miss his uncle Buck.

She loved Chris to death, he had quickly wormed his way into her heart and when he started to call (Y/n) mum, it was the best day of her life. She wasn't used to having the house this quiet without him playing his video games or dancing away to music. But it would be nice to have a night with Eddie without having to worry if Chris could hear them or if he was alright and check what he was doing.

She knew he was with Evan and having the time of his life; whenever her brother came round Chris never wanted him to leave. Last week he went as far as having a meltdown when Evan had to go on shift and leave them. At least he didn't have to be upset this time, he could spend the full night with 'his Buck' and (Y/n) knew Eddie was relieved that Chris's first night away from home- other than being with his grandparents- was with someone they both trusted.

Rounding the kitchen counter, (Y/n) tiredly looked in the fridge, trying to decide if she was actually hungry or not. She had been feeling sick today and the past few days she had no energy, even when she was at work all she wanted to do was go home to bed.

(Y/n) could hear that Eddie had put the tv on in the living room a few minutes ago when he came home and she guessed he would soon be looking for a movie to watch together. With his work pattern, whenever Eddie got an evening or a day off, he binged a few good movies because he didn't have a lot of free time to watch movies. Other than the same five cartoon movies Chris was currently obsessed with.

"When did you get this?"

Pulling away from the fridge, (Y/n) heaved it shut with a sigh and turned on her heels to look over at Eddie.

Her eyes raked over his frame, noticing the way his hair was brushed back on his head and curling up at the ends like he had run it through with wax. He was wearing a dark grey sleeveless shirt and his body was leaning up against the kitchen doorway. His arms were crossed over his chest and for a second, (Y/n) wasn't sure what he was referring to, until her eyes landed on the small box he had put on the counter in front of him.

A pregnancy test.

"Oh, uh, I don't know, last week maybe?" She leaned forward on the counter and arched her back out with her arms folded in front of her.

(Y/n) had bought so many pregnancy tests this last year that she couldn't remember when she got most of them. Usually when she thought she had one in the bathroom cupboard, she went and found she'd already used it and had to go for another. That was probably a spare one she'd bought on the off chance of needing it.

It was a sore subject to talk about at the moment.

A whole year they had been trying. A year of wanting to get pregnant and coming up empty handed with a lot of false positives. Chris had become (Y/n)'s child as much as Eddie's when they got married, he was calling and referring to her as his mum and (Y/n) was in the process of adopting him. But it didn't stop her wanting to have a baby of her own.

She yearned to have a baby and see Eddie with a baby in his arms and Eddie had as much baby fever as (Y/n), but nothing was going to plan. (Y/n) was pregnant two months after they got married but it hadn't been straight forward. (Y/n) thought she might have been pregnant, she had a suspicion but before she could take a test or book a doctor's appointment, she woke in the night with horrid cramps and found out she'd miscarried without really knowing she was pregnant.

That was as close as she came to being pregnant. For the year that they had been trying, nothing had happened and (Y/n) didn't know what to do with herself or how to get out of the slump it was putting her in.

"I thought we agreed not to do any more tests for a while?" Eddie uncrossed his arms and crossed the kitchen to reach her but he hated the glum, broken look in (Y/n)'s eyes when she looked up at him.

Without replying, (Y/n) simply shrugged and started to tangle her fingers together. She didn't acknowledge Eddie's hand on her lower back because she knew where this conversation was going to go. All she did was tilt her head to the right when Eddie's lips merged with her neck and she let herself melt into the feeling, just for a while.

"Mi amor?"

"I wasn't intending on using it, not yet anyway." She didn't remember when she bought it, she had on intentions of sitting and looking at a negative test.

"That's what you said before," Eddie rolled his lips together and took a deep breath when (Y/n) shrugged out of his touch and turned to face him with one elbow leant on the counter.

"That's not funny."

"I'm not trying to joke. We said we wouldn't take any more tests after last time."

Eddie didn't want to come home and find (Y/n) slumped on the floor, staring into the void of a negative test. Unable to move, unsure what to say. If she wanted to do a test Eddie would rather (Y/n) do it when he was home with her but that being said, he didn't want to take any more tests. Not unless they were dead certain they were within a chance of having a positive.

He was sick of seeing the negatives on the test and watching a little piece of (Y/n) break each time they took a test. Eddie would rather forget about tests all together and forget that they were trying for a baby. If they didn't overthink this, then maybe they would have a baby without having to focus and try so hard.

"And we're not." (Y/n) dragged her fingers through her hair, brushing the strands further back on her head and out of her eyes. She moved away from the counter and grabbed the dreaded test that had become her enemy rather than her friend.

"Good."

"Why is that good?" She couldn't drag her eyes away from the test to look over at Eddie. Just this once, (Y/n) wished she could tear it open, try the test and have it come back positive.

Just this once. Was she really asking too much by wanting a baby?

"Because I don't like seeing you break down every time we get a test. Hide the damn thing and forget about it. We might get lucky without all the pressure." Eddie leaned back, using his quick reflexes to catch the test when (Y/n) tossed it his way. If he wanted to hide it, he could go ahead and they would see if his relaxed way would go down well or not.

(Y/n) clamped her hand down on her hip and leaned her other side into the counter. Her eyes watched her husband with intrigue as he tossed the test from one hand to the other like it was burning hot and scolding his skin. But her heart dropped down to her stomach when she noticed him glance towards the bin. It was a quick, swift movement, barely noticeable, but (Y/n) saw. She almost expected him to toss the test in the bin but he settled on throwing it on the top shelf in the medicine cupboard.

"May as well forget about it, we won't need it."

His words were like a knife puncturing through (Y/n)'s stomach and she could feel bile creeping up the back of her throat as her stomach twisted and clenched.

"Why would you say that?" The pain in (Y/n)'s eyes matched the croak in her voice and she furiously rubbed her sleeve against her eyes to stop herself from crying. She had cried enough, she wasn't in the mood to break down about this, again.

It hurt more than Eddie could comprehend that when he and Shannon had Chris, they hadn't been trying for a baby. Chris was the reason they got married, both being Catholics and raised with the installed thought of 'doing the right thing.' Chris was a surprise, the best kind, he and Shannon didn't have to try for a year to have a baby and Shannon took that and the family she had, for granted.

And here (Y/n) was, married to the man who stole her heart from the first moment they met. She loved him and Chris and they had their own little family together, but (Y/n) couldn't seem to catch a break when it came to a baby. They had done things the way Eddie's family would have wanted, marriage first, then children. But none were arriving.

(Y/n)'s teeth started to grind down together when Eddie stared across at her with those big doe eyes that were full of panic and fright.

He hadn't meant to say that outloud.

"No, baby I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes you did."

"No I didn't." His hands moved to clamp down on his hips and his head tilted to the side as he looked at her with a hardened, unhappy expression. "We don't need a fucking test right now, we need to stop panicking. We have time and it'll either happen or it won't."

He didn't like the way (Y/n) scoffed and her lips curled into a snarky smile. Why could he not see this from her perspective?

"Why not just give up, hm? Shannon didn't even have to try to have Chris and I've been with you almost five years and all I get is a false positive and then a miscarriage. Clearly it's not happening."

"That's not what I'm saying. Do you think I enjoy seeing you upset like this? I'm sick of seeing you so broken and not being able to do anything about it. At least whenever Shannon did a test she didn't cry when it was negative,"

"Well it's a fucking shame you married me, Edmundo."

Eddie knew he had taken it too far the moment he spoke and hearing his full name from (Y/n) only made him cringe and back up into the counter. He hated the way she said his name. He knew he well and truly fucked up when (Y/n) croaked his name like that and had to fight back tears from his crudeness.

He didn't mean it.

Tears welled up in the corners of Eddie's eyes when (Y/n) bypassed him, moving as far to the counter as she could so even her arm didn't brush his chest an inch. And panic bubbled up in Eddie's chest when he watched his wife barge through the dining room, grab her bag from the table and march towards the front door.

What was she doing? Where was she going? He didn't want her to leave, he wanted to stay and talk and make up for the stupid things he had just said that he well and truly didn't mean.

"Wait- where are you going?" The panic in his voice almost made (Y/n) crumble. Almost.

With her jacket slung over her arm and her bag on her shoulder, (Y/n) grabbed her keys and unlocked the door.

"I'm going to work."

"You're not on shift. Baby don't leave, I'm sorry I didn't mean it-"

"I'll pick up the night shift and pray I won't be such a cry baby by morning." When the door slammed shut behind her, Eddie slumped his back into the wall and let himself slide down to the floor with a thud.

What had he done?

***

"Are you okay?"

(Y/n) slumped down in her seat and leaned her head against the window that felt cold and soothing against her burning temple. Night shifts always caught her off guard, they didn't make her feel great when most of her shifts were day shifts since Eddie did a fair few nights.

Every time she went onto a night shift, (Y/n) felt like she was going to collapse the moment she got home and she could never sleep during the day which made her feel even worse. But being on shift was preferable to being at home with Eddie and either sitting in silence or carrying on the argument.

"Just tired,"

"Hm. Makes sense that you'd pick up the late shift if you're tired." Athena tilted her head to the side and gave (Y/n) a knowing look, sporting her signature, calming smile.

Since moving down to LA with Evan, the siblings both felt like Athena and Bobby had taken them under their wings and become their surrogate parents. Bobby looked out for Evan at the station and was always there for him outside of the station when he needed him. And when (Y/n) became a cop, she had Athena to look out for her and be there when she needed a shoulder to lean on.

"I'd just rather be anywhere else right now." There was no point divuldging why she was here and not back at home on her day off. It was easier to try and forget the reason why she wasn't going home yet and pray that in the morning, the atmosphere would be gone by the time she walked through the door.

A bolt of relief surged through (Y/n) when the radio went off, asking for assistance. She needed something to focus her mind on because she wasn't the one driving tonight. Driving the streets aimlessly was something she and Eddie did when they or Chris couldn't sleep and it was only going to make (Y/n) break down and want to go back home.

"Anyone available to assist in a house call? Neighbours are reporting raised voices and items being thrown."

"This is Seven-two-seven-L-thirty, responding."

(Y/n) looked across at Athena as she shimmied up and sat up straight in her seat to try and liven herself up. It was strange to see Athena without her usual sunglasses she always wore when she was on shift, but she didn't wear them out on a night shift. It tended to give people the wrong impression and they didn't exactly help.

"Off we go," (Y/n) heaved herself out the car and stretched, clicking her back into place as she shut the door behind her.

As soon as she was on her feet, (Y/n) felt like the cold air was wrapping her up and suffocating her. Her stomach was still churning from earlier and she was sweating despite the cool midnight breeze.

"The side gates open, I'll take a look."

(Y/n) nodded and watched Athena move away from the path towards the right side of the house. The gate was swinging open in the wind, creaking back and forth which wasn't alarming but it could be something to worry about.

With a deep breath, (Y/n) followed the narrow path up to the front door and tried to peek into the window to see if there were any lights on or any sound of noise. The neighbours called in raised voices and items being thrown about but the house was deadly quiet right now.

"Police, could you open the door please? We're here for a welfare check." (Y/n) knocked on the door three times before she leaned towards the window when she heard some movement. "Open the door please." She tried again with another round of knocking but whoever was inside was now rummaging around. They weren't going to open up.

A sigh passed her lips as she took a few steps away from the door and moved back onto the path. Her hand curled around her radio and she did a sweep around the quiet street.

"Athena, any luck round back? I might check in with the neighbours- oh, someone's opening up."

When the door unlocked and creaked open, (Y/n) walked back up the steps but she stopped short when a woman shot out the door. She collided into (Y/n)'s shoulder, pushing her back and causing her to twist on her feet as she regained her balance. Falling on the pavement wasn't going to do her any favours tonight.

"Miss- miss wait-"

(Y/n) scrunched her hand around the girl's sleeve and tried in vain to stop her bolting away and rushing down the empty street. But just as her hand left the girl's shoulder, everything seemed to stop when a shot rang through the air.

At first, she thought Athena had come through the house and was trying to apprehend someone. It didn't dawn on (Y/n) that it was someone else in the house shooting until a blinding, horrifying pain coursed through her left shoulder.

Her body tilted backwards and she managed to stay upright for three wobbling steps back while her right hand moved to press to her shoulder without thinking. Blood soaked into her palm. The touch on her shoulder made it ignite in white hot pain. No air went in or out of her lungs and her knees caved in on her.

She didn't reach the floor before another shot imbedded in her left thigh just before her back hit the ground.

Her head smashed into the pavement, sending her vision black with little white spots like the stars had fell down to Earth and were dancing in front of her eyes.

The collision seemed to act as a button that turned her hearing off. All (Y/n) could hear was static. It was buzzing in her ears, ringing around in her head and worsening the way her body was shaking when she couldn't hear what was going on. Her eyes wouldn't focus on anything but the flashing stars blinking in front of her. How could she protect herself if all she could see were stars and all she could hear was blinding, buzzing background static.

(Y/n) couldn't help herself if the gunman came outside and tried to shoot at her or the civilian who most probably had fled the street by now. She couldn't protect Athena if she didn't know what was going on or where (Y/n) and the shooter were.

All she could do was lie there like prey, giving in and ready to be killed for sport.

"Shots fired! Officer down I need immediate back up and an ambulance to my location now!" Athena slumped down on her knees, dragging her eyes over (Y/n)'s frame. She had handcuffed the shooter to the radiator in the doorway after she entered the house through the open back door.

She could feel Athena's hand briefly grab hers to let her know who it was beside her and that she was safe.

"(Y/n), can you hear me? You just stay with me, help is on the way."

Something akin to a gurgling scream burned at the back of (Y/n)'s throat when she felt something tight strap around her thigh somewhere near the wounded area. She couldn't pinpoint where she had been shot. Her leg was tingling from her hip bone all the way down to her toes that were cold and numb in her boots.

Her head turned to the side and her hands blindly reached out while her vision slowly started to come back to her. She could just about see Athena hovering over her and she soon realised Athena had used her belt as a turniquet around her thigh to prevent the blood loss. As soon as she pulled it tighter, (Y/n) screamed and thrashed her upper body down against the concrete.

Everything started to shake. Each breath she took made her chest shudder and spit foamed at her mouth as she pushed her breaths through gritted teeth that were puncturing down into her tongue.

Everything burned. Everything hurt. She was trapped in a body that was on fire and tearing itself apart.

Why did she bother coming on shift tonight? Why didn't she stay home with Eddie? An argument wasn't worth getting shot at, she should have talked things out with him.

He begged her to stay, why didn't she stay?

"Stay with me, sweetie, stay with me."

Tears stained (Y/n)'s face and burned into her skin like acid when both Athena's hands pressed down on her shoulder. She couldn't tie anything around her arm or chest as a turniquet, all Athena could do was apply as much pressure as she could to slow down the bleeding until paramedics came to help.

The pressure made (Y/n) choke and she reached a hand out, fumbling around until she could curl her fingers around Athena's wrist.

"Eddie. Eddie."

"Sweetie let's focus on getting some medics here-"

"Eddie!"

She screamed her husband's name at the top of her lungs until she saw Athena grapple with one hand to fish her phone out of her pocket. She had to keep (Y/n) calm or else she was going to go into shock and that wouldn't do her any favours when she had two gunshot wounds.

Blood smeared onto her phone when she swiped a shaky finger across the screen and scrolled down to Eddie's contact. As soon as she clicked on his name, she returned both hands to (Y/n)'s shoulder and pushed down as hard as she could until it felt like her hands were going to burst through (Y/n)'s body.

"Athena? Everything okay?" Eddie's confused voice came through the speaker and just the tone of his voice made (Y/n)'s head loll to the right towards the phone, wishing he was here instead of on the other end of the line.

Sirens wailed in the distance before she could answer and it made her jaw clench. She shouldn't be calling Eddie yet, it was too early when all the attention needed to be focused on (Y/n), but if she didn't, she had a feeling (Y/n) would become very hard to calm and control.

"Eddie I need you to listen carefully. (Y/n)'s been involved in an accident, you need to meet us at Mercy hospital."

"No, no what kind of accident? Is she okay?!"

"Eddie," (Y/n)'s eyes dazed around in circles, unable to focus on anything except the sound of her husband's panicked voice. His name slipped past her lips again, but much quieter this time and (Y/n) found she couldn't hear his response, or anything Athena was trying to shout at her.

"(Y/n), honey you stay with me now, help is here. Eddie meet us at the hospital." She ended the call, swallowing down the guilt consuming every inch of her being when the last thing she heard was Eddie's scream of protest. She couldn't have him on the phone when she could feel (Y/n)'s pulse was starting to fade. They had to get her to the hospital and Eddie would have to drown in the same panic as Athena until he got there.

***

This had to be the one. This was the third ambulance Eddie had seen pull into the parking bay just at the side of the emergency room entrance. He hastily parked his car as close as he could get and stood to the side of the ambulance entrance to the hospital. Eddie knew if he went through the reception in the emergency room he would be pushed to the side and would have to wait for hours in agony.

Whereas if he waited here, he could see Athena and (Y/n) come through the emergency room and he could stay with them that way.

Two ambulances had parked up since Eddie got here and neither of them had brought in his wife. He was starting to lose the feeling in his fingers and feet and at any moment he was sure he would throw up. If he hadn't of started the argument, (Y/n) wouldn't have gone on shift and she wouldn't have been hurt somehow.

The only silver lining here was that Chris was staying with Evan for the night. Eddie didn't have to panic and flutter about finding someone to look after Chris and waste time driving around. He had been able to get straight in the car and drive down to the hospital.

Eddie looked down to his phone again, desperate to call Athena but he knew better. His eyes flitted between his phone and the latest ambulance and he took two steps closer when the back doors opened.

Bingo.

"Athena!" He slipped his phone back into his pocket and skidded across the path to reach them, growling when one of the medics tried to push him back.

"Sir stand back-"

"That's my wife!" Both Eddie's hands moved to tangle in his hair and he started to yank harshly on the strands, feeling a few hairs coming loose between his fingers. His elbows pressed out at his sides and each breath started to run away from him when he realised what they were doing.

One of the medics was stood on the side of the stretcher, hands interlocked, arms straight, pushing compressions down on (Y/n)'s chest. Her heart had stopped.

There was an airbag attached to her mouth and nose, pushing each breath she needed through her system. Eddie spied a turniquet on her left leg and a bundle of gauze and rolls of bandage wrapped around her upper thigh that were starting to turn crimson. Another medic was stood on the other side, applying pressure and a large wad of gauze down onto (Y/n)'s left shoulder but the blood was everywhere. Soaked into her shirt, smeared up her neck, lathering the medic's hands and wrists.

Blood was splattered all over Athena. Her shirt, her hands all the way upto her elbows. A few droplets were even dotted on her cheek from back splash when she tried to stem the bleeding.

Eddie's feet were moving before he could comprehend what was happening and suddenly he and Athena were bolting inside down the hall after the gurney. They stopped only when the gurney travelled down a restricted corridor and the pair of them were left waiting, helpless in an empty corridor.

"What happened?"

"We were doing a welfare check… a woman fled the house and the husband open fired on the lawn. We didn't know he had a gun, there was nothing we could do."

"S-someone, shot her?"

He wasn't sure why, but gunshots didn't cross his mind when he saw the blood and the gauze padded onto his wife. He thought of knife wounds or a car accident. Eddie was married to a cop and a gunshot didn't even cross his mind.

He had to call Evan. And Maddie. He needed to find someone who would be able to watch Chris so Evan could come down to the hospital, he wouldn't be persuaded otherwise once Eddie called him and told him the news. (Y/n)'s siblings were the closest people to her, they were her world, the people who raised her when their parents couldn't. They would want to be here, waiting with Eddie for news.

What had he done? Why did he let her leave?

***

A groan tumbled past Eddie's lips and he slowly brought a hand up to his eyes, rubbing forcefully to try and wake himself up and take a look around. He could of cried when he realised he was in the same spot he had been hours ago. He wasn't waking up from this nightmare, he was trapped.

The moment he tilted his head up, his neck clicked into place and sent a shudder running down the base of his spine. His legs were numb and tingling, stretched out in front of him and his back was aching from falling asleep on the floor, leant up against the wall.

The chairs had been too uncomfy to sit on for long and when a panic attack took over him, Eddie curled up on the floor and hadn't moved since.

He stretched his arms above his head but when his eyes locked on a doctor aiming his way, Eddie jumped to attention. He stood up on wobbling legs and braced himself back against the wall with his hands clasped together in front of him. In the time it took the doctor to walk across the corridor to him, Eddie's hands were dripping with sweat and the back of his neck prickled with heat and goosebumps.

"Mr Diaz?"

His throat was too tight to speak so he settled for nodding his head and moved across with the doctor to sit on the chairs a few feet away.

Suddenly, Eddie was glad he was alone. If this conversation went the wrong way, Eddie didn't want to be around friends and family when he had a break down. Evan and Maddie were on their way here as soon as they could drop Chris off with Hen and Karen. Athena had gone to get changed after her interview with the chief of police and she would be back later with Bobby.

That left Eddie to sit and panic in the corridor for the last three hours, riding out the early morning in a state of perpetual fear he had never felt before.

"Your wife is out of surgery, it went very well."

Relief washed over Eddie like the tide claiming the sand and he let his body slump forward to land his head in his hands.

Thank God. It worked. She was okay.

"We removed both bullets, the one in her thigh was less severe. I'm afraid the shot to the shoulder managed to fracture into the joint. It will take longer to heal and your wife will need physiotherapy."

"She… she coded when she arrived…" Eddie wasn't sure what he was asking but he could feel the panic swirling around in his head. (Y/n) had stopped breathing when the ambulance pulled up. She had CPR on her way into theatre, that could have had a lot of adverse affects and cause lasting problems, depending on how long she was not breathing.

"We restarted her heart upon arrival, she's had normal rhythm since then and two blood transfusions. We were rather worried surgery would push her body into a miscarriage, but so far the fetus seems fine. We will keep doing daily observations just to make sure."

"What are you talking about?"

Her expression faltered and Eddie watched the way she fiddled with her hands on her lap, grimacing at her mistake. She should have eased into that conversation and tied to gage whether Eddie had any inkling about this or not. Now she had put her foot right in it.

"I'm very sorry, I presumed you would have known. Your wife is pregnant, congratulations, you are both very lucky under the circumstances."

Eddie's hands clamped together and he leaned forward, pressing his mouth against the side of his hand with a sudden desire to bite down into the flesh and rip it apart.

What had he done?

Their argument earlier in the night had been futile and pointless and he should have stopped her from leaving. If they took the test the night would have gone very differently. If they had worked things out and stayed home together, they would have found out this news in a few weeks and everything would have been better. (Y/n) wouldn't need to be pent up on bed rest and undergoing surgery and physio and cardiac arrest. She wouldn't have gone through all of this and ended up being shot if they didn't argue.

"I want to see her."

"Of course, this way."

Eddie could barely feel his legs when he stood up. He was trembling all over and he raked his nails over his thighs to try and ward off the sudden energy and adrenaline fuelling through his system.

"Eddie," The way she said his name when he bolted through the door made him shiver. He couldn't get her voice out of his head. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear her crying out for him while he sat motionless and powerless to do anything to help his wife. He was never going to get that shrill cry out of his head, no matter what he did to try and forget.

Tears were already streaming down his face by the time he stumbled over to the bed and reached out for her.

He could see the way her eyes blinked rapidly and how she tilted her head groggily to the side to try and lock her gaze onto him. She had only just started to come round from the anaesthetic.

Eddie let himself slump down on the side of the bed and he took a second to rake his eyes over his wife's frame. Her left arm was wrapped up in a sling, bound to her chest which she seemed rather put out and confused about. And he didn't dare look under the blanket to see how badly her leg would look. He could only imagine how discoloured, swollen and sore it was going to be. Eddie had had his fair share of bullet wounds in the past.

When her fingers curled around his bicep, Eddie slipped his hands beneath her back as carefully as he could and gently pulled (Y/n) up when she tried to lean over for him. Her right arm curled around his neck, scratching her nails into his skin and her face slumped forward onto his shoulder. While Eddie wrapped one arm around her lower waist to keep her pinned into his chest and his other hand cupped the back of her neck.

He buried his nose into her hair and sighed against the side of her temple, pressing as many kisses to her skin as he could manage.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

(Y/n) turned her head until she could press a butterfly kiss against the underside of Eddie's jaw and her hazy eyes tried to focus on him when he pulled his head back to look down at her.

"Hm?" What was he sorry for? From what (Y/n) could recall, Eddie hadn't been the one to shoot her. He hadn't done anything wrong, he didn't force her out the house or make her pick up that shift. She should have gone for a drive to clear her head instead of pushing herself to go on shift when she didn't need to. It was stupid of her.

"I shouldn't have let you walk out the door. If I didn't say all those things, you wouldn't have been hurt." Eddie tilted his head to the side and swiped his cheek against his shoulder to rid the tears from his eyes. words were never going to be enough to explain how horrid and idiotic and ruthless he felt for what had happened tonight.

"Baby, I walked out… I k- I knew going to work would be a bad idea," (Y/n) leaned forward again and buried her face into Eddie's neck, groaning into his shoulder when it felt like a storm was rolling into her mind.

"We should have taken the test,"

"Hm?"

(Y/n)'s lips twitched against Eddie's neck and she curled her hand against his back and nuzzled her nose into his neck. She couldn't see what he meant by that, unless there was some secret undertone she was missing. Her eyes soon opened and her lips parted when Eddie's arms suddenly unravelled from her skin and moved to cup her face instead. He smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks and gently lifted her head up from his neck so he could look down at her.

The hazy look in her eyes made his heart melt and when she tried to smile so sweetly up at him, Eddie shivered. She had been shot, twice, and had been on the brink of death and here she was trying to smile to calm him down.

"Mi amor, you're pregnant."

Confusion flooded her face and her eyes narrowed while her smile morphed into something closer to unsettling panic.

If this was some sort of joke, it was in very poor taste and it wasn't funny in the least. But the longer (Y/n) stared up at Eddie, the sooner she realised he wasn't trying to play some sick joke on her or guilt trip her. A cry burned at the back of her throat and she choked on her breath as her head started to shake.

"But… I," (Y/n)'s hand fumbled towards her shoulder and her leg twitched at the memory of being hurt. If she was pregnant, she had put herself and the baby in danger by going on shift tonight. She had been shot, how could the baby be okay after that?

"Shh, it's okay, you're both okay." Eddie's fingers brushed across her cheeks, wiping away the tears falling down her face before he leaned down to kiss her. "And I'm gonna make sure nothing else happens to you. I swear."

#eddie diaz imagine #eddie diaz x reader #imagine #911 imagine #pregnant! reader #eddie x reader #athena grant

[undeadcannibal]

Can I have some funny/cute Headcannons with if the 141 men, Konig, Alejandro and Ruby walked into saw their s/o wearing some of their  military gear and checking themselves?

Summary: Headcanons for how the Task Force 141 crew, Alejandro, Rudy, and Konig would react to catching you wearing some of their gear.

Genre: Headcanons

Warnings: none!

A/N: Thanks for the request, Anon! I hope you enjoy these~ uwu( Gif credit: xxx )

Ghost ―

He’d be fine with it so long as you don’t touch any of his masks. That’s one of the parts of him that he doesn’t want you connected to in any way.

Instead, you’d try on his thigh holsters and tactical belt, having always enjoyed the way they accentuated his waist and thighs.

You do your best to mimic the pattern you’ve seen him use them in. Strapping them snugly around your hips and thigh, pausing to admire them on your person afterward. You’re so caught up in checking yourself out, you don’t even notice Ghost in the doorway.

He’s been leaning against the door frame, watching you go about trying on some of the safer gear he’s left out here and there.

He’d never thought he’d like the idea of a partner of his wearing his gear, worried it’d bring up some memories he’d hoped to keep buried. Yet, after he checks you out sporting his belt and thigh holster, he can’t help but shaking his head. Laughing softly when you finally catch sight of him and whip around to face him.

“I-I can explain!”

“No need.”

As you’d begin to stammer and try apologize to him, he’d roll his eyes at you before settling a heavy hand on top of your head. Ruffling the hair there till it was a mess and you were pouting up at him.

“They look good on you.” He’d comment, stepping in and looming over you as he reached down to tug at one of the straps around your thigh, delighting in the way it wrapped around your leg. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but now he understood why others had a kink for their gear. Ghost thoroughly enjoys the way the straps accentuate your thighs, ending just below your backside.

May ask you to wear some more of his simple gear more often just to see how good you look in it. Has to will himself out of thinking of you whenever he’s wearing the same pieces you’ve tried on. Knowing he looks nowhere near as good as you do despite what you say.

Soap ―

Johnny’s busy cooking breakfast when your curiosity hits.

Quietly entering the room you share so you can sneak over to the spot you know where he keeps his military gear at. At the ready just in case he ever needs to leave in a hurry.

Your fingers trail over tan polyester and vinyl as you stop to examine his tac vest. Glancing over the numerous pouches and compartments for all sorts of tools he used in situations.

With a quick glance over your shoulder, you carefully pick it up. It’s obviously heavier than you expected, but that doesn’t come as a surprise. Soap mentioned the grueling training they went through to get adjusted to all of the weight they had to carry out in the field.

As your mind continues to wander, you find yourself slipping the vest on your person. Turning and marveling at the sight of yourself in Soap’s own vest as you strike numerous ‘strong man’ poses. Knowing that if you had to carry the same amount he had, you’d probably fall to the ground and need help getting back up. Not that that stops you.

While you’re still busy practicing numerous goofy poses with his vest, you hear a familiar chuckle from behind you. Turning to see Soap grinning at you cheekily.

“Aw, why’d you stop, lass? I was enjoying the show!” He’d joke before mocking you by repeating some of the same poses you were doing earlier.

Gaz ―

He was in the shower when you saw some of his gear on top of the table in the living room.

Most of it was stuff you knew you were better off leaving alone, yet... as soon as your eyes laid their sights on his headgear. His cap was well faded and sporting a UK flag patch on the front, as well as having what looked liked a communication system attached at the sides.

Carefully sneaking the cap on and pulling your hair through the back of it for a more natural look, you turned around and promptly made your way to your bathroom so you could check yourself out properly.

After knocking and letting him know you were entering the bathroom, you stepped in and swiped at the mirror to get a better look at yourself.

Of course, the cap was loose on your head from the size difference of you two, but the more you turned around and admired yourself in it, you couldn’t help but grin. Turning your head when you heard Gaz exiting the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Although his eyes widened in shock seeing you in his cap, he didn’t seem put off in any way. Instead, he laughed softly and stepped closer to get a better look at you sporting his cap.

“How’s it feel?” He asked, grinning at you.

Reaching up to the headset, you pretended to use the comms attached. “Sergeant Garrick reporting for duty!” You exclaimed, offering a mock salute in exchange.

Gaz playfully rolled his eyes at your impression of him.

“Next time Price has us doing drills, I’ll make sure to send you in my place, love.”

Price ―

He’s out picking up more cigars he enjoys when you were cleaning up around the house and noticed a tan scarf and hat you’d seen before. Recognizing it as the same two that John often wore when he was out on the field.

You knew you should have left them alone. Or, at the very least, put them away with the rest of his things, yet... You didn’t. Instead, you glanced around - as if you’d be caught and punished - before grabbing the scarf and hat.

Arranging the Boonie hat on your head before the scarf went around your shoulders, neck, and the bottom of your face, you glanced at yourself in the hallway mirror. Noting that the scarf smelled exactly like him as you admired the dual feelings of familiarity and anonymity of the combination.

You can picture Price in your place... His face shielded from both the wind and sand during his missions. Or, having to resort to using it as a pillow in a pinch in some safe house in the middle of nowhere.

The secret knock he’d informed you about could be heard before the sound of the door unlocking and opening afterwards. “Sweetheart! I’m home!”

When you faced him, Price didn’t look displeased or upset with you for wearing some of his gear. Instead, he walked over to you and dropped his shopping bag at his feet. Leaning down to meet you halfway as you leaned up towards him.

“Playing ‘dress up’, are we?”

You’d nod affirmatively up at him before delivering a swift kiss directly to his lips.

Alejandro ―

 It was the morning of the day Alejandro had to leave for work again.

You were helping him pack when you noticed you’d were holding the black sweater he often wore for casual missions. Noting the worn look of the black material that carried the briefest scent of his cologne and detergent now. Having once smelt like musk, sweat, and gunpowder he’d washed it.

He’d left to take a call not to long ago, so you figured now was the best time to act on your impromptu plan. Unzipping the jacket, you slipped your arms through the sleeves and tucked it closer to your form before closing it, the size difference between you two evident now more than ever as you stood there in his baggy coat.

“Mi amor!”

Guess his call had ended just in time.

Alejandro entered your bedroom, pausing for a moment in the doorway as he took in your appearance. The moment it sank in that you were wearing his jacket, you saw his eyes slowly rake over your body. Clearly admiring the view.

“As much as I love seeing you in my clothing...” Alejandro appeared to have snapped out of his stupor now that he’d walked over to you, reaching down to pull you into his arms with a devious grin. “Unfortunately, I need that for work. Mind if I have it back?”

“Hm...” You hummed softly as you pretended to mull the thought over before you suddenly looked up at him with a devious gleam in your eyes. “Nope! If I keep your jacket, that means you’ve to stay home with me. Hah~”

Giving a little growl in return, you gasped as you found yourself being lifted into the air by Alejandro reaching down and grabbing you, settling his hands right beneath the curvature of your ass.

“We’ll see about that...”

Rodolfo ―

“Rudy,” You questioned, slowly walking your fingers over his chest.

“Si, mi vida?” He replied casually, not evening bothering to open his eyes while he rested beneath you.

As sneakily as you could, you’d reached over to the gloves he’d discarded the moment he’d arrived home. Doing your best to quietly pull them on over your slimmer hands before he was peeking at you through his lashes. Smiling when he’d noticed you grinning down at him with a mischievous smile on your face.

“What’s that look for, huh?”

Miming aiming the sights of a gun down at him with both hands, you giggled as you did your best to fake an intimidating voice. Kinda like the one you’ve heard Alejandro use on occasion.

“Special Forces, hands up!”

Scoffing and shaking his head, Rodolfo slowly raised his hands in mock surrender before he suddenly turning his head towards you. Grinning like a mad man before pouncing. Wrapping his arms around you to pull you in for a sudden kiss that had you squealing in surprise.

König ―

wearing a spare mask of his he has back at home

Sitting on top of the edge of König’s desk, you casually swung your legs, eyes closed since he was busy switching out masks. Having mentioned something about his current one being too worn for daily use ever since his last mission.

You could hear the rustling of fabric before something being tossed onto the desk to your side.

“You can open your eyes now.”

After you’d opened your eyes, you couldn’t help looking over to your side to see that he’d tossed his old mask onto his desk. Glancing over to König, he seemed busy adjusting his new mask to his liking. Too busy to notice you grabbing the old, raggedy mask he’d rid himself of.

Unsure what possessed you to do so, you found yourself slipping the mask over your own head. Positioning the stretched out holes where your own eyes were so you could see out of it. Now that you were wearing it, you couldn’t help but have an odd feeling of déjà vu. Walking over to examine yourself in the same mirror König had been using.

Watching you approach, he stared down at you curiously with bright eyes.

“Is that my old mask, Schatz?”

You nodded in agreement. “Yeah, quick question though, hon...”

“Hm?”

Hesitating before asking your next question, you tilted your head to the side curiously. Squinting at him with your reflection in the mirror. “Is your ‘mask’ actually an old t-shirt?”

. . .

“. . . Yes.”

#call of duty x reader #task force 141 x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #john price x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #könig x reader #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #call of duty: modern warfare 2 #headcanons #opened mail #anonymous #my writing #request

[fraugwinska]

Could I get Alastor x Reader where he teaches her to swing dance in their room after they both talk about what was popular when they died as she comes from the current earth era so either 2010s or 2020s up to you!

Thank you so much if you write this and if you do not wish too that is totally okay! Have a wonderful day!

Aaaaaah, such a cute prompt! Of course I tried my hands on that, dear! I hope you'll like it!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Going with the times

You flipped the page in the heavy photo album, laughing. „Oh look, that's from my first party as a university student!“ Alastor scrunched his nose. „These shoes are quite... scandalous, dear.“ „Hey, I was in my early twenties, everyone wore overknee boots.“ „That doesn't make them decent.“

You elbowed him, with playful annoyance. „Watch it, I don't make fun of your style choices!“ Alastor cocked a brow at you, grinning proudly. „That's because I always dressed with timless class and style, sweetheart.“ His gaze returned to the picture – You, arm in arm with your group of friends, in the midst of a club in the city you went to study for a degree you never used, since you died too young.

„What kind of establishment were you at, anyway? It looks awfully... modern.“

You rolled your eyes. You knew Alastor enough to know that when said 'modern', he really meant 'awful'. The only 'modern' thing Alastor didn't hate, was you.

„It's a dance club. Me and my girlfriends used to go almost every weekend, just dancing, having a good time and a few drinks.“

Alastor looked intrigued. „Oh? What style did you dance to? I always loved swing and jazz, but I do enjoy a good quick-Step too.“

You couldn't help but snicker – he truly didn't keep up with the times, that one.

„No, Al, no... that kind became very... formal. We just danced, you know? To hip hop, or electronica and clubhouse, like this!“

You hopped up from your bed, swaying your hips, lifting up your arms and bouncing to a beat only your could hear. He watched you, half amused and half horrified. He laughed and shook his head at your movements, so you stopped, hands flew on your hips and you rose your chin. „Okay old man, why don't you show me how you danced when you were young and wild?“

He was so quick, you didn't even see him moving when you already felt one arm around your waist, the other lifting your hand.

„Oh my dear, it's my pleasure to demonstrate what real dancing is all about!“

As only Alastor could do, an upbeat, jazzy song began to play from god knows where, and he began stepping sideways and forwards with you clumsily following him. With each stumble, he caught you with his reassuring, beaming smile, his patient guidance encouraging you to press on.

He truly had some energy to his step, spinning you every which way and having you laugh out loudly. After your first awkward steps, you found some kind of pattern to stick to, and your feet slowly but surely fell into his set rhythm without crushing his toes. He noticed that as well and chuckled, increasing the tempo and spinning you gleefully. „Bravo, darling, bravo! Now come, don't lose your flow, eyes on me! Excellent. A twist! Ha-ha-ha, marvelous, and again!“

You found yourself lost in the music and enjoying this way of dancing thoroughly, your heart beating as quick as your dancemoves. You felt warm and lightheaded in his arms as he moved with you, until the music ceased way too soon, and you two stood in the middle of your room, a bit out of breath and panting softly.

Alastor pushed a stray strand of hair from your face back behind your ears, grinning smugly.

"How about it, darling? You want to try that in your silly overknee boots?"

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #fraugwinskawrites #quick fic #alastor x reader

[mimi-cee-genshin]

Old words unspoken ‘til now: Neuvillette; heartwarming, spoilers from his story quest, 0.7k

Imagine you were a history and literature enthusiast in the world of Teyvat. You collected books -old books- and you tremendously enjoyed the archaic language written between the dusty covers. The terms used, the odd sentence structure as well as the punctuation were all hindrances to the common person. With phrases slightly off-putting to the contemporary palate, one could hardly persevere through a single page.

Yet you, on the other hand, would read these books aloud with flair and drama, causing strangers to raise a brow and your closest friends to share a knowing smirk. As you walked along by Palais Mermonia, quick on your feet to run a commission, you heard a word you'd only read in the book located on the third shelf away from your fireplace.

The word? An insult. The equivalent of calling a person a buffoon.

Of course the one receiving the insult was oblivious to the fact that he was indeed insulted, as if it never occurred to him that it could be anything but a compliment. But as you listened to him wail and complain about how a certain Melusine failed to meet his petty expectations, you understood the drama that had reached your attentive ears.

The great Monsieur Neuvillette was understandably upset.

You had never forgotten the spectacle. You tucked it into a corner of your memory, next to the lines of an obscure but cherished theatre script written centuries ago. The single word brought you back to a different world that separated you not by space but by time. Old Fontaine, with all its flaws, also contained stories of bravery and love in its pages.

Then when you happened on a rare chance to greet Monsieur Neuvillette himself in person, you seized the opportunity for an experiment. A harmless one of course.

You quoted a line from your favorite play.

It was a typical form of greeting when directed to a respectful gentleman such as him. But the archaic saying revealed a brief shock in Neuvillette's eyes, just as he received the completed commission from you. He continued on with business as usual, not thinking much of your words. Yet when another sentence flowed out of your mouth, he could no longer ignore his heart. His smile could hardly be contained at hearing the equivalent of his mother tongue, the mode of words when he first lived among humans. Your intonations brought him back to his early days with Vautrin and Carole, of small gatherings and outings with those he cherished. A warm soupy aroma had wafted from the kitchen of Vautrin's mother and young children had giggled with the handful of Melusines he first brought over.

And without knowing, Neuvillette replied you. He replied in that old Teyvat language, with idioms and speech patterns he scarcely spoke ‘til now.

Your eyes grew wide, and then were replaced by an even wider grin. With glee, you spoke to him the language you only read from books, almost a little bashful from the excitement in your own voice.

He asked where you learned to speak that way and you spilled out your vast knowledge of centuries old literature, those cherished tales of characters you loved. In turn, he gave you insights into the settings and culture at the time for each of the stories you shared. And mid conversation, you couldn't help but feel the urge to write them all down.

As the people walked by you outside the Palais Mermonia, you continued to speak in a way that was unknown to the expanse of the current human world. It was awkward at first for Neuvillette, not having conversed this way in so long. But the more he spoke, the more natural it felt, and the words and phrases on his tongue made themselves home in him once again. The place in his heart that was long forgotten was brought to the surface for him to enjoy once again. It was a marvel to behold how a mere few phrases had uncovered this abandoned treasure.

So when the day was done, and the hours had passed from the moment you'd shared your good-byes, Neuvillette once again reflected on his former years. They were painful memories, but there was great joy in them as well. And you had just gifted him with a warm experience he couldn't have foreseen. An encounter that led out a forgotten part of his being.

A place he called home.

Thanks for reading! This was pretty different from my usual writing style and format, but I hope you enjoyed it.

#genshin impact x reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact drabbles #genshin impact scenarios #neuvillette fluff #genshin impact fluff #neuvillette imagines #neuvillette drabble #neuvillette scenarios #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #genshin impact fanfics #genshin fanfic #genshin scenarios #genshin drabbles #neuvillette #genshin neuvillette

[cogentranting]

In The Marvels there's a vulnerability to Carol that we don't really get in her earlier appearances. There's a few glimpses of it in Captain Marvel, but not much, and it's certainly not visible in Endgame (not as a fault of that movie, she's just not very close to the center of that movie). But I find the exploration of that in this movie really appealing.

You have this woman who is incredibly capable, incredibly powerful, and generally very self-sufficient. And you see the way that over the years that's worn her down. She's the mighty Captain Marvel-- one of the most powerful people in the galaxy. And she's absorbed that view of herself, that that is who she needs to be all the time. She needs to carry it all, to fix it all.

As Captain Marvel that's meant that she works alone and she's always off to fix a new problem. More importantly, it led to her nearly disastrous decision to destroy the Supreme Intelligence, and from there to an inability to directly confront that failure (tactically or emotionally) or to accept help in fixing it.

As Carol, it's cut her off from anyone else except a few carefully distanced professional friendships-- she is friends with Fury, and Valkyrie, and Yan, but there's also a coolness there, and with all we're given the impression that she keeps them at arm's length and only comes around when necessary. And again its created an even bigger problem-- she stayed away from Maria until Maria was dying, and never came back to Monica at all.

It's never directly connected for us in the movie, but there's a pretty clear connection here back to the first movie. That careful distance wasn't present with Yon-Rogg. With him she was playful, open, she'd come to his room in the middle of the night. She trusted him. And she was utterly betrayed. He used her, trapped her, manipulated her, stole her life and her memories, tried to kill her. And back then, she only regained her identity when she broke free from him. That experience has made her wary.

But she's also just off-balance. Her memories were taken and she still hasn't fully gotten them back, so she's unsteady in those old relationships. And she's indestructible and powerful but it does her no good in dealing with actual relationships. She meets a problem that she can't punch or blast, and her flight instinct kicks in.

So when The Marvels starts out, those years of being alone and trying to be Atlas carrying the world on her back, have left her shaky. She's scared to talk to Monica. When she does come face to face with Monica, and Monica initially rejects her, Carol visibly shrinks. In dealing with Dar Benn, she's running scared--not scared of Dar Benn, but scared of failing again or messing things up more, and it makes her impulsive, and causes her to push away Monica and Kamala. And it's all a vulnerability that she covers up with cockiness and bravado. She doesn't show people that vulnerability. Instead she shows them the invincible Captain Marvel who can fly into suns and move planets.

And this movie uses the power-switching to handcuff her to two other people to force her out of that destructive pattern of total self-reliance and running from being close to anyone. It physically will not let her run away from Monica and Kamala, and it turns her attempts to do things by herself against her.

Kamala is there to model for Carol a sort of emotional openness that she hasn't known in a long time (if ever). Her heart is all the way out on her sleeve and Carol needs to see that. When Monica discusses her mom's death, Kamala literally shows Carol what to do on the simplest level by hugging Monica and forcing Carol into that hug. And it matters that Kamala is a child doing this, because that simplicity is key. Carol doesn't need to FIX the situation, and Kamala isn't burdened by that mindset. Kamala can approach with this childlike openness and simplicity, not overcomplicating it by trying to find the perfect thing to say or do, and it turns out that's all Carol needs to do too. And so simple hugs become incredibly powerful in this movie because it's just about being willing to be there with some and to hold them, and in the end Carol gives that back to Kamala when they hug after losing Monica.

And for her part, Monica models to Carol that you can be strong and part of a team. Monica has grown up and become a captain and become a superhero. She's incredibly capable. And also very very comfortable working as part of a team. So despite her tension with Carol, she's able to bring that easy team dynamic to the group and get Carol to embrace the team instead of being hampered by it.

Once Carol is able be at ease with being vulnerable, once she can open herself up to others, once she can share her burdens, that's when she finally is able to come home to Earth after nearly 40 years.

#the marvels #mcu #carol danvers #the marvels spoilers

[piratekane]

(rated m for mature)

Ava’s room is the last sacred space in their apartment. A room that belongs to Ava, and Ava only. The living room is shared space, of course. Their breakfast bar holds both of their tea mugs: Ava’s in the shape of a bulldog holding a bone, her own a dark gray and white plaid pattern. The bathroom has a small stand with both of their toothbrushes and two face cloths on small hooks, one on each side of the sink. The face of the kitchen refrigerator is littered with pictures and ticket stubs and small post-it-note drawings they’ve both accumulated over the last few months.

We exist, Beatrice, Ava likes to tell her. If we died and someone came to pack us up, they would know we both existed here.

It’s a morbid thought, but it rotates in her mind for days afterwards. They exist. They exist together, in this shared space. There’s two of everything - a testament to a life shared between two people who found comfort in each other. Who found a home. Their shoes are by the front door, their bills are on the counter, their sweaters tangle into knots on the couch where they dare cross the line Beatrice has drawn between them.

Ava’s room is a line. She doesn’t cross it. She lets their shared existence fill every corner of the apartment except for Ava’s bedroom. She’s never crossed the threshold. Even on the day Ava moved in, she dutifully passed her boxes from the living room, marveling at the idea that one person who existed in a single dorm room for a handful of months could accumulate so many things.

She’s not sure that Ava even noticed. If she did, she didn’t say anything about it. Because she’s kind and takes Beatrice’s actions into consideration with the sort of care no one else in her life has ever shown.

But that’s par for the course. Ava is unlike anyone else in her life.

It’s why Beatrice is so careful. She’s gotten used to having this unusual, perfect thing in her life. She’s gripping it tightly with two hands, firm enough to keep it in one place but soft enough that it doesn’t break. It took her years to learn that grip and only a month with Ava to master it in a whole new way.

She should know by now, after seven months, that being careful around Ava is never careful enough.

“Blue or green?” she hears Ava call from inside her room.

Beatrice sighs, resting her pencil tip against the page she’s taking notes on. “Ava.”

Ava’s head pops around the doorframe. She’s smiling in a way a younger Beatrice would have called dashing or roguish. It’s charming. Infuriatingly so. Ava knows it—has never forgotten it since the time Camila said it out loud one night when Ava convinced them to try roller skating at some wooden rink nearby. That smile is a weapon, a carefully drawn bow whose range Beatrice can never escape from.

“Blue or green?” she repeats.

“I’m afraid I need a bit of context, Ava.”

Beatrice resists the urge to rub tiredly at the space between her eyes. Finals week is upon them. She’s prepared - has been preparing all semester - but then her Early Christian Women’s professor gave her some last minute feedback to restructure her entire research paper. It’s left her molded to the stool at the breakfast bar for the last three days, the entire top of it covered in color-coded index cards and texts she’s expressly forbid Ava from going anywhere near.

Ava pinky promised that she would listen. Beatrice would have accepted a confident “okay,” but Ava had taken it a step further, tightening her grip on Beatrice’s pinky and pulling her whole hand up to her mouth as Ava kissed her own fist, eyes on Beatrice the whole time.

“There. Now it’s really a promise.”

Beatrice thinks maybe she didn’t have enough friends growing up. Or that she didn’t have enough friends like Ava growing up. Because she’d never heard of this particular kind of promise. Shannon had made a face when Beatrice asked her about it. No, I’m not making fun of you, Shannon assured her. I just mean… Bea. Come on.

Beatrice does not come on, but the next time Ava makes her promise she won’t throw all her sources out the window and develop a list of new ones, she quickly presses her lips to the outside of her own hand, eyes darting to Ava’s face. Just as a test. Just to see if she’s doing this right.

She must have. Ava beamed for hours.

“Blue paint or green paint?” Ava expands.

“For what?”

Ava extends her arm past the doorway into Beatrice’s view. A small bucket of paint, hardly larger than a box of baking soda, dangles from her fingers.

She holds back the long-suffering sigh building in her chest. “Ava.”

“I’m painting my room.”

“You’re-” Beatrice turns, notecard on Thecla abandoned. “You’re painting your room?”

Ava frowns at her like she’s the one who just announced that she’s completing a home makeover project. “I told you this.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Ava’s arm drops to her side, and she leans a little further around the doorway.

Beatrice shakes her head. “You most certainly did not. Because I would have remembered that.”

“You can’t remember everything I say.”

I do. The thought nearly makes its way to Beatrice’s tongue, but she bites it back. She certainly can’t admit that, though she thinks Ava would, if she was in her position. Ava has always been more free in her words, in her certainty.

“I would have remembered this,” she repeats.

Ava shakes her head. “I definitely told you I was doing this. I asked if you wanted to go pick out-”

Her forehead wrinkles into a frown that Beatrice immediately wants to smooth away. She can feel Ava’s skin under her fingertips, warm and soft. She blinks.

“Huh. Maybe I mentioned it to Mary, now that I think about it.” Her face brightens without Beatrice’s help. “I guess I’m telling you now.”

“You can’t- You can’t paint your room.”

Ava nods like she understands. “I can’t paint it alone, no. I’ll need help. Oh! A paint party!”

“No, I mean-” Beatrice takes a deep breath. “We would lose our security deposit if you paint the walls. It’s in our rental agreement.”

That doesn’t seem to bother Ava. “We can just paint it back when we move out. Or if we never do, then no one will ever know.”

If we never do. The words are like a lightning bolt in her chest. If we never do implies that Ava has thought about living with her indefinitely. That Ava has considered the possibility of a future where they're still in each other’s lives, where they’re still living in this same apartment doing the same things together. Movie nights and take out and reading while Ava watches something on TV, and talking about the few hours they spent apart and deciding where to take weekend trips and what new household decoration Ava is going to talk her into.

Their life in shared spaces, for everyone who visits to see.

Forever roommates.

The thought is too overwhelming for her to breathe properly.

“So, will you help me pick a color?” Ava continues on as if Beatrice isn’t slowly burning from the inside out. “I’m thinking green. Blue seems more like your color. Hey! We can paint your room next.”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Ava, no.”

Ava either doesn’t hear her, or pays her no mind. “I got this cool mint color. It looks like mint chocolate chip ice cream!”

“Mint,” she repeats, voice strangled.

Ava beams. “It looks like our toothpaste.”

Dread washes over her, as cold as ice cream out of the freezer against her tongue. Their toothpaste is a frightfully minty green color that always catches Beatrice off guard no matter how many times a day she’s brushed her teeth, even after the ;five months since Ava started buying it. It’s a sickly green, almost. Certainly not something that should be on a wall, let alone four of them. Ava’s room would glow, practically radioactive.

“No,” she insists. “Not that color.”

“Come see it. Then you’ll understand.”

She moves without meaning to, without giving much thought to it. Ava calls like a siren, and she swims out to meet her. She gets as far as the couch before the water comes up to her chin and she stops again.

“I don’t think you should paint your room.”

Ava waves away her concern. “It’ll be fine. The whole room is just so… white. We need a little color in our lives, Bea. A little bit of… spice.”

“A little bit of spice.”

“You know. Excitement.” Ava is firmly in the doorway now, paint can hanging at her side. “We can’t live with white walls forever.”

Why not? she wants to ask. She grew up with white walls. Pristine ones. Washed down every week by their housekeeper. Sanitized. She pauses. Ava might have a point.

But their landlord would not approve of it. And Beatrice intends to stick by the rules. She opens her mouth to say so, but Ava cuts her off.

“Come here. Just have a look.” She pads forward on bare feet and curls her fingers around Beatrice’s wrist, tugging her forward gently enough that Beatrice could step back, break their connection if she needed to.

She doesn’t. Not yet.

But she gets closer and closer to Ava’s doorway, to the raised threshold that separates her from this last sacred space. Ava is stepping back over it, eyes on Beatrice, and then her toes are bumping against it and she stops. Their arms stretch between them for a moment before Ava catches up and steps forward so they hang loosely again.

Ava waits for her. Always waiting for her. It’s not fair, she thinks. It’s not fair that she’s always waiting for me.

“So, I have something to admit,” Ava says slowly, pulling her out of her head. She’s smiling sheepishly, her head ducked a little as she searches Beatrice’s face. “I might have already painted a few swatches on the wall.”

“Ava.”

“Just a few,” she rushes on. “Small ones. Like, the size of a book. A small one! I’m sorry, I just wanted to see what they looked like.” She strokes her thumb over Beatrice’s wrist. “The mint kind of looks horrible,” she admits.

Beatrice fights that never-ending sigh again. “Of course it does.”

“But the other green looks good! It’s kind of turquoise-y, actually.” Ava’s forehead wrinkles into a frown that lingers for just a second. “Greener than a normal turquoise, though. Almost like the sea. Like - okay, just look.”

Ava’s hand falls away, and she takes a step back into her room. She’s looking at the wall, eyes moving quickly over what Beatrice assumes is the paint swatches she’s done there.

She eases her weight onto the ball of her foot. The floorboard creaks under it. Ava is still looking at the wall, still studying her choices. Beatrice feels a ripple of fear race through her. It’s just a room. Their apartment is made up of rooms. But it’s Ava’s room. Opening this door, crossing this line - she’s not sure she can come back from that.

Ava meets her eyes again and tips her head in that effortlessly endearing way, a soft smile on her face that immediately ebbs the fear away. Ava crooks a finger in her direction, beckoning her forward. It’s like a piece of string loops its way around Beatrice’s wrist and it pulls.

“You’re going to like the turquoise,” Ava says just quietly enough for Beatrice to hear. Another siren’s call.

She’s a strong swimmer. She can survive this. Her toes brush the raised threshold, and then they’re curled over the other side of it as her shoulders breach the doorway. The air shifts. She feels a little lightheaded. The lights seem dimmed, lowered. She holds her breath and waits for God to strike her down, and when nothing happens, she silently exhales a thin stream of air.

She doesn’t go further than that. Her body doesn’t seem to want to move past the invisible line that goes from the ceiling down directly to the floor. Her eyes immediately go to the wall Ava was looking at.

She was correct. The mint looks horrible.

“I know,” Ava says, reading her mind. “It looked a lot better at the store. Maybe it’s the light?”

It takes Beatrice a minute to reply, almost as if the words were a trade for tipping forward into Ava’s room. “I don’t think different lighting is going to help this.”

Ava studies it for another moment before she nods decisively. “You’re right. But what about this green-turquoise?” She moves and touches her finger to the wall. It comes back with a sticky greenish color. She frowns at it. “Huh. Thought it’d dry.”

“I like it,” Beatrice allows. “But Ava-”

“I promise we’ll paint it back. I just…” Ava stops, running a hand through her hair. She leaves behind a smudge of turquoise on her forehead, disappearing into her hair. “It’ll be easy to paint back. Please, Bea?” She clasps her hand in front of her, holding them to her chest. “Pleeeease?”

They both realize she’s going to give in at the same moment. Beatrice didn’t think she had any tells, has always prided herself on being someone fully in control of their actions, emotions, and facial expressions. Lessons learned from her parents that she actually appreciated. Expressive got you in trouble, gave too much away. She spent years tightening up to prevent anyone from knowing too much.

Ava does not carry the same burden. And Ava, it appears, has learned to recognize when Beatrice is on the cusp of expressing too much, of giving in. Maybe she’s giving it away in the quick pull of the corner of her mouth. Maybe there’s something in her eyes, a flicker of acceptance. Maybe she clenches her hand into a fist, a small flex of her muscles. Maybe she shifts her weight. Maybe she blinks too many times.

Whatever it is, Ava sees it in her. And she grins, the light in the room becoming impossibly brighter.

“I want nothing to do with this,” is what she decides to say.

Ava claps her hands together. “You won’t regret this.”

“I’m sure I will.”

It doesn’t dim Ava’s smile. “When I’m done, you’ll see how much it brings this place to life. And then we talk about your room. And the living room! Oh, and wouldn’t the kitchen look so great if we painted it some kind of blue? I saw a swatch at the store that looked exactly like the water in the Blue Grotto. I want to go there one day. I always thought it would look-”

Beatrice steps back. Something that was fizzling inside of her fades, though she didn’t know it was there until she felt its absence. Ava is still going on – the bathroom would look good in pink. With black and white tiles on the floor – but Beatrice feels a sense of calm come over her, and she takes her first deep breath since she crossed the threshold.

Ava stops. “I’m getting ahead of myself,” she says sheepishly.

“It’s okay.” And it is. Beatrice doesn’t mind getting swept up in Ava’s elaborate plans. “But I’m going to go back to my homework.”

Ava flashes her a thumbs up. Her finger is still stained turquoise. “Okay. But you’re not studying for too long. We can’t have a repeat of this weekend.”

Beatrice feels her face flush. “I swore I went to bed.”

“You did. Standing in front of the refrigerator. I thought you were going to fall over.”

“I’m very disciplined.”

Ava grins. “Well, put a cap on studying tonight. When I’m done with the first coat, we’re going to get something to eat.”

She pretends to be annoyed by this, just because she likes the way Ava narrows her eyes playfully and shakes a finger at her. She’s not disappointed when Ava does exactly that before turning back to the stool she stole from the kitchen where she’s stacked two small paint cans, one open and one closed, and a paint roller.

Crossing the room back towards her homework is easier than going the distance from it to Ava’s room. She feels lighter with each step. She sits back down, her intention to focus on this paper she’s supposed to submit in two days (but feels nowhere near completion). Work, then break. As long as she works for the next hour, at least, then she can offer to buy Ava Indian food and ask her to watch a documentary about a filmmaker befriending an octopus. Cedrick, in her Study of Film elective, had suggested it to her. She doesn’t think it’ll be hard; Ava has said more than once that she thinks octopi are cute.

But as thoughts of Ava and octopi float in her head, some of the words Ava just mentioned start to register in Beatrice’ brain. Ava never mentioned the Blue Grotto before. They’re inching closer to the end of the school year and she doesn’t know Ava’s plans yet. Does she want to go backpacking across Europe? Alone? Will Beatrice have to haunt the corners of the apartment waiting for her to come back? Will Ava be different when she comes back? Will she forget about Beatrice?

Will she find a new forever-roommate in another city and leave Beatrice on her own?

Her homework is suddenly the furthest thing from her mind. She can’t focus on Eve or Thecla or their impact on the religious narrative. She can only think about the possibility of spending the summer alone - Mary and Shannon are going on a graduation trip across Spain, and Camila secured a summer internship with a tech startup company, and even Lilith found a program that allows her to travel for the few months before the start of the fall semester.

Beatrice’s big plan is to work at the campus library, splitting her time between shelving books, starting her graduation capstone project, and Ava. The practical side of her knows she should try to make that time an even three-way split, but the more she thinks about the coming months, the more adventures she keeps coming up with in her head. Things she wants to do and try with Ava, because she knows it’s on Ava’s list. They could visit the Prado Museum. Take a long weekend and travel to some seaside town where Ava could practice swimming in the waves. They could find new restaurants and new hiking trails. She’d even let Ava convince her to try roller skating. Again.

Beatrice hasn’t told her yet, but she has the whole summer mapped out. And Ava is embedded into every bullet point of that. It just hadn’t occurred to her that Ava might have her own plans. Ones that didn’t include Beatrice.

“Ow!”

Beatrice’s head snaps up. The sudden noise is followed by a heavy thud, thud and a rattle as something hits the floor. She’s up and moving before she has time to second guess herself, crossing the apartment in long strides until she’s reaching Ava’s room.

She crosses the threshold in a breath, suddenly plunged into the smell of paint and the sight of the bright lights Ava has rigged up in the center of the room. It nearly blinds her and she quickly looks at the ground.

Ava is lying on the thick, plush navy rug at the bottom of the bed, body curled in on itself as she clutches her foot. A small unopened can of paint is rolling slowly away from her towards the corner of the room. Ava groans loudly and turns her face into the rug as her whole body expands with a breath.

Beatrice drops to her knees, ignoring the dull ache that rockets up her thighs into her hips. She grabs Ava’s shoulders, turning her onto her back as her eyes scan Ava’s face for any blood or bruises. Her hands follow the same path, tucking Ava’s hair behind her ear and trailing her thumbs across the flat of Ava’s cheeks.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Ava’s eyes flutter closed, and Beatrice immediately becomes concerned about a concussion. Her fingers slide to the base of Ava’s head, and she applies a little pressure to tip it back. Ava’s still blinking up at her but as the light reflects against the honeyed color of her irises her pupils shrink. Beatrice heaves a relieved sigh. No concussion.

“Bea,” Ava groans again. She turns her face into Beatrice’s palm. “I think I broke it.”

Beatrice’s hands fall from Ava’s face and skim down her shoulders to her elbows, cupping them gently. “Let me see,” she says softly.

Ava shakes her head. “Just leave me behind.”

A rush of fondness ripples through her. She presses her fingertips into Ava’s bare arms, the sleeves of her This may be cheesy but I feel grate t-shirt brushing against the backs of Beatrice’s knuckles. “Ava,” she urges.

“No, it’s too horrible.” Ava’s grip tightens on her foot and she immediately winces.

Beatrice slides her hands down to Ava’s slowly. She curls her fingers into the spaces between Ava’s and her foot, pushing them back until she has enough room to free Ava’s foot from its self-imposed prison. There’s a bruise already forming at the base of her toes on the top of her foot, blooming across the first three toes. She ghosts her thumb across it and Ava flinches slightly.

Beatrice’s lips purse into a frown. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.” Ava rolls completely onto her back, staring up at Beatrice. She’s still blinking rapidly and Beatrice is worried about a delayed concussion now.

“I think you’ve bruised it.” She presses down, gentler this time. Ava draws in a breath but doesn’t flinch away. “I don’t think anything is broken.”

Her hand drifts higher, curling around Ava’s ankle bone. It’s delicate under her fingers, the point rounded. Her other hand, still resting on Ava’s foot, goes to her other shin. There’s nothing but an expanse of smooth and warm skin under her palm.

“Good,” Ava says faintly. Her eyes go to Beatrice’s hand, lingering.

Beatrice’s eyes follow. Oh. She quickly pulls her hands away, cheeks suddenly hot.

“I didn’t mean to-”

“You don’t have to-”

They both pause, staring at each other. The air feels electric, goosebumps running up Beatrice’s arms. Her chest feels tight with unspoken words. She looks away first.

Ava’s hand on her own pulls her eyes back around. She looks at Beatrice for a long moment before she smiles a little. There’s something on her face that Beatrice can’t read, but it settles the rising tide of fear in her chest and she feels it ebb away into nothingness.

It’s not unusual, the sense of calm that comes with a simple look from Ava. It’s a peace that feels second nature now. It’s odd how seven months with Ava has untied almost all the knots her life created. Seven months isn’t very long - a blip on the radar, really. She’s had the same study group for longer than that. But these seven months have felt so monumental that it seems to have lasted years.

But Ava is monumental, so really, it does make sense.

Still. Her hands got ahead of her head. She touched before she thought, and now she’s kneeling on Ava’s floor with her hands hovering between their bodies, and Ava’s eyes are even more honey-colored than usual. The lights reflecting off the white walls makes her feel like she’s under a spotlight on a stage where everyone can see her, here in Ava’s room.

In Ava’s room, across the threshold. Completely across it.

A line she hasn’t crossed, a step she hasn’t taken. The room rushes in on her suddenly. She’s hyper aware of the faint chemical smell of paint, the too-bright lights, the rough fibers of the rug against her bare ankles, the way Ava’s laundry seems to be crawling out of the basket in the corner.

“I’m-”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Bea.”

“I’ll just-”

“Beatrice.”

Beatrice blinks. Ava’s hand has turned over in hers, her palm up. “Yes?”

“Help me up?”

Beatrice blinks again. “Oh. Yes.” She shifts back onto her heels and grabs Ava’s wrist, fingers spread to distribute her grasp so she doesn’t pull Ava’s wrist off her arm, and gently leads her forward. She wobbles as she rises, leaning into Beatrice for support, and Beatrice quickly winds an arm around her waist to steady her as she stands. They’re so close that Beatrice can feel the way Ava is breathing, the push of her ribs against Beatrice’s hand. She helps her to the bed carefully, cautious of the paint around them, and sits her down gently.

There’s more turquoise paint along her forehead, and dried paint on her fingers, and Beatrice wants to find a clean washcloth, wet it, and gently wash it away. She does the next best thing.

She picks up a rag next to the small container of water Ava must be using to clean the brushes and dips the corner into it, wetting it. She hands it to Ava and waits as she rubs furiously at her finger, washing the paint away.

“What happened?”

Ava sighs, eyes narrowing as she looks at the unopened paint can on the ground. It’s rolled across her room away from them. Luckily, the open can remains in place on the stool, the paintbrush hanging precariously on the edge of it.

“I went to reach for the paintbrush and knocked it off. Freaking thing landed on my foot. Obviously.”

Beatrice’s free hand goes to Ava’s foot. Her thumb sweeps across the bruise. Ava’s fingers flex against the back of Beatrice’s forearms. “You are lucky it didn’t break anything.”

Ava shudders. “Manuel, one of the guys on my floor when I lived in the dorms, he broke his foot the first month in. He had to wear a big walking boot for weeks. It was so ugly.”

“It would hardly go with your outfits,” Beatrice agrees.

“How would I even get my jeans on?” Ava frowns thoughtfully. “I’d have to walk around in my underwear all day.”

Beatrice nearly chokes on a cough, but she swallows it back down, uncomfortable in her throat. “I think… I think you could remove it to put your clothes on,” she says, her voice too light to be her own.

Ava’s face flushes unusually. “Oh, right. Of course.” She starts to smile wickedly. “Don’t want me walking around in my underwear, of course.”

Beatrice doesn’t quite hide her blush like she hid her cough. Because she has envisioned Ava walking around in her underwear before, just with one of Beatrice’s big sweaters dusting her thighs and coming down over her hands. She quickly blinks, turning the image to black in her mind. It was a passing thought, just once. She never had it again. It was unfair to Ava to even begin to form that picture in her mind. It flashes in her head like a bang now and she tightens her grip on Ava’s wrist, suddenly aware she’s still holding on.

She goes for a strangled joke. “It would prevent Lilith from coming over.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Ava latches onto it. Her eyes light up. “Consider it done.”

Beatrice immediately concerns herself with something else. Ava’s foot.

“Let me get you some ice,” she says. Her voice doesn’t waver this time. Shannon, if she knew about this, would be proud. She’d praise Beatrice’s restraint, call it admirable.

Shannon would also probably tell her that she should do something that would completely change the trajectory of her friendship with Ava. So maybe the Shannon in her mind should be a little quieter.

“I don’t think I need ice.”

Beatrice looks down at the bruise, darker now, and then gives Ava a pointed look. It has the desired effect. Ava’s cheeks pinken and she smiles sheepishly. Beatrice nods, assured in her success, and carefully extracts her hands from Ava’s foot, standing.

“I’ll be right back,” she promises. “Don’t forget the paint on your forehead”

Ava carefully taps her foot, higher than the bruise. “Not going anywhere.”

Beatrice could argue that Ava could go somewhere. It’s not broken. It’s uncomfortable, of course. She once flexed her foot at the wrong moment and kicked a pine board toes-first. The bruise remained for weeks and the slight limp from accommodating the pain had lasted a little longer than that.

But Ava wipes her forehead carelessly and falls back onto her bed, hands hanging over each side of the bed in a T-shape as her legs dangle off the end. Her shirt rides up her flat stomach revealing a sliver of skin Beatrice wants to run her fingernail over. Ava’s eyes are closed, head tipped back just enough for her chin to lift up, exposing the long unbroken line of her neck.

Beatrice looks away before another thought rushes unbidden into her mind. Her cheeks burn.

“I’ll be right back,” she repeats, unnecessarily. Ava hums on the bed.

She doesn’t linger, striding out of the room and across the apartment. She opens the freezer, welcoming the blast of cold air against her face. She takes a moment, almost forgetting why she’s standing there. But Ava calls her name from the bedroom, and Beatrice remembers quickly. The ice maker hasn’t worked in a few weeks - she makes a mental note to have Mary look at it before she calls her landlord - but Ava only found that as an excuse to buy increasingly ridiculous ice cube trays.

It takes her a minute to decide between ice cube shapes. Ava went a little crazy online, buying shark fin-shaped ones, brain-shaped ones, ones shaped like ice monsters and another set shaped like centipedes. Beatrice decides on ones shaped like rubber ducks, twisting the silicone tray so they pop out. She wraps them in a cloth quickly so her hands don’t get too cold.

Crossing the room feels like a walk she’s made a hundred times before. She knows in her mind that it’s only been twice but now that she’s opened the flood gate, her feet move her without thought. Past the books and notes she’s abandoned, the armchair, the couch. She pauses just before Ava’s bedroom, toes against the threshold.

She crosses it as easily as she exhales.

Ava is still laying on her back, an approximation of a cross as she rests with her eyes closed. Beatrice watches her chest rise and fall as she breathes in and out evenly. There’s a beauty in simplicity, she’s always thought so. Ava only strengthens that.

“Ice,” she says quietly, unsure of why she doesn’t want to say anything at all. She doesn’t want to break this moment, startle Ava and ruin the weightlessness of it.

Ava cracks one eye open, a half-smile on her face. “You’re back.”

Beatrice holds out the ice. Ava crooks a finger at her, beckoning her closer. She hesitates. Ava pushes up, resting on her elbows now.

“I think we’ve established that I don’t bite.” That smile turns wicked again. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Her fingers clench around the ice, and she feels the cold bite at her skin. But she stays still, not giving anything else away.

Ava sits up, foot dangling over the end of the bed. She rests her palms flat against the comforter before she pushes up and stands. She puts her weight down on her foot and her leg buckles almost instantly.

Beatrice doesn’t think, arms looping tightly around Ava’s waist and pulling up her. Her fingers slide into the dips of Ava’s back, the ice trapped between one of her palms and Ava’s skin. Her feet tangle with Ava’s. Their hips are nearly pressed together, almost no space between them. Ava exhales in a noisy rush, lips twisted in a grimace. Beatrice feels the hot air against her collarbone.

“Are you okay?”

Ava tilts her head back slightly. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

Beatrice’s mouth flickers in a smile. “No.”

“Then we’ll just assume the answer.” Ava’s hands are wrapped tightly around her elbows and her fingers flex against the back of Beatrice’s arms. “Wow. Do you work out?”

“You know that I do.” She keeps her voice light.

Ava’s fingers dance further up her arms, under the hem of her sleeve. She squeezes again, gently. “Yeah, well knowing you do, seeing you do it, and feeling its effects are three very different things.”

Her fingers are maddening, burning hot against Beatrice’s skin. Ava rubs her thumb in a small circle over her bicep.

“Really, Bea. You could probably crush an egg with these things.”

She frowns. “Why would I want to crush an egg?”

“Well, it’d be a way to spice up breakfast.” She presses gently, dimpling the skin. “And a killer party trick.”

Beatrice fights a shiver despite the way her skin feels like it’s burning. “I don’t go to parties.”

But that’s a lie. She does when Ava invites her. She thinks of the party they went to, the spinning disco lights and the way Ava’s body pressed against hers in the hot swell of sweaty, drunken students. She thinks of Ava slumped over on their couch later, saying she’d wait for Beatrice.

That voice that sounds just like Shannon’s whispers that it means exactly what Beatrice hopes it means. She’s never been good at telling Shannon to stop, but this is easy enough to sweep under the mental rug so it remains unknown and unseen.

Truth unknown and unseen is still truth, Shannon has said before. I read that on Pintrest.

Beatrice shakes the memory from her mind and focuses on the facts in front of her: Ava. Ava, close enough to breathe in. Close enough that Beatrice could eliminate the mere inches between them and-

“I bet you’d go to more parties if you had a party trick,” Ava interrupts.

“I doubt it.” But Ava is grinning and Beatrice can’t help but smile back. “But I’m sure you could convince Mary to give it a try.”

“I mean, Mary has decent biceps, but I don’t think she could crack an egg.”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Why an egg? Why not, I don’t know. A walnut.”

“A walnut. These are good goals.” Ava squeezes Beatrice’s bicep once more to emphasize her words. “Let’s start with an egg and work our way to something more advanced.”

The flex of Ava’s fingers against her skin pulls her from her next thought. It’s not that she didn’t notice the lack of space between them, it’s just that it’s rushing in on her now. It’s dizzying, the way Ava is standing so close. Beatrice tries to breathe in, but her chest pushes out until it nearly brushes Ava’s and she’s sucking all the air back into her lungs just as quickly.

Ava notices, eyes dropping down past Beatrice’s chin and neck before they dart up again, crinkling at the corners. She takes a step back, dropping to the bed again, the ice in her hand. She pulls one leg up under her, chin resting on her knee as she puts the ice against her bruising foot.

Beatrice blinks, oddly cool air rushing in where Ava’s body had been despite the humid air of their apartment as the spring pushes towards the hot summer. “You’ll need to ice that for a bit.”

Ava nods, adjusting the ice for a moment before she looks up and says, “So, first time?”

Beatrice frowns. “Administering first aid?”

“First time being in here. Properly, I mean.” Ava looks around, throwing one arm wide. “What do you think?”

Beatrice takes stock of her situation. It’s technically her third time being in here, but Ava is right. She’s in here properly now. Not just over the threshold or charging through barriers because Ava’s been injured. She crossed the line intentionally this time. And she remains, the walls of Ava’s room coming at her from each side without boxing her in.

Ava’s laundry flows from the hamper. Her bed isn’t quite made, but isn’t quite a mess. There are books stacked on the desk in a way that tells Beatrice Ava hasn’t opened them in some time. Hobbes sits next to them. A series of pictures is on the wall opposite her desk, ones of her and Ava and the rest of their friends. Beatrice’s eyes catalog each inch, committing it to memory in a place where she knows she’s going to see it for a very long time.

“You’re missing the best part,” Ava says. Her voice is quiet, like she’s afraid to startle Beatrice. She waits until Beatrice looks before she points upward.

Beatrice’s eyes follow the imaginary thread from Ava’s fingertip to the ceiling. She nearly gasps.

White-green stars dot the ceiling, filling all the space. Spider web-thin lines connect some of them, forming constellations she recognizes from the pictures Ava has shown her and the ones Ava has pointed out on rare nights when she can convince Beatrice to go out to the quad and lay on the grass to watch the night pass by. Some of them she doesn’t and she focuses on those ones, studying their shapes and trying to decide what they look like.

“Apus.” Ava’s finger moves, tracing the lines she’s drawn between the glow-in-the-dark stars. “We call it the Bird of Paradise. Derived from the Greek word apous, which means ‘footless’. There’s a story that birds of paradise were once believed to have been footless.”

“I don’t believe I know what a bird of paradise looks like,” she admits.

“My mom loved them. She’d never seen one in person, but she liked looking at pictures of them. They have these large plumes. They look so soft.” Ava sighs wistfully. “There was a nun, in the orphanage when I was first there, that called me a bird of paradise.” She pauses, eyes darting to Beatrice. “Because I was footless, you know? She reminded me of my mom. She didn’t stay long, but she was nice.”

Beatrice’s heart clenches as it always does when Ava talks about her past. But this is a softer ache, a longing to thank this woman who showed Ava a sliver of mercy.

“And that’s Grus, the crane,” Ava continues. “Originally, it was part of another constellation, Piscis Austrinus. But a Dutch astronomer defined it as its own separate constellation. Its brightest star is Al Na’ir. It’s Arabic for ‘bright one’ which feels a little on the nose.”

Beatrice studies its shape, noting the bigger star that Ava must have defined as Al Na’ir. “Why do you like this one?”

Ava thinks for a moment. “Did you know that cranes have the ability to fly over the Himalayas? They can. They can go as high as 8,000 meters. Imagine being that high up, feeling the wind in your hair.” She blinks, looking off towards the wall littered with paint swatches. “I spent so long tied to one place that the idea of being able to fly over a mountain, to graze the tip of it with a set of wings, sounded like a fairytale.”

Beatrice slides her hand over Ava’s, fingertips resting in the dips between her knuckles. “I think we could hike the Himalayas one day, if you wanted to.”

Ava looks down at their hands and blinks before her eyes meet Beatrice’s. “You think so?”

“I think you could do anything you want to do.”

Ava doesn’t blink this time, doesn’t even look away. “If I can do anything I want to do, I want to…” She pauses, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.

Beatrice waits, but the rest of Ava’s sentence doesn’t come. She clears her throat. “What do you-”

“Did you see that one?” Ava asks, interrupting her and pointing up at the ceiling.

Beatrice blinks, startled at the intensity of Ava’s voice. She searches Ava’s face but it’s unreadable, a mix of something Beatrice can’t quite put a name to. So she looks up helplessly, searching for what Ava is pointing at.

“That’s Drago.”

“The dragon,” Beatrice translates. “What’s his story?”

Ava shrugs. “He’s just fucking cool.”

A sharp laugh slips out from between her lips and Ava grins widely back at her.

“So, you like it, then.” Ava looks around her room and nods to herself. “It’s a pretty great room, isn’t it?”

“It’s very… Ava,” Beatrice allows. She’s smiling though, hoping that her words don’t sting.

“Isn’t that all I can hope for?” Ava sighs and turns her hand over so her palm presses against Beatrice’s. “But can I ask another question?”

When she breathes out, “anything”, she means it.

Ava hesitates still. “You never come in here,” she says slowly. “Why not?”

Something tightens in her chest. Words rise in her throat and she swallows them back down, a reflex more than anything else. Ava must notice something pass over her face or feel the way that Beatrice’s hand jumps in hers, because strong and warm fingers stroke up her wrist as they lock around the bone, keeping her anchored to the moment.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Ava rushes on. “I’m just… curious, I guess.” She smiles crookedly. “Does it smell in here?”

Yes. Like something deep and woodsy and so uniquely Ava.

Ava’s nose wrinkles. “Does it? Because if it does, I-”

“It doesn’t.” Beatrice’s voice is too loud. “It doesn’t,” she says, softer now.

Ava’s frown doesn’t smooth out. “Then… why?”

It’s not you, it’s me, her mind supplies. She doesn’t say that. She thinks about how to put it into words, how to unpack all the things she tidied away and put in a cedar chest, locking it tight. Nothing comes from it, just an empty explanation that won’t make sense if she says it out loud.

But Ava is her best friend. And if it doesn’t make sense, if the words don’t come out right, she’ll wait patiently for Beatrice to try again. She’ll sit here, one leg tucked up as ice melts through a washcloth and she’ll wait for Beatrice to find the right words.

I’d wait for you forever, Ava had said, lips loose with party punch. And Beatrice believed her.

Ava makes her brave. Brave enough not to make an offhand joke and turn the conversation back on the open can of paint and the paintbrush quickly drying out.

Instead, she clears her throat and straightens up, the first thing she does when an image of her parents enters her mind. And Ava doesn’t let go of her wrist, moving with her instead, ebbing and flowing with her seamlessly. Beatrice turns to face Ava, watching Ava mirror her, and she exhales out the tension building in her muscles.

“Bea, if you don’t want to-”

“I do.”

She does. Holding onto these things makes her feel heavy. And almost more than anything - but not more than wanting Ava - she wants to be lighter.

Ava shakes her head. “I’m serious.”

Beatrice grips Ava’s other hand, their arms tangled around each other. “I… I have to.”

“Okay,” Ava says softly. Her smile is the same. “Whatever you want to tell me, I want to hear.”

Ava isn’t always sledgehammer, she realizes. She thinks of her as a hammer, crashing into everything and leaving a wake of needed destruction in her wake. But Ava is also a set of picks, quietly and discreetly slipping into the lock around her. For all the stomping around she does, all the things she knocks over in her haste to get from one moment to the next, she’s also deft, hands built with finesse.

Beatrice tries to find the start. Was it Penelope Marshall? Was it the start of boarding school? Was it her parents finding her journal when she was thirteen? Was it all the time she spent with the diplomat’s daughter? Was it her fifth birthday when she cried because her parents bought her the dress with the pink frills instead of the bicycle she wanted?

“My parents…”

“I hate them.”

She doesn’t chide Ava for saying so. A deep, angry part of her hates her parents too. She smiles humorlessly. “They sent me to boarding school, as you know. When I was thirteen. Right at Christmas time. I remember it because it was my present that year. An ‘opportunity to further my education in an environment that would foster appropriate and lifelong lessons’,” she quotes. She can remember the brochure she’d been given unceremoniously, a smiling girl on the front. Even in print, Beatrice could see the hollow light in her eyes.

“Appropriate,” Ava scoffs. “Like anything they did was appropriate.”

Beatrice feels Ava’s pulse thunder under her fingers. “They said it would give me a framework for my life. Lucille Thomason had graduated from there a year before and she was going to Oxford, on her way to inheriting her mother’s social calendar. My mother always fawned over her at dinners. ‘Lucille is following the plans her mother set out for her. Lucille has accomplished so much at such a young age.’”

“Lucille sounds like a loser.”

“Lucille sounded exactly like the daughter my mother wanted.”

Ava frowns softly. “You know that you’re leagues above whoever Lucille is.”

“I didn’t think so,” she admits. “Lucille was someone to admire. Her achievements were something to strive for. She had something I so desperately wanted when I was younger: my mother’s approval. And so, when they presented the option-” She stops herself. “It wasn’t an option. But when they presented their plan, I reconciled myself with it by reminding myself that Lucille was leading a very successful life.”

“There’s more to life than success,” Ava says gently.

Beatrice smiles a little. “To you. To me. But to my parents, there is nothing more.” She takes a deep breath. “And if they were framing it as me taking an opportunity to lead a successful life, then they would forget about… the things they were discovering about me.”

Ava immediately tenses. The Beatrice she is now knows it for what it is: an attempt to contain her anger. The Beatrice she was months ago would have worried. Was Ava afraid of her? Was Ava disgusted by her? The thoughts had swirled that movie night. What if she did admit to a crush on Patricia Velasquez? Would this new person she wanted so badly to be around, without knowing why, suddenly change her mind once she found out the truth?

But Ava hadn’t. Ava won’t. Beatrice knows it with every fiber of her being. There are very few absolute truths in the world, but this is one of them.

“They read my journal, you know,” she continues. The words are coming out easily, this tiny fissure in her chest cracking open as Ava looks at her with wide and trusting eyes. “A new girl started school at the beginning of the term. Her name was Mina. Her father was in banking, I believe. She had the bluest eyes I had ever seen in my life.”

Ava scoffs lightly. “Blue eyes.”

She skims the pad of her thumb over Ava’s wrist. “One day, our hands brushed. It was something simple, innocent. She was passing me a paper, and we miscalculated the distance. I’m sure it meant nothing to her.”

“It meant something to you,” Ava guesses.

“I was thirteen. Everything meant something.” Beatrice sighs, feeling her chest rise and fall heavily. “And anything that meant something to me went into my journal. I just didn’t know that what went into my journal eventually landed in my parents’ hands.”

“So those bastards went through your private journal and read about some girl who touched your hand,” Ava hisses. “I swear, the minute I meet them, it’s fist to face. They don’t call me The Piraya for nothing, you know.”

“No one calls you that.”

“They might call me that, you don’t know. I have a whole superhero persona you don’t know about.” Ava puffs out her chest a little bit.

“The name Piraya implies you’re more of a villain than a superhero.”

“I’m a villain’s villain. How’s that?”

The trickle of despair of dragging this up again fades as Ava’s smile widens. She knows what Ava is doing. But she doesn’t stop her, grateful for the brevity and the way it makes her feel like she’s grounded in something, not floating listlessly and endlessly in her terrible memories.

“I mean it.” Ava’s voice drops, low and serious. “I’ll be their worst nightmare.”

“I’m afraid that role is already taken,” she says quietly. “Though, I don’t think they intended for it to be their daughter.” She sighs. She used to be her mother’s doll. But once she started moving her own parts, she found herself moving in the opposite direction.

“Bea,” Ava whispers. She tightens her grip on Beatrice’s wrist.

“I remember I wrote that touching her hand was as if the heavens opened up and I finally understood what song the angels were singing. We were in the middle of a poetry unit, and I fancied myself quite good at it.” She lets out a dry chuckle. “When I found them in the kitchen one night holding onto my journal I foolishly thought they had found out I was reading Emily Dickenson instead of studying for my science exam.”

Beatrice remembers coming down the stairs, flushed with the late November cold. Mina had invited her for dinner the next night, and she promised to show Beatrice the new video game she got. Beatrice didn’t care about those kinds of things, but no one else had gotten an invitation to Mina’s. Beatrice felt special.

But her parents’ faces had stopped her in her tracks. She didn’t notice her journal at first. It was made to look discreet, not to stand out. It had blended into her mother’s dark skirt, and it wasn’t until her mother raised it into the air that she saw it for what it was.

They asked her to explain herself. She wasn’t sure what they wanted her to explain, not at first. She stumbled through an apology about delaying her studying; she’d do it immediately and ask her teacher for an extra take home lesson. She scrambled through a rushed explanation about having new friends meant more opportunities for networking. With new friends, she could join a new club. It would do well on her list of extracurriculars.

It wasn’t until her mother spit out the name Mina that she had any idea of what she was supposed to be afraid of.

“What did they say?” Ava asks gently.

“They didn’t have to say much. There were questions about who Mina was. My mother had a particular talent of making something that wasn’t a swear sound like it. And she hissed Mina’s name like it was the dirtiest word she could say.”

Beatrice thinks of Mina now. Where was she? What was she doing? Beatrice never heard from her after she left. No letters, no calls. She came and went in her life so quickly, it was as if Beatrice made her up. The only sign that she had been there was the page missing from her journal, returned to her the night before she left for school.

“They demanded to know what she had done to me. What had I done to her? I was so confused. She had touched my hand. I certainly hadn’t…” Beatrice’s chest hitches at the thought. “It was a fleeting moment, but I learned that fleeting moments were the most damaging ones. That,” she says dryly. “And that locks do nothing to keep a determined person out.”

“Locks are meant to keep people out,” Ava all but hisses. She sighs, working her fingers up Beatrice’s arm to her elbow. They rest in the dip of her arm, right over the thin vein under Beatrice’s skin. “God, Bea. I’m so sorry. They were - are - horrible. No one should have had to go through that. Especially not you.”

Especially not you, Ava says. Like Beatrice is better than anyone else. Like she should exist under different rules.

“Of course you’re afraid,” Ava says quietly, speaking to herself. She raises her voice, talking to Beatrice now. “Of course you’re worried about even - Jesus, Bea. Touching a girl’s hand?” She looks down as if she’s suddenly noticing how she’s knotted herself around Beatrice’s arm. She laughs dryly. “What would they say if they saw us now?”

Ava means what if they saw me comforting you? Not what if they saw how I touch you like nothing else matters?

The answer would be the same: her mother would simply set fire to the room.

The chasm is widening now. She’s cracked the seam on these memories, and her mind is cycling through the events that followed: a new suitcase set, pink with her name on an address tag; a set of starched uniforms that felt like coarse wool against her skin; a final meal in her parents’ formal dining room, the chef-of-the-week uncaring of her dislike for persimmons; a single plane ticket pressed into her hand and a dismissive nod as a car pulled away from the airport, leaving her alone.

She tells Ava this in stilted words, as if narrating someone else’s life. But then it starts to sink in, the anger. And it spreads in her belly, burning into a rage. She feels the moment the numbness transitions to an inferno. She hears herself exhale the word alone and something snaps.

“They had no right,” she says. Even through her anger, the words surprise her.

Ava’s voice sounds hoarse, unused. “They didn’t.”

“I was a child. Their child.” Her hand clenches tightly into a fist, Ava’s hand moving with the flex of her forearm muscle. “A ‘problem’ arose and they just…” She stops. “They strung me along until I was no longer of use to them.”

“You are not a problem.” Ava's voice is low, burning hot in the rapidly closing space between them, in a tone she’s never heard before.

Beatrice almost startles, confused. She had nearly forgotten that Ava was here, so consumed in her story. But now she’s noticing her. 

Her eyes flash. The tops of her cheeks pinken slightly. She’s angry. Beatrice has seen her on more than one occasion get angry on her behalf. The mere thought of her parents seems to send her into a flurry, but the anger in her eyes now is nearly staggering.

“You’re not,” she says again, insistent to the point of almost desperation. “Beatrice, you are not a problem.”

And Beatrice, blinking, already falling, dives deeper into love with her.

-

Ava feels her cheeks go hot with a liquid anger that roils in her blood. She’s been angry before - angry at Bea’s parents, even. But this feels like pure molten rage. All of the pieces are slotting together: a young girl who just wanted to make her parents proud; who saw someone - touched someone so innocently - and felt the world shift; who didn’t understand why a cliff rose up between her and the people who were supposed to love her more than anything; who trusted so completely and had it thrown back in her face as if she was the one who somehow failed.

Ava’s fingers tighten until her fingernails cut deep half-moon shapes into her palm. She pulls the words out from between her teeth like nails scratching the floor.

“You are not a problem.”

Bea blinks. The broiling heat in her stomach softens its edge, replaced by the confusion in Bea’s eyes as she blinks again.

“You’re not,” Ava insists. She tugs Bea’s hand, pulling her closer until they’re pressed together, an almost-sweaty slide of the skin of their knees bumping together. Bea blinks a second time, mouth parting slightly. “Beatrice, you are not a problem.”

She needs Bea to believe her. She’s never needed anything more in her whole life. She could live without air. She could make it minutes without oxygen. But she can’t live with another second of Beatrice believing her parents’ poison.

She coaxes Bea another inch closer. “Do you hear me?”

Bea’s mouth parts further, something on the tip of her tongue. Ava squeezes Bea’s hand a little tighter. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Bea says faintly.

Ava isn’t satisfied. “You need to believe it. You’re not a problem. You’re-” She softens her grip, thumbs Bea’s wild pulse. “You’re-”

“Don’t say perfect,” Bea whispers, eyes slamming closed. “Please don’t say perfect.”

Ava hesitates. She was going to say perfect. She was going to say frustratingly perfect. But she can pivot. There are a million other things she can call Bea - courageous, intelligent, kind, beautiful. All things she’s told Bea before and all things she’d tell her a million times more.

“Human,” she lands on. Bea’s eyes open slowly. “You’re human, just like every single other person on this big rock orbiting in space. You live like everyone else. You laugh, you cry. You love, just like everyone else. And none of that-  not who you are or who you love, or even the special little rules you have for tea that took me forever to learn - not a single part of you is a problem.”

The space between Bea’s eyes wrinkles in thought. Ava usually holds herself back, usually just wishes to press it flat gently. But the line between them is so thin now that she doesn’t think twice about it, reaching up and resting her thumb between her brows, pushing gently until the skin relaxes.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks in a whisper. Bea holds so many of her secrets, one more won’t hurt.

Bea nods slowly.

“When I first met you, I was so… intimidated.” Bea’s eyes widen slightly and Ava nods. “I was. You seemed so… cool. Composed. Not at all affected by someone who crashed into your table with the grace of a… what did you call it?”

“A newborn foal,” Bea says lightly.

Ava grins, her smile widening when some of it reflects in Bea’s face. “A newborn foal. That’s a giraffe, right?” She doesn’t wait to be corrected. “I thought, I need to know who this is and I need to know everything about her right now or I’m going to combust.”

Bea rolls her eyes, the motion of her eyes disrupting Ava’s thumb, still on her forehead. She doesn’t drop her hand, being bold and dragging the blunt ends of her fingernails against the smooth skin just above Bea’s eyebrow.

“You’re very dramatic.”

“Did I pretend to be anything else?” Ava shakes her head when Bea opens her mouth. “Don’t answer that. Just know.” She sobers, breathing in and exhaling the most truthful thing she thinks she’s ever said in her life. “The minute I met you, I knew you were something spectacular. I knew you were going to change my life.”

A weight hangs between them now. Bea looks shy under it, her head ducking slightly. Ava’s fingers slip, nearly burying into Bea’s hair. She drops her hand back into her lap but curls it over Bea’s, not quite wanting to let go yet.

“Can I tell you a secret now?” Bea asks, eyes still on the space between them.

Ava nods without being seen. “Anything.”

“I never really felt like that.”

“Like what?” Ava frowns. “Spectacular?”

“Human.” Bea looks up. “I spent so long feeling like… an other. That feeling like a human just didn’t… I couldn’t make sense of that. It took some time.”

Ava smiles gently. “But you got there.”

“After-” Bea stops herself, pulling her lips in as if she’s trying to keep something from erupting out. Ava watches the thin stream of air work its way through her nose, and catches the slight shine of Bea’s eyes, the way they seem to sparkle as unshed tears fill them.

“Hey,” she says softly. “No. No, don’t cry.” She drops Bea’s hands, cupping Bea’s face. Her thumbs brush along the flats of Bea’s cheeks. “I don’t know what to do when pretty girls cry,” she admits.

Bea laughs, choked and watery. “Neither do I. But it never stops me from telling you that Lilith doesn’t actually hate you no matter how much of her fancy vodka you drink.”

“One time,” Ava mutters, lips pulled back in a smile as she pretends to be annoyed.

It works. Bea’s smile seems a little stronger. “Ava,” she says quietly.

Ava strokes down a line of freckles absentmindedly. “Yeah?”

“Can I tell you another secret?”

“You can tell me you’re responsible for bringing down the Vatican, for all I care.”

Bea doesn’t laugh, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth instead. Ava wants to press down against the smooth skin but she stops herself before her thumb drifts that low. That perfect, soft-looking skin, a breath away. She focuses, pulling herself back into the moment.

Bea’s voice is nearly a whisper when she says, “Someone thought I was spectacular once.”

“Just once?”

Another silence. Ava tightens her jaw. Listen, don’t talk. She can do that. She can be still. It’s something Bea has taught her - just be still. Just wait. It will come to you when you stay in one place. So, she’s been waiting, patient against every urge within her to jump up and down and scream.

Sometimes, these feelings for Bea are so big in her chest that she feels like she’s going to explode into a hundred stars. She pictures herself shattering as the unspoken words build in her until they can’t go anywhere but out. But Bea is something to wait for. Bea is someone Ava doesn’t mind standing still for. She knows it’s there. She knows the feelings aren’t just her and that Bea needs to find her way forward. Ava just needs to be the flashlight in the distance, waiting for Bea to find her.

“At least, I thought she thought I was spectacular,” Bea continues, almost as if she didn’t hear Ava. “She said-  well, she said something close enough to it.”

Ava can feel another piece of the puzzle slotting into place. Another brick that makes up Bea’s nearly-impenetrable walls. For every one Ava manages to crack and loosen, another suddenly rises in its place. But she feels like this time, it falls and nothing slots into place.

She doesn’t stop herself from touching a freckle this time, tapping out a song she heard years ago before her hands drop again. “Was she pretty?”

She’s clumsy on a good day. Boisterous on others. But Bea is doing that thing again, learning how to run without knowing how to walk. And Ava is practicing. She’s trying so hard. She stays so still that Bea could almost imagine her gone.

“People are pretty in different ways,” Bea finally says. It’s a very diplomatic answer, something so very Bea that Ava breaks her stillness to smile. “All the other girls wanted to be her. I remember someone saying that her hair was so shiny, she must brush it a hundred times on each side before bed.”

Ava can’t help herself. “Is that why your hair is always so perfect? Are you secretly combing it until your wrist hurts?”

“A brush through wouldn’t kill you, Ava.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Bea’s growing smile flickers out. “I suppose it didn’t matter if she was conventionally pretty. I…” Ava watches the way she shores herself up against an invisible storm. “I thought she was beautiful.”

“What was her name?” she asks quietly.

“Penelope Marshall.” Bea says it like a prayer.

“Penelope.” Ava suddenly creates an image in her mind. A girl with wide brown eyes, bronze skin, a perfect smile of perfect teeth, a button nose, long and shiny hair.

Bea swallows and Ava feels the click of her jaw under her palms. “She was in my year, her room just down the hall from me. We were partners in Latin.”

“I bet she copied all her answers off your test.”

“Maybe once or twice,” she admits. “She certainly did not always do her homework on time. But Sister Magdalene liked her and simply turned a blind eye every so often.”

Bea’s cheeks are warming. Ava can see it in the way they pinken.

“It’s silly, but… I remember the first time she smiled at me. I had conjugated the verb, sum, to be, in the pluperfect subjunctive. She had been trying for the better part of an hour, but the switch from esse to fui for the tenses was always confusing to her.” Bea smiles slightly. “When I gave her the answer, she smiled at me and it felt like…”

“Like the world kind of tilted off its axis?”

Bea looks surprised. “Yes. Exactly that.”

“I’m familiar with the feeling.”

Because she is. So, so, deeply familiar with the feeling. The first time she saw Bea, that first smile she got as she bumbled her way through cleaning up the few drops of tea that spilled, the world went sideways and it hasn’t completely righted itself since.

“It’s peculiar, that feeling. It sticks with you, doesn’t it?” Bea looks down. “I used to dream about it,” she admits.

“That’s normal, Bea,” she says gently.

Bea looks up again. “Is it? Because it didn’t feel normal. It felt… other. Strange. Like a rock in the pit of my stomach. Penelope would touch my arm over our Latin text, and I could see my parents poring over my journal, looking for any otherness that might exist between us.”

“She made you happy, though.”

“I thought I made her happy as well.”

Ava doesn’t need Bea to tell her the rest. She can imagine how it went: touches as they broke down a dead language, sitting with their shoulders brushing at meals, giggling as they studied in what Ava assumes must have been a massive and cold library. She can imagine the small strands of Bea’s hair slipping from her bun across her cheeks and Penelope pushing them back behind her ear with quick fingers.

Ava lets herself be selfish and do that same thing now. Bea’s face turns slightly into her hand. Not enough that she probably even notices.

“When did she kiss you?”

Bea looks surprised again and Ava’s hand falls away. “How did you-”

“A good guess,” she lies. Because she knows that having Bea there and not kissing her is God’s strongest battle. She has been a good soldier.

She’s not sure how much longer she can be good.

“A few months into the semester.” Bea’s voice goes taut. “She invited me to study for her biology test. On the recommendation of our teacher, she told me. I imagined it was a lie; she had the same grades as I did.” Her cheeks pinken. “We were reviewing the different biological features of various aquatic animals and she…”

“She kissed you over the cod?” Ava says, voice a little strangled.

Bea meets her eyes. “It was my first kiss. Everyone I knew had theirs already, but I thought that if this is what I was waiting for, it was worth it.”

“The best things are worth waiting for.”

“I’d read about whirlwind romances in novels. Girls in the dormitories talked about it. Boyfriends they had back home that they saw on holiday weekends. But it was nothing like kissing behind locked doors. It couldn’t be. No one else could be experiencing what I did. It was so uniquely ours. Do you know what I mean?”

She does. It means closed doors. It means secrets. Bea reads it on her face because she can see something close to shame bloom across Bea’s cheeks.

“It was just for us,” Bea confirms. “A secret not even my parents, kilometers away, would learn of.”

Ava has never been one for secrets. She doesn’t like the way they taste in her mouth. You’re keeping your own, a voice like Mary’s reminds her. But that secret isn’t really a secret, is it? Because Mary knows. And Shannon knows because Mary knows. And her favorite barista, Lucy, knows it. JC knows it. The belayer at the rock climbing place and the guy at the one party she dragged Bea to and Lilith and Camila - they all know.

Bea knows too. Ava feels the truth of that in every crevice of her heart. Bea knows. Bea isn’t going to do anything about it - she feels that truth too. But the list of people Ava is hiding this from is shorter than the list of people who know it.

“You loved her.”

Bea’s smile is sad, far away. “First kiss, first love. I was convinced we would graduate and run away together. She would lie in my bed propped up on one arm talking about Paris and Rome and the places we could travel as soon as we got away from school. I’d felt so futureless when I arrived, but now I could imagine a million possibilities.”

Ava thinks of making a joke. Something about Bea jet-setting across all of Europe with a pretty girl, exactly the kind of lifestyle she deserved. But she knows this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

“She told me she loved me. More than anyone she loved in her life. She said we were young, but it doesn’t matter. You just feel love louder, she would tell me. I…” Bea takes a deep breath. “Mina may have been the first girl to touch my hand, but Penelope…”

Bea goes quiet long enough that Ava nudges her hand gently. “She…”

Bea’s eyes clear a little. “She touched me in other places. In other ways.”

Ava guesses the next part of this story too. “You wanted to tell someone and she wanted you guys to stay a secret.”

Bea laughs, short and sharp. “I wish it had been that simple. I wish I had been enough to stay a secret. Instead… She must have learned my parents’ trick. When someone becomes unseemly, when it becomes ugly and unwelcome, you simply… strike it from the record. Forget it ever existed. Send it away to boarding school and hope for the best. Or-or pick a new Latin partner and create an ocean that feels uncrossable.”

“Bea,” Ava says quietly.

“I could have accepted it was all done. An ending. I’m sure I could have. But instead I was…” She shakes her head. “Have you ever had someone you thought you were in love with look at you and tell you that none of it mattered? That it was girls being girls and that whispered promises in the corners of classrooms were never more than just a game? A joke?”

“Bea.”

But Bea has a haunted look in her eyes, like she’s somewhere else than Ava’s bedroom with its overflowing laundry and rumpled comforter and the paint swatches on the wall. Ava imagines she’s back in a girls dormitory standing in front of a pretty girl who is cutting her down to bits.

“She told me that none of it was real. It was wrong. It was just something to do. She wasn’t like that,” Bea says, voice just as haunted. “She promised that she wouldn’t tell, because she didn’t want people to think there was anything wrong with her.” An empty laugh, sardonic and hollow in a way that Ava’s never heard, escapes Bea’s lips. “Don’t worry, she said, I wouldn’t want people to think there was something wrong with you, either. I suppose in some twisted way, she still cared.”

The thing about Ava is that she’s always capable of more than she thinks she is. They said she’d never walked; now she runs across campus after Mary. They said she’d never be smart enough to go to university; now she’s in the front row of all her classes, her scholarship enough to make sure she doesn’t need to worry about her degree. They said she’d never make friends; now she has six of them who make every single day something more than she ever hoped.

They said she’d never fall in love; now she has Bea.

And when she doesn’t think she can go a little further, push a little harder, she thinks of Sister Frances and the way she told Ava that she’d never be capable of anything.

But she’s capable of this: setting everyone on fire who ever hurt Bea.

Her anger unleashes like a wildfire, and it swells in her chest so brightly that for a moment she can’t breathe. She can’t see straight. She’s imagining Penelope again but all of the softness is gone and she’s a cutting monster knocking Bea to the ground. She tightens her hand into a fist so tightly that sharp pinpricks echo in her palm from her fingernails.

She doesn’t realize she’s nearly growling until Bea’s fingers are working hers apart, smoothing them flat.

“Ava, it’s alright.”

“It’s not.” Her voice sounds stretched thin. “She’s not.”

“She’s gone.”

“But she’s still here.” Ava shakes her head insistently. “She’s still stuck in here.” She presses a single finger over Bea’s heart. “She still has all this space to be cruel. And when I meet her - not if. I’m going to find her - I’m going to make her suffer. I’m going to-”

“You can’t go on a one-woman crusade because someone hurt my feelings.”

Ava stares. “Hurt your- Bea, she didn’t hurt your feelings. She broke them.”

Bea straightens up slightly. “I’m not broken.”

Ava softens instantly, like someone turning out a light. “No. No, you’re not Bea. Of course you aren’t. There’s nothing wrong with you.” She ducks her head, catches Bea’s eyes, and smiles a little. “You’re incredible. You are spectacular. I promise you that.”

Bea exhales. “I’m embarrassed to say someone had such a hold on me.”

“That’s not embarrassing. That’s human.” Ava raises a cautious hand to Bea’s cheek again. “That’s wonderfully, perfectly human.”

“She just…” Bea takes a deep breath. Ava’s hand slips to her jawline. “My whole world ended in a single minute. Everything I did after that felt… fraught. I couldn’t trust her, couldn’t trust anything anymore. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if she was going to change her mind and tell someone how different, how terrible I was. She made me… nervous.”

She made me… nervous, Ava thinks.

Ava feels the soft skin between her eyes wrinkle as she works the words over in her mind. Of course Penelope made Bea nervous. Of course she made Bea doubt everything - every friendship, every interaction. Of course she held so much power over the way Bea engaged in the world. Of course she-

Oh.

Bea, who doesn’t linger too long when she’s looking at Ava. Bea, whose cheeks go pink when Ava dusts a hand down her bare shoulder. Beatrice, who is always the gentleman, always the one to hold back when they seem to be teetering on this invisible line of why aren’t we.

Of course Bea is going to be scared of what their friendship could become. Because she had this happen. She put her whole heart into something only to be told how wrong it was when it was over, how wrong she was, and that none of it was real.

Ava has been wondering why Bea is so afraid of what they could be. She thought if she proved herself, if she stayed when she could have run, then Bea would understand. She thought Bea would look at her and see someone worthy enough of falling in love with. She thought, some nights when the stars on the ceiling just weren’t enough light, that there was something wrong with her. Something that Bea wasn’t telling her because she was too nice to let Ava down so cruelly.

But it’s not her. It’s not Bea. It’s all the ghosts of Bea’s past stacked up against an ‘Enter’ door that are stopping Bea from pulling it open. It’s all these things outside of Ava’s control that’s holding them back.

It all comes together so neatly in her mind. Bea is not going to make the first move. She never was. She’s been leading Ava to this place, but she can’t make the final step. She’s loading the gun but she can’t pull the trigger. She’s putting this in Ava’s hands and hoping that Ava doesn’t break it in two.

Ava’s clumsy on a good day. Boisterous on others. But she’s also been practicing so hard at being still and maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Maybe Bea needs her to move, to run ahead and give in first.

Ava takes a deep breath, feeling it expand in her chest. It’s loud, roaring in her ears. Bea looks at her curiously. Maybe she doesn’t know that Ava has put it all together. Maybe she’s just as confused as Ava was a second ago. But Bea is smart. No, she’s not just smart, she’s Ava-smart. And she can read Ava like one of the dog-eared books littering their breakfast bar.

“Bea.” Her voice is remarkably steady.

Remarkable, because her whole body feels like it’s moving, vibrating at a frequency unable to be heard by the human ear. She catches Bea’s wrist in her fingers, locking them tightly around the delicate bone.

Bea is still, eyes dropping down to where their skin meets. “Yes?”

“Beatrice.”

Her hand is the thing shaking now as it rises up between them and slowly presses to Bea’s cheek, fingernails curling around her jaw. She feels it move as Bea swallows, hears the slight click of it as the silence magnifies. Bea’s eyes widen and she nearly pulls away, Ava’s hand on her face the only thing stopping her.

“Ava, I…”

Ava imagined their first kiss. She’s dreamed of it almost from the moment she met Bea, already wondering what it would be like before she knew who Bea really was - before she knew how good it was going to be. But she read something somewhere about how knowing someone enhanced the experience of loving them. How something steeped in history made the love richer. And the history she has with Bea may be short, but it is rich. Bea knows all her secrets and now she knows all of Bea’s.

So, fucking kiss her, a voice like Mary’s demands.

And isn’t Mary always telling her she has to listen better?

She only closes her eyes just before their lips touch. She wants to see Bea’s face and is rewarded with the fluttering of delicate eyelashes, the slight parting of Bea’s lips, the quiet hitch of her breath and the way her throat bobs as she tries to hold it back. Her hand slips to the back of Bea’s neck, pulling just until her top lip brushes Bea’s bottom one.

Her eyes slip closed as Bea’s bottom lip slips between hers and they’re kissing. They’re kissing. Bea is warm and soft and still. She stays there, intent in the way her mouth clings to Bea’s. I’m here. I’m kissing you. I’m choosing you. And you’re spectacular.

Bea shudders, her whole body coming alive, and she surges forward as Ava starts to pull away. The air goes out of her lungs and she tips backwards a little and she panics, unwilling to break apart now that Bea is kissing her back. But Bea’s hand goes past her, holding her up as she exhales against Ava’s mouth.

They’re so close together, their knees knocking. Bea’s mouth presses hot against hers, closed mouths clinging to each other. She can’t believe it, can’t believe they’re finally kissing and Bea isn’t running - she’s closer as Ava’s shoulders fall back against the bed, Bea’s hand curled around her shoulder as she settles against Ava’s side. Her free hand has found the hem of Ava’s shirt and her knuckles are brushing against the sensitive skin above Ava’s navel, steady and warm.

It’s Bea who takes the hesitant step forward, her lips parting just enough that Ava’s slide, and then Ava can feel Bea breathing as she kisses a little harder, mouths open against each other. It’s Bea who takes a less hesitant step again, the tip of her tongue ghosting along Ava’s bottom lip.

Ava pulled down the last brick, but Bea was a roaring river behind the dam and she kisses like she’s been uncorked. Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh beneath Ava’s shoulder, her knuckles press into Ava’s stomach, and she kisses with reckless abandon.

“Bea,” Ava whispers between kisses. She’s never been one for religion but maybe she’s been worshipping the wrong gods. Maybe this is who she should have been praying to all along.

Bea hums pleasantly against her mouth. She’s bolder now, kisses a little more frenzied. Ava understands. She tightens her hand at the base of Bea’s neck, pulls her closer. Her other hand slides down the flat of Bea’s stomach and curls around her hip bone, thumb stroking over the soft fabric of her sweatpants.

She thought kissing Bea would be amazing but she was wrong. It’s life-altering. She can see everything shifting to accommodate the way Bea’s lips press, hot and open-mouthed, against her own. She’s going to be completely altered after this, her life now in two separate parts: Before Kissing Bea and After Kissing Bea.

Bea’s hum burns into a low moan as Ava’s fingers dig more insistently into the dip of her hip. Ava is addicted now. She kisses harder, body starting to move as she rolls, a leg going over Bea’s until she’s bracketing Bea’s hips. She slides her mouth along Bea’s jaw to just below her ear, following the way Bea pants at the sensation of her teeth against smooth skin.

She needs to be closer. She needs nothing between them. She sits up, holding her weight as she works her fingers in her shirt and lifts it high and off her shoulders. She tosses it onto the corner, adding to the laundry pile, and sits above Bea in her bra with the flamingos on it, her chest heaving in anticipation.

Bea stares up at her, her face flushed and her lips bruised. Hesitant hands go to Ava’s waist, fingers flexing experimentally as they settle just above the hem of her shorts.

“Hi,” Ava whispers.

Bea nods, the line of her throat bobbing. Ava watches as her eyes track down her body, shoulders down to the sliver of skin just above her shorts. It takes her a minute to look back up and meet Ava’s eyes.

“Is this-?”

“Yes,” Bea interrupts. Her fingers feel purposeful now, like she’s burning her fingerprints into Ava’s skin. “I… I want this.”

A niggling thought works its way into Ava’s mind. Just a breath of hesitation. “You’re sure?”

Bea sits up, hands sliding to the small of her back. She blinks, eyes wide but focused. “Ava, I’ve wanted this for…”

“So long,” Ava finishes.

“So long.” Bea’s eyes flutter and she leans forward, mouth brushing over Ava’s collarbone. She feels her eyelashes against her throat. “Are you sure you want me?”

Me, she says unspoken. Me out of everyone else you could have.

Ava puts two strong fingers under Bea’s chin, lifts her face up until their eyes meet. I’ve never wanted anything more sounds too small. But it’s the only way she can think to say it. And when she does, Bea’s smile brightens the room.

Bea presses her lips to the pulse thudding in Ava’s neck, gentle teeth scraping against the skin. Ava breathes in sharply at the feeling of it, of Bea’s fingers working steadily up her back until they’re hesitantly touching the clasp of Ava’s bra. Ava is brave enough for both of them. She reaches back and loosens it, the fabric falling away from her chest. She tosses that away too.

Ava hisses softly when Bea’s fingers skate up her stomach to cup her breast. Her hand is burning, and Ava pushes into it so she can feel herself on fire. It only grows hotter when Bea kisses her collarbone again, teeth a little more insistent as she makes her way down to her own hand.

Ava pulls at the bottom of Bea’s shirt, freeing it from where she’s sitting on it, and pulls gracelessly until it’s over her head and somewhere by the door. She traces the lines of Bea’s navy bra until she finds the clasp and undoes it, flinging it away.

“I’m not going to make a joke about your boobs,” she whispers into Bea’s temple. Her tongue swirls over sensitive skin at Ava’s chest. “But just know that I really want to.”

Bea lifts her head. “I appreciate your restraint.”

“Saint Ava, they call me,” she babbles. “Patron Saint of-”

Her words are swallowed up in a gasp as Bea presses a hand down purposefully down on her waist. It sends a shiver through her and pulls a little bit of a moan from the hollow of her throat, Bea’s eyes widening slightly in surprise.

Ava tucks some of the loose strands framing Bea’s face back behind her ear, cheeks just a little red. “Before we… Before we do anything else, you need to know that I’m not going to be normal about this. Like, at all.”

Bea walks two fingers up her side, using ribs like steps. She moves them across her chest, brushing against her nipple. Ava shivers again. “I don’t know that I’m much interested in normal,” she admits.

Ava arches into her touch. “I’d hope not, considering how much you’re into me.”

She pauses, breath caught in her lungs as she waits for Bea’s reaction. Bea looks up with wide, imploring eyes. She searches for something on Ava’s face, and Ava hopes beyond hope that she finds it.

Not because she needs Bea’s hand to keep doing what it’s doing. Not because she wants to slip her fingers beneath Bea’s waistband. Not because she wants to hover over Bea and nose down the long stretch of what she’s sure is perfect skin from her chest to her belly button.

Because she wants all those things. But she also wants Bea to know she’s safe. That it’s okay to want her. That Ava is going to be someone she can trust, that Ava won’t treat her like something that’s going to break but will hold her gently regardless.

It feels big, to say that. But Bea is right there, a fingertip away, with her lips bruised and her hair starting to tangle around Ava’s fingers, and she thinks: I’m never going to come back from this. I’ll never be the same. What she feels is undeniable and real, the most real thing she has ever known and she would never, ever want to go back, even if she could.

“I am,” Bea finally says, voice a breathless whisper.

“A lot?” Ava asks, a sliver of neediness in her words.

Bea nods, unblinking. “A lot, yes.”

Ava makes a show of breathing a sigh of relief, a relieved smile on her face. “Well, that’s embarrassing for you.”

“Ava.”

Ava buries her reply in a kiss, fingers curling around Bea’s shoulders as she slowly inches her backward onto the bed until Ava is a shadow hovering above her. She wonders what the hollow of Bea’s throat tastes like, and she smiles into the kiss as she realizes she doesn’t need to ask. She breaks away from Bea’s mouth, kissing over the point of her chin and the underside of her jaw and down to the dip of her throat, teeth nipping at sensitive skin as Bea’s breath hitches. She can feel fingers flex at her waist and then tighten more purposefully.

Sensitive neck, she catalogs. She wants to make a list, grow it until she knows all of the places that cause Bea to make that breathless noise.

Bea’s fingers are insistent at her neck, drawing her back up until they’re kissing, harder than they have before. Bea kisses with lips and teeth, her tongue soothing away the nips, while one hand works its way to Ava’s waistband, curling into the thick denim fabric of her jeans.

She would have been satisfied with some heavy making out. Her skin is already burning where Bea’s bare chest is pressed against hers. She can live with this. But Bea doesn’t seem to be able to live with just this. Ava feels the back of her knuckles against her stomach as Bea pops the button of her jeans and works down the zipper. It’s so loud in the silence.

Ava kisses her way down Bea’s throat again then goes lower, tongue leading the way as she flicks the tip of it over a pebbled nipple. There it is again, that breathless noise. The fingers at her waistband freeze, tighten around the denim, and then release. Ava’s hand goes to Bea’s other breast, and she feels it press into her palm as Bea arches her back slightly.

Ava dares to go lower, kissing over the swell of Bea’s breast and down to her navel. She slides back on Bea’s legs, her fingertips light against Bea’s skin above her hip bones.

“Ava,” Bea breathes. She reaches down, hands reaching for Ava’s chin. Ava kisses the center of Bea’s palm as strong fingers curl around her jaw. “Ava.”

She doesn’t know what Bea’s trying to say, but she doesn’t need to. She can feel the heat radiating off Bea, the anticipation. She hooks two fingers in the waistband of Bea’s study-sweatpants, the ones she wears on all-nighters where she’s going to fall asleep sitting up, and starts to work them down a little as Bea’s hips lift off the bed.

She rests her forehead in the dip of Bea’s hip. She’s never believed in a God, but she does believe there’s a higher power out in the cosmos, and they’ve suddenly found her worthy of this gift: Bea stretched out across the sea of her comforter with her eyes closed and her chin tipped into the air as her chest rises and falls with increasingly harder breathes and her hips arching just slightly until Ava feels her against her forehead.

Because shit, this is holy.

A hand snakes its way into her hair, blunt fingernails scratching against her scalp. She can feel them trembling slightly. Ava wants to feel the whole of Bea tremble. She kisses down as she pulls Bea’s sweats down until they’re past the top of her thighs to her knees.

This feels like a moment they can’t come back from. And looking up at Bea, at the way those dark eyes stare into hers and the hand in her hair tightens slightly, she doesn’t want to come back from it. She wants to never, ever come back from this. She only wants what happens on past this moment.

She works Bea’s underwear down until they’re on the floor with her sweatpants in a tangled heap, and she noses her way lower until it’s nothing but heat and something slick against her tongue. Bea keens, hips lifting high off the bed, and Ava presses down hard against them with flat palms, keeping Bea down in one place.

The hand tightens in her hair, Bea’s knees tighten around her shoulders, trapping her in this crystalline moment. She rolls into it, tongue working more steadily as she feels Bea’s hips start to roll in response. She dips lower and soars higher, an unknown melody working into her mind and guiding her as Bea lets a sigh loosen from her throat.

Her hand climbs until she feels Bea’s breast against her palm, and she works her fingers over sensitive skin. Bea’s hand traps hers in place, palm burning. She can feel Bea’s legs start to tremble, and she licks a little more precisely, a little more purposefully.

She swirls, she drives forward and pulls away. She finds a rhythm until Bea’s whole body starts to tighten into an invisible line, pulled taut by an some unseen string. Ava doesn’t stop, even as Bea’s legs tighten around her. Even as that hand in her hair pulls a little harder. Even as Bea’s breathing swells into a hard pant and she lets out a strangled cry of Ava’s name.

She doesn’t stop until Bea’s body melts into loose muscles, until Bea’s hand goes slack in her hair. Everything is hot against her skin. Her tongue eases away, laving up and over Bea’s hip to her navel and charting a slow course to the center of her chest until she’s back at the hollow of Bea’s throat, teeth nipping as she feels Bea’s chest rise and fall rapidly against her own.

Bea draws another ragged breath, a hand up over her red face.

Ava pulls it away and kisses Bea hard, their mouths sliding together. Bea’s fingers curl around her throat, holding her in place when Ava tries to pull away. A tongue dips behind her teeth. Bea inhales sharply, stealing the air from Ava’s lungs.

Bea, still panting softly, hooks a leg under her and twists, rolling until Ava is on her back, and Bea is hovering over her, eyes dark and flashing.

The air punches its way out of Ava’s throat. If she’s cataloging the things that turn her on, this has just gone to the top of the list, right after the way Bea tastes and the feeling of her mouth sliding against hers.

“Bea.” Her voice is strangled and warped between them.

But Bea doesn’t answer her. She works her fingers purposefully down Ava’s front, sliding beneath her waistband without fanfare, without hesitation. Ava’s legs part with a half-breath, the other part of it stuck in her throat.

Then it’s nothing but an overwhelming sensation and the soft sound of Bea panting in her ear as Ava feels the world start to tighten around her. Bea’s breath is replaced by a white static, and there’s a fullness in her that she knows she’s going to be chasing for a while. Her hips lift and fall, a rhythm she knows without having to think about it. She rides it out, settles into it like she’s known it all her life and then-

And then-

Then she’s soaring, hips off the bed and her whole body shaking as she tries to focus on the rhythm again, the whole dance gone from her mind as it’s replaced by fireworks exploding, one after another. She can feel Bea’s hand on her, in her, and nothing else. She’s disconnected from reality except for where Bea is touching her. Floating weightlessly in an in-between where nothing but this feeling and Bea, hot against her side, exist.

She crashes back down, the world slamming back into her head as her legs clench, Bea’s hand between them. Strong fingers slide away and stroke across her thighs before they go up and curl around her side. Her breath comes hard, her pulse pounding in her head. She squeezes her eyes tightly, afraid to open them and see that the whole world has been turned upside down.

She wouldn’t care if it was, is the problem. She wouldn’t care if she suddenly found herself light years away where there was no oxygen in the solar system. As long as Bea is next to her, she doesn’t care.

She opens her eyes slowly and turns her head, finding Bea looking back at her with liquid pools for eyes.

“Hi,” she breathes, the word sticking in her throat.

Bea smiles softly. “Hi.”

“That was…” She inhales raggedly. “It’s never been like that.”

Because I’ve never been in love, she doesn’t say out loud.

Bea is biting on her bottom lip, eyes searching Ava’s face. “Me either,” she finally says.

Ava hums, content and boneless. “We are so doing that again. Soon,” she promises. “When I can feel my legs, it’s over for you.”

Bea laughs a little. “Okay, Ava.”

Ava lets her eyes close again and when she opens them, Bea is still looking at her. It doesn’t unsettle her. She lets Bea drink her in, and she lets her own eyes follow the lithe line of Bea’s body.

“Boobs,” Ava sighs. She curls one hand around Bea’s breast, no intention in the movement.

Bea wiggles around as if it tickles slightly, but she just settles more tightly against Ava’s side.

“I’m going to be insufferable,” she warns.

“So I can expect more jokes about my boobs.” Bea walks two fingers up her side and across her chest, pressing over where her heart is. “What else?”

Ava inhales shakily. “Anything else you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she promises. “Whenever you want. I’ll be a court jester for you, babe.”

Bea’s face pinkens at the name, but she holds Ava’s gaze for another moment before she rests her head between Ava’s shoulder and neck. “I do find you marginally funny,” she admits lightly.

Ava grins, the smile lazy. “See? You need to tell more people how funny I am. Mary doesn’t believe it.”

The blush doesn’t fall from Bea’s face. “Please don’t talk about Mary while we’re naked.”

“Why not? She’ll think it’s hilarious.” But Ava stretches her neck and kisses Bea’s temple. “But okay. Just this time.”

“I appreciate it,” Bea murmurs. It’s familiar, the exasperation, but it’s tinted with this whole new feeling. A new depth. “Ava?”

“Hmmm,” Ava hums, sleep pressing against her body.

“I can tell you later.” Fingers brush hair off her damp forehead. “Close your eyes for a little bit.”

“Just a little,” she agrees. “And then I’m making you stir fry.”

Warm lips press against the hollow of her throat, humming an okay against her skin. Bea settles against her side as a warm and welcome weight.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she knows she goes quietly and calmly, and that Bea is still there, still pressed against her side, molded to her like she was never meant to be anywhere else.

-

She wakes up to the smell of paint. Her eyes take a minute to adjust to the light in the corner but she pushes up on her elbow, the comforter over her sliding down to her waist. She blinks as Bea comes into focus.

“You’re painting?”

Bea turns. She’s barefoot, in her underwear again, and one of Ava’s cropped t-shirts that has a white cat in red shadows and I’m not cute I’m purr evil written on it. It hangs a little higher on her and Ava can see the swell of her breasts through it.

She’s the most beautiful woman Ava has ever seen.

And she’s blushing. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Ava sits up more fully, stretching her arms above her head. She watches, a slightly smirk on her face, as Bea’s eyes drop to her chest. But she doesn’t push. There’s time to tease Bea about staring at her boobs. All the time in the world, really.

“How long was I asleep?” She looks at the wall. Bea has nearly finished the whole thing.

“Not long.” Bea puts the paint can down on the stool, balancing the paintbrush on the edge of it. “But you looked…”

“Like a dead fish?” She’s aware of the way she sleeps, limbs thrown about and head rolling back. Years of being unable to move makes it so she never stops now, even sleeping.

“Peaceful,” Bea finishes. She’s hesitating, torn between wanting to do something and worrying about doing it.

So, Ava takes the lead, leaning in until she’s kissing Bea. She feels Bea sigh into it and knows it was the right move, that it’s what Bea wanted to do. She wants Bea to know she can do this whenever she wants. Bea kisses back almost instantly, sliding into an already-familiar rhythm.

She pulls away, a smile on her face. “Hi.”

Bea is a little breathless when she says hi back.

“I thought we weren’t painting.”

Bea looks back at the wall, most of it covered already. “You were right. About leaving our mark on this place. Someone needs to know we were here.”

“If we ever move out.”

Bea smiles. “If we ever move out.”

Ava pulls her legs up under her and Bea’s hand into her lap. “The only place I plan on moving is into your room. Or you can move in here, since we’re already decorating.”

“Oh?” Bea says. Her voice seems tight, like she’s holding something back.

A wiggle of doubt worms its way into her mind. “I mean, if you want to. No pressure. I’m more than happy to stay here and we can pretend like-”

“I don’t want to pretend,” Bea interrupts. She seems surprised by the firmness in her words and she sucks in her lips for a second before she shakes her head. “I wasn’t sure if you- I know you just kissed me but maybe that was you letting me down and-”

“Bea.” Ava waits until Bea’s mouth snaps closed. “I don’t want to pretend. I’ve been waiting months to kiss you, and unless you tell me otherwise, I plan on kissing you at least a hundred times a day.”

Some of the tension drains from Bea’s shoulders. “A hundred.”

“Give or take another hundred.” Ava grins. “One kiss for every time I’ve thought about kissing you the last seven months. Spread out, of course. Otherwise we’d probably be stuck in this apartment for days, just kissing.” She narrows her eyes playfully. “That might not be the worst thing to happen, though.”

“I’d miss finals,” Bea points out.

“Do you really need to pass them? Aren’t you teaching the classes at this point?”

Bea rolls her eyes, fond and exasperated. “Ava.”

“Bea.” She rolls her eyes back. “Fine. If you won’t lock yourself away to make out with me for days on end, what else are you willing to offer me?”

Bea is quiet for a long moment, her hand twisting in Ava’s as she thinks of something. Ava can see it pressing against her teeth, can practically feel the tension of whatever Bea wants to say radiating off her and lighting up the whole room. Ava waits it out patiently, knowing that whatever Bea has to say will be worth it.

She stays still. She waits. Bea has a way of bringing out all of the things in her that no one else has bothered to look for before. And after another minute, Bea looks up.

“Me.”

Ava’s heart clenches in her chest. “You.”

“I’m willing to offer me. Just… me. If you’re willing to accept.”

Ava turns Bea’s hand over in hers and presses two fingers to the thudding bundle of nerves at the base of her wrist. Bea looks down at where they meet and her eyes stay locked there for a moment while Ava watches her.

“If you think there’s anything just about you, then you don’t know the Beatrice I know,” Ava finally says. “Because I’ve never thought there was anything just about you. You always leave the light on for me. And you never make me do the dishes alone. And you don’t mind mushrooms on your pizza. You keep soda in the apartment and you always vacuum when I’m not home.”

A funny smile graces Bea’s face. “I think that makes me good for you.”

“The best,” she agrees. Her smile softens. “I’ve never thought there’s anything just about you. You’re incredibly kind, trustworthy. You’re humble - maybe too humble,” she jokes. “And considerate. And insanely intelligent. Hilarious. My best friend.” She pauses. “And I’m pretty sure you’re the love of my life.”

Bea inhales sharply.

“I know that’s, like, a lot. And I don’t need you to say it back, because I’m not trying to pressure you. But saying it all has lifted some kind of weight off my chest. Like, I didn’t know I was suffocating under not saying anything but I guess that I was,” she babbles. “But honestly, you don’t need to-”

“Ava,” Bea says patiently. She waits until Ava snaps her mouth shut and mimes zipping it closed. “My parents…”

“I’ll kill them,” Ava says cheerfully, looking guilty when Bea’s eyes cut to her. She closes her mouth again.

“My parents made me believe that love had to be earned. That if I wanted it, I had to work for it.” She takes a breath, astonishingly steady. “But you’ve never done that. You’ve never made me work for it. You’ve just… given it. It’s who you are.”

Ava’s smile wavers a little. “Because you don’t need to deserve love.”

“I didn’t know that before you.” Bea shakes her head. “I’ve had to unlearn a lot of things since meeting you. Like that. Like how to not be afraid. Like how to eat pizza. All these things that were so ingrained in who I was that I didn’t think I’d ever know anything different.” She reaches up and cups Ava’s cheek. “You changed all of that for me.”

She thinks Bea is saying I love you. She thinks Bea is saying You’re the love of my life, too.

And then Bea, spectacular Bea, looks into her eyes and says exactly that. “I love you. I’ve loved you since you spilled tea on my very important notes, and I’ve fallen in love with you every day since.”

Ava feels relief flood through her like a dam breaking. “That’s good. That’s really, really good. Because it would be embarrassing to be sitting here naked telling you how much I love you if you’re not going to say it back.”

Bea shakes her head but she’s smiling. “Ava.”

“Beatrice.” Ava curls a finger under Bea’s chin and beckons her forehead. She kisses her slowly and sweetly before she pulls back. “Kiss one of a hundred today.”

A blush spreads across Bea’s face. “You’re not really going to count, are you?”

“I’m going to keep a tally, that’s how serious I am.” She kisses Bea again. “Number two.”

Bae rolls her eyes and when Ava kisses her a third time, she opens her mouth, tongue brushing Ava’s bottom lip. It leaves her breathless when Bea pulls back.

“If I knew getting you in my room would have ended up like this, I would have tried a lot harder,” she says, eyes still closed.

Bea’s lips press against her cheek, then under her eye. “I wasn’t ready for that,” Bea whispers against her skin.

Ava doesn’t open her eyes. “I know you weren’t.”

Bea’s forehead rests against hers. “I am now.”

“It’s okay if you’re not. I won’t stop loving you.”

Bea’s breath ghosts across her mouth. “I am. I’ve never been ready for anything more in my life.”

“Not even your finals? Because you’re really ready for those, even if you think you aren’t.” She feels Bea start to argue more than she sees it, eyes still closed. “I’ve never met anyone who studies as much as you study. Seriously, you’re a beast when it comes to notecards and colored highlighters and-”

She does stop this time as Bea’s lips press against her. She hums, sinking into it. “Oh,” she says when Bea ebbs away. She finally opens her eyes.

Bea is smiling, beautiful and wide. “More than my finals. If only because I’m still not convinced of Thecla’s real contribution to modern religions.”

“I don’t know who Thecla is, but she’s never been less relevant to my interests right now.” Ava twists a strand of Bea’s hair, resting on her cheek, around her finger. “She could be Jesus’ mother for all I care.”

“She’s not-”

“I know she’s not.” Ava grins. “But I like the way you look when I say something wrong.” She presses her finger to the space between Bea’s eyes. “Like you’re not sure if you want to lecture me or kiss me. For the record, I’m very much in favor of the second option.”

Bea’s lips pull up in a slight smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ava breathes in deeply, letting the air fill her lungs as she stretches her arms over her head, noting the way Bea’s eyes follow the lift of her chest. She smiles to herself. Maybe Bea is a boob-girl. She’ll have to weaponize that knowledge for later. 

“I think I promised you stir fry.”

Bea opens her mouth to argue.

“And I’m hungry,” Ava says over her. “And can be trusted with a knife. So, I will be making you stir fry, because it’s the one thing I’m good at. And I want to impress you.”

Bea’s smile is fond, and Ava thinks back to the first time she saw it, how it was aimed at Camila and how she wished one day it would be a smile for her. And now here she is, Bea in her shirt and an I love you between them and a smile that is reserved just for her.

“So let me make you stir fry and you can come sit and study some more. In my shirt. Which, by the way, is very sexy.” She winks.

Bea rolls her eyes. “Mine was quite tangled up in the comforter, and this was just the most easily accessible.”

“You have a bedroom about a hundred feet away,” Ava feels the need to point out. Bea’s eyes narrow and Ava grins. “But for the record, I really like seeing you in it.”

Bea blushes a little but stands and opens Ava’s drawer, pulling out a pair of underwear - Ava’s favorite, yellow with pineapples on them - and then a big t-shirt she stole from Mary that has a pug with a pair of aviators on printed across the front. She hands them to Ava.

“No pants?” she asks as she pushes the comforter down and wriggles into her underwear. She pulls the t-shirt on, huffing her hair out of her face.

“No pants,” Bea says simply.

Oh. Okay. She grins and stands up, curling her hands around Bea’s waist and pulling her in. “This is going to be so good. I know it.”

Bea smiles, swaying slightly with her when Ava starts to go back and forth on her feet. “I know it too.” She presses her lips to Ava’s forehead and speaks against it. “Thank you, Ava,” she breathes.

Ava frowns. “For what?”

Bea pulls back and tucks a strand of Ava’s hair back behind her ear. “For waiting for me to be ready.”

“Of course I waited. I love you,” she says easily.

Bea’s smile widens. “I know.”

Ava beams back at her, feeling like everything has slotted into place so neatly. She never wants this moment to break, never wants it to go away. She wants to remain forever in this room with Bea in her arms and the rest of the world somewhere else doing whatever it is they’re doing. All that matters is this moment, these kisses between them, the possibility of what the next moment brings.

She can’t wait.

#THE WAIT IS OVERRRRRRR!!!!!! #sirens going off #warrior nun #forever roommates #guys this took so long i am so sorry but i hope it's worth it #rated m for mature audiences kids #there was so much to this that i didn't even know where to start but eventually we got there #everyone say thank you kay thank you kay #GUYS GUYS there is one more piece to this and it will be compleeeete #elmofire.gif #okay please like this i'm needy and hungover #i got tickets to noah kahan and i feel INVINCIBLE!

[spacecowboyhotch]

Through the Window

summary: despite the complexities of your relationship, Miguel always shows, ready and willing to slink through your window and submit in your bed.

pairing: afab!reader x miguel o’hara

contents: nsfw/18+/smut, sub!miguel o’hara, unprotected sex, light bondage, pet names, idiots in love, angst, happy ending

wc: 2,701

an: sub!miguel rights!!!! reducing him to a needy mess is in my hierarchy of needs, and it should be in yours too <3.

writing masterlist | marvel masterlist

“You have the nicest window, you know? None of the others can even compete. It's not flashy like the others, or bleary – your window gives off this nice, quiet light.” — Banana Yoshimoto, The Lake

Miguel has weaseled his way into your heart. He’s decidedly not your type— too much of a tight ass to even allow a smile at one of your jokes. Too broody to show what he’s actually feeling, hiding behind that glaring mask his face is set in.

That is until he breaks under the everpresent pressure of being a leader— the leader. It feels a little sadistic that you realized how well the two of you work together despite all your differences, when his mind is on the brink of collapse.

There’s a telltale knock on your window, five sharp taps in quick succession. He never uses the door, partially because he’s spiderman, partially because whatever this is that happened between the two of you isn’t real and it will never be. Letting him in through your front door would be a sign that you’re letting him into your heart. You’ve avoided that successfully, that is until tonight.

When you make it to the window to let him in, the sight of him makes every hair on your body stand on edge. Sure you’ve seen him struggle, but never like this. You’ve never seen Miguel look so defeated, his eyes somehow as cloudy with emotion as they are dead.

You cup his face in your hands, examining him, “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” He says sharply, not bothering to mumble to hide his fangs.

You know too much about him. You’ve studied him, his behaviors, his DNA, his patterns. There’s many reasons the two of you have decided to keep this purely physical but the most convincing is that you’re a scientist partnered with the police force to catch him. When he realized that knowing him, seeing him the way he allows you dampens your efforts, he told you some of his past. You know everything there is to know about Miguel O’Hara; everything he’ll let you know.

There are plenty of things you don’t know. You don’t know why he chose you. Why he comes back to you time and time again when there’s someone he could actually have a future with. You don’t know that he longs for you, dreams of impossible outcomes where the two of you can truly be together. Those are things that Miguel can never share with you— not when you do what you do.

Not when you only let him in and out through the window.

“If you don’t want to talk then strip and lay on the bed.”

Miguel melts under your commands. His shoulders that stay stiff—poised for control under the weight of keeping order— relax when he’s with you. He’s completely naked and sprawled out in your bed in under a minute. You grab some silks from the top drawer, and make your way over to him, straddling his lap.

His eyes are already ravenous as he looks up at you, their usual bright redness almost looking black in this lighting. His hands are restless as the rest on the sheets, itching to touch you. But when he’s in your bed like this, you call the shots.

You get both of his hands tied to the posts. You check them, tugging on them to make sure they’re secure but not too tight. “You remember what to say if you need me to stop?”

“‘Course I do,” He breathes, and you can hear the eagerness in his voice.

“Yeah you do, because you’re such a good boy for me.”

Miguel whimpers underneath you, chest rising as his breath quickens with anticipation. Sometimes he thinks that he can cum just from the sound of your voice, just from you looking at him the way you are right now. He’s used to having the power—to towering over others and making them feel as if they’re in his grasp. You’re looking at him like you own him, like you want to consume him completely. He’s ready to give in, to disappear in you.

There’s no reason for you to ask this question, but you can’t deny that your heart wants to hear his answer to it— so you ask.

“Why’d you come tonight?”

His legs shift beneath you impatiently, “Because I need you.”

“You need me,” You repeat, feigning skepticism. That skepticism isn’t completely unreal but you don’t have time to unpack that, not when he looks so desperate beneath you.

He nods, “Yeah, need you baby, please.”

You bend to kiss him, a smug smile on your lips, “Shh, you don’t have to beg, sweet boy. I won’t tease you, not tonight.”

You take him into your hand with a firm grip, stroking him the way you know will reduce him to a whiny mess— slow, drawn out strokes, slicked by his precum.

He practically dissolves under your touch, eyes rolling in the back of his head, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, yeah baby.”

“Feel good?” You question playfully. You weren’t completely honest with your promise not to tease, but you’ll get him out of his head, give him so much pleasure that his brain fries despite poking fun at his desperation.

“So good, can I have more? I need to feel you, please.”

“You need it?” You ask. wanting to hear him say it again though he's already said it twice tonight.

“I need it— need you. Always need you,” He looks up at you with glassy eyes.

You aren’t sure if you want to wrap yourself around him and never let go or ride him until he’s a shuddering, crying mess. The first isn’t a possibility, so you go with the latter.

There is something distinctly unique about tonight. He’s always needy, always asking and begging for what he wants. But there’s a new depth to his desperation and his words. You almost believe him. You almost believe that he truly needs you, and not just the release he’s chasing. That he wouldn’t be able to get what he needs from anyone else, though this is just sex.

The way you guide yourself down onto his cock is gentle, teasing. His eyes shut, a soft gasp leaving his full mouth. He looks so beautiful beneath you. Miguel is large, one of the largest men you've ever seen and despite how many times you’re with him it takes a little effort. You shift steadily, using your free hand to rub at your clit so that you bloom and open more easily for him. When you whine at the stretch his eyes open, tracking immediately to the way your wet heat envelopes him.

“So fucking big, baby. You like that don’t you? Watching me take you? Watching me fuck you.”

“I like it,” He breathes easily. You’re about to tease him but then he says, “I love it.”

“Me too, baby. I love it too. You’re so fucking perfect for me, so fucking easy. You’d let me fuck you until I felt satisfied wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, whatever you need.”

“What I need, sweet boy, is to feel you cum. Fill me up. Can you be good and do that for me? Make it all messy.”

“Mhmm, just–kiss me, please? So close,” He groans beneath you, his body practically shaking with the effort it takes to keep his hips still.

“Since you asked so nicely,” You tease him, bending down to press your mouth to his.

Your hips don’t stop bouncing, taking him fast and deep, and the soft groans that echo out of him and into your mouth turn to high pitched whine as you feel him cum, filling you completely. You continue to ride him until tears prick his eyes from overstimulation. But, he doesn’t ask you to stop, doesn’t say that safe word because despite his orgasm he needs to feel you cum.

It doesn’t take long; with his cum and your building arousal it's easy to take him faster. You need a bit more, just a little. And while you know Miguel’s body well, there’s give and take. He knows yours just as well. He can see the desperation mounting in your eyes even in his subby haze. He rocks his hips up when you come down, biting out whimpers that meld with the sound of flesh on flesh.

“Untie me. Let me help you,” He suggests softly.

You have no arguments, reaching up to undo the knot at his wrists. His hands are on your body in an instant, one dropping to rub diligent circles into your clit while the other rolls your nipple gently through his fingers. You go completely stiff above him, squeezing the life out of his cock in a way that makes him cry out again. When you collapse against him he draws you close without another thought.

The two of you lay there for an eternity, breath returning to normal as you trace shapes on his chest. That’s the thing with you and Miguel, it starts quickly, a flurry of skin on skin, of hushed whines and limits pushed. But it ends, and that ending is always sobering. The longer you lay on his chest the more anxious you get.

Pushing up, you peer at him, seeing if there is any distress or anything he needs. Miguel’s very good at returning to his controlling headspace, the time frame of his vulnerability is tight. There’s nothing there when he gazes back at you, none of that desperation or longing that was just in his eyes. It’s eerie.

You look away, clearing your throat to ask, “Miguel, what are we doing? This…this is dangerous.”

He groans— it is full of exasperation and not pleasure— and scrubs a hand over his face, “We talk about this everytime and we end up here all over again. Don’t waste our breath.”

You ignore him, pulling his hand away from his face, “You could get caught coming in here and my job—“

He glares at you, shifting you off so he can sit up and throw his legs over the side of the bed. “We both know that you don’t give a fuck about that job. Not the way you’re supposed to anyway.”

“That wasn’t my point.”

“Then what was? Because you’re wasting my time.”

“What happened to ‘we talk about this everytime’?” You drop your voice an octave, tightening your shoulders to mock him. “Shouldn’t you know then?”

“Let’s not pretend that your spiel about getting caught has anything to do with me. It all has to do with you,” He starts to slip back into his suit, standing to pull it up and over his shoulders.

You reach for your robe as you step out of bed, following after him, “Why is it so impossible for you to believe that I would care?”

“If you care so much about me getting caught swinging through your window then why haven’t you let me in through the door? Y’know like a normal man would.”

“Because…because this is all I thought you would give me. And you’re not a normal man. You’re not just some guy to me. You have to know I don’t let you into my bed because you have fangs and swing from webs, right? You being Miguel to me…it has nothing to do with being Spiderman. Keeping things the way they are… made it easier to deny that.”

He stares at you through narrowed eyes, as if he’s gauging whether or not he believes you. He wants to…but he doesn’t. He can’t. Vulnerability begins to unravel in his chest, the kind that he distinctly avoids even though he submits to you. He needs to run before you see him.

“You know what…you were right. This is dangerous; I won’t come back, not for this nonsense. This bullshit.”

Panic rises in your throat as he starts toward the window. You always knew you would lose him but you never thought that it would be like this, with him walking away. Choosing to part.

“What about you? Why do you keep coming back? Why is it the first time you’ve brought up being a normal guy, walking through the door instead of sneaking in?” You ask quickly, reaching out to grab his hand.

He pulls away from you sharply but turns around his bright red eyes bleeding down into yours, “Your time for asking questions is up, maybe you should’ve asked when you had me tied up.”

Miguel can try to intimidate you, try to be the man he is outside of this window with you, but you know the truth. You know the way he bends and breaks and molds for you. Just for you. It’s what makes staring back at him so confidently easy.

“Until you slip out of that window you’re mine.”

“I’m never yours, this isn’t real. Never has been.”

“Then why? Answer my questions. Why do you keep coming back? Why are you just bringing up the thing about the door—“

“Because I didn’t want you to say no!” He shouts at you, the points of his fangs glistening in the moonlight. “There? Are you happy? Seen enough of me to bulk up your stupid little file?”

You stare at him, completely speechless for a moment. Is that what he thinks this is? That he’s at your mercy? Sure, he submits to you in bed but that’s his choice. He has all the power, he’s set the limits, he chooses when this all happens. And if one day he decided he didn’t want this anymore, you’re not sure how you would cope.

“Miguel, when have I ever been able to say no to you?”

He flushes, looking away, “Pretty often when we—“

“Because that’s what you need. It’s what you ask me to give you, but besides that? Tell me when.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes it fucking matters. You’re being avoidant.”

“I’m not being avoidant,” He says firmly, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Fine then what was your other argument? That I put the things you tell me here in the file? I’d never do that to you.”

“That’s bullshit, you’d squeak for that job in a heartbeat.”

“They don’t even know about your daughter,” You counter.

His eyes finally snap back to yours. If it were anyone else to get this stare from him, they’d think he was angry— but you know Miguel and see nothing but pain. “His daughter.”

“His daughter,” You amend quickly, knowing that it’s easier for him to view it that way. “It’s true anything you told me or showed me here, it’s…it’s ours.”

“Ours,” He tests cautiously, brow furrowing together as he looks down at the floor.

This must’ve been some reverse psychology ploy that he’d been waiting to use on you. How did you go from adamantly telling yourself that you and Miguel could never work to convincing him that every moment between the two of you is real? That it’s— that he— is the realest thing that’s ever happened to you.

How had this ended with you unable to let him go like all the times you had before?

“Stay.”

“That’s not—“

“Stay,” You say gently, reaching for his hand again. You thread your fingers through his. “Just for tonight, and if it’s too much, if it’s not what you thought it would be or something you want then in the morning you can walk out the door and never come back.”

“And if it is something I want?”

“Then tomorrow night, I imagine that around— I don’t know— 7 p.m. Miguel O’Hara is picking me up and taking me to dinner.”

His mouth twitches, fighting a smile, “Is that so?”

“He said it himself actually. Wish he was here to back me up, but I guess I’m stuck with you for now— the freaky spider guy in skin tight tights.”

And finally, for the first time, Miguel snorts before letting out a soft laugh at your joke. It’s a sound you never heard before but one you want to keep hearing over and over again.

“So that’s what your laugh sounds like,” You murmur as you pull him closer, burying your smiling face into his chest.

He quickly wraps his arms around you, whispering, “Get used to it.”

miguel taglist: @campingwiththecharmings, @whatthefishh, @scaraza, @stargazingcarol, @soft-persephone, @k-ra

let me know if you’d like to be tagged in miguel o’hara stuff!

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x afab!reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara fanfiction #arson writes #not sfw

[andy-15-07]

Just me and you

masterlist ! pairing Rafe Cameron x reader

summary:Rafe Cameron and Y/n have been together for 6 months, Rafe decides to spend the day together with Y/n on the boat.

Outer Banks Masterlist

The sun hung low in the sky as Rafe Cameron steered his family's boat out into the open water. The gentle rocking of the vessel accompanied by the soothing sound of waves against the hull created a serene backdrop for the day he had planned with you, his significant other of six months. The ocean stretched out endlessly before them, and as the boat cut through the water, leaving a white wake in its path, Rafe couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment.

You sat beside him, the sea breeze tousling your hair as you gazed out at the horizon. Rafe stole a glance at you, appreciating the way the sunlight kissed your features, casting a warm glow over your face. A grin crept across his lips as he marveled at the simple joy of having you by his side.

"So, what do you think of this little escape, Y/n?" Rafe asked, steering the boat with practiced ease.

You turned to him, a smile playing on your lips. "It's perfect, Rafe. Just you, me, and the open sea."

Rafe's hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. "That's all I need, babe."

As the boat sailed along, Rafe decided to anchor it in a secluded cove, away from the hustle and bustle of the shore. He lowered the anchor with a satisfied grin, turning to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Ever been for a swim in the open sea?" he asked.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Are you suggesting what I think you are, Rafe Cameron?"

His grin widened, and before you knew it, Rafe was pulling off his shirt, revealing a sculpted physique that glistened in the sunlight. He tossed his shirt aside and raised an eyebrow at you.

"Your turn, Y/n," he teased.

With a playful eye roll, you followed suit, exchanging your clothes for a swimsuit. Rafe took your hand, leading you to the edge of the boat. The crystal-clear water below beckoned, and without a second thought, Rafe dove in, the splash echoing in the secluded cove.

You followed suit, the cool water enveloping you as you resurfaced. Rafe swam toward you, his eyes filled with an undeniable affection. He cupped your face in his hands, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

"I could get used to days like these," he murmured against your skin.

The two of you swam and laughed, losing track of time in the blissful seclusion of the cove. Eventually, Rafe suggested drying off on the boat, and you gladly climbed aboard. The warmth of the sun, coupled with the gentle rocking of the boat, created a tranquil atmosphere.

Rafe stretched out on the deck, his arm beckoning you to join him. You settled in next to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. The boat gently rocked, lulling you into a state of relaxation. Rafe wrapped an arm around you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin.

"You know," he began, his voice low and intimate, "this has been one of the best days I've had in a long time."

You turned to him, a soft smile on your lips. "Mine too, Rafe. Just being here with you, away from everything else—it's perfect."

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, savoring the closeness. "I'm glad you're in my life, Y/n. Six months and counting, and I can't wait for more days like these."

With the sun setting on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the boat, you and Rafe shared a moment of quiet appreciation for the simple joy of being together, surrounded by the vast expanse of the open sea.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x fem!reader #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron blurb #drew starkey #drew starkey fanfiction #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey imagines #drew starkey oneshot #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey oneshots #drew starkey one shots #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey fic #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey angst

[moronkombat]

Idk if you’ve done this before but can you do nsfw alphabet for Kenshi?🙏

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Very affectionate, tender and caring with his partner after sex. Toned arms will wrap around you, holding you close while he kisses the top of your head. Once he has a comforting hold over you, do not expect to be getting up any time soon. Kenshi's aftercare is a very cuddly experience

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Kenshi favorite part of himself are his hand. Fingers are slender and long. Ink patterns cover the entirety of it making it feel leathery but smooth. Though the tattoos were gained during his time with the Yakuza, he still marvels at just how delicate his hands look. They do not look like the hands of a killer or someone seeking vengeance. His hands are that of a pianist or someone who plays the violin. Perhaps in another lifetime he would be such an artist

With his sight lost to him, he mourns the entire visage of you. He uses his hands to feel you and etch out your features. His favorite place to trace is your face. The curve of you nose, the dip of your cheek, he loves being able to trace them over your skin

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Has no strong preference in terms of where he finishes. If he's looking for a mess then he'll cum on your stomach or ass. If he's wanting to be more romantic then he'll cum inside you

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Kenshi's dirty secret is he almost wishes you'd tie him up or bind him to the bed. Typically you're the one tied up but he's always been curious how to feels but has not yet brought that up to you. He wants you to play with him, tease and taunt him so that he can break free of those bindings and punish you

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Kenshi had experience under his belt and knows what he is doing. He's had relationships in the past, both casual and long term so he knows his way around the bedroom. If he had a partner who wasn't experienced he would guide them

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

There many different positions Kenshi is partial too but he has two favorites. When you ride him and taking you from behind. Your hips grind and swirl against him and he groans. The sense of touch so heightened that he feels this ecstasy within his bones. Moaning whispers travel straight through his ears and to Kenshi your breathless wisp a booming thunder

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It can be a mix during sex. He can be very serious and concentrated. However, he also likes seeing your face twist and squirm when he plays a bit too much. Your reactions make him want to play with you more and more

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Kenshi is groomed but not shaven. He prefers it neat and tidy and will frequently trim it to keep it at an acceptable. Also has a bit of chest hair that he forgets to shave at times

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Intimacy and romance are one in the same for Kenshi. He expresses his love for you not only verbally but with his action. Really enjoys taking you out to eat somewhere nice and bringing you to impressive sights even if he cannot experience them to the fullest. Spending time with you is very important

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He does but it's not as enjoyable as having sex with you. Therefore, he does it rarely, maybe every other week or so. Will typically masturbate to thoughts and pictures of his partner when he is away from them

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Bondage and Restraints- Kenshi enjoys bondage because he loves your reactions . You make such pitiful whining noises when his hands roam you but you unable to touch him. You shutter under him as his tongue travels down your naval and you begin to writhe so beautifully. You are so exposed to him and he will consume all of you

Biting and Scratching- This is something he likes both ways. He likes when you dig your nails into his back. It truly makes him feel alive. At the same time he also loves leaving little love bites as small reminders of your bedroom tango

Discipline and Punishment- Just the idea of this is pure sex to Kenshi. He likes when you're naughty and misbehave so he can punish you. He's never too intense with it and doesn't leave bruises. His punishment is more teasing you for awhile, leaving you wanting him to touch you more but denying you this

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Prefers the bedroom because it feels much more private. He'll also light candles or dim the lights to create a more sensual feel

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He is turned on by your body and your words of affection. Simon is motivated by your words and affection. He also quite likes when you misbehave. He acts annoyed by it but he loves it. He loves when you're a bit mischievous with him so that way he can make it up to you later

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

While he enjoys your teasing, he does not like when it is constant or when his partner is unaffectionate. He likes a partner who can be lighthearted and funny but also caring and sensitive to his softer side

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Kenshi rather likes receiving oral over giving it. Not to say he won't, he will. But there is just something so devious with her head between his legs, mouth so stuffed full that Kenshi simply cannot go without

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He knows how to be slowly sensual and rough as an animal. The choice is heavily what his partner is seeking. His preference is a mix between the two. Something that can be ruthless one moment and then tender the next. Best of both worlds according to him

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Kenshi is a fan of quickies. He sees it as an exciting addition to sex and a way of letting off steam quickly. He doesn't engage in them frequently but will do so spontaneously to spice things up

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Definitely willing to experiment because he likes when it's fresh and exciting. Won't do anything that will cause himself or his partner too much pain and discomfort as that is something he is not interested in

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Typically can go for about 2-3 rounds. He doesn't necessarily become exhausted but prefers to engage in some tender aftercare with his partner instead of continuing to go multiple rounds

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He has them and will use them on his partner if he finds himself in the mood for it. He'll typically have a few on standby and prepared for his partner

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Incredibly unfair and teasing. He will take his time tormenting you and sending so close to the edge of oblivion. He will let you finish eventually but not after having his fill of you

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

All of his senses much more reactive so what may seem so simple to someone else, can be earth shattering to Kenshi. This often leads him being very vocal in bed. He will try to keep them at bay but his partner feels too excellent around him. He'll moan and whimper, often right into your ear as he pulls you close to him. Kenshi, when in the right moment, finds dirty talk rather appealing. There's just something about taking you from behind that makes his mind twist. He'll call you names, vile and wretched names that have your gut coiling and flexing within itself

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Something he would like to try in the bedroom is some role play. Nothing too intense but something light and fun to change things up a bit

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Kenshi is a grower and has more length then he does width. Exceptionally sensitive when touched and caressed, especially the underside

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Above average sex drive. Nothing too demanding but enjoys the company of his partner multiple times throughout the week

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

While he isn't tired, he does enjoy cuddling with his partner after sex and falling asleep with them. He holds his partner tight and tells them sweet words before falling asleep

#mortal kombat #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat headcanons #mortal kombat fanworks #mk1 #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat smut #kenshi takahashi #kenshi x reader

[stllmnstr]

breathing room — a lee heeseung drabble

2.5k / enemies to lovers

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Lee Heeseung is having a hard time breathing.

Partly because he’s pretty sure he just got the wind knocked out of him. A little bit because of the year-old rib injury he had neither the time nor patience to let heal properly.

And mostly because there’s a blade being held to his throat.

Yours, to be exact.

It’s a nice one, all things considered. Despite its lethality, it’s small, delicate almost. From this angle, he can just make out the detailing on the hilt. A series of vines wrap around each other intricately, forming kaleidoscopic patterns that extend all the way from the blade to where your fingers are wrapped around the hilt, knuckles white from the way your hand is straining. 

Jesus, he thinks. If it takes that much concentrated effort for you to not let the knife press any harder against his skin, draw any blood, then maybe he should start taking the threats you throw his way like extra change a little more seriously. 

Lazily, he lets his eyes trace a line from your fingers to your face. Skipping over the rather boring details of the plain black training shirt you wear, he directs his attention to the way your brow furrows in concentration instead. 

Under usual circumstances, a knife to the throat would encourage all of his senses to narrow in on the sensation of metal against his pulse point. Would spur his brain to work a bit faster through all the biological fight or flight mechanisms in a last ditch attempt at survival. 

But these are not usual circumstances. In fact, ever since the two of you were split into separate training cohorts a handful of months ago, this has become a rarity. And the only thing Heeseung wants to do is enjoy it a little more. 

Without his self-preservation instincts kicking in, his brain has plenty of room for other things. The forgiving surface of a training mat beneath him, slightly soft where he lets his body relax into it. The unusually warm air of the training room, courtesy of a busted air conditioner that no one has gotten around to fixing just yet. 

The way your hair falls around your face as you lean over him, chest still heaving from your recent bout of exertion. Your eyes are pure fire, embers and ashes and every stage in between as you sit atop his ribcage, knees on either side of his torso where you pin him to the mat. 

But even as the lead trainer adds another tally underneath your name for another sparring match won, your gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t brighten in the afterglow of victory. After all, victory only tastes sweet when it’s earned. Judging by the way your lips twist above him, Heeseung thinks the victory he just handed you on a silver platter must be horribly bitter. 

Slowly, he raises his hands in mock surrender. There’s a half smile that looks a little too much like a smirk tugging at his lips when he says, “I concede.”

“No fucking shit.” You flick a strand of hair out of your face. Your knife presses a little tighter against his throat. “Did you even try?”

Heeseung maintains eye contact. “I think I’m doing us a both a favor by not answering that one.”

Narrowing your eyes, annoyance makes itself the most prominent of your visible emotions. “Interesting choice of words from someone with a knife to his throat.”

Heeseung all but rolls his eyes. “What are you gonna do? Kill me in front of everyone?” The way he wraps sarcasm up in every syllable is almost as infuriating as the way he just let you win without putting up any semblance of a fight. “You’ve got a mean streak, princess, but that’s a bit much, even for you.”

The pressure on your blade increases, and Heeseung fights a wince as he feels it break the barrier between his skin and blood. It’s a miniscule cut, surface level at most, but he hears the threat all the same. “It’s like you want to die,” you marvel. 

Heeseung’s eyes betray nothing, other than the fact that they can’t quite seem to stray from your own. Does he? No matter how deep inside himself he searches, the answer is always a resounding no. Despite the effort he put into this particular spar, or rather lack thereof, his survival instincts are still kicking. His pursuit of life is still alive and well. 

So no, he doesn’t want to die. Quite the opposite in fact. But if he were to explain in plain terms that he never feels quite as alive as he does in the moments when you’ve got a knife on his throat and hatred in your eyes, he has the distinct feeling you might well and truly make good on your frequent promise to send him to an early grave. 

And it’s not like he means to do it, not really. Heeseung might be a glutton for punishment these days, but there was a time when he tried to get your attention in all the regular ways. As he quickly found out, sweet words did nothing but make you roll your eyes and his skills on a sparring mat were only as impressive as they could be used to hone your own. 

He was a tool, in your eyes. A means to an end as you did your best to work your way up the ranks. 

You never looked at him, the person behind all the hand-to-hand combat training and advanced levels of weapon artistry. At least not until he started annoying the ever-living shit out of you. 

Back then, it had been easy. As new recruits, you were in the same training cohort, which meant you had the same daily schedules. As long as Heeseung had the chance to beat you to the last piece of toast in the dining hall at breakfast or tie the laces of your training boots together the night before an early morning, he was guaranteed at least one of your signature glares and a few choice words that would make his grandmother blush. 

Granted, he knows that one-sided hatred is not a very stable foundation to build anything solid on, but he thinks of it in the same way he thinks of sparring. 

He doesn’t need a knockout. He just needs an in. 

A little bit of breathing room. Something that will have his partner lowering their guard, weakening their defenses just enough for him to strike. Once. Twice. Again. Over and over until the match is won and victory rests on his square shoulders. 

Heeseung’s in this for the long haul, and he’s come to find that he doesn’t really care how many bruises he picks up along the way. 

Across the room, the lead trainer heaves a long sigh. 

“Alright, ___, that’s enough. You’ve earned your tally.” The most of anyone in today’s group. But you’re still glaring at him, and he knows it isn’t enough, not for you. “Heeseung, get it together. I expect better from you next time.”

You scoff. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

Expectations are only met when people are held to them, and you doubt Lee Heeseung has even become acquainted with the concept of a consequence. 

Releasing one final, sharp exhale, you pull your knife away from his throat, tucking it back into the sheath on your upper thigh in one fluid motion. Swinging your leg over his torso, you remove your body from his own, give your anger some space to breathe. Without looking back, you let your strides eat up the distance between you and the exit. 

Someone – you think it must be Jay, or maybe Jungwon, tries to catch your attention on the way out, asking about a maneuver you pulled in the middle of the match. A tricky bit of knife work you’ve been perfecting over the last few weeks. Something that looked stupid as Heeseung did nothing but stand there, as if your blade was nothing but decorative. Made you look stupid as he stood and watched with nothing but a mildly amused expression on his face. 

You hate him for it. Want to show him just how pretty your knife can be stained with the deep crimson he must bleed as surely as anyone else. 

Lips pulled in a taut line, you unsheath the blade at your thigh once again, this time sending it spinning with deadly accuracy towards the line of trees that skirt the outside of the training facility. 

You don’t miss. You never do. 

It still feels like defeat. 

…..

Heeseung notices when you’re not at dinner later that evening. Despite the fact that you no longer train together, the inter-cohort spars have shifted this week's schedule. You should be here, sitting next to Jay and Jungwon, probably, pointedly avoiding his gaze. 

But you’re not. And he can only think of one other place to find you. 

The training hall is dark when he arrives, but Heeseung is no fool. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he sees you soon enough. Silhouette dark against the empty expanse, he has half a mind to intervene before you shred yet another punching bag to irreparable pieces. Instead, he just watches for a moment longer. He doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that start to simmer, that always linger. Doesn’t know if it’s admiration or longing or something far worse. But he wants to. Wants to examine them until he knows them as intimately as the back of his own hand, until he can recite them by name and express them in ways that don’t make you want to press a knife against his neck. 

And he wants to keep watching, keep looking, keep noticing. 

Even from a distance, even in the dark, he can read the frustration in the set of your shoulders, sense the exhaustion in the way your legs move just behind the rest of your body. 

You need a break. 

He needs an in. 

Across the room from you, Heeseung clears his throat. 

Startled, you nearly fall on your ass mid-kick before you turn to the source. It’s dark, but you know it’s him. Who else would it be? 

Chest rising and falling rapidly with exertion, you finally catch your breath well enough to tell him, “If you’re not here for a rematch, then you have exactly ten seconds to get out of this building.”

A beat passes. 

Another. 

Heeseung exhales. “And if I am?”

Bathed in the dying glow of moonlight, you go still. “Then you better put in your best fucking effort.”

Heeseung is across the room before you can release another breath. It’s ridiculous how quickly he disarms you. And you’re caught off guard, yes, but it doesn’t matter, not really. Your knife in his hands, he throws it to the corner of the room. And then it’s just the two of you. 

Heeseung spares neither time nor effort knocking your legs out from under you, sending you careening towards the mat. Screwing your eyes shut, you brace for the impact of a training mat that never comes, the back of your head cradled in a hand that serves as a barrier between you and the ground below. 

It’s a complete reversal of your earlier roles as he lets his legs fall to either side of you, face inches from your own. There’s no knife on your neck, and he was gracious enough to break your fall, but suddenly find your breath a difficult thing to catch regardless. 

Above you, his eyes are dark. Your noses nearly touch. “This is what you wanted?” he breathes, and you feel his words as much as you hear them. They dance across your cheekbone, your lips. Have your bones feeling molten, all your hard edges malleable. “You want me to fight you like I mean it? To really fucking spar with you?”

You’ve rehearsed your answer too long to deviate, even as your mind screams with sudden uncertainties. “Yes.”

Heeseung doesn’t spare it a second thought. “Too bad.”

“Why? You have no problem f–”

“I was there, you know.” Unbidden, the hand that doesn’t hold your head falls to the bottom edge of your black training shirt. Heeseung pauses there for a moment, lets his fingers trace the seam. Something in the air shifts, tightens, waits. Despite the way he has you caged, your hands are unbound. You could stop this, if you wanted to. Stop him. 

You don’t. 

Slowly, his hand begins to track an upward journey, taking your hem with it. The air of the room is warm, choked with summer heat and the odd sensations that simmer just beneath your skin, but you suppress a shiver anyway  as a sliver of skin is revealed. 

You know what he’s after, where his eyes fall to. It’s his fingers that hesitate. Dangle with uncertainty a hair's breadth from the scar that sits just above your hip bone. 

Heeseung inhales, eyes returning to your own for a moment. They’re searching for permission you won’t give and boundaries you won’t set. If he wants to walk this tightrope, he’ll have to navigate on his own. 

It’s a challenge he rises to. On his breath out, Heeseung lets his fingers find a home on the bare skin of your stomach, trace the jagged line that’s a shade paler than the surrounding area. 

It’s a scar you hardly think of, one you can’t believe he remembers. Gifted to you in your early days of training, when a fellow recruit thought the best way to better his ranking was to discard the strict sparring rules set by your superiors and draw blood as a last ditch attempt at victory.

You’d still won, even with a fresh stab wound on your lower abdomen. And he’d been shown the door, like all recruits that break protocol. 

“So what?” Your voice doesn’t come out nearly as biting as you intend it to. You curse the waver in your words. “I get one scar and suddenly I’m delicate?” 

Heeseung glances up, something sincere in his eyes when he matches your gaze. His hand is still on your skin. “We’re all delicate. And we all have the scars to prove it. I’ve just developed a particular… aversion to seeing evidence of it when it comes to you.”

You’re quick to school your features into neutrality. At least on the outside, you won’t give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Apparently not,” Heeseung counters. “Since I’m not the one begging for a fight.” He holds your gaze when he adds, “And I have to say, princess, if you wanted me to put you on your back, there are much easier ways to ask.”

It’s as if you’ve been submerged in hot water, as if you’ve been burned, when you push him off of you with a speed that’s almost comical. And from the way heat rises in your cheeks, you just might have been. 

Your voice is dangerously low when you tell him, “You have three seconds.”

“Until what?” Heeseung knows better than to be hopeful. 

“Until I find my knife and put it to good use.”

Heeseung doesn’t need to be told twice.

#heeseung fanfic #heeseung drabble #heeseung x reader #heeseung x you #heeseung fic #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen x you

[thetarttfuldickhead]

Getting ready for their first date, like—

—Keeley bringing Rebecca to find the perfect outfit, not because she needs a new outfit and not because Roy and Jamie won’t love her in whatever, but that’s half the fun, isn’t it? Getting ready, building anticipation, sneaking another drink at Aeronaut while Derek fetches her two more dresses, just for the hell of it.

Rebecca tells her that she looks gorgerous in every bloody thing, but that she looks particularly gorgerous in the second pink one, and oh, they should stop by The Connaught Bar on their way to the spa, celebrate Keeley looking like the marvel she is, and maybe raise a toast to Roy and Jamie being far, far luckier than either of them deserve.

“If you were into women I’d never date anyone else,” Keeley says very seriously over her Fleurissimo. “We’d never even have to go on actual dates, we could just do this forever, it’d be fucking fantastic.” She makes an exaggerated face. “Now I’m stuck dating icky boys.”

And Rebecca laughs and hugs her and knows that she’s not serious, at least not about the last part.

(Rebecca hopes this works out because if it doesn’t and she has to deal with the implosion of a relationship between her head coach and their star player… Well. She’d put the brakes on the whole thing, maybe, if it weren’t for Keeley and the way she lights up when she talks about her icky boys, if it weren’t for the fact that Roy and Jamie are going to be absolutely ridiculous about each other no matter what Rebecca allows or doesn’t allow, if it weren’t for her sordid affair with Sam and how it hasn’t left her with a single leg to stand on.)

---

Getting ready for their first date, like—

—Jamie giving Roy an incredulous and halfway reproachful look as Roy sticks his head out the office to tell him that they’re leaving, so mush. “I’m going back home, mate. Dani’s giving me a ride.”

And Roy’s eyebrows do their Roy’s eyebrow thing. “What the fuck for? Keeley’s picking us up in less than two hours. At my place. You can do your fucking hair bullshit or whatever you need to do there.”

(It’s unclear to Roy exactly what hair bullshit Jamie might need doing, because he’s already spent half an hour after training in front of the dressing room mirror with most of the team chiming in with encouragement and advice, but it’s Jamie, so it’s probably something.)

“Not with your tragic products, I can’t,” Jamie mutters (and that’s a right laugh because Jamie knows better than most everybody that Roy does not, in fact and unlike some other people, settle for fucking Lynx or the like). “And anyway, we’re going on a date with each other, right, not just with Keeley, so we can’t get ready together. What am I supposed to do, sneak out the door and ring the bell when it’s time to pick you up?”

“What? No.”

Jamie points at him. “Right, ‘cause that’d be weird.”

“That’s not—“ But Jamie doesn’t let him finish, he just walks off with Dani, because he doesn’t have time for Roy’s spluttering, has he, and doesn’t Roy know Jamie has a date to get ready for?

Get ready he does, but because he is a filthy hypocrite (a word he does know the meaning of, so there, Coach Beard) he doesn’t hesitate to call Keeley when he can’t decide between his favourite Stone Island jacket and the new patterned Gucci number he got sent the other day, and then he has to have opinions on her shade of lipstick, and she suggests he wear the Layton she bought him a few years back, and it’s a brilliant time, just like them getting ready for the red carpet back when they were dating before.

“Bit like cheating, though, innit,” Jamie tells Keeley, out of a sudden and uncharacteristic sense of fairness. “Us asking each other for advice when getting ready for a date with each other, yeah? I should be on the phone with like Isaac, and you should talk to Rebecca or Barbara.”

“Well,” Keeley reasons as she sips her mimosa and waits for her nail polish to dry. “We’re going on a date with Roy too, and since we are the ones who properly knows what he likes and we want to look fucking fit for him, it makes sense for us to help each other out, yeah? Besides,” she adds, “we can do whatever we want, babe. Screw the rules, right?”

And yeah, right. That’s the basis for this whole thing, innit? “Yeah,” Jamie agrees, giving her a grin. “Screw the rules.” And then his smile softens into something gentler, almost shy, something she used to be the only one ever allowed to see. “Want look fucking fit for you too,” he admits, like it’s a secret.

Keeley’s smile, too, is soft. “Aw, babe, me too. And you do.”

—

Getting ready for their first date, like—

Roy picking Phoebe up from school and dropping her off with Sophia’s retired colleague, and when Phoebe asks why she’s not staying with him this time he takes a long moment to answer, and it’s messed up, isn’t it, that he’s this concerned about what a fucking child should think about his love life.

Not just any child, though, is she. “I’m going on a date,” he says eventually, glancing at her in the rear mirror.

“Oh.” She frowns; not in disapproval, he thinks, but in careful consideration. Then: “Is this a date with Keeley or with Jamie?”

Huh. All right, then. First potential hurdle cleared. As for the second… “Both.”

To his stupidly immense relief, Phoebe brightens at that. “That’s very clever of you, Uncle Roy. It would have been really hard to choose between Jamie and Keeley, and they both love you so much.”

Roy shakes his head, biting back a smile that’s as much affection as it is incredulity. “All right, you little precocious shit, get out of here, and be good for Ms. Mallard.”

And then he has just enough time to get back home and change out of his black shirt and trousers into another black shirt and pair of trousers, to trim his beard and add a textured silk tie (very dark purple, Keeley and Jamie better fucking appricate the splash of colour). He spends a long time staring at his reflection, partly because he really is quite vain (his stubborn protests to the contrary), but mostly because this means something to him. They do: Keeley, Jamie. The three of them, and what they could be.

It leaves him a little dizzy. It scares the hell out of him. He wants to get this right.

The door bell chimes. Jamie, and Roy has barely let him in, has barely even begun to figure out what he’s supposed to say to this Jamie, to his date Jamie, to the Jamie whose eyes sparkle and who manages to make even that ridiculous outfit look good, when the bell chimes again, and there is Keeley, a fucking vision, and Roy knows what to say to her.

“You look fucking amazing,” he says, and she giggles and leans in to kiss his cheek, very chaste (it’s a first date, after all), and still it’s nearly enough to leave him breathless with how much he’s missed her.

“Got you this,” he mutters a little hoarsely, picking up and handing over a Black Baccarat rose that’s been strategically sat on the sidetable.

Impractical, since they’re going out, and corny, but fucking sue him. Roy Kent will headbutt anyone who dares call him a romantic, but that doesn’t mean he thinks they’re wrong – and anyway, it’s worth it for the way Keeley smiles as she inhales the sweet scent.

“Uh, where’s my flower?” Jamie complains.

Roy rolls his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he growls. “Fine.” And he heads off into the kitchen where there is indeed a second rose waiting in a small vase. He’d left it there, deeply unsure if he was supposed to offer Jamie one or not; but that’s that cleared up then, flowers for Jamie is a go, he’ll make a note for their next date.

Jamie beams as he accepts his rose; grins wickedly as he, too, leans in to kiss Roy’s cheek.

Roy clears his throat, trying to ignore the way his heart’s sped up at the brief touch. “Okay. Let’s fucking do this.”

“Yeah,” Keeley agrees. “Let’s.”

And Jamie doesn’t say anthing at all, but he nods, and he takes Roy’s arm, and Keeley takes his hand, and they walk out into the night and fucking do it.

#surprise saturday scribblings! #something silly something soft #royjamiekeeley #roy kent #jamie tartt #keeley jones #keeley & rebecca #ficlet #my stuff