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joels6string · 1 year

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Whatever Helps You Sleep

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: It's a restless night for you and the nomad you've been tied to in search of a new place to call home.

Rating: E

Word Count: 2.8k

Content: unprotected p in v sex, fingering, creampie in a post-apocalyptic world like morons, so much desperation, Joel Miller being a grumpy but standup guy

Everything hurt. All the fucking time.

Every joint throbbed, the balls and socket grinding and scraping, each taut fiber threading beneath your skin begging for any release of the eternal tension that had settled in over two decades ago, the cold you’d still not gotten used to amplifying the ache as you laid on the rickety old mattress on the floor. The springs jutting into your back certainly didn’t help, nor did the sounds in the distance too far away to identify. The knots in your stomach mimicked the ones that had settled into each muscle, your teeth chattering against the chill of the fall night.

“Why you twitchin’ like that?” Joel.

The man you now traveled with had found you holed up alone in a building, your fingers trembling on a rifle that looked too big in your hands and eyes wide enough to display the fear that had consumed your every waking minute clear as day. The loss of your group at the hand of bandits had left you alone and unfit to travel the infected-swarmed lands around you. You’d accepted your fate to starve to death or put a bullet in your own brain should you get a bite. While you hadn’t been the weakest link on your team, you couldn’t go it solo. But Joel and his 15-year-old girl, Ellie had come bursting through in search of supplies and while he’d made you beg for your life with the cold metal of his revolver pressed to your temple, he let you keep it, offering safe passage through to the next habitable town.

That was months ago.

“Sorry,” you mumbled at his complaint, you hadn’t even realized you’d been doing it.

“What hurts?” he asked, that gravelly voice heavy with exhaustion, or maybe exasperation.

“I’m fine.”

“Then stop movin' so damn much.”

Easier said than done. That rhythmic movement was the only thing easing the pain and keeping you even slightly warm, your subconscious searching for relief here in a rare quiet moment. An old bullet wound in your hip always flared up when the temperature got too low, paired with years of unrest and panic, comfort was nothing but a forgotten memory.

“You’re makin’ the floor seem like a better option,” he grunted again, guilt joining the churning turmoil in your gut.

“I’m sorry.”

“You cold?”

Yes. Yes, you were fucking cold. It had to be no more than 40 degrees and all you had was a pair of jeans worn thin as the tissue paper that had gone extinct far too soon and a flannel that barely reached your wrists. You were freezing.

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped back, thankful Joel had given Ellie the bedroom to sleep in, she needed the rest away from the bickering.

“I know what you said,” he retorted, “but you ain’t good at lying.”

He had you there. Especially when your dishonesty manifested in a hunt for solace from perpetual agony.

“Is it your hip?” He knew. He’d pulled the bullet out and cauterized it not even two months into your time with them. Your piercing wails as the searing hot metal had seared at your flesh still haunted your nightmares, the smell burned into your nose, and Joel’s apologetic fretting at the time was the most unguarded you’d ever seen him. For a moment he made you think he actually cared.

“Yeah,” you muttered, arguing was fruitless.

“Undo your jeans.” What did he say? “Get some heat and pressure on it.”

In the search for any form of reprieve, you did as he asked. He’d gotten up, you could hear water sloshing and the click of the propane heating plate you’d used to warm your dinner, his heavy boots thudding above your head before his weight dipped the mattress again.

“May I?” His tone was gentle and quiet—wary—and you nodded.

Joel was an attractive man, and not just by today’s standards but by general ones. Tall, broad, and sun-goldened skin, his hair and beard graying faster than they should beneath the weight he carried. Despite his hulking frame and aloof demeanor, there was a grace to him; you hated admitting to yourself that should he ever ask, you’d be more than willing to offer yourself up. You’d done well to repress the urges you first felt walking behind him and watching his wide shoulders sway and his competence around weapons and foraging alike, but every so often they crept back, usually on nights like this where you begged for a sliver of respite.

A warm, wet cloth pressed against the hideous scar marring the side of your hip, a loud sigh whooshing from your lips. It did feel nice. The heat washed down to your numb toes, his large palm holding pressure down that did alleviate enough of the misery that owned you to let you settle, your knees no longer rubbing together in search of comfort.

“You’re freezing,” he noted, and you bit back the retort on your tongue teasing him for pointing out the obvious, “I gave Ellie the blanket, all I got is a coat.”

“It’s fine,” you lied again, the heel of his palm pressing down and drawing a relieved cry from your parted lips as your cheeks heated in embarrassment.

He did it again, massaging out the rigidity holding you hostage, the muscle loosening beneath his weight, trigger points releasing as he pressed them against the bones of your pelvis. When the rag had cooled, you expected him to roll over and try to sleep again, but a large hand swallowed you whole as he continued, now skin on skin, the sensation sending a forbidden surge between your thighs. This time, your teeth sunk into your lower lip in lieu of allowing the traitorous whines from breaking free. He’d gotten closer at some point, you could feel the heat radiating off of his body, your resolve holding strong enough to resist closing the remaining distance between you.

“Why didn’t you leave me with that group a few months back?” you finally asked, the question had been burning in your mind since he’d refused to let you stay with a small civilization you’d found. It had been your original agreement after all.

“Didn’t trust ‘em,” he answered quietly, his fingers continuing to knead into your flesh, “I have enough trouble sleepin’.”

That was as heartfelt as Joel Miller was going to get tonight.

Callouses met scar tissue as you melted into the lumps in the surface molding around you now, his trigger finger finding a new skill as he soothed you to enough comfort to have your eyelids fluttering closed. The cold still nipped at your toes and nose, your body trembling as a result despite the searing hot palm on your skin. But at least the pain had receded enough.

“Scootch on back,” he murmured, tugging on you lightly in what resembled more of an offer than an instruction, but it was one you couldn’t refuse.

Within seconds you were no longer yearning for the scratchy wool blanket Joel kept folded in his pack, his chest firm against your back, knees locked behind yours, and a heavy hand on your lower stomach the only source of warmth you needed. You sought more, closing what little distance remained between you as he shifted to allow you the space to do so, your smaller frame fitting easily in the stretch of his chest.

“Now will you stop fidgetin’?” The husky tone he spoke with was softer than the first, less perturbed, his fingers still brushing through the open waistband of your jeans.

It was mortifying but practically instinctual the way you pressed your backside against him, hoping his fingers would slip lower, breach the fraying waistband of the panties you’d cycled through for too many years. He stiffened slightly as you repeated the motion, desperate as lust took control, you could feel it in the way his bicep flexed on your arm and his palm pressed slightly tighter. The proximity allowed you to vibrate with the repressed groan he kept trapped in his chest, your brain too fogged from the scent of dirt and gunpowder clinging to his skin and the way his beard caught on your hair as he shifted, pressing his growing bulge against you lightly.

“Joel…” It fell pathetically from your lips, whining and dazed as your stomach tensed at his offer to give what you’d so ardently desired.

He clicked his tongue. “Why d’you gotta say it like that?”

“Please.”

Whatever control he’d been gripping like the barrel of his shotgun fell away, his hand leaving your abdomen to sting in the stark temperature change and pinch your chin, turning your face towards his own. You could barely see him in the dark, but the vulnerability swimming in his eyes glowed in the faint moonlight seeping in from the window. Did you take this plunge? There was no going back. Not for you. When you parted ways—and you knew you would—what happened then? Would you get over him? This man that saved your life more times than you could count with your fingers and toes, fed you before himself, and fought the battles you couldn’t. In a world as broken as this, Joel Miller stood alone.

His kiss was timid, testing the limits and giving you enough time to change your mind here and now before it escalated. Always the gentleman. But when you pulled his bottom lip between your own deepening what he’d begun, it took seconds for his tongue to dart into your waiting mouth and unleash a dam of pent-up attraction and need.

The fervor you accepted his affections with only fueled the embering fire, his growl of appreciation echoing in your mouth as your fingers thread into his hair to pull him closer, the grayed locks softer than you expected. You didn’t know what to expect from him, was he generous or selfish? Greedy or giving? The question was answered as his weathered fingers slowly slid down your torso, palming roughly at your breasts as he kissed you still before slipping them beneath the final barrier and cupped at your mound, his middle slowly dragging through your slit.

“Jesus Christ,” he marveled at the slick that had accumulated, your lips brushing through the whiskers on his jaw as you spread your thighs wider to grant him access.

No time was wasted, too much had already and that was being made very clear by the sopping mess between your thighs and the franticness Joel’s belt and jeans were undone to relieve the pressure on the effect you had over him. His middle digit found your clit, circling slowly while he enjoyed the way your back was arching and the subdued whimpers ever so faintly evident in your panting breath. His hair was still knotted in your grasp and you greedily tugged his lips back to yours, sloppily kissing him as you let the heat coursing through you take control, losing your inhibitions and enjoying this long-awaited moment.

Your gluttonous body welcomed him eagerly when he dragged lower and slid inside your waiting channel, his hand clamping over your mouth just in time to muffle the wanton cry that finally broke free. The way he shushed you only made it worse, your body bucking down against his hand impatient for more. Slipping his ring finger in stretched you even further, his pace increasing as you writhed in his hold, your breath hot on his palm as it puffed out in blissful little gusts.

“Warmin’ up?” he cooed gruffly, his tone hinting at cocky as you cried out again, his fingers scratching at the rough patch deep inside of blackening what little your vision could see.

You were teetering on the edge, your body rocking on the precipice before his thumb pressed down on your buzzing bundle of nerves and sent you rappelling down into euphoria. White hot heat banished the last of the cold that lingered, your hairline damp as your shirt clung to the sweat pouring down your back.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he soothed, continuing gentler now as you spasmed in his arms, “That felt good, didn’t it?”

All you could muster was a nod, the hand that was still lightly covering your mouth gripping your chin and directing your mouth to his again, his tongue probing into your parted lips as you collected enough coherence to kiss him lazily in return.

“Your turn,” you breathed, a crooked smirk twitching as he pulled your jeans down to the middle of your thighs, shifting enough to free himself from his loosened garments.

“You tell me if it ain’t right,” he instructed, nuzzling his nose behind your ear as the head of his cock slipped between your folds, pushing into you slowly as he sighed in contentment.

It was right. It was so fucking right you instinctually fucked yourself back, sheathing him completely in one swift movement. He was long and thick, stretching you past where any other had gotten you, your body molding around him as if it had been waiting for him to make it whole. A hand on your hip kept you still had he began to gently rut into you, acclimating to the feeling of being immersed in a woman’s warm, wet heat in an effort to not cut this shorter than it already probably would be. You were impossibly full, it had been a long time since you’d trusted anyone enough for this, your fingers no match for what he could do and the way he made you feel.

“Shit, you feel good,” he purred in that Texan accent that made you swoon, “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you gasped, your fingers returning to his hair to cradle him close.

The pace picked up, his hand on your hip sliding back between your thighs as he thrust harder and faster chasing a high he hadn’t felt in years. You wanted more, wanted to give him more, and as he began to lose control your body began to drift from your side to your stomach, his arms working to brace himself over your prone form as you lifted your hips slightly into the air to feel every punch of his hips on yours. Your ass rippled against his force, his grunts fueling the second wave crashing against your lower abdomen, the pressure building rapidly as he fucked into you like a man starved. The crook of your arm caught your sounds as he sought relief in you, the only thing keeping you in place were his hands as your knees slipped on the bare surface of the mattress you were pressed into.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mewled, slamming you back onto his length as he surged forward, every inch of him buried deep in your cunt until you were strangling him as you came again, him following not long behind.

When he finally stilled you could feel him spurting thick and hot inside of you, your pussy still twitching around him as your shaky legs burned from the exertion. As he pulled out you whined in protest at the loss, your body collapsing down as he reached for a rag and began wiping what was leaking from between your legs.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he griped as another glob dripped free, “Got carried away.”

“Timing should work in our favor,” you eased, your cycle still the only normal thing left in this God-forsaken world and he grunted in acknowledgment, his brow relaxing from its concerned grimace.

“We should get some sleep.”

You nodded, watching him carefully as he settled back down on his back, his head turning to peer at you and finding your wide-eyed anticipation staring back at him. With a chuckle he opened his right arm out welcoming you onto his chest, a gesture you scampered to take before he changed his mind. You tucked yourself into the space between his neck and jaw, your arm draping over his middle as he wrapped you up tight. It didn’t take long to fall asleep.

When you woke the next morning he was already up, repacking up and readying for another day on the road to nowhere.

“We’re headin’ down to settle somewhere,” he sounded from the corner, his gaze remaining locked on his open pack, “figured you could get your fresh start there.”

“With you?” you asked timidly, your voice still heavy with sleep after the best night of rest you’d had in years.

“I don’t see why not.”

Ellie’s arrival into the kitchen you and Joel had slept in cut your conversation short, her always perceptive eyes flicking from you to Joel on the other side of the room.

“Did you two finally seal the deal?” the teenager asked nonchalantly, both your faces falling in horror. You thought you’d been quiet. “What? Don’t worry, my innocent eyes and ears were spared if you did. You’ve just…never smiled at her when she’s actually looking.”

Joel Miller Masterlist

Series coming soon: More Than My Father’s Son

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic #pedrostories #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 3 months

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Febuwhump - Day 3

Pairing: Dean x reader

Prompt: "Bite down on this"

Warnings: language, injury

______

“Bite down on this, Dean,” you said, shoving his belt into his mouth. He clamped his teeth down, staring at you with fear in his eyes. You kissed his forehead, running your hand through his hair. There was no time to comfort him though.

You went to the fireplace and pulled out the poker, the end a glowing hot fiery red. Dean eyed it warily, giving you one last nod. Your attention turned to his thigh that was gushing blood, your own belt already wrapped tight around it. Maybe if you’d been closer to civilization you’d have sped him to a hospital but you had to do a patch job in this farmhouse here and now.

“Hey Dean?” you asked, setting the poker down for a brief moment. He raised his eyebrow before you socked him, your rolled up jacket under his head cushioning the blow. He was out cold like that and you picked up the poker, grimacing before you placed it against his bleeding wound. His leg twitched for a brief moment but that was all thankfully. When you pulled it away, the skin was cauterized, an angry purple color, already blistering. He still needed a hospital but you were less afraid of him bleeding out in the next ten minutes at the very least.

Dean started to stir in the backseat when you pulled out onto the road a few moments later, going double the speed limit.

“Fucking, fuck,” he groaned, kicking the backdoor. “That fucking hurts. And why’d you punch me!”

“I figured you’d thank me for it,” you said, checking on him in the rearview, one hand fisted in his jacket, the other squeezing his bare thigh. “Do you have a headache?”

“Yes,” he growled, pausing a beat. “Thank you. Beats me passing out from the pain and going into shock even more than I already am.”

“I know,” you said, reaching one hand back, Dean’s covered in dried blood reaching out and grasping it. “We’ll get you help real soon, De. I promise.”

________

#febuwhump #Day 3 #SPN #Supernatural #Dean x reader #Dean Winchester #Dean winchester x reader

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greyskyflowers · 8 months

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I want a really specific Luffy/Sanji/Zoro fic where it's focused on how Zoro is probably not able to be numbed or knocked out.

I want to do a post at some point about how Nami, Usopp and Zoro are the humans of the crew. The ones without devilfruits, no genetic stuff, and completely human.

You can absolutely argue that Zoro has whatever the fuck is going on with the demon stuff but until that's clearly discussed I'm going with the human thing.

Back to Luffy/Sanji/Zoro.

I'm really sold on the idea that Zoro burns through numbing and pain medications like it's nothing.

He can be knocked out or made completely numb but it requires a unreal amount of medication, enough that the amount is usually unavailable or risks overdosing him and making him very sick.

So, how many times has Chopper had to dig out shrapnel and bullets while Zoro was completely aware and felt everything?

Or stitched him up while Zoro held the skin together for him?

How many times has Chopper had to rebreak bones that had healed wrong if they were separated for a period of time and Zoro didn't set it right?

How about cauterizing wounds?

Concussions?

Blood loss?

What it he needed surgery because of a wound, and Chopper had to cut into him without being able to numb him at all?

Oooooof

I fully believe Chopper has had to do some of those. However, when Zoro is too out of it, or it hurts to much to not jerk away or fight back... I think Luffy and Sanji would have to hold him down. The only two with enough strength to get him still enough that Chopper can do what needs to be done without worry.

Robin could be added to that, I think. I like to think Zoro and her have a strong friendship and she's seen enough shit to know sometimes things have to be done even though it sucks.

What sounds does someone make in a situation like that? How much can the human body take?

If he was out of it enough, would he plead with Luffy to let him up? He would absolutely call for Luffy when everything hurts and I'll die on that hill.

It would be a blessing if he passed out but how long would he be passed out? Just long enough for everyone to breathe before he was awake again and struggling?

Is it worse when he's quiet? Awake but so exhausted he can't even try to jerk away?

The rest of the crew hearing everything but knowing better than to go try to help.

Having to act like they can't all hear anything and desperately hoping that Zoro passes out soon.

And Zoro is Zoro. No one really talks about it. They're all aware, of course, but Zoro never brings it up or complains.

He's actually really good at holding still, clenching his jaw and curling his lip back in a pained snarl. Every muscle in his body tense and his back in a rigid arch.

This isn't new to him. He's always burned through this stuff quick but it's definitely gotten worse as he's gotten older and stronger.

Luffy and Sanji only have to hold him down for the really bad ones. It's more of a precaution, a comfort of all of them.

They're the only ones to hold him because even blind with pain, Zoro knows them.

Even when his world narrows down to hurthurthurt, he won't fight them the way he would someone else. He trusts them to be strong enough that he can be a little weak if needed. Only a little.

Luffy being cautious and untrusting of anyone other than crew while Zoro recovers and gets his feet back under him.

Possessive and protective in the way all captains are. A extra edge to it because it's Zoro and Zoro is his in a way no one else quite is.

Sanji hovering, always something in his hands because his way of caring is food. The pain usually takes away Zoro's appetite but it's the best way Sanji knows to heal.

Luffy curled around Zoro when he naps on deck or when they go to sleep at night, trying to make sure nothing hurts and reassure them both that Zoro's okay.

Both of them running a critical eyes over Zoro because infection is a whole beast of its own. They want to make sure that if there's even a hint of one, they catch it as soon as possible.

Touching Zoro constantly because if they feel tense muscles they know he's hurting and if he's running a fever they can work on cooling it down.

🌊

The strawhat crew holds a grudge against a few people. Most of them obvious but always at the top is Garp, Blackbeard, Judge, and Mihawk.

Because they don't know exactly what went on while they were all separated for 2 years but they hold Mihawk accountable for Zoro's eye, even if he wasn't the one behind that particular scar.

They know Zoro felt all of it and they weren't there with him. And anyone who is responsible for that kind of pain to one of the crew goes right on the shit list.

#i just like monster trio and the tag on ao3 for them is so smol ☹️#one piece #zoro #sanji #luffy #zosan #zolu #zolusan #monster trio #tony tony chopper #strawhats #mugiwarapirates #straw hat pirates #mugiwara crew #setting sail with greyskyflowers

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deatheater25 · 2 months

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Goose (Reading the newspaper): Hey, did you know that there’s a knife that gets so hot, it instantly turns your bread into toast when you cut it?!

Maverick: Man… imagine stabbing someone with that!

Iceman (Reading his own book): Well if it was that hot it would instantly cauterize the wound, so it wouldn’t be very effective.

Slider: It’s effective if you want information…

Baby Goose (Who was forgotten by the rest, because he was sitting behind the newspaper): W-Why would you be stabbing people, when you can have toast?

#iceman top gun #top gun #top gun maverick #slider top gun #goose top gun #pete maverick mitchell #slider #bradley rooster bradshaw

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vandnana · 1 year

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In Love With The Enemy [I]

Chapter 1: Why So Blue?

pairing: lo’ak x female turned na’vi reader

summary: during the time when jake became toruk makto, you were quaritch’s youngest and most valued soldier, the daughter he never had. but, pandora changed you and you died during the final battle, betraying quaritch and wishing that you had been able to do more. now, you have been reborn again, as a na’vi, tasked with quaritch’s new military avatar crew to kill Jake Sully. taking advantage of this second chance at life, you help the Sullys and fall in love along the way.

genre: fluff, angst ~ slow burn, pining on lo’ak’s part

highlights: [lo’ak already having a crush on the reader after LITERALLY almost trying to kill her, jake and reader have their tearful reunion!, quaritch still in his toxic dad era, and lo’ak admiring reader in the bioluminescence of the forest]

word count: 9,332

note: hello! thank you all again for waiting for this part! a couple things...when i was writing, i got soo carried away, but i couldn’t help writing in moments of reader with lo’ak in their first encounters cause shes totally intrigued and he has an effect on her, but both of them are in that awkward staring phase??? with that being said, i hope you enjoy!!

[Prologue] [chapter 2]

Light infiltrated your senses, invading your shut eyes as you heard voices around you, the sounds distant at first, but slowly heightening as you came to. Opening them, the fluorescent lights stunned you, your hand instinctively finding its way to the front of your face. You pulled it away, the sight so shocking that you figured you were in hell, punished to be what you had failed to protect.

You were blue, a Na’vi, adorned in hospital gowns with wires attached all over your body.

You felt sharp pains in your head and pangs in your heart, endless memories flooding your mind in swarms, the happiness, the pain, the loss...you remembered it all as you took in your surroundings.

You got up instantly, pulling off the wires as you searched around, your vision becoming less blurry as you continued to blink.

You looked for Grace first before you realized she was gone, murdered by your father, the agony once cauterized now festering into an open wound as the memory sunk stones in your heart. You were looking around for Jake, Norm and, Trudy, but they were nowhere to be found. You were alone, heartbroken, and confused.

“Whoo! Looks like the baby’s awake!” You heard from behind the door, other blue figures walking in wearing full camo, all of them strutting over to you.

In your newly awakened shock, you had a delayed reaction to your body just waking up, your muscles suddenly feeling like jelly as you kept yourself steady on the bed with your hands. As everyone filed in, you hoped that at least one of them would be Jake, but you sunk your shoulders as you realized who they were.

Wainfleet, Warren, Zdinarsk, and Fike. They were the soldiers you grew up training with, all cut from the same obnoxious and arrogant rock.

Wainfleet shook your shoulders, laughing loudly as he looked at your expression, your teeth gritted as you did your best to hide how much you despised all of them, “Hey y/n, why so blue?”

The rest of them laughed aloud with him, and you rolled your eyes, pushing him off you aggressively, which only made him erupt with more laughter, “Still as feisty as ever.” Wainfleet sighed.

Lagging behind, one last person walked through the door, and unlike the rest of the regiment, he was wearing hospital gowns like you were. When he turned toward you, you recognized him right away.

It was Quaritch, your father, the man you owed your life to when you were human.

But it wasn’t really him.

He had become his worst nightmare and in seeing him, you were convinced that you really had been damned to hell. He was Na’vi too and a real sight for sore eyes, his movements awkward and almost repulsed as he approached, like he wanted to jump out of his own skin. The only comfort that he seemed to take refuge in was seeing you, his daughter, his prodigy.

He hugged you and for the first time, he smiled. “My little girl, real nice to see you.”

You hardly shared the same sentiment, the comfort you should have felt replaced by torment and pain. Your memories with your father were consumed by both, and in that moment, that was all you could feel. It was rare for him to ever hug you like this. You never felt any warmth from his embraces, just a temporary sense of relief that you had done something right, that you didn’t disappoint him. You had endured it all your life, desperately clinging to the good things he did, your gratefulness to him for saving you from a worthless life overwhelming any rational thought.

Your father seemed to be the one savoring the feeling of holding you, the roles unexpectedly reversed as he, for the first time in his life, clung to you, like you were the only tether to who he once was.

Before, you would have considered yourself lucky, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and savoring that feeling. But as you sat on the bed, you kept your arms at your sides and your eyes glued to the ceiling, biting your cheek as you fought every urge to give into your anger, to push him off you and make him pay for what he did to Grace.

You took a deep breath in, relaxing as you faced forward again, “I’d be stupid to believe that we were brought back for a simple reunion. Why are we here? And how are we avatars?” You had a firm tone, almost emotionless besides your lifted syllable at the end to indicate your question.

Quaritch let go of you, a proud, satisfied grin on his face as he pulled back, “Perceptive as always.”

He crossed his arms, “All of us got our ticket punched the last time we were on Pandora, and for the sins of our past we have been brought back to life in the form of our enemy to complete one simple task.”

“What’s the mission?” You remained stoic, mirroring your father as you crossed your arms.

He chuckled lightly, his tone suddenly confident as his eyes reflected his renewed sense of purpose, “We’ve been ordered to eliminate the leader of the Na’vi insurgency known as Toruk Makto.”

The emotion you held in burst out in the surprise you showed in your widened eyes. Unfolding your arms, you felt a flit of relief settle in your heart, “Jake’s alive?”

He turned his head, the rest of your regiment whooping with excitement, their smirks irradiating a sinister aura as they gathered around your father.

“That’s right, y/n. Sully’s alive.” Your father gloated, his eyes ferocious with vengeance, “And we’re gonna kill him.”

He gave you no chance to protest, walking out with the rest of the regiment as he pointed to the clothes beside you, “Now, go on and get dressed. We got an hour before Pandora insertion.”

You grabbed the clothes from the table, your hands tightening around them and your breathing ragged as you could feel your frustrations finally spill out.

You had been born again, but at what cost?

The same people that sent you to Pandora were the same people that made an unholy decision, reaching into the past and plucking you out of the comfort of death just to reclaim the glory they still believed was theirs.

When you had awoken, you had figured you had damned yourself for all eternity, and in learning about your new mission, you were right. You were thrust back into your own nightmare, a horrible repeat of the life you had once known, your orders betraying what you had in your heart, just like it did before.

You wanted no part in reclaiming glory and rewriting your father’s failure, but it was the only reason why your heart was even beating. Your mind was only just catching up on your grief, the loss so fresh and so vivid that you felt guilty to have that heartbeat.

You were the Colonel’s daughter.

Why did you deserve to live when Grace was dead? Why did you get a second chance at life when your only reason for breathing was to destroy Jake?

Everything about your life now was born from selfishness, the selfishness of Sky People that had no respect for philosophies regarding life and wholly disregarded the notions that dead things should stay dead.

You didn’t know what happened to Trudy or Norm, but you naturally thought the worst, and that made your mere existence even more unbearable. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you died, but for you, you never felt that time pass, never felt the pain of being gone from those you love. It felt cruel to be alive, the torment of it aching you as you thought of how Jake must have felt when you died and how much it must have hurt.

You looked up, your eyes catching a glimpse of your reflection in the metal lining of the walls. You touched your face lightly as you stared, so bewildered by how you looked. You weren’t the old you anymore, only the shell of your humanity in the semblance of your features.

And for the first time since you woke, you smiled, “If only Grace could see me now.” You mumbled to yourself, the sadness of losing her still lingering behind the calm that settled over you at having thought about her.

You got up, finally deciding to change out of your gowns, and you could have sworn you heard Grace’s voice in the back of your mind, telling you what she always loved to tell you, how you were smarter than you let yourself believe and how you had a heart bigger than the soldiers you were surrounded by.

You took a look at yourself again, those words that felt as if they were just spoken yesterday shrouded over you. It felt unfair to be alive, and that guilt was deep inside of you, but you pushed that feeling aside as your own sense of purpose triumphed over it.

Whatever it took, whatever you needed to do, you were going to save what was left of your family.

You were going to save Jake.

It was two minutes until Pandora insertion, your breather on as you waited for your descent onto the planet. You were quiet, keeping to yourself as you rode along with everyone else, absorbing every detail of the plans until you could figure out the best way to help Jake.

When you had finally reached the ground, the hatch opened and getting up, you walked out, expecting to find yourself surrounded by the forest you loved so much.

Pulling your breather off though, your smile dropped, your eyes unwilling to process the inconceivable truth. In front of you was the reckoning of humanity in full form, its destructive touch creating an unhallowed grave of the once-rich earth below it. Flashbacks filled your mind as you remembered your early life on earth, the desecration of the forest mirroring the desolation that you had escaped when you left for Pandora. Sky People had killed their Mother, holding onto the little that she could provide before finally destroying Her integrity.

Back then, Selfridge was all about the money, and while greed was still very much a part of the new frontier you had found yourself in, humanity’s motives had suddenly become desperate for something else--a new home.

The air no longer held a healthy vigor, a gray density taking its place and expelling a putrid, metallic smell that filled your nose. You were in horrid disbelief, the sight in front of you giving reason to the smell as you rubbed your eyes, still not wanting to believe that the damnation in front of you was real. You were witnessing an entire infestation, complete with insect-shaped machina, their hardware programmed to build the towers and towers of future buildings that would make up what would be known as Bridgehead City.

Behind you, you felt slight relief to see that forest still remained in the distance, but with how quickly the machina bugs were building, it was only inevitable that their work would continue southward and beyond. The General in charge, General Ardmore, although satisfied with the progress that they had made in a year, was still taking losses thanks to Jake’s raids, his forces the only reason that the land had not been fully conquered.

You were looking at the footage from his recent raid, Ardmore’s hands on her hips as she explained the situation, “Jake’s raids are becoming bolder and more frequent.”

Putting a hand on your chin, you let out a weak chuckle, “Looks like Sully’s giving you a run for your money.”

Wainfleet nudged you in the ribs with a disapproving look, but you shoved him away, crossing your arms, “I’m only speaking the truth. He was a Marine, guys. I’m not surprised. He knows exactly how you all think.” Your tone was condescending as you glared at General Ardmore, who seemed to only tolerate your consistent interruptions.

She glared back at you, “Are you questioning my methods, Lieutenant?”

Quaritch was taken aback, putting a hand up to your chest, to stop you from continuing. You looked at your father and defiantly you spoke again. “I am questioning your methods, General. You may have been able to tame this frontier in a year with your bionic bugs, but these...savages with their bows and arrows still have you all by the balls.”

She scoffed, “I’d watch that tone, Lieutenant,” She paused as you kept your glare on her, and she turned, another holographic projection of the Hallelujah Mountains emerged, “Although, what you said does hold some truth. We’ve come to believe that he’s holed up somewhere in these mountains within one of its cave systems, but every time we go up there, we take losses. Can’t be more than ten minutes in enemy airspace without stirring up the hornets’ nest.”

You watched as helicopters were swarmed with hoards of ikran, and you were instantly fascinated, your mind querying the possibility of such a hive mind response by animals, “How odd. They never used to do that before.”

“Our only hope of finding Jake’s base is you guys. We think that you will be perceived as indigenous and won’t trigger the immune response, but that’s only our theory.” General Ardmore

“And how might we test that theory?” You asked, crossing your arms.

Tight-lipped, she sucked a breath in, “The hard way.”

Quaritch snickered, a cocky smirk on his face, “Outstanding.”

“Good. No time to waste. Let’s fly.” She replied with a pleased grin.

Ardmore ordered for a helicopter to be prepped and escorted you toward the hangar. When you entered it, the pilot was just getting into the helicopter and you instantly thought of Trudy, your best friend who loved to raid the caf late at night with you and begged you to fly with her all those years ago.

Quaritch interrupted your thoughts as he pulled you back, “What’s wrong with you? You don’t talk to your superiors like that again, you understand me?”

Reluctantly you nodded, “Yes sir. I understand.”

“You better. Now get in.” He let go of your arm, motioning for you to enter the helicopter.

Wainfleet had a dumb smile on his face, asking curiously, “Where we headed first, Colonel?”

“Where it all started.” He replied, his eyes lighting up with his inspired rage, “W

Touching down on one of the mountains, a stream of nostalgia flowed through you as your mind replayed the first day you had ever landed there with Trudy. Site 26 was only a couple meters away, but each step was like a remnant of the past, scenes flashing in front of you as if you were only there yesterday.

You suddenly felt like you were home once again.

The forest had grown so much, the plant life around you like a warm blanket as the trees enveloped your figure everywhere you went. The soft earth squished down as you took a step while the intertwining branches and brambles gave you a hearty challenge as you maneuvered. Your ears twitched at the range of sounds, some delicate and others obvious, those ones keeping the rest of your crew on edge, their guns readied pointedly in every direction.

You were merely keeping protocol, not planning on shooting anything as you trudged carefully through the forest. Even with all that you had learned about Jake, you still had no plan. Any hope you had of going out to find him alone was futile, knowing that Quaritch would notice your absence instantly.

Approaching Site 26, Wainfleet took his place beside your father, joining him as they both stepped into the clearing. You hesitated, yet to brush past the infiltrating brush as the gaps in the leaves gave you a skewed view of the shack, which had clearly been abandoned, any sign of life nonexistent.

You could hear slight rustling in the trees, the movement calculated and quick. Craning your neck, you looked upward, catching an unmistakable shimmer of blue as you watched the figure of a young man maneuver behind a thicket of green foliage above.

There was no use in hiding, you had already seen him and in his boldness, he brushed the leaves away, staring down at you with his bow already drawn back in his hand, and behind him was a younger girl, the side of her face only visible to you.

As he continued to look at you, you put your gun down, your figure still as you squinted up at him, his face holding so much familiarity to you that you fell silent.

He was unusually hesitant to kill you, convincing himself that he was only being strategic, but truthfully, he just thought you were pretty, unable to contain a flush in his face. The younger girl he was with, looked up at him, her eyebrows furrowed as she watched his odd behavior. He looked hardly older than you, but you still couldn’t figure out who he was, and you knew that the longer they were there, the more danger they were in.

You put your hands up, whispering as you spoke to them in Na’vi, “You both shouldn’t be here. Go back. They’ll kill you if they see you.”

He kept his bowstring taut, conflicted as he faced you, his voice barely audible as he whispered, “Why not let them kill my ass then?”

“I’m not your enemy.” You replied simply.

Quaritch looked over, seeing your figure behind the brush, calling you through his telecom device, “You got eyes on something, y/n?”

Placing your fingers on your own device, the young man drew his bow back again upon instinct, “No sir.” You shook your head, “There’s nothing but trees here.”

Giving them both one last glance, you made your way into the clearing, the young man’s eyes following you as you left, glued to you as you made your way to your father.

“Why are you just staring, Lo’ak? You heard her. We should go.” She pulled at him, trying to get him to budge.

“Not yet Tuk. I have to see what they’re up to.” He warned, glancing at her from the side and shushing her.

Carefully, he advanced forward, climbing to a higher branch with Tuk following behind him quietly. From a higher spot, Lo’ak watched as you, Quaritch, and Wainfleet gathered near your father’s AMP suit.

You were towering over it, your father frowning as his eyes were glued to his own battered skeleton staring back at him like an undead taunt. He put his hand on the arrows sticking out of his body, the two of them embedded into his chest mocking him scornfully too.

You looked down at the AMP suit, a relic of your father’s failure and you noticed his dogtags, pulling them off his skeleton. Your father always wore his, but he always had a copy of yours too. Handing them to him, he took them, his fingers gently brushing the metal and reading the engravings before he put them around his neck.

He looked up at you, “Check the old shack. Wainfleet and I are gonna look around some more.”

You nodded, obeying the order. Pushing away the vines, you hopped in through the broken window. You were too big to stand tall, crouching as your eyes settled on everything, no longer seeing the reality of the wreckage in front of you, but rather the scenes of your memories.

You felt as if you had traveled in time, back to the best days of your old life as you trailed your hands along the pods and going further toward the west-end you stopped, seeing your old bunk. You had decorated the frame with a few pictures and removing them, you wiped the dust away.

You held them up to the peeking light in the shack as you traced your hands over the pictures. One of them was just of you and Jake flipping off the camera, making you laugh to yourself. The other was your whole family, you squished between Jake and Grace, Norm and Trudy standing behind you, all of you grinning widely, your happiness caught in the stillness of one shot.

That was the thing about happiness, it could vanish in an instant, the once pristine shack you had always remembered disappearing as you were faced with the reality of what it actually was. You were in a wreckage, your despair sinking into the broken glass that littered the floor. You hugged the pictures to your chest, savoring the memories before putting them in your pocket.

“Roll out, roll out! We got movement!” An urgent shout rang from outside.

Hopping back out, you followed after Wainfleet and the Colonel, both of them charging toward the forest.

Multiple shots were fired as you navigated through the forest floor and above, you saw the two Na’vi that you had seen earlier, frantically running through the branches and dodging bullets.

Climbing up the tree, you chased after them, hoping to put enough distance between them and the rest of the regiment, “Ardmore was clear about what she wanted. If they know where Sully is, these two are no good to us dead.”

You were pleading on the side of reason and logic, lying through your teeth as you pretended to be on board with a mission that you only saw as immoral insanity.

Quaritch rattled off commands, “Secure the girl! We only need one of them to draw Sully out. Kill the other one if you have to.”

You were catching up to the both of them, impossibly fast as you navigated through the branches, keeping your balance as you hopped from one to another. The younger one looked behind her, her foot suddenly catching on one of the branches and and sending her plummeting to the ground below with a hard thump.

Watching her fall felt like everything was happening in slow motion, your mind teetering on what to do as you continued to run after the young man, watching as Zdinarsk and Warren took her by the arms, dragging her off toward the shack per your father’s orders.

“In pursuit of the Na’vi male. No need for back up.” You quickly let out in your telecom, sprinting toward the young man as he was about to jump off the branch.

You tackled him, his back landing harshly on the bark as he yelled for his sister, “Tuk!”

His eyes immediately went to you, enraged as he hissed at you first, maneuvering himself from under you and pushing you into the bark, his hands pinning your arms down.

“I’m trying to save you both.” You retorted, kicking from underneath him, inflicting a sharp pain in his legs that loosened his grip.

“Like hell you are. I should have killed you when I had the chance.” He wrestled you down again, but you punched him hard, catching him off guard as he placed his finger to his lips, now bloodied.

“Then you’d be dead and so would she.” You spat, grabbing his arm and securing him onto his back once more, your grip on him strong as he fought you off with all his might.

You brought your knife to his neck, forceful as you pushed it against his skin, “I’m not your enemy.” His eyes were fearless, challenging you as you stared into his eyes.

You huffed, lifting your knife from him and striking the bark so close to his ears that you nicked him slightly, blood drawing from where you had caught him.

You put a firm hand on his chest, catching your breath as you calmly talked to him, “I don’t want to fight you, okay?”

He placed his hands on your waist, swiping his leg from underneath yours to press you back into the bark, his eyes narrowed at you, his face smug, “Then what do you want to do? Dance?”

You scoffed at his arrogance, “I want to help you.” You put a finger on his forehead, your teeth gritted, “You need to get it through your thick skull that if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

“I need to save my sister.” He was panting, still stubbornly persistent, but in his desperation, reluctantly loosened his aggressive grip on you.

You lifted yourself up too, your face so dangerously close to his as you glared at him. “You have no fear. I see it in your eyes. But that won’t save you or your sister. Even with all that courage, you have no chance against my regiment. Not alone at least.”

Your voice sent goosebumps down his whole body, his cheeks reddening as he tightened his jaw. He scoffed listening to you, his pride too great to acknowledge that truth. You stood up, putting a hand out. He hesitated to take it, and you rolled your eyes, leaning down to pull him up. He blinked at you, the feeling of your hands in his warm and kind, a sudden stark difference to how they felt when you were fighting.

You had a determined expression on your face, your speech hurried as you cautiously looked around you, “I’ll keep your sister safe. You have my word, but I can only think of one person who’ll know how to deal with my regiment.”

He sighed, your hands still intertwined, “Who?”

“Your Olo’eyktan, Jake Sully. My father, Colonel Quaritch, has orders to kill him, and your sister is his best bet at drawing him out.”

The young man’s face paling in shock, his mouth parted in utter disbelief, “Why does your father want to kill mine?”

You withdrew your hand, blinking as your brain could hardly process what he had just said, his reason for feeling so familiar slowly being committed to truth. In your shock, your mouth spewed your thoughts in an almost inaudible whisper, your face paling as you stared at him, “Had I really been dead that long?”

You couldn’t help but stare at him and looking down, you scolded yourself for not noticing his hands before, too encapsulated by that initial familiarity you felt about him.

He tilted his head, squinting at you, “How do you know him?”

“Look I-” You began, but your father’s voice in your ear interrupted you, startling you out of your deep thought, “Y/n, what’s your traffic?”

Putting your hands to your telecom you answered, “Returning to the rally point.”

You grabbed your knife that was stuck in the branch frantically, giving the young man one last look, soft and reassuring even amidst your seriousness, “Don’t worry about your sister. You have to go now! Hurry!”

Without another word, you jumped off the branch, your pocket snagging on it and sending the photos you had put in them flying into the air. The young man caught them in his hands, and seeing you, he was taken aback. He had seen your face before, but as he searched his mind, he found nothing to satisfy your mystery. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his head, pocketing the photos as he ran in the opposite direction of the shack, calling his ikran and darting away back to base.

When you had arrived at the shack, Tuk was bound to a nearby tree branch while Fike held her by her hair, ignoring her squirms as she tried to keep her cries silent.

Quaritch walked over to you with a satisfied grin, patting you on the shoulder, “We got a prisoner thanks to you, but you were gone a while. That savage didn’t give you a hard time, did he?”

“No, sir. I let him go.” You responded simply.

“You what?” Quaritch yelled at you, furious.

“What good would he be dead? Eclipse is almost nearing and we’re in enemy airspace. We don’t have time for a full night-op. If I had let killed him, then who would be the one to tell Jake?” You argued back, your voice poised as you spoke.

“And how can you be so sure they won’t just leave this brat to die?” Wainfleet interjected, the question marking curiosity in everyone.

You glared at Wainfleet, biting your cheek as you hesitated for a moment. You didn’t want to reveal their identities, but with how bloodthirsty they looked, you knew that they were practically begging for any excuse to kill her.

You sighed, “They’re his children.”

Quaritch’s expression turned sinister, his eyes lowering toward Tuk, whose face was scrunched up in fear, “Is that right? This is Sully’s kid?”

You nodded, your father awed by his own dumb luck as he looked up at the sky, laughing, “It must be my lucky day.”

Looking back at you, he put a hand on your shoulder, “I’m calling for extraction. We take her on board if Sully’s late.”

Calling the general through the telecom, he confirmed the helicopter’s arrival and turning toward the clearing, he called out, “Lyle!”

Wainfleet, rushed over to him, your father pointing to the suit, “See if you can pull some data off that suit, and y/n, keep an eye on our prisoner.”

You nodded, walking over to her as your father and Wainfleet disappeared into the clearing once more.

Fike who was snickering as he watched Tuk squirm stopped once you cleared your throat, “Piss off. I’m sure you’re tired of daycare duty.”

Fike let go willingly, “My arm was getting kind of tired. Thanks.” He replied jokingly.

He walked over to the others, talking amongst themselves loudly. You crouched beside the girl, who hissed at you, her pain manifesting itself in her eyes.

You remembered her name as you tried to comfort her, “Tuk, your brother is safe. You don’t need to be scared.”

Hearing her hiss, Zdinarsk was about to stomp over, but you stopped her, covering Tuk’s mouth with your hand. She turned around again, slinging her arm around Fike’s shoulders as she continued the conversation.

When she finally looked away, you took your knife out, tampering with the binds on her hands and loosening the seal, “I sent your brother to find your dad. He was once of the Sky People, but now he is Na’vi. Only he can stop them. Do you understand?”

She couldn’t believe what you were doing, her gaze darting from you to her wrists, you continued to talk soothingly, “When the time is right, you’ll be able to get out of those no problem.”

“Is my dad really coming?” She sniffled, her expression begging for you to be telling the truth.

You met her eyes kindly, “Yes. He is. I made sure that he would. And as long as you’re here with me, you’re safe.”

She relaxed, her expression relieved, a smile adorning her face finally, “Thank you for helping me and Lo’ak.”

You smiled at her warmly, “Ah, so that’s your brother’s name.” She nodded and you couldn’t help but chuckle, remembering your fight on the branches, “I’m y/n.”

“Y/n. That’s pretty. How did you know my name?” Tuk asked innocently.

“I heard Lo’ak call you. Your name is pretty too.”

She blushed, “Thank you.”

She looked at her wrists, “How will I know when the time is right?”

Returning your knife to where it was, you put a hand on her shoulder, “You’ll know, Tuk.” You smiled, “Your dad knows how to make an entrance.”

As you looked at her, you saw more of her parents in her. You had been so focused on the thought of being brought back to life, that you didn’t even bother to notice how long you really had been dead. You felt it first looking at Lo’ak, but it had finally sunk into you.

It felt surreal, and as you sat on the soft, rich soil, you realized that you had probably died somewhere in the forest, your body a relic of the past just like your father’s was.

Quaritch walked out of the brush with a disgruntled expression, his eyes irradiating with an unkempt rage. When you saw him, you stood up, placing yourself between him and Tuk.

"What happened? Why are you-” You stopped as your father pushed past you, kneeling as he put a knife to Tuk’s throat.

He pulled her head back, seething, “Listen here little girl, the only reason why you’re breathing now is because I wanna see your father’s face when I kill you.”

Tuk froze, petrified as fear overtook her body, so stunned that she couldn’t even utter a whimper.

“What the hell are you doing? She’s just a child!” You yelled at your father, something you had never done before, the height of your voice making him lift his grip on her.

Slowly he ascended, his eyes squinted at you in disbelief, “I don’t care if she’s a child. She’s his. Sully’s gonna pay for what he did to us. To our family. Nothing’s over. Not while we’re breathing.”

The hatefulness in his words trapped you as you felt his manic desperation suck the fresh air around you, the world feeling as if it was sinking into abysmal darkness as you couldn’t shield the horror in your eyes.

He took the dogtags you had given him earlier and put them around your neck, “This Na’vi blood’s making you soft. You wear this as a reminder, y/n, a reminder of who you are and where you came from.”

Quaritch stomped off, barking orders to Fike as he left the perimeter, leaving you with those dogtags on your neck, mocking you. You clasped your hands around the dogtags wanting to rip them off your neck and cast them far from you, but you stopped yourself, your shoulders sinking as you sat beside Tuk again.

Your expression matched the darkening sky, the light that cascaded through the trees slowly succumbing to eclipse, and unsure of how to comfort you, Tuk put her hands over yours, your hearts anxious for what was ahead.

“Where’s your sister, Lo’ak? Where’s Tuk?” Jake yelled, his tone abrasive as he aggressively took his son by the shoulders, Neytiri behind him, her eyes filled with worry.

His brother Neteyam went to his side while his other sister Kiri took the other, both of them teeming with worry.

Lo’ak brushed them both off as he made eye-contact with his father, the urgency in his voice showing in his hurriedness, “Colonel Quaritch. He took her, but this girl, she’s keeping her safe and she told me to find you.”

Jake squinted at his son, enraged by such nonsense. He raised his voice in anger, “What the hell are you talking about? Quaritch? A-a girl? That’s impossible. Answer the goddamn question, Lo’ak! Where is your sister?”

"Where is Tuk?” Neytiri repeated, the slowness in her voice giving intense warning as she glared at him.

“Tuk is at the shack, but you have to listen to me, dad. They’re all avatars. They were wearing camo and they had guns.”

Jake and Neytiri looked at one another, unwilling to believe such a nightmarish thing. Still, they were sure of one thing. Tuk was gone, and whether they believed what Lo’ak had said, it didn’t matter. They’re daughter’s life was on the line.

“Let’s go get our daughter.” Jake said to his mate, who nodded, calling her ikran, Jake doing the same.

Lo’ak reached the edge of the camp, mounting his ikran and almost darting off before Kiri and Neteyam showed up at his side.

Kiri groaned in annoyance, “What are you doing? You’re gonna get in trouble!”

Neteyam grabbed Lo’ak’s arm, glaring, “Don’t, Lo’ak.”

Lo’ak shoved him off, mounting his ikran, “Just come with me and stop being such a wuss.”

Lo’ak flew off, Neteyam grunting as he followed his brother, cursing at him under his breath.

Eclipse had finally taken over the sky and with it came a steady rainfall, giving Jake and Neytiri an advantage. Neteyam and Lo’ak followed not long after, and in his fury, commanded them to both stay by the ikrans, Neteyam reluctantly obeying, while Lo’ak agreed halfheartedly.

Jake and Neytiri moved in silence, calculating every move with precision. Neytiri took to the trees and Jake covered the ground, his tomahawk firmly ready in his hand. Carefully and silently, Jake disarmed the soldiers guarding the perimeter while Neytiri waited for the opportune moment to strike.

Everyone else took their positions when dusk fell, the usual calm of the forest becoming eerie, the slight movements of the nature surrounding you making the crew jumpy, their guns at the ready, expectant of any attack. Earlier, when no one was looking, you loosened the binds around her wrists, telling her that when the time was right, she would be able to escape easily.

Tuk kept that in mind, her eyes glued to her wrists as she waited that perfect time. The noises around you had been constant, the rain, the occasional rustling of the leaves, certain animal calls. But, a new sound broke in the wind, making your ears twitch. Tuk heard it loud and clear, looking up at you, and you understood what the sound was. It was a call, a signal that Jake had finally come.

After the wake of that new sound, the unmistakeable twang of an arrow burst through the thick air, sending Fike backwards and killing him instantly. Bullets rang through the air from another direction, sending the other soldiers flying to the ground. Tuk, who had figured this was the perfect time to set herself free, squeezed her hands through the binds and ran in the opposite direction of the fire, screaming when she ran into someone, but sinking with relief when she realized it was Lo’ak and Neteyam.

Neteyam took Tuk into his arms, holding her as Lo’ak grabbed her by the shoulder, “Where’s the girl, the girl that helped us?” He asked her.

Tuk pointed opposite his direction, “Y/n! She’s over there!”

Lo’ak, without any hesitation ran toward where Tuk had pointed, carefully maneuvering as he approached.

You and the rest of the soldiers took cover as bullets continued to sweep the forest floor, bullets that you knew could only be coming from Jake.

Quaritch, who had taken cover behind a log, saw the arrow, his voice sinister as he attempted to draw her out. “Is that you Mrs. Sully?”

She instantly recognized the voice, but she kept a poised anger, despite the ghostly chill she felt down her spine, “I will kill you as many times as I have to, demon.”

Quaritch huffed out cockily, reloading his weapon, “Looks like you’ve been busy while I’ve been gone, but don’t worry Mrs. Sully. Pretty soon, you won’t have a family to protect.”

Looking at Warren and Wainfleet, Quaritch gave his signal, the two of them putting their eyes in their scopes to search for Neytiri as he continued to talk, taunting her with unbearable arrogance.

She was stuck where she was, any movement marking her for death as guns in all directions were targeting her. You used your scope to watch your crew intently from the opposite side. Warren’s eyes were fixed on the trees, and you knew he caught sight of her when he stopped, aiming as he pointed his gun at her. You aimed at Warren ready to pull the trigger, but an arrow came flying through the sky behind you, shooting through Warren’s chest and sending his body instantly to the ground.

Wainfleet immediately turned toward the arrow’s origin and you followed his line of sight to find Lo’ak behind you. You stepped in front of the line of fire, attempting to stop Wainfleet, but he had already pulled the trigger. The bullet had landed above your clavicle, a seemingly fatal wound as your body dropped, Lo’ak catching you as you fell.

Wainfleet’s eyes widened, turning his head to the Colonel, who hadn’t seen what had happened, and in his flustered state, Wainfleet backed away slowly, running to your father’s side.

At that same instant, Quaritch took his shot, gauging where Neytiri was and releasing a detonation of bullets that bursted with deadly fire, the area engulfing in a massive explosion that ruptured the area, pieces of bark flying all throughout the forest like shrapnel. Taking her chance, Neytiri ran, and seeing her movement, Quaritch ordered the crew to follow. Jake followed too, disarming soldiers from where he had taken cover and using the last of his bullets to secure Neytiri’s safety.

You were lying on the ground, Lo’ak breaking your fall as you both tumbled to the grassy floor, “Shit!” He yelled out once he noticed the blood dripping from the wound.

Shifting to your side, he put pressure on it, talking to you gently, “Hey! Stay with me, okay?”

When your mind finally caught up with your body, you let a deep breath in, sitting up abruptly, the boy retracting his hands as your own touched where your wound was, the blood smeared on your fingertips as more poured down your chest.

Quickly, you ripped pieces of your shirt as he watched, eyes blinking in confusion as his face flushed, “What are you doing?”

You almost laughed, a smirk on your face, “Relax, I’m not getting naked.”

Looking around, you took your knife out, slicing off a piece of the bark from a nearby tree, pressing the blade into its flesh as it seeped out sap. You wiped the sap on your wound, feeling the slight sting as Lo’ak watching in confused awe.

Lo’ak let out another question, “Where did you learn how to-”

“I had a great teacher.” You replied, “Yanna bark sap has great healing properties.”

You gave him the pieces of cloth that you tore, “Just wrap the pieces around.”

He took the cloth from you, covering the wound, “Wrap it tightly.” You ordered.

“Ow!” You yelped as he pulled the cloth taut.

“You said to do it tightly.” He mumbled, continuing to wrap your wound.

You took his face in your other hand, brushing his lip with your finger, the bottom of it cracked and the blood crusted from when you punched him, “Sorry about that.”

He could feel his heart beat faster, your fingers still on his lips as he placed his gaze on you. The way he bore his eyes into you made you feel shy, and having never been looked at like that before, you pulled your hand away, but he grabbed it, “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

Blues, greens, and purples illuminating your shimmering skin as the plants around regained their bioluminescence. Anyone from the outside looking in would have thought you two were sharing affections, the plants livening around you, sanctifying the air you shared, that small, fleeting moment between the two of you peaceful amidst what had just happened. You cast your eyes away from him quickly though, unable to let yourself slip too deep into that peace, the horrible truth of reality striking at it like vipers.

Your ears twitched, voices coming through your telecom, immediately you turned around, craning your neck as you saw the bright, white lights of the extraction helicopter in the distance, snuffing out the glow of the plants. You could hear the general’s urgency as everyone was ordered to return to the helicopter.

“Get down. They might shoot if they see you.” You pulled him into the nearby brush, the tall, hanging leaves giving cover for you and Lo’ak.

As the helicopter neared and neared, its rotors whirred loudly, silencing the rest of the noises and filling your ears. Through the leaves, you saw the helicopter descend just above the tree line, multiple ropes dropping to the ground for extraction. Immediately, Quaritch stopped his crusade, falling back to the rally point, everyone else following after him. Grabbing onto the rope, he counted who he was with, but let go when he realized you weren’t there.

“Y/n? Do you read me? Get back to the rally point.” He commanded in his telecom, his voice desperate.

You were about to put your hands on your telecom but you stopped, your fingers hovering over the buttons. You didn’t expect to hesitate. From the moment you woke up, you felt scorned by the presence of your father. But as you heard his voice calling to you so desperately, what was left of that old you, who loved him so much, found its hold on your heart somehow.

“Y/n? Do you hear me? Get back to the rally point, now!” He yelled out. You could see him in front of you, frantically looking around.

General Ardmore was barking orders too, emotionless, “If she doesn’t come up Colonel. We’ll have to leave and come back tomorrow.”

Despite the whirring of the helicopter, your father’s voice was all you could hear in your head as he continued to scream out your name, the voice that taught you your every move and molded your every thought.

Still, you did nothing, eyes glued to your father in the distance, uncharacteristically panicky as he turned to the rest of his regiment, throwing his hands up, “Where’s my little girl?”

Lo’ak put a hand on your arm, his voice low, “Don’t tell me you’re gonna go back. That guy over there shot you, then left you.”

You looked at him, feeling the guilt within you rise, “Am I not so different from him? From all of them? I don’t belong here on Pandora and I don’t deserve to. If I stay here, I’d still be endangering you all.”

He kept his eyes planted on you, the sadness in your voice reinforcing him to be strong, “And if you go back, then what will happen to you? Will you just obey orders and watch your dad kill mine?” You looked at Lo’ak, your expression still conflicted and too aghast by his boldness to offer any protest. Yet, Lo’ak knew he got through to you, your expression softening as you let him lower your hands gently to the grass.

“Look, you chose to save me and my sister when you could have killed us.” He lifted his hand up, his palm grazing it as he took the earpiece out of your ear, his fingers traveling to your neck as he unclipped your telecom.

You froze, your senses wholly attuned to him as your mind could only focus on his voice, calm and slow as he spoke to you, “You told me yourself. You’re not the enemy.” He smirked at you, pressing a finger into your forehead, “Get that through your thick skull, won’t you?”

You couldn’t help a light laugh as your lips upturned, “I got through yours, so it’s only fair right?”

About to lift your gaze back on the helicopter, you stopped, rolling onto your back instead, relinquishing the ties of who you no longer wanted to be, unwilling even to grant them your eyes as they left you. You felt as if the tether to your father was being severed as the helicopter flew away, its whirring becoming distant and distant until finally, the tranquility of the forest returned as the bioluminescence reawakened around you. The feel of the grass and the air immersed you into that bliss, and no longer focused on the anger and hurt, you only wondered how you endured it for so long, how that tether was able to mark trauma into your skin and bones.

Lo’ak, although confused by your actions held no qualms about joining you, lying down, his eyes only on you the whole time. You turned your head slightly to look at him, and you felt that peace from before, no longer skewed but welcomed by you as you smiled at him, your gratefulness emanating from it.

Under your gaze, Lo’ak felt himself get shy, getting up quickly to hide the blush that would surely make itself known among the illumination of the flora around you.

“W-we should uh...look for my dad.” In his awkwardness, he was seemingly unsure, his tone expelling his words like a question.

Lo’ak put a hand out and you took it, “Yeah, Jake and I have a lot to catch up on.”

Once you stood up, you heard bellowing rustles in the distance, and immediately you took your defensive position, taking your knife out. Lo’ak also had his knife out, his back against yours as you both searched your perimeter. The rustling became footsteps, the sound approaching closer and closer until you saw a flash of blue rushing toward you, the lifting of a tomahawk making you dodge immediately.

“Jake I-!” He swung again, your knife barely blocking the weight of his tomahawk as you staggered backward.

“Dad! Stop!” Lo’ak yelled out, and hearing the rest of his family come, Neytiri already drawing her bow, he ran to her, pleading for her to put it down.

You ducked again as Jake continued to swing, backing away as you put your hands up, “Jake! It’s me! Y/n!” You yelled.

The adrenaline pumping in his veins was too prominent, not allowing him to recognize you as he continued to swing at you, each one more forceful than the last. Neteyam had also drawn his bow, but Tuk clung to his arms, disrupting his attempt at shooting you.

You fought back vigorously and when you had finally knocked the tomahawk out of his hands, you let go of your grip on him, kneeling on the dirt with your hands up as you spoke again, out of breath, “Jake. It’s me, y/n. You have to believe me.”

Blinking, he could finally hear you, your unmistakeable voice warping Jake’s mind, unwilling to accept the possibility, your appearance betraying the very memory of you, splicing who he remembered you to be from the mystery of who was kneeling in front of him.

He put a knife to your neck, his eyes pained as he tried to ignore the memories coming back to him in response to your voice, “You’re not! Y/n’s dead. She’s dead, okay? So, who are you?”

What proof did you have? Even if you showed him those photos, they wouldn’t be enough. All you had were your memories, and as you looked at Jake, so happy to see him again, you reached into your past in hopes that he would remember too.

“You know me, Jake Sully, and you know my father. He’ll stop at nothing to kill you and your family.” Jake gritted his teeth, his knife dipping into your neck more. You became teary-eyed as you continued to speak, but you were fierce in your tone, “Do you remember what I told you before the bulldozers came?” You asked.

“A father protects. It’s what gives him meaning.” You looked over at his family, their stares burning into you, “You have a family now, Jake. Let me help you protect them from my father.”

Jake dropped his knife, his mouth parting, the words he had lived by in all the time you were gone breathing life back into you, his eyes no longer looking, but Seeing. Every doubt he had in his mind disappeared into the night air as he said your name, the breath he expelled so soft in the wake of what he felt was another reality. You were alive, and when he had finally accepted that fact, he lifted you up from the ground, pulling you in for a hug.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you before.” He said softly, “Blue never really was your color.”

You buried your face in his shoulder as you hugged him back, “Yeah well, it was always yours.”

You felt tears brim in your eyes as you lifted your head up and you could feel your whole body relax for the first time since you woke up. In the midst of your comfortable silence you suddenly heard him sniffle. You became moon-eyed, pulling back to see that he had tears falling from his eyes too.

You smiled at him, your old joking self returning as you laughed, “I see fatherhood’s turned you into a sap.” You put your hands up to his forehead, “And look at all the wrinkles on your forehead. You’re ancient.”

Scoffing, Jake pushed your hand away, tousling your hair, “You come back from the dead, and you’re still a little shit.”

“Whatever old man. I know you missed me.” You snarkily replied, weakly punching him in the arm.

He scoffed at you, winding his arm to punch you back when his face dropped, noticing your bound wound, “What happened? Did I shoot you?”

Lo’ak piped in, “It was one of the other soldiers. He was trying to kill me, but she took the bullet instead.”

He looked between you and Lo’ak. If there was still any doubt in his mind about who you were, it was easily erased. What you had done for his son directly mirrored what you had done for him all those years ago, every detail so ingrained in him that goosebumps adorned his body as he thought of it. Neytiri, who took her place beside Jake softened her eyes, having felt grateful to you for saving Jake’s life before, and once again for saving her son.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry. I’ve already put yanna bark on it. It’ll be better in no time.” You put your hands up, attempting to ease Jake.

He glared at you, “We’re going.” Jake turned to his eldest son, “Neteyam, take y/n back to camp.”

“No! I’ll take her back.” Lo’ak instantly protested, earning a knowing look from Neteyam, “It’s the least I can do after she took the bullet for me.”

“Fine Lo’ak,” His eyes were ensnared with warning, “You fly straight and slow, alright? Don’t be reckless in the air.”

“Yes sir.” Lo’ak answered, although he hardly meant it.

Everyone called their ikrans, all of them coming in like a swarm and gracefully descending to the forest floor. Jake flew off first, Neytiri, who was holding Tuk, followed after, then Neteyam ascended as well.

Making sure you were secure before taking off, Lo’ak looked over his shoulder at you, “Have you ever been on an ikran before?”

“Never.” You said, suddenly excited, wrapping your arms around his waist tightly, your chest hugging his back, “I don’t care what Jake says, I don’t want to go slow.”

Lo’ak couldn’t control himself as a satisfied grin took over his lips, “Good, ‘cause I wasn’t planning to.”

The minute he kicked off, you felt the exhilaration of being in the air hit you as you flew through the mist of the night, Lo’ak taking extra detours around the mountain, commanding the wind as you felt it underneath you. You had merely felt free before, but as you embraced the touch of the swirling air, infinite and timeless in its beauty, you knew you really were.

The day had felt excruciatingly long, and you felt so burdened by just being alive, the guilt, the hurt, and the pain encompassing you. But, being in the air with Lo’ak made those burdens feel like mere trivialities, and while you knew in the back of your mind that you would have to face them again, you let yourself feel that freedom you always longed to have and in its simplest form, you understood what it was you were really feeling.

You were happy.

But the thing about happiness is that it can vanish in an instant.

Your father was still out there, and having already been motivated to complete this mission by his own disposition, a new rage had sunk into his soul, catalyzing the torment he so desperately had to inflict.

Wainfleet finally admitted to your father what had happened to you, but in his deceitful cowardice, he left out one large truth.

“What did you say Lyle?” Quaritch asked impatiently.

“Sully. He shot her. She’s dead, Colonel.”

—

Author’s Note:

My lovers,

LYLE WAINFLEET IS A BITCHHH ISN’T HE???

let me know how you felt about chapter 1!! i’d love to hear your thoughts :)

endless thanks for all of you who have waited and continue to wait for the next parts!

for all those that wanted to be tagged for this next part, i’ve listed you all below! thank you so much!!

love,

nana <3

taglist [tumblr wouldn’t let me tag some of the blogs, but i didn’t want to leave anyone out!] :

@fifty-shades-of-mischeif @pretty-npeach @tonni30 @itsemy01 @23victoria @soobinsrose @starjane312 @valentineoxox @justlillythinking @mae-is-crazy @scarletrosesposts@paniniii @bloodyziggy @mister-police @mrs-sullys-blog @niiight-dreamerrrr @promiseofeywa @wilmalovegood @sssspencerrr @mochi-yu @d4rno @lovekeeho @dreama-little-dreamof-me @strawberryclouds22@tsunchani @sully-stick-together @scarletrosesposts @local-mr-frog @pirana10 @usernumder67 @im-kai-scotty @mae-is-crazy @ghoulbli @devil-on-acid @neteyamoa @iamparou @nightfalldia @a-queen-blr @aeclark041-blog1@justpassinbxx @mochi-yu @persondoingstuff @melatonindaydreamz @ducks118 @macncheese69420666 @rotten-toenails @rikidaily @extreamlycutecuban @iizx7y @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @lovekeeho @spicycloudsalad @perfectprofessorloverapricot @kind45 @skyri-revia22@blueblushedflwr @neteyamslovr @coldlamaspersonspy @jayinthecloset @lunamochii @littlethingsinlife @ok-boke @donaldsmac @slut4sluttybooks @zatarias-pandora @bol0-de-morang0 @dakotali @bajadotcom @bitchyzombienacho @siriusblackwh0re @wadiyatalkinabeetmate @eggyongies @galaxyfruits @kiricomics @fireflystoughts @reallysparklychaos @bwormie @glitter-in-my-heroin @kirikuki @katkat1918 @0-0h-0 @imthefunniestpersonalive @my-name-duh @mayabritjohn @annoyingstrawberryballoon @sometimesminsan @pearlrosegardener @aestheticcraze @animetrash12 @sbfandom @hrlzy @vhobuu @urforevermore @larkkyoris @usersjs-world @vampsclassiffied @razor-blayde @doromoni @lizzyloo22 @jimfiqs @hunylew @dreamergirljen

#avatar #avatar x reader #avatar way of water #avatar fanfiction #avatar loak #loak #loak sully #loak x reader #loak x you #loak x y/n #nanasavatarfics #nanasilwefic!

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peachesofteal · 10 months

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i can literally imagine the hell that would take place when the boys are confronted with them messing with her birth control. like soaps obv remorseful but simons just fkn gaslighting left and right 😭😭

There are so many ways it could all go down (and I’m sure I’ll be exploring every single one of them 😈):

“We’re sorry, darling. So, so sorry, so-“ Johnny is crying, eyes red, face full of sorrow, like he’s just now realizing the true weight of their decision. He stands a meter away from you, but it feels like an eternity. You feel like you’re eons apart from him now, isolated, in the dark. While they stand in the sun together, holding hands, holding the consequences.

“You’re sorry?” You choke when you cut him off. Sorry? Sorry? You’re sorry, Johnny? Sorry for taking away my choice? Sorry for claiming ownership over my own fucking body?

“We just love you so much, we couldn’t bear the thought of being without you ever again. We’re sorry, we-“

“I’m not.” Simon’s voice cuts through the roof like a heated blade. Swift. Cauterizing, stemming the excessive bleeding from this fatal wound. “I’m not sorry, darling.” Johnny stares at him like he’s lost his mind while you just gape at him in horror. “I’m not sorry, for makin’ a decision that was what’s best for all of us… not sorry for making the choice that you would have made yourself.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” You screech. Your hands are shaking, and Johnny gulps like he can’t breathe. They both watch you like you’re a bomb mere seconds away from exploding, and when you stifle a sob and struggle to take a deep breath, you watch them make eye contact with one another, exchanging a look worth more than words. “STOP DOING THAT!” You scream it, anger bursting out of your mouth like fire, raging seizing your muscles. Johnny flinches. Simon takes a step towards you, hand outstretched, and you take an immediate step back.

“Calm down.” Simon orders and you shake your head, eye’s frantically darting from them, to the front door, to the door of the bedroom. Run. The voice in your head whispers. Run, while you still can. Run.

#peaches asks #peaches writes #baby trap au #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #female reader

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am-i-interrupting · 17 days

Note

What if... Fallen angel Reader that gets found by Vox after an extermination, Vox using his charming persona on this vulnerable angel so they'd be a source of information... but, as time passes, fallen angel Reader sees Vox as their savior, an unhealthy devotion, death doesn't scare Reader if it helps Vox. Just, devoted servant reader, hopelessly in love. Maybe a secretary after years in Hell by Vox's side?

And Vox saw them as a tool, a fancy toy to break with time but got attached. Vox isn't sure in what way, romantic, platonic, something? Fallen angel Reader is so deeply rooted and intertwined with his life that Vox doesn't want to and actually can't imagine his life without reader.

Yours truly,

🖍

Angels fell more frequently than people though but it wasn’t always a hell creating event. More often than not, it was someone doing what they thought was right.

You were one of those people.

Wingless and bleeding, Vox found you.

You were delirious with pain and he took advantage of that.

He scooped you up and took you with him to Voxtec, a simple teleport away.

He turned you on your back and cauterized your wounds with an electric spark.

He kept you alive.

He didn’t let you die. He had things to ask.

When you woke, he was in the room typing away at a computer and you could hear a beeping sound of a heart monitor.

“So, I can finally get the age old question answered,” he said before he turned to you with a striking smile. “Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”

From that day on, you were wrapped around his finger.

He treated you will but with specific intentions.

He kept you isolated for nearly a year but still showed you the ropes of Hell but with the distance of screens.

He asked you about Heaven. He wanted to know everything. From the daily life to the solider life.

He was obsessed with you and it didn’t take much for anyone to figure out.

It took three years for people to know what Mr. Vox’s newest obsession was when you were appointed his secretary.

He had you close, always.

A hand never left you and people knew you were his.

Somewhere along the way though, those soft touches along your back scars became something he cherished, as he felt your breathing level when you fell asleep on his chest.

The gifts he’d given were no longer just to gain your favor before he had questions or a task to ask you.

They shifted to be something personal and something frequent.

It was when you shared a kiss for the first time, a year into you being his secretary that he realized how fucked he was.

It wasn’t until his last fight with Alastor that he realized how devoted you were.

You didn’t hesitate to jump in when Vox was almost beaten and take on one of the most power overlords in Hell. You’d even successfully managed to fight him back.

Covered in his own and Alastor’s blood he was thankful there wasn’t a scratch on you to reveal the golden liquid of your own.

He took your face in one hand, smearing blood across it, and his other went between your scars.

He realized the fact that you once had wings had nothing to do with how deeply he felt for you.

“I love you,” he said and he meant it even if he felt sick to his stomach at the admission.

He kissed you and this time it felt different.

It wasn’t like that first kiss which was used to manipulate you nor the ones that followed which were secretly savored.

This one was open and honest and raw and real. Why did he feel so guilty about it then?

#crayon Anon #vox x reader #hazbin vox x reader

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hyperfixiation-station · 5 months

Text

Lighter

Summary: You and Ghost are on a mission and you take a bullet for him. With evac too far out and next to 0 medical supplies, the only way to keep you alive is to cauterize the wound.

TW: Blood, graphic depictions of injuries, angst

Part 2

Part 3

You had been shot, the bullet lodging itself in your hip, just barely nicking your artery. You were headed back to the extraction point, mission completed, when something rammed into your left hip, sending you stumbling back. The white-hot pain came a second later.

Ghost dragged you to cover, cursing your stupidity the whole way. He tore your shirt off, using one hand to stem the bleeding while the other fumbled with the med kit. Now, you were propped up against a wall, pale and shaking as Ghost labored in vain to stop the bleeding, pressing gauze into the wound, then replacing it ten seconds later in a never-ending cycle.

"I don't think gauze is going to stop the bleeding." You wheeze, breath ragged. Your eyes flick to the growing pile of red-soaked cloth, then to your blood-slicked skin, then to Ghost’s masked face.

"No... No, it won't. But it buys us time." Ghost murmurs as he applies more pressure. One hand comes up to his shoulder and he clicks the radio.

"We need a medevac to our location. ASAP." You shake your head, knowing that they won’t get to you before you bleed out. Your eyes flick down to your belt, where a lighter sits, and you get a terrible, horrible, possibly-only-option idea.

"I have...a lighter..." You rasp out before you can change your mind.

"You want to cauterize it?!" Ghost asks you incredulously. "You’re fuckin’ insane."

"It's better...than bleeding...to death" You gasp, eyes fluttering.

Ghost hesitates, the thought of causing you such intense pain making him wince. "You're right... but, bloody hell…I can't do it. I can't hurt you."

"Do...you want...me to die?" You wheeze, smiling weakly at him.

"No... No, I..." Ghost bites his lip and closes his eyes, visibly trying to find the strength to do this. He gently pulls your jacket off, folding and tying it around your mouth, shoving the cloth in between your teeth so you don’t bite your tongue off.

He hesitantly pulls the lighter from your pocket, flicking it on. He straddles you, holding you in place with his thighs as he brings the flame to your wound.

“You ready?" he asks softly. You nod shakily, and Ghost hesitantly lights the flame. As he brings the lighter closer, the heat sears your skin. You scream against the gag and try to escape the source of pain, body involuntary jerking away from it. Your skin and blood bubbles, quickly sealing the wound shut.

Your body seizes, your screams muffled by the gag. Ghost lets go of the lighter, certain that the bleeding has stopped, but he doesn’t get off of you. He holds you in place as your body jerks involuntarily, wiping tears from your cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, "I'm sorry...I’m so sorry." Ghost winces and places his hands over the burn, trying to apply pressure and dull the pain as much as he can. He brushes your hair from your face, frowning at how clammy and pale your skin is. He places his fingers against your neck, feeling for your pulse. Your breath comes in ragged, rapid gasps, and your pulse is quick and thready.

He finally gets off, his hands deftly tape gauze over the burn, protecting it from the elements.

You let out a ragged sob, curling up around your injury, pain radiating through your body. A weight is placed over your body and distantly you recognize that Ghost put his jacket over you. You float away, the only tether to your body being his hand on your shoulder. I don't think seeing my own body is a good thing you think, but it's a passing thought, not concerning you. From above, you watch him tap your cheek, trying to get you to wake up. But you just stare at him with unfocused eyes, trembling.

“C’mon Y/N.” He says, gently tapping your face. He looks at your unresponsive form worriedly.

"Fuck." He moves your body, positioning it so that your legs are slightly elevated, resting on his lap.

“Soap,” He calls into the radio, “You’ll have to come to us. She’s gone into shock.”

"Fuck. Alright, we’re three minutes out, Lt." His voice is distorted and staticky, “we’re going as fast as we can.”

Ghost nods, though Soap can’t see him. He looks at your pale, ashen face and prays to a god he doesn't believe in that you’ll make it to tomorrow.

The next three minutes pass agonizingly slow. Every time your breath hitches he fears it's your last. His heart hurts at the pain etched on your unconscious face, and he rests his hand on your thigh, hoping to provide some comfort.

The sound of an approaching helicopter grows louder, and Ghost’s could almost cry in relief.

Dust and debris blow around as the helicopter hovers, ropes dropping down from above. A medic drops down, followed by Soap, and they help Ghost load you onto a stretcher, securing you and letting you be pulled up before following.

“Hang in there Little Bird.” Soap says, placing an oxygen mask over your face. The medic tucks a shock blanket around you and takes your blood pressure, unable to do much else with limited supplies.

“You alright Lt?” He asks Ghost, checking over to make sure he isn’t injured either.

“Fine.” He snaps, pausing to take a deep breath before continuing in a softer tone, “They took the bullet for me.” Soap nods in understanding, looking at your limp form before looking back to Ghost.

“They’ll be okay.” He pauses as the helicopter hits turbulence, steadying your stretcher with his hand, “They’re one of the toughest people I know.”

Your eyes flutter open several minutes later, vision hazy, ears ringing, and head spinning. There’s people talking to you, at least, you think there are, but the voices are quiet and distorted. The last thing you see before being pulled back under is Ghost, standing above you.

Ghost sits in the waiting room, still dressed in his blood-soaked clothes. He sits in the hard plastic chair, not moving an inch for the entire 4 hours the doctors have you in surgery.

Soap and Price sit with him in silence for the first couple of hours, but are called away before you get out of surgery. Ghost doesn't even acknowledge them as they leave, eyes fixated on the OR doors had been rushed through.

The second the door to the OR swings open Ghost is up, towering over the surgeon who came out to deliver the news.

"How are they?" He asks harshly.

"They, um, lost 1.2 liters of, um, blood, and their, um, left hip bone was, um shattered. A bone fragment, um, broke off and ripped through some important bits, causing some, um, internal bleeding. They are, um, stable now, but they did, um, flatline 3, um, 3 times on the table." The nurse stutters out.

"Are they awake?"

"Um, no sir, um they are, um, in a coma, we're not, um, we don't know when, um, when they are, um, going to wake up, um, of they, um, wake up." The nurse, who couldn't be older than 20 says timidly, "if they can, um, make it through the, um, night then we-we believe they'll pull through."

"Can I see them?" Ghost asks, voice marginally softer.

He's led to a bed in the ICU, where you lay pale and lifeless. There's a tube down your throat, tubes in your arms, and wires crisscrossing everywhere. He sits down, tentatively grabbing your limp hand, careful to avoid pulling your IV out.

His eyes unfocus as he stares at your limp form, your blood-curdling screams echoing in his ears. The guilt he feels at the fact that you got shot protecting him, that he caused you pain, makes him physically sick. He didn't deserve to be saved, and he definitely didn't deserve to be sitting in your room, holding your hand.

The atmosphere of the ICU did not help with Ghost's silent existential crisis. The constant beeping, the lighting, the moans and groans, the ever-constant presence of the nurse were all succeeding in putting his nerves even more on edge.

He tenses as the monitor by your bed starts beeping wildly, lights flashing. Medics rush in, shoving Ghost to this side as they check your body.

"-pressure is dropping!"

"-oxygen to their-"

"-failing. Need to-"

"-already had one!"

A nurse grabs Ghost by the arm, marching him out of the ICU and pushing him into a chair in the hallway.

"You just wait right here, sugar. I'm gonna go get you a glass o' water while they try to save your sweetheart, okay?" She says gently.

His hands shake, barely, as he takes the cup, his eyes trained on the window of the ICU, through which he can see multiple medical professionals surrounding you.

Please, he begs silently, I need to apologize. Please hold on for me. He knows it is selfish and he feels disgusting for even thinking it, but he doesn't know what he'd do if he never got to tell how sorry he was he hurt you. Please.

Pt.2?

#cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #angst #writing #live laugh love angst #no beta we die like men

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thatone-brightstar · 1 year

Text

Cigarette smoke & Spices (Carmen Berzatto x fem!reader) One Shot

I made this account soley to post this cause this fucked up, broken man makes me FERAL, now i'll be on my way lol.

Word count: 3.6k

Summary: You have have gotten to know your neighbor Carmen a little too well.

You don’t know much about him. Not as much as you would like to, anyway. Just a name.

You know he arrives a little past midnight, with what seems like the burden of the world heavy on his shoulders. That despite his withering tiredness, he still steps carefully over your outstretched legs on the days he finds you too entranced in your book to move from the hallway floor.

He’s never asked why you’re there so late and in return, you never complain about the heavy metal music he likes to listen to until three in the morning.

You do wonder, though, what it is he does that always has him arriving in a grim mood, with the stand of a nervous animal, wounded and ready to slaughter anything in sight. In a city like Chicago, you can assume anything terrible, but the trailing scent of burnt sweet onion and spices that lingers under your nose, calms the thoughts of any illicit affairs. He doesn’t look like the type, anyway.

But then again, you don’t know much about him.

By the time you hear the elevator gears stop at your floor, your legs have gone numb between your weight and the hard carpet. You pull them from under you and stretch as far as you can with pointed toes to the wall in front of you. It’s a small hallway, so you don’t need to make too much of an effort for your skin to come in contact with the coldness of his door. You feel his heavy stomps vibrate through the floor, heavier than usual and without having to look in his direction you can tell he’s had a hard day. You smile. Those are your favorite.

You place your book by your side in sweet anticipation, pins and needles bite at your exposed legs through the skin. Soon, an ink covered hand invades your sight. The heat radiating from his body is almost enough to cauterize your fingertips as you glide them slowly across his wrist, down the back of his hand and into the cocoon of his calloused palm. You follow the vein in his arm with your eyes, how it travels up, up, up and nests between a strong jaw and neck. You can feel his impatient gaze burn into you and a smile teases your lips when your eyes finally decide to take a dip in the icy blue. He swallows hard, making your smile grow wider.

“Hard day?” you whisper, slipping your bottom lip under your upper teeth and enjoying the way his eyes flicker down to it.

“You have no fuckin’ idea…” Carmen answers in a heavy breath, then in a single movement, wraps his robust hand around your wrist and pulls you to your feet with little effort.

You don’t get time to react to the sudden change in perspective when you feel the hard door hit your back and the cold seep through your thin shirt, then his hungry lips hunting down your own with desperation. You swallow his deep groan, satisfied to finally find soft skin. He works his skilled fingers up the skin of your thighs, bunching your shirt around your hips while you struggle to turn the nob. Even though it’s late and your neighbors are probably asleep, you’d rather not give them a show. The door clicks open and the weight of his body pushes you both in, never disconnecting your lips. He kicks the door closed and strong arms wrap around your waist, hoisting you up and pressing you with his body to the nearest wall.

A whine mixes with the sound of sloppy kisses when you feel the hard denim of his jeans rub against the soaked fabric of your underwear and you pull him closer with your legs trying to replicate the feeling. He jerks his hips forward again to give you the friction you need, an almost painful emptiness burning at your core because he’s not nearly as close as you want him to be. With your eyes closed, you can feel his hands everywhere. Holding the back of your thighs, roaming your abdomen and tangled in your hair at the base of your neck where he holds you still. He leaves your heaving lips to pepper kisses on your exposed skin, wet and hot that once the air touches, makes goosebumps raise immediately.

“Wanna talk about it-?” You ask as you try to coax him into sharing what it is that burdens him, but he’s too distracted pulling your shirt over your shoulders to pay attention.

Your tits bounce with the rhythmless movements of his grinds and his patience shrinks even more as he latches onto the soft flesh, tongue covering every bit of your skin with messy licks that have you gasping for air. The room echoes with the obscene sounds sucking and your panting sighs.

“Couch or bed?” You hear him ask, breathless.

He’s digging his teeth over your collarbone, until the skin grows sensitive and red, a remnant you’ll wake up to when he’s long gone in the morning.

“Bed” you answer, too entranced in his torturous mouth to form clear sentences.

The hard wall is replaced by rough palms that keep you pressed to his chest as he maneuvers through the dark living room. Muscle memory guides him in the all familiar space, past your kitchen and through your bedroom door, to the bed he had grown accustomed to. You slide over it gently when he loosens his grip on your form, hair spreading around your flushed face while you wait impatiently for him to finish undressing. You stretch to the length of the bed, sighing as tension releases from locked joints and when you finally hear the metal of his belt ‘clinck’ on the wooden floor, you lift your head and stare at him through locks of messy hair. Your lip catches between your teeth at such a beautiful sight, him standing there all lean muscle and hard cock, glistening in anticipation and drawing saliva into your needy mouth.

You push yourself up to rest on spread out knees, inching closer to his immobile form, then wrap soft fingers around the thick velvet flesh. A shutter leaves his chest and his eyes close when you rake the nails on your other hand up across his hard abdomen and to the back of his neck. The soft flick of your wrist, paired with sultry kisses along his neck and chest, have him thrusting involuntarily into your fist and hands gripping tightly at the side of your hips. You brush your lips along his stubble, the prominent line of his nose and back down to bite his bottom lip.

“D’you wanna talk about it, Carmen?” You whisper again over his lips when you see the ever present frown above his brow hasn’t faded. His name tastes like sugar cubes in your mouth, making you smile at the way he reacts to hearing it from your lips.

Your grip tightens over his girth and you drag your palm slowly when he doesn’t give you an answer. His eyes open suddenly and the blown out look he gives you through hooded brows has thick waves of heat overwhelming your body.

“Do I ever?” He finally answers with a sighed laugh.

That’s the first laugh you’ve gotten out of him and you do your best to ignore the softness it brings to your chest. “Worth a shot” You say shrugging, then latch on to his waiting lips again and resume your hand’s movements.

A surprised gasp leaves your chest as his hands grope the back of your thighs to pull you forward, tilting your balance and making you fall on your back against the soft covers. His hands roam impatiently to your hips, pulling at the last piece of clothing covering you, only to throw it somewhere in the mess of clothes. With one knee resting on the mattress, he pulls at your ankles to have you closer, then leans down to press teasing kisses up your soft skin as he crawls over you.

His mouth travels in a messy line over your knee, thigh and hip bone, completely avoiding the prominent heat on the inside of your thighs. He yearns to do it, to rub his nose against your slit and taste you so deep that the tartness will linger heavy on his tongue onto the next day, but he knows he can’t. That sort of intimacy is only reserved for matters of the heart, for partners in love who know each other- body and soul-, and you two are anything but. So instead he focuses higher up, licking and nibbling at your breasts and the tender nipples that never disappoint to perk up when he exhales rapidly over them.

You tangle your fingers in the mess of his hair at the feeling of his knees pushing your legs open, then when the skin of his strong thighs begins to rub over your aching core, your nails dig into the sensitive scalp with a gasp. It’s soft at first, like he’s testing your reactions and as you plant your feet around him and push down to meet his actions with urgency, you feel his lips grow into a smile above your skin.

“Fuckin’ tease…” You mumble through gasps, the comment increasing the erratic movements that almost have you shaking over the surface of the bed.

A cry scratches your throat and you tilt your head back when his hand snakes down and applies pressure over it with his palm moving in circles. Your nails rake from his head to his shoulders and he moans over your chest, the skin overly sensitive and wet.

“Just put it in- already..” You whine and he laughs again. That’s two more than ever, but who’s counting.

“What’s the fun in that?” He teases with a heavy breath, but readjusts his position so your thighs rest above his and the thick head of his cock brushes over the hot flesh of your entrance.

He plants his hands by your head with his hanging low and eyes trained on the way you swallow his member as he sinks in inch by inch. The smokey scent from his golden hair and the sweet stretch of him filling you up has your head pounding from the rush of blood and ears only tuning into static. He feels incredibly hot above you, strong biceps caging you in between his hot skin and the mattress. You bite your lip to control the shameful moan trying to escape when he finally settles completely inside you.

“Fuck-” His eyes are closed and his breathing is ragged for a few agonizing seconds before he pulls back and rolls his hips into you again and again.

His pace is constant and firm enough that you wrap your hands around his wrists so the force of his thrusts don’t push you away. Still, you can feel him holding back when blown pupils meet yours and his movements falter down lightly. So you give him a little push by taking one of his firm hands and wrapping it around your neck, never letting your sight leave his.

“Jesus fuck-” He shudders with an exhale and a soft grin.

“Is that all you got, pretty boy?” You ask between pants and a similar grin.

His brows raise in surprise at your sudden teasing and he shakes his head in amusement. His eyes meet yours again, an indescribable gleam visible in the low light of your room and you’re about to question why he’s stopped moving, before he pulls out completely, takes his hand from your neck and effortlessly flips you - so that now your stomach is firmly on the bed. The sudden action pulls a squeal from your throat. You want to turn around to throw another remark, but his hand falls abruptly on the plump flesh of your ass and a guttural groan escapes instead.

“That what ya wanted?” He asks with an edge to his voice as he pulls the front of your thighs back and up, spreading your knees to the sides.

You’re barely recovering from the wave of pleasure his smack caused when a new wave hits at the roughness of two of his fingers plunging into exposed cunt. You’re groaning into the sheets and fisting the covers with all your strength as the bubble in your abdomen grows too quickly. One of his hands holds you hard against the mattress while the other works you into a mess of moans and high pitched gasps with dexterous fingers. He leans over you to kiss your shoulder blades and the dip of your spine, mumbling how good you look trembling under him.

“You could’a just asked…” He whispers while slowing down his teasing fingers, giving you a few seconds to heave in some needed air.

Your sweaty forehead rests over the disarranged sheets as blows of air rattle your chest, along with the pounding of your heartbeat. In the back of your mind, you register his hand rubbing along the length of your spread out thighs, then up to knead the plushness of your ass.

“Not so cocky now, huh?” His amused voice looms over you and his warm breath cools your sweat slickened skin.

You exhale a soft laugh, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to see his amused expression. “ I could be cockier, if only you helped…”

His grin grows as his eyes drink in the last drop of blue and his chest is now flat over your back, cock hard and throbbing against your ass cheeks.

No anticipation could prepare you for the moan that claws out from your throat the moment he slips back inside, with even more fervent energy. The new position has you somehow feeling him thick and hot against your stomach and the strength that he deposits into every thrust has you clawing at anything you can get your hands on. You don’t know where the ardent giggle comes from, but it’s there, accompanied by a shrill “Oh my fuck- Carm-!” that comes out more whinier than you would like. He groans into your neck at the desperate call of his name and how fucking good it sounds coming from your panting lips.

“God- so fuckin hot-” He mumbles into your skin, nipping the base of your neck with his teeth and pulling a shaking moan that fills him with pride. “Always so fuckin’ ready for me aren’t ya?”

You're at the mercy of the steady and harsh snap of his hips. Tears pick at the corner of your eyes and watercolors bleed together in swirls of blues as you claw at the covers while strong thighs slam behind you.

Your skin feels hot and cold at the same time and the constant gasps do nothing for the lack of oxygen burning at your lungs, more from him knocking out every attempt to breathe than from the grip he has around your throat. You can feel your pulse heavy on your clit, but before you can reach down to touch yourself, he pushes your back hard down on the bed with a grunt and slows down his movements to a stop.

His ragged breathing blows cold over your searing skin for a few seconds, then he pulls out and lays beside you on the bed, panting. He turns to see your amused expression at the sudden halt, then grins slightly for the fifth time that night.

“Shut up.” He says before you speak, like he just knows you're about to tease him over losing his breath during sex.

“I wasn’t saying nothing!” You joke and rest your head up your elbow, looking down at his tinted skin. “But you really should stop smokin’...” You add.

Carmen’s brow creases in confusion, then when you swing your aching thigh over his hips and plant your palms over his hard chest, his face turns to surprise. This is the first time in the months that you’ve been doing this, that you’re the one on top.

“How’d you know I smoke?” He asks with crystal eyes scanning your face and large palms rubbing up and down your thighs.

You shrug, taking his pulsing cock in your hand and giving it a few jerks that pull the air from his lungs. You raise on your knees and angle the glistening head to rub teasingly at your folds.

“You always smell like it. It’s kinda hot.” You respond, then sink down slowly to feel the mouthwatering stretch once again.

He groans, throwing his head back from the tightness the new angle offers, but then looks up to you again because there’s something about the way you’re looking at him that makes his chest ache. You dig your nails into his strong stomach as you raise up then fall back down on his length with a roll of your hips, always looking down at him through strands of messy locks. You continue at a slow pace, savoring how his tip seems to push against a special spot that has waves of tingles roaming down your thighs.

Your mouth hangs open as you speed up your movements and he meets you halfway with the strong snap of his hips and the firm grip on your waist. He pulls you into his chest at the same time his hands push your hips down and another involuntary high pitched gasp rasps at your throat. He swallows it down gladly as he devours your mouth with a seething necessity you hadn’t felt before and the constant push of his grip on your hips has you panting shamefully against his lips.

“Fuck- shit Carm, you’re gonna make me-” He thrusts his hips painfully hard that it knocks the words from your mouth.

You’re drenched in sweat and surrounded by the obscene sound of smacking skin and hefty smell of sex, but all you can register is the moaning, broad shouldered man underneath you. Wild sapphire eyes dance around your pleasure filled face and Carmen swears he had never found you more attractive than in this moment- sweaty, flushed and kiss- swollen. He doesn’t know what takes over him as he reaches up to caress your cheek, or where he gets the bravery to effortlessly flip you over so you’re back where you began- choking for any sliver of air that he pushes back out with his persistent thrusts.

“So fuckin’ beautiful-” He moans into your neck.

You claw at his back, scratches he knows will bring a grin to his usual cold features when he stares into the broken mirror in his bathroom tomorrow morning. You’re a mess of pleas and incoherent mumbling that can only be silenced by his feverish kisses as he cradles your face in his strong palms.

He feels the familiar tight and hot grip around his cock and a primal instinct to speed up his thrusts takes over him. You wrap your trembling thighs hard around his hips and swallow every groan that escapes his throat. You feel the bubble in your abdomen grow incredibly quick and tight until it bursts into waves of pleasure that have your toes curling and your back arching impossibly closer to him.

You don’t exist for a few wonderful seconds. There’s no up or down as you float through existence like a still feather. There’s only the weight of the man above you holding you like a lifeline. A fuck shaped moan cascades from his lips as he feels your walls spasm against him and the sensitivity is too much that he follows behind your orgasm after a couple more delicous thrusts.

Through your cloudy haze, you feel him break above you, the heaves that brush your neck and the thick liquid that fills you up as he comes inside you. His arms tremble slightly by your head, trying to maintain his weight and you could blame the intensity of the moment on your actions, but you snake your arms over his strong shoulders and pull him down to rest on your chest.

Despite the fact that you’ve been sleeping around with each other for the past few months, you can feel that something was different about this time, like a barrier had been broken or an invisible line had been crossed for both of you. You’re not going to ask, though. You’d rather bask in the post orgasm bliss that washes over you.

Carmen groans tiredly as he pulls out of you and lays by your side to see your relaxed face and closed eyes.

“We’re-uh- we’re gonna have to talk about it, aren’t we…” He mumbles with a small smile as he rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair, tired eyelids closing involuntarily as the weight of the excruciating day finally falls off his shoulders.

You hum softly, then feel around you for the covers that you gently drape over your naked bodies routinely. You both lay in a strange silence with eyes fixed on your ceiling, not a bad silence just… different.

“Yeah…” You whisper back and turn to bright blue eyes that finally lack the worn out and exhausted expression his rugged brows give him. “But it can wait ‘till tomorrow.”

You turn your back to him, adjusting the pillow under you.

A strong arm snakes around you over the covers that pulls you to a warm chiseled chest, you can feel his erratic heartbeats mixing with your own and you smile when soft lips graze carefully on the curve up your shoulder.

“Tomorrow.” He whispers back with the tenth smile of the night.

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #the bear fx #carmy berzatto #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmy smut #the bear tv #carmy berzatto headcanon #the bear headcanon #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto smut #carmy berzatto smut #carmen 'carmy' berzatto

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roosterbruiser · 10 months

Text

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐃. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟖.𝟓𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

“Whose is it, birdie?” Bradley asks, eyes wide. "It's all over--whose blood is that?"

He hasn’t moved his hands from your warm and sticky face--he’s still cupping your cheeks, face contorted in anguish as his eyes pour into yours.

You drop the ax and the shotgun on the ground--they make a dull thump, one you can feel in the soles of your feet and in your pulsing head. There’s a lump in your throat so obstructive, so thick and overwhelming, that you can’t speak.

All you can do, as Rooster looks down at you while the swallows begin to swoop from roof to roof and the irises emit their sweet scent, is cry.

How can you explain to Rooster, who’s held it together this entire time, that you can’t hold it together right now because of what you just witnessed? How are you going to explain to him that you had the person cornered--that you could’ve shot him--and you didn’t because Paul needed help? And even then, even when you abandoned your firing position to help Paul, it was all fruitless because Paul is dead and his body is in the woods all on its lonesome.

“Birdie,” Rooster mutters. He smooths a hand through your hair, dirty with lake water and leaves and blood, and shakes his head softly. “Who’s bleeding?”

“Paul,” you finally choke, shaking your head. He thumbs your tears, but it’s for naught. “It--it was Paul’s.”

It was Paul’s.

Rooster looks you up and down--the blood is all over you. Up to your ankles and covering your shoes, all over your shins, dried up your legs, staining your poor dungarees again.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers to you. His bottom lip trembles. “Is he…?”

You nod--just barely.

Rooster doesn’t ask any more questions.

You think, suddenly and very clearly, that you’re not sure how much fight you have left in you. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep doing this.

Mable was right. There is no way out. You will bathe in your own blood and be torn limb by limb as the depths of Hell calls for you. There is no way out.

If you let go, if you give in, if you wait to die--then what will happen? Everyone else will die. No one else is as good a shot as you. No one else is willing to trek through the woods. No one else can suture a gash or staunch a wound or cauterize a limb.

So, you have to push forward. It’s a decision that is made with haste.Very swiftly, you realize you’re not going to lose your head now. You’re not going to break down again. You’re gonna keep going--you have to keep going.

“He…he said he’s back,” you whisper to Rooster, wiping your own cheeks now. “He said…he told me to--to run away. I didn’t think he was--I didn’t listen to him. He said that he’s back--he’s back, he’s back. I don’t know what he…”

You don’t rest your head on Rooster’s chest and you don’t lessen the burden of that lump in your throat. You’re in shock, you know--which is why the tears running down your face are involuntary.

“Who?” Rooster presses, eyebrows furrowed.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. Your head is spinning. “I don’t know.”

Only a moment before Rooster is going to pull you to him, only a moment before you’re going to ask him if he found anything in the woods, the walkie deep in your pocket comes to life.

“Gale!” Phoenix sobs through it. “Gale! Are you there? Oh, God--Gale, please!”

Scrambling to grab the walkie, Rooster leans down and takes the ax in his hands. It’s with his heart in a cold, cold puddle that he sees that it’s the ax from the mess hall. D.G. He says nothing to you, just holds onto the handle tight.

“I’m--I’m here,” you answer Phoenix, shuffling to grab the shotgun. You start for the bus barn, wiping your face clean of tears.

“It--it’s Bob,” Phoenix sobs. “I think he’s--I think he’s--!”

“I’m coming,” you tell her. “I’m coming.”

Phoenix, who’s trying desperately to blot the cold sweat from Bob’s face as Coyote sends all the children to the back of the bus, doesn’t feel relieved by your answer. She thought she would--if not to just know that you’re alive then simply because she won’t have to be alone with Bob anymore. Help will be on the way. Bob will be okay.

“I’m so--fuck, I’m so cold,” Bob whispers to her, lips quivering. “Can you start the fire?”

Phoenix’s tongue is dry.

“Bob, we’re on the bus,” she says, voice thin and flat. “There’s no fireplace.”

He’s confused. He’s been confused for a few hours now. Phoenix knows this is the infection--that it must be spreading. But still, she desperately runs her palms up and down his arms to try and get some friction. This cold that Bob feels, though--it’s not one she can fix. It’s not even one a fire could fix.

She pulls the walkie to her mouth again, breathing heavily.

“Gale, quick! Please!”

“I’m on my way,” you say back.

You don’t say I’m going as fast as I can, but I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I want to give up. I’m only coming because it’s you and it’s Bob and it’s Coyote and the campers. But that’s it, that’s all. I want to lie down. But it’s what you’re thinking.

And you’re by yourself suddenly as Rooster falls behind you, taking a glance at the perimeter of camp just in case Jake shows his face. He doesn’t fall in step with you again--he’s going to stay out here and guard. You think maybe it’s because Bradley isn’t brave enough to see it up close--Bob hurt, infected, writhing.

And, really, you don’t blame him.

You’d rather be anywhere else.

The sun is warm on your back. The blood is itchy on your skin. You’re running as fast you can, limping with tired, your temples throbbing. Your heart thumps in your ears.

At any moment, an ax could come whizzing out from the woods. There could be a hiding place just yonder, far enough away that you never see it coming. You could hear its noise, fast and sharp like a whip, and then that could be the end. An ax to the head, to the back, to the legs, and you’re down. A peculiar sensation prickles your spine, torments the swollen muscles in your legs and arms: you could die at any moment. Right here, at Camp Arcadia, on the gravel just outside the bus barn. No one could do a thing about it either.

Oh, God, you think. Where are you?

When you step onto the bus, you know.

It is quiet--so very quiet. No one knows what to say to a dying man and that is what Bob is. None of the campers are whispering and none of the counselors are rustling. Phoenix is sitting in the front seat with Bob over her lap, sobbing as Bob blinks up at her, only barely conscious. Coyote is kneeled beside them, his lip being sawed in half by his own teeth as he tries to keep from crying.

The smell comes first--that distinct perfume, so familiar and pungent with musk. It’s the rot, you know. It’s the body shutting down, the organs giving in, the skin infected. But to you, it just smells like death. The two of you are thick as thieves.

And then, when you look at Bob and everyone else looks at you to save the day, saliva gathers underneath your tongue and your lashes begin to quiver. Pennies settle beneath your tongue.

“I’m here,” you whisper, your throat burning. “I’m here now.”

Phoenix doesn’t understand why you’re not rushing to Bob’s aid. She doesn’t understand why you’re not suturing or cleaning or wrapping or whatever else the fuck you’re suppoosed to do to save him. You should be ordering everyone around, saving Bob. You should be stony right now--but your face is soft and wet.

“Help him,” she cries. “Get over here--help him! Help him, he’s dying!”

Coyote knows when he looks at you. The sun is just barely puncturing the bus barn, just barely lighting the side of your face. You’re covered in blood, limply holding the shotgun, looking down at Bob with an agonized sense of forbearance. You cannot save him. Nobody can--he is too far gone. Coyote bows his head and that is when the tears come.

“Phe,” Coyote whispers. He sets a hand on her elbow. She jerks away from him, looking at him as if he’s just burned her. Her eyes are wild with grief. “Phe, there’s nothing--!”

“--Fuck you,” Phoenix spits at Coyote, her face split in half by anguish. She’s never felt this way before--she’s never felt this mind-splitting, chest-numbing pain. But it’s suddenly drowning her and she feels that no one is throwing her a life preserver. You’re all watching her flounder. “Please…please…”

Slowly, you kneel beside Coyote. Everything smells like sweat and dust, but this close to Bob, you are practically rubbing noses with death. You can see the freckles on its cheeks.

You carefully place your hand on Bob’s leg. He looks down at you, pale as white-sand and shaking. Cold sweat covers his face, stains his shirt. His eyes are focused, but untrained.

“Bob,” you whisper. “We’re here.”

That’s about all you can say to him. Not just hold on, we’ll fix you up. Not only another minute, it’s okay, it’s alright. Not help is on the way. You’re going to make it.

He’s so cold--so, so cold. And he’s been cold since he went out into the night, since he was struck. He’s known, from the very beginning, that he’s dying. He just didn’t know how to tell anyone else. And he knew everyone else was too afraid to tell him.

But when you say that--we’re here--something grows warm in Bob. He’s been in and out of fitful dreams, sometimes dreaming about his father’s fingers on the strings of a guitar and sometimes dreaming about his less than stellar date with Michelle Johnson. It’s peculiar--he never thought dying would be so slow, so tedious.

“Payback and Fanboy haven’t walkied,” Coyote whispers to you. The only recognition you show is a slow blink. “Maybe they’re close.”

“Maybe,” you whisper back.

The both of you know that it wouldn’t matter, anyhow. By the time the tree is moved, by the time the brigade is here if they’re coming, Bob will be gone.

Reaching up, you take Phoenix’s hand. She looks at you, brown eyes wide with horror, and almost pulls away. But then Bob, with the last bit of his strength, puts his hand over hers, too.

“Thank you,” he tells Phoenix. She looks down at him, shaking her head with her eyes wide. He doesn’t break their gaze, lips trembling. “You’re my best friend.”

“Stop that,” Phoenix demands softly. “Cut it out, Bob! You’re fine!”

“I’m dying,” he whispers. He swallows hard. His throat is so very dry. “I didn’t know how to…how to tell you.”

Phoenix sobs.

“No,” she whispers. She blinks hard, shaking her head. “Bob, I can’t--please, please, please…”

Leaning down, she holds Bob’s body against hers. He blinks a few times, the sunlight coming over his face just barely. It’s good to feel warm, he thinks.

“I know…I know you hate Cutting Crew,” Bob starts. With the last bit of his strength, he smiles. It’s a barely-there, strained thing. But it’s there. “But they wrote our song, huh?”

It takes a moment for everyone to register what Bob’s saying. For a second, you think he’s delirious. But then Coyote chokes out a loud laugh, a few stray tears running down his face.

Phoenix looks up, puzzled, and then it dawns on her.

(I Just) Died In Your Arms. Cutting Crew. She groans every time it comes on the radio just before tuning to another station. She’s literally left coffee shops over the song. Bob knows this. But now it’s the song that will make her think of Bob because he’s willed it so. It’s the song that will remind her of this exact instance--sitting on the bus, terrified, dirty, holding her best friend as he dies.

“Bob,” Coyote laughs. He’s about to say that he’s a sly, sly dog. That he’s got the jokes. But just the sound of his name falling off his lips is enough to halt Coyote. That is the last time he will ever call Bob’s name and have Bob answer to it. “I…I love you, man.”

Bob smiles.

“I love you, too, man,” Bob whispers. “Don’t tell Phoenix.”

And then Bob is looking at you. You with your eyes heavy with tears and your face a calm and placid sea. He doesn’t know how you’ve done it--he doesn’t know how you haven’t given up yet. But he knows that he loves you for it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to Bob, tears pouring down your face. You sniffle and sigh. “I’m really, really sorry Bob. More sorry than I’ve ever been.”

He knows what you’re apologizing for: not saving him.

“No hard feelings,” he whispers to you. Another meek smile tugs on his lips. “You did good.”

You did good.

Choking on your grief, you can hardly stand to look at him anymore. You can hardly stand kneeling here, breathing in all this death. But you know this is where you’re supposed to be.

Just as Phoenix is about to sob again, a meager voice finds place in the stale air around everyone.

“Can I pray for you, Mister Bob?” Mable asks softly. There are tears in her eyes as she blinks at everyone. “If that’s okay…”

You glance at Phoenix, who looks like she never wants to see Mable Brandt’s face ever again in her long, long life without Bob. Bob was born Godless and will die Godless. But then Bob is nodding.

“That’d be swell, kid,” he whispers. A shuddering breath falls from his lips. “Make it out to Bob Dylan, would ya?”

Mable sniffles. She rests her hands on your shoulders because you, out of everyone here, are the only one that can hold her up. And you let her hold you--even close your eyes and feel the heat of her body against you and fall into a dreamless, sleepless state.

“Dear Heavenly Dylan,” Mable starts. Bob lets out a quiet laugh--a weezy, tired thing. It is the last time he will ever laugh. “Please take Mister Bob’s pain away--he’s been in an awful lot of it since the attack and I think he’s tired now. He’s a real nice guy--he never yelled at me or anyone else. I don’t think it’s very fair that he’s got so many boo-boo’s.”

No one speaks as Mable continues praying, everyone’s head slightly bowed and eyes drifted shut. Everyone’s face is wet with tears that are shining in the yellow light.

“And we know that you’ll have a place for him when he gets to where he’s going, alright? So, make sure it’s nice and clean. And make sure there’s aspirin there because Mister Bob doesn’t feel so hot right now. But most of all--keep him safe on his way. Miss Nightingale and Miss Phoenix did the best they could. It’s your turn now.”

An overwhelming sense of peace finds Bob. His fingers are numb--he wonders, strangely, if they’re already dead. Maybe when you die, it’s piece by piece, a little at a time. And maybe his fingers went first.

“I’m scared,” Phoenix whispers to Bob, looking down at his pale cheeks. “I can’t…I can’t never see you again.”

He takes a deep breath. His lungs are warm, very warm.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he whispers to her. “You’ll manage.”

He’s accepted this. This is okay. He is looking up at his best friend in the world and it is the last thing his eyes will ever see. And he thinks, with a sudden swell of pride, that he did good. She’s really the cream of the crop--the best friend he could have asked for.

Something flickers behind his eyes, bright yellow and aquamarine and jet black--memories. They flutter past his vision, clear and crisp, like he’s pulling the little plastic lever on a viewfinder of his own life.

The smell of his mama’s hotcakes on late Sunday mornings, Bob sleepy and syrupy and reaching for more butter despite his mother’s tutting. Lazing around the pool with his kid brother, Neil Young humming on the radio as his daddy grills. Sitting in the movie theater during Star Wars, too engrossed in the movie to realize that Lisa Patterson is making googly eyes at him. Finally kissing Michelle Johnson at the roller rink, her tight curls gleaming beneath the disco ball, her skin shining blue and pink. Reading Kurt Vonnegut in his car before class, holding in tears when the profoundness struck him over the head like a brick. Holding hands with Phoenix during games of Red Rover, their mouths wide open, their hairlines dotted with sweat. Swimming in the lake after tipsy bonfires, bobbing his head beneath the water, listening to the muted sound of you squealing when Jake pulls you up on his shoulders. His toes in cold, cold mud. His face against the warm, warm sun. The first snow of the year blanketing the front lawn. His dorm room, which always smells like crayons for some reason. His best friends pedaling down the street, swerving at cars and whooping and hollering, switching gears up the big hill on Freemont. His daddy taking his mama’s hands and dancing her around the wrapping-paper covered living room, her new necklace gleaming on her throat like a personal star on a silver chain. Holding his baby cousin for the first time, breath caught in his throat and arms stiff because he’s never held anything so tiny. Cutting his knees on concrete. Hitting his head on that shelf in the living room. Learning how to change a tire. Driving down his street for the first time. Playing his guitar in his room, shutting his eyes, and quietly whispering Bob Dylan songs.

He can hear it now--Bob Dylan is playing. And it isn’t him singing and it isn’t him playing the guitar. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from or why it’s so loud, so clear, so sudden. But there it is--clear as the day is blue. It’s like there’s a private concert just for Bob and he’s in the front row, the sun warm on his face and shoulders, his arms raised in ecstasy.

That long black cloud is comin' down

I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door

He always wanted to be front row at a Bob Dylan concert. He was saving up to take him and Phoenix.

Funny how life works that way, he thinks.

Oh, well. So it goes.

“Please, if you could make it easy, we would all really appreciate it. And in Bob Dylan’s name we pray…amen.”

And then, with a final shuddering breath, Bob Floyd dies in his best friend’s arms on a disjunct bus on the worst Thursday of anyone’s life. He was the newest counselor at Camp Arcadia. This was only his second summer.

“Bob?” Phoenix asks. Panic shoots up and grabs onto her ears, tugging hard. His lips are parted, his eyes are open. He is not moving. “Bob! Wake up! Wake the fuck up!”

Mable leans down to your ear. You’re so thoroughly covered in blood that you look like something that crawled out of a horror film--she can make out the tracks of your tears as the salt cuts through the gore on your cheeks. It’s an image that will stay with her for the rest of her life, one she’ll doodle inside book covers and on the backs of restaurant napkins. She’s so young now that when she’s older, she’ll wonder if her juvenile mind was exaggerating just how gory you look. But it is not an exaggeration at all.

“You have to fight it,” she whispers in your ear. Her cut begins to bleed. “It’s here.”

When you look up, your eyes fluttering open again after seemingly being pasted shut, you see another dead body. Your second this morning. There is less blood and more sunlight, but it is still there right before you.

As if a mortar has suddenly gone off beside your cheek, your ears are hollowed out and ringing. You can see Phoenix screaming, can see her patting Bob’s cheeks, but you can’t hear her shrill tone or the lifeless thumps on his skin. Coyote touches your shoulder and you think maybe he’s saying something to you, but you don’t look at him.

Vision beginning to vignette, you stand slowly. And then you turn and walk all the way off the bus, the blood on your shoes matted with dirt and grime. You take a few stumbling steps, the gun clenched tightly in your hands. Then you open the doors, let the sunlight in. If someone was running full-speed at you, intent on cutting you down, you wouldn’t hear it. And you think you wouldn’t fight it either.

The only way you know you’re on the ground is when the gravel slices your knees open. It is not from brute strength that you have fallen--no one has hit you. It is because you are drained. Entirely, completely, wholly drained.

Bradley finds you only a few moments later.

You’re on your hands and knees just outside the bus barn, clutching the gravel with the gun laid out just beside you. Your back bows, curved like the neck of a preening swan, and you suddenly heave. Vomit spews across the rocks--all stomach acid.

Oh, he realizes. Bob’s dead.

He stops where he is, only a few paces from you, and watches all of your humanness from afar. Surely you’ve seen dead bodies before in your line of work--in fact, he knows you have--but maybe you’ve never seen it this close. And it has never, ever been a friend. That must be what’s different about this one, he thinks. That’s it. That must be it.

And then he watches you stop. You suddenly swallow hard and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, eyebrows furrowed and lips trembling. Then you fight to your feet, wobbling and quivering, leaning over once more to grab the gun and hold it to your body.

As if you knew he was there the entire time, you look at Bradley. He can see it from where he is, dazed and heartbroken and lovesick: there is fight in your eyes. It is dim, it is full, it is small, it is hazy--but it’s there, gleaming in the early morning light.

You have to fight it. It’s here.

“We have to find him,” you tell Bradley. Your voice is ragged and thin. You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No one else is dying today, alright?”

Bradley nods at you, dumbfounded and grief-stricken. His throat is tight.

“Alright,” he answers. He takes a deep breath, fills his lungs.“Birdie, I…I think I might have an idea.”

♀

“What do you mean?” Coyote asks. “You two are gonna just…play music? And get him to come? Like…a dog or something?”

“So he knows where we are,” Bradley defends, his voice hard and serious. “We’re not, like, whistling for him.”

“And you think that’ll make him come?” Coyote asks, brow perched.

He glances at you. You’re not looking at him.

“He’ll come. He’ll come if he knows Gale’s there.”

Coyote opens his mouth to argue, but then you quietly add, “What other option do we have? I can’t…I’m not strong enough to go back out in the woods.”

“I could go,” Coyote offers.

You shake your head.

“I’m the good shot,” you whisper. And all that responsibility weighs down on you again. “It would have to be me. And you’re hurt.”

Coyote knows you’re right. He carefully touches the back of his head, wincing when the gash stings beneath his fingers.

Phoenix’s eyes are on the floor. Her throat hurts too bad to say anything. She won’t look up at you and Bradley as you stand outside the bus with Coyote, relaying the plan.

“And when he--if he comes, then what?” Coyote asks. He swallows hard, his head pulsing. “You’re gonna…?”

“Wait. For help,” you whisper.

Coyote looks at your face--still covered in blood, but stained with a detached sort of anger. You’re resolute and morose all wrapped up in bloody dungarees.

“Back to square one, then, huh?” He asks softly.

“What’s the alternative?” Bradley counters. “Killing him?”

“No one else is dying today,” you say matter-of-factly. You look at the two men, who are looking at you already with their mouths flat and their chests heaving. “I mean it, alright? No one else.”

“Alright,” Coyote answers. “So, Phoenix and I should just hang around? Wait?”

You nod. Coyote shudders at the thought of just waiting.

“We’ll come get you when it’s…” you start, trailing off with your brows furrowed.

“Over. We’ll come get you when it’s over,” Bradley answers. “Don’t open the doors for anyone but us, okay?”

“Yeah,” Coyote answers. He takes a long, deep breath. His head hurts. “Okay. Are you sure you don’t want me to help? Strength in numbers, right?”

You glance at Phoenix. She’s still holding Bob. Though now that the tears have stopped, she’s completely quiet. You fear, suddenly and completely, that she’ll never speak again.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Stay here with her.”

Glancing up at the bus, you see all the campers already looking at you. Knives in their little hands, fear in their little teary eyes. Their faces are almost begging, you think.

Fight it. Fight it. Fight it.

Toes numb with panic, you look back at Coyote. He’s already looking at you.

“Don’t let anyone in,” you say again. You think of last night when something tried to get into the mess hall--just how close they came. “And if they do get in…corner them. Get them.”

Coyote nods firmly. You can count on him. He can count on you. The two of you have never bullshitted each other before.

“I will,” he says. “I’ll die fighting if I have to. No one’s touching those kids.”

Die fighting. How silly that phrase seemed before, when you’d throw it around at random. And now there’s two dead bodies and three missing counselors at Camp Arcadia. You hope you don’t die fighting like Paul, like Bob. But it would be a valiant way to go.

“Let’s go,” Bradley says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. You’re rigid underneath his hands--it stains him, wounds him. But he doesn’t punish you for it. How could he? “We’ll be right back.”

Coyote swallows hard. His heart is pounding.

“Don’t say that,” Coyote pleads. “Haven’t you ever seen a horror movie? Ever?”

“This is real life,” Bradley argues. “Not some story.”

But it was a story--before, at the bonfire.

Damien and the Devil. Six counselors, one nurse. Slashed. Dead, gone, buried, away.

Saying nothing more, you turn on your heel.

It’s time to end this.

The walk back to the mess hall is very quiet. Underneath the bright yellow sun and the clear blue sky, you and Bradley say almost nothing to each other. You’re holding the gun, trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest. He’s holding the ax, the one that killed Paul, and the other one he took into the woods with him. He’s glancing around the perimeter to make sure nothing’s sneaking up on the two of you.

You’re stumbling slightly when you step--Bradley isn’t sure if it’s because you’re tired or if it’s because of the gashes on your knees or if it’s because of your shock. He does know you’re in shock--that you’ve been in shock since you tumbled out of the woods covered in Paul’s blood. You look shell-shocked, but brave. Like you know the bomb is about to drop, but you’re ready to arm yourself against whatever’s coming even if it’s for naught. Do svidaniya.

Ears still ringing, stomach still churning, you feel like the walk is too quick. Suddenly you aren't outside anymore--you’re in the mess hall in all its disarray, walking towards the kitchen with the intent of grabbing more ammunition.

Bradley’s closing the buckshot-broken doors, brows furrowed as he examines the shots. Shit. You really did it. Something in his belly feels better knowing that you’ll shoot. You’ll pull the trigger.

As soon as you’re through the kitchen doors, your heart stops. There on the dingy tiles is what remains of Bob’s blood--it’s smeared, dried, browned. But you can still see where he laid. And just beside the bucket, which is still full of bloody water, are Bob’s broken glasses.

Leaning down, legs shaking, you pick the glasses up and hold them up to your face. They’re broken--the glass is cracked and the frames are bent.

But it’s okay. He doesn’t need them anymore.

“Oh, Bob,” you whisper. You grip the glasses hard. Tipping your head forward, you let the metal fall against your closed mouth. A sob ripples through you. “I’m so sorry.”

“Gale?” Rooster calls. He turns--sees your form frozen in the doorway, kneeling with your head bent. Starting for you, he swallows hard. “Birdie?”

His presence behind you is warm and solid, like standing against a water heater. His chest just barely grazes your back. It brings you back a little bit--his steady and even breaths. You can count them--you can count on them. They’re there, steady, as you look down at Bob’s glasses.

Rooster, his jaw squared, sighs gently.

He tugs under your armpits until you’re standing on your feet again.

“Are you…are you, like, alright?”

Dumb question, he thinks. Jesus. Dumb, dumb question.

Shaking your head, you let your eyes fall shut.

“I’m numb,” you whisper. “I can’t…I don’t think I can…I can’t feel anything at all.”

A pang of pain radiates in Rooster’s chest. You’re so quiet, so drawn into yourself. Maybe this is your surrender. Maybe this is when you give up. Maybe this is when you call it a day and lay down and just wait for the end to come. Rooster can’t have that.

“Can you feel this?” Rooster asks.

And you’re about to crane your neck to look at him, about to ask him what he’s doing, when the very softest of kisses lands just below your left ear.

Oh. You can feel that. His warm lips, full of blood and live cells and made up of skin, send a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you mutter. “I can.”

Another kiss--this time in the middle of your neck. Rooster can still faintly smell jasmine on your skin. It makes him ache all over.

“That?” He whispers.

You nod, choked up.

And then he’s very carefully brushing your hair off your shoulders, pushing it aside so he can see your throat and the curve of your jaw. It’s covered in blood, flaking off whenever it’s disturbed. He doesn’t care.

He kisses a trail down the back of your neck, his own eyes fluttered shut in just a moment of peace. And your body is growing softer beneath him--so soft that when he reaches around and pulls the gun from your hands, you don’t fight it. You just let your head fall to the side, eyes flickering shut.

His palms splay on your hips. He holds you tight, pulls you until your back is flush against his chest. And your mind is buzzing and your body is growing warmer and warmer, but you cannot deny the pleasure of this encounter. This is the most human you’ve felt since all of this began, since you jumped out of bed naked when Phoenix came into your cabin.

And even though you’re suddenly crying, even though you’re gripping his hands, you know that you need this to keep moving forward. You cannot fight if you feel like there’s nothing left to fight for--maybe the faces of the campers, stained with fear, aren’t enough for you. Maybe seeing Phoenix holding Bob still isn’t enough for you. Maybe you need this--to be touched and held. To be reminded that you can feel still. To be reminded that when this is over, there will be life to live and sex to have and jobs to hate and cars to drive and stars to gaze upon.

This, right here, is proof of that.

“Hold me,” you whisper, suddenly desperate. “Hold me, please.”

You cannot remember the last time you asked someone to hold you. Rigidity sometimes feels like your natural state. Steeling yourself against death, against blood and hurt and pain. And now you’re so soft as Rooster wraps his arms around you.

He holds you so tight that all the air leaves your lungs.

You’re stuck still, breath stilted, lungs empty.

Yes, you think. This is how tightly I need to be held.

Rooster buries his nose in your neck. He can feel the tears dripping down your cheeks as they land in his hair and he only holds you tighter. He can feel that he’s squeezing the life out of you, but for some reason, he knows you want it like that.

“I’ve got you,” he mutters to you. “I won’t let you go.”

But just as quickly as you found comfort in his arms, in his heat, against his pumping heart and hot skin, you become uneasy. It’s the thought of seeing his dead body, it’s him calling you hysterical, it’s the spit flinging out of his mouth as he called Jake the killer, it’s his naked body you left behind to find Bob.

All of it comes at once, slaps your face until your cheeks are raw.

Wriggling your way out of his grip, you take a half-step away from him and grab the shotgun again. Rooster, slightly stunned, watches you with his mouth ajar.

“Set the music up,” you whisper. You sniffle. “I’m gonna reload and…and get in position.”

Jake’s trudging back towards camp, openly weeping. He hasn’t openly wept since his toddlerhood, he thinks. But he is right now: shoulders shaking, spine curving, snot dripping, tears pouring open-mouthed weeping. There’s bile covering the front of his shirt and blood on his hands, which is why he won’t look down, which is why he’s stumbling.

He’s been walking all night long--ducking behind trees, stumbling over jagged roots. He’s so tired that his bones feel brittle. He’s so thoroughly exhausted that he’s stumbling towards the mess hall now, even though he knows it’s a trap, even though he knows this might be his final location.

Kate Bush is playing over the loudspeaker--it was loud enough for him to hear where he was just before in a puddle of blood, vomiting and swatting away swarming flies. Through his heaving, through his tears, he knew immediately that he had to go to where you were calling him from.

Do you wanna feel how it feels?

You must be there. You must be the one calling out to him. He wonders if maybe it’s a call for help. But no--it must be a trap. Maybe Bradley swayed you. Maybe everyone swayed you. Maybe you want him dead. Maybe, as soon as his feet cross the threshold, you’re going to shoot him in the chest. He wouldn’t be angry with you. But, boy--would he miss you if he died.

But all he wants, as his stuttering footsteps grow nearer and nearer to the mess hall, is to keep you safe. And if you’re with him--if you’re even near him--you aren’t safe.

Limping, he approaches the doors to the mess hall. They’re closed, but damaged. You already shot through them, Jake sees. And there’s blood dotting the doors--so much of it that he knows you must’ve really got ‘em.

Atta girl, he thinks.

“Jake?” Your voice comes from inside, echoing in the empty mess hall. “Is that…is that you?”

Instead of answering, he opens the door.

You

It's you and me

And there you are. Standing a few paces ahead of him, holding the shotgun like you’ve held it a million times before, eyes narrowed and focused on him. You’re covered in blood, even your heavy eyelids, and sniffling as you cry quietly. But even through your tears, you’re strong. He can see the fight still tugging on the ends of your hair and straining in your wobbling thighs.

Bradley is just behind you, armed with an ax, sneering at Jake.

“Don’t you come any closer,” Bradley demands. He rears back so the ax is in position to swing down at any given moment. “I mean it, you fuck!”

Jake stumbles slightly as he steps into the mess hall.

“Jake,” you whisper, shaking your head. Your throat aches with grief. “Where have you been?”

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get Him to swap our places

It all comes rushing back to him, a wave of grief and exhaustion and derangement. Taking a shuddering breath, he tries to communicate with you, his words coming out like a fluttering and distant bird that flies right over your head.

“Get away from him,” he whispers.

You furrow your brows, straining to hear him over Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God).

“He’s got a weapon,” Bradley whispers to you. His heart is pounding. “Gale, he’s got an ax.”

Fingers numb with panic, with pain, you shake your head at Jake.

You don't wanna hurt me (yeah, yeah, yo)

“Where did you get that?” You demand quietly, nodding to the ax in Jake’s hand.

Jake glances down at the ax. He got this just a few miles outside of camp. He pried it out of Fanboy’s hands--his cold, dead hands. And then he promptly spewed vomit onto the rocks just beside his body and Payback’s. He found them, their bodies hacked, lying together. They never left each other’s sides. Not for one moment.

“I…” Jake whispers. He swallows, head pounding. “Get away from Bradley. Please, baby, please get away from him.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle your skin as they raise.

“Can it,” Bradley spits. You don’t have to see him to know how angry Bradley is right now, sneering and snarling at Jake. “You--you fucking son of a bitch! Bob is dead! You fucking killed Bob!”

“Stop,” you beg softly, the gun shaking in your unsteady grasp. “Jake, just…just put the ax down, alright? And then we can talk.”

“Talk? Fuck that,” Bradley yells. “He killed Bob!”

“You did,” Jake utters. “You killed him, Rooster.”

Is there so much hate for the ones we love?

You hear him loud and clear as if he’s just whispered in your ear. Heart pounding, you shake your head. Fuck. Fuck.

“He’s lying,” Bradley laughs bitterly. “You fuck--you stupid fuck! You really think she’s gonna fall for that? You think she’s gonna believe you? You destroyed the fucking cabin and went AWOL and then people started dying!”

But Jake isn’t responding to Bradley. He’s just staring at you, cowering where he stands, defeated and terrified. His shirt is ripped and his hair is messy and there’s blood underneath his fingernails.

“Just drop the ax,” you tell him. “I don’t want to--I’m not gonna hurt you. We’re not going to hurt each other, right? Just drop it.”

It's you and me

Jake drops it--it clatters onto the floor unceremoniously. Your lungs deflate.

“Nightingale,” Jake whispers. His eyes are pouring into yours, red-rimmed and wide. “You have to get away from him, baby. He’s gonna hurt you.”

Panic is pulsing in your chest now. You’re desperately clinging to reality right now--even though you’re not sure what that is.

“He’s trying to confuse you,” Bradley whispers. “Don’t let him.”

“Gale,” Jake begs, sobbing. He steps closer to you. You reposition your fingers so they’re not sitting on the trigger anymore. “Please…please…just get away from him! Please!”

Eyes wide, you watch as he stumbles closer. Bradley is grunting behind you, rearing the ax up further and further.

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” Bradley sneers. “I mean it, man! Stay the fuck away!”

“Jake,” you whisper. “Please. Please just stay where you are.”

“Where’d you even get the ax?” Bradley asks. His voice echoes.

Jake is still looking into your eyes, openly weeping. Bile dribbles down his chin.

“They’re dead,” he whispers. “I--oh, God, they’re dead. I found ‘em. I found them together.”

Be runnin' up that road

Be runnin' up that hill

You immediately know that he means Fanboy and Payback. They’re dead. They’re gone. They haven’t been answering the walkie calls. They’re not close to town at all--they’re just dead.

A sharp and punctuated sob ripples through your entire body. Goddammit.

“Who?” Bradley demands. “Who the fuck are you--?”

“--You know what you did,” Jake whispers to Bradley. Suddenly, Jake isn’t deflated. He’s almost close enough to reach out and touch you. Your finger isn’t on the trigger. His chest puffs up and his shoulders roll back. He can protect you. He can do that. “Don’t you fucking touch her, man. Don’t you fucking ax her like you axed them! You--you fucking got ‘em when they were sleeping, didn’t you? You’re a fucking coward.”

Eyes wide, you begin to beg Jake to move back.

“It’s you,” Bradley spits. “You’re the fucking killer!

Oh, come on, baby (yeah)

Oh, come on, darlin' (yo)

“Enough,” you try desperately. “We’re gonna sit here and-and wait for Mav and Penny to come get us, alright? All of us!” But they’re not listening to you. Jake is staring at Bradley and Bradley is staring at Jake. “No one else is dying, okay?”

“Who else is dead?” Jake asks. “Who else did he kill?”

Your mind is racing. You don’t know what’s happening. You don’t know who’s telling the truth. All you know right now is that Jake seems earnest and Bradley seems angry and the truth is lying somewhere between them in no-man’s-land.

“You know damn well Paul is dead,” Bradley sneers. You see it--Jake’s shock. Thoroughly, in your bones, you can tell that no, Jake did not know that. Your spine tingles. “You fucking killed him! And you cut Mable, didn’t you? Snuck out while Gale was sleeping, right? You coward.”

Swallowing hard, Jake looks at you. His face is very serious, very anguished.

Oh, come on, angel

Come on, come on, darlin'

“Don’t let him confuse you,” Jake begs. He’s desperate, shaking his head at you. “I’m still me. I’d never--you know that I’d never--!”

“--You’re sick,” Bradley screams. His voice booms, drowns out the music. “You’re worshiping the same twisted demon Gwyar did, aren’t you? Or is it that--that you’re worshiping Gwyar? Him and his fucking ax and his sick fucking game! Feeding on everyone’s fear, scaring the tar out of everyone! Or is it that you’re cutting down anyone that gets too close to Gale? Huh? Is that it? You sick fuck!”

Furrowing his brows, Jake looks at you. And you know that he doesn’t know what Bradley is talking about at all.

You’re getting lightheaded.

“Gale,” Jake whispers. It’s a desperate, desperate plea. “Get away from him, baby. Please, please, please. I won’t even--I won’t even touch you. Just get away from him. Point the gun at him.”

And here it is: you’re getting ripped apart. You didn’t even make it to the end of summer.

But then Jake is falling to his knees, sobs tearing him to bits, looking up at you like a depraved and despaired. It’s horrific--having Jake there before you.

“If you’ve ever done anything in your life, listen to me right now,” Jake sobs. “Please, Gale--get the fuck away from him. I’m not the killer, baby--Bradley is. You’re not safe!”

Your fingers are shaking.

And if I only could

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get Him to swap our places

“Enough,” you try. “Please, Jake--Bradley! Just stop!”

Head swarmed, you look at Jake with wide eyes.

“Maybe you’re possessed,” Bradley says, laughing humorlessly. “Maybe you couldn’t help yourself. You were drawn to it…you found the ax ‘cause it called for you, didn’t it?”

Bradley’s chest is hot with rage. He wants to get Jake away from you--now.

And then Jake isn’t just on his knees before you, he’s throwing himself forward and against your legs. But your feet are planted so firmly that you don’t shake, you don’t fall. He isn’t trying to knock you over--he’s just hugging himself against your thighs, burying his face in the bottom of your belly and looking up at you.

“I’d never hurt anyone,” Jake pleads with you. “You know that…baby, you know that. I don’t even know what he’s talking about! I don’t know who Gwyar is! I’m so confused…Gale, please…we have to get away from him!”

“Get the fuck away from--!”

“Stop!” You cry desperately. Jake is holding you so tight that you can’t breathe. “Stop it!”

But they’re not listening to you.

I'd be runnin' up that road

Be runnin' up that hill

“It isn’t me!” Jake sobs. “We have to get away from here!”

“You fuck,” Bradley continues. “It took your blood! It wanted you! Sliced your hand when you were chopping that tree down!”

The song ends.

Your hearing goes out--fuzzy and fading. Every muscle beneath your sizzling skin is locked in place. A noose of fear wraps itself around your neck and tightens, tightens until you cannot breathe at all. Your lungs are stunted at a deep exhale. And you can’t close your eyes for even a millisecond to blink. Sulfur floods your nostrils--abundantly clear and thick in the air.

Jake stares up at you, horrified. He watches, in real time, as the realization dawns on you.

He was telling the truth. Bradley is the killer.

“Bradley…” you whisper, voice quivering. Just barely, you turn your head. And Bradley is behind you, still looking like himself but ugly with rage and red with anger. “You cut your hand on the ax.”

At first, his face contorts in confusion. He stutters, mouth parted. Brows furrowed, he attempts to say something. But his tongue is dry. But when he sees the fear in your eyes and hears Jake’s sobs, he knows the jig is up. He just gave himself away.

You watch, in utter terror, as his face drops completely. And for the first time, as you stare at him, you see it: the pure, unadulterated evil. It’s there in the black in his pupils. The flecks of gold in his amber eyes are faded, gone. His smile is wide and broad, but it isn’t the smile you saw at the beginning of the summer. It is wicked--dry and nefarious.

“Damn,” he says, sighing. He beams at you wickedly. So wicked that your arms go limp, the gun falling onto the floor. Good. He’s got you where he wants you. “I was doing so well, too.”

Lips open wide in shock, two stray tears fall down your face.

And it is not a moment later that he brings the ax down.

Jake, with all the gall and gumption of the soldier his father wanted him to be, acts fast. So fast that he doesn’t even think--he just does.

“Gale!”

Closing your eyes, you accept it at once. You will die at the hand of Bradley--he’s killing you and you don’t know why other than he’s sick. And you’re already covered in blood, you already saw two dead bodies today. People are dying. You’re going to be another one to add to the pile. Your body will be covered with a sheet and your father will identify you with tears in his eyes and he will wonder why and you will die not knowing why.

When you hit the ground, head slamming against the hardwood floors and neck cracking, you’re waiting for the pain to come. The first hit, the first hack. You’re waiting for release.

But instead, you just feel heavy--something is brushing your nose because it is so close to you. And when you open your eyes, you’re staring into Jake’s. His eyes are wide in shock, his mouth, too.

For a moment, you’re not sure what’s happened. Then you hear the strangled moan he releases, the barely-there and quiet thing. A steady stream of blood floods out from his parted lips and into your mouth.

“Jake?” You whimper, terror flooding your body until you’re cold with it.

And he’s so heavy on top of you and so warm--deadweight. And the warmth, it isn’t just his body heat. No, no…it is a wet and slick warmth. It is his blood that is leaking from his body and onto yours.

Choking out a sob, your spit red with his blood spewing onto his face, you try desperately to move your arms. He has you pinned--and he’s so heavy that you can’t move.

“My, my, my…” Bradley laughs. He leans down, wraps his hands around the handle of the ax and steadies himself by pressing his foot on Jake’s back, and rips the ax from his back. Jake coughs--blood spews across your face and you whimper aloud, stunned. Bradley totes the ax over his shoulder like it is as friendly and unassuming as his guitar. “Sacrificing his life. Now, that’s love, huh?”

Jake can’t feel anything. Not the gash on his back or the blood he’s losing. He can’t feel your body beneath him or the sobs ripping through your shocked form. He can’t feel any of it. He’s just looking at your face, his mouth wide open and gaping, and praying that Bradley will go.

“Jake,” you sob again. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. “Jake! Jake!”

If Jake could speak, he’d tell you that he loves you and that he’s sorry he can’t do more. But he can’t, so he just slowly lowers his head until it falls into your neck. He stops moving.

Bradley watches from above you. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, sighs deeply. It feels good to be out in the open like this--no more lying, no more sneaking around. Just him, just you, just Jake. And he’s about to finish off the two of you and head to the bus barn. He’ll finish what was started thirty years ago--almost to the date, that sly dog.

“Jake,” you keep whispering, shocked, stunned, horrified. Your body vibrates with panic. You don’t care about Bradley hovering over you. You care about Jake and the way his green eyes are losing the color, the way his cheeks are becoming pale. He can do nothing but stare at you, his vision beginning to blacken around the edges. “Jake, I…”

And then Bradley kicks the shotgun--it slides across the floor and clatters against the wall. As if you weren’t already defenseless. You look up, quivering, and Bradley grins down at you.

“I’m more of an ax guy myself,” he says, smiling. He leans down, settling the ax beside him. And then he strokes your hair back from your face, relishing in the horror that crosses your features. “Don’t wig out yet, baby. Let’s chat before I book it to the bus barn, huh? I can spare a few minutes for my best girl.”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄:

BOB BE LIKE:

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:

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