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pluvialpoet · 7 months

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how to disappear

Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader

Requested: no

Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!

Word Count: 12,874

masterlist

Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.

Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?

Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.

Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.

Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…

Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot.

A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.

You should’ve known better.

As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.

Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway. While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.

“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”

“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.

“Things change.”

As if he needed the reminder…

Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.

“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”

“That’s not what you said the last time we-“

“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.”

He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.

“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory- but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”

Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.

Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.

“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“

“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly.

Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once.

“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined.

Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.

“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?”

“No, you’re not-“

“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.”

Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.

History repeating itself, just one more time.

“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.

“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“

“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.

It’s deeper than that, though.

Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.

“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?”

“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.

“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”

“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.

How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.

“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”

It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.

“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them.

Not the way they used to, anyway.

“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.

“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,”

Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.

The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.

Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.

Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.

The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.

Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.

With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.

Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.

This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.

“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.

The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.

You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after what he did.

“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.

For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.

“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”

You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.

What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.

Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.

You know what you have to do.

The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.

“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.

“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.

“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.

“Who are you to try to stop me?”

“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”

“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.

For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.

“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.

He knows you’re right.

While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.

When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.

Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.

It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.

For all of it.

Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.

He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.

“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”

Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.

He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.

It was foolish to believe any differently.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”

He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?

It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.

You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.

“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.

It’s exhilarating.

“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.

Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.

“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.

“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.

“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.

“Can I…”

“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”

He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.

His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-

“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.

You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-

He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…

He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.

He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.

“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.

“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.

“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.

“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”

“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.

“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”

It’s going to be impossible not to.

“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”

“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.

“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“

“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”

He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.

A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.

Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.

As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.

He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.

Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.

“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.

You don’t deserve him.

“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.

“No, Dick, I-“

“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”

It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.

Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.

The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.

When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.

Everything splinters.

When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.

Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.

Blue and black, forevermore.

There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.

Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.

a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!

everyone who requested to be tagged: @js-favnanadoongi @kalulakunundrum @1lellykins @octodog17 @novelizt @nesta-houseofwindfantasy @corgiqween576 @whiteglovemanor @godcreatoreli @lassmich1 @consternat1on @deffnotnia @haloney @iananiko @noodlesketchbook @thescarletcryptid @obsessedwthdilfs @vanice-e @taintedmaroon @holybatflapexpert @whatismypurpos @heylookwhoitis @corpseflower6 @heavenlym0chi @lokiwannacry @boywondergrayson @tetzoro @oiztsy @naf3211

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purpleyoonn · 1 year

Text

baby (you complete us) 3

C H A P T E R T H R E E

summary: Soulmates were a common occurrence, so common, in fact, that the world sought an easier way to find your other half: A bracelet that would scan your mark and match you with those who shared your mark. Within recent years, soul groups were becoming normal, and your own bracelet said you have seven matches.

Or where you wear your bracelet for ten years, and finally give up the hope you would find your soul group, only for BTS to put theirs on and see what they were missing.

genre: soulmate au, idol au, angst, fluff, eventual smut,

pairing: Idol BTS x Disabled MC

warnings: angst, mentions of depression, disabled mc (Ehlers Danlos syndrome), eventual smut, fluff, lots of fluff, mentions of disability, simp bangtan

chapter warnings: lotssss of angst (ofc), nervous mc, nervous bangtan, insecure mc, breakdowns, not much

*words in italics are spoken in Korean*

masterlist // chapter 2 // chapter 4

taglist: @imnotlauriane @mageprincess7 @m1sss1mp @0funsite0 @strawberry-moonpies @this-isthe-way @singukieee @btsw1fe @gooooomz @fluffy-canada-pancakes @carolinexkpop @agusfree @sakurarukas @iamkookiesforyou @skyys-universe @toughbook @plutoneu @whisperssuga @welcometomyworld13 @yuzon3 @wittyreader @jnghs @cyd0129 @exfolitae @queen-in-the-shadows @nen-nyy @pandxthings @schniti-is-in-the-house @juju-227592 @jinseartharmysmoon @wooya1224 @ddaeng-angmoh @gratefullygrateful @rorythme @gratefullygrateful @kimrona @jjjj-ssi @maysgarden @lovelgirl22 @doublebunv @reallysparklychaos @jayjayy-57

permanent taglist: @yourleftsock @cryingpages @strxwbloody @drissteele @dustyinkpages @crushedblackroses @blaaiissee @iiitsmaria @azazel-nyx @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i @knjkitten @kleirielk @foreverweareyoung7 @lachimolala22019 @namuficxs @94z-93 @kimgmzmc @thenaverse @veronawrites @dahliasbouqet @black-rose-29 @tinyoonsblog @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @stellauniverse @stupendouscookiehumanmug @tinyoonsblog @tatyhend

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Previously on baby (you complete us):

You clicked on the messages first, tears coming to your eyes as you scrolled all the way to the top, replies waiting to be clicked on for every single one of the messages you have sent over the past ten years.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing, needing to rub your tired eyes more than once as English and Korean replies were sent, responding to each and every one of your own messages. Hundreds of apologies written as you scrolled, each one sorry for waiting so long to wear their bracelets.

You moved over to the ‘matches’ button, needing to confirm with your own thoughts what was happening. And there it was, seven matches, their profile pictures and names only confirmed that you were the missing soulmate to BTS.

You sat on your bed in shock, not knowing what to do as your brain froze, the seven people in your matches folder staring back at you. You just kept reading their names, over and over again, trying to tell yourself that this was a dream that your subconscious gave you to build your hope up again.

But then you remembered that the official tweet said that they sent a message with the number of one of their team members, a number to call so they knew it was you. You searched your messages, scrolling all the way down to the bottom to see that same number with the message:

“Hello. This is Sejin with BTS’s management team. Here is the number of one of our translators. Please contact us as soon as you receive this. BTS would like to get into contact with their last soulmate and meet you.”

You wasted no time in calling the number, not even thinking if your phone plan had international calling or not. It didn’t occur to you that it could be midnight where they were, you just had the urgency to call them, to see if they were real.

When the translator heard her phone ring, shock and excitement moved throughout the room. Everyone had been waiting in one of the hang out rooms within HYBE, waiting for the slight chance that the boys’ last soulmate would see their message.

“Answer the phone!” Jimin couldn’t help but yell, not wanting you to have to wait too long and think they were ignoring you. He wouldn’t blame you in the slightest if that thought went through your head.

When Sejin gave the translator the go ahead, a simple nod, she answered the phone call and put it on speaker.

“Hello? Is this Miss, Y/n?” The translator spoke through the phone, causing your eyes to widen.

“Uhm, yes, it is. Can I ask who this is?” You wanted to be sure, needed to be sure that this was real.

“This is Sohye with HYBE. I am one of the translators with BTS. Is it okay if I switch this to facetime so we can be sure of your identity before we move any further?” Oh, wow, she was quick with this. It makes sense; you wouldn’t want to give any information out to just anyone.

“Uhm, okay, please just give me one moment.” You answer back, moving to place your phone against your lamp so you could be seen within screen. It took only a couple seconds for your phone to alert that the translator requested a video call. Taking a deep breath, you accepted the call only to be face to face with Sejin.

You were not expecting right away to meet one of the people who had always been by the boys’ side. Everyone loved Sejin for how he treated the boys and took care of them.

“Hello Miss Y/n. If it’s okay with you, I would just like to verify your Soul Connection identification number.” It looks like he has a phone in his hands, and when you start reciting your id number, he seems to follow along on the phone.

Since your soul mark was only unique to you within your soul bond, it wouldn’t exactly indicate you were their soulmate, as so many have seen their marks throughout the years and have tried to tattoo the mark on their own skin, pretending to be their last soulmate.

“Okay. Thank you! Well, it seems like you are who you say, so I would like to start with saying thank you for reaching out to us. The boys are ready to talk with you now, unless you have any questions first?” Sejin looks behind the camera before gesturing for someone to move back. A small sigh leaves his lips.

You have so many questions but don’t know if you can even ask them. You want to know why they only just put their bracelets on. Did they even want you? They had been together as a soulgroup for so long, you feel like you would only be messing things up. You had almost nothing in common with the boys, would you even fit in socially?

“Miss Y/n?” Sejin sees the tears pooling in your waterline, can see your lip trembling. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself as you look away from the camera really quick.

“What’s going on?”

“Why is she quiet?”

“Is she okay?” Sejin turns to the boys, shaking his head as their questions, motioning them to wait a second.

“Miss Y/n, we can take a break if you need. We can call you back later.” Sejin suggests, and you want to take it but know that if you do, you will ignore the call. You wouldn’t have the courage any longer.

“No, uh, it’s okay. I-I don’t have any questions.” You manage to choke out as you try to hold your emotions back. You didn’t need any of them to see you break down.

“Okay. I will hand you over to the boys then.” Sejin reluctantly moves over so the boys can take his spot. Once they do, they see you visibly regulating your breathing. The tears you’re holding back immediately make Jimin start crying.

It was quiet for a couple minutes as you and the boys take in each other. You weren’t exactly sure how to start a conversation, and neither was Namjoon. They weren’t sure if you knew any Korean, but they also didn’t want to have to use a translator every time they wanted to talk to you.

“Hi.” Surprisingly, Jungkook was the one to start the conversation, his smile almost blinding as he looked at you. He couldn’t believe that you saw their message and called them. He was hoping every second that you might put the bracelet back on and see their matches. He wondered if you read his messages.

“Hello.” Your voice had them wanting to touch the stars, see if they shined as brightly, felt as warm. And when you shyly waved at them, Yoongi wanted to clutch his heart in his hands and offer it to you on a silver platter.

All of them wondered how they could have gone this long not knowing about you, not having you by their side. They could all feel the missing piece in their souls, the ache that teetered on painful as they looked at you, fiddling with the stack of bracelets on your left wrist, just barely covering your soulmark.

You were nervous, and they didn’t blame you.

“We’re sorry.” Taehyung had gotten tired of the silence, wanting to talk with you. He wanted to know everything he could about his baby soulmate. He wanted this awkward time to be over and for you to be with them.

“You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t know.” And it was true. It was one of the thoughts that crossed your head as you looked at them. You could see their red eyes and puffy cheeks, evidence of their crying.

However, they knew that you had it worse. They didn’t know you existed, they spent ten happy years together while you had none. You knew they existed and waited years for them. Nothing they felt right now could compare to what you did.

“But you did.” And with Taehyung’s words, you broke.

They watched you bring your knees to your chest and place your head on them, sobs breaking through your lips as you tried and failed to hold them in. Namjoon’s hands clenched in his lap at the fact he couldn’t just bring you into his lap right then and there. They couldn’t comfort you.

“Please, baby, do not cry.” Hobi’s english was soft and had you looking up at them.

“You have every right to be upset with us. We forever wish we put those bracelets on sooner. But we cant take that back, no matter how much we want to. What we can do, is work hard in the future to make you as happy as we can. We can only hope that you still want us…” Namjoon finally spoke up, trying his hardest to put all of his emotions into his voice. He wanted you to know that they were willing to do anything to make up the past ten years to you.

“You have to realize, I never thought I would meet my soulmates. I went years thinking you didn’t want me and that was why you didn’t wear your bracelets. That you were happier without me. Who would want a disabled soulmate?” You chuckled at your own deprecating humor, not even seeing the way their jaws clenched in anger.

Who in the world would ever think that? Jin couldn’t help but think after the translator finished. He wanted to hurt whoever planted that in your head.

“I know you read my messages. I went through a lot these past couple years and have a lot of baggage. I have bad days where I can barely walk to the bathroom, and I have good days where I end up pushing my limits because I feel no pain. I need you to really think if you still want me before I end up getting my hopes up and you change your mind.” You lay it all out for them. Every one of your thoughts condensed into a single minute. You didn’t want to meet the, feel the bond and start to fall only for them to not catch you in the end.

“Come stay with us.” Yoongi’s tone was cool as he suggested, like he had everything planned out. Everyone’s eyes widened at his words.

“What?” You managed to ask, wondering if you heard him correctly.

“Come stay with us. We want you and this bond more than anything. Ever since we found out about you, we have spent countless hours reading every message, searching for any sign of your whereabouts and who you were. Let us show you how much we want you. You won’t have to worry about anything when you are with us. Give us a chance to get to know each other. Get to know us before you decide that we won’t catch you.” You always thought that Yoongi was eloquent, but to hear the translation from the translator… you almost wanted to start sobbing again.

You’ve never had anyone outside of your family try to fight for you. Even your friends since childhood wouldn’t fight for you this much. You’ve never really had anyone beg you for your presence. Beg you to give them a chance.

“I—I don’t have the money for a plane ticket.” Were the only words you could articulate at the moment. Everything seemed to blindside you and your brain was overwhelmed. It wasn’t an excuse. Your coping mechanism was humor, and you didn’t want to breakdown again as you knew you were fated to if you said you would give them the chance.

“Don’t worry about that. Let your soulmates handle everything.” Jin was the one to speak this time, a wink accompanying his words. You remember him saying he did that when he was nervous or feeling awkward.

“Can we, uhm, have your number?” Jimin asked, wiping the tears off his cheek. He hadn’t stopped crying the entire time, too much emotion spilling from him now that he was able to see you and hear your voice.

You nod your head before giving it to them, all seven of them and Sejin putting it into their contacts before messaging you so you would have their own numbers. You were quick to receive a selfie from Jungkook, a message saying hello accompanying the picture.

“Please don’t be afraid to message us. We will always make time for you. Also, please let us know when the earliest we could have you fly out.” Namjoon smiled at you, his phone in hand as he tried to memorize your number.

“Well, I work from home, so I can pretty much work anywhere. I need to get some luggage first though and a couple of other things.” Before you could say they could get you a flight for next week, you notice Hoseok has his phone out.

“Don’t worry about the luggage. You can send Hoseok your address and he will have some from our favorite brand delivered.” You felt like your eyes were going to be permanently widened from the number of surprises that kept coming your way.

You wanted to object but from the look they were sending you, you figured it would be better to not argue with them. So, you nodded your head and sent the older man your address, slightly uncomfortable with them knowing it but you knew they would probably ask for it sooner or later.

“What’s your favorite color, love?”

“It’s this light blue color.” You turn to grab your favorite water bottle and bring it close to the camera to show them. They all nod like they were taking notes before looking off screen for a second.

“I’m so sorry, Y/n, but we have a meeting to attend with our directors. Thank you so much for giving us a chance and we will definitely talk to you soon.” Namjoon’s dimple smile had your full attention as everyone said their goodbyes and promises of contact. Even as you said goodbye and the video call was ended, you had their bright smiles burnt into your cornea.

After checking to see if your phone still had some charge to it, you were quick to go to your phone app again, this time to your recent calls list.

“Hey, so I think your joke isn’t so much of a joke anymore…”

Next Chapter

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wordtotherose · 3 months

Text

Sending Jay ahead was the right thing to do. It was.

But every minute on his own now is worse and worse and worse. It feels like the sun is setting quicker than he's moving, the shadows of the village getting darker and not really any bigger as they travel. Out there, past the small village, rocks the rowboat they arrived in, and further still the dipping sun over the water he and Gillion call home.

Puddle is going as fast as they can, Chip knows this, recognises the signs of an animal pushing themself further than their limits allow. Chip and Puddle. Racing down an empty road with urgency pumping their hearts and, at least for Chip, a screaming void in his head blocking all cohesive thought. The bracelet on his wrist is useless so far from its counterpart but Chip strains regardless to make sure he notices the very second he's close enough to make out the familiar presence of Gillion's mind nestled next to his.

Jay is barely a shadow in the sky when he sees her dip back towards land, still a distance from the village and her mother and Gillion Gillion Gillion. His breath scratches in his throat as he watches, waiting to check that she lands on her feet and keeps going, that, despite no shot ringing out, she hasn't been shot down. But no. Of course not. She's moving. Not even a stumble. Her hair is catching the fading light and the idea that they might still be too late is sickening, enough for his stomach to drop and his hands to shake. With every second they aren't there, every moment the spell isn't being done, Gillion is fading. Gillion is dying. Alone. Without either of them. With a stranger he was so desperate to still look his best in front of upon meeting, a stranger who doesn't know him!

May won't thread new braids into his hair in comfort like Jay does. May won't kiss his cheeks like Chip does every night before sleeping just to make the triton smile and stop his constant motion for a heartbeat. She won't know he doesn't like his hand held by anyone but his closest friends, Chip or Jay or Caspian. Will she work out that he needs to be kept damp? That he's more likely to drink if she offers water with salt mixed in? He needs to drink. Needs his strength.

Jay is flying again, in short bursts now as she tries to make the most of her energy. An angel in the sky. He has to fight back the tide of self-disgust he feels for having no true part in helping here. She'd have gotten the gemstones without him. Maybe even been quicker about it.

Puddle slips on a loose rock and Chip slides, clawing his way back up to being steady on the raccoon's back. Of all the bloody minded things for Gillion to do with the last of his magic, to turn a perfectly suited horse into a raccoon just because they were Jay's favourite. Because he wants to make them smile even when he's dying.

Chips shakes his head and focuses on the flare of Jay's orange hair until she vanishes between the buildings.

***

It's hard. The bed he's on, he means, and it isn't swaying with the bone deep sense of home innate to the waves he's always in or on.

Land? Where were they heading last?

Why is everything so blurry? So dark?

Continue Reading on AO3 or under the break...

He twists towards the side, hoping to turn over and find Chip or Jay nearby to ask his questions to.

Something stops him short. Tight resistance around wrists he cannot shift and legs he cannot feel and a chest he doesn't recognise the shape and agony of.

Where?

Kind words, a gentle but firm voice. Unfamiliar. Unknown. Where's Chip? Where's Jay?

Pretzel?

Oh. There.

Pretzel. In his hair, above his head. He can't hear her chirruping purring sound but he can feel it, vaguely. Half removed from the idea of sensation entirely.

He thinks he manages to convince his body to say something, a hand touches his own and he flinches away. It retreats and settles on his shoulder instead, over his wetsuit.

The flinch hurt.

The voice is starting to sound urgent.

It's dark.

And the world isn't swaying.

And his friends aren't here. Maybe it's a nightmare. Maybe he just has to grit his teeth and wake up eventually.

***

The streets are more full than normal, what with the Den being closed for business for the night. Jay dips and throws herself round corners and shortcuts with the surety of being home. People are calling greetings to her, making friendly jabs at her frantic pace.

She ignores every last one of them. There's no time to worry about good impressions, no spare seconds to feel anxious about being nice. They'll forgive her. Most of them watched her grow up, after all.

She's not sure she can stand for Gillion to die in her home. Not sure how to reconcile the loss with what this place has always been, what she wants it to always be.

But if she doesn't get these stupid gems there soon, before the sun sets fully probably, knowing their portentously shitty luck, well. Then she won't have a choice about it all.

The world will be new again, without Gillion.

It's a world she doesn't want to wake to.

***

They're dead.

That's the truth of it, that's the burning in his chest, the cause of the vice around his heart. That's why Pretzel is so upset somewhere above him, petting him like he's the one injured. He is, he supposes, if they're both dead.

What's left for him, what is destiny worth if he can't use it to protect them?

They died in his arms. Under his hands. With their eyes looking up into his for help, for rescue. He let them down. He let them die.

So maybe he just needs to wake up.

Or does he?

Which world is real?

Didn't he wake up earlier? With the knife? The ice knife?

He needs water. Needs to make another. Needs to check. Jay will just heal him if it's real-

If it's real then Jay is dead.

Fuck.

Someone is talking to him still. Have they always been? A woman. Talking. Asking him questions, it's in the lilt of her tone, she expects an answer.

He tries to shape a name, a question in return.

"Chip?"

He doesn't hear an answer so he tries again, screaming through the pain of grief; he never wanted to meet grief like this. Not with them.

"Jay?"

There's a gurgling sound and he fears it may have been him. There's movement. A shaking. A rocking but not the sea. Like a body coughing and bending up only to fall back with the effort. Like when Chip was having his nightmares and couldn't stop, couldn't think, couldn't understand. Chip…

Dead.

They're both dead.

Right.

Ice knife.

Wake up.

Or are they...

...if they're....then…

***

Chip falls off of Puddle into the dust of the street just as they pass the first home. His knees scrape and the pain is so far away, locked up in a chest in the back of his head for later. The trousers he loves, that Ollie has embroidered silly little sea birds onto the cuffs of under Drey’s patient tutelage, they're maybe ripped. His skin is maybe split and bleeding, the palm of one hand is for sure, blood smearing sticky and wet on his forehead as he pushes his hair out of his eyes, fixes his coat so he can breathe to run.

Puddle collapses into an exhausted lump and Chip would feel bad if he had any time.

As it is, he's scrambling to his feet, checking the bracelet is still on his wrist, and is bolting to the Eagle's Den with only a shout of apology over his shoulder to the creature.

People out are slow moving, glorying in what, to them, is the tail end of a beautiful sunset and the start of a warm, sparklingly starlit night. They are not best pleased when he pushes past them, gasping out more apologies that he knows they won't hear as he rushes past, leaping onto and over boxes outside homes and fences separating gardens and growing plots. He doesn't stop. Cannot stop.

The cresting wave of another's thoughts alongside his own hits hard, nearly knocking him off his feet again, absolutely punching the air from his already tight lungs. He's delirious still, jumping from one half formed idea to the next, remembering and imagining and percieving everything altogether in one muddled mess. It sort of hurts to try to look at too closely but it's still so faint that Chip doesn't dare take his focus away. Gillion can't hear him in return, he knows that, but this way he can know if Jay is there, if the spell is being done.

Only...nothing. Gillion is so far gone, slowing and slurring even in his mind...no…

Chip hops the last fence in his way and pushes through the burning in his lungs, the closed door ahead taunting him. Tempting him. Teasing with what little good he'll even be able to do in this situation when he does get there.

Gillion's thoughts vanish in one silent drop three steps away from the door.

Continue Reading on AO3...

#my writing #fanfic #jrwi #jrwi gillion #jrwi fnc #jrwi fish and chips #fnc #jrwi chip #jrwi jay #jay ferin #gillion tidestrider #ao3 #just roll with it #jrwi riptide

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mewje4ns · 9 months

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Moment of Impulse - Spencer Reid

You have decided it had to happen today. Or it would never happen it all. Just sucks you’d decided that at 10pm.

Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

masterlist

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My cheeks were flushed as I stood outside Spencer’s door. I could feel my fingers tingle with anticipation. My dirtied up converse kick heel-toe-heel-toe as I wait anxiously for him to open the door. My sweaty hands pushed in my denim short pockets and my t-shirt tucked into that. I didn’t know why I decided it had to be done, and now but it did. I needed to confess.

I can hear Spencer’s feet walk towards the door before the lock unlocked and slowly revealed the sleepy boy wonder. “Y/n?” His voice was raspy and croaky from behind woken up, his hair a mess, but he still looked as beautiful as the day I met him.

“I’m sorry for coming here this late but if I didn’t-“ I cut myself off and rubbed my hand on my chin. “I need to tell you something.” Spencer nods and rubs his eyes, he widens the door for me to walk in.

Spencer sleepily drags his feet to his couch and sits down whilst I stand awkwardly at the edge of the carpet beneath his living room furniture. “What’s up?” He peeks down at his watch before turning and looking at me. “You are allowed to sit down, you know that right?” I nod and rub my swear hands on my shorts but don’t move to sit down.

“You are everything good that I’ve ever know.” A strong start, I haven’t stumbled over my words quite yet. “You are freaky smart and funny. You are the nicest person I’ve met and you never fail to make me feel better.” I shake my head and stare down the carpet. I couldn’t look at him as I spoke, I’d lose my confidence the second I looked at his face. “I’ve spent years comparing myself to the girls your brought around and never once did any of them give me the answer I was looking for.”

Spencer voice cut me off. “The answer you were looking for?” He was confused, baffled by my words. Confused on how could I compare myself to other girls? “What answer?”

“That I had a chance.” I finally look up at him as he leans over with his elbows on his knees and hands connected in between them. “That you could love me.” My voice was shakey this time. Spencer Reid is the only man to have ever made me weak in the knees, in the everything. “You are the first guy in my life to make me feel this way, and it’s so stupid. God this is so stupid. I’m sorry I’ll leave.” I turn around and march towards the door before I feel his hand grab my wrist causing my bracelets to dig into my wrist.

Spencer’s hand pulls me towards him before it digs it’s way into my hair and pulls me into a kiss. I urgent and heavy kiss. I panic, my hands find their way to his waist to desperately pull at his shirt and he holds me as close to him as possible. “Don’t- don’t go.” His voice is quiet as he whispers to me, his hands still pulling my head to stay forehead to forehead. “Please.”

I look up at the man in awe. His cheeks are flushed and his dark eyes dance across my face. He licks his lips and whispers a plea for me to stay again. “Please Y/n.” I nod and he releases a deep breath before kissing me again, this time with just as much urgency but the passion felt tangible. Like he had been waiting for this moment. “God you-” Spencer cuts himself off and dives back in to kiss me. One of his hands dance their way down my body to my waist which he uses it to pull me as close to him as he humanly could. Spencer finally pulls away and rests his forehead on mine.

“I’m sorry I came here so late. I know you have work tomorrow.” I watch him laugh and shake his head before his hands find their way to my neck as he rubs his thumbs in my jaw.

“I don’t care. Do it at three am and I still wouldn’t care.” His smile is so wide, wider than I had ever seen with any of the other girls I’ve seen him with. “I love you.” My worlds stops spinning, whilst the room simultaneously starts to. His straight white teeth are on display and the faint smell of his laundry detergent and body wash fill my nose. The man I have loved for as long as I have known him, loves me.

“Really?” My voice is a quiet whisper as if I’m worried about him coming out and laughing at me with a ‘gotcha’ moment but all he does his nod and stare into my eyes. “You lil shit. I was supposed to say it first.” I pinch his waist and smile as he flinched away.

“It was easy to figure out where you were heading with that whole rant of yours.” I shake my head and smile. “God, I love you.” I giggle like a school girl and wrap my arms around him in a hug. “Stay the night?” I laugh and nod at the man who raps his arms around me.

“Yeah. I’ll stay.”

“Good.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #fan fic #spenew weid UWU #spencer reid x reader #Spencer Reid x reader fluff #spencer reid fluff #AbbaChu

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imhenritz · 8 months

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Giving him the love he deserves (Sanji x Reader) Part 3

Note: Reader is still Mc (Main Character), but I made it sound like it's a name! I'm still too lazy to think of a real name. Forgive me!

The prompt for the story is: "The reader gets sucked into One Piece after wishing that someone would love Sanji like he is supposed to be loved, as nobody has given him a chance. She would love to give him that chance if only she could. One time, she was in her room, falling asleep while recording her voice for a cover request sent to her. When she woke up, she found herself in a boat floating, wearing pieces of jewelry fit for nobility. Her neck, ears, and bracelets were all glittering in the darkness." P.S. I know this is Sanji fic but I'll use any excuse to use the GIF to say it's his scene! Part 3 under the cut. Part 1, Part 2 here

In the midst of the chaos, "Zoro," Nami's voice, usually sharp and commanding, was laced with genuine concern as she watched her comrade face the looming threat. "Zoro, don't do anything reckless!" Usopp added, his wide eyes reflecting the worry shared by the entire crew.

Luffy, their fearless captain, clenched his fists, his determination evident in the hard set of his jaw. "Zoro's got this, guys. He's strong!"

Amidst the tension, Mc, their calm and composed beacon, swiftly organized supplies with a precision that belied the chaos around them. Her hands moved swiftly, efficiently gathering bandages, antiseptics, and herbs, her eyes focused and determined. Zeff, their stern mentor, grappled with the puzzle. “Lass, you know this was about to happen,” he stated, not a question but a fact.

Tearfully, she explained, “He won’t listen even if I tell him. Right now, I am no one in the crew. Why would he listen to me if he won’t even listen to them?”

Zeff, begrudgingly accepting her words, said, “Sanji, give me a tequila and a yellowfin.”

“I understand the tequila, but Yellowfin?” an unusual request that left him questioning the old man's sanity. A yellowfin for someone so gravely wounded seemed absurd.

Mc managed to smile weakly at Sanji, her touch gentle on his cheek, her eyes reflecting the depth of their bond. She whispered, “Obey your dad for once,” bridging the gap between them and transforming their rough love into a father-son dynamic that Sanji had never imagined possible.

In the midst of the tension, Sanji nodded, his usual confidence wavering for a moment before he steeled himself. “He could have explained,” he mumbled but followed, determination burning in his eyes as he rushed towards the kitchen. —

When they arrived, Zoro was sprawled out on the table, blood staining his clothes and the floor beneath him. Zeff, with the precision that came from years of experience, meticulously prepared the yellowfin fish. With delicate hands, he skinned the fish and placed it against the newly stitched wound on Zoro's chest, explaining it was a sailorman’s trick, an old remedy passed down through generations.

“Old man,” Sanji marveled, his admiration for the old chef's wisdom evident in his eyes.

"It's an old trick I learned. Sometimes, the simplest remedies work wonders," Zeff replied, his hands steady despite the urgency of the situation.

After they moved Zoro to Nami's room, Nami began reading to Zoro's unconscious form, her voice a soothing melody. Her presence brought a sense of calm to the room, a brief respite from the storm of emotions that raged outside.

Outside the room, Luffy, diligently cleaned Zoro’s sword, his face set in determination. He was focused, his every movement purposeful, as if he could will his friend back to health through sheer determination alone. Mc and Sanji tried giving Luffy food, but just this once, Luffy declined. That boy never said no to food. Luffy still had that smile on his face.

Mc, Usopp, and Sanji gathered around the kitchen island, Sanji’s hands working swiftly and efficiently to prepare the yellowfin that had been skinned earlier. Mc roped Usopp in to mold some rice balls, her childlike enthusiasm managing to distract the sniper. The room was filled with the aroma of fresh ingredients, a stark contrast to the tension that hung in the air.

Inside the room, tension thickened when Nami walked out, unshed tears in her eyes. The air was heavy with their collective worry and fear. Nami, her eyes filled with frustration and despair, cast blame upon Luffy for not preventing Zoro's challenge to Mihawk. Luffy's unwavering commitment to not shattering anyone’s dreams fueled the fire in Nami’s eyes. She gritted her teeth, expressing her belief that life was worth more than risking it all for a dream, her frustration evident in every word she uttered. In a huff, she stormed out of the room, leaving an atmosphere charged with emotions behind her.

Feeling Mc stiffen beside him, Sanji was aware of the burden she carried. He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her protectively. He felt her tense muscles relax against him, her head finding solace against his chest. In that moment, he understood the weight of her knowledge from the future and the pain it brought her. The crew they had just joined was falling apart, and he couldn't bear to see Mc suffer because she couldn’t do anything about it. His grip tightened around her, silently promising to be her anchor amidst the storm, to share her burden, and face the challenges ahead together.

"No matter what happens, I'll stand by your side; I would never desert you,” he whispered, his voice a soft reassurance in the midst of uncertainty. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with gratitude and love, and for a moment, the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of them. —

Then a shocking revelation struck – Nami had been colluding with Arlong all along, betraying the crew's trust by handing over the map of the Grand Line.

Burdened by her knowledge of the future, Mc wrestled with the decision to withhold this information. Sensing her inner conflict, Sanji gently pulled her aside, his eyes searching hers for answers.

"Did Nami betray us?" His voice was low, filled with concern.

Mc looked into Sanji’s eyes, her gaze reflecting the pain she felt.

“Of course, she wouldn’t,” Luffy said, his voice surprisingly calm after overhearing their conversation "You-", Sanji's eyes widened in shock. "The future huh?"Luffy smiled at Mc, now comprehending the weight of Mc's burden, her knowledge from her world guiding their path, he stood rooted to the spot. His usually carefree demeanor turned serious as he realized the gravity of the situation. His voice cut through the tension of the room. "We need to save her," he declared, his tone unwavering, filled with determination and hope. "We will?" Usopp is half hesitant remembering the fishmen. Luffy clenched his fists, his resolve firm. “Of course! We're a crew. We never leave anyone behind! Let's go kick Arlong's butt and bring Nami back!"

Zoro, the swordsman with a stern expression, nodded in agreement, "Arlong won't know what hit him when we're done."

Eyes immediately went to Zoro, who was standing like nothing had happened.

"Nami would jump out of joy if she sees you awake!" Usopp said, his eyes bright with admiration for Zoro's strength.

“That’ll be a sight to see,” Zoro snorted knowing Nami.

Mc, her eyes filled with gratitude and determination, stepped forward. "You let us take care of this. Fight, but make sure you don't make those stitches worse. Unless you want to die on us.”

“Like something like that will kill me,” Zoro snorted but looked at their new crew member fondly. She, after all, supplied his alcohol during their stay. “You can fight too, eh?” Zoro smirked at Mc. She always had been away from the fights they encountered.

Usopp, his eyes gleaming with a mix of fear and excitement, chimed in, "We'll show Arlong that the Straw Hat crew doesn't back down from a fight! Prepare yourselves, because we're coming for you, Arlong!"

Clearly hearing Usopp's hesitance earlier, “You’ll scare them away, huh, great captain Usopp?” Zoro grinned.

Sanji tightened his grip on Mc's hand, his usual suave demeanor replaced by fierce determination.

══════════════════ Thanks for stopping by! The last part of the series is on its way, followed by lots of fun/fluffy headcanons. I can't help but giggle—I have tons of them! I'm a big fan of the established relationship trope and the crew's interactions.

Series here: Part 1, Part 2 here, Part 4-Ending Masterlist here!

Get ready for more Future Fluffs aboard the Thousand Sunny, featuring Mc and Sanji being their adorable married selves, along with the Straw Hats getting in on the fun!

Breakfast in Sunny

Caught in Again Part 1, Part 2(coming up)

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mikodrawnnarratives · 7 months

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I'm kind of obsessed with the idea that

Since Nova and Magpie seem to have had similar childhood's, both being very rough and in proverty, they can sort of have a mutual understanding that they don't really talk about much.

And I think this could lead Nova, despite being the one who is older and will be an adult much sooner before Magpie, to just. Be okay with some things this CHILD might do and think is normal. When somethings may really really NOT be normal.

I heavily interpret both of them as self sufficient since a young age due to all their trauma and upbringings. So if Nova sees Maggie brooding she'd be more likely to go "haha mood" then "Do you want to talk about it? I'm vry worried for u my dearest bby sister"

Not to say she wouldn't ever have moments of the latter. She doesn't exactly WANT her sister to suffer the way she has. I think she would offer a comfort that would be completely optional and quiet. They don't have to talk about it. They both know.

Plus, being rich/well off from the renegades would be a new experience for both of them lol

Y'know once they get over the drama Maggie started when she stole her bracelet. Once they reach a sibling truce. Nova's problems with Maggie being a thief in the renegades I think would be washed away from

This is my sister omygod I'm kinda proud she's fended for herself all this time HELL YEAH steal from the rich

Breaking down her concepts of good and bad after the renegades trilogy. She most definitely will have to do this to make a better solution than just Renegades or Anarchist

Anyway, if Maggie disappears, all Nova would require is an occasional sign/text/call/picture that confirms yes she is alive. Maybe a location. And it's all good. However Adrian might be like "Dude! You've been missing for 2 weeks what the heck!?!?" meanwhile Maggie climbs back into the apartment at 1 am and Nova's like "cool btw wanna grab some food" and Maggie's irregular sleep schedule is never talked about ever.

I don't think Nova would feel any real urgency to "fix" behaviors Maggie learned. She'd show concerns for some things but she also relates so much that, she doesn't want to force Maggie to do anything. Nova wouldn't really be able to recognize "oh yeah we should both get our asses to the therapists office" without Adrian and friends being like "Dudes."

Which contributes to the importance of Maggie getting tutoring for education she's missed out on being downplayed.

At the same time, I can imagine this would be really important to Maggie since it's basically going at her pace and she still gets comfort that Nova definitely would be open to giving. It reassures them both that they have each other. And Maggie doesn't ever have to think she's alone anymore. Nova gets it. And Nova's her sister. SHE is Nova's sister.

kjdslkjdsfjkdfslk;fds;kl idk I like this and it's my headcanon thingie

#long post #sort of #renegades trilogy #magpie #nova artino #maggie white #margaret white #evie artino #renegades #renegades marissa meyer

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e-spexially · 1 year

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𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑼𝑪𝑲𝒀 𝑶𝑵𝑬 | 𝑭𝑰𝑵𝑵𝑰𝑪𝑲 𝑶𝑫𝑨𝑰𝑹

synopsis. a retrospective look at the events that led Lorraine Cortez, Victor of the 68th Hunger Games, into the Quarter Quell with Finnick Odair.

pairing. Finnick Odair x fem!oc

part. 1

warnings. movie canon, hunger games typical violence, angst, family tension, enemies to lovers, angst, eventual smut, ptsd, torture

Despite the scorching heat of an artificial sun, Lorraine feels as if her blood is ice. Wide eyes scanned the others, looking for his face. She lets out a distressed whine and clenches her fists repeatedly once she realizes he is out of her line of sight.

“Let the 75th Hunger Games begin,” the familiar voice speaks from above. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

You can do this, the words echo in her head. You’ve already done this. That was different, she thinks, he knew it was different. The girl shakes her head as she readies herself. The time to second guess was over now. As the countdown ends, urgency ignites in the pit of her stomach. “Three, two, one.” Taking one final breath, she plunges into the water and propels forward with great speed.

Within seconds, she's at the base of the Cornucopia and hoisting herself onto the black rocks. Lorraine snatches up two silver, hook-shaped blades and turns quickly, only to be met with the tip of an arrowhead inches from her face.

Seven Years Earlier - District 4

In a small white house, two unsteady hands did their best to pin up brown locks. Once that was secure, Lorraine scanned her reflection in search of flaws. She strained to see all angles of herself, desperately ensuring nothing slipped through the cracks. Surely this time, there wouldn’t be anything to fix.

Her Reaping Day attire was a sea-green dress handed down by her sister Charlotte and a homemade pearl necklace that glinted faintly in the light. The dress hugged her flatteringly, the way it had with her sister before she hit her growth spurt. Lorraine never liked tempting fate on a day like this, but was secretly sure that she would have another chance to wear this outfit. She slipped on a pair of white sandals and left her bedroom. They clacked against aged wooden floors, being the only sound in a relatively quiet house.

She made her way into the kitchen, where her mother was laying breakfast out on the table. Sunlight streamed in through the small window above the sink and made the faded blue dress she wore look much brighter. Seeing that neither her siblings or father were in the room, Lorraine tried to turn and retreat silently, only to be given away by the jingle of her bracelet. It was the smallest sound, really, but her mother could have heard it from the docks.

“Good morning to you, too.” The woman spoke. She had an authoritative tone by default and it always made Lorraine feel as though she was about to be scolded. The girl reluctantly made her way to her mother. She muttered, “Good morning,” and waited patiently for her examination.

Her mother turned away from the sink to begin inspecting her until she could find something wrong. There was always something wrong. Sure enough, she pulled out the pin from Lorraine’s hair and gathered more hair to bring back. The girl winced as the pin was forcefully scraped against her scalp. Then she positioned a few strands out in the front to frame her daughter’s face. Her hands swatted Lorraine’s own as they moved up. “Leave it. You look beautiful.” The compliment surprised her and convinced her not to argue. She thanked her mother and allowed the woman to wrap her arms around her, as she did every Reaping Day.

Her mother’s skin was soft and cold, permanently chilled from years of working in the cold packing house that shipped fish to the Capitol. Lorraine didn’t care that the touch caused goosebumps, she savored any moment that her mother was close like this. The woman squeezed her for a few seconds before returning to her task. And just like that, the moment was over. It was the only thing that left Lorraine emptier than the reaping.

She had little time to dwell on this as her sister entered the kitchen. Charlotte was in a white dress that stopped just above her knees and heeled shoes, the look on her face confirming that they were her mother’s idea. The older girl greeted them casually, bending her leg to fidget with a strap on the shoe. They would take some getting used to, as she spent most of her time barefoot in the sand, setting and emptying traps for their father or gathering shells to make jewelry with.

“I can’t wait for this to be over with,” Charlotte griped as she sat next to her sister. “These things are torture.” Lorraine snickered as she stared under the table at the other girl’s shoes.

“Tell me about it,” She gestured to the left side of her head. “She practically shoved this pin into my skull. I bet you it still won’t stay up.” As the two shared their discomfort, their brother’s voice sounded from behind them.

“I just can’t believe you’re really wearing a dress.” Devon laughed. He was wearing a blue collared shirt that was tucked into light-colored slacks. A silver fishhook, gifted from his girlfriend Vidia, hung around his neck. “It actually doesn’t look that unfortunate!”

“At least I don't smell unfortunate,” Charlotte snapped in response. “It reeks of fish bait in here now.”

The boy went to say something rotten back to his younger sister, but was interrupted.

“That's enough.” They all turned to their father who was emerging from the living room, slipping on his worn blue sweater. Seeing the man calmed the growing feeling of dread in Lorraine’s stomach as the time to leave their home was nearing. He had a way of making her feel better in situations like these and it was no secret that she’d always felt closer to him. After all, she had more in common with him than her mother. Devon and Charlotte were more like the woman, which was probably the reason she never could find anything too wrong with them.

Her mother ordered them all to sit so they could eat together before the ceremony. Devon tore open a roll and slathered it with salty butter from the dish in front of Charlotte, causing her to scowl at him as he reached over her plate. He laughed at her irritation. Although he was trying not to show it, Lorraine could see his usual blithe attitude was slightly rattled today. Their parents didn’t seem to notice as they were handling their own private anxieties.

Charlotte looked to be handling things better than the rest of them. It must have been easy for her to accept the possibility of being picked out of that glass bowl. Between her and Lorraine, she was more physically capable of taking care of herself in the Hunger Games. These last few months she’d spent helping her father, she’d developed more muscle along her arms and legs and was just as strong as Devon. She was a force to be reckoned with among the fisherwomen in the district, surely the Games would not be difficult for her.

Lorraine swallowed a spoonful of the creamy soup her mother made, mulling this over. She scolded herself for thinking this way, for even bringing the idea of her sister being picked into existence. A pang of guilt went through her.

Eventually, the siren called for everyone to make their way to the town square and the steady conversation at the table halted to a stop. Lorraine tried not to let her hands shake too much. Their father put his napkin down and cleared his throat.

“Join hands.” His voice was firm, but only to hide the nerves. They did as they were told and looked to their parents. Lorraine focused on her father and sister’s hands in her own, using them as an anchor to ensure she didn’t spiral. Their mother was never good with this sort of thing, always opting to let her husband do the talking.

“We love you all, very much,” he said lowly. “Good luck today and remember that we’re always with you.”

The town square was crowded by the time they arrived. Lorraine stood behind Charlotte in line to sign in and squeezed her finger as tightly as she could, hoping to numb it a bit before the finger prick. There was a gentle chatter floating in the air as children found their spots and parents socialized. Many of them weren’t worried, District 4 was often lush with volunteers. The thought eased Lorraine’s racing mind a bit.

“Next.” The woman at the desk said. Lorraine gave the woman her hand and winced when the needle pricked her finger, scanning the crowd for her friends. When the woman ushered her along, she rushed to where she spotted her friend Cecily.

“Your brother looks handsome,” was the first thing the blonde girl said, staring ahead at the stage. She glanced at Lorraine with a smile before turning back to the stage. The other girl rolled her eyes before looking at the stage herself. “What are you looking for?” She asked.

Cecily scoffed as if this was a foolish question. “Finnick Odair!”

The mention of his name made Lorraine perk up. “I forgot!” She now scanned the stage, looking for him as well. Charlotte, who stood behind them, spoke up.

“He’s not there yet.” She reported, being taller than both of them. “Besides Cecily, he already said he doesn’t like blondes.” Cecily turned to her quickly.

“He didn’t say that!” She then turned to Lorraine. “Did he say that?”

“It’s true,” Charlotte answered. “I heard it myself, in an interview.”

Cecily let out a hmph. “I don’t believe you for a second Charlotte!” She crossed her arms superiorly. “I’ll just have to ask him myself when I volunteer.” Charlotte turned to the girl in surprise.

“You’re going to volunteer?” Lorraine had shared her surprise when her friend had first shared this news with her weeks ago. She never thought Cecily would be the type to do such a thing. Imagining the skinny girl with a ruffled dress in the arena made her want to laugh.

“Yup. My father had a training room put in last month.” Charlotte nodded, somewhat impressed.

“Well, good luck when you get there,” She said, sounding relieved that at least they would be safe. “And try not to fall on stage, I would hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of Finnick!” She said the boy’s name with a mocking tone. Cecily shot her one last scowl before the microphone was tapped harshly.

Lorraine looked back up to the stage, silently asking whoever was listening to keep Cecily safe. They’d been friends for a few years now and she would have liked to see her again.

“Good afternoon!” The District 4 escort was a tall, thin woman named Freesia Fallows. She wore a wide, green fan around her neck, giving her the appearance of an angry lizard. “Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Drowning out the dramatic music that played from the repetitive origin story of the Games, Lorraine scanned the other faces on stage and found the one she’d been searching for. Cecily found it as well, nudging her subtly. For the last few years, the only part of the Reaping worth getting worked up over was Finnick Odair. He was practically golden in the sunlight that peeked under the awning above and it seemed that even the summer day was trying to catch a glimpse of him.

Lorraine and Cecily had followed his Games closely, always eager to see the older boy’s face on their television. Cecily’s mother didn’t particularly enjoy that they were watching him violently eliminate his fellow Tributes, but they weren’t paying much attention to the action.

“It is time to select one young woman and one young man to represent District 4 in the 68th Annual Hunger Games!” Freesia made her way over to the bowl full of girls’ names. Lorraine glanced at Cecily, waiting to hear how she would declare her volunteering. Knowing her, she’d want to wait until a name was called so she could step in courageously. Lorraine smiled at the thought. Freesia returned to the front of the microphone and opened the slip of paper she selected. She cleared her throat.

“Lorraine Cortez.”

Lorraine let out a small laugh. What were the chances? She was sure Devon and her parents were panicking. With a small smile, she turned to Cecily.

“Go ahead,” She whispered. “This is your chance!” The blonde girl was not smiling back. She looked like she’d seen a ghost, her naturally pale face almost translucent now. Lorraine nudged her. Maybe she hadn’t heard.

“Lorraine Cortez?” Freesia called out once more.

“Cecily, you have to tell them.” When she received no response besides a few shuddering breaths, she turned to Charlotte. Big, dark eyes identical to hers were filled with horror. She had always been able to read people quickly and realized the problem long before Lorraine did. Realization washed over the younger girl just then as she looked at her friend.

“Cecily…” She said, her tone soaked with fear. “Cecily, come on.” Cecily turned to her, looking like a scolded child.

“I’m sorry,” her voice trembled. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

The woman from the sign-in desk pointed Lorraine out to the Peacekeepers and they marched over to her row.

“Cecily!” She screamed as they grabbed her by her arms and dragged her away. She tried to hold onto Charlotte’s hand as long as she could but was ripped away from her. Her hair came unpinned as the Peacekeepers set her down in the aisle. Two more joined them and formed a square around her, blocking her in all directions. She faced the crowd of adults and found her parents. Her mother wore the same stunned look Cecily had. Her father had a hand clamped over his mouth and was shaking slightly. Lorraine had never seen her father cry before and it only frightened her more.

“Come on honey!” Freesia called. The Peacekeepers began to move forward in unison, ushering Lorraine forward to the stage. She clasped her hands to hide, hoping that would hide their trembling. Getting up the stairs felt like climbing a mountain. She caught a glimpse of Finnick from the corner of her eye. She wanted to run to him and ask him to save her, somehow. Finally, she stood next to Freesia.

“Perfect! Moving on…” The woman trailed off, heels clicking in the direction of the boys’ glass bowl. Lorraine stared out at the crowd. Cecily was red in the face, crying profusely. Charlotte stared back helplessly. She tried to find Devon in the crowd, but couldn’t quite see him in the back with the eighteen-year-olds.

Freesia returned with the final slip of paper and read it loud and clear to the microphone.

“Devon Cortez.”

Lorraine wasn’t sure what was louder, the collective sigh of relief from the boys or the single cry from her mother. This had to be some sick joke. She waited patiently for a male volunteer, but one never came. A sob sounded from the girls’ side and Lorraine’s eyes shot to see who it was.

Vidia. Of course.

The dark-haired girl was held by the girl next to her as she watched Devon march stoically up to the stage. He avoided his sister’s eyes and took his place on the other side of Freesia.

“May I present the Tributes of District 4,” She announced. “Lorraine Cortez and Devon Cortez!” Tears threatened to spill from Lorraine’s eyes. She looked at Charlotte, who shook her head. Don’t cry, she was saying. Lorraine nodded.

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!”

#finnick odair #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair angst #finnick odair fluff #hunger games finnick #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #mags flanagan #the hunger games fanfiction #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x oc #💌

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sluttybrunette · 20 days

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May I ask how they might react to a darling very visibly scared out of their fucking mind? Like flinching and wide eyes and shaking?

Hope you like it! And I hope I did it right!

Eleanor

Eleanor would be so frustrated seeing you flinch and try to avoid her at all costs had her wanting to scream into a pillow. Her grip on her composure tightened, her lips thinning into a line as she struggled to contain her emotions.

She knew that showing any sign of displeasure or irritation would only push you away and make you more scared and that was the last thing she wanted.

Eleanor took a deep breath and forced herself to soften her expression although she was far from understanding. As soon as she got herself in check she approached you slowly.

“Precious…” She mumbled, her voice yet you could hear the hint of urgency and desperation “Please look at me…”

Her heart ached at the sight of your trembling figure, the fear so noticeable in your eyes cracking through her control. She wanted nothing more than to have you in her arms and watch a movie…yeah! A movie!

She leaned in closer as you froze, trembling much more as your eyes searched for a way out if only she didn't corner you.

“I’m not going to hurt you, precious” She whispered, her tone pleading. “You’re safe with me, always…”

“I'll cherish you forever, my sweet precious…just let me show you how much you mean to me…”

Alora

Alora’s quiet demeanour will momentarily crack as she sees your fear. She would freeze her hands twitching wanting to reach out to you but knew she shouldn't and if she did it would probably make you fear her more.

Despite her urges, Alora manages to come up with something (Thanks to Eleanor) and begins to leave gifts on your nightstand or even beside you on your bed so when you woke up you were met with a bloody hand that had a ring or bracelet on it and a note that always said ‘like?’ on it.

If all this doesn't work to make you not scared of her she would start to force things such as cuddling with you and forcing you to constantly be around her, then she would force you to sleep in the same bed as well and eventually would get used to your trembling figure and scared shaky breaths. Which would mean she wouldn't really care in the end since she believes you belong to her<3.

“Darling, why do you keep pulling away? Don't you see how much I adore you? I just want to be close to you, to protect you from everything that scares you. Can't you feel how much I love you? You belong with me, always. So please, don't be afraid. Let me hold you, let me take care of you. I promise I'll never let anything harm you. You're mine, and I'll do anything to keep you by my side, forever."

Victoria

As soon as Victoria notices your trembling figure and wide eyes her heart clenches in a panic. She's instantly taken over with concern and possessiveness.

“Darling, what's wrong? Who did this to you?” She takes hold of your trembling hands completely oblivious to her being the problem.

She tries everything and anything to get you to talk or just look at her from buying you expensive shit to just begging you to talk to her and tell her why you think she's so scary.

Please, darling, tell me what's wrong. I'll do anything to make it better. I can't stand to see you like this." Her voice cracks with emotion as she begs for your reassurance, her own insecurities laid bare in the face of your fear. All she wants is to hold you close, to prove that she's not the source of your terror, but the one person you can always rely on for comfort and protection.

Not red part for her:( can't think of any

#yandere #female yandere #wlw love #lesbian #lovesick #wlw post #wlw #yanderefemale #yandere lesbian

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boutondepanique · 9 months

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Obtenez 3 soumissions gratuites pour vos boutons d'alarme

Un bouton de panique ou un détecteur de chute sert à sécuriser énormément les proches de gens âgés ou bien en perte de mobilité. Ces petits dispositifs bien utiles peuvent être branchés à une centrale ou bien seulement liés à un numéro de téléphone d’une personne désignée. Épargnez sur ces bracelets d’urgence en magasinant et en comparant les diverses offres ! Obtenez, en remplissant le formulaire au https://boutondepanique.ca/, des soumissions rapides gratuitement pour des systèmes de sécurité (pendentifs, bracelets, boutons…). Il y en a pour tous les types et budgets et cela ne vous engage en rien. Nos partenaires, des experts en sécurité de partout en province (Gatineau, Sherbrooke, Québec, Montréal, Trois-Rivières, Saguenay…) vous contacteront rapidement.

#bouton de panique #bracelet urgence #bouton urgence #bracelet alarme #système alarme #sécurité aîné #alerte médicale #détecteur de chute

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soumissionsprotection · 11 months

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Bracelet d’urgence pour les aînés

Lorsqu'un membre de la famille perd son autonomie, l'utilisation d'un bracelet d’urgence ou d’un bouton de panique peut devenir essentiel. Ces dispositifs portables tels que des pendentifs ou des bracelets offrent une tranquillité d'esprit en cas de besoin d'assistance. Par exemple, un bracelet d'appel conventionnel permet de contacter un numéro de téléphone en cas de malaise. Un bracelet d'appel muni de la communication vocale permet quant à lui d'être en contact direct avec un agent dans une centrale d'urgence, formé pour fournir les soins nécessaires et envoyer des secours si nécessaire. Trouvez le bracelet médical ou bouton de panique qui convient le mieux à vos besoins en utilisant le formulaire disponible sur la page https://soumissionsprotection.ca/bracelet-alerte-medicale/ . Vous recevrez tout à fait gratuitement des soumissions d'entreprises spécialisées en sécurité résidentielle (nos partenaires). Comparez les offres et choisissez le système de sécurité ou d’alarme qui vous convient le mieux, sans aucune obligation de votre part. Nos services sont disponibles partout au Québec (Montréal, Gatineau, Québec, Saguenay, Trois-Rivières, Sherbrooke, etc.).

#soumissions protection #système de sécurité #système d'alarme #bracelet de protection #détecteur de chute #bracelet d'urgence #bouton de panique #caméras de surveillance #détecteurs de fumée #détecteurs de mouvement #éclairage d'urgence #sécurité #protection voleurs #protection feu #urgence #sécurité maison

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karuvapatta · 1 month

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Next part of the Untitled Jonelias Magic AU. Thank you @ceaseless-bitcher for your feedback, worldbuilding ideas, and line suggestions!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

***

“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary – Rose? Rosie? – asked politely, opening her calendar.

“I do not,” Jon said.

“I see,” she said. “Well, forgive me, Mr Sims, but Master Bouchard is currently in a meeting. If you have a message for him, I would be happy to pass it along.”

“Look,” Jon began, then shut his mouth immediately thereafter. The secretary – Rosie; he was pretty sure her name was Rosie – regarded him with a bland, polite smile, her hands folded neatly on the desk. Behind her were the doors to Master Bouchard’s office, presently out of Jon’s reach.

“Is there anything I can do for you, then?” she asked.

He should have written a letter. He should have refrained from coming here in the first place.

“Is it possible to arrange a meeting?” he asked. “I—I really need to speak with Master Bouchard.”

He didn’t want to accost the man after one of his lectures, or seek entry to the research floor without invitation. That seemed to be a step too far. But maybe he would have no other choice, if Rosie continued being this difficult.

“I will have to confirm it with him. I will let you know once I have any details,” Rosie said.

“Thank you,” Jon said curtly. He wrote down his contact information, and could not help one last heated glare in the direction of Bouchard’s locked office door.

It was foolish. It wasn’t important. The sense of urgency gnawing at his stomach was entirely unwarranted. He needed to put that feeling to rest and move on. If Bouchard refused to see him, he would do just that. He would stop showing up to his lectures, stop reading his papers, stop hovering near the research department…

Half-heartedly, he wished that this would be the end of it. And yet the reply arrived two days later, with the meeting set for next week. Jon didn’t know how to feel about that. He spent altogether too much time trying to come up with something intelligent to say, some compelling argument as to why he wanted to see Bouchard in the first place. Yet when the time came, his mind was blank and his throat was dry.

“Mr Sims,” Bouchard greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jon swallowed. The office was just as he had remembered it, with Bouchard silhouetted against the large window behind him. Jon felt uncomfortably exposed where he stood; he could not see the man’s face clearly, with the afternoon light nearly blinding him.

“Take a seat, please,” Bouchard said, pointing to the familiar chair in front of his desk.

Jon moved slowly. He placed his hand on the back of the chair, fingers twitching against dark wood and embroidered fabric. Bouchard’s pale eyes were on him; he could feel them as acutely as he felt the sunlight on his skin. He had questions, so many questions echoing in his head, and yet he struggled to voice any of them.

Bouchard was a patient man. He sat back, fingers steepled together, and said nothing at all as Jon hovered awkwardly in front of him, at war with his own thoughts.

“Have you chosen an apprentice yet, Master?” Jon asked.

He hadn’t meant for these to be the first words out of his mouth, but now he couldn’t take them back.

“Oh my,” Bouchard chuckled. “Gossip really spreads like wildfire, doesn’t it?”

This wasn’t an answer. Jon frowned at him.

“Why do you want to know?” Bouchard asked.

Still the same frustrating non-answer. Jon’s frown deepened; his fingers clenched tight around the back of the chair. The bracelet shifted against his skin, responding to the movement, or perhaps the sudden flash of anger.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “You will not tell me anyway.”

Bouchard’s mouth twitched into a smile. This—he found it amusing. Jon was a source of entertainment for him, for whatever reason. The reasonable thing to do would be to turn back and leave; Jon, of course, stayed right where he stood.

“What is it that you want from me?” Jon asked.

“Why do you assume I want anything from you?” Bouchard asked calmly.

“You—” Jon bit his lip. This was wrong, this was all wrong. He was making an ass of himself. But—well. “Why did you reject my application?” he asked. This was a reasonable question, was it not? “Is it because of the—” he pressed his fingers to his wrist and the bracelet bound tight around it, feeling it thrum gently, matching the rhythm of his pulse. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he added quietly.

“It does matter,” Bouchard said. “To you, most of all. Why pretend otherwise?”

It was driving him insane, the way Bouchard insisted on answering Jon’s questions with even more questions. What would it take to get a normal reply out of the man? Why was he toying with Jon?

“I have been practicing,” Jon said. “You know I have. I—I want to learn.” He dropped his gaze, throat seizing with embarrassment. But he needed to say the words out loud, he needed to have them out in the open. “Master, I know I’m capable of this with your guidance. I want to be your apprentice. Please.”

He braced himself for whatever might come next. Maybe he ought to apologize for his outlandish request, offer an explanation, play it off as a joke… except he couldn’t bring himself to lie right now. Bouchard would probably know if he did. So he glanced up, chancing a look at Bouchard’s face, to better judge his reaction.

Their eyes met; Bouchard smiled.

“To answer your earlier question, Mr Sims,” he began. “Yes, I already made my choice. But I had to wait for you to make yours.”

Oh.

Jon still didn’t know why. But now he had the chance to find out.

#jonelias #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #elias bouchard

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zapreportsblog · 10 months

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In Love With The Same Cat

➥ summary : There’s no Spider-Man without the Black Cat just like there’s no Black Cat without Spider-Man. But what if we had a multiverse dimensional traveling jewelry stealing burglar Black Cat (try saying that seven times fast aye) that traveled across dimensions not only stealing the worlds finest jewels but also the hearts of four unlucky, or lucky depending on how you see it Spider-Man’s and Spider-Women’s hearts.

➥ chapter 18 : A Clash of Anomalies

The night was enveloped in darkness as Spider-Ghost, also known as Gwen Stacy, swung through the city, her eyes alert for any signs of trouble. She had received a distress signal from the multiverse dimensional traveling bracelet, indicating the presence of another anomaly in Miles' dimension. With a sense of urgency, she made her way to the designated location, knowing that she needed to confront the anomaly and neutralize the threat it posed.

Unbeknownst to Gwen, Miles, in his Spider-Man persona, had also responded to the alert, independently patrolling the area. It was a stroke of fate that they would both find themselves in the same place, facing different challenges. As Gwen arrived at the scene, she spotted the anomaly, a swirling mass of energy that seemed to distort reality itself.

But before she could take action, a familiar voice cut through the air. Spider-Punk, clad in his punk-inspired suit, leaped onto a nearby rooftop, his presence adding a twist to the unfolding situation. He had been drawn to the anomaly as well, his sense of adventure and justice compelling him to lend a hand.

Spotting Gwen, Spider-Punk flashed a mischievous grin. "Well, well, if it ain't Ghost Spider herself," he called out, his voice dripping with a rebellious charm. "Need a bit of punk rock help, do ya?"

Gwen couldn't help but chuckle, her tension momentarily eased by the arrival of her eccentric ally. "You always know how to make an entrance, Spider-Punk. I could use all the help I can get with this anomaly."

With a nod of agreement, the two heroes sprang into action, working in sync to subdue the anomaly. Their powers and acrobatic prowess complemented each other, forming a dynamic partnership that allowed them to confront the threat head-on. As they fought side by side, Gwen couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for Spider-Punk's unyielding spirit and unique fighting style.

Meanwhile, not far from their location, Miles, as Spider-Man, found himself embroiled in a different kind of conflict. Black Cat had returned, once again engaging in her thieving antics. Miles was determined to bring her to justice and put an end to her crimes, but she proved to be a formidable adversary, always managing to elude his grasp.

Frustration and determination burned within Miles as he swung through the city, his spider-senses on high alert. He had to catch Black Cat and put an end to her thieving ways, but she seemed to always be one step ahead, slipping through his fingers with ease.

Unbeknownst to Miles, Gwen's eyes were trained on him, her heart heavy with a mixture of jealousy and longing. She couldn't shake the memory of their encounter at the arcade, the electric chemistry between Miles and (y/n). It gnawed at her, filling her with uncertainty and confusion about her own feelings.

Spider-Punk, ever observant, noticed Gwen's distraction. He could sense the tension radiating from her, the emotions she struggled to contain. With a wry smile, he spoke up, breaking the silence. "You seem a bit preoccupied, Ghost. Mind telling your friendly neighborhood punk what's bothering you?"

Gwen sighed, her mask unable to conceal the conflict within. "It's just... I can't help but feel somewhat jealous, ya know?Spider-Punk. A few days ago I saw the way a friend of mine and his friend interacted back at this arcade, and it's been messing with my head since."

Spider-Punk chuckled, his voice laced with amusement. "Ah, love and jealousy, the grand dramas of life. But trust me, Ghost, appearances can be deceiving. You never know what lies beneath the surface."

As he spoke, Spider-Punk spotted Black Cat in the distance, her lithe figure tauntingly elusive. A mischievous gleam shone in her eyes as she glanced in their direction. "Well, well, looks like I've got two hot guys chasing after me now," she purred, her voice carrying a flirtatious edge.

Spider-Punk's eyebrow raised in surprise, his own playful nature coming to the forefront. "And how'd you know I'm hot?" he retorted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Black Cat smirked in response, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "The voice, love. It's all in the voice."

As their banter continued, Gwen couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. But beneath it all, she knew Spider-Punk was right. Appearances could be deceiving, and she needed to trust in her friendship with Miles.

The night wore on, and as the battle against the anomaly and Black Cat intensified, Spider-Ghost and Spider-Punk fought with determination and skill. The anomaly was eventually contained and neutralized, while Black Cat managed to slip away once more.

As the dust settled and the city returned to its usual rhythm, Gwen and Spider-Punk regrouped. Gwen looked at her companion, a sense of gratitude in her eyes. "Thanks for being there, Spider-Punk. Your words of wisdom and your unpredictable nature... they always manage to put things into perspective."

Spider-Punk grinned, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Anytime, Ghost. Just remember, love and friendship are never straightforward. It's all about finding your own rhythm in this crazy world."

With a final nod, the two heroes went their separate ways, each carrying their own burdens and desires. The night had brought them closer, forged a bond between them, and reminded them of the complexities of love, friendship, and the constant dance of life.

#x reader #x reader series #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderverse x reader #spiderverse imagine #spider gang #spiderman into the spiderverse masterlist #miles morales x reader #miles morales #pavitr prabhakar x reader #pavitr prabhakar #gwen stacy x reader #gwen stacy #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #in love with the same cat series #in love with the same cat #in love with the same cat masterlist

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wheneclipsefalls · 1 year

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Ma Neteyam pt.1

Part 2

Pairing: Neteyam (20 yrs old) x Original Male Na’vi Character

Summary: Neteyam is kidnapped by the Olo’eyktan alpha from a nearby clan who claims that Eywa has destined them to be soulmates. Only weeks away from fully presenting as omega, Neteyam is caught between trying to find his way home and giving in to his primal desires.

Warnings: more smut as the story continues, alpha/beta/omega universe so unequal power dynamics, swearing, stockholm syndrome, more warnings with the coming chapters.

Author’s note: This is my first fanfic I have posted online and the first smut I have ever written, so please be nice. If you don’t like, just don’t read. This first part may be shorter than the coming chapters. It will act as a test run. If you like it, please let me know and I will continue updating. Also please ignore some of the plot ambiguity.

The night air was crisp and soothing with the sounds of wildlife purring throughout the forest. Neteyam lay soundly asleep alone in his hammock dreaming of the ride on his ikran he planned to pursue the next day. He was proud of the independence his father had been granting him lately, letting him go solo on certain journeys and even hunt on his own every now and then, despite his omega gender. It was no small feat to convince the man he would be safe alone, especially with all of the Na’vi young males that had been constantly pining for his affections. Jake was a proud and protective father so when high strung navi warriors made grabs at his only omega son, he was known to retaliate and tighten the reins.

On normal days Lo’ak had the luxury of an alpha title and therefore was able to pounce along the forest without a second thought from his parents. For Neteyam, he was stuck weaving baskets and making bracelets with his mother or occasionally following around his father and brother in their less dangerous pursuits. Recently however, his father had finally conceded to letting his son go on solo rides that didn’t stray from the hallelujah mountains along with hunts that brought him back to the clan before eclipse. Freedom was paradise to Neteyam even if he wasn’t known to fly as far as his brother.

A loud crack startled the boy into opening his eyes. There was no accompanying sound to follow but nevertheless he now lay slightly lucid in his hammock wondering if the sound was only his imagination. After a long pause in silence, he finally decided it was nothing and turned to his other side to sleep. However, he did not get the chance to continue dreaming. This time a chilling ikran call echoed throughout the forest from a short distance. Neteyam didn’t even have time to sit up and look for the source before a sudden impact hit his side causing the hammock to swing dramatically.

The motion had him gasping and practically swinging completely out of the bed before he was able to get a grip on the mesh material enough to keep him there dangling high above the forest ground. The village slowly began to hum as others awoke and searched for the threat. Neteyam ignored the distant conversations slowly erupting as he looked down below for the best way to fall. He slowly felt his heart rate recover from the startling events as he decided on a route that would take him colliding from leaf to leaf till he could hit the bottom.

“Neteyam!” His father’s call interrupted his thoughts as he strained to see his figure a few trees behind him.

“I’m fine!” He yelled across the distance, but the commotion continued and kicked up in urgency.

To his surprise families started emerging from their beds and warriors were scrambling for their bows and arrows.

“Climb! Climb!” Jake commanded with great intensity while rushing closer. Neteyam was confused at the objection to safe fall but knew better than to disobey his father. He flexed his arms and core as he tried to lift himself back up into the hammock.

Suddenly, ikran calls and war cries echoed around and below the Na’vi male. He made the mistake of whipping his head around to identify the threat only to nearly get knocked down by an ikran and rider aiming directly for his hammock. Without another thought his instincts kicked in and he gracefully swung his body back before using that inertia to propel himself at the nearest tree. Desperate hands and feet grasped at the vines on the tree as he threw his body into a climb.

The ikran circled around the tree giving the boy glimpses of the tall rider crouching in a determined stance. Blood racing through his veins at a quicker speed, Neteyam threw all of his groggy energy into flinging himself up the tree in unpredictable directions. His hands were already forming small cuts and his legs aching with the surprise of the unprepared physical exertion. At this point the village was in a full riot as the ikran and mystery riders swirled through the forest.

Neteyam leaped from the tree to nearby hanging vines allowing him to travel to a smaller tree deeper in the brush. His impact was clumsy; the tree was weaker than predicted but he was now out from under the riders radar and able to see the chaos for what it was. From a distance he could now see that the intruders were flanking his abandoned hammock. His father was the first to charge at the navi and engage in combat. His mother was not far behind as she picked up her bow and arrow already pointing at one of the riders.

Strong claws gripped Neteyam by the shoulders before lifting him through the air. The boy gasped and hissed while frantically trying to maneuver his way out of the ikrans claws.

“NETEYAM!” His father’s call rang out with desperation but the boy was too busy writhing and reaching for the claws to spot him.

After only a few seconds the claws suddenly released him and he found himself quickly falling through the air. He tried to get into the proper flat position to fall upon the protective leaves but instead of hitting the greenery he found the air almost knocked out of him as he fell onto another ikran’s back. His body started to slide across its smooth skin before a strong hand reached back to grip his arm.

Neteyam was too busy to identify the rider gripping him but instead focused all of his efforts on prying the fingers off of his arm. If he could just get the man to release him he might still have a chance at cascading into the leaves down below for a safe landing. The Na’vi male’s grip didn’t budge as he hosted Neteyam’s dangling body from the back off the ikran to instead lay across his lap. Before he could push himself up from his lap the intruder was already wrapping an arm around his waist tightly and moving to position the omega in front.

Neteyam quickly elbowed him in the nose once in a slightly upright position. The rider’s grip loosened enough in shock to allow Neteyam to break free and start to slide off of the ikran. His efforts were in vain however as the ikran banked to the right and the omega went sliding towards the rider instead of away. Muscular long arms wrapped themselves around the boy’s shoulders and waist while he hissed angrily.

“Calm, little one.” The stranger’s deep voice purred at the infuriated omega as he positioned the boy’s smaller body in front of him.

“Let me go before I skin you!” He bellowed struggling in the grasp. The man was back into position to direct the Ikran while still trapping Neteyam. They soared left towards an opening in the forest. Cries could be heard from all around as ikrans flowed past them along with arrows and running villagers.

His father was already on his own ikran swiping through the air quickly to reach his son. The sight of him gave Neteyam a sliver of hope. With this motivation he sporadically sunk his teeth deep into the arm around his shoulder. The coppery taste in his mouth confirmed he had drawn blood. The male let out a pained and frustrated hiss before using his other hand to grab Neteyam by the hair and pull him off.

“Hold on Neteyam!” A cry came from far behind.

The stranger repositioned the bleeding arm to securely encircle the boy’s middle before his other hand pressed firmly against the pressure points in his neck. Neteyam went limp against the man as he lost consciousness.

“Sleep now, Ma Neteyam.”

Kxolo admired Neteyam, still asleep peacefully on the mat of his village. The journey from the Omaticaya village to his own was short but difficult as he and the other warriors fought to escape the defending villagers’ advances. Jake Sully was particularly enraged as he chased down Kxolo, streaming out war cries. Kxolo found it a challenge to direct his ikran with the delicate omega limp in his arms but luckily he had practiced and planned the escape route with such precision that even the infamous Taruk Makto could not catch up to them.

His clan crouched around the boy trying to get a good look at the omega Kxolo had been determined to bring home. He could not stop thinking about the young omega since his visit to the Omaticaya clan. His beauty and presence were enthralling. Jake had refused to let Kxolo court him, not even letting the boy in the village that day upon hearing of his intentions. Despite his persuasions and promises, Toruk Makto stayed firm in his decision. It was only after receiving a sign from Eywa of their soulmate bond that Kxolo decided to kidnap Neteyam. As Olo’eyktan, his warriors followed through with carrying out the abduction, eager to find their chief mated.

“He sure put up a fight.” Pulo, his second in command and best friend, chuckled while gesturing to Kxolo’s bandaged arm. “Looks like a little more than a love bite if you ask me.”

“Ma Neteyam has spirit. A feisty little omega he is.”

“I would expect nothing less from an omega mated to you.” Kxolo rolled his eyes fondly at his friend. “Although it may make the first few weeks challenging. I hope you have selected warriors that are up for this task of special babysitting.”

“He will be a handful I’m sure but Eywa knows he will come around.”

Eventually Neteyam started to groan and stir as he regained consciousness. His gaze was unfocused and confused for a few seconds as it took in the sight of the crowd surrounding him. His large amber eyes widened as realization struck and he instantly sprung up and into a crouched fighting position. He hissed at the strangers while eyes shot around the circle to look for an opening. Kxolo recognized the signs of a male about to pounce and attack, lowered ears, focused eyes and swishing tail. Neteyam let out a cry as he flung towards the far side of the crowd. The warriors standing there were unfazed and simply tightened formation to create a wall that he could not get through.

“Let me through you skxawng!”

“Neteyam.” Kxolo’s firm alpha call was barely heard by the omega as he continued to fight against the crowd. The alpha rose back to his feet and quickly caught the thrashing omega in his arms secured around the waist and shoulders once more. “Hush little omega and calm. I do not want to bind you, lovely.”

“Who are you? Let me go!” The alpha’s arms were like bands of steel easily holding the smaller male to his chest. This however did not stop Neteyam from thrashing against him with all the strength he could muster.

“Shhhh” The alpha purred against his ear while letting the calming pheromones wash over the struggling male. “Calm, little one. Calm.”

Pulo turned to Tamil in a silent command to grab the bindings in preparation. It was evident that no amount of pheromones was going to calm the raging omega.

“Get your hands off of me! Let me go before I skin you!” His words were unwavering but frantic movements showed that Neteyam knew he was no match for the stronger male holding him.

“Looks like we will have to do this the hard way. Brother, help me bind.” Tamil used the strong cords to bind Neteyam’s arms behind his head quickly while Kxolo held him still against his chest. A string of curses left his mouth as he now fought off the two alphas. In the end he found himself bound and secured to one of the higher branches of the nearby tree. “My love, I will give you a couple minutes to let out your frustrations and energy out here but I will be right back.” Kxolo affectionately stroked the omega’s cheek as he hissed at the alpha.

Kxolo turned back to the crowd quickly setting into motion the preparations for Neteyam. More warriors were sent out to the borders along the village to keep watch for Omaticaya intruders. Some of the women informed him of the prepared clothes and jewelry for Neteyam. The unneeded warriors and villagers were dismissed, although some tried to stay in order to get a better look at their leader’s future mate.

“Jake Sully will not be far behind, brother.” Tamil warned.

“Toruk has flown these grounds for years. It is only a matter of time before he leads his rider to the entrance.” Pulo added.

“I know, in fact I am counting on it.” The two exchanged a look of confusion as Kxolo adjusted his bow to lie on his back. “It is important that he comes to confront us. Only with Neteyam safe in our hands will I be able to explain the nature of the situation.”

“He will be angry.” Pulo reminded him.

“Of course he will be, but it won’t change things. Call when you see him coming. I need to go talk to my mate.”

He advanced confidently back towards the omega still struggling. Despite the tension of the situation Kxolo could not help but stare at the lean boy's toned body stretched out against the tree. The curve of his small waist even more accentuated than he last remembered with the occasional freckles littering his gorgeous hips. They locked eyes as Kxolo came to tower over the boy. Golden eyes glared back at him defiantly. He fought the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he admired how adorable the young warrior looked trying to intimidate him.

Neteyam stood still now, still angry but Kxolo could tell the boy was losing energy. It did not help that he was bound to fully present soon, making his omega body tire more easily. Kxolo imagined the poor omega was exhausted after the night’s events. The weeks leading up to presenting were exhausting enough without having to fight off strange alphas in the middle of the night.

“Neteyam,” The Sully boy weakly went to bite at the hand Rxolo used to cup his cheek. “Have you calmed yourself now, baby?” The nipping stopped with exhaustion but his glare stayed in place trying to mentally scorch the man in front of him.

“I know you must have many questions. Now is the time to ask them.” For a second it seemed like the smaller male was not going to speak but finally a small mutter left his lips.

“You’re Kxolo Te Iiyi Letvesi’itan. The Olo’eytkan that visited my father last month.”

“Glad to hear you remember me.”

“Why am I here?”

“Ma Neteyam, I have brought you here to be my mate. Eywa has destined us to be together.” Surprise and fear flickered in those gorgeous eyes but were soon covered up by an angry hiss.

“I am not your mate you skxawng! Abducting an omega in the middle of the night does not make them yours.” Kxolo ignored insults and remained calm as he continued to explain.

“I spoke with your father about my intentions of courting you many times but he has forbidden it. The day after I left there was a sign from Eywa confirming our destiny as soulmates from Tsahik, but he has continued to dishonor these prophecies. I was forced with no other option than to carry them out without his permission.”

“You liar and thief! My father is Taruk Makto. He will rip your heart out in front of your eyes before you have the chance to ask for forgiveness.” His words were like venom but the alpha could see the strain of them on the omega’s body. His muscles were giving out and chest heaving at the effort of maintaining the show of bravery against the alpha.

“I know you are upset, little one. It is going to take time for you to adjust but I am willing to be patient and guide you along the way. I see you, Neteyam.”

“A rock sees better than you, you fool! I will never be your mate!” The smaller male spat at the alpha.

Within a breath Kxolo’s larger frame was pressed up against him and strong larger hands encased either side of Neteyam’s head. The stern unmoving look the alpha gave him made his mind sputter to a stop. “No amount of fighting or running is going to keep you away from me. You are mine. Eywa has written us in the stars. I love you more than you will be able to understand. I have known you and I are meant to be since the moment I saw you. I do not care how long it takes for you to acknowledge this connection. I do not care how many times you kick, bite, scratch or try to kill me, I will always come after you. You are my world now, Neteyam. In time you will come to love me too.”

Silence fell over the pair. Neteyam’s heart rate was skyrocketing causing his chest to rise up and down till he was practically panting. The night was too much and Kxolo could tell his omega was telling him to rest. The alpha lovingly stroked the boy’s cheek with his thumb.

“You poor thing have been through so much tonight. I promise I will have you back in bed resting soon my love.”

He reluctantly stepped back and turned towards the warning cries of warriors. Toruk Makto was here.

The red banshee was easy to spot, even in the dead of night. There was no chance of Jake surprising the clan in an environment he had never scouted out before. Kxolo knew that Jake Sully would have to confront him directly.

Toruk soared towards them with a loud cry before landing in front of Kxolo and the warriors set around them. Jake was armed with only a knife he must have grabbed in the haste of chasing after his son. He stared down Kxolo with hatred and burning that only a protective father could muster.

“Dad!” Neteyam cried desperately struggling against the binds once more. The upstart of thrashing was starting to cause the cords to dig into the omega’s arms. Kxolo placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder trying to prevent more damage.

“Kxolo! You let my Goddamn son go now!”

“Calm, Olo’eyktan Toruk Makto. I told you this would happen. You decided to ignore the signs of Eywa.”

Jake withdrew his knife from its sleeve with a growl. “You have my son tied up to a damn tree in the middle of the night and have the nerve to speak to me about the signs of Eywa?!”

The warriors surrounding the area slowly started to circle in at the sight of the knife. Despite their uneasiness, Kxolo remained relaxed as if the conversation was a small chat about the weather.

“Steady Jake Sully. It would not be wise of you to attack.”

“We passed wise a long time ago.” The warriors around him let out tentative cries in response to Jake’s fighting stance. Kxolo could feel Neteyam’s pulse speed up in anticipation of the fight ahead. “Get your hand off my son.” He hissed at the hand still placed upon the omega’s shoulder.

“You are not only outnumbered but also at risk of starting a war by attacking. I have conversed with the Tsahiks of the nearest clans and they have confirmed the sign. In addition their Olo’eyktan have agreed to honor and defend Eywa’s will even into combat if necessary. Be reasonable. You do not want this fight.”

Jake’s stance never let up for a second but fear could be seen in his eyes. He was faced with an impossible ultimatum. Neteyam was growing more restless by the minute as he watched his father’s hesitation.

“There is still time to talk. We can still come to terms with the situation and find the best course moving forward for Neteyam.”

“How is any of this the best for Neteyam?” He ground out through gritted teeth. Pulo inched closer to Jake, still in anticipation of things going south.

“You know I will take care of him. I would never hurt him. I meant what I said to you about loving your son. You can trust he is in good hands.” Jake gripped the handle of the blade in restraint. “If you and I work together I am sure there is a way that Neteyam can still visit his family.”

The comment sent Jake lunging at Kxolo in anger only to be stopped by the warriors’ aimed weapons protecting their leader. Jake hissed in frustration while hopelessly looking at his struggling son. Tears were starting to well up in Neteyam’s eyes no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. Kxolo wanted more than anything to comfort the whimpering omega but that would have to wait till the threat at hand was taken care of.

“Neteyam.” Jake’s voice rose barely above a whisper.

“Dad.” The boy barely gasped out without crying.

“Do not worry. Everything is going to be alright. I am going to figure this out.”

A small sob escaped the omega’s throat before the stream of heavy tears gushed down his cheeks. He knew what that promise entailed. His father would not be taking him home tonight. Kxolo could see the heartbreak in Jake’s expression as he forced himself to focus back onto the chief.

“This is not over. You harm a hair on his head and I will tear you apart limb by limb till you are begging me to kill you.”

The alpha simply gave a short response of “He is safe,” as Jake backed away towards Toruk. He didn’t miss the murder in Jake’s eyes as he mounted the Ikran. Watching the large ikran soar off into the distance, Rxolo knew the fight was not over but for tonight Neteyam would finally be in his arms where he was meant to be.

Neteyam took a long time to console after his father left. Once the tears had started, they did not stop. It was still not safe to leave the boy completely unrestrained but Tamil quickly adjusted it so that it was a simple binding of his wrists behind his back. This allowed Kxolo to scoop the boy carefully into his lap and against his chest. Neteyam was too far into his fit to really put up a fight as the alpha swayed him back and forth and hushed him softly.

“My poor Neteyam.” He cooed while stroking the boy’s braids. The alpha once again released calming pheromones and found it more effective. Neteyam started to go limp in his arms as the sobs continued. It was clear that at this point his body was ready to give out.

“Pulo, are we set for the night?”

“Guard shifts are organized and underway and the hammock is ready for Neteyam.”

“Perfect, thank you brother.” Looking down at the omega he could tell his cries were softening and eyes lided as he fought to stay awake. “I think it is time we get you back to bed sweet one.” Neteyam only stared off into the distance completely lost in his exhaustion.

He continued in this state as they led him towards the sleeping area of the village. Kxolo guided him with a hand to his lower back all the while peeking over consistently for signs of resistance or distress. Finally, they reached the hammock set up for Neteyam. The omega halted.

“Come Neteyam. I can help you down.”

“Aren’t you going to unbind me?” He writhed his arms against the cords in emphasis.

“Can we trust you to stay put?” Pulo intervened, although the alphas knew they would untie him regardless.

“Do I have a choice?” The boy gritted out. Pulo simply shook his head and chuckled softly at the Na’vi’s anger.

“Oh you have a choice. You are free to leave your hammock but you may find the journey back over a guard’s shoulder to be counterproductive.”

Neteyam shot Pulo a look that could kill before tugging at his restraints once more, a silent request to be released. Kxolo motioned for him to be brought over.

“You need rest Ma Neteyam. Don’t be foolish and waste your energy tonight causing trouble.” Kxolo slipped an arm around the omega’s waist. Before the young warrior could manage to escape his hold, the alpha laid a sweet kiss at the crown of his future mate’s head. “I will let you sleep on your own tonight but if you need me, simply call. Sleep well my love.”

With that, the bonds were cut and Neteyam was helped into the hammock reluctantly. However, it was not until the alpha could hear the soft snores coming from the omega that he left to find sleep himself.

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