#craving for tree bark

[dreamyblanket]

Sorry guys, wafer on the brain, it's terminal u.u

Anyway, I'll elaborate on this in the tags bc omg I'm going to yap your metaphorical ear off.

[pxelburrito]

Thanks to this candy recipe that incorporates both saltine crackers and chocolate chips, you'll get both sweet and salty.

[abyssyby]

maybe a dragon

— Lucian wants to be like his papa, which strikes fear into Sylus's heart like no other.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: lucian & sylus spotlight!!! did i cry when i wrote this? yes, i did. it was just supposed to be a soft banter thing exploring their dynamic but it kinda snowballed into this... now both lucian and kyros (coming up next! out now!) have angsty drabbles. i hope you enjoy this one! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: lucian is (my headcanon) 1/2 of sylus's twin boys. around 4 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩 read lucian's twin's chapter here ᡣ𐭩

sylus & lucian | sylus x reader | angst, fluff, comfort, sylus's son showing him that every part of him is lovable, dad!sylus, mom!reader tw: mentions of past violence/self-harm

Lucian likes it when papa is startled. It’s an emotion he’s extremely gifted in bringing out of him. Not by hiding around corners and going ‘boo!’. No, papa just smirks at that and shakes his head, tells him to try again. 

Lucian is especially talented in being in places papa never expects (or never wants) him to be in.

“Lucian!” Sylus barks, rushing over to him who balances himself on the window sill. Peeling fat little cheeks off of the glass and cradling him to safety. 

“Lucian.” Sylus warns when Lucian is halfway up the bookshelf. He supervises, but when Lucian loses footing, Sylus is quick to scoop him up and out of the study, drawing him close to his heart and calming his own erratic breathing. 

“Lucian?!” Sylus exclaims, rushing down the stairs after his son who passes him, sliding down the banister. 

Statues, trees, shelves, counters, tables and chairs— Lucian craves height. A bird’s eye view. Everything would be so much easier for him if tiny dragon wings popped out of his back. Although, that would be another headache for Sylus altogether.  

“Papa?” he asks one morning, already hauling himself up his father’s legs. Hair messy from sleep, having followed Sylus out to the balcony. His bare feet had pitter-pattered on the cold tile, and now he longs to be lifted.

Sylus has since shifted his routine to keep up with his family. He doesn’t mind it, not when he spends most of his waking hours being cuddled by his two boys, and his evenings snuggled up against you. 

“Yes, angel?” Sylus quirks his elbow out, just enough for the boy to use it as leverage. 

“D’you—do you likes going up?” 

“Upstairs?” Sylus asks, slightly teasing. He tilts his head to the side to give Lucian his shoulder to grip.

“No, no,” Lucian says. Shifting comfortably, completing his climb now with both legs dangling off of Sylus’s shoulders. He is pointing to the slowly coloring sky, tilting his head down just enough that Sylus can see his eyes. “Up, up-high, papa?”

“Oh,” Sylus nods. He thinks, he does appreciate being out on the balcony, checking in hotel rooms on the top floor, plane rides, looking at the scenery from atop a mountain after hiking it with you. Perhaps he does, although he doesn’t outwardly seek the thrill of it. “I do. But I don’t… look for it. I’m tall.” 

Hopeful eyes shine with enthusiasm only children can exude. “Will I be tall?” 

Sylus revels at this, singing, “Maybe.” 

“Why maybe?” 

“Because mama’s small.” 

“Mama not small.” Lucian giggles.

“Mama’s a kitty cat. Very tiny.” 

“No, mama not!” he giggles again, little bubbles of joy bursting from his chest. Stomach trembling against the back of Sylus’s head, ruffling his father’s hair. Contagious, Sylus grins too, straining to get a glimpse of Lucian’s laughing. 

Tiny means Mephisto— and Lucian distinctly recalls looking upwards when asking mama for sweeties.

Sylus reaches up and pinches his cheek. “Who knows? Maybe your whiskers will come in before your wings.” 

Lucian flinches, gasping like he’d just been startled by thunder. An excitement rushes through him, and his little fists tug at two spots on Sylus’s head that would’ve been too sharp for such soft hands a lifetime ago. “I’ll get wings?” 

It feels like an attack, when it flashes in Sylus’s mind like lighting— the image of his son with wings and scales and the tiniest of horns. Sylus has to take a grounding breath, distress reflecting in how his voice drops into a somber tone. 

“Or whiskers.” he tries to play along, to steer him ever so gently elsewhere. To you, back to you. His son will have his face, but he prays for him to have your heart, your soul. 

But Lucian has already invaded his vision— bright amber eyes and a happy smile. One Sylus has never seen on a face like his regarding turning into a monster.  It makes his stomach churn, his throat tighten, his muscles into stone. Like when he once lived in that cave, unmoving and undisturbed. Like when he was slain for being that very thing Lucian’s eyes shine for now. 

What once was something cursed unto his body, bloody and battered by his own hands— his son now craves. His son now wants with unabashed wonder. A gripping, heart-leaping prospect rather than the most horrific of fates. 

Sylus takes a deep breath through his nose, reeling it in. He feels his jaw tremble at the exhale, refusing to be dragged into the riptide of his anguish. Not now, he wills himself, not in front of Lucian. 

But his child’s desire knows no fences or stone walls, especially when he feels it draws him closer to his father.

“Papa, I want wings.” he says simply. Upside down, kissing his forehead, because mama does it when she’s near papa’s face too. 

Sylus flinches slightly at the all-too familiar action, not enough to jostle Lucian, but just so for the boy's voice to lower just that little bit. As if he thought he’d startled a poor deer. Lucian whispers, “Two please?” 

Sylus can feel the phantom crystal heart in his chest crack. And he knows for sure that one day, his love for his children will be the cause of its inevitable shatter.  

And he thinks this is his punishment for all the grief he’d caused you when you found him that day tending to his crumpled wings and bloodied horns. These things he’d purposefully hidden and tucked away to not horrify you now like he did back in that life, in that cave. 

To be faced with a soul that is both yours and his— with his face and your smile— telling him he wants to be just like him. Just like Sylus. And every inch of hate and dread for who he was is sickeningly turned on its head, slapped across his face in the image of his boy. Because how could he hate that of what he loves so dearly? 

And yet, maybe this is what you see when you look at him. This is what you marvel at with galaxies in your eyes and tenderness in your touch— his face, with the heart of a dragon. This— in the shape of a little boy— is who he is. One who cares, not abandons. Who feels, not hurts. Who loves, not leaves. 

Just like you did, your son cradles his being in tiny hands. Just like you did, his son looks at him with boundless affection. Just like you did, his son caresses his horns, embraces his wings. Just like you do, his son is cleaning his bloodied wounds, whispering words of comfort and telling him— “It’s okay. You’re beautiful, and I love who you are.” 

And somehow, that makes the pain bearable. Maybe now, he believes it too.

“Okay.” Sylus says through the lump in his throat. Swallowing thickly sticky sentimental pain to replace with something else. Something better. Something good. 

He gently maneuvers his beautiful beastly boy down into his arms into an embrace, burying his nose in his starlight hair and pressing his lips to the space between his brows. “Two then, for my Lucian.” 

His Lucian, whose talent lies in startling his papa with how little of him it takes to heal the wounds he’d thought were too deep to reach. Though, he supposes little hands can squeeze through the crevices of his heart just fine. 

His Lucian, whose talent also lies in making his papa cry. 

In silence, you catch them staring at the dawning of a new day. Two silhouettes of the same shape, talking fondly to one another, against the rising orange hues of the endless sky.

“Will I get big wings?” Asks the little one.

“Maybe.” Says the big one. “Mephisto’s wings are small.”

“Papaa!” Lucian whines and hopelessly buries his face in Sylus’s hair. Just like you do. And, for Sylus, what a delightful thing it is.

✧˚ ⋆｡ next: maybe a turtle (kyros) || read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you for reading!

[97linelover]

Meet me at the park - Jeon Jungkook

summary: there’s this cute dog always running towards you.. his daddy is not so bad aswell.

pairing: idol jungkook x reader

genre: it’s basically all about Bam 🐶

Y/n had only been in Seoul for a few weeks. The excitement of studying abroad was still fresh in her mind, but with each passing day, the busy streets and crowded classrooms made her crave a moment of peace. One afternoon, seeking a quiet escape, she decided to visit a nearby park known for its peaceful walking trails and blooming cherry blossoms.

The sun hung warm in the clear sky, casting soft golden light over the park. As y/n wandered down a winding path, she heard the sudden burst of playful barking. Curious, she followed the sound until she spotted a small dog darting joyfully across an open field. His fur was a rich, shiny black, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

Y/n smiled and knelt down in the grass, holding out her hand. “Hey, who’s a good boy?”

The dog paused, ears twitching, eyes flicking between her and the nearby trees. For a moment, he seemed unsure — wary even. Y/n’s heart softened at the sight. She stayed still, letting him take his time.

Then, as if deciding she was safe, the dog bounded toward her with sudden enthusiasm. He circled her legs, tail wagging so fast it was a blur, and pressed close against her, nuzzling her hand with a wet nose. She laughed softly as he gently pawed at her knee, clearly desperate for more attention.

Y/n reached out to scratch behind his ears, and Bam — as she soon learned his name was — melted into her touch, pressing his whole body against her side. It was almost like he was reluctant to let her go. Wherever she moved, Bam followed closely, brushing against her legs and resting his head briefly on her foot, as if claiming her as his own.

“Wow, he really likes you,” a voice said behind her.

Y/n turned to see a young man jogging toward them, slightly out of breath but smiling warmly. His dark hair was tousled from the breeze, and his eyes held a kind but tired glow.

“That’s Bam,” he said, crouching down beside the dog, who immediately jumped up and licked his face affectionately. “Usually, he’s not so friendly with strangers. He’s pretty protective.”

Y/n glanced down, noticing that Bam was still sticking close to her, his body pressed against her legs like a shadow. When she took a step back, Bam padded after her, whining softly as if worried she might disappear.

Jungkook chuckled. “Yeah, he’s a bit of a stubborn one. But it looks like you’ve won him over.”

Y/n smiled, feeling a surprising warmth spread through her chest. Bam’s unexpected affection was comforting, a small connection in this big, unfamiliar city.

As Jungkook stood up, Bam suddenly wriggled out of his grasp and returned to y/n, nudging her hand with his nose insistently. She bent down to pet him again, and this time Bam sat obediently at her feet, resting his head on her shoe as if claiming her as his new best friend.

“You’ve got a little fan here,” Jungkook said with a laugh, watching the dog cling to her like she was his favorite person in the world.

Y/n looked up at him, her heart lighter than it had been all day. Maybe this unexpected encounter was the start of something new — a friendship born from a playful dog named Bam and a quiet afternoon in the heart of Seoul.

Y/n gently scratched behind Bam’s ears as he rested his head against her leg, his tail wagging slowly now, content and calm. Jungkook watched them with an amused smile.

“Bam doesn’t usually warm up to people this quickly,” Jungkook said, crouching beside them. “He’s more of a one-person dog — mostly me. But I guess you’re different.”

Y/n looked up, meeting his eyes. “Maybe he just knows when someone’s kind.”

Jungkook chuckled softly. “Or maybe he just likes that you don’t try to force him. He can tell when people are patient.”

Bam suddenly lifted his head and gave a soft bark, as if reminding them he wanted to play. Y/n laughed and stood up, beckoning the dog. “Come on, Bam. Let’s see what tricks you know.”

Bam leapt up eagerly, spinning in circles and then dashing ahead, waiting for y/n to follow. Jungkook stood beside her, watching as Bam chased after a fallen leaf with joyful abandon.

“So, you’re here for your semester abroad?” Jungkook asked as they walked along the path together.

“Yes,” y/n replied, her eyes still on Bam. “It’s been amazing so far, but sometimes it feels a little lonely. This city is so big.”

Jungkook nodded knowingly. “I get that. Seoul moves fast. But it’s also full of little surprises — like Bam suddenly deciding you’re his favorite person.”

Y/n smiled, feeling a warmth she hadn’t expected to find. “I think I’ll take that as a good sign.”

Jungkook laughed. “Definitely. Hey, if you ever want to come by and visit Bam, you’re more than welcome.”

She glanced at him, her heart skipping slightly. “I’d like that.”

Bam barked happily, as if agreeing, and ran back to y/n, nudging her hand again.

As the afternoon sun began to dip behind the trees, Y/n realized that this chance meeting was already becoming one of the brightest moments of her time in Seoul. With Bam at her side and Jungkook’s easy company, maybe this city wouldn’t feel so big after all.

The next afternoon, y/n returned to the same park, carrying her sketchbook and pencils. She loved to draw—especially scenes that captured moments of quiet beauty. The soft breeze ruffled the pages as she settled on a bench beneath a blossoming cherry tree.

The park was peaceful, the pink petals gently drifting down like confetti. Y/n opened her sketchbook and began to draw the delicate branches above her, lost in the lines and shades as her pencil moved smoothly across the page.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. Before she could look up fully, Bam, the playful Dobermann, came bounding toward her with joyful energy, ears flapping and tail wagging furiously.

“Bam!” y/n laughed, closing her sketchbook quickly as the dog leapt up near her feet.

But instead of just sitting, Bam pressed close against her legs, nudging her hand with his nose insistently. His big brown eyes shone with excitement, and his whole body wiggled with happiness.

Y/n smiled, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. “Hey, you’re full of energy today, aren’t you?”

Just then, Jungkook appeared from the path, jogging lightly as if he had been looking for Bam. “There he is! You’re giving my poor dog a run for his money.”

Bam gave a happy bark and danced around y/n’s feet, clearly thrilled to be with her again.

Jungkook sat beside her on the bench, glancing at the closed sketchbook. “You draw?”

“Yeah,” y/n said shyly, opening it again to show him the delicate cherry blossoms she’d been working on. “I like capturing quiet moments like this.”

Jungkook smiled. “That’s cool. Maybe next time, I can bring Bam and we can have a little outdoor art session.”

Bam barked in agreement, as if making a promise.

Y/n laughed, feeling a growing sense of belonging. With Bam by her side and Jungkook nearby, the park didn’t feel so lonely anymore. Instead, it was becoming a place of unexpected friendship and little joys.

Y/n returned to the park a few days later, this time with a small paper bag tucked into her tote—dog treats she had picked up from a local pet shop. It was a silly idea, maybe even too much, but something about the way Bam had clung to her made it feel right.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Bam came racing toward her from the far side of the field the moment he saw her, his sleek black coat gleaming in the afternoon sun. He barked once, joyful and loud, before sliding to a stop at her feet like a child who had just spotted their best friend.

“Well, someone remembers me,” she said with a laugh, pulling the bag from her tote. “Look what I brought you.”

Bam’s ears perked, his nose twitching. He sniffed the air with growing interest, then gently pawed at her knee. Y/n offered him a small, bone-shaped treat. He took it carefully, then flopped down in the grass beside her, chewing happily.

“You’re officially his favorite person now,” came Jungkook’s voice from behind her.

Y/n turned to see him approaching, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, hair pushed back beneath a cap. He looked relaxed—less like the idol she knew he was, and more like a guy just enjoying a quiet afternoon.

“I hope I’m not overstepping,” y/n said, holding up the bag with a sheepish grin. “I just thought… he might like these.”

Jungkook chuckled. “Overstepping? You’ve basically bribed your way into his heart. Not that I blame you. Bam’s pretty hard to impress.”

Bam nudged her hand again, already angling for a second treat. Jungkook shook his head, amused. “He doesn’t even beg from me like that.”

They sat together in the grass while Bam lay between them, content and sleepy after a few treats and a lot of tail wagging. There was an easy silence between them, the kind that didn’t need filling.

After a while, Jungkook glanced at her. “Hey… I was thinking,” he said, scratching the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “Do you maybe wanna come over later?”

Y/n looked up, eyebrows raised slightly. He hurried on.

“Nothing weird—I just… I cook sometimes. It helps me relax. And I thought, you know, since Bam is obsessed with you now,” he added with a playful smirk, “you could come by and have dinner. If you want.”

Y/n hesitated only for a breath before smiling. “I’d like that.”

Jungkook grinned, a little shy but clearly pleased. “Cool. Then it’s settled.”

Bam gave a happy bark between them, as if sealing the agreement himself.

As they gathered their things, the late sun casting soft gold over the field, y/n felt something shift—just slightly, but unmistakably. A door had opened. And though she didn’t know exactly where it led, she was already curious to walk through it.

The sun had already begun to dip when y/n arrived at the address Jungkook had sent her. A soft evening breeze tugged gently at the hem of her light summer dress, the pale fabric dancing around her legs. She had hesitated in front of the mirror earlier, wondering if the dress was too much—but now, standing outside his door, the warmth of the fabric against her skin made her feel confident.

When Jungkook opened the door, his eyes flickered over her just for a second longer than necessary before a smile curved his lips.

“Wow… you look really pretty.“

Y/n’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

Behind him, Bam barked excitedly and bounded toward her, tail wagging like mad. She crouched down immediately, greeting him with a smile. “Hey, you.”

Jungkook stepped aside. “Come in. He’s been pacing since I started cooking—like he knew you were coming.”

She followed him inside. The apartment was warm and minimalist, but cozy. It smelled incredible—rich, savory, and slightly spicy.

On the kitchen island were two plates already set. Jungkook had prepared a homemade Korean meal: bulgogi, japchae, and perfectly cooked rice, with a few side dishes she couldn’t name but couldn’t wait to try.

“You made all this?” she asked, eyes wide as she sat down.

He laughed modestly. “Yeah… Cooking’s kind of my way to chill out. I lose track of time when I’m in the kitchen.”

She took her first bite—and paused.

“Okay,” she said with genuine awe, “this is amazing. Like, actual restaurant-level amazing.”

He looked a little proud, a little bashful. “Glad you like it.”

As they ate, conversation flowed easily. Jungkook talked more than she’d expected—about music, about training for years before BTS debuted, about feeling like a kid in a world that moved too fast.

“I didn’t really have a normal teenage life,” he said between bites, eyes focused on the food in front of him. “But I don’t regret it. I’ve learned so much, and… I met people who became like family.”

Y/n listened quietly, her heart tugged by the softness in his voice. He wasn’t just Jungkook the artist or Jungkook the idol—he was human, warm, layered. She found herself wanting to ask more, not out of curiosity, but because she wanted to understand him.

“And now?” she asked gently. “Do you still feel like that kid sometimes?”

Jungkook looked at her then, a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. “Sometimes, yeah. But less when I’m with people who don’t expect me to be anything but myself.”

There was a silence then—not awkward, but full of something unspoken.

Bam let out a small sigh from the floor, stretched out near y/n’s feet, his head resting protectively against her ankle.

Jungkook smiled softly. “I think Bam agrees.”

She laughed, her voice light but sincere. “I think I do too.”

They ate until the sky outside faded into deep blue, the city lights flickering on in the distance. The apartment felt tucked away from the rest of the world, like they were sitting in a little pocket of time that didn’t need to move forward just yet.

And as Jungkook refilled her glass of water and smiled at her across the table, y/n had the distinct feeling that this was a moment she wouldn’t forget.

The dishes clinked softly in the sink as y/n rinsed off the last plate. “You really didn’t have to let me help,” she said over her shoulder.

“I didn’t,” Jungkook replied from the kitchen island, drying the dishes she handed him. “You just started doing it like it was your own place.”

She smirked. “Force of habit. My mom says I can’t sit still after a meal.“

“Well,” he said, bumping her shoulder gently with his, “tell her I approve. Bam too.”

As if on cue, Bam gave a satisfied sigh from where he lay sprawled out on the rug near the living room, belly-up, tail twitching in a half-dream. Y/n dried her hands and looked over at him.

“He’s the happiest dog I’ve ever met,” she said fondly.

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, quieter now. “He saved me, in a way. When everything felt too loud, he reminded me to slow down. Be present.”

Y/n looked at him, thoughtful. “He makes you human.”

Jungkook glanced at her, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Exactly.”

They finished cleaning in a comfortable silence. No pressure, no pretending—just the ease that comes from unspoken trust. When the last dish was placed on the rack, Jungkook gestured toward the glass sliding door.

“Wanna come out on the balcony? It’s cooler now.”

She nodded, and they stepped outside together. The view was stunning—city lights flickering like stars below, quiet hums of traffic in the distance, the wind carrying the soft scent of evening.

Jungkook leaned on the railing, elbows resting on the cold metal, and looked out. Y/n stood beside him, arms folded gently across her chest.

“You ever wonder if everything happens because it’s supposed to?” he asked quietly.

She turned her head toward him. “What do you mean?”

“Like… that day in the park. You could’ve picked any bench. Bam could’ve ignored you like he does with everyone else. But he didn’t. You didn’t.”

Y/n smiled. “You think your dog has a sense of destiny?”

Jungkook grinned. “I think… maybe he just has good instincts.”

There was a pause, filled only by the wind and the distant sounds of the city.

Y/n looked out at the skyline, the buildings glowing under the moonlight. “Whatever it was… I’m glad it happened.”

Jungkook turned his head to her then, his expression softer now, the playfulness replaced with something quieter. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, nothing else existed—just the hush of the night and the slow pull between two people beginning to understand that whatever this was, it mattered.

Neither of them moved to speak. They didn’t need to.

Inside, Bam gave a soft snore, as if reminding them he was still their loyal chaperone.

Y/n laughed gently, and the spell broke—but in the sweetest way. Jungkook reached down to pull a light cardigan from a nearby chair and placed it over her shoulders without a word.

The wind blew again, but she felt warm.

“I should probably head out,” y/n said reluctantly, looking down at her phone. It was already past 10 p.m., but the thought of leaving felt heavier than it should have.

Jungkook hesitated. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but instead, a familiar chuff interrupted from the living room.

Bam stood at the sliding door, tail wagging, leash in his mouth.

Y/n laughed. “He knows.”

Jungkook grinned. “Perfect timing, huh?”

He grabbed the leash and clipped it on. “He usually wants one last walk before bed anyway.”

“Right. Pure coincidence,” she teased, slipping her shoes back on.

“Absolutely,” he deadpanned, but his eyes were warm with something else—relief, maybe, that she wasn’t quite gone yet.

Outside, the air had cooled, and the sky was a deep velvet-blue. Bam trotted happily ahead, his leash slack between them as Jungkook and y/n walked side by side down the quiet streets.

They didn’t talk much at first. It was a different kind of silence now—not the cautious kind between strangers, but the comfortable quiet that settles between people who no longer need to fill the space.

Eventually, y/n spoke. “You didn’t have to walk me all the way.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook said simply. “Besides… Bam insisted.”

She smiled, but he could see something flicker in her expression as they turned down her street—narrow, dimly lit, the kind of place where even the streetlights seemed to flicker more than they should.

Jungkook’s steps slowed slightly as he took it in. The buildings were older, some windows barred, a few stray posters peeling off crumbling brick walls. A group of teens laughed too loudly from a dark corner. Someone tossed a can into the street.

Y/n didn’t say anything, but she walked a little faster.

“You live here?” he asked quietly, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

She nodded. “It’s what I could afford with the student housing budget. It’s not… ideal. But I’m fine, really. I don’t stay out late alone.”

Jungkook glanced around, then back at her. He didn’t like it. Not at all. His jaw tensed slightly, but he kept his voice soft. “Still. You shouldn’t have to get used to this.”

She offered a small smile, clearly trying to brush it off. “I’ve been in worse places. And it’s temporary.”

He nodded, but his eyes lingered on the shadows. “Just… text me next time you get home late. Please.”

“Okay,” she said after a beat. “I will.”

They reached her building—a tall, tired complex with rusted mailboxes and a buzzing light over the front door. Bam sat obediently next to Jungkook, his big brown eyes scanning the quiet street.

“Well,” y/n said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “thank you for dinner. And the company.”

Jungkook looked at her, then down at Bam, then back at her again. He didn’t want to leave her here. Not in this place. Not when she had just been smiling in the warm safety of his apartment an hour ago.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he smiled gently. “We’ll do it again soon. Bam insists.”

Y/n laughed, then hesitated. The space between them held something charged, unspoken—something that neither wanted to rush, but both could feel pulsing beneath the surface.

She gave Bam one last scratch behind the ears. “Night, troublemaker.”

Then she looked up at Jungkook. “Good night, Jungkook.“

He nodded. “Night, y/n.”

She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her.

Jungkook stood there for a moment longer, looking up at the building, before turning to walk away—Bam padding silently beside him, leash loose, as if even the dog felt the change in the air.

Something had shifted.

And neither of them wanted the night to end—not really.

Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, fresh from a late-night shower. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and Bam was already curled into a sleepy heap by the balcony door, sighing contentedly with each breath.

But Jungkook wasn’t ready to sleep.

He kept replaying the evening in his head—the way y/n had looked in that summer dress, the way her laugh had sounded in his kitchen, the tiny crease between her brows when she’d talked about her housing situation. It had been just a dinner. Just a walk. But he felt it. The something.

His phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.

y/n 🦋

“Hey… I just wanted to say thanks again. Today felt like one of those days I’ll remember for a long time. You make this city feel less overwhelming. And Bam too, obviously.”

Jungkook blinked at the screen.

He read it again.

And then again.

A small, quiet smile spread across his face. He leaned back against the wall, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a few seconds before typing.

jk 🐾

“You make Bam’s whole week every time he sees you. And mine too, if I’m being honest.”

He stared at the message for a second.

Too much?

No.

He hit send.

Moments later, her reply came.

y/n 🦋

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep showing up.”

Jungkook let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and an exhale of relief. He set the phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling.

Outside, the city moved on—cars, sirens, neon lights—but inside, everything was still. Everything was soft.

He glanced at Bam, already snoring lightly, then looked back at the screen and whispered to no one in particular:

“Yeah. Keep showing up.”

The park felt even more familiar now, like it had quietly accepted y/n as part of its rhythm. The cherry blossoms were almost gone, replaced by fresh green leaves, and the air smelled like early summer.

She was back on their bench—the same one where she’d sketched cherry trees, where Bam had first bounded into her life, and where Jungkook had smiled at her like she wasn’t just another stranger in the crowd.

Today, though, she hadn’t come empty-handed.

She reached into her bag and pulled out two small bottles of banana milk—homemade. She’d found a recipe online the night before, just because of something Jungkook had mentioned once, almost offhand:

“I don’t know why, but banana milk just makes everything better.”

So, she’d made it from scratch. Creamy, sweet, real banana blended smooth with milk and a touch of honey. She’d even poured it into two little reusable glass bottles with yellow lids. It felt silly. Sweet. Maybe too much. But she did it anyway.

And for Bam?

Little homemade dog muffins, packed with oat flour, banana, and a touch of peanut butter. She wasn’t sure if he’d even like them, but she’d baked them in mini cupcake liners and tied a ribbon around the container just in case.

Her heart beat faster when she heard paws galloping across the path.

“Bam!” she called out, laughing as the Dobermann thundered toward her like a rocket.

He skidded to a stop and pressed himself into her side like a giant overexcited toddler, tail wagging furiously.

“You remember,” she whispered, scratching behind his ears.

“Of course he remembers,” Jungkook said, arriving seconds later, flushed from jogging. He looked down at her, sweat dampening the edge of his black cap. “He’s been pulling me this way for the past five minutes.”

“I brought something,” she said, suddenly shy.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow as she reached into her bag again. First, she handed him the banana milk. “I, um… made it myself. I remembered you said you liked it.”

He blinked down at the bottle, then back at her, slowly smiling. “You made banana milk?”

“Homemade,” she confirmed. “No fake stuff.”

He took it gently, as if it were something delicate. “That’s… honestly the cutest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Her cheeks flushed.

Before she could respond, she pulled out the second container and placed it on the bench.

“These are for Bam. Dog muffins. He might be picky though—”

But before she could finish, Bam had already sniffed the container and started pawing at the lid, tail sweeping the grass like a broom.

Jungkook burst out laughing. “I think you passed the test.”

They sat down, Bam between them as always, happily devouring the first muffin with enthusiastic chomps.

Jungkook took a sip of the banana milk, paused, then turned to her with wide eyes. “Wait—this is actually good. Like, ridiculously good.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded. “You just ruined convenience store banana milk for me forever.”

She laughed, the sound easy and warm. “Guess I’ll have to keep you supplied then.”

Jungkook leaned back on the bench, looking over at her—not playfully, not teasing, but in that quiet, meaningful way he had sometimes when he forgot to keep his guard up.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” he said. “But I’m really glad you did.”

Y/n smiled softly. “I just thought… I wanted you both to feel seen.”

He was quiet for a moment, sipping again.

“You do,” he said finally, voice low.

And just like that, in the middle of a simple park on a simple day, with banana milk in his hand and a muffin-happy dog at his feet, Jungkook felt something shift again.

Like he wasn’t just grateful.

He was moved.

The next morning, the sun rose bright and clear over Seoul, casting a golden warmth over the familiar park paths. Y/n sat on the bench again, sketchpad in her lap, pencil moving in steady, gentle strokes. Her earbuds played soft music, but it was the rustling trees and distant birdsong that filled the air around her.

She was drawing the lake today. Light on the water, distant trees swaying. A peaceful morning.

Until—

BARK!

She looked up just in time to see a familiar Dobermann bolting toward her, leash trailing loosely behind.

“Bam!” she laughed, quickly setting her sketchpad aside.

He practically launched himself at her, tail a blur, his entire body wiggling with joy. She barely had time to brace herself before he pressed his head against her knees and let out a low, happy huff.

She scratched behind his ears. “You really missed me, huh?”

“Apparently more than he missed breakfast,” came a familiar voice from behind.

Jungkook jogged up a few seconds later, in black joggers and a loose hoodie, hair slightly messy like he’d just rolled out of bed—and still looked infuriatingly good.

“Sorry,” he said, slightly breathless. “He saw you from halfway across the park and went full sprint.”

“I’m flattered,” y/n said, glancing down at Bam, who had now rested his head on her thigh like he fully planned to nap there.

Jungkook grinned and held up a small brown paper bag.

“Peace offering,” he said. “Thought maybe it was my turn.”

He handed her the warm bag, the smell hitting her before she even looked inside.

“Cinnamon rolls?”

“From my favorite little place near the river. They only bake in the mornings. I had to charm the old lady into giving me the last two.“

Y/n smiled wide and opened the bag, the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and something buttery-sweet wrapping around her like a hug.

“This is dangerous,” she said. “If these are good, I’m going to start expecting them every time.”

“Then I guess I better make it a tradition,” he said, sitting down beside her.

They shared the pastries in silence at first—sweet, sticky, perfectly soft. Bam snored gently at her feet, completely at peace.

Y/n wiped cinnamon from her lip and nodded approvingly. “Okay. You win.“

Jungkook looked pleased. “I didn’t know it was a contest.”

“It is now,” she teased. “Banana milk versus cinnamon rolls.”

He leaned back against the bench, looking at her for a long moment.

“I’d say we’re both winning.”

Her pencil lay forgotten on her lap as she looked back at him, something soft fluttering in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I think so too.”

The sun warmed the park, Bam snored deeper, and two half-finished cinnamon rolls sat between them—proof that sometimes, small gestures speak the loudest.

The sky had looked uncertain all morning. Thick gray clouds hovered above Seoul like a secret waiting to be told, but the air stayed dry—heavy, humid, and still. Y/n knew it might rain, but she came to the park anyway.

Of course she did.

Bam found her first again—galloping toward the bench with his usual joy, like she was a part of his pack now. She laughed as he leaned into her legs, tongue out, eyes gleaming.

Jungkook followed moments later, dressed in a charcoal hoodie, damp hair curled slightly at his forehead.

“You’re early,” he said, smiling as he approached.

“So are you.”

They exchanged that now-familiar look—soft, quiet, almost shy. It was becoming a habit, these mornings. Unspoken plans. Unscheduled meetings. Just… showing up.

She showed him her sketch—Bam, mid-sprint, ears flying back, eyes joyful.

“I look like I’m raising a cartoon character,” Jungkook laughed, shaking his head.

Y/n just grinned. “He’s a muse.”

But then came the first crack.

Thunder rolled through the sky like an angry drumbeat, deep and echoing. Bam stiffened slightly, ears twitching. A few seconds later—plop. A single raindrop hit y/n’s paper.

She looked up. “Uh-oh.”

Another drop. Then two. Then everything.

Within seconds, the clouds burst open, releasing a warm, pounding rain that soaked through the trees like someone had ripped open the sky.

“Come on!” Jungkook shouted, already reaching for her hand.

She grabbed it without thinking.

They ran—her laugh trailing behind them, soaked shoes splashing through puddles, Jungkook’s hoodie darkening with every drop. Bam charged ahead, leash flapping as he barked like he thought it was all a game.

The rain was relentless, soaking y/n’s dress until it clung to her skin, her hair flattened to her forehead. But she was smiling—wide, wild, alive.

They turned the last corner, and Jungkook fumbled with his keys before throwing open the door to his apartment. They tumbled inside—gasping, dripping, laughing. Bam shook himself furiously, sending water in every direction.

Jungkook kicked the door shut behind them and leaned against it, catching his breath.

“You’re soaked,” y/n said, breathless, brushing wet hair from her face.

“So are you.”

They stood there for a beat—rain hammering against the windows, clothes sticking to skin, chests rising and falling with the thrill of the moment.

Then Jungkook pushed off the door and walked toward her slowly, his voice low and gentle.

“I’ll grab you a towel and something dry. You’ll catch a cold like this.”

Y/n nodded, suddenly aware of how close they were. How fast her heart was beating.

He disappeared down the hallway, Bam trotting after him.

She stood there for a moment alone, soaked through and shaking slightly—not from the cold, but from the way something had shifted again, like thunder in her own chest.

When Jungkook returned, holding a hoodie and sweatpants too big for her, he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

And outside, the storm raged on.

But inside, something felt safe.

Y/n stepped into Jungkook’s bathroom, the warm steam already rising from the running shower. The tiles felt cool beneath her damp feet, but the hot water quickly chased away the chill from the rain-soaked clothes clinging to her skin. She let the water wash over her, every drop melting away the cold that had settled deep into her bones.

Meanwhile, Jungkook pulled out his phone and quickly ordered food—something simple but comforting. “Chicken and rice?” he muttered to himself, smiling at the thought of her favorite.

When the shower ended, y/n wrapped herself in the large, soft towel he handed her. She stepped out, feeling lighter, warmer, almost… different.

In the living room, Bam was a restless bundle of energy and water droplets. His fur was soaked from running through the rain, and he shook himself, sending tiny splashes everywhere.

Y/n knelt down with a gentle smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up, big guy.”

She filled a shallow basin with warm water and carefully rinsed Bam’s paws and belly, working to wash away the dirt and the damp. Bam leaned into her touch, calm and trusting, his eyes soft and grateful.

Once she finished, she wrapped him in a fluffy, oversized towel, rubbing gently until his fur was nearly dry. Bam snuggled close to her, resting his head on her lap and letting out a contented sigh.

Y/n looked up and caught Jungkook’s gaze from across the room. He was watching the scene with a quiet smile, his arms crossed but his eyes warm.

For a moment, the rain outside seemed far away. The sounds of the city softened. In that small apartment, with a clean, happy dog and a woman wrapped in warmth, everything else simply faded.

The soft glow of the living room light wrapped around them like a warm blanket. Jungkook’s couch was small but inviting—big enough for the three of them to curl up close. Bam nestled comfortably between y/n and Jungkook, his fur still slightly damp but smelling clean and sweet.

They passed around plates of steaming food, the aroma of chicken and rice mingling with the gentle hum of the city outside. Y/n took a bite, then sighed contentedly.

“I’ve always wanted to visit Busan,” she said softly, her eyes distant as she spoke. “The ocean, the beaches… I just imagine it’s so peaceful. And vibrant. I want to see it all someday.”

Jungkook’s eyes lit up with something like warmth and surprise. “Busan?” he echoed. “That’s where my family’s from.”

She turned to look at him, surprised. “Really? I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, stretching his legs out a little. “My parents and younger brother still live there. It’s a bit different from Seoul—more relaxed, closer to the sea. It’s where I grew up before moving here.”

Y/n’s smile grew softer, touched by the glimpse into his past. “It must feel special, knowing you have that place.”

“It is,” Jungkook said quietly. “I go back whenever I can. Maybe I could show you around sometime.”

Her heart skipped. “I’d like that.”

They shared a look, gentle and honest. Bam gave a little whimper, as if approving the moment.

The night settled around them, peaceful and full of possibilities—two people and a dog, sharing warmth, food, and the quiet hope of future adventures.

The thunder rolled heavier now—louder, slower, like a heartbeat echoing across the sky. Raindrops hammered against the windows in hurried rhythms, and every so often, the whole apartment lit up in a sudden flash of white.

But inside, it felt safe.

Bam was curled up tight between them, his head resting against y/n’s thigh, eyes closed but not fully asleep. Every rumble of thunder made his ears twitch slightly, but he didn’t move—not while her hand kept stroking his fur in slow, calming patterns.

“You’re okay,” she whispered softly, more to him than anyone else. “It’s just the sky talking.”

Jungkook glanced over at her, watching the way her fingers moved—gentle, steady, full of something deeper. The way Bam melted into her touch wasn’t lost on him.

“He usually hides during storms,” Jungkook said quietly, his voice almost blending with the rain. “But with you… he doesn’t even flinch.”

She looked up at him, their eyes meeting in the golden light of the room.

“Maybe he just needed someone soft tonight,” she said.

There was a beat of silence between them, filled only by the storm outside and the warmth they shared inside. Jungkook’s arm brushed against hers as he shifted slightly closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough to feel.

She didn’t move away.

“You’re good with him,” he said, his voice lower now, more thoughtful.

“I think he’s the one who’s good with me.”

Jungkook smiled faintly, his gaze dipping toward the way her hand moved through Bam’s fur, and then slowly up to her eyes again. Something about the way she was—with his dog, in his home, on his couch—felt like something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

The thunder cracked louder this time, and Bam pressed in a little closer.

Y/n whispered something to him, barely audible, something soft and comforting and only meant for his ears.

And Jungkook knew, then, that this wasn’t just a rainy night.

It was something beginning.

The storm outside didn’t let up.

Thunder still cracked in the distance, softer now, farther away. The rain had settled into a steady rhythm against the windows—a quiet lullaby for the city and the hearts inside it.

Y/n leaned back into the couch cushions, her fingers still resting gently on Bam’s back. The warmth of his body pressed into hers, grounding, solid. Jungkook had pulled a light blanket over them both when she started yawning, and now the room had that fragile, sleepy hush to it.

He stood in the doorway, a cup of tea forgotten in his hands, watching her.

She had fallen asleep.

Her head tilted slightly to the side, hair loose around her face, lips parted just barely. Bam was curled into her like he belonged there—one paw tucked under her arm, his big head resting on her stomach. He let out a soft breath and didn’t move.

Jungkook’s chest tightened.

There was something about it. The way they both looked—tangled together on his couch like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this had always been meant to happen.

He set his tea down quietly and turned off the main light, leaving only the soft amber glow of the kitchen behind. The room fell into a gentle dimness.

Then he sat in the armchair nearby, elbows on his knees, just watching for a moment longer.

Y/n shifted slightly in her sleep, one hand brushing lightly over Bam’s fur even without waking.

And Jungkook smiled—tired, a little overwhelmed, but peaceful in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe. That’s what it was.

They looked safe.

The apartment had fallen into a peaceful hush.

Outside, the rain was finally slowing, now only a faint tapping on the windows. Inside, the warmth of the living room lingered — the scent of the dinner they shared, the soft blanket draped over y/n and Bam, the faint hum of Jungkook’s tea cooling untouched on the table.

He had sat for a while just watching her sleep. The way her face relaxed in dreams. The way Bam stayed curled around her protectively, not budging an inch. It was almost unfair, he thought — how natural she looked there. Like she belonged.

But it was late, and the couch wasn’t exactly the most comfortable place to spend the whole night.

He got up quietly and knelt beside her, his voice soft.

“Y/n,” he murmured, close to her ear. “Hey… come on. Let me get you to the guest room. You’ll sleep better.”

She stirred slowly, her lashes fluttering, voice groggy. “What time is it?”

“After one,” he said gently. “You can stay here. The guest room’s ready.“

She blinked at him, still half-asleep. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not,” he said without hesitation.

She sat up slowly, careful not to wake Bam — but he was already alert, his eyes following her every movement.

When she stood, so did he. Stretching, tail wagging softly, and then sticking right to her side as she followed Jungkook down the short hallway.

“He’s really not letting me out of his sight anymore,” she whispered, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips.

Jungkook looked back over his shoulder, chuckling quietly. “You’re his person now. He’s claimed you.”

The guest room was cozy — minimal but warm, a soft bed with light gray sheets and a small lamp glowing beside it. Jungkook pulled back the blanket for her.

“You sure?” she asked one more time.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” he replied, voice low.

She stepped inside, and Bam followed her without question, circling once before flopping down near the bed.

Y/n turned to Jungkook as he lingered in the doorway.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and something in her eyes made his chest ache in the best way. “For everything tonight.”

He nodded once, his gaze holding hers just a little longer. “Sleep well.”

“You too.”

He closed the door quietly behind him.

Inside, y/n sank into the bed, her body heavy with comfort and exhaustion. Bam rested his head near her hand, eyes already closed, and she let her fingers drift over his ears.

Safe. That’s what this felt like.

And just down the hall, Jungkook lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to stop thinking about the girl who now slept under his roof — the girl who had somehow, without even trying, taken up space in his heart.

The first thing y/n noticed when she woke was Bam, still curled up at the foot of the bed, watching her. His eyes blinked slowly when hers opened, and he gave a soft whuff — not quite a bark, just a sleepy greeting.

She sat up slowly, stretching, the bedsheets slipping from her shoulders. The guest room was quiet, filled with soft light from the windows. The rain was gone. In its place, a clear blue sky and the fresh smell of a city washed clean.

The apartment, too, was still — except for the faint sound of running water in the distance.

She stood, padded quietly into the hallway, and caught the faintest beat of music from the bathroom. The sound of the shower running.

He was up already.

Of course he was.

Jungkook had mentioned once in passing that he trained early most days, but something about hearing the water and imagining him coming back all sweat-damp and focused made her heart skip a little.

Y/n smiled to herself.

She found Bam’s leash where it always hung by the door. “Come on, boy,” she whispered.

Bam perked up immediately, tail wagging, and padded over with quiet excitement. No barking. Just eager trust.

She clicked the leash into place and stepped outside into the morning air.

It was fresh, cooler than the day before, with just a hint of leftover rain in the breeze. The city was slowly waking around them — a few early risers, the distant sound of traffic, the comforting rhythm of footsteps on pavement.

They walked quietly together, Bam keeping perfect pace with her, close at her side. Every now and then, he glanced up at her like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

She smiled and scratched behind his ear.

The sun peeked through the clouds, golden and slow. And in that moment, with a dog beside her and the day stretching out gently ahead, y/n felt something warm bloom inside her.

Not excitement.

Not nerves.

Just… peace.

By the time y/n and Bam returned from their morning walk, the apartment smelled faintly of soap and something warm — the kind of scent that lingered in towels and T-shirts. She unclipped the leash, and Bam padded inside like he owned the place.

And maybe, at this point… he kind of did.

She kicked off her sneakers just as Jungkook stepped out of the hallway, towel draped over his shoulders, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, a loose black T-shirt clinging to his post-workout frame.

He froze for a half-second when he saw her — eyes flicking from her face to the leash still in her hand.

“You took him out?” he asked, his voice a little raspier than usual.

She smiled, setting the leash on the hook. “Figured I owed you at least that much. You let me take over your couch and half your apartment last night.”

Jungkook blinked, then let out a soft laugh. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

He scratched the back of his neck, a boyish grin creeping onto his face. “He didn’t give you trouble?”

“He was perfect. Stuck to my side the whole time.”

Jungkook tilted his head with mock suspicion. “I think he might like you more than he likes me now.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Can’t help it if I’m charming.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he walked into the kitchen. “You want coffee? Or banana milk?”

She followed him in, leaning against the counter, her voice light. “Are those really my only two options?”

“In this house?” he glanced back over his shoulder, grinning. “Yes.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Then banana milk. Since I know you secretly judge my coffee order.”

He laughed again — a warm, open sound that made her chest flutter more than she wanted to admit.

While he poured drinks, she watched him move around the kitchen like it was second nature — like this wasn’t new. Like they’d done this a hundred times.

And maybe that was the strangest part.

How easy this felt.

He handed her a glass, their fingers brushing briefly. A small electric pulse ran up her arm, but neither of them said anything. They just stood there, sipping banana milk in the quiet of the kitchen, while Bam sprawled comfortably at their feet like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

And maybe… it was.

Jungkook grabbed his backpack, slipping his phone and keys inside with practiced ease. The soft morning light filtered through the windows, casting warm shadows over the apartment.

“I’ve got to head to the studio,” he said, adjusting the strap on his bag. “There’s some mixing to do.”

Y/n nodded, finishing the last sip of her banana milk. Bam was already alert, tail wagging, sensing the shift in the room.

“I need to run a few errands anyway,” she said, standing and grabbing Bam’s leash from the hook. “How about I take him out? Give you some quiet time to work.”

Jungkook looked at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds perfect.”

She clipped the leash on Bam, who instantly perked up, eager and ready.

“Don’t spoil him too much,” Jungkook warned playfully.

“Too late,” y/n laughed, heading toward the door. “He’s got me wrapped around his paw already.”

Jungkook shook his head, laughing softly. “Just bring him back in one piece.”

“I will.”

With that, she stepped outside, the city’s pulse greeting them anew. Bam led the way eagerly, and y/n felt a familiar warmth spreading through her chest.

A small routine, growing naturally — a balance of space and closeness, of lives intertwining gently but surely.

While out with Bam, y/n couldn’t resist snapping a few selfies—Bam’s big paws resting on her lap, his tongue lolling out happily, and her smiling brightly beside him. She sent the photos to Jungkook with a quick message:

“Out for a walk with your troublemaker 🐾😊”

Moments later, her phone buzzed with his reply:

“Looks like he’s having the best time. And you look really good too.”

Back at the studio, the BTS members couldn’t help but notice Jungkook’s unusually wide grin. Yoongi elbowed Jimin, whispering, “Look at him — like a lovestruck teenager.”

Jungkook caught their teasing glances but couldn’t hide the warmth in his smile. His fingers hovered over the phone, ready to reply again, but he just shook his head, still grinning like a kid.

Namjoon smirked, “Looks like someone’s got a new favorite distraction.”

Jungkook didn’t deny it.

Because when he looked at y/n’s selfies — at Bam’s joyful face — it was impossible not to feel that rush all over again.

The next few days slipped by like a gentle breeze — soft, warm, and full of laughter.

Every afternoon, y/n and Jungkook found themselves back at the same park, where Bam was king of the playground. His excitement was contagious, and soon y/n was running after him, laughing as he chased a frisbee or rolled in the grass, refusing to let anyone else get near his favorite toy.

Jungkook loved watching her—how her eyes sparkled when she smiled, how her laugh was like music mingling with the rustling leaves and the distant hum of Seoul.

They talked about everything and nothing—favorite books, dreams for the future, childhood memories, and silly jokes that made them both burst out giggling until their cheeks ached.

At times, Bam would flop down between them, panting happily, head resting on y/n’s lap, while Jungkook reached over to scratch behind his ears.

The routine felt natural, like something that had always been meant to be.

But beneath the surface of their easy days, something special was stirring.

Y/n’s birthday was coming up.

Jungkook’s phone buzzed one evening with a group message from the BTS members.

“JK, you better do something amazing. No pressure.”

“She deserves the best. We’re counting on you.”

“Get creative. Bam can help.”

He smiled, fingers tapping thoughtfully on the screen.

The idea formed slowly — an escape from the city’s rush, a chance to share a place that meant something to him. A weekend trip to Busan, with y/n and Bam.

He imagined the ocean breeze, the laughter echoing over the waves, quiet moments watching the sunset, and the chance to show her the home he spoke about so often.

The plan was set.

Now all that was left was the surprise.

The morning sun spilled through the windows as Jungkook pulled up outside y/n’s apartment in his sleek black Mercedes G-Class. The engine rumbled low and steady, a comforting promise of the journey ahead.

Y/n stepped out, her suitcase in one hand, Bam eagerly sniffing the air by her feet. She looked up at the car, impressed but mostly excited.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” she said softly, her smile wide and genuine.

Jungkook shrugged, opening the passenger door for her. “I wanted to. Birthday trip deserves a little style.”

She laughed, sliding into the seat beside him while Bam jumped into the back, settling down on a soft blanket Jungkook had prepared for him.

The city faded behind them as they rolled onto the highway, windows down just enough to let in the fresh air mixed with the scent of pine and distant ocean.

Music played softly from the speakers, a mix of Jungkook’s favorites and some songs y/n had mentioned she liked. Their conversation flowed easily — stories shared between laughs, comfortable silences filled with the hum of the road.

Bam’s head occasionally popped up from the backseat, eyes bright and alert, as if sensing the excitement in the air.

Jungkook stole glances at y/n through the rearview mirror — the way her hair caught the sunlight, the way her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

After a few hours, the landscape shifted — the city gave way to rolling hills, and then the salty breeze of the coast wrapped around them.

Busan was close.

And with it, the weekend that promised laughter, quiet moments, and memories that neither of them would forget.

The morning light spilled warmly through the large windows of the cozy guesthouse Jungkook had booked near the beach. Y/n stretched, feeling the gentle sea breeze drift through the slightly open window, carrying the salty scent of the ocean.

Bam was already awake, his paws pattering softly on the wooden floor as he circled excitedly, eager for the day ahead.

Jungkook smiled from the doorway, casually dressed in a loose shirt and shorts, his hair tousled from sleep. “Good morning,” he said quietly.

“Morning,” y/n replied, sliding off the bed and padding over to him.

They shared a quiet moment before stepping outside, where the beach awaited.

The sun was bright but not harsh, the sky a brilliant blue canvas dotted with fluffy clouds. The sound of waves rolling in, the distant chatter of early risers, and the smell of fresh seafood from nearby stalls filled the air.

Bam wasted no time, bounding onto the sand with pure joy, digging and chasing seagulls with abandon. Y/n laughed, chasing after him and feeling lighter than she had in months.

Jungkook stayed close, watching her with that familiar softness in his eyes.

Later, they wandered through the colorful streets of Busan — tasting spicy tteokbokki from a street vendor, sharing sweet hotteok filled with brown sugar and nuts, and exploring the vibrant fish markets alive with the morning’s catch.

The day passed in a series of little adventures, each one making them feel more connected — to the city, to Bam’s infectious energy, and most of all, to each other.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, they found a quiet spot on the beach.

Bam curled up between them, tired but happy.

Y/n leaned against Jungkook’s shoulder, her heart full.

For the first time since arriving in Seoul, she felt completely at home.

The sun had set, leaving a soft glow over Busan’s coastline. The sky was a deep navy sprinkled with stars, and the gentle rhythm of the waves matched the quiet excitement fluttering in y/n’s chest.

Jungkook led her through winding streets, the lanterns above casting a warm amber light that danced on the cobblestones. Bam trotted happily beside them, his tail wagging as if he knew something special was coming.

They arrived at a small, intimate restaurant tucked away from the bustling tourist spots — a place Jungkook had chosen carefully. The owner greeted them like old friends, guiding them to a cozy corner table with a view of the sea shimmering just beyond the windows.

The evening was filled with delicious food — fresh seafood grilled to perfection, vibrant vegetables, and delicate kimchi that balanced each bite. They laughed easily, sharing stories and savoring the moment as if time had slowed just for them.

After the meal, Jungkook reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box. Y/n’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I know it’s small,” he said softly, “but I wanted you to have something to remember today by.

She carefully untied the ribbon and opened the box to find a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny charm shaped like a wave — a nod to Busan and the ocean that had made the day so special.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, sliding it onto her wrist.

Jungkook smiled, the warmth in his eyes mirroring her own. “Happy birthday, y/n.”

She reached across the table, taking his hand gently. “Thank you. For everything.”

The night didn’t feel like an end but the start of something new — a beginning marked not by grand gestures but by the quiet, meaningful moments they shared.

Walking back along the shore, Bam leading the way, the cool night air wrapping around them, y/n realized this was exactly what she had been searching for.

Not just a birthday.

But a feeling of belonging.

The next morning, the sunlight poured softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the guesthouse. Y/n was already awake, sipping tea and watching Bam chase after a stray feather that fluttered by the window.

Jungkook stretched and smiled as he joined her. “I was thinking,” he began, “my parents live nearby here in Busan. Maybe I should visit them today.”

Y/n nodded, “That sounds nice. You should go. I can stay here with Bam and explore a bit on my own.”

He shook his head, his eyes gentle but firm. “No. I want you to come with me. I want them to meet you.”

Surprise flickered across her face, quickly replaced by a warm smile. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “It feels right.”

Bam seemed to sense the change in plans, wagging his tail excitedly as Jungkook packed a small bag.

Together, they stepped out into the bright morning, the streets of Busan buzzing softly with life around them. Walking side by side, y/n felt a quiet happiness bloom inside her — a sense that this trip was more than just a birthday getaway.

It was becoming the start of something deeper.

The streets of Busan were alive with the gentle hustle of morning shoppers and the salty scent of the nearby sea as Jungkook guided y/n and Bam through the winding lanes toward his parents’ home. The soft crunch of Bam’s paws against the pavement mixed with their quiet conversation, and for y/n, the feeling of new beginnings settled deep in her chest.

The house was a charming traditional Korean home, low and wide with wooden beams and a small garden blooming with wildflowers. The moment they stepped through the gate, a warm sense of calm wrapped around them, like stepping into a space held by love and years of memories.

Jungkook’s mother appeared first, her face lighting up with a bright smile as she saw her son. “Jungkook-ah!” she called warmly, pulling him into a gentle embrace.

Y/n hung back slightly, feeling shy but grateful when Jungkook quickly took her hand, guiding her forward.

“Mom, this is y/n,” Jungkook said softly, pride and affection clear in his voice. “She’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”

His mother’s eyes sparkled as she studied y/n, her smile widening. “Welcome, y/n. We’ve heard so much about you. Please, come in.”

The house was filled with the aroma of simmering soup and freshly steamed rice, and y/n noticed the careful attention in every detail — from the neatly folded hanboks on a nearby chair to the small trinkets and photographs lining the shelves.

They sat down at the low wooden table, where Jungkook’s father soon joined them, a warm and quiet man whose smile matched his wife’s. The conversation flowed naturally, with Jungkook translating gently when y/n stumbled over Korean phrases or cultural nuances.

Bam settled contentedly at their feet, receiving gentle pats from Jungkook’s parents, who seemed delighted by his friendly energy.

Jungkook’s mother brought out dishes she had prepared herself — spicy kimchi, seasoned vegetables, grilled fish — and y/n felt a genuine sense of being welcomed, not just as Jungkook’s guest but as part of the family.

Between bites, Jungkook shared stories of his childhood in Busan, his eyes lighting up with memories. Y/n laughed at his recollections of mischievous adventures and quiet moments by the sea.

His parents listened, their expressions soft and proud.

Later, they moved to the garden, where y/n helped Jungkook’s mother tend to a small patch of herbs. The simple act of sharing this space felt intimate, bridging worlds and weaving new connections.

As the afternoon sun dipped lower, Jungkook squeezed y/n’s hand gently. “Thank you for coming with me.”

She smiled back, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the sunshine. “I’m glad I did.”

Walking back toward the car, Bam trotting happily between them, y/n realized that what had started as a birthday trip had quietly transformed into something much more — a feeling of belonging, of roots beginning to grow.

And with Jungkook beside her, the future suddenly looked brighter than ever.

The last morning in Busan greeted them with breathtaking clarity. The sky was a flawless expanse of pale blue, kissed by the golden light of dawn. The sea stretched endlessly, waves gently rolling onto the shore as if whispering a soft goodbye.

Y/n and Jungkook woke early, both unwilling to let a moment of their time here slip away. After a simple breakfast, they headed straight to the beach, Bam bounding ahead with joyful energy.

The soft sand was cool beneath their feet, and the ocean breeze tangled their hair as they walked side by side. Everywhere they looked, the world seemed to glow — from the sparkling water to the colorful shells scattered along the shore.

They pulled out their camera, eager to capture the magic of the day. But soon, they wanted more than selfies and awkward arm’s-length shots.

With shy smiles, they approached a family nearby and asked if they could take some photos of the three of them together.

The strangers happily agreed, and soon the camera was clicking — Bam’s tongue lolling out happily, Jungkook’s arm wrapped around y/n’s waist, and her head resting lightly against his shoulder.

The pictures told a story: of laughter, of warmth, of a quiet, growing love that felt natural and unbreakable.

They continued wandering along the beach, stopping often to snap more photos, sometimes handing the camera to strangers to capture those perfect moments of connection.

Bam chased seagulls, his joyful barks echoing, as y/n and Jungkook exchanged playful smiles, the easy companionship between them filling the space with light.

As the afternoon sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of soft pink and orange, they found a quiet spot on the sand.

Jungkook sat close, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from y/n’s face. The world around them seemed to hold its breath.

“I’m really glad you came with me,” he murmured, voice low and sincere.

She smiled softly, heart pounding with a sweetness she hadn’t expected. “Me too.”

Their eyes met, and in that stillness — with Bam curled contentedly at their feet and the ocean whispering behind them — Jungkook leaned in.

Their lips met gently at first, a tender brush of warmth and promise.

The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, as if the sea itself was blessing their moment.

When they finally pulled apart, y/n rested her forehead against his, both breathing a little faster, smiles wide and eyes shining with a new kind of happiness.

For that day on the Busan beach, they weren’t just two people or a girl and a dog and a boy.

They were a little family — bound by laughter, love, and the endless horizon before them.

The drive back to Seoul was wrapped in a calm, gentle stillness, as if the world itself was softening around them after the magic of Busan. The Mercedes G-Class hummed steadily along the highway, windows cracked open just enough to carry the faint scent of pine and distant ocean air.

Bam lay curled comfortably on the blanket in the backseat, occasionally lifting his head to glance at them with bright, trusting eyes.

Jungkook and y/n sat side by side, their hands brushing occasionally, sharing small smiles that spoke volumes without needing words.

They talked — about the trip, their favorite moments, the things they wanted to do next. Y/n listened as Jungkook shared memories of Busan he hadn’t told anyone else, stories from his childhood wrapped in warmth and nostalgia.

She spoke of her own hopes and dreams, finding in him a patient, genuine listener who encouraged her to open up more than she had expected.

The sun began its slow descent, casting long, golden shadows over the road, and the city skyline appeared in the distance like a familiar beacon welcoming them home.

Neither wanted the trip to end, but both felt a quiet happiness settling in their chests — a feeling that no matter where they were, as long as they were together, it was enough.

When the car finally pulled up outside y/n’s apartment, neither rushed to say goodbye. Bam stretched and wagged his tail, sensing the gentle bittersweetness in the air.

Jungkook turned to her with a soft smile. “Thank you for coming with me. For making this trip special.”

Y/n smiled back, heart full. “Thank you for bringing me.”

They stood there for a moment longer, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything.

Then, with a last squeeze of her hand and a promise of more moments to come, Jungkook climbed back into his car, and the city night swallowed him up.

Y/n watched the taillights fade, already counting the days until their next adventure.

The days after their beautiful trip to Busan felt strangely heavy. Y/n’s phone, once buzzing regularly with messages from Jungkook, was now quiet. No “good morning” texts, no check-ins, no memes or silly gifs she used to send that always made him laugh.

She tried reaching out, sending playful memes and little messages, hoping to break the silence. But the messages stayed unopened, or worse — left without a reply.

Her heart tightened each time she glanced at her phone.

Then one evening, scrolling through social media almost absentmindedly, she saw it — clips of Jungkook live-streaming, laughing, and chatting with fans. He was active, just not with her.

A wave of confusion and hurt crashed over her.

Had she done something wrong? Had she pushed him away? The thought gnawed at her, filling her with doubt.

She replayed every conversation, every moment they’d shared since returning to Seoul. Was there a sign she missed? A mistake she made?

Late at night, she stared at her phone, fingers trembling as she typed a message — then deleted it. Afraid to reach out again, afraid of what silence might mean.

The city outside her window felt colder somehow, emptier.

Y/n wrestled with the ache of unanswered questions, the loneliness that crept in even when surrounded by people.

Was this the end of their story? Or just a difficult pause before a new beginning?

Days turned into a week. The silence stretched on, growing heavier with each passing moment. Y/n found herself staring at her phone more often than she wanted, fingers hovering over Jungkook’s contact, hesitating, then pulling away.

Her heart ached with the unanswered questions, the empty space where his words used to be.

One quiet evening, sitting alone in her small apartment, she finally typed out a message—short, honest, and bittersweet.

“I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought what we had was real. But maybe I was wrong. I’m going to focus on other things now. Take care, Jungkook.”

With a shaky breath, she pressed send, her eyes filling with tears she refused to let fall.

Then, with a mix of relief and heartbreak, she deleted his number from her phone.

It wasn’t easy. It felt like letting go of a dream she’d only just begun to live.

But deep down, she knew she deserved someone who would stay — who wouldn’t vanish without a word.

As her phone screen went dark, a quiet resolve settled inside her.

She would find her own path now.

No matter what the future held.

The days had become a blur — rehearsals, recordings, meetings, and endless schedules that left little room for anything else. BTS was deep into their comeback phase, a time when every second was meticulously planned. Phones were handed over, personal time was nearly nonexistent, and the weight of expectations pressed heavily on Jungkook’s shoulders.

He missed the quiet moments with y/n — the way she smiled when Bam ran to greet her, the gentle way she listened when he shared stories, the warmth of her presence that made everything feel a little less overwhelming.

But with no access to his phone, no chance to reply to her messages, the silence stretched longer than he wanted.

One rare moment, he managed to sneak a glance at his phone during a short break. His heart sank seeing the unopened messages, her last text saying she was moving on.

Regret twisted in his chest.

He decided to go to the park with Bam, hoping for some calm, maybe even a chance to see her and apologize.

But when he arrived, the bench where they usually met was empty.

Bam whined softly, looking up at Jungkook with confusion, and Jungkook sat down, the weight of missed moments settling heavily around him.

He realized how much he wanted to fix this — but the pressure of the world around him made it hard to reach out.

For now, all he could do was hope.

And wait.

Days passed quietly, the park still missing the familiar laughter and warmth y/n used to bring. Jungkook’s heart ached every time he saw Bam’s eager eyes searching for her, his tail wagging uncertainly as if trying to figure out where she had gone.

One afternoon, as Jungkook sat on the bench lost in thought, Bam suddenly perked up, ears alert. Without hesitation, he slipped off his leash and trotted purposefully toward the nearby street where y/n’s apartment was.

Jungkook called after him, but Bam was determined

Minutes later, Bam returned, carrying something soft in his mouth — y/n’s scarf, one she had left in the park during their last meeting.

Jungkook smiled, touched by the dog’s instinct. Bam wanted to remind him of her, to bridge the gap that silence had created.

Inspired by Bam’s determination, Jungkook finally picked up his phone, his fingers trembling as he typed a message — honest, vulnerable, and full of hope.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry. Can we talk?”

Within moments, his phone buzzed.

Y/n’s reply was simple but enough to make his heart soar.

“Okay. Let’s meet.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the silence began to break.

And with Bam by their side, the path to healing felt a little clearer.

The park was quiet that evening, bathed in the soft glow of street lamps. The gentle rustle of leaves and the distant city sounds created a calm backdrop as y/n arrived, her heart fluttering with a mix of nervousness and hope.

Jungkook stood by their favorite bench, Bam wagging his tail eagerly, as if sensing the importance of this moment.

When their eyes met, the silence spoke volumes. Neither rushed forward — instead, they took a slow step closer, giving space for the weight of everything unsaid.

Jungkook’s voice was soft but steady. “I’m sorry for disappearing. The comeback schedule… it was overwhelming. I wanted to talk, but I couldn’t.”

Y/n’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I didn’t know what to think. I felt like you left without a reason. I thought maybe I scared you away.”

He shook his head, reaching out to gently take her hand. “Never. I’ve been thinking about you every day. I should have trusted you with the truth.”

Bam nudged y/n’s side, breaking the tension with a happy wag.

She smiled, squeezing Jungkook’s hand. “I’m glad you reached out.”

They sat together on the bench, words flowing easier now — apologies, explanations, hopes for what could be next.

The night wrapped around them like a promise — imperfect, uncertain, but filled with the possibility of something real.

For the first time in a long while, y/n and Jungkook weren’t just two people caught between worlds.

They were two hearts ready to find their way back to each other.

The next morning, the sky stretched wide and blue above Seoul — the kind of weather that made the city feel lighter, as if even it was breathing easier.

Y/n walked toward the park with a quiet sense of anticipation. In one hand, she carried two bottles of banana milk she had made at home — the same recipe from before. In the other, a small container of freshly baked muffins, still warm through the cloth. She’d even made a special dog-friendly version for Bam.

Her heart beat fast, but not like before — not from anxiety or confusion, but from something softer.

Hope.

When she reached their usual bench, she saw them waiting.

Bam was the first to spot her. His ears perked, tail wagging like crazy, he tugged at his leash and sprinted toward her with all the enthusiasm of someone greeting their favorite person in the world.

Y/n laughed, kneeling to greet him. “I missed you too,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his head before scratching behind his ears. “I brought you something.”

She opened the small box, revealing the dog muffins. Bam immediately sat down, eyes wide and polite, as if sensing this was a gift meant to be received with dignity.

Jungkook appeared moments later, his hoodie a little too big, black hair tousled like he hadn’t slept much — but his smile, when he saw her, was real and filled with quiet joy.

“You came,” he said, softly.

“Of course I did,” she answered, holding out the second bottle of banana milk.

He accepted it like it meant everything. “Are those… homemade again?”

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. “And muffins. You know, for everyone.”

They sat down together, just like before — but the silence between them now was comfortable. There was no more doubt. No more unspoken pain.

Just small smiles. Easy laughter. And the warmth of something slowly being rebuilt.

Bam laid across both their feet, eyes closing as the late morning sun spilled through the trees.

And as Jungkook took a sip of the banana milk, he let out a soft hum of approval. “Still my favorite.”

Y/n grinned, eyes crinkling. “I know.”

They sat a while longer in the park, sharing banana milk and gentle conversation, watching Bam stretch out in the sun like he owned the world.

At some point, Jungkook turned to her, eyes studying her face carefully. It wasn’t nerves, exactly — more like quiet sincerity.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he said, fingers tracing the side of his bottle. “You’re important to me. And I… I want you to meet the others.”

Y/n blinked, surprised. “The others?”

He smiled, his ears turning faintly pink. “The members. The guys. My second family.”

Her heart did a small flip — not because she was nervous, but because it meant something. Deeply.

“You sure?” she asked, gently, but with a smile tugging at her lips. “Isn’t that… a big step?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It is. But I want them to know who you are — the girl who makes banana milk and bakes for Bam. The one who listens to me when I forget how to breathe.”

Y/n didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him, warm and open and a little in awe that someone like him could be this honest, this kind.

“I’d like that,” she finally said. “When?”

He grinned. “Tonight, if you’re free. They’re all at the dorm for dinner. It’s casual — Jin-hyung’s cooking, and the rest are just… loud.”

Y/n laughed. “Loud I can handle. Just give me five minutes to emotionally prepare myself.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward, voice low and soft. “They’re going to love you. But maybe not as much as I do.”

She blinked — stunned into stillness by the quiet confession. But the way he smiled after, the way he gently nudged her shoulder with his, let her know he meant it.

Bam let out a happy bark, breaking the moment, and y/n laughed, brushing her hair behind her ear to hide the blush that crept in.

“Alright,” she said, standing up. “Let’s go meet your second family.”

The late afternoon sun dipped behind the skyline as Jungkook and y/n stood outside the dorm. Her heart was a mix of steady and storm, fluttering inside her chest as she held the box of still-warm pastries she’d baked earlier in the day — cinnamon rolls and sweet potato bread, her best batch yet. Even a few honey dog biscuits tucked in a small paper bag for Bam, who trotted beside them like he already belonged.

“I can carry that,” Jungkook offered, reaching for the box.

“No way,” she smiled, holding it close. “I’m going in with a peace offering. You only get one first impression.”

He grinned, eyes shining with that soft fondness she was still getting used to — the kind that made her stomach do gentle flips.

Inside, the dorm smelled like a mix of dinner, fabric softener, and something distinctly Jin’s cooking. As soon as they stepped in, the noise hit her — laughter, someone yelling from another room, the low bass of music playing somewhere down the hall.

And then came the footsteps.

“Yah, finally!” Taehyung’s voice rang out as he rounded the corner, socks sliding on the wooden floor. He stopped mid-step when he saw her.

“Ohhh,” he said, smile blooming, eyes widening in playful curiosity. “You’re real.”

Jungkook groaned behind her. “Hyung, please—”

But it was too late. Jimin appeared next, followed by Namjoon and Hobi, then Jin from the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder.

“She brought cinnamon rolls,” Jungkook mumbled as if trying to distract them from their interrogation-mode.

That worked better than expected.

“Wait — cinnamon rolls?” Jin perked up like it was the most important thing anyone had ever said.

“Homemade?” Hobi asked, already helping her out of her jacket and leading her toward the dining table like a VIP guest.

Y/n laughed, flustered but charmed. “Yeah, I baked a few things. Hope that’s okay.”

“That’s more than okay,” Jin declared, lifting the lid of the box and inhaling like it was oxygen. “You’re staying for life now.”

They gathered around the table like a pack of overgrown kids, fighting over the warmest cinnamon roll. Even Yoongi emerged from his room, sleepy-eyed and mumbling a greeting as he slid into a seat — only to wake up instantly when he took a bite.

“She’s perfect,” he said simply, chewing.

Bam, freshly bathed and charming as ever, wandered around the table, earning scratches and coos from everyone. He curled up between Jimin and Hobi like he’d always belonged there.

Y/n sat beside Jungkook, who leaned back in his chair watching it all unfold — her laughter mixing with the members’, the way she offered Namjoon more when he spilled a bit of frosting, how naturally she fit into this world of inside jokes and warmth and noise.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just watched. A rare quietness in his chest, something still and full and content.

As dinner started, Jin insisted on doing most of the serving (“This is my kitchen!”), and the conversation turned to her — what she studied, what she liked, how she put up with Jungkook’s annoying habits. Teasing, of course, but gentle. Like older brothers poking just enough to see how far they could push before it became too much.

Y/n gave as good as she got, surprising even herself with how at ease she felt. Maybe it was the way Jungkook would occasionally brush his knee against hers under the table, grounding her. Or how Taehyung dramatically declared her cinnamon rolls had altered his worldview.

“You realize,” Namjoon said with a slow smile after dinner, “you’ve officially passed the test.”

“What test?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Becoming part of the family,” Jimin grinned.

Jungkook reached under the table, quietly threading his fingers through hers. She looked at him, startled, but softened immediately when she saw the look in his eyes.

Grateful. Steady. Home.

⸻

That night, as she helped clear the plates and laughed with Jin about how Bam had eaten one of Hobi’s socks, she realized something.

She hadn’t just met his world.

She’d stepped into it — and been welcomed with open arms.

The dorm had finally quieted down — dishes done, music turned low, members drifting off into their rooms with full stomachs and sleepy smiles. Bam was curled into a warm ball of fur on a cozy cushion Taehyung had laid out for him earlier, happily snoring.

Jungkook and y/n stepped onto the small dorm balcony, the sliding glass door closing gently behind them. The night air was warm with a soft breeze, carrying the distant hum of Seoul’s streets — life still moving, but slower now.

They stood side by side, elbows resting on the railing, shoulders brushing.

The view wasn’t dramatic — no mountains or ocean, just buildings, headlights, and signs glowing in neon. But to her, it felt like magic. A quiet pocket of peace with him.

She took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs.

“I really like your friends,” she said softly, her eyes scanning the horizon. “They’re… special. You’re lucky to have them.”

Jungkook turned slightly, watching her instead of the skyline. The way her hair shifted in the breeze, the calm in her voice — it made his chest feel full.

“I know,” he nodded. “They’re like brothers. We’ve been through everything together. But it means a lot that they liked you. You fit in.”

She smiled, then turned to meet his gaze fully.

“But you know,” she said, her voice light but sincere, “I think I got the best one.”

His breath caught for a second. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “The one who bakes banana bread at 1 a.m., who whispers to his dog like he’s a human. The one who sings without even realizing, who makes me feel seen in a place that could have swallowed me whole.”

A faint blush crept across his cheeks, but he didn’t look away.

Instead, he reached for her hand and laced their fingers together again — the way he had at dinner, only this time slower, firmer. Like he wanted her to really feel it.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he murmured.

She smiled, gently tugging his hand toward her chest. “You were just you. That’s enough.”

For a while, they didn’t speak. Just leaned into each other as the city twinkled below, as if Seoul itself was holding space for them.

Jungkook tilted his head down, his forehead resting lightly against hers. His voice was a whisper between them.

“Can I kiss you?”

Her answer was a quiet smile, her eyes falling closed as she leaned in.

And then, there — under the soft breath of the wind and the watchful stars — he kissed her. Not hurried or unsure.

Just real. Certain.

Like he’d been waiting to.

The night had grown still by the time they slipped back inside. The dorm’s lights were dimmed, the voices that once filled the space now tucked behind closed doors and tired laughter.

Jungkook and y/n moved quietly down the hall, careful not to wake anyone — though a light snore from Jin’s room assured them no one would be disturbed.

Just before she reached for her jacket to leave, Jungkook stopped her, his voice soft.

“You don’t have to go,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You could stay. I mean, if you want to.”

She looked up at him, surprise flashing in her eyes, but there was no pressure in his tone — only a gentle offer.

“I’d like that,” she replied after a pause. “But… where would I sleep?”

He gave a small smile and nodded toward the hallway. “My old room is empty tonight. The guest mattress is in there — we keep it for when members crash here during long studio nights. It’s nothing fancy but…” He shrugged, boyish and sweet. “It’s quiet. And safe.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Before she could say more, he disappeared into his room and returned moments later, holding a soft, oversized black shirt.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “It’s clean. Might be big, but… it’s warm. And smells like me, I guess.”

She laughed as she took it, the fabric brushing her fingers. “That’s a bonus.”

He blushed slightly, smiling as he showed her where the towels were and left her alone in the bathroom to change.

⸻

The shirt hung loose on her frame, falling mid-thigh. It smelled like fabric softener, a bit of spice, and something entirely Jungkook — comforting in a way that made her heart ache a little.

When she walked quietly into the spare room, he was there, already pulling an extra blanket over the mattress.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, standing. “But if you need anything—”

“Will you stay?” she asked, her voice gentle but sure.

Jungkook blinked. “You mean—?”

“Just… sleep. Talk. Be close.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “You feel safe.”

He nodded — just once, but the way his face softened said everything.

“Of course.”

They lay down side by side on the mattress, the room dim except for the sliver of moonlight from the window. No touching at first, just sharing breath, silence, and the hum of the city in the distance.

After a few minutes, she turned to face him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For making tonight feel… like home.”

Jungkook reached over, brushing a thumb gently across her temple before tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “You are home.”

And with that, she shifted slightly closer. Bam — who had trotted in at some point and plopped down at their feet — sighed contentedly in his sleep.

No expectations. No tension.

Just warmth, skin against fabric, heartbeats slowly syncing under layers of blankets.

Together.

Of course — here’s a continuation of their intimate night, as they fall asleep together in each other’s arms, in a way that’s warm, gentle, and deeply safe.

⸻

The room was wrapped in stillness, the kind that only falls when the rest of the world has already given itself over to sleep

Outside, Seoul buzzed faintly in the distance — car horns, distant laughter, and the rhythmic hum of city life — but in here, the world had shrunk to just the two of them.

Jungkook lay on his side, one arm under his pillow, eyes fluttering half-closed as he watched her breathe. Y/n had shifted closer at some point, her face turned toward his, hair falling soft across her cheek. His oversized black shirt draped over her like a blanket, swallowing her frame in the most endearing way.

Between them, only inches.

Then… just a little less.

She moved instinctively, sleep already softening her body, and rested her forehead against his chest. Her arm slid gently across his middle, fingers brushing his shirt fabric. Not seeking anything more than closeness. Connection.

His breath caught — not from surprise, but from how right it felt.

He slowly wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his hand splaying gently across her back. No words. Just warmth. Her heartbeat, steady and slow, thudded softly against his side.

“I like this,” she mumbled, barely above a whisper, her lips brushing the fabric of his shirt.

He smiled into the dark, pressing a kiss to the top of her head — featherlight. “Me too.”

Bam huffed in his sleep from the foot of the mattress, as if in agreement, then rolled over with a snore.

The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and shampoo, and something sweetly personal — the beginning of something safe and real.

Wrapped in the comfort of each other, no masks, no tension — just the closeness of hearts drawn together without fear — they drifted off.

His fingers traced a gentle circle across her back until her breathing deepened. Her body relaxed fully into his. And eventually, he let sleep take him, too, lulled by the presence of the girl who, without even trying, had filled the quiet spaces in his life with something better than peace.

Y/n stirred slowly, blinking into the pale morning light seeping through the curtains. The air was warm, heavy with sleep and the soft rhythm of breath against her forehead. It took her a second to realize the weight across her waist wasn’t a blanket — it was Jungkook’s arm.

They’d shifted in the night, close becoming closer, and now she was tucked against his chest, legs tangled gently beneath the covers. His hair was tousled, lashes resting against his cheeks, lips slightly parted in the kind of deep, dreamless sleep only people who truly feel safe can fall into.

She stayed like that for a while — unmoving — not wanting to disturb the moment. His heartbeat was a gentle lull beneath her ear, and she couldn’t help but smile. Softly. Secretly.

Eventually, his breathing changed — awareness returning in slow waves — and his arm around her tightened slightly.

“You’re still here,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

“I didn’t really want to leave.”

He blinked slowly, lifting his head just enough to look at her, a lazy smile forming. “Good.”

There was no rush. Just quiet. A shared softness in the morning haze.

But then — a knock on the door. Followed by it cracking open without much ceremony.

“Are you two alive or—oh.”

Taehyung’s voice halted. His head peeked in, hair messy, wearing mismatched slippers.

“Ohhh,” he said again, dragging it out this time with a grin. “Cuddles and all. Cute.”

Y/n buried her face in Jungkook’s chest as he groaned. “Hyung…”

“What? I came to ask if you’re joining breakfast. Jin-hyung’s making something insane. The whole place smells like a bakery.”

“I’ll kill you in five minutes,” Jungkook grumbled, still half-asleep.

Taehyung chuckled and disappeared down the hall, voice echoing: “They’re cuddling, by the way!”

Y/n couldn’t stop laughing now, hiding her face again.

“Do you regret letting me stay?” she teased.

“Never.” Jungkook kissed her forehead. “But I do regret not locking the door.”

—

Fifteen minutes later, she stepped into the kitchen wearing the same oversized black shirt from the night before and a pair of leggings Jungkook found in the laundry room (“I think they’re Hobi’s. He won’t notice”).

The kitchen was full — the boys all in various states of alertness. Jin was flipping cinnamon French toast like a Michelin chef. Jimin was perched on the counter, stealing slices when Jin turned away. Namjoon was making coffee, Yoongi was sitting in a hoodie and sunglasses despite it being indoors, and Taehyung was playing fetch with Bam using a dish towel.

“You made it!” Hobi cheered as y/n entered, offering her a warm plate. “We saved you a seat.”

She sat between Jungkook and Jimin, heart surprisingly at ease as conversations started up around her again. They talked about the upcoming schedule, the weird dream Namjoon had, how Yoongi apparently snored so loud Jin threatened to exile him.

And through it all, Jungkook kept stealing little glances at her. Sometimes brushing his hand against hers under the table. Sometimes just smiling when she laughed at something the others said.

It was easy. Real.

Like she belonged.

“You’re gonna have to bake again,” Jin said with a pointed look. “We need refills of those cinnamon rolls.”

“She can bake, cuddle, and handle Jungkook’s weirdness,” Jimin added, nudging her. “We approve.”

“She even makes banana milk,” Jungkook said, pretending to sound smug — but there was something quiet and proud in his voice too. Like he still couldn’t believe she was here.

She smiled, sipping her coffee.

And in the middle of that chaotic kitchen, surrounded by laughter, food, Bam curled at her feet, and Jungkook beside her…

She felt it.

A new kind of home.

The days after breakfast at the dorm blurred into a comfortable rhythm — messages exchanged, shared playlists, Bam’s joyful barks in the park, small moments that grew into something neither of them had dared to name.

It wasn’t official. But it was real.

That evening, the sun was dipping low, painting the Seoul skyline in hues of orange and lavender. They sat on a bench at their usual park spot, sipping iced banana milk from two metal tumblers she’d brought. Bam lay across their feet, panting from the run, his tail still wagging lazily.

Jungkook had been quiet today. Present, affectionate, but distant behind the eyes.

She noticed — she always noticed.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly, nudging her shoulder against his.

He exhaled slowly, not looking at her at first. “I need to tell you something.”

Her chest tightened.

Please don’t say this is over.

He glanced at her finally, eyes honest and conflicted. “I’m going on tour. Overseas. It’s the comeback run — we’re moving nonstop for the next few months.”

Silence stretched for a few seconds too long.

“Oh,” she said. “When?”

“Three days.”

That hurt more than she expected.

Her heart sank — not because he was doing something wrong. Not even because he didn’t tell her earlier. But because… she had gotten used to him. To this. To Bam’s warm greetings and Jungkook’s sleepy smiles and late-night talks in oversized shirts.

Three days suddenly felt like a countdown.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had the past week. I guess I was… selfish.”

She shook her head quickly. “No. It’s your life. Your dream. I get it. I really do.”

But her voice cracked on the last word — just slightly.

He reached out and took her hand, holding it tight between his.

“I’m coming back,” he said. “And I want to pick up where we left off. If you’ll still want that.”

She looked at their hands, then up at him.

“Of course I will, Jungkook.”

He gave a soft, almost boyish smile of relief.

Then she cleared her throat, trying to lighten the air even though her heart felt a little bruised. “And… if you’ll let me… I could take care of Bam while you’re gone. I mean, it’s not like he’d forgive you if you took him away from me now.”

Bam barked once, as if in agreement, wagging his tail.

Jungkook laughed. “Honestly, I think he likes you more than he likes me.”

She nudged him gently. “He has good taste.“

They sat there for a while longer, quietly processing. Not rushing anything. The sky continued to shift above them, and the city around them moved on — but their bench felt like a bubble.

He turned toward her then, face serious again. “I’ll make time. I’ll text you. Call you. Every second I can.”

“I don’t expect perfect,” she said. “I just don’t want to be forgotten.”

“You couldn’t be,” he whispered. “You’re the one thing I want to come back to.”

Their last full day together started slowly.

Y/n had woken up to a message from Jungkook at 6:41 AM.

JK: Don’t make any plans today. You’re mine.

She smiled as she read it, still half under the covers, the early light barely peeking through her curtain. He hadn’t needed to ask — she wouldn’t have spent the day with anyone else anyway.

By noon, he was at her door. Sunglasses, hoodie, and a tote bag slung over his shoulder.

“Ready?” he asked, and his smile — that crooked, sleepy, golden smile — made her momentarily forget that he’d be gone in less than twenty-four hours.

—

They didn’t do anything grand.

No city tours, no rooftop restaurants or glittering Seoul skylines.

They just were.

They walked Bam together through winding back streets and quiet corners of the city, his leash slack as he trotted ahead, tail wagging happily between them. She brought banana milk in reusable bottles, and he carried one in his hoodie pocket the entire time like it was precious cargo.

In the afternoon, they sat at the Han River — her sketchpad in her lap, his head resting on her shoulder. She was drawing his hand again. She’d become obsessed with his hands — how expressive they were, how calm they made her feel when they rested gently against her back or cheek.

He watched her quietly, occasionally peeking at the unfinished sketch.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he murmured, tracing the curve of her pencil stroke with his gaze. “Make me look like… more than I am.“

She smiled. “You don’t see what I see.”

“I wish I did.”

A breeze passed. Bam lay beside them, chewing lazily on a treat, and for a second she wished she could pause time. Let this afternoon stretch out forever. Before the suitcases. Before the planes.

—

That evening, Jungkook invited her to his place, he changed a few things.

Soft lighting, warm wood, a few instruments propped against the wall. His art table in the corner. Sketches, lyrics, half-written notes in the margins of his notebooks. Photos of Bam — some candid, some framed like proud father moments.

She slipped off her shoes at the door and turned to him. “It’s beautiful.”

He shrugged, slightly bashful. “It’s quieter than people think.”

“I like quiet.”

He grinned. “I know.”

He cooked for her that night. No cameras, no stylists — just Jungkook in a loose black shirt and sweats, barefoot in his kitchen, making kimchi fried rice with soft eggs on top and perfectly sliced green onions.

They ate cross-legged on the floor of his living room, Bam snoozing between them.

He poured her a glass of cold barley tea and asked about her favorite comfort foods. She told him about rainy days back home, and he shared stories of childhood summers in Busan. They laughed, leaned into each other, and let the evening bloom slowly — moment by moment.

—

Later, when the dishes were cleared and the sky outside had melted into navy, she found herself sitting beside him on his living room floor again, the stereo playing soft vinyl hums in the background. Something jazzy. Timeless.

He looked at her then — really looked. As if memorizing her face.

“What are you thinking?” she asked gently.

“That I’m going to miss you so much it already hurts.”

Her breath caught.

“You haven’t even left yet.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I already miss this. You. Right here. Laughing at my dumb jokes. Pretending my food isn’t too spicy.”

She gave a watery smile, eyes stinging a little. “You’ll come back.”

He nodded, and reached for her hand. His grip was warm and sure.

“And when I do,” he said softly, “I want you to still be here.”

She squeezed his fingers. “I will be.”

They stayed like that a while — bodies close, fingers intertwined, Bam curled by their feet like a sleepy chaperone.

And when it got late, and the music had stopped, and the silence settled between them like a familiar comfort…

Jungkook stood, took a slow breath, and disappeared into his bedroom. When he returned, he held something small in his hand.

A black beanie.

It was worn at the edges, clearly loved — the kind of thing someone kept not because it was stylish, but because it meant something.

“This,” he said, handing it to her, “was mine during the Wings tour. It’s nothing special, but… it’s seen a lot. And I want you to have it. Until I get back.”

She took it carefully, like it was fragile.

She pulled it onto her head and smiled. It was too big. It smelled like him.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she whispered.

He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and stayed there a moment longer than necessary.

“I don’t want to sleep,” he admitted.

She looked up. “Then let’s not. Not yet.”

So they stayed awake. Listening to records. Talking in half-sentences. Sharing the kind of closeness that only grows in the shadow of goodbye.

And when sleep did finally come — with her curled into his side, Bam’s soft breathing nearby — it was gentle. No tears. No fear.

Just the quiet promise of something worth waiting for.

The sky was still dark when the alarm buzzed.

5:12 a.m.

The city was quiet, and Jungkook’s apartment was wrapped in shadows — the kind that whisper don’t go yet even though time moves forward anyway.

Y/n stirred beneath the covers first, groggy, her heart already heavy. Her hand instinctively reached beside her — Jungkook was already up.

She sat up slowly and spotted him across the room, hoodie over his head, sleeves pulled over his hands, standing barefoot by the window, watching the skyline.

He didn’t turn when he spoke.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wanted to wake up with you.”

He turned around at that, the softest smile tugging at his lips. His eyes looked tired, but not from lack of sleep — from the weight of leaving.

She slid out of bed and padded over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. His chin dropped to rest gently atop her head, and they just stood like that — not moving, not speaking. As if silence could slow the clock.

Eventually, Bam padded into the room, tail wagging weakly, sensing something was different. He trotted over and nudged Jungkook’s leg.

“I think he knows,” Jungkook said with a soft laugh, crouching down and burying his hands in Bam’s fur. “You’re gonna be good for her, okay?”

Bam licked his face in response.

Y/n knelt beside them, one hand on Bam’s back, the other reaching for Jungkook’s. Their fingers laced.

He looked at her then — close, searching — and whispered, “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “But you have to.”

“And when I come back?”

She smiled, even as tears welled behind her eyes. “I’ll be here. Banana milk in the fridge. Bam freshly spoiled. Waiting.”

Jungkook leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. “You’re gonna be the thing that keeps me sane.”

She laughed quietly, and he kissed her — slow, deep, not rushed. Like he was storing the feeling of her lips in memory. Like he needed it to last.

—

The drive to the airport was mostly quiet. She sat in the passenger seat, wearing his beanie, his hoodie over her clothes. Bam sat behind them, his chin resting on the middle console, watching Jungkook with soft eyes.

He parked in the underground level, away from fans, away from flashes.

They stood for a while at the back of the car. No one rushing. No one saying what they didn’t have to.

Then he cupped her face.

“I’ll call. I’ll message. Every second I can.”

“I’ll send memes,” she offered with a watery smile. “And updates on Bam. You’ll be sick of me.”

“Never.”

He kissed her again. Longer this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that said I’ll miss you and please wait for me and this is real all at once.

Then he crouched down and hugged Bam, arms around his neck like a brother.

“Take care of her, buddy.”

Bam whimpered.

Jungkook straightened, eyes shining but dry. He touched Y/n’s cheek one last time.

And then he turned and walked away.

She didn’t call after him.

Didn’t cry until he was out of sight.

She stood in the quiet of the parking garage, Bam sitting obediently at her side, and whispered to herself:

“He’s coming back.”

And somehow, that made all the difference.

Three days had passed since Jungkook left.

The apartment still smelled faintly like his shampoo, like his favorite hand cream and the little candles he lit near his window at night. She hadn’t touched the hoodie he gave her. It lay folded on her chair, and every now and then she’d brush her fingers across it, remembering the way it fit him — and then how it felt wrapped around her.

Bam had taken to curling up on her floor, his head resting by the side of the bed. He wasn’t sad, not exactly, but quieter. Gentler. Just like her.

They understood each other now — not just in a “you’re a dog and I like you” way, but in that silent, emotional thread that Jungkook had tied between them.

Each morning, she filled his bowl, took him for a long walk, brought a sketchbook or a novel with her to their park bench. Bam would sit quietly beside her, scanning the crowds with soft, expectant eyes — as if he, too, was still hoping Jungkook might round the corner.

Every day, she sent Jungkook a little something.

Photos. Memes. Selfies of Bam looking dramatically bored. A recording of her trying (and failing) to sing along to one of BTS’ new tracks in the kitchen. A video of Bam howling softly at a siren.

He didn’t always respond immediately, but when he did, it was all warmth.

JK:

That selfie? Ruined me. Look at my boy posing like a model. Tell him I miss him. Tell YOU I miss you more.

JK:

What’s the score now? Bam: 7. Couch: 0. My poor furniture. I don’t even care. Let him climb everything.

JK:

Still thinking about how you looked that last night. Still thinking about how you kissed me goodbye.

And then there were the voice notes. She lived for those.

Hushed, a little tired, always whispered from hotel hallways or green rooms in-between rehearsals. But they were all him.

“I saw your drawing of Bam in the banana hoodie. I showed the staff. They lost their minds. You’re insane.”

“I don’t think I’ve smiled this much in any comeback season. You did that.”

“I fell asleep last night holding the hoodie you wore. Smelled like you. Made it harder and better at the same time.”

She didn’t expect it to be easy. And it wasn’t.

Nights were the worst. The silence stretched. Sometimes she fell asleep with a podcast on just to drown out the feeling of being alone. Bam would curl up at her feet like a shadow.

But still — every morning, she got up. She cooked. She sketched. She let herself feel everything without letting it drown her.

Because it wasn’t heartbreak.

It was something deeper. Quieter.

The kind of missing that only happens when love isn’t over — just far away.

—

A week into his tour, a surprise arrived at her door.

A sleek little delivery box with no sender name.

Inside: a delicate silver bracelet, simple and understated — but on the inside of the clasp, engraved so tiny she almost missed it, were the words:

For when you feel alone. I’m always one thought away.

And tucked beneath it, a note in his messy handwriting.

I love the you that exists when I’m with you. But I also love the you that holds it down when I’m gone.

This is me, holding your hand from across the world.

-JK

She sat down on the floor next to Bam, silent for a long time.

Then she put the bracelet on, let her fingertips run over the engraving, and whispered, “I miss you too.”

Bam licked her hand, then rested his head on her lap — as if echoing the words.

And just like that, the quiet didn’t feel quite so lonely anymore.

The idea came quietly, like most beautiful things do.

She was lying in bed one night, Bam snoring softly at her feet, the bracelet he gave her still cool on her wrist. Jungkook had sent a voice note just before midnight — his voice tired but sweet, words slurring slightly from the long day:

“I miss you in every room. On every street. On every stupid plane. And I keep wishing I could open a door and just—there you are.”

She replayed it five times before the idea bloomed fully.

Why couldn’t she be behind that door?

—

A few days later, her plan was in motion.

Taehyung had helped. Jimin too — gleefully dramatic about the secret mission. “He’s gonna cry. I hope you make him cry. That’s true romance.”

The staff was discreet. She arrived in the city quietly, wore sunglasses and a hoodie, just like Jungkook always did. Bam traveled like a pro, snoozing beside her on the train, tail wagging when they arrived at the hotel.

The boys had arranged everything.

She’d be waiting just off-stage, during the final rehearsal. Jungkook would be doing mic checks, walking the empty stadium floor with the others, adjusting in-ears and pacing lighting marks.

He would have no idea.

—

The stadium was bigger than she expected. The echo of Jungkook’s voice — even from afar — hit her like a memory. Like coming home.

From backstage, she could see him.

Baseball cap backwards. Sleeveless shirt. Sweat glistening on his arms as he laughed with Jin over something on a monitor. He looked relaxed. Focused. Gorgeous in the way only people are when they’re doing what they love.

And then, Taehyung gave the signal.

It was time.

She clipped Bam’s leash into place, heart pounding. Bam, as if sensing something special was happening, stood a little taller. His ears perked. His eyes focused forward.

They walked.

Right down the hallway. Right through the backstage door.

Onto the empty floor of the stadium.

—

Jungkook turned when he heard the patter of paws echo on the concrete.

At first, he blinked.

Confused.

Then froze.

And when he really saw — Bam trotting across the floor, leash in someone’s hand, that familiar silhouette beneath the hoodie — his heart stopped.

“…Y/n?”

She smiled, lowering the hood.

Bam barked once — joyfully — and broke into a full sprint.

Jungkook didn’t move at first.

Then his water bottle hit the ground, forgotten.

He ran.

Straight toward her, faster than he had any business running after hours of rehearsal. Bam met him halfway, tail going wild, tongue out in full Doberman glee, and then Jungkook reached them — breathless, flushed, and wide-eyed.

“You’re—” he started, voice cracking.

She nodded, smiling through tears she hadn’t expected.

“I’m here.”

He looked between her and Bam, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “You—you came. Are you real?”

She touched his arm. “More real than your voice notes, I hope.”

He laughed, choked, and pulled her into a hug so tight it made her knees weak.

“I thought about this every single day,” he whispered against her hair. “Every night. Every f—god, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.“

Bam whined, pawing at Jungkook’s leg, and he crouched, wrapping one arm around his dog and the other still around her.

“You two just became the best part of my entire tour,” he said, voice thick.

And for a long moment, they just stayed like that — in the middle of an echoing stadium, wrapped in each other like no one else existed.

The boys watched from the side, Taehyung wiping a pretend tear.

“Told you he’d cry.”

—

Later that night, after the surprise settled and everyone returned to the hotel, Jungkook didn’t want to let her out of sight.

She lay curled on the bed in his oversized shirt, Bam between them like a warm, living barrier. Jungkook played with the bracelet on her wrist, tracing the engraving like it was a spell.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up,” he murmured.

“You won’t.”

He looked at her — soft, bare-faced, sleepy-eyed — and smiled like it hurt.

“You turned this tour into a memory I’ll never forget.”

She touched his cheek. “You were already unforgettable.”

He leaned in and kissed her slowly. No urgency. Just gratitude. Wonder.

And when she whispered, “Let me stay for the next show,” he nodded, whispering against her lips,

“Stay for everything.”

She’d seen videos, fancams, entire performances edited and rewatched on her phone, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it.

Jungkook was fire and grace, power and softness. Every move was precision. Every note was emotion.

But what struck her most was his smile.

It wasn’t the polished, practiced one she’d seen in interviews. It was his smile — the one she saw in the kitchen when he tasted her cinnamon rolls, the one he wore while walking Bam at sunset, the one he gave her, sleepy and soft, just before kissing her forehead goodnight.

He was glowing.

And she realized something that stole her breath:

He was happy. Deep down, utterly, irrevocably happy

And part of that happiness was her.

—

About halfway through the set, he paused between songs to catch his breath.

The lights dimmed slightly, and the other members moved to the back of the stage while he stepped forward.

His chest was rising and falling, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, a bottle of water in hand. But it wasn’t exhaustion on his face.

It was softness.

“Before the next song,” he said in Korean, voice echoing gently, “I wanna thank someone really special. Someone who… gave me a piece of peace in the middle of this crazy storm.”

The fans quieted.

“I don’t normally say things like this,” he laughed shyly, “but… I’ve been missing someone. A lot.”

Behind the curtain, Y/n covered her mouth.

“I thought I’d have to wait until the tour was over. But she surprised me. Came all this way. And she brought our boy too.”

The crowd screamed — people around the world knew about Bam, and now, they were piecing it together.

Jungkook glanced subtly toward the edge of the stage. His gaze softened even more.

“So, if you’re watching this… thank you. For showing up. For showing me that love doesn’t disappear when you leave — it just grows, waiting for you to come back.”

And with that, he turned, raised his mic, and launched into a stripped-down version of Still With You.

She didn’t even try to stop the tears.

Because now, everyone could see it.

This wasn’t just an idol on stage.

This was a man in love.

And that love — theirs — was shining under every spotlight.

[cruel-seduction]

If I get more pretty? 

Content Warnings: Mild cursing, angst, emotional vulnerability, themes of insecurity, and crying.

Summary: You and Mattheo have been keeping your relationship under wraps. But when doubts and insecurities begin to creep in, you find yourself questioning your worth. Mattheo, however, won’t let you suffer in silence. He’ll fight through any storm—no matter how many times he has to face it—because the one thing he won’t ever allow is for you to feel unloved. And when it comes to loving you, he’s unstoppable.

Glimpse - You smirked, your lips quivering as you raised an eyebrow. “Don’t speak too much, Riddle. Or I might just impregnate you.”

He withdrew his hands from you in mock horror, covering his body as if you’d just said the most scandalous thing in the world. “I knew it,” he said, feigning shock, “You only want me for my body.”

a/n - I am writing this while I am in metro and I forgot to bring my headphones and there is a really cute guy sitting next to me who also have dimples and he looks like a nerd cause he is doing some maths equation and he even smiled at me so I am fucking happy.

The sun hung low on the horizon, its amber rays stretching lazily across the Black Lake, casting a soft, golden glow over the rippling water. You were sprawled out beneath a towering oak tree, its ancient branches providing just enough shade to temper the warmth of the evening. Your back rested comfortably against the rough bark, while Pansy’s head lolled casually on your shoulder. To your left, Mattheo sat close, his presence grounding you in a way you didn’t quite understand but had come to crave.

You weren’t exactly close friends with the group gathered here. Pansy was an acquaintance at best—though her sharp wit and biting humor had grown on you—but Mattheo? He was your secret. Your boyfriend. A relationship that defied logic and societal expectations. On the surface, you and Mattheo were opposites: you, measured and reserved; him, chaos wrapped in dark allure. You had loathed his reputation once, the stories of his recklessness and destruction, but now you knew the truth—the tender boy beneath the mask, the one who would move mountains just to see you smile.

Still, it was your idea to keep things private. “Private until permanent,” you had insisted, brushing away his protests with a laugh. “People are too eager to cast their evil eye.” It wasn’t that you didn’t want the world to know. You did. But you couldn’t shake the instinct to protect what was precious to you, even if the irony of shielding someone as notorious as Mattheo Riddle from harm didn’t escape you.

Your voice broke through the tranquil atmosphere as you finished recounting a story, one that had the group doubled over in laughter. “It’s not that funny, you assholes,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips. “I’m actually concerned about it, okay? Like, it’s true, but still…” You rolled your eyes, your chuckle mingling with the fading laughter. Eventually, you let your head rest atop Pansy’s, her dark curls tickling your cheek. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Mattheo watching, his dark gaze fixed on where Pansy leaned against you. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and you couldn’t help but suppress a grin. Jealousy suited him.

As the laughter ebbed, Blaise leaned back on his elbows, a smirk playing on his lips as he turned to Mattheo. “So, Riddle,” he drawled, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “What’s the deal with that redhead who’s been mooning over you?”

Mattheo’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “What redhead?”

“Oh, don’t play coy,” Blaise replied with a laugh. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. The redhead—absolute knockout—who’s been fawning over you.”

“She doesn’t,” Mattheo said firmly, his tone laced with mild irritation. “She just assumes we’re friends.”

“Friends, huh?” Blaise quirked an eyebrow. “Let me enlighten you, Riddle. Do women usually parade around in barely-there clothing for their so-called friends?” His teasing earned him a sharp slap to the back of the head from Pansy.

“Any girl can wear whatever she damn well pleases,” she snapped. “And it doesn’t have to be for anyone, let alone a man. And If I hear you say such nonsense I will chop your dick and feed it to that three headed dog, you understand?”

Blaise rubbed the back of his head, chuckling. “Alright, alright. I am sorry, ma’am. But come on, Mattheo. She waits for you at Quidditch practice every morning. Five a.m., mate. No one studies that hard in the field when we’ve got a perfectly good library. She’s practically throwing herself at you.”

Theodore, lounging nearby, chimed in with a smirk. “I have to agree. She’s got a killer figure. Honestly, Riddle, she seems tailor-made for one of your infamous one-night flings. Speaking of which, you’ve been suspiciously… alone lately. Someone caught your eye?”

Before Mattheo could respond, Pansy interjected, her tone light but edged with sarcasm. “Please. Mattheo fawning over just one woman? Not possible. It’s probably against his DNA or something. The man’s practically programmed to bounce from one hot girl to another.” She leaned back, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “And some of those girls, I’ll admit, are downright smashable. Even I’m tempted sometimes.”

The group laughed, the conversation shifting seamlessly to lighter topics, but their words lingered, carving fissures in your confidence. Their teasing shouldn’t have bothered you—you knew Mattheo’s heart belonged to you—but doubts began to creep in, unbidden and persistent. Were you enough for him? Did he deserve someone better, someone more dazzling, more suited to his world?

The thoughts gnawed at you until you felt a warm hand slip over yours. Startled, you turned your head to find Mattheo watching you, his gaze impossibly tender. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile, one that spoke of unspoken promises and quiet devotion. You mustered a smile in return, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Mattheo noticed.

He always noticed.

Later that evening, you made your way back from the library, your bag slung lazily over your shoulder and your thoughts preoccupied. Mattheo had skipped your study date, and though disappointment gnawed at the edges of your mind, you reasoned it away. He was probably busy with Quidditch practice—the final match was looming, and the pressure was mounting. He’d make it up to you after the match, you told yourself, because that’s who he was. He always found a way to make things right.

Still, the morning’s conversation lingered, casting a faint shadow over your thoughts. You didn’t want to overthink it—it wasn’t worth ruining your mood—but the words from earlier replayed in your head like an unwelcome echo. To distract yourself, you silently recited the lyrics to a song, focusing on the rhythm of your footsteps as you made your way toward your dorm.

And then, just as you turned a corner, you saw them.

The sight froze you in place, a wave of nausea churning in your stomach as your heart plummeted. There he was—Mattheo—standing with a girl so breathtakingly beautiful it felt like the universe was mocking you. Her golden hair fell in perfect waves, her face framed with elegance, her height poised like a model stepping off a magazine cover. She was flawless. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect everything. She was everything you weren’t.

Your chest tightened as you watched her lean toward him, her laughter like a siren’s call, and bile rose in your throat. You wanted to scream, to curse her, to tear her apart with the fire burning in your chest. But then the sharp edge of reality cut through. Was she really at fault? She didn’t know. To her, Mattheo was just another unattached, impossibly attractive boy. It wasn’t her fault she was flirting with someone who everyone believed was fair game.

Still, your gaze locked on her hand as it brushed his shoulder, and the lump in your throat grew harder to swallow. He moved his arm away, subtle but deliberate. Yet your mind refused to accept it. Why wasn’t he doing more? Why wasn’t he stopping her outright, shutting her down completely? Did he… like the attention? Or worse, did he realize he was better off with someone like her? Someone perfect?

The thought shattered something inside you. Tears welled up in your eyes as you stood there, frozen, watching the scene unfold. The voice in your head whispered cruel truths: He deserves someone better. Someone who fits his world. Someone who isn’t you.

You loved him so much it ached, but wasn’t love about sacrifice? About letting go? You told yourself it was. And so, that’s what you did.

For the next week, you committed to what you bitterly called your “stupid mission” of letting him go. You ignored Mattheo at every turn, cutting off the moments that had once been routine—canceling dates with feeble excuses, skipping his Quidditch practices where you used to show up just to watch him, even avoiding the places where you knew you might run into him. If he was better off without you, you wouldn’t stand in his way.

But boy, you were so wrong.

Which is how you ended up here, in the dim light of an abandoned classroom, your back pressed against the cold stone wall. His dark eyes burned with intensity, locking onto yours as he caged you in with both hands planted firmly on either side of your head. His body radiated heat, and the tension in the air was palpable.

“Mattheo,” you hissed, shoving at his chest, though it was futile against his unyielding strength. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on,” he snapped, his voice low and rough. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. Canceling on me. Ignoring me. And don’t even try to lie, because I know you’ve been doing it on purpose.”

You glared at him, your hands curling into fists as you shoved at him again. “It doesn’t matter, Mattheo. Just—just let me go, fucker.”

“It matters to me,” he growled, his face inches from yours now. “You don’t get to just disappear from my life and act like it’s nothing. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tears pricked at the edges of your vision, but you blinked them away, refusing to let him see you break. “Why are you here?,” you choked out, the words slicing through you like broken glass. “You certainly were enjoying that blondie’s attention..”

Mattheo’s brows furrowed, confusion giving way to something deeper—something that almost looked like heartbreak. “Blondie who?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “The girl from the last week. The one for whom you cancelled our study date for—”

But before you could finish, Mattheo leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Stop.” His hand found yours, his grip firm but gentle. “You seriously thought I would cheat on you?”

Your breath hitched, the fight draining from you as his words sank in “But—”

“You don’t even have this much trust in me?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper, the hurt and disbelief evident in every word.

You shook your head, tears streaming freely now. “No, Mattheo, it’s not about trust. It’s about reality. You deserve better. Someone like her—perfect body, perfect everything. And I don’t think we’re meant for each other. I’m not perfect, not even close. So, it’s not that I think you would cheat,” you choked on the words, your heart breaking with every breath, “but I think you’re better off with her.”

By now, your sobs had overtaken you, the rawness of your feelings too much to contain. You were crying—really crying, like you hadn’t in years. Mattheo’s expression shifted from confusion to something deeper, darker, as he moved towards you.

Before you could even react, his hand found the back of your neck, his touch cold against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close, as he pressed your head to his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. His lips brushed over your hair, his voice low and insistent.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His words were like a punch to the gut. “Don’t pull this movie bullshit on me, babe. That I deserve someone better? Cause we both know that I don’t. Come on, I don’t. I have more than enough. I have you. The fucking real goddess.”

You felt his arms tighten around you, his words sinking into your soul. “I don’t believe in reincarnation or any of that shit,” he continued, his voice softer now, “but I do think I’ve done something right in this life, something good, because I get to be with you. And trust me, baby—you and I are the only endgame. At first, I thought this was just some fling, but now? A day without talking to you feels like a waste. And I want to say some romantic shit like I’ll be with you even if the whole world is against you, but fuck that. I’m not weak, baby. I’ll kill anyone who dares go against you. Do you understand?”

A strange, tearful smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him. His hand ran up and down your back, comforting, reassuring.

“I know now’s not the right time to say this, but you’re getting your snot all over the only clean dress I have, baby.”

You lightly slapped his shoulder in mock annoyance, but the tension in your chest began to ease. He made you laugh, even in the midst of everything. You pulled your face back to look at him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him. The kiss was slow and soft, unlike any other kiss you’d shared. It was filled with something tender, something fragile, as if he was holding you close, afraid that if he let go, you might vanish.

When you finally broke the kiss, his gaze was fixed on you—his eyes filled with an intensity that spoke volumes. You could see it, clear as day: he was yours, and you were his. You were the endgame.

“You think I’d waste my time with anyone else when I have you?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Baby, you’re the only person who can handle all of me—the good, the bad, and the downright shitty. You believe in me. You worry about me when I get sick. You scold me when I’m being an idiot. And most importantly, when I look in your eyes, all I see is love. Not fear. Not ‘Riddle’s son.’ Just me.”

You smirked, your lips quivering as you raised an eyebrow. “Don’t speak too much, Riddle. Or I might just impregnate you.”

He withdrew his hands from you in mock horror, covering his body as if you’d just said the most scandalous thing in the world. “I knew it,” he said, feigning shock, “You only want me for my body.”

And you laughed, the sound of it echoing in the empty room, light and carefree, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had settled earlier. But it didn’t matter.

Mattheo Riddle, for all his faults, his arrogance, his unpredictable nature—he was yours. And you loved him. Maybe love wasn’t about letting go, after all. Maybe it was about holding on, cherishing what you had while it was still yours. Because if you had to let go of your love, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be in the first place.

Main Masterlist || Divider - @bernardsbendystraws

[sacrificiallane]

﹙𝒯he cut that always bleeds 𓂃 PERCY JACKSON

about can be read on it's own or as a part two of the other woman | cw angst. hurt and comfort. mention of blood and injuries ! a little crying, mean!Percy. messy. not proofread

A simple game of capture the flag was … equally dangerous as it was exciting, to put mildly. And you loved it, didn't you ? Like many of the other campers, you chased the adrenaline. Given to you by your godly parent and manifested in the way you couldn’t sit still ― restless, like your body craved the danger, and your fingers itched to curl around a sword.

And, with Athenas wit on your side / your team ― in the form of one Annabeth Chase ― you could almost feel the win.

Despite not really liking the girl ( in spite of your own jealousy ) you could admit that the young daughter of Athena was simply a force to be reckoned with.

It also granted you a first time of being on the opposite team of your ( now ) boyfriend ― Percy Jackson ! The thought of being 'enemies' made you giddy. You were thrilled ( practically buzzing ) to finally see him from a different perspective. The boy was simply a menace in this game ! As smart as he was dense sometimes, there was no denying that Percy was a sharp thinker on the 'battlefield' and relentless with riptide, his sword.

Oh, your stomach bubbled with excitement at the thought of what would possibly come after you win. How Percy would be proud of you, no doubt. I mean, he was the one to train with you, to better your agility. Well, 'training' as in stealing kisses and giggling whenever either of you ( mostly you ) would fall right on their butt. Yeah, 'training' as in him trying to make you feel better after you confided about your anxiety regarding his awfully close friendship with Annabeth ( also his ex ... ).

Nevertheless ( and however silly it was ) it had still been ... training. And it certainly wasn't for nothing !

Your fingers were tightly clenched around the secured blue colored flag of your enemies team, and you were almost at the river ! Children of Hermes were gradually inching closer, hot on your tail and eagerly slashing around with swords meant to impale you. Not that it was allowed or anything... but that's honestly what it felt like ! You wouldn't even be surprised if one of them were to throw their sword at you like a battle axe, all in the simple favor of winning.

The trail through the woods was rocky and uneven, and twigs and bushes kept unkindly smacking you in the face. Your breath was shaky, instincts screaming at you like this wasn't just a simple camp's game anymore ! This felt like it was life or death. Not that anybody would die, of course, but your mind could no longer decipher your anxiety to disappoint, from a very intense fight or flight response ! But, it also made you quicker, seeing as you were swiftly dodging pokes and swishes aimed at your arms and legs...

And as your win was just so close .... you should've known that it wouldn't be that easy.

The adrenaline was pumping, and you could hardly feel the burn in your legs anymore. Sounds were mostly drowned by the blood rushing through your ears, the wind, the screams ― literal battle cries of fellow demigods. It only made you more determined to win ! The rush was addictive and in your mind you kept repeating ; Over the river, just over the river.

Then ...

A body collided with yours ― and the forest floor ( more like a water park by how slippery the mud was ) did barely anything to stop you from practically rolling down a little hill and further from the lake. Much like a ragdoll, your body slammed into a tree, hardly feathered by both of your palms bracing against the bark. It had the skin of your palms crack open and bleed as you only came to a halt between twigs and such ... but all was good as long as your head didn't smack against the wood !

The person that had so confidently breached through the woods had not been so lucky, and came tumbling down beside you on hard stone. Groans were heard from both you and the other camper, and you hastily wiped your eyes free of some dirt.

You immediately caught sight of Annabeth Chase, her blonde hair now a mess of mud and blood … the sticky substance caking her forehead and making it hard to see just how badly she was actually hurt. "Shit ! You okay !?" You then noticed that the flag was no longer in your posession, and ― even worse ― Annabeth wasn't answering you. Her eyes were wide and open, fingers reaching for the open wound. She seemed dazed ... shocked even.

Apparently she didn't even think of possibly running right into you. Not like that, anyway. Like, … falling down a hill type of running right into you.

You tried reaching for her arm ...

" Annabe ― " " Annabeth !? "

The sheer volume of your boyfriend's voice had you automatically flinch away from the young daughter of Athena, her own head turning around at the sound of Percy Jackson bounding through thick trees and brushes ― parting the greenery with his sword while mindlessly shoving other people out of the way. You heard her wince.

The sight of him made you feel like you could finally breathe again ! "Percy... " But his expression wasn't soft or caring. No, the son of Poseidon looked about ready to impale someone.

It wasn’t the first time someone had gotten hurt during a capture the flag game, nor would it be the last. Neither of you were made of glass ― and especially Annabeth Chase, couldn’t care less about her injury. But Percy cared. Very much so that he was seething... and his glare was openly directed at you ! Impatient, as though you'd done something he was already familiar with.

His sea green eyes looked like rain ... and somehow, the small speck of blue wasn't comforting anymore. Then came the storm...

"Are you Insane ?" the sharp tone had you physically reel back. Never... Never has he spoken to you like that. Especially in front of other people..., you felt like digging a hole right the moment a chorus of 'oh' went through the other campers. Insane ? Ouch.

Adrenaline was making it hard to talk, and so your explanation came in a hassle of stutteriung and stumbling over words. You swallowed thickly, took a deep breath and tried again, but Percy just wouldn't listen to you. No, Percy turned to Annabeth instead. With a gentle hand, he brushed some hair out of her face to try and see better. Watching him tend to her, you just wanted to explain.

"I'm not Insane i just ― " "No ? Do you always jump downhill with someones ex-girlfriend ?" A wince went through the crowd and you felt ... shame, hurt. He's never reffered to Anni as anything but his best friend. Even so, you didn't understand why he was being so harsh to you when ... Percy clearly didn't even know what had happened. It was like the sheer prospect of Annabeth Chase being hurt, was reason enough to be angry, even at you.

It just got worse when Annabeth gave you a sympathetic look, hand clasped over his wrist to soothe him "Percy ..." You felt like screaming, because it worked. Because of course he could never be angry at Annabeth. You watched with a lump in your throat when his gaze softened for her ― only ever for her.

He didn’t even look at you again ― not like they normally would, in a room, on a battlefield, or even a crowd. His focus was solely on Annabeth ― his best friend ― her fingers clenched and bloody and her eyes narrowed because she hated losing ! But far worse than that ... she was currently a middle piece of a relationship that seemed to be falling apart over her.

Apparently the game had already been over, cleared by no other than him.

"Blue won, wise girl," you heard him mutter, his hand tighteing around her arm when she wouldn't meet his gaze. Her Athena pride made it hard to admit defeat. "Let me get you to the infirmary."

So, when Percy tugged on her arm again, she ― reluctantly ― relented. Her head was throbbing and maybe ... she also hoped that getting herself treated would calm him down a little. Enough to think clearly again and realize what a shitty boyfriend he was being, throwing things out of proportion like this.

When you saw them both move, you tried to scramble to your legs as well, eager to go with them... to explain to your boyfriend how this was all just a big misunderstanding ! Not that having him belief such nonsense in the firts place ( you hauling yourself down a hill with his best friend just for the sake of ... hurting her ) hurt any less. Your anxiety was skyrocketing, feeling many eyes on you when Percy disregarded you like ... a stranger.

"I didn't mean ..." You muttered, on the verge of a teary apologie.

"Yeah, bet you didn't mean to be so excessively jealous ."

Okay, ouch again. It was harsh to hear because it was true, but still didn't give him any right to use your flaws against you ! Flaws you'd reluctantly confided to him after being coaxed to open up, under the wrong impression that it was safe with him. That you were safe with him. Your gaze turned to the mud as all words were said and Percy left with Annabeth. Only then did you get a moment to really breathe... your whole body ached ( Heart included ) as you were completely caked in dirt. Pebbles were sticking to your open palms and knees.

One son of Apollo ― a sweet boy by the name of Will Solace ― had the heart to help you up and accompany you to the infirmary. The both of you didn't speak much as he got to treating your wounds... and you were glad to be in quiet company. But, your eyes kept glancing to the far back of the hut... of where your boyfriend was sticking close to Annabeth, making inside jokes about past injuries that you quite didn't understand. That you would never understand. It was honestly just disheartening to see, and so Will Solace did feel the need to say at least something.

"You know, the two of them have been through a lot together. Far worse things than any other demigod could ever understand," now that got your attention, alright, and still... it didn't really boost your spirit. You felt the need to scoff, and only held it in because you knew he didn't tell you this to hurt your feelings, but to make you understand their bond a little better. Still, it didn't hurt any less, and you briefly wondered why Annabeth and Percy broke up. Right here, they seemed almost perfect for each other.

You quietley appreciated Will's insight, but didn't comment any further. When the sweet boy was done with dressing your bruised knees and open palms, you thanked him, and left with one square of Ambrosia. Through all of that Percy didn't even look at you, didnt even realize that you were there in the infirmary with them...

You were almost sure that at dinner, you'd hear whispers of your name, feel plenty of eyes on your back..., surely the whole situation was already being eagerly discussed, and you seriously didn't want to sit at any table and very possibly be reffered to as 'the jealous girlfriend'. Even so, your team was obviously annoyed about their loss at capture the flag. Even if it really wasn't that deep, teenagers just liked to complain a lot. Especially demigods, it seemed. And so, you simply just didn't make it to dinner and instead found yourself at cabin three. The Poseidon cabin.

And you felt so utterly dumb for seeking comfort in your boyfriends bed, but being surrounded by his scent was awfully comforting. Maybe it was sheer desperation and a pinch of hope ...., but how disppointing it really was, when the one thing that had hurt you was also the only thing mending it...

His bed was also the place Percy found you after having Annabeth shoo him out of the Infirmary. In fact, she was also the one talking ( smacking ) some sense into the demigod ! Of course he was aware that he had done something terrible by ... initially not caring about your feelings, or that you were physically hurt too. The latter he only knew because Will told him ( with an expression so dark, Percy briefly wondered if children of Apollo could evaporate someone ... like a supernova or something ) It wasn't hard to admit that he'd been ... unfair, harsh, just a terrible boyfriend to you basically.

And so when Percy Jackson made it to his cabin and saw you in his bed, seemingly seeking comfort from the person ( him ) that had treated you terribly, he knew that he didn't deserve you. His heart ached and suddenly he didn't feel so strong anymore. Right now he was just a boy, trying to navigate human life, as though he'd forgotten that side of him existed too...

A very defeated "Hey..." fell over his lips, and the young boy couldn't help but cringe at his greeting. 'Hey' ? 'Hey' as in 'Hey i just broke your heart but we're cool, right ?' or maybe 'Hey, i just made the whole camp think you're a jealous beast, let's cuddle' Oh Gods, he was an asshole, wasn't he ? The very type of person he despised. But, Percy wasn't good at apologies. It was really the first time in forever that he felt weak. And he was so unsure if it was okay to move any closer... if it would even be okay to ever move closer again. You must hate him, he was sure…

You were a heap of fabric, completely cocooned in his bedsheets like you were trying to shield yourself from the world. His fault, really. And if Percy felt weak, he wondered how you must be feeling. Shitty, probably. Like everyone was against you when it was really just him. The one person that ... really shouldn’t be against you. You were the person he loved ! How had he even mustered the will to hurt you like this. He felt sick. Utterly and terribly sick.

"Will said you were here ..." No immediate reaction, and the son of Poseidon immediately panicked. Because what if you would never speak to him again ! What if you were going to break up with him now ! Oh Gods ...

But then ... the heap of fabric moved a alittle bit, nothing more than the top of your head peaking out and ... "Is Anni okay ?" Oh, you... Percy wanted to cry when you asked about her. He nodded slightly, not that you could see, "I ... Yeah, yeah she's fine ..."

The clam conversation between you both felt like an invitation to move closer, and so Percy settled next to you ... even if you still wouldn't face him. He felt like an intruder inside his own cabin... , his gaze flickering over your bundled form ... noticing the bruised knees ... the bandaged hands. He wasn't even there with you when you went to the infirmary. He felt like he'd failed you.

"Do... do you need anything for the uhm... the pain ? I..."

"They gave me Ambrosia..."

"Oh." Of course. What an Idiot for thinking otherwise.

He sighed when the conversation died down again, "Are... are you okay?" Oh, and Percy just couldn't take this distance anymore. With a gentle hand, he turned your face towards him. His expression immediately fell at the sight of your tear streaked face. "Oh sweetheart ..." Even now, you were crying... despite him being here and talking to you and... it was even worse that he hadn't even noticed it.

"I am really sorry ..." His voice cracked slightly at the end, and it was clear that he was on the very verge of tears as well. He didn't know how to fix this ! He had to briefly look away from your sad gaze, as he had to gather his thoughts. He wiped a hand under his eyes, sniffled slightly and just tried again. What else could he do now.

"You know i didn't mean what i said." That was hardly a question, was it? And when you didn't answer, Percy realized how harsh that just sounded. How pretentious. It didn't sound like an apology at all. It sounded like an excuse. And so the only option was to tr again.

The son of Poseidon took another deep breath, his hands cupping your jaw with a honest gaze, "I didn't mean what i said earlier. I was shocked at seeing Annabeth hurt again, i guess," he swallowed thickly. "I love you so , so much ... and I'm trying to be good to you, I'm really trying. And i know that you are too, sweet girl. It was unfair to say that you're not..."

Emotions welled up inside of you and your wall of blankets began to shake in harsh little motions... you were crying again, only harder. Percy couldn't just do nothing anymore. He moved in quick strides , practically crawling under his blanket so that he could properly wrap his arms around you. "Please don't cry again..." his face found solace in your neck, inhaling the familiar scent and calming his own racing heart. "I'm really sorry, i'll do better..."

"I don't hate you..." You said, and your boyfriend heard you very clearly. He only held you closer, "I know..." He prayed to the gods that this wasn't it ... this couldn't be it. "I should hate you. But i... i can't..." You sounded so terribly vulnerable. His lips gently grazed your forehead, and he exhaled at your defeated admission. Percy momentarily closed his eyes.

"I know," he rasped "and it makes the luckiest boy that you can't manage to."

And if holding you was all you wanted right now, then Percy could do that. It wasn't his first time being in love, but his first time loving you. He wasn't quite good at it yet, but that was okay, right ? You could both still learn how to properly love eachother, because there was still a whole lifetime before you.

( 1 , 2 , 3 )

[sukunas-wife]

What about the idea that baby Yuuji overhears the screams in the bedroom and thinks Sukuna is hurting mommy?🥺Mommy's little protector. Or the baby asks why they need a collar on the bed, but the mother lies that it is for their future dog/cat. Sukuna is unhappy, but is forced to get a pet because Yuuji is too happy

Hehe pervert 🤭 I’m joking 🥹🤍 but I love the idea

This is the first time your little sweet heart Yuji wasn’t by your side. Today his heart was set on following Uraume around, he was set on following him convinced at times of the day he was just a ghost who would vanish into thin air. Uraume didn’t have a problem with letting his young master follow him as long as he didn’t have to slow down his own business.

You’d see them cross your path a few times that day, Yuji always waving his chubby hand at you with a bright smile before running off to catch up.

The first time Sukuna saw you that day was just before midday, you were out in the garden under the plum tree fingers grazing the fruits you craved. He strolled over scaring you when you felt two of his hands on your waist, the third reaching up with ease to pull down the golden plums you struggled to reach.

“Thank you,” you reached up to his face bringing him down to kiss his lips, he bit at your bottom lip before he pulled away looking at you amused, “Where’s my son?” You turned to face him, smiling as your eyes moved away from him, “OUR son wanted to assure Uraume is not a spirit. Yuji is set on following them around from dawn till dusk.”

You looked back up at Sukuna, he brought a hand up to each side of your waist, “Is that so?” You felt like prey when he pressed you back against the tree, his third arm pressed over head against the bark, his fourth hand came up grabbing a strand of your hair running it between his fingers. “Well, now that you don't have our little brat with you, what are you going to do?” He leaned down closer to your face, his scent filled your air accompanied by his low suggestive tone, “More importantly what are we going to do together.” All it took in that moment was for his lips to meet yours while he brought you closer to his body, holding you close and whispering filthy words against your lips.

It was four or five hours past midday, one or two hours before dinner. Uraume was still on the move with purpose in their step and their mind set on completing whatever tasks Sukuna had assigned them that morning.

One of those tasks was to bring fresh robes to Sukuna’s separate chambers. Which lead Uraume to enter though your shared chambers and they would’ve gladly ignored the sound of wooden frame of your bed creaking. Not have batted an eye at Lord Sukuna’s muffled grunts and your quiet cries. Uraume, the master of “I mind my own damn business but I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS” went about business until they heard the small voice.

“Uwaume! Mommy’s crying! We need to help her!” Uraume quickly snapped around snatching up Yuji, “Don’t worry Young Yuji, your mother is perfectly-“ Both of them were cut off by the sound of wood cracking and a slam. Followed by Lord Sukuna’s voice reverberating clearly through the heavy wooden doors to your private chamber. The last thing was your weak voice saying Sukuna’s name. The string of curses and your name from his father had Yuji shoving his way out of Uraume’s hold and running to your doors.

Behind closed doors you almost peed yourself hearing the bangs on the door and Yuji’s screams. “MOMMY MOMMY ARE YOU OKAY!? DADDY IF YOUR HURT MOMMY IM IMA! IM GONNA…” the banging stopped, “LEMME GO LEEMMEEEE GGOOOOAAAGGGGHHHHHHH” you could almost see the way Yuji was kicking and squirming in Uraume’s hold.

Your heart was racing, and you took a deep breath, “Su,” you looked down at him where he was still laying on you. He looked up at you amused, “Your son just threatened me through a door for hurting you.” His chest rumbled as he let out a breathy laugh. You rolled your eyes, “OUR SON, just heard you trying to give him a sibling and your humoured that all that came from it was he was threatening you?” Your eyebrows raised with a slight smile, you were amused but still concerned for what your little Yuji heard.

Sukuna groaned rolling off your body to avoid crushing you entirely, your bed creaked and finished falling to the floor as the last two legs gave out. You tried not to laugh at Sukuna’s slightly widened eyes. “Your next bed will be one of those made of solid cedar. These raised beds are flimsy and break always.” Rolling over to his side you placed a hand on his chest, your head resting on his shoulder, “Or maybe, you shouldn't let your ego get so big and see if you can break every new bed you bring into my chambers?” Sukuna looked away, both arms on the side you were pressed up against holding you close, “I’ll think about it. Now come here, take that collar off before it taints your skin red.”

Almost an hour passed of Uraume holding Yuji like a sack of potatoes under his arm to keep him from running to your room. In that hour you briefly fell asleep under the graze of Sukuna’s hands. The red leather Sukuna had his name branded into was pulled off your neck and thrown onto your bed to be cleaned up later with your bed.

Waking up from your short rest you got up, Sukuna helping tie your Obi and managing to loosely tie your hair in a nice manner. Of course you couldn’t walk away from him without having your ass smacked. Your walking was cut short the moment you tried and couldn’t take more than a few steps and your own legs caving causing you to fall into your husband who was smirking down at you with lidded eyes. The puff in chest, pride in his lidded eyes, the smug “heh,” you almost missed made you side eye him. “You were the one who asked me,” he mimicked your voice poorly, “Please please fuck me Sukuna, give me everything.”

While he snickered he assisted in helping you sit in your shared chambers bed while poking and prodding at you and your sensitive bruising body.

Sukuna was chuckling to himself as he pulled the blanket over your lap, “I’ll call for Uraume or one of your little maids to bring you dinner. I’ll tell them you’ve fallen ill and it’s best to let you eat and rest.”

There you sat, watching your husband look back at you one last time with a faint smile before he left. You sat in the silence taking a breath, that was until you heard a familiar scream and the sound of little feet running in your direction, “OI BRAT! I JUST TOLD YOU YOUR MOTHERS ILL!” You laughed silently at Sukuna’s yelling, Yuji who let out a little grunt and shoved with all his weight against the wooden doors, “mmoommyy!!?!” He ran to your side of the bed doing everything to climb up, even pulling your blanket down so he could hold on and pull himself up. When he was finally on the bed he sat on your legs looking up at you with those big round eyes, “Are you okay?” His little hands came together, he was looking at you with so much concern it squeezed your heart making you wanted to kiss all over his face and fawn over him.

So you did, he laughed being pulled into your chest as you kissed all over his face and squeezing him in a tight hug that he did his best to hug you back. “Yes baby I’m alright, daddy and I were just having a discussion and you know your daddy.” Yuji laughed, eyes closing while he smiled big “hehe he breaks things.”

It wasn’t long before Sukuna walked in with one of your ladies, she was holding a tray with your dinner, Yuji bounced off your lap and onto the floor “Wanna go see what daddy broke.” You watched as he ran to your room, pushing past the door. Your lady in waiting helped you adjust yourself to be able to eat whatever was served. That was until you heard Yuji’s loud cheery voice “WERE GETTING A DOGGY!?”

You were confused as you looked at Sukuna and he seemed equally confused until you saw his eyes widen slightly before he went back to a neutral expression.

“Yuji, we are not getting a mutt.” You watched as he got closer to your door and you understood why he came to that idea, you looked down at your food feeling heat rise in your cheeks, “but it even had a name!” Yuji came running out of your room with the bright red collar in hand, an oval token hanging that said “Princess” . He had the biggest smile and was visibly excited.

Your lady in waiting was quick to dismiss herself as you waved her off, “We ARE getting a dog Yuji, come here.” You waved him over moving your tray off your lap, “Y/n- we’re not getting a- we are Ryomen.” You gave him a look and he gave you a look. You were both stuck in a stare off, the tension was there, “Ooouu that’s why daddy broke the bed, he can’t say no.” Sukuna looked taken aback, “I said no! And No is no!” He crossed his arms over his chest staring down at You and Yuji who sat in your lap holding the collar. Yuji looked up at you with a smile kicking his feet waiting to hear what you would say.

“Sukuna.” Your brows raised before you angled your head taking the collar from Yuji, “Why wouldn’t we get a DOG if we have a COLLAR.” you spoke through gritted teeth and he kept a hard stare on you, Yuji brought his little fists up to cover his smile, he was looking up at you with stars in his eyes, if anyone could bend his father like bamboo it was you.

Sukuna sighed and rolled his eyes, “FINE- but I'M choosing it, and NO ONE gets a say.” Yuji’s cheer of pure joy made him kick out his legs and throw out his arms. He was quick to hug you and kiss your chefs before running to his dad hugging his leg, “thank you daddy.” Sukuna couldn’t deny he had a soft spot in his soul for his son, especially when he placed a hand on Yuji’s head giving his head a rub. “Sure brat.”

A week had passed and you were outside with Yuji, he was using a stick like a sword attacking a tree making all sorts of sounds as if he were really fighting for his life.

“Oouuuuaaahhh” Yuji’s hands dropped to his sides when he saw his daddy emerge from the path.

“Mommy…” you were just as shocked. Here came Sukuna tether in hand. Until he got to both of you, “well?”

“Sukuna…” you looked at Yuji who looked excited, his eyes were wide and shining, his smile was big and his little fists were shaking in excitement as he stood there basically vibrating in excitement, “That’s not a dog..”

“IT'S A TIGER!!” You didn’t catch Yuji as he ran and hugged the tiger, your eye was twitching while he buried his face in the tiger's neck, his little arms not enough to encircle the beast.

“It’s better than a mutt,” you watched as he knelt, on arms resting on the tigers back, the other leaving firm pats on the tigers chest. Keeping the tether in his hand. “It’s tame also, she came from a palace where she was used to guard someone’s children, so she’ll take care of Yuji.”

You wanted to reject the idea just to hear Yuji’s little voice “I love you princess.” It squeezed your heart to see how cute he looked hugging her, she sat bringing one of her big paws over his shoulder like she was actually hugging him.

“I don’t think… I don't think it's good.- you hear that Yuji? I don’t think your mom wants us to keep her?” He looked at you while hugging Princess, his eyes started to tear up, dammit you never thought he’d use that against you, much less would it be that effective., “Please mommy?” He was looking up at you, and Sukuna was too, behind his son he had a sly smile, turning your plan against you, then there was princess, who looked up at you, purring while Yuji held on tighter, “Fine- but no Tigers on my bed, and maybe a new name… I don’t think the collar we have was meant for a fully grown… tiger..”

Yuji ran hugging you, “Daddy can get her a new collar and we can think of a new name like… like… lightning!” You snorted trying to not laugh, “Lightning is cute Yu, but I think she needs a better name.” He hummed, thinking while looking around, “What about lilies like the flower?” His little finger pointed past you, you turned to see the tiger lily he was pointing at, “It’s a pretty name if you like it.”

He walked over to Lily, his hands on her cheeks fluffing the tufts of fur, “What do you think lily?” The only response he got was Lily nuzzling his face with her nose, “I think she likes it.”

You looked at Sukuna and didn’t miss the smile on his face and the soft expression on his face. He loved his brat. You knew that he didn’t just find a tiger in some palace, he had to have already planned it to some extent.

Walking to his side you hugged his side, “I love you.” Doing your best with your free hand to pull him down, you kissed his cheek and he let out a “heh” sound. “So how long have you really had this planned?” You cocked a brow with a sure smile, “From the day of Yuji’s birth it was made known to me, one of those fools that live scared behind palace walls imported more than just a few.” You saw the smug look on his face and shook your head with a smile, “You are beyond belief.”

“LOOK” both of you turned to Yuji who had jumped on Lily trying to ride her, “Go lily go!” She only looked back at him and you looked away with a smile before Sukuna dropped the tether, “You heard the boy Lily.”

All you heard was Yuji’s scream when Lily started a decent pace run. Your mouth opened slightly, “su- he’ll be fine.” Was all Sukuna said cutting you off before wrapping both arms on his side around you. “Now, let’s talk about your punishment for defying me so openly in front of my son.” He took your jaw in one of his free hands, making you look up at him, those lidded eyes and sly smile made your nerves tingle, “Oh?”

Tag List: @sad-darksoul @satorisgirl @bontensbabygirl @lupita97lm @queen-luna-007 @venus-seeks @bofadeezs @sakuxxi @mercymccann @certainduckanchor @najiiix @bakugou-katsukis-wife @amitiel-truth @souyasplushie @mylovelessnightmare @ynjimenez @dolliira @princessluvz @furiousblacktiger @anyaswlrd @shytastemakerthing

Here’s my shop btw 🥺

[sashiavi]

✧˚·.SashiAvi's Kinktober Day Six.·˚✧

#6|Skinny Dipping|#6

Sebastian x Reader - Word Count - 2.3k

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There was something serene about the mountain lake at night. White moon beaming down its gaze, the dazzly lights of the stars freckled over the water’s clear surface, rippling against the bank. Frogs croak in the distance, their chests beating out with each ribbit, a sing-along with the chorus of crickets chirping their way through the night.

Sebastian can barely hear it though. 

Ears cotton stuffed, deaf to the rest of the world, his eyes hyper-focused on you; The way you look up at him, skin naked and wet, hidden away under the water’s surface save for the supple skin of your collarbones and shoulders. Careful droplets caress over your form, rolling down your wet skin, going home to the pool below.

“Hi..” It’s all he can muster, running a palm down each side of your waist, holding the divet from your ribs to hips, letting his fingers sink into the soft curve of your body.

If he knew this was how a simple night smoke would have gone then Yoba, he would gladly become a chain smoker, blowing through pack after pack to have you just like this. To have a chance of catching you walking his way. To keep you from going home in a timely manner to selfishly drink up your company. You weren’t new to each other. Finding that sweet dance of playful sex, fooling around during your shared moments of downtime, exploring your bodies through rough bites and hard, snapping rolls of hips.

This was something else. Something all-new and different.

It started with a quip, some stupid thing that had managed to catch your attention, striking up a conversation full of sarcasm, dry and witty, bordering on something self-deprecating. You fed into it, spurring the conversation along, even accepting the butt of his cigarette when he offered it up to you. Oh, how your lips wrapped around the filter as you take in a drag, blowing that spicy smoke out from your lungs, up into the air before it wafts away.

Closer and closer you came together, leaned up against the thick bark of a cedar tree by the bank of the lake, shaded by the soft shaking leaves, hidden from the moonlight, faces lit up by the soft orange glow of the cigarette with each pulling drag. Sebastian’s lazy, squinted eyes flick between your own, watching the glint of moisture spark with the flickering burn of the minuscule blaze. His teeth sink into the pierced flesh of his bottom lip, Adam’s apple bobbing with his dry attempt at a swallow.

Tensions. Oh, tensions.

Rising up and up until they boil over.

You breathe out slow, letting the thick smoke escape your lungs, leaning close, blowing the spiced air gently into his face, chin tilted up as if you were going to press your lips into his own. Of course you pull away, holding the dying cigarette to his lips, watching the ash burn bright with a final pulling drag before the poor butt is flicked away. Sebastian holds his breath in his lungs, letting his palm cup your jaw, long fingers spreading to hold your face, thumb brushing once over with a caress.

You part your lips for him, breathing in his smoke, taking the shotgun with a little quirk of a grin cracking at the corner of your mouth. Honest to Yoba, Sebastian nearly lets himself hum out a sound of need, aching to get his lips on a newfound craving, to hell with his smokes, you were worse than nicotine, wanting to taste you on his lips and never get rid of everything you could give him. Before he can even get a kiss in, your finger stops him, pressed into the plump swell in a shushing motion, a light chuckle huffing from your throat.

You pull away and he chases, pitifully leaning forward into the newfound empty space, awing at the effect you have on the otherwise stoic man. You throw him a look over your shoulder, easily slipping off your top, throwing the fabric his way, shielding his view of your stripping form before he hears the wavering wave of the lake, moulding around your body as you get in. You were something spontaneous, ripping him from his comfort zone, somehow urging him to remove his own clothes with a cheeky beckon of your finger and a light, sing-song call of his name.

You were a siren, he was sure, pulling him against his own judgements as if he were hogtied, making his heart beat hard on his ribs, getting his mind to follow your call.

“Water’s nice, Sebby~” It's really all it takes for him to chase you like a lost kitten.

Of course you tease and run, splashing him with water, flicking droplets with a kick of your legs when you try to avoid him, play-fighting under the beam of the moon, disrupting the flat surface of the water. Push and pull, cat and mouse- Except Sebastian isn’t entirely sure who exactly the mouse was in this situation.

But you’re ever so gracious, aren't you? Wrapping your arms around his neck, legs hooking on to him as if you were a koala, lifted effortlessly thanks to the gravity defying properties the water blessed you with. He greets you, and you breathe back.

“Hi yourself..” Twinkly, sparkly eyes kissed by the moonlight. It's all he can think about. Your gorgeous face all damp, ends of your hair lapped at by the water, lightly moistened thanks to all the play teasing.

Words are useless.

Especially when his lips are on your own, moulding to your sweet mouth, deep and spit filled with tongues swirling over each other, noses huffing in search of air, and yet refusing to properly pull away. It's all silent sighs against each other's lips, clicky spit-filled swallows as you try to catch your breath, arms tightening around his neck in a desperate lock, fingers threading through the hair on the back of his head. Sebastian’s hands wander, down your waist, squeezing your hips, curving over your ass for leverage, carefully grinding you into the swelling pudge of his cock, making himself at home between your warm folds. That's what this was; Warm. So, so warm on his skin, shivering goosebumps down his back at the juxtaposition of the cool, lapping water.

He moans, and so do you. Swallowing down each other’s sounds with feverish kisses, lips moving harder and faster, slipping from the slow tandem you had roped yourself into, more teeth, clattering and clipping with little care - Hands racking through his hair, grabbing healthy fistfuls with a squeezing a tug, palms squishing the fat of your ass in a groping massage. 

“Fuck me-” You chirp between hot kisses, squeezing your legs around him tighter, pushing the swell of your tits into his chest. Sebastian groans, clumsily moving you to the bank of the lake, pressing you into the slope of sandy, pebbly dirt, bodies still mingled within the lapping water. Your hair is not spared from being drenched and sand-filled, cool water kissing your skin, washing over the hot press of your bodies. Sebasian’s hands dig into the ground, fingers scratching lines into the surface with a pebbly drag, taking desperate fistfuls as his lips continue to devour your own. 

His chest huffs, eyes glued shut as his kisses move, biting down your neck, letting himself suckle deep bruises and teeth-filled nibbles into all the sensitive spots of your skin. You cry out, breathing his name with a hiccup in your throat, fingers twisting a tug against his hair, thighs squishing him harder against you. The sound makes his cock bob, that call out into the open air, right by his own home, crying out for his attention seemingly uncaring of any prying ears that could be nearby. 

He couldn't hold back, not like this, Yoba- He needed you, needed to sink his cock into your cunt, feel the warmth wrap all snug around his veiny length, save himself from the bite of the night air and the lap of shallow water licking at your bodies. His own tongue dares to lap up those droplets on your skin, licking the rough of his taste buds up your soft neck, finishing with a spitty kiss to your ear before he growls out.

“Put me in, Princess.. That's it- cmon..” He urges, nuzzling his temple against your own, coaxing you through the process of sinking him into your heat. “Hold me like that- fuck.. Tugging on me so sweetly.. Getting me nice and hard f’you? Yeahahh?” He can’t help but babble a little, spurred on by his own desperation, something he brought upon himself- Nothing kills a man faster than his own head.

“Promise- promise you’ll fuck me- please.. Pleaseplease-” You slip his head between your folds, sticky-wet even through the wash of water between your laps.

“Promise, Baby- Gonna fuck you s’good, s’okay- I gotcha.. I gotcha..hahh-” He nods, rolling his hips while he speaks his promises, sliding through the fat of your pussy, knocking on your clit.

Sometimes to stay alive you've got to kill your mind. And it dies. Any legible thoughts killed away with the warm sink of his cock into your supple, velvety cunt, pulsing hard with a thick, veiny throb when the pudge of his head kisses a press into your cervix.

Sebastian muffles a groan, huffed with an ‘oomph’ from his teeth-bitten lips, already starting a steady rhythm, humping into your cunt, letting your legs pull him in over and over. God, you mewl, chin tilted up to the night sky, hands clawing into his hair, fingers squeezing at the swell of his shoulder, doing your very best to pull him closer. It's impossible and yet? He craves it, needs to be pressed into you in every way possible, lapping at your tongue, fucking snappy thrusts into your creamy cunt.

He pulls back to see you, shining in that bath of moonlight, dark and lathered in sweet mystery at the luna’s kiss, the lake water pooling around your hips shining bright with those twinkles of light, lapping at your skin with each rolling thrust of his hips.

“Fuck..” More, More- Needs to see more.

His gritty sand groaned dirt covered hands pry at your legs, pressing rough grains into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, pressing you down into the water- The sweetest mating press one ever could muster - Legs spread nice and wide for him, pinned and stinging with the grit of dirt, knees rocking in tandem with each snap of his hips. Don’t get him started on the noises. Mewly moans and chanting babbles of his name dribbling from your lips, the squelchy sweetness of your cunt paired with the repetitive ripple of water following his every thrust. Skin splashes together, sprays of dribbling droplets coming off of the connection, bodies clapping together with a vulgar ‘plap, plap, plap.’

“Ahh.. hmmn~ S-Seb-!” You writhe and moan, squirming against the sandy bank, one hand gripped desperately at one of his wrists holding pressure into your spread legs, grounding yourself with him. The other messes with your clit, rolling the bud between your fingers, circling the sweet thing with the flat of your fingertips all while his hips smush into your knuckles with every grinding roll.

Sebastian’s palms slide up, hooking under your knees, into the soft underside connecting the joint, grinding your poor skin into the pebbly lake floor. He mounts himself on you, fucking feverishly into your cunt, hips moving down with obnoxious claps, splashy water perpetuating the noise- He stuffs his face into your neck, lips and teeth back on your skin, sinking down into the supple flesh while his cock dares to throb. 

Closer and closer- Feeling a build up in the depths of his gut, veins gushing warm blood into the tip of his cock with a hot flex, threatening to spill and burst-

“Cumming-! S..Sebastian! Ohhh Baby please- please!” You beat him to it, crying out for him so sweetly like that, sobby sounds cutting through the splash of water rippling with his fucks, fingers tightening on his wrist, speeding up against the bead of your cunt.

“That's it- Cum f’me.. Gonna be right there, Princess- Fuckk take me there-” His throat growls out a deep groan, teeth grit while he keeps up those praises, sweet talking you through the brunt of your orgasm, laughing a huffy, arousal tainted chuckle all light from his chest when you cream. Sweet and squeezy, velvety walls massaging the length of his cock as you cum, pussy suckling him in, inviting the hot pulse of his own orgasm with a loving hug.

His hips snap in sharp staccatos, throat stuck in a perpetual growl with each lingering fuck as he spurts. He creams into you, hot and ropey filling up the depths of your sweetness, milked off by your squeezing. His eyes dare to roll, jaw going slack with sloppy, hasteful kisses, voice box betraying him with shameless praises and confessions, accidental “I fuckin love you’s” gasped into the skin of your neck.

He gifts you a final grind, rocking his hips in small motions, working you through the comedown, handsy palms opting to pet and soothe at your thighs, tickling the skin from the inner depths of your bikini line all the way up to the knee. He helps your poor legs wrap back around him, nice and comfy while he comes down to knock his forehead into your own, resting his weight on his forearms, trapping you into your own little bubble. Away from the moon, hot breaths huffing in the space, crickets entering Sebastian’s ears once more, the surrounding atmosphere gracing its presence in his mind once again. 

He swallows thick, breathing hard, nuzzling his nose before pulling away just enough to see you.

“Hi..” It's all soft giggles of disbelief from there.

→ Kinktober Masterlist & Taglist ←

some soft Sebby today <3

Thank you so much for reading! If you have any thoughts please let me know! I'd love to hear them <3 your words spur my heart on!

Property of : SashiAvi

TagList

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[solxamber]

hello!, I was wondering if I can request twisted wonderland with male reader with a fierce wild cat personality? Any characters are fine but preferably the dormleaders, thank you! :)

thank you for the request <3 and i interpreted it as a wild cat beastman reader, and if that's not what you meant, you can resend the request and i'll write that! and i got carried away and did all the characters but the dormleaders' parts are a little longer

Characters: All NRC + Staff(completely platonic) + Grim(completely platonic) + Rollo, Neige and Chen'ya as a little treat

Riddle Rosehearts: The Stressed but Sweet Caretaker

Riddle was trying his best to remain composed, really. But watching you—a wild, fierce, untamable beastman—dangle upside down from a tree branch while growling at a confused pair of first-years was not helping his stress levels.

“Get down this instant!” he barked, glaring up at you. “That behavior is absolutely—”

But you just smirked down at him, tail flicking lazily as you refused to budge. “Make me,” you teased, stretching out leisurely across the branch, fully aware of how much you were winding him up.

Riddle’s eye twitched. “I will write you up for insubordination! Or worse, I’ll—”

You jumped down right in front of him, landing with perfect, feline grace, and leaned in close, a wild grin on your face. “You’ll what? Punish me?” you purred.

For a brief moment, Riddle’s composure cracked, his cheeks going bright red. He stammered, flustered, and finally looked away, exhaling sharply. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

And though you teased him relentlessly, you eventually backed off, surprising him with an affectionate headbutt that left him speechless. You had a knack for driving him to the brink of insanity—and then doing something sweet that made him almost enjoy it.

Trey Clover: The Beast Tamer

Trey’s patient, steady demeanor makes it impossible to ruffle him, no matter how feral you act. You once threw a fit in the kitchen, upset that someone had left out a bunch of vegetables instead of the meat-heavy snacks you craved.

Trey calmly handed you a whisk, nudging you toward a bowl of dough. “You know,” he said, smiling like a saint, “kneading dough is a great way to get rid of all that extra energy.”

You blinked, glaring at the flour-coated mess, but before you knew it, your hands were working the dough, tension easing. Trey just chuckled, somehow always knowing how to soothe your wild side.

Cater Diamond: Magicam’s Feral Star

Cater’s camera is practically glued to his hand whenever you’re around. “Omg, this is gold!” he chirps as he snaps shots of you mid-growl or pounce.

He even convinced you to strike some fierce, dramatic poses just for his Magicam account. “Okay, now show me that ‘wild beast who’s secretly a softie’ look,” Cater teases with a wink.

You snarl, lunging at him to swipe the camera from his hands, but he just laughs and dodges. “Wow, so wild!” You grumble but secretly enjoy the attention.

Ace Trappola: Professional Button-Pusher

Ace never misses an opportunity to tease you. He’ll poke at your cat ears or flick your tail when he thinks you’re not paying attention. “Careful, or I’ll have pictures of you chasing your own tail like a housecat,” he reminds you, grinning.

One day, after an especially exasperating comment, you lunge at him, claws out—but instead of fleeing, Ace bolts behind Deuce, who yelps in panic. “Hey, he’s your problem too!” Ace cackles, leaving you growling while Deuce looks panicked. “Ace! Quit using me as a shield!”

Deuce Spade: Honor-Bound Sparring Partner

Deuce tries to treat you with the utmost respect, but sometimes your wild side catches him off guard. The first time you wrestled him to the ground as a playful challenge, he froze. “I-Is this a duel?” he asked, wide-eyed, his honor-bound sense of duty kicking in. “Uh, no. It’s just a cat thing,” you explained, blinking down at him. But instead of calming him down, he took it way too seriously, swearing he’d learn to be strong enough to one day match your strength. Now, every time he challenges you to a spar, you just sigh and pat him on the head.

Leona Kingscholar: The Sleepy, Grumpy Mentor

Leona had never expected to find a wildcat who could match his laziness and his stubbornness. Yet, here you were, lounging next to him in the botanical gardens, basking in the sun.

“Yer blockin’ my light,” he grumbled half-heartedly, pushing you away with a lazy hand as you sprawled out over him.

You didn’t move an inch, only let out a low growl of satisfaction, “Find your own spot, ‘King.’ This one’s mine now.”

Leona snorted, amused despite himself. He didn’t care much for company, but you were an exception—mostly because you never tried to impress him or suck up. You just existed beside him, like another lazy lion in the pride.

Occasionally, though, you’d get a burst of energy—pouncing on him when he least expected it, challenging him to wrestle, which would invariably end with you two snarling and rolling around the gardens like cubs until Leona finally pinned you down.

“Quit strugglin’,” he’d mutter, half-sighing, half-grumbling as you squirmed under his hold.

“Never,” you’d retort with a cocky grin, only to go limp the moment Leona let out an exasperated sigh, settling back in as if nothing had happened.

“Yer such a pain,” he’d grumble, but secretly, he liked the challenge you brought to his otherwise lethargic life.

Ruggie Bucchi: Partner in Mischief

Ruggie absolutely loves that you’re a beastman like him. The two of you frequently team up for pranks and schemes. “Hey, we could totally swipe those sandwiches before anyone notices,” he whispers, and before you know it, you’re both in action, working as a sneaky duo.

He’s also not afraid to roughhouse, tackling you in the halls to try and wrestle something you’ve stolen back from him. “C’mon, share! You can’t hog all the loot!” he laughs, half-heartedly trying to swipe whatever you’ve nabbed.

When you snarl back playfully, he just smirks. “Alright, alright, keep it! I’ll get ya next time!

Jack Howl: Honor Among Beasts

Jack is all about training and honor, so your wild nature keeps him on his toes. He’s not one to flinch from your growls or playful attacks.

Instead, he meets your ferocity with a determined stance. “Come at me,” he grunts, and before you know it, you’re in a wrestling match, claws and teeth bared—but it’s all in good fun.

Afterward, he’ll clap you on the back, panting but grinning. “Good fight. You’re pretty strong, you know that?” You snicker, catching your breath. “You’re not bad either, pup.” He glares at the nickname but doesn't deny the compliment

Azul Ashengrotto: The Nervous Businessman

Azul had never met someone more unpredictable than you, and that was saying a lot. You had a tendency to pounce on him from the shadows whenever you felt like it, scaring him half to death and knocking his neat little world into chaos.

“Why must you insist on scaring me like that?” Azul shrieked one day as you leaped from behind a curtain, sending his papers flying everywhere.

You grinned, fangs gleaming as you crouched low. “Keeps you on your toes,” you teased, tail swishing playfully behind you.

Azul tried to collect himself, adjusting his glasses with a huff. “I’m running a business, not a… a circus!”

But despite his protests, he often found himself secretly enjoying your antics. They kept him sharp and on edge—qualities he valued, even if they did come with a side of perpetual anxiety. And, more than once, you surprised him by showing up with some rare, exotic item you’d “hunted” in the wild, much to Azul’s gleeful interest.

Though he never openly admitted it, he had a soft spot for your fierce and untamed spirit, even if it did give him heart palpitations on a daily basis.

Jade Leech: Amused Observer

Jade watches your antics with an almost academic fascination. When you’re in the middle of a fierce bout of wrestling with Floyd or Jack, he’ll stand by with a serene smile, making comments like, “Ah, such fascinating instincts you have.”

You never know if he’s complimenting you or analyzing you like a strange specimen. “You’re surprisingly dexterous for someone so… untamed,” Jade remarks after you dart past him in a chase with Floyd.

You roll your eyes, but when you snarl playfully in his direction, Jade’s eyes glint with amusement. “Very intimidating,” he chuckles.

Floyd Leech: Playtime, Anytime, Everytime

Floyd finds your feral energy endlessly amusing. The first time you growled at him, he practically sparkled with delight. “Ooh, a wild kitty! Let’s fight!” Without waiting for a response, he lunged at you, and what followed was an intense but weirdly fun brawl.

Floyd’s unpredictability keeps you on edge, but you’re the only one who seems to match his wildness blow for blow.

He loves sneaking up on you too, draping himself over your shoulders like a scarf and whispering, “Hey, kitty~ Wanna play?” You swat him off, grumbling, but Floyd just laughs and bounds away, promising to find you later.

Kalim Al-Asim: The Overexcited Hype Man

Kalim absolutely adored you.

“Woah!” Kalim exclaimed, jumping around with pure excitement as you leaped effortlessly onto the highest point of Scarabia’s rooftops. “That was amazing! Do it again!”

You, perched like a wild animal on the ledge, gave him a toothy grin. “You’re too easy to impress, Kalim,” you teased, flicking your tail and jumping back down beside him.

“But it’s so cool!” Kalim gushed, eyes sparkling with admiration. “You’re like a real-life king of the jungle or something!”

You ruffled his hair, your normally fierce demeanor softening in the face of his endless enthusiasm. “Well, someone’s got to keep you out of trouble, right?”

Kalim laughed brightly, wrapping you up in an affectionate hug that almost knocked you off balance. You huffed, rolling your eyes, but couldn’t help but smile at his boundless energy. Sure, he wasn’t the most intimidating guy, but he had a way of making you feel like a hero in his eyes, and that was more than enough for you.

Jamil Viper: The Exasperated Handler

Jamil didn’t ask for this. He didn’t ask for a fierce, wildcat beastman to constantly wreck his plans with reckless abandon, but here you were. Whether it was stealing food from the kitchens or causing chaos during training sessions, you were always finding ways to make his life harder.

“I swear,” Jamil muttered under his breath, wiping his brow after yet another one of your wild stunts, “you’re going to give me gray hairs before I turn twenty-five.”

You grinned, lounging lazily on a nearby couch, completely unbothered. “You should loosen up, Jamil. You’d have more fun.”

Jamil shot you a withering glare. “I don’t have time for ‘fun.’ Someone has to keep things running smoothly around here, and it certainly isn’t you.”

But despite his constant complaints, Jamil often found himself unconsciously looking after you—making sure you were eating properly (even if you preferred hunting your own food) and quietly smoothing over the chaos you left in your wake. He’d never admit it, but you’d grown on him—like a particularly troublesome stray cat that he couldn’t help but care for.

Vil: The Patient Tamer

Vil had dealt with divas, but you were a whole different beast—literally. Yet, somehow, the idea of taming your wild nature was a challenge he couldn’t resist.

“You could look so much better if you just let me help you,” Vil sighed as he brushed back a lock of your messy hair.

You growled in response, swatting his hand away. “I’m not some house cat for you to groom.”

“And that attitude,” Vil replied with a perfectly arched brow, “is why you continue to look like you just crawled out of a jungle.”

You gave him a sharp-toothed grin. “That’s because I did.”

Vil sighed dramatically but never gave up. Over time, you begrudgingly let him “polish” you up, as he liked to call it, and much to your surprise (though you’d never admit it), you didn’t hate the way he made you look. And for all his refinement, Vil had a deep respect for your strength and fierce independence, often praising you for qualities that no one else seemed to notice.

“You have a certain wild charm,” Vil once told you with a smirk. “Just… let me polish it to perfection.

Rook Hunt: Enthralled by the Beast

Rook absolutely adores your wild side. “Ah, magnifique!” he’ll exclaim whenever you bare your fangs or show off your feral grace. “Such raw, untamed beauty in your movements! You are truly a predator among men!”

It’s flattering at first, but eventually, you find yourself trying to escape his relentless admiration.

He’s always trying to sneak up on you, challenge your senses. “Ah, mon ami féroce, can you sense me even when I am but a shadow?” You snarl in annoyance, knowing he’s nearby but unsure where. He cackles, “Très bien! Your instincts are sharp, as always!” You’ve accepted that Rook will forever be your most persistent fan.

Epel Felmier: Wrestling Buddy

Epel thinks your wild nature is the coolest thing ever. He’s always asking you to spar, wanting to prove his strength. “C’mon, I ain’t afraid of a few claws!” he boasts, puffing out his chest. You can’t help but laugh at his bravado, but you indulge him.

After a few rounds of wrestling, you let him win, watching as he struts around proudly. “See? I can handle it!” he declares, even though he’s panting and disheveled.

You chuckle and tousle his hair. “Sure thing, champ.” Despite the light teasing, Epel genuinely enjoys having someone around who doesn’t treat him like he’s fragile.

Idia: The Startled Cat Owner

Idia didn’t do well with social interactions, let alone a wildcat beastman who liked to sneak up on him while he was gaming.

“Gah!” Idia yelped, almost knocking his controller out of his hands when you suddenly appeared behind him, your tail swishing lazily. “D-Dude, warn me next time!”

You chuckled, plopping down beside him. “You’re way too easy to sneak up on.”

Idia grumbled something about “max stealth stats” but let you stay, mostly because he was too nervous to tell you to leave. Though, as time went on, he started to get used to your sudden appearances, even finding comfort in the fact that you always seemed to gravitate toward him—like some kind of guard cat.

It wasn’t long before you both ended up gaming together, with Idia quietly giving you tips while you teased him about being the “weakest cat in the den.”

And though Idia would never admit it, he appreciated your presence more than anyone knew. Having a fierce beastman around made him feel a little safer, even if you did constantly startle him half to death.

Ortho: The Curious Brother

Ortho is instantly fascinated by you. “You’re so cool!” he exclaims, scanning you with his eyes glowing as he processes data. He’s always asking questions about your wild beastman nature, wondering about your enhanced senses, strength, and agility.

“Is your tail prehensile? Can you communicate with other animals?” His curiosity never ends, and you find it endearing.

Sometimes, Ortho will run simulations with you, testing your speed or sparring with you in a safe environment, always careful to make sure you don’t get hurt.

He even programs a few custom video game challenges for you to try, and despite his more robotic nature, you swear you see him puffing up with pride when you praise his efforts. "I knew you'd like that feature! Maybe one day, I can create a robotic panther, and we can team up!"

His enthusiasm and innocence make your interactions lighthearted and full of adventure—like having a little brother who looks up to you in every way.

Malleus: The Intrigued Fae Prince

Malleus had never met someone so wild yet so intriguing. Your untamed nature reminded him of the old stories of beastmen who roamed the forests long ago, and he couldn’t help but be fascinated by your strength and unpredictability.

One day, during one of your many impromptu sparring sessions, Malleus observed you with a rare smile. “You are quite remarkable,” he said as you pounced toward him, claws out.

You grinned mid-leap. “And you’re not too bad yourself, dragon boy.”

“You’re quite the lively one,” Malleus remarked, barely winded as he effortlessly dodged your attacks, his long coat swishing elegantly behind him. “I must admit, I find your untamed spirit... refreshing.”

You growled in frustration but couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at your lips. “If you keep talking like that, dragon boy, I might think you’re flirting.”

Malleus’s lips twitched upward. “And if I were?”

Lilia Vanrouge: Playful Mentor

Lilia finds your wild antics endlessly entertaining. He’ll often join in, playfully flipping around and encouraging you to let loose even more. “Yes! That’s the spirit!” he cackles after you leap onto a high ledge during one of your spontaneous chases.

He even offers you advice on how to hone your instincts, and you’re surprised at how sharp and perceptive he is. “Ah, you remind me of some old friends from centuries ago,” he says with a fond smile.

“Such ferocity is admirable.” You growl, but it’s half-hearted—Lilia’s playful energy is contagious. Plus, he’s surprisingly good at dodging your attacks, making him an entertaining sparring partner.

Silver: Sleepy Companion

Silver finds your energy a bit exhausting, to be honest. But he doesn’t mind it too much. In fact, he often naps while you’re causing havoc, and you’ll find him fast asleep in the middle of a brawl or sparring match.

“How do you sleep through all this noise?” you ask one day, poking him awake. Silver yawns and stretches lazily. “I’ve gotten used to it,” he says with a sleepy smile. “Besides, you’re not as scary as you think.”

You grumble, but there’s something endearing about how relaxed he is around you. Sometimes you’ll sit next to him while he naps, and you catch yourself softening, just a little.

Sebek Zigvolt: Constantly Offended

Sebek is furious about your untamed behavior. “How dare you act so… so savage in the presence of Malleus-sama!” he roars whenever you’re being particularly wild.

He’s always lecturing you about manners and proper decorum, but you find it amusing how easily ruffled he gets. One day, you purposely growl while gnawing on some meat in front of him, just to see his reaction. “Disgraceful!” he yells, practically sputtering. “You are in the presence of greatness, and you—!”

You cut him off with a smirk. “Relax, Sebek. It’s just a joke.” Sebek fumes but can’t seem to argue with your nonchalance. Malleus finds it funny, and that only makes Sebek more frustrated.

Rollo Flamme: The Begrudging Observer

Rollo isn’t quite sure what to make of you. He’s used to quiet order and isn’t a fan of anything remotely chaotic or, in your case, wild. You can see his disdain every time you let your beastman instincts slip—climbing trees, lounging on rooftops, or hunting for sport on school grounds.

“That behavior is unbecoming of a student,” he huffs, glaring at you from across the room. You just give him a toothy grin, flashing your sharp canines, which makes him bristle. Still, he’s too much of a stickler for rules to do anything drastic.

He does, however, go out of his way to avoid you during events, always muttering something about ‘chaos incarnate.’

One day, you catch him staring at you from afar, and when you wave with a lazy smirk, he turns sharply on his heel. “I have no time for such nonsense,” he grumbles under his breath, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge.

Neige LeBlanche: The Overly Cheerful One

Neige is utterly fascinated by you, in the most innocent, endearing way possible. “Wow, you’re so strong! And those ears!” he exclaims every time he sees you, eyes sparkling with genuine awe.

He’s constantly asking you questions about your beastman traits, from your heightened senses to your climbing skills. “That’s so cool! Can you teach me?”

You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, though sometimes it gets a bit overwhelming when he tries to copy your movements (and fails spectacularly).

You find yourself softening around him, his pure-hearted nature making you feel oddly protective. He’s always showering you with compliments, and despite your rough exterior, you can’t help but be a little charmed by his sweetness.

He even tries to make matching flower crowns for you, though you’re not quite sure how to break it to him that they don’t really go with your vibe.

Chen’ya: The Mischievous Kindred Spirit

Chen’ya is someone who truly gets you. “Another cat in the mix, huh?” he teases as he appears upside down in a tree, his signature grin wide. “You’re not so bad. Almost as sneaky as me.”

The two of you share a certain playful, mischievous energy that makes for some chaotic fun around campus. You’re constantly trying to out-prank each other, leading to a sort of rivalry-friendship that keeps things exciting.

“Think you can catch me?” Chen’ya challenges before vanishing into thin air, and you’re always up for the chase, grinning like a feral cat.

He enjoys pushing your buttons, but you give as good as you get, earning his respect. “You’re pretty wild, huh? I like it,” he laughs, the two of you often ending up in trouble together—but always with a good story to tell.

Grim: The Feline Frenemy

Grim, naturally, sees you as competition from day one. “Hmph, I’m the only cat anyone needs around here!” he declares, puffing out his chest. Every time you cross paths, Grim tries to one-up you, whether it’s showing off how many cans of tuna he can down or demonstrating his “powerful” magic.

“Bet you can’t shoot fire like this!” he boasts as he sets a small flame dancing on the tip of his tail. You just shake your head, amused at his antics. Sometimes, though, you play along, sparring with him in mock battles or sneaking bits of food his way during mealtimes.

As much as he tries to assert his dominance, it’s clear he sees you as a partner-in-crime of sorts. “Alright, you’re not so bad for a giant furball,” he begrudgingly admits after you help him out of a particularly tricky situation involving some overzealous ghosts.

You’ve grown to enjoy the little gremlin’s antics, even if he refuses to admit how much he likes your company.

Crowley: The Ineffectual Handler

Headmaster Crowley is at a loss for how to handle your wild side. “Please, dear student, try not to destroy any more property!” he begs after you accidentally claw through some furniture during a particularly energetic moment.

You barely pay him any mind as he waves his arms dramatically. “Oh, but think of the expenses! The repairs!” he wails. “Why must you make my job so difficult?” You flash him an innocent smile, “Oops, sorry Headmaster.”

He flinches but quickly shifts into his over-the-top persona. “Ah, but I am a forgiving man! Just be more careful next time, won’t you?” He backs away quickly as you flex your claws playfully, clearly unsure how to handle your unpredictable nature.

Divus Crewel: Training the Beast

Crewel doesn’t tolerate any of your wild antics during his class. “Sit down and behave, pup,” he orders with a snap of his riding crop, his tone sharp as he glares at you over his glasses. “You may be a beast, but you will learn discipline under my watch.”

Surprisingly, you find yourself respecting his no-nonsense attitude. His strict demeanor keeps you in check—at least during his lessons—and though you grumble about it, there’s a small part of you that likes the challenge.

Crewel gives you pointed looks whenever you slip up, and when you’re particularly rambunctious, he doesn’t hesitate to pull you aside for a stern lecture.

“Remember, you’re not a wild animal,” he says, patting his ever-faithful Dalmatian beside him. “Though sometimes I wonder.”

Mozus Trein: The Disapproving Scholar

Professor Trein does not approve of your behavior, not one bit. “Such undisciplined conduct!” he mutters under his breath every time you act out in class.

His cat, Lucius, is constantly glaring at you from his perch, seemingly sharing his master’s distaste for your rowdy nature. “Beastmen are always so… difficult to manage,” Trein sighs as you grin mischievously at Lucius, who hisses back.

You’re not one to back down from a challenge, so whenever Trein isn’t looking, you and Lucius engage in little standoffs, making Trein exasperated.

“One of these days, you’ll learn the importance of decorum,” Trein scolds, though you can’t help but notice that Lucius seems to be warming up to your playfulness—just a little

Vargas: Ultimate Hype Man

Vargas loves your wild energy. “That’s what I’m talking about!” he cheers whenever you leap over obstacles or use your beastman abilities to ace his physical challenges.

“Now that’s a true athlete!” He encourages your every move, making you feel like a superstar during his training sessions. “Come on, show everyone what real power looks like!”

Vargas is always hyping you up, and you admit it feels good to have someone who appreciates your raw strength. He constantly pushes you to go harder and faster, treating you like his prized student.

“Beastman power, yeah!” You just smirk, playing along with his enthusiasm, knowing that you're pretty much is favourite.

Sam: The Mysterious Merchant's Favorite Customer

Sam finds you absolutely fascinating. Every time you step into his shop, he grins widely, the shadows in his shop almost seeming to stir with excitement.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite wild child,” he chuckles, waving you over to his counter. “Got something special just for you.” You’re intrigued, of course.

Sam always seems to have exactly what you need, whether it’s something to tame that unruly beastman fur of yours or an ancient charm for your next competition.

“I always get the most interesting customers,” he says with a wink. You suspect there’s more to him than meets the eye, but hey, as long as he’s got what you need, you won’t complain.

Plus, his shop has a certain mysterious charm that keeps you coming back.

Masterlist

[eddies-ashtray]

YOUR HEART GOT TEETH!

Masterlist

Edit

Pairing: Kas/Vampire!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Your grief swallows you whole. And so will he. 18+ ONLY, minors do not interact.

WC: 7.0k

Content: Predator/prey (he basically hunts you in the forest), no use of y/n, kinda ooc Eddie cause he’s Kas/a vampire, discussions of grief/loss, somewhat detailed (but brief) description of eddie's scars (from the demo-bats), taunting/mocking, unprotected piv, rough sex, dirty talk, fingering, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of spit play, blowjob (kind of?).

A/N: I did a little research on Kas so some of his character is incorporated into this but I also took my own creative liberties. So this is not supposed to be a totally accurate depiction of Kas.

*gif source | *divider source 1 | *divider source 2

He must have been lurking in the murky shadows and fog clinging to the trees. Or maybe he was part of it—moving through the fog as the mist himself. Of course, you were initially ignorant to his presence, drowning in grief as you were. 

The dense wood of the forest effectively dampens sound from beyond, making it easy to pick up on any snapping twigs or skittering up in high branches. 

But he—it?—moved silently. Swiftly. Evading sight. 

Then there was this sense. Like a sixth one kicked into gear, raising goosebumps on dewy skin. An overwhelming presence which immediately triggered your fight or flight response. 

You should run. But you’d always been one to freeze. Vulnerable. Easy prey.

This time is no different. You don’t move a muscle, standing stock still in front of the large old tree stump. Staring down at the polaroid of that grinning face you miss so dearly, which lays among the trinkets and things left there by his little sheep and the band. All laid out nicely atop the stump, it’s many rings—some light, some dark—barely visible beneath the clutter. Though it will never spend another season growing additional rings.

With your heart slamming against your ribs and the blood rushing in your ears it takes you a second too long to regain control of your muscles. To flee this place–this crudely cobbled together memorial, unstained by public view & tampering. 

So when you turn to leave, there he is. 

You freeze. And you swear your heart stops pumping blood through your arteries. Terror taking over as your blood runs cold. 

Moonlight slashes across half his face, illuminating one sparkling brown eye and a slice of that slowly spreading grin. Sharpened canines slide over dark lips, pleased to find you here. 

Pinkish-red scars decorate his flesh, shredded skin healed unevenly, giving them this odd webbed effect. They begin at his jaw and crawl down his neck only to disappear beneath tattered clothing. His bat tattoo, your favourite, is present but marred by the deep scars where the demo-bats tore away at his flesh. The irony is not lost on you, but the sight is too grim to dwell on.  

When he leans in closer you can smell him. An odd mimicry of Eddie. Different from before when his heart pumped blood through his veins. Something in your body naturally resistant to it, but simultaneously lured to him—an unadulterated pull. With every erratic inhale you crave more, like a smoker greedily sucking nicotine into their lungs.

You loathe to admit its intoxicating effect. Because this—this thing—can’t be Eddie. Not your Eddie. But some spectral version, warped by the mirror world. 

It’s only when he speaks that you have any sort of visible reaction to him at all. Like he could’ve been some figment of your interminable grief—unbelieving in him until his acknowledgment of you.

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

Stupidly, you gasp in surprise, stumbling backward, hand reaching out behind you for something to tether you to this earth because surely you must have gone mad.

The rough and textured feel of bark scrapes against the sensitive skin of your palm. Though it does little to ground you. 

He moves swiftly toward you again, this bona fide creature keeping close, commanding the fog to shift around you. Invading your senses. That grin is ever-growing and increasingly self-satisfied.

You’re breathing hard, eyebrows scrunched together—confused, intrigued. 

Though his scent is somehow subtly altered, his voice remains much the same, but with richer notes of darkness. An almost imperceptible difference. His tone differs too. It’s mocking, yes—not in the same playful way Eddie used to be—but it’s also curious, unfamiliar. 

It presses the heavy implication over your heart that he doesn’t recognize you. How could that be?

The way he examines you reveals his unfamiliarity, though his eyes remain unchanged—the same shade of dark chocolate. And it is this which elicits an aching longing. One that burrows deep in your heart.

Though he looks like him. Sounds like him. And almost smells like him. It isn’t him. You know this to your marrow, like you know that the sun will rise tomorrow. It’s his body, yes. But not his mind. At least, not all of it. Clearly, it does not carry his memories. 

When he reaches up, cold fingertips ghosting past your chest, your collarbones, your neck, you have to suppress a shiver. But the renewed goosebumps rising on your skin betray you. 

His lips curl into a smirk, this one self-satisfied and hungry as the knuckle of his index finger grazes the sensitive flesh of your cheek. Try as you might not to, you flinch. He pouts at you mockingly, his touch unyielding.

“I could devour you, sweetheart,” he whispers, like the thought has only just come to him as his flesh met yours. Like it excites him to no end and sends the fresh scars pressed into his flesh thrumming. 

“You won’t,” you say shakily, not because you know this, but because you’re hoping. 

But your heart is beating out of your chest like a bunny that’s been caught between the sharp teeth of a fox, who knows it’s only a matter of time before its heart stops pounding and its blood ceases to pulse through its veins. 

You wonder if he can hear it with the way his face twitches and he appears to stop and listen, savouring some near silent thumping. This has you suppressing another shiver. 

Do you want him to devour you? 

No. 

You want him to try.

“I won't?” he retorts with a tilt of his head, his voice suddenly taking on a sharper quality. A dangerous edge to it like he’s responding to a challenge—provoked by the suggestion that he could be merciful. 

He could tear you to shreds right here and now and you’d let him–couldn’t stop him. He wants to. You can see it in his eager gaze. While this incites deep seated fear, it’s also a thrill. Something which awakens you after the nightmare that the last few weeks have been. Spending your days sleepwalking, rather than living. You realize it’s the first time you’ve felt alive since he took his final breath in your arms. 

He must see it in your face—as perceptive as he was in life.

“Watch me,” he spits. Watch me tear you apart. 

You swallow, throat dry. 

He leans in and you almost bear your neck to him, seemingly ready for him to take you from this earthly plane. 

Suddenly, his gaze snaps sharply down to his left. Your heart lurches in your chest, stomach flipping as your eyes flit over his shoulder to the left. Then to the right. Has he heard something? Possibly, a presence that could put an end to this? Oddly, the thought does little to relieve you. Instead, panic surges—a need to keep him here with you, if only it will result in your end–burning bright in your body. 

The treeline remains empty and dark, save for the still hovering fog choking the trees. 

If you were going to escape, this moment offers an opportune window. But that panic of losing his presence keeps you as rooted against his chest as these very trees are to the ground. 

Of course, you don’t hear it. The disembodied voice only falls on his sharp ears when it hisses, “She serves a grander purpose.” 

His sword, sheathed in its scabbard, speaks. He is ever bound to its command, whatever it calls for.

Your eyes return to his—finding with a shock that his gaze has already fallen upon you again—when he speaks. 

“A greater purpose than a meal?” 

His gaze rests upon you, but the question is evidently not for you—who it is for, you may never know. 

Whatever one-sided conversation he was having must yield unfavourable results because his jaw ticks and nostrils flare. Frustration, maybe even anger, bubbles behind dark eyes. 

He must obey. 

But he’ll still have his fun. 

Eddie decides right then and there that if he cannot satisfy his blood lust for you—if he cannot indulge in his thirst—then he will instead seek to satiate an alternatively carnal form of hunger. 

Drinking your blood is not the only method of sowing terror. There are other means. He can get creative.

He leans in then, teeth bared, and you catch his canines growing sharper, protruding further from his gums when he whispers, “I'll give you a head start…run.” 

When he says it it’s like the forest goes silent. Like all those tiny, near undetectable noises cease when he speaks. It’s eerie the way you don’t notice them until they’ve quieted. 

At that moment, you tear through the woods, blowing past his memorial. Leaves crunch and twigs snap underfoot. You’re the opposite of stealth. Something this Eddie seems to be well-versed in. You’re clumsy in your terror, easy prey.

Having spouted falsities, he gives you no head start, immediately tracking you effortlessly through the fog. 

You ignore the stitch quickly cutting into your side and keep running. But your sense of direction fails you quickly, everything beginning to look the same–all looming trees, dappled moonlight, and menacing shadows. All you can do is keep moving forward.

Then there’s movement to your left. 

Is your mind playing tricks on you? Morphing the shadows of great oaks in your periphery to resemble the creature that’s hunting you? Or is he right there, just waiting for the ideal moment to strike? Letting the fear build in your gut before he pounces. 

You just need to keep moving. 

One moment it sounds like he’s hot on your tail, but when you chance a look, he isn’t there. 

There’s the quick scratching against bark like an animal hurriedly climbing a tree, traversing it as effortlessly as a duck floats on water. 

But you can’t look again, unwilling to tear your eyes away from the winding paths to see him scaling trees. Just the idea raises the hair on your arms. 

The road. Only a sliver of it, gently illuminated by a dull street lamp, is visible through the dense wood. But it’s there. Just a hundred feet or so ahead–freedom and safety coming into view. 

Despite your terror though, your all-out sprint fades into a jog. Hesitating in the densest part of the forest. 

You lost Eddie once. This would be like losing him all over again, wouldn’t it?

You crave just one more glimpse of him because running from him after weeks of yearning to hold him in your arms again feels wrong. But you know your grief is clouding your judgement, and a voice of reason pops up, telling you to run, go!

When you realize what he’s done–lead you into the densest part of the woods on purpose–it’s too late. 

Your moment’s hesitance costs you.  

He led you here so you could hardly revel in the warm embrace of safety before coldly tearing it from your grasp.

Nearly nose-to-nose, Eddie seemingly materializes from the mist in front of you. “Boo!” 

“Shit!” You jump, falling hard onto the dirt floor of the forest. You groan–heart hammering and tailbone aching, just laying there, willing your heart to calm. 

Then he’s gone. There, in terror-induced vibrant clarity. And then a vanishment so swift you can’t be sure he was ever really there to begin with. 

Laughing darkly from somewhere above–a sinisterly, amused sound–you venture a hesitant look upward, into the dense branches above. 

Eddie is in the tree. There, he crouches on a thick branch as he observes you with the tilt of his head. His curious smile seemingly glowing in the darkness with the top half of his face shrouded in shadow. 

And then once again, he manifests by your head. 

He’s more menacing like this. Always was taller than you. But from this vantage point he’s a leering predator appraising injured prey. An easy meal. He could make quick work of you. 

“That stupid, huh?” he laughs as if the prospect is the most amusing thing in the world. “Thought you’d get away easy?” 

He continues to taunt you as he stalks around you, now standing at your waist.

You try to raise up onto your elbows, but to no avail as searing pain shoots up your spine. 

“Hm?”

It should be the last thing to spring to mind right now. But his tone strikingly resembles the condescending one Eddie would use in bed. When he’d ask: That feel good? Hm? And he knew it did.

It forces you to look at him—like Pavlov’s dog drooling at the sound of the bell. A conditioned response.

Eddie’s practically glowing in the soft moonlight. 

He’s so…alive. 

It chokes you up a bit. A lump forming in your throat as unshed tears sting your eyes. You tear your gaze from him, guilt sinking into your belly like an anchor in the ocean. 

“Look at me,” he demands immediately, voice proud and controlled. Despite the guilt, you cannot reject your body’s reaction to him. It’s that tone. It sends shivers up your spine and warmth into your gut—a pleasant ache for something raw and intense. 

You obey. 

Maybe it’s the grief. The sudden loss of someone so dear. But as you lay here—bruised and tired, and gazing up at him—you don’t mind that he has no memory of you. He’s still right here, standing in front of you, isn’t he? You think you’re still trying to convince yourself. 

You are a tangled, contradiction of feeling. Fear continues to nip at your neck while intrigue licks at your spine as you observe this freakishly orphic creature observing you. He’s…enchanting, captivating.

Eddie sighs deeply, gazing up briefly at the moon peeking through the leaves. It hangs bright above you, branches extended toward it, as though worshipping it. 

The sound he makes is like savouring relief. Upon feeling the open air on his skin, thankful for the reprieve from the shadows that the moonlight brings. Though you can’t know this—that he is confined to the darkness for all eternity.

You’re finally able to push yourself up on your elbows–not without wincing–when he returns his gaze to you. Your breathing slows and deepens as another pleasant and warm feeling twists in your belly. 

“What am I going to do with you?” he ponders sardonically, excitedly. 

You find the answer comes out of your mouth without thought. Another involuntary response from your body. 

“Anything.” It sounds so needy. Feathery, as your response floats off into the trees. 

Were you crazy or desperate? Or maybe just so haunted by his ghost that what he is–what he’s turned into–is irrelevant? Whether he be an apparition of your own imagining or a real monster twisted by the mirror world. Maybe he doesn’t have Eddie’s soul. But he has his face. His body. Is it so wrong to want him?

When he leans over you, you whimper, “Please.” 

He pouts at you in faux sympathy.

Is the mercy you seek defined by his departure? Or does your version of “mercy” mean letting him devour you like he’d promised?

When he flashes those pointed canines and a mischievous dimple carves into his cheek you have your answer. You no longer need to question or analyze your thoughts. You just want to feel. 

As Eddie leans in and strokes your cheek with the back of his index finger, you press gently into his touch. Feeling warm all over, buzzing with electricity. 

Strangely, you feel safe under his scrutinizing gaze. A crease forms between your brows as he leans in even closer. Your parted lips brush his tenderly. You might catch fire. 

Just as your eyes fall shut in anticipation of his kiss—your first with him in weeks—you hear his humorous scoff. Your face heats as your eyes open to find him leaning back. 

“Pathetic,” Eddie whispers. 

“I-” you’re not sure what you’re going to say in your defence, but he cuts you off anyway, with a curt: 

“Lie down.”

His hand is a firm pressure against the center of your chest, pushing you toward the ground after stooping down next to you. Your back presses into the cool dirt floor of the forest. 

Will he devour you now? Take you without another word? 

No. He isn’t done teasing you yet–another similarity between the human Eddie and the creature Eddie. Always itching to get you writhing and whining beneath him. Never satisfied until he could make you beg for it.

The hand that pushed you to the ground remains on your body, cold as it drags slowly down in quiet curiosity. As if feeling you for the first time, just getting used to the way your body curves and trembles beneath his touch.

Calloused fingertips just barely brush your tits on his way down, raising goosebumps beneath your top. When you gasp and arch into his hand imperceptibly, he pauses just as the rough skin of his palm ghosts over a sliver of your exposed belly, above your navel. 

His eyes flit to your chest, only remaining there for a single inhale before returning to his hand which continues to skate painstakingly down your body. Studying you.

The path of his hand ends at the edge of your skirt, caressing the skin there with a tender touch. You have to bite the inside of your lip to keep from making an embarrassing noise. Not wanting to seem too desperate. Although you’ve probably already failed at that.

“Eddie,” you sigh, head lolling over to look up at him. He meets your gaze, hand curving over your hip. 

Humming thoughtfully, Eddie tilts his head at you. Like you’re the one who’s become a creature. Morphing into a small thing, bursting with need and a deep desire to be taken care of. 

All the while, his hand continues its path down until he meets the skin of your thigh where he squeezes the doughy flesh roughly. Like he can feel the thrumming of your veins beneath your skin, yearning to take a bite out of you. 

“Oh, God.” Your skin tingles delightfully. A soft moan, as quiet as the sound of skin brushing against skin escapes your throat. 

The barest hint of a satisfied smile cracks his features. 

You may be so haunted by him that you’ll entertain this potential dream or nightmare, or whatever this is. But you are also undeniably desperate. To feel his touch on your skin again is transcendent. Like the very first time he touched you, it feels as though every single one of your nerves is exposed. Readily available for him to toy with. 

Excitement courses through your veins, a drug only able to be injected by his hand, as it curves over your leg. Hand pressing into the flesh of your inner thigh, he squeezes again, his blunt nails scratching sensitive skin. He pushes them open, giving him the easiest access to slide his hand up your skirt. 

When he finally tugs your panties down, and finds the soaked mess between your thighs, he releases a breathy, “Oh.”

Stroking his fingers through the mess, he says, “Look at this…”

Your hips flex when he dips gently into your dripping hole, collecting the sticky stuff before pulling his hand from you to put your desire on display. 

When his now sodden fingers come into view, and he pulls them apart to show you just how wet you are, you whine high in your throat. Embarrassed that you’re this worked up when he’s hardly done anything to elicit your lust. 

Thin lines connect his fingers, your essence seemingly sparkling in the moonlight as gentle waves of humiliation crash over you. Watching on as he savours the taste of you on his fingers, you huff impatiently. 

The moment his hand returns to your heat, his fingers swipe through your wetness again, dragging it to your sensitive clit where he rubs his middle finger in a dizzying circular motion, the slide smooth. Upon the second circuit of his fingers, you’re gushing around him, getting wetter by the second. A fire blazes in your belly and your hips twitch, finding it difficult to remain still when he’s working you up so. 

“Fuck, look at you. Could probably make you cum from just this,” he laughs, applying more pressure as he continues his torturous circles over that magic little button. 

The lewd sounds from your pussy fill the still night air as the lustful haze in his eyes grows more determined–his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in concentration. 

It’s all too much and on pure instinct your own hand wraps around the wrist of the hand up your skirt. That you’re still fully clothed—sans underwear—makes this feel all the more dirty. Let alone that you’re in the woods on the filthy ground, the exposed sliver of your back likely coated in a thin layer of dirt. 

Though your grip is loose on his wrist, he doesn’t let you get away with it. Grabbing both of your wrists in his free hand, he pins them above your head. 

“Stay,” he orders. 

You watch helplessly as he presses his two middle fingers into your pussy, curving them on the first stroke. If this were months ago, and Eddie had you like this in his bed, you might think the squeeze he gives your wrists—bound by his own hand–was an act of reassurance. Now, you know it is solely an act of dominance. I have you at my mercy. 

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Eddie…”

You forgot how nicely his fingers filled you. How you feel like a bright, burning star when he touches you like this. Deep and slow, like he’s forcing you to savour each stroke. How the tips of his fingers, longer than yours, caress parts of you that you couldn’t fathom. How he works in earnest to pull noises from you that you didn’t even know you could make. 

The pace he sets is simultaneously torturous and delicious, his aim clearly being to tease and overwhelm. Tears burn behind your eyes as his thumb rolls over your clit and you whine, that familiar feeling slowly beginning to build in your belly. Like you’re on the incline of a rollercoaster. 

“That feel good? Hm?” he asks with a syrupy tone as he watches you fuck yourself on his fingers like you’re in heat. With your hands pinned, it’s all you can do to writhe in his grasp.

“I-yes!” 

You’ve never seen him more smug and satisfied. 

“Yeah?” you nod furiously, mouth occupied by wanton moans. “I know, I know, baby…Know you’re dying to take my cock.” 

A delicious heat twists in your belly. “Please!” 

Before you reach the peak of your rollercoaster, he pulls his fingers from you, releasing your wrists simultaneously–though they remain above your head. You whine in protest, feeling suddenly cold and empty without a part of him inside of you. Though this feeling does not last for long as he moves quickly. 

Eagerly, Eddie swiftly removes his scabbard and undoes his jeans and fly, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. It bobs, hard and leaking so much pretty precum your mouth waters for it. Beautiful as ever. 

The sigh he releases when he strokes his dick is euphoric as he smears your wetness from base to tip. Already soaked with you. You shift your hips, fidgeting in place, impatient. Wishing it was your warm mouth encircling his girth instead of his own hand. 

Just as quickly as he’d tugged his jeans down, he’s on top of you again, slotting himself between your thighs before flipping your skirt up. Getting his first proper look at you. 

“Fuck, look at the mess you’ve made, sweetheart. All for me?” He says it like he’s mesmerized by the sight, eating up the way your body unabashedly calls for him. 

Grasping himself at the base, he lines himself up, your breathing growing shallow and quick. Anticipating the feeling of him inside you, desperate to feel every ridge and vein. The warmth as he fills you. 

You hold your breath. 

Meanly, he paints the flushed red tip up and down your soaked folds, causing you to whine and writhe against him. When it glances your clit you gasp and your hips jump as white hot pleasure zips up your spine. 

Your eyes are on high branches now, but you hear his low, satisfied chuckle. He wants for you to experience a unique kind of anguish before he rewards you for your perseverance. 

You’re about to lose it completely when he smacks the head of his cock heavily against your clit. The sticky sound it elicits is vulgar. It forces your eyes to roll into the back of your skull and groan. 

He is not merciful. But, eventually, he puts you out of your misery. A sharp inhale marks the moment he finally slides the first inch of his cock inside of you. 

Bracing for the inevitable fullness and slight sting that comes along with it proves unnecessary as he does not nudge himself any further. It only takes you a moment to realize he’s still teasing and you release another low whine. Just his weeping tip penetrates your fluttering hole, making your head spin.

He is going to make you earn it. 

“Jesus, it’s like she’s suckin’ me in,” he mutters under his breath in disbelief. “Beg for it, sweetheart.” 

You don’t waste any time. Not a single second before you begin to plead with him, cutting him off before he gets the pet name out. 

“Fuck me, Eddie! Need it so bad. So, so bad,” you mewl pathetically. “Please, please, please, please-” you might be embarrassed if you weren’t an absolute wreck, distraught on account of his teasing. Right on the edge of intense pleasure, feeling like you can’t take it anymore and might-

His cock sinks into you fully, not slowly but roughly. His heavy balls slap against your ass as he tugs your legs up to sheath himself even deeper inside of you. 

Twin groans float into the air, his eyes locked on yours. His become impossibly dark, like the slow spill of black ink across a page. Pleasure explodes in your belly as stars seemingly explode in the night sky. You are a live wire casting sparks in every direction. 

He is all that matters right now. The world could be ending around you, and you would be ignorant to it, lost in the feeling of his cock sliding home inside of you. 

His large palms pin your thighs back, as close to your chest as they can stretch while he stretches you out on his cock. And, fuck, is it a stretch after all these weeks. 

Your pleasure errs on the side of pain, but you savour it nonetheless and let him devour you. The sensations commingle and soon, you cannot tell the difference between the two. The pleasure is pain and the pain is pleasure. 

On a particularly rough thrust, as his balls collide with your ass with a sharp smack, you cry out, moaning his name freely into the open air. The sound gets trapped in the thick trees, as do his groans. 

For the first time since he pinned your hands to the ground, you wrap them around his neck, exploring his back, heavily textured by scars. Feeling the way his muscles flex beneath your hands as he continues to pound into you. Slowly, they find their way up into his hair, feeling his waves between your fingers. Somehow soft and knotted at the same time. 

But he doesn’t let your hands roam free for too long before pinning them back above your head again, one palm still pressing firmly into the back of your right thigh. When you try to wrap your legs around his waist, he simply presses them back toward your chest, his throbbing cock reaching deeper inside of you as the obscene squelching sounds amplify. 

Your own sounds rival the distant symphony of insects–somewhere far off in the meadow, the chirping crickets and singing cicadas are drowned out by your moans. The tiny creatures may as well be silent with how loud your wails have become. But how could you be quiet when you can feel him in your belly?

“Take it,” he growls, as if you are not laying here fucking yourself back onto his throbbing dick. Meeting his deep thrusts with your own, feeling his tip kiss your cervix and whining. “Tell me how good my cock feels inside of you.”

All you can do is whine and gaze up at him, barely registering his words as your heart unexpectedly swells at the sight of his gorgeous, pleasure-stricken features. 

Every minute detail is identical to your Eddie. Every freckle–including the tiny one just below his eye. His cheeky dimples. The sparse trail of hair below his navel that you used to trail your tongue down, causing his hips to jump in response.

Predictably, you get lost in his beauty and the overwhelming sensations, barely recognizing when his hand abandons the task of binding your wrists. Abruptly, you are snapped back to the moment when that same hand lands a sharp slap to your clit. It only causes you to squeal, your pussy fluttering around his dick as the sting quickly merges into pleasure. You get more lost in the haze of dizzying pleasure-pain.

Realizing that he only succeeded in further blurring your thoughts, Eddie grasps your face in one large hand. He squishes your cheeks until your lips pucker, smearing your wetness across your face. “Tell me.”

Dizzying pleasure continues to cloud your mind, making it difficult to recall what he’s asking of you, let alone produce a response. 

You must take too long to answer as he squishes harder, your teeth pressing harshly against the inside of your cheeks. The feeling borders on pain, causing you to whimper again as heat sinks into your belly. 

With a jolt, you remember what his question was.“Tell. Me.”

He needs to know. 

“It’s g-” you choke when he thrusts deep, kissing that sweet spot deep inside. 

With the hand still gripping your cheeks, he shakes your head a little, like he’s trying to shake the thought free. “Huh?”

“Good!” you squeal. “L-love your cock!”

“You ‘L-love’ it?” Eddie laughs dryly, clearly enjoying the praise and the way you struggle to give it to him. 

That sweet humiliation warms your chest, feeling almost as good as the way he presses inside of you. Hot and heavy. 

You agree with a moan, lacking the wherewithal to respond coherently. When he removes his hand from your face, it travels to grope your tits greedily over your thin top. Arching into his touch, you close your eyes and revel in the sweet sensation. 

His groans and the filthy sound of skin slapping against skin fill your ears as he repeatedly strokes that wonderful spot inside of you. Pleasure bursts in vivid colour behind your eyelids.

When his hand travels further down your body, middle and marriage fingers pressing into that tender bundle of nerves at the top of your cunt, your pleasure surges to new heights. The coil which has been tightening slowly while he fucks you threatens to snap. 

Pace slowing in favour of deep, calculated thrusts, Eddie leans down to your ear. “Gonna make such a mess of you,” he whispers, sending shivers straight down your spine. The promise is like molten lava on your skin. 

More reckless moans spill from your lips as he nips at your earlobe, then drags his teeth slowly down your neck. A reminder that he could easily sink his teeth into your flesh. It sends a thrill through your body–not unlike the one that licked at your spine as he hunted you through the woods. 

“Promise?” you ask breathlessly. A fucked-out smile on your face. 

He stares hungrily, longingly, at your neck for just a moment before returning to your eyes after registering your words. A challenge that quirks his brow. 

Bracing himself with an elbow dug in the dirt, his pace quickens again as he works furiously at your clit. His rhythm is clumsy, but successful at continuing to send shockwaves of twisted pleasure through your body. His hips slam so hard against you that it would be unsurprising to find light green bruises pressed into your ass tomorrow morning. 

You gasp, tossing your head back on a particularly deep and perfectly angled thrust. He dangles you over the cliff’s edge, keeping you on the precipice of release. It’s all you can do to tighten your hands into fists as you twist your them in his unrelenting grasp. 

He doesn’t even have to ask you to beg this time. The pleas for release simply tumble out of your mouth with little thought. “Please! Gonna cum, Eddie! Please, please can I cum?”

Hot, overwhelmed tears threaten to spill over in anticipation of his permission. You doubt you’ll be able to hold on much longer with that perfect pressure on your clit and incredible fullness. His heavy panting indicates he isn’t far behind you. 

“Cum all over my cock…Let me ruin you for anyone else.” He’s breathless as he says it. 

It’s his words that inevitably shove you over the edge, pleasure swelling inside of you. Your clit numbs and you cry out, cunt clenching around him as you drench his cock. It is not a soft, gentle climax that graces your body, but an intense thing that seems to carry on forever. 

“I love you,” you whisper into the cool night air, your body still twitching with your orgasm as tears slip down your cheeks. The phrase so easily blurts from you and it’s then that he groans and begins to spill inside of you too. Face pressed into your neck as he shoots hot spurts of cum into your cunt. Rope after rope of the stuff, warming your belly fulfillingly. 

His thrusts slow and eventually stop as he collapses on top of you. 

Aftershocks flow through you in raw, euphoric waves as you pant into his curls. A sated smile tugs at your mouth and you tremble against him, boneless when he’s done with you. A blissful giggle escapes your throat. 

The both of you lay there for moments, just listening to each other’s heartbeats slow as the insect’s song replaces your moans. The moon gleams in the sky, spinning stars winking at you.

All too soon Eddie pulls away from your neck and observes the damage. You’re sure he finds he succeeded in making a mess of you. Your wetness still smeared across your cheek, hair completely mussed, and your bottom half covered in dirt as you draw in heaving breaths, still coming down from your mind-numbing orgasm.

There’s a small smirk that reaches his eyes more than his mouth before he tugs his hand from between your bodies. Lewdly, he shoves his two middle fingers between your lips. “Hmph!” 

Once the surprise wears off and you cup his hand in both of yours, you allow your eyes to drift shut. The mild taste of your own cum pervades your mouth as he presses his fingers deeper. Your tongue swirls around them, sucking softly. He continues to test the waters, pressing in further until the pads of his fingers grace the back of your tongue, causing you to gag lightly around them. When he pulls them out, they’re wetter than before. He smears the spit over your cheeks, just as he had done with your wetness. An act of dominance which leaves you breathless and twists your stomach into knots.

As you open your eyes, you watch him push himself away from you, sitting back on his haunches. 

“Clean up your mess.” The meaning of his statement only briefly eludes you. 

With wobbly limbs you stumble a step or two on your knees closer to him, intoxicated by your co-mingling scents before his palm finds the crown of your head and he presses you down against him. 

You gaze lovingly up at him and you’re sure the sight from above is simply obscene. 

It’s been too long since you’ve done this which makes it all the more satisfying when your lips wrap around his slowly softening cock. The gentle weight of him in your mouth, the best feeling in the world. Warm and heavy on your tongue as the salty taste of his cum graces your tastebuds and the musky scent of him reaches your nose. 

He inhales sharply on the first suck, then groans as he pushes your head down more. The scent of him here–with your nose nearly nestled against the dark curls above his dick–is dizzying. You try not to gag around him this time before he lets up a bit and allows you to move more freely, greedily licking up your combined juices as his warm cum slowly drips down your thighs. 

Eddie allows you to slurp happily up and down his cock for a few more moments before he decides you’ve cleaned him up sufficiently. When he pulls you off, wetness drips down your chin. He thumbs at the spit there and you watch as he licks it off his own thumb, like he’s savouring chocolate ice cream that dripped off the cone. 

Then, he pets the top of your head gently in appreciation. “Good girl.” 

Your heart simply glows in your ribcage. This blooming feeling is quickly stamped out and replaced with rising panic when he goes to leave. Your heart reaches out for him and comes up empty, as it had when the life had drained from his eyes. It is not the panic from before which left you frightful at the prospect of being caught between claws and sharp teeth. But a panic which urges you to capture him, to keep him in your grasp, even if just for a little while longer. 

When you catch his wrist, he spins around and bares his teeth like an abused animal anticipating harm and hurt–one who has never experienced a soft touch. What’s happened to him? What has he gone through these past few weeks while you’ve been grieving him, unable to eat or sleep or think at all? 

Now that you’ve had him, back again in your arms with a beating heart and warm skin, you couldn’t bear to part with him again. 

This panic, the terror of being clouded with grief again, is what drives you to stutter out, “W-will I see you again?”

Guarded features soften a touch as he stares into your face, trying to determine your motivations. To decipher that hopeful look in your eyes. 

When he leans down to caress your chin softly, you know he’s come to a conclusion. You look imploringly from his left to his right eye, awaiting his response as your heart hammers in your chest. 

"On the next night that the fog creeps over the hills...maybe I'll sneak into your bedroom...and devour you."

You sigh as he gently licks your top lip, close enough now that you could kiss him easily. 

Gently, he grabs your face, his thumb resting on one cheek and his other four fingers on the other. Just before he kisses you you ask him softly, lips brushing, “Promise?”

It’s then he presses his lips to yours, and it’s almost tender before he drags his teeth over your bottom one. A final kiss is pressed to your mouth, soothing the gentle sting that you savour. 

For the briefest of moments you linger in the feeling after he’s pulled away. 

And when you open your eyes, he’s disappeared into the fog. Evaporated into the mist. And it’s like he whispers back to you, Promise.

⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

You wait for him.

All the while, thinking only of him and nothing else. It’s like your grief has intensified—worse the second time around—and after a while you begin to wonder whether you imagined the whole thing. It isn’t much of a stretch to say so. 

After he died, you often took to lying in bed for all hours of the day, staring out the window and watching the shadows grow long before drifting off into a fitful slumber. Tortured by your grief, even in sleep. 

Could it have all been a dream? 

As the days and weeks stretch on and you begin to question your grasp on reality—you return to this schedule. Lying in bed. Watching the world move as you remain still. Nightmares. Repeat. 

You always dreamt of him. Nothing else. Watching the light drain from his eyes. The blood pool around his body. 

He rots until he becomes pearly white bones. And the skeleton comes to life, badgers you with questions. He would ask you, Why didn’t you save me? Why aren’t you dead instead? This is all your fault! I’ll never forgive you!

Your encounter in the woods must have never occurred. It was just another fucked up way for you to torture yourself over his death.

Some nights you never slept, trying to keep the nightmares at bay. And, despite yourself, watched desperately for the fog to roll in. 

It’s weeks before the fog returns to Hawkins.

When it does, and you hear the slow and steady creak of your window being opened as you lie in bed, you know it was all real. 

And Eddie kept his promise. 

Thank you so much for reading!! Please reblog and let me know what you thought!

[gardenladysworld]

Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @fanchonfallen, @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple, @420slvtt, @zimerycuellat

Part 22: To Lost

I'm sorry it took me almost a month to post the new part. Unfortunately, I barely had time to write. I'll try to post the next part within 2 weeks. <3

Part 23: To break

He knew he was overthinking.

Knew he was being that kind of mate again—the one who hovered when you adjusted your mask before you leave the outpost, who always walked one step too close on forest patrol, who checked the wind three times before letting you climb even one vine. You always laughed at him for it.

“Overthinker,” you’d whisper with a smirk, your fingers brushing his arm as you passed. “You’re worse than Norm.”

And maybe you were right.

Maybe today would be like any other. You’d spend one day in the field—just one. Collect some roots, catalog glowing spores, get a few weird cuts from a plant that looked deceptively soft. Then tomorrow… you’d come back. He could bury his face in your neck again, arms locked around you under the morning sun, and feel your laugh rumble against his chest.

He didn’t say it out loud then at the outpost. But he’d wanted to.

Stay.

Just one word.

So why did his gut feel like a knot pulled too tight?

He touched down in the clearing just outside the village, his ikran letting out a low, familiar screech as he dismounted. The breath he exhaled felt heavier than it should’ve. His feet barely hit the ground before a voice drifted from behind him.

“Dad saw you leave at dawn.”

Neteyam turned fast, shoulders tense, already expecting judgment—but it was only Kiri, crouched beside the roots of a flowering tree, her hands working through a bundle of herbs. She didn’t look up, but her brow arched with quiet amusement. “He didn’t say anything, though. Just asked me if you were going hunting.” Her golden eyes lifted. “I didn’t correct him.”

Neteyam exhaled, just a little. “Thanks.”

Kiri hummed, then narrowed her eyes slightly. “She stayed with you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Kiri rolled her eyes with a grin. “You’re so predictable. Honestly, it’s amazing no one else has caught on.”

“Maybe they have, Kiri,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “Maybe they just pretend they haven’t.” He glanced toward the central hearth, where the rest of the village was beginning to stir. “She just... didn’t want to be alone before heading to the pit.”

His sister sobered slightly at that. “The old mining zone?” she said. “I thought they weren’t sending anyone back there.”

“Bridgehead changed their mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a tension still coiled beneath his skin. “Only for a day. She left with the others at sunrise.”

Kiri nodded slowly, brushing a loose braid from her face. “And now you’re pacing around like your tail’s on fire.”

“I’m not pacing—”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Exactly,” she said, grinning. “You’re thinking. And thinking for you means worrying. About her.” She tilted her head. “You know, sometimes I think Eywa gave you a human girl just to test your patience.”

He barked a soft laugh. “Sometimes I think She gave me to her just to test hers.”

A small giggle cut through the morning air behind them. “You always sneak her away!”

Neteyam stiffened and turned just in time to see Tuk stomping across the grass with a fierce little pout on her face. She jabbed a finger up at him like he’d personally insulted her bedtime story.

“Tuk!” Neteyam half-laughed, half-grunted as his little sister slammed into his legs.

“You sneaked her away again!” she pouted, fists pressed to her hips. “I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

“Shh!” Neteyam and Kiri hissed in unison, both crouching to bring her volume down to something less announcing.

Neteyam pulled her close, brushing back her hair. “Tuk, you cannot shout about that.”

“Why not?” she frowned, lower lip trembling like she might cry. “She’s my favorite! She always braids my hair when I ask. And she said I could help her plant the glowing beans next time at the outpost—!”

“Tuk…” Kiri cut in gently. “You know she’s not supposed to be here at night.”

“But she always sneaks in anyway,” Tuk whispered, conspiratorial, “so why can’t she just stay?”

Neteyam sighed. “Because not everyone understands,” he murmured. “It’s not safe. Not yet.”

Tuk blinked. “But… if you love her, can’t you tell everyone?”

Kiri choked on a laugh, covering it with a cough.

Neteyam flushed, glancing at the trees. “It’s not that simple.”

“But you do love her,” Tuk said, wide-eyed. “I see the way you look at her. Like Dad looks at Mom when he thinks we’re not watching.”

Kiri snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

Neteyam laughed then—low and warm, the tension in his shoulders finally unraveling. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Eywa… give me strength.”

“You’ll need it,” Kiri snorted. “Because when Mom finds out? You’re dead.”

Neteyam only smiled. And for the first time since that morning, the weight in his chest didn’t feel so heavy. Maybe you were right. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe you’d be back tomorrow with your arms full of samples, cheeks smudged with dirt, and that stupid glow in your eyes like you’d just found the answer to the universe in a glowing vine.

And when you were—he’d be waiting.

With his arms open.

Just like always.

“You’ll see her again soon, Tuk,” he said, gentler this time. “Maybe even tomorrow.”

Tuk narrowed her eyes, arms crossed. “She better braid my hair first.”

“Deal,” he said with a smile, ruffling her curls. “But only if you don’t tell Mom and Dad that she is with me at night.”

She grinned, all sharp little teeth and sunshine. “I won’t tell. Promise.” And then—just like that—she darted off down the path, chasing her friends with a squeal of laughter.

The forest was quiet again.

Neteyam stood slowly, watching the direction she’d gone, and exhaled. He didn’t realize until now how tight his shoulders had been. Kiri nudged his arm.

“She’s okay,” she said softly. “You’d feel it if she wasn’t.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s just… a feeling.”

Kiri tilted her head. “Is it your feeling? Or hers?”

He looked at her. She gave him that look—the one that always made him feel like she knew more than she should. He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back toward the trees, towards west, eyes scanning the horizon. Tomorrow, he told himself.

Just one more night.

The sun had risen full by now, casting long, amber shadows across the training grounds. The younger warriors-in-training were already gathering in loose clusters, pa’lis tethered nearby, their sleek grey hides shimmering beneath the light.

Neteyam stood at the head of the clearing, arms crossed as he surveyed the group. He let the morning air fill his lungs—wet grass, sweat, the distant scent of roasting rootfruit from the hearth. He could still feel the weight of your absence like a bruise behind his ribs. But work helped. Structure helped.

“All right,” he called, voice steady. “Listen up.”

The warriors fell silent as he approached, straightening instinctively. It showed in the way they looked at him, the way they leaned in when he spoke.

He cleared his throat. “Today’s hunt is different,” he said, voice steady, carrying easily across the courtyard. “No ikrans. We move on pa’li. You need to feel the earth under you again.”

The warriors exchanged quick, eager glances. The hunt needed to be smooth today. No ikrans—only pa’li, as his father had insisted. Grounded hunting. Riding with bow in hand, tracking and striking as their ancestors had before them. He didn’t mind. It built discipline.

He paced a slow circle around the group as he spoke, voice even but sharp with focus.

“We ride south,” he began. “The talioang herds passed through two nights ago. We follow the trail by the river and push them into the shallow basin where the ground is soft.” His eyes skimmed the gathered warriors, young but capable. “We strike from the flanks. No lone riders. Pairs only. And we do not chase the herd once it splits. If you lose your target, you regroup. No hero runs.”

There were some nods. Some sharper grins from the more hot-headed ones. Neteyam crossed his arms, leveling a look at them. “The point is not to show off. The point is control.”

That earned a few guilty shuffles of feet. “They bed down near the water in the heat. We stay mounted—always. We strike from the saddle. Clean shots. We do not separate from our pa’li. If you fall, you are out.”

A ripple of excitement moved through the warriors. Some of them bumped shoulders, grinning like fools. Neteyam almost smiled himself. This was what he was made for. Not diplomacy. Not marriage arrangements. This. “First group will form a half-circle on the northern side,” he continued, drawing a shape in the dirt with the tip of his spear. “Second group will drive them forward. Push them into our trap.”

He crouched lower, marking out the movement with quick, clean strokes. The warriors leaned in, listening sharp and hungry. He could almost forget the rest of the world standing here—almost forget the way his heart twisted whenever he thought of you.

Almost.

He stood, brushing the dirt from his fingers. “Questions?”

A few moments of heavy silence hung over the clearing—then, predictably, the questions started.

“What about you, Neteyam?” one of the younger warriors piped up—a boy named Tanawa. “Will you ride alone?”

The group chuckled lowly. Even Neteyam smiled a little. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No one rides alone today. I’ll pair up, same as the rest of you.”

That earned a few more nudges and sly looks, some of them glancing toward K’shi, who lingered too neatly at the edge of the gathering, pretending to check her bowstring. Neteyam pointedly ignored them.

Another voice called out—this time from Ärengko, a sturdier boy who already had the heavy shoulders of a future warrior. “Will you take the kill, Neteyam? Or leave it for us?”

A few of the younger ones laughed at that, jostling each other with mock offense. Neteyam’s mouth twitched at the corner. Good. They’re excited. “I’ll only take a kill if you fail,” he said simply, stepping around them again. His eyes gleamed with quiet challenge. “And I expect you not to.”

That lit a fire under them. A few stood a little taller, puffed their chests. Young, yes—but hungry. Determined. He liked that.

Another question—this one laced with a grin from Pakxo, older and always one to stir trouble: “And if you fall from your pa’li, do we leave you in the mud, Neteyam?”

The others chuckled under their breath, looking toward their leader. Neteyam let a rare smirk curl at the edge of his mouth. “If I fall,” he said dryly, “you will laugh at me for the rest of your lives.”

The warriors howled with laughter at that, a rough, warm sound that echoed across the clearing. Neteyam rolled his eyes fondly, about to signal the end of questions—when he caught it.

A flicker of movement at the edge of the clearing. K’shi. Standing half in shadow, half in the golden morning light, arms folded in an artful pose that was definitely meant to look casual but wasn’t. And she was watching him. Only him.

Neteyam set his jaw and looked away sharply, pretending he hadn’t seen it. But of course, the warriors had. He heard the low hiss of whispers passing through the group like wind through tall grass: “She’s watching him again…”

“Maybe she’ll ride with him.”

“Lucky Neteyam, huh?”

He stiffened slightly, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he answered a few last questions about the tracking formations. Pretending he didn’t hear the teasing. Pretending he didn’t feel the weight of those knowing looks pressing at the edge of his patience.

Ignore it. he told himself sharply.

One last hand lifted—Txo’ma, earnest and practical. “Will we be setting traps too, or only the push?”

Neteyam seized the question like a drowning man grabbing a vine. “No traps,” he said briskly. “The basin terrain is too soft. It would slow the pa’li and risk injury. We drive them with pressure alone—noise, speed, formation.”

More nods, more thoughtful looks. Good. They were settling now. Listening. Ready to move.

Neteyam took one last breath, letting the morning air fill his chest and steady him. He didn’t look toward K’shi again. He didn’t have to. He could feel her gaze clinging to him like burrs caught in fur.

And as much as he tried to focus on the hunt ahead, a small, sour thought coiled low in his gut: How many more times will I have to smile and nod while others decide my future for me?

Still. Work first. Always work first. He was about to move on when another boy—Ja'yen, always the smart one—leaned a little closer to his friend and muttered just loud enough for others to hear, “Looks like someone else wants to pair with Neteyam, anyway.”

A few others snickered. He could feel the weight of her stare from across the clearing, like the sun itself had focused into a single burning line aimed straight at his skull.

He gritted his teeth and turned back toward the warriors, pointing. “The trail should be easy to find. Fresh tracks. Broken reeds. Watch the wind.”

But even as he spoke, the snickering picked up behind him—because now, from the corner of his vision, he saw K’shi. Striding closer. Trying very hard to pretend it was casual. Neteyam braced himself.

She approached the group slowly, her steps light and measured, her smile a soft curve as she tucked a loose braid behind her ear. She was tall, confident, hair braided with feathers and bone—obviously skilled, beautiful in the way the clan valued. The kind of mate every parent dreams of for their eldest son. A few of the younger boys elbowed each other. Someone actually whistled—quick and low, but Neteyam caught it anyway.

He wanted to scream.

K’shi stopped just a little too close, her smile tilted coy. “Neteyam,” she said, voice like warm honey, “I heard about the hunt. I would be honored to join your party.” She placed one hand lightly on her hip, tilting her head just so. “You could use more skilled riders, could you not?”

Around them, the warriors pretended not to watch—but he heard the soft chuckles, the low whistles under breath.

"Girls chasing him like ikran on a hunt."

"K’shi too—lucky bastard."

“Next Olo’eyktan won’t even need to choose a mate. They’re lining up for him.”

Neteyam gritted his teeth so hard he thought his fangs might crack. He offered K’shi the barest, tightest smile. “Your skills are known, K’shi. But today’s hunt is for the training of the younger warriors. You are beyond that.”

Flatter her. Make it sound like a favor. Keep it professional. Keep it safe.

But K’shi only smiled wider, leaning even closer, her shoulder almost brushing his. “Still,” she murmured, “I could help... oversee. Assist you. You should not carry the burden alone.” She lowered her voice, her eyes sparkling. “You could... lean on me. If you needed.”

Neteyam bet his whole soul—and his ikran, and the next storm season—that his mother had a hand in this.

He could almost hear Neytiri’s voice now: “K’shi is strong. She is clever. You should speak to her more. Get to know her.”

This was what she wanted. Some nice, respectable Na’vi girl. One from a strong family. One who could give him strong sons. One who wasn’t a human scientist always scribbling in a datapad and laughing at the wrong jokes.

I would rather count every blade of grass from here to the floating mountains, Neteyam thought grimly. Twice.

And still—still—he forced himself to answer gently: “Your offer honors me. But today, I ride only with the trainees.”

“Oh, but I would not distract them,” she said quickly, stepping even closer until the distance between them was barely polite. “I would stay by your side.”

Eywa, take me now.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, just a flicker. But she smiled again, smooth and poised. “Perhaps another time, then.”

He opened his mouth to politely, firmly reject her when—

“Brother!”

Lo’ak crashed through the gathering with all the subtlety of a charging thanator, grinning like he’d just gotten away with something. “Dad’s calling for us,” Lo’ak said casually, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “Wants to see us before we leave. Now.”

It wasn’t a lie. Neteyam knew it wasn’t. But it had never sounded more like a lifeline.

Neteyam almost dropped to his knees right there. Instead, he grabbed his spear, turned to K’shi, and gave a short, stiff nod. “Forgive me. Duty calls.”

He barely waited for her polite nod before he was striding after Lo’ak like the devil himself was on his heels. They left behind the warriors, the gossiping, the stifled laughter.

When they were finally out of earshot, Neteyam let out a breath like he’d been holding it for ten minutes.

“I swear,” he muttered, “I will build you a shrine.”

Lo’ak laughed. “She had the look, bro. Like she was about to start carving your mating beads for you.”

Neteyam groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Mother put her up to it. I know it.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“I’d rather wrestle a palulukan naked than sit through another forced conversation like that.”

“You poor thing,” Lo’ak said, dramatically patting his shoulder. “So tragic. All the pretty girls want you.”

“I’m going to throw you into a tree.”

“You’d miss,” Lo’ak grinned.

Neteyam gave him a sideways glare. “You sure Father wants us?”

Lo’ak nodded. “Yeah. But I just figured if I didn’t get you out of there soon, you’d throw yourself into a strumbeest stampede.”

“I considered it.”

Lo’ak grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Neteyam exhaled again, this time with a softer smile. “Seriously. I owe you.”

“Eh,” Lo’ak shrugged. “I just know your girl wouldn’t like it if you got stuck riding off with K’shi into the sunset.”

Neteyam paused, then smirked. “You think she’d be jealous?”

“I think,” Lo’ak said, “she’d braid your ears together while you slept.”

Neteyam laughed—and this time, it reached his chest. Even if just for a moment.

They walked together through the village paths, the packed earth still damp underfoot from the early morning mist. Neteyam and Lo’ak moved quietly now, the energy from earlier bleeding away with each step closer to the kelku.

Their family home loomed ahead—woven high into the trees, broad-leafed and strong, shaped with care by many hands over many years. It was home, and yet Neteyam felt the tightness coil back into his gut the closer he came to it. As if the walls themselves carried expectations heavier than any armor.

Lo’ak shot him a sideways look, reading his tension easily. But—for once—he didn’t tease. Maybe he knew this wasn’t the time. At the entrance, Jake’s voice reached them first.

“—need to move fast. Before the storm.”

Neteyam ducked through the low-hanging vines first, Lo’ak close behind. Their father stood near the center of the room, shoulders tense, arms crossed, that permanent set to his jaw that said something was wrong. Neytiri was beside him, quiet but sharp-eyed, her bow leaning against the wall within easy reach.

“You called for us?” Neteyam said, straightening.

Jake nodded, curt. “We have a situation.”

Neytiri shifted slightly, her tail flicking. She was uneasy too.

Jake nodded, still looking at the map. “Lo’ak said you were just wrapping the briefing for the hunt. Good. You’ll still make it out before eclipse.”

Neteyam stepped closer, his posture shifting into the straight-backed, chin-lifted stance he always used around their father now. “What’s going on?”

Jake tapped a spot on the map. “Here. Northeast. Just beyond the old mining pit.”

Neteyam’s heart sank. Northeast. That was close. Too close.

“You think it’s the RDA?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Already fearing the alternative.

“I don’t think anything yet,” Jake said. “Could be Norm and his people—got turned around, maybe. Maybe got cut off. Maybe some old drone reactivated. We’ve seen stranger things. But I want eyes on it before the eclipse. We’ll scout tonight. On ikrans.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched. “I don’t think it’s Norm’s team.”

Jake frowned. “And why’s that?”

Neteyam hesitated just a beat too long. Neytiri turned her eyes sharply toward him. “You are certain of where Norm’s team is?”

He nodded once, too smoothly. “I saw them. Days ago. On patrol. The xenobotany team said they’d be collecting data at the old pit on this day.”

“Since when do you forget to report something like that?” Jake asked, the words calm but clipped. “You’ve been thorough lately.”

Neteyam met his father’s gaze evenly. “It slipped. My focus’s been on the warriors and the southern border.”

A long pause stretched between them—Jake still watching him like he was trying to hear what wasn’t being said. Neteyam held the silence, refusing to flinch. Eventually, Jake sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “All right. We’ll know for sure once we’re in the air.”

Lo’ak stepped in, arms folding. “So it’s us three?”

Jake nodded. “We fly in after the hunt. Before the eclipse hits. I want a clean look before the storm rolls in. If it’s nothing, we’re back before mudnight. If it is something—”

“We deal with it,” Neteyam finished.

“Good,” Jake said. “You, me, Lo’ak. Fast and quiet. I don't want a whole war party unless we find something real.”

Lo’ak shifted, looking like he wanted to crack a joke and wisely deciding against it. The air was too heavy for it. Neteyam nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the request. This wasn’t a father asking his sons to tag along. This was the Olo’eyktan giving orders. Orders you didn’t refuse. Not that Neteyam would. Duty came first. Always.

They hadn't really talked in weeks. Not really. Every word between them now was duty, hunting formations, patrol rotations. Nothing else. Not the unspoken pressure about finding a mate. Not the arguments, the ones that simmered under every glance, every stiff nod of dismissal. Neteyam had grown colder to it all these past few months—more stubborn. More silent. It was the only way he could survive the suffocating weight of what they wanted him to be.

Jake must have felt it too. But neither of them said it out loud. Across the room, Neytiri stirred. Her voice was quiet but firm. “I am going as well,” she said firmly.

Jake turned to her, brows lifting. "Neytiri—"

“I go,” she said again, eyes hard and full of something fierce and ancient. “If humans are there—if they come near what we have lost again—I will see it with my own eyes.” 

Neteyam knew better than to argue. When his mother decided something, not even Jake could move her.  Jake hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. We’ll all go.”

“Alright,” he said. “We leave before eclipse. Just after Neteyam returns from the hunt.”

Neytiri looked satisfied. Lo’ak looked a little too eager. And Neteyam—Neteyam felt like his bones were wrapped in thorns. If you were still out there… If you were caught up in that movement… If your path had taken you anywhere near the northeast—

He didn’t let the thought finish. He just prayed to Eywa that you were still safe. Still tucked deep in the pit, buried in your plants and your data and your weird, wonderful focus.

Because if anything happened to you out there— He didn’t know what he’d do.

“You two prep your gear,” Jake said, already turning back toward the map spread across the floor mat. “This one needs to go clean. No mistakes.”

Neteyam gave a sharp nod and turned, walking out with Lo’ak on his heels. The moment they were outside, his brother leaned in.

“That was smooth,” Lo’ak muttered. “You saw them ‘on patrol,’ huh?”

Neteyam didn’t break stride. “Drop it.”

“I’m just saying,” Lo’ak said with a grin, “you’re getting better at lying. I’m proud of you.”

Neteyam rolled his eyes. “Don’t be.”

Neteyam stepped out into the light once more, the sky now high and bright above the village. The weight of the conversation with his parents still pressed against his shoulders, but he pushed it aside. One thing at a time.

The hunt came first.

As he moved back toward the gathering grounds, he could already see the warriors-in-training assembling again. Pa’li pawed at the ground nearby, bows slung over shoulders. A few of them greeted him again with eager nods, standing straighter as he approached. Neteyam offered a few curt nods back, but didn’t speak yet.

Lo’ak moved beside him silently, then elbowed him with a small, dry smirk. “Heads up.” Neteyam followed his line of sight—and felt his stomach twist.

Neytiri stood near the edge of the training ring, clearly followed them, in low, hushed conversation with none other than K’shi. The young huntress smiled, graceful and poised, and stood a little too close to Neytiri. Her braids gleamed in the light, feathers carefully arranged, and her expression was full of that infuriating mix of humility and expectation.

And then—Neytiri looked up. Right at him. Their eyes locked for a second. Long enough to know it wasn’t coincidence.

Neteyam turned sharply on his heel before either of them could say anything, jaw tight, and mounted his pa’li in one clean motion. “Mount up,” he called to the gathered warriors. “We ride soon.”

The others hurried to obey, the energy rising again as they prepared. Neteyam leaned forward, gently tapping the creature’s neck, trying to focus. Just get through the hunt. But before he could move so much as an inch, a quiet rustle of footsteps came from the side—soft, deliberate. He didn’t need to look.

“I see you are leaving without her,” Neytiri said calmly, her voice close now.

Neteyam exhaled through his nose and looked down at her from his mount. “The hunt is for the trainees. She’s not needed.”

Neytiri tilted her head, unreadable. “She is skilled. They could learn from her.”

“She is not one of them,” he replied, too quickly.

“She is more experienced than half of them.”

“She is not needed,” he said, voice tighter now.

His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You do not trust her to lead?”

“I do not want her here,” he said finally, biting the words before they grew too sharp. “This hunt is about them. I do not want distractions. I do not want…” He hesitated. “Complications.”

Neytiri studied him for a moment, searching for something in his expression. “You are the future Olo’eyktan,” she said gently. “You must learn to lead alongside others. Especially those who may one day share that future.”

Neteyam looked away, gripping the reins a little too tightly. “This is not about leading,” he muttered. “And it’s not about training. It’s about you wanting me to choose.”

Neytiri’s silence said everything he needed to know.

He glanced back at her, his voice low. “You’ve already chosen for me.”

“I have not,” she said, quieter now. “But I know the path that brings strength. That brings peace. That brings balance to the people.”

He shook his head. “She is not my balance.”

Neytiri’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened. “She would stand beside you. She understands this life. She would not drag you into the sky and away from your people.”

His throat tightened. “And what if I don’t want someone who stands beside me because it’s expected?”

Neytiri’s eyes flickered. “Then you risk standing alone.”

They stood in silence for a breath, the air around them heavy. Warriors shifted in the background, unaware of the quiet storm brewing at the edge of the hunt. Finally, Neteyam leaned forward on his pa’li, his voice steady but cold. “Then I stand alone.”

Neytiri’s expression didn’t waver. “And yet she came. She offered. Do you think she does not notice how you dismiss her?”

“She doesn’t need to be here just to be dismissed,” he muttered.

His mother narrowed her eyes. “You speak as if she is a burden.”

“I speak as if this is a training hunt,” Neteyam bit out. “Not a matchmaking ceremony.”

That caught her. A flash of surprise—and then something colder beneath her gaze. “She is Omatikaya,” Neytiri said, low and clipped. “She is strong. Loyal. Respected. You would be wise to know her better.”

“I know enough,” Neteyam snapped before he could stop himself. They stared at each other in silence for a moment—warrior to warrior, but also mother to son. “I do not need help managing this hunt,” he said, voice dropping to something quiet and final. “And I don’t want her there.”

Neytiri’s jaw tensed. “You would let a girl from the clan feel cast aside, when she offers her strength?”

Neteyam’s hands tightened on the reins. “I would let her know that not every gesture must be accepted just because it’s offered.”

Neytiri stepped back a fraction, the corner of her mouth twitching with disapproval. “You forget your place.”

“No,” Neteyam said, looking forward now, his voice flat. “I remember it. Every day.”

For a moment, Neytiri looked at him like she didn’t quite recognize him—then she turned away, silent as a shadow, and walked back toward the path where K’shi waited. Neteyam didn’t watch her go. “Move out!” he called, clicking his tongue as the pa’li surged forward beneath him. The hunt began. And he didn’t look back.

The hunt stretched long under a darkening sky.

By afternoon, the air had thickened—warm and damp, the kind of sticky humidity that clung to your skin and promised a storm before nightfall. Thunderhead clouds crawled along the horizon, low and brooding, casting a dull, silver-gray sheen across the plains. The sun was still above the trees, but the light had shifted. Softer. Dimmer. A warning.

Neteyam rode at the edge of the formation, his pa’li moving in smooth, quick strides through the tall grass. The riders flanked him, young warriors tense with anticipation, bows gripped in uncertain hands. They had followed the herd south, just as he predicted. The strumbeests had crossed the shallow riverbed and bedded briefly in the softer basin ground before moving again, likely stirred by the charged air.

It was Lo’ak who spotted them first—five thick-necked beasts, moving through a narrow glade beyond the last ridge. The warriors tightened ranks.

They split into pairs just as trained, two by two, fanning into a wide arc to push the herd back toward the clearing. It was a good plan—smart, simple. But the pa’li were nervous. The wind had shifted. Distant thunder cracked once above the trees.

The strumbeests sensed it too. The biggest one, a bull with jagged horns and a wide scar across its flank, reared back suddenly and broke into a charge before the others could react. It crashed through the shallows and made for the open field.

“Hold the formation!” Neteyam shouted.

But one of the younger pairs panicked. Their pa’li reared; their arrows loosed too soon. The beast took one in the shoulder—only a graze—but it was enough to enrage it.

It turned. Snorting. Charging straight at them. Neteyam was already moving. He spurred his mount and galloped low, weaving between riders. His bow was in hand before he even registered the motion.

He nocked an arrow. One breath.

The wind cut across his cheek.

Another breath.

The beast roared. He loosed.

The arrow struck deep, straight into the strumbeest’s chest right into its operculum. It stumbled, let out a terrible sound, then fell hard into the shallow creekbed with a splash of mud and water. Silence followed. Only the soft shuffle of hooves and the slow panting of the pa’li. Neteyam sat still for a moment, shoulders tense, bow still half-raised.

Then he exhaled. The warriors regrouped, their expressions sheepish, winded, wide-eyed. Lo’ak trotted up beside him, letting out a low whistle. “Well,” Lo’ak said, glancing at the fallen beast. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Neteyam didn’t respond right away. He looked back over the young hunters, watching them dismount, some already approaching the strumbeest to prepare the body for transport. When he finally spoke, it was with quiet conviction. “You held the line,” he said, turning toward them. “You didn’t run. You missed—but you tried. That’s what matters today.”

Some of them looked relieved. Others are embarrassed. But all nodded. “First time hunting from pa’li isn’t easy,” Neteyam added, quieter now. “You’ll do better next time.”

That earned him a few smiles. A few straighter backs. The mood lightened, if only a little, as the warriors set to work. The strumbeest was cleaned swiftly, tools pulled from saddlebags, hands practiced if not yet graceful. The smell of blood mixed with the coming rain.

Neteyam let his pa’li walk toward the edge of the clearing, where the creek still ran shallow and clear. He dismounted, stepping into the cool water, its surface rippling softly around his feet. He stood there for a long moment, the sky above beginning to change with the eclipse’s approach. The light was getting stranger now—dimmer, gold-tinged, almost dreamlike.

He looked down. Among the stones and moss, something caught his eye. A shimmer. He crouched, brushing water aside, and plucked the object from the streambed.

A stone—small, smooth, and iridescent. Its surface shimmered in the shifting light, catching greens and blues and soft, smoky purples. Not just light. Color. Like the glowing spores you were always chasing, laughing with that wild-eyed joy.

Neteyam turned it over in his fingers, frowning slightly, and then… a small smile tugged at his mouth. It would make a good pendant. A small one—simple. Nothing elaborate. But something he could shape with his hands. Something he could give you. Something only you would understand.

He imagined your reaction—eyebrows lifting, a laugh just under your breath, fingers brushing it like it was made of starlight. Maybe you'd tease him. Maybe you'd say something clever, something human. But you'd smile.

And he wanted that smile. That look. He slid the stone into the small pouch at his side, glancing skyward. The light had changed again. The first sliver of eclipse was creeping across the sun, shadows sharpening, strange and long.

You said they’d return before the eclipse. The xenobotany team had strict protocols—they had to be back before nightfall, before the storms, before the high-altitude winds made flying unsafe.

You promised. He reached up absently and touched the pouch again, grounding himself. You would be safe. You would come back. He would see you again—soon.

The storm cracked the sky in half.

Rain battered the canopy above, fat and warm, pouring in sheets against the woven walls of the kelku. Wind howled through the upper branches, shaking the structure with each gust, and thunder rolled so loud it made the bones in Neteyam’s chest rattle.

But he sat still.

The flickering firepit cast low light across the room, embers pulsing red and gold, shadows dancing up the curved wood beams. The flames guttered now and then when the wind snuck through a gap in the walls, sending sparks skittering across the floor. Beside him, a knife gleamed dull in the firelight, and scattered bones sat in a tidy pile, pale against the dark pelt beneath him.

In his palm lay the small iridescent stone. He turned it slowly between his fingers, watching how the firelight danced across it—blue, green, violet, a hint of silver. The color shimmered, ever-shifting like the sky at twilight. It reminded him of you. Of the way light clung to your skin when you leaned over your datapad, eyes half-lit with wonder. Of the way your smile always hit faster than your words.

Neteyam let the stone settle against his palm and reached out, grabbing a small curved knife from the floor near the hearth. Beside it, a bundle of thin, pale bones—sanded down, dried clean—lay wrapped in leather cord. Notched, old, but strong. He unwrapped them slowly, eyes flicking to the shadows cast by the lightning flashing through the walls. The fire hissed as it caught one of the storm’s exhalations.

He smiled.

He could already see how it would look—the stone wrapped tight with sinew, flanked by bone beads shaped with simple curves. Clean. Natural. Something for you alone.

You would fidget the moment he gave it to you. Look down at your hands, smile crooked, mutter something about how “you didn’t have to,” even while your fingers curled around it like it was the most precious thing you’d ever touched.

And then you’d wear it. Always. Just like you did with the bracelet he gave you half a year ago. You wore that bracelet like it was a badge. Like it connected you to something deeper than science.

To him.

He began to carve.

The knife moved easily—clean strokes shaving thin curls from the bone, his fingers steady despite the storm. Each small bead he shaped was smooth and purposeful, the rhythm of his work syncing with the fire’s crackle and the beat of rain above. Outside, thunder cracked again, and the whole kelku flashed with white light for a moment—then fell back into flickering amber.

The beads came slowly. One at a time. He lined them up beside the stone, imagining how they’d rest against your collarbone. His expression softened, pride flickering behind his focused eyes.

But as his hands worked, his thoughts wandered. To the flight earlier.

The storm hadn’t broken yet when they left. He’d returned from the hunt—drenched in sweat and the stink of blood but satisfied—and barely had time to drink before he was saddled again, flying into the darkening sky on his ikran beside his family.

Neytiri. Jake. Lo’ak. And him. The four of them had flown north as the first eclipse shadows stretched over the trees, their ikrans soaring low, wings skimming the high canopy. The forest grew stranger in the eclipse light—half-night, half-day, colors muted to bronze and gray, as if Eywa herself were holding her breath.

They reached the clearing in silence. And there it was. The unmistakable hulking mass of a dragon assault ship, half-buried in the tall grass. Its hull was scorched in places, but intact. Nearby, a Scorpion—parked for safety, rotors folded back. There were crates nearby. Scorch marks in the dirt. Trampled underbrush. All the signs of a deployment zone.

But no people. No movement. No sound. It was like they had landed… and vanished.

Neytiri had crouched at the edge of their perch, her entire body tense. She stared down at the ship with a look Neteyam had only seen once before.. Her voice, when she finally spoke, had been sharp as obsidian. “They are back. And they are close.”

Lo’ak hadn’t said anything. Neither had Jake. Not right away. The silence stretched, the only sound the distant churn of the approaching wind. Neteyam could still feel it—the pressure, the burn of it behind his ribs. They didn’t see a single human. But there had been movement recently. The soil told that story. So did the discarded wrappers, the markings on the crates. Tools and sealed gear. The kind no recon team left behind.

Neytiri had wanted to destroy the ships. Set fire to the clearing and let Eywa decide what remained. But Jake had held her back. “We don’t know why they’re here yet,” he’d said. “We don’t make the first move unless we have to.”

Neteyam hadn’t disagreed. But as he glanced at the empty ship, something inside him had turned cold.

Why now? Why so close?

And the look she gave those ships… Neteyam knew it by heart. Grief, buried under rage. She’d lost too much to sky people. She didn’t trust coincidence. And neither did he.

They’d left soon after, under strict silence, flying back into winds that threatened to tear them from the sky. Jake said he’d speak to Norm in the following, see if there were signs anyone had passed word of this movement. But Neteyam had his doubts.

Did Norm know? Did you?

He knew you didn’t lie well. If you'd known something this big, this dangerous, you would’ve told him. Wouldn’t you?

He carved another bead. This one thinner. Smoother.

His fingers moved faster now, catching the light as the beads began to stack beside him—each one small, perfect, shaped to slide on a leather cord. He had no design yet, not really. Just a feeling. Something that reminded him of the moments he treasured most: your hands brushing his as you passed tools, the way your eyes lit up under bioluminescence, the sound of your breath when you laughed in the quietest part of the forest.

Neteyam clenched his jaw and set down the bone shard he’d been carving. He picked up the iridescent stone again, turning it over in the firelight. Lightning flashed through the kelku, and for a breath, your face filled his mind—smiling, lit from below by a bioluminescent spore cluster, skin smudged with dirt and joy.

You were already back. Safe at the outpost. Behind its shields. Surrounded by Norm, Max, and the others. You were smart. Careful. And you never broke your word.

But the world was different now. He glanced toward the woven wall, where water slipped down the fibers. The sound of rain had changed—harsher now. As if the storm had teeth. The forest wasn’t just dangerous now. It was hunted.

And if the sky demons were moving again—if this was the start of something—he’d do anything to keep you from it. He set the stone carefully between the beads and reached for the knife again. The next bead would be smaller. Closer to the stone. Delicate, but strong.

Just like you.

The storm outside howled louder. But in the warmth of the kelku, surrounded by firelight and bone and purpose, Neteyam carved. And the gift he shaped was not just a pendant.

It was a promise. He’d see you again. And when he did—you’d wear this against your skin. And you’d smile.

It was bright. Too bright. The forest shimmered with golden sunlight pouring down through the thick canopy. Every leaf, every vine, every stone pulsed with life. The air was fresh and warm, the scents of flowers and damp earth so vivid he could almost taste them.

Neteyam moved through the trees with growing urgency, heart hammering against his ribs. He called out, but the sound of his voice was swallowed by the forest. Everywhere he looked, there was color—bright birds flickering through the trees, insects buzzing in lazy circles, the river ahead gleaming like a ribbon of light.

But you weren’t there.

He searched. He searched until the ground blurred under his feet and his breath came sharp and shallow. He checked the vines you liked to climb. The caves you liked to explore. The meadows you would lie down in just to watch the suns drift by overhead.

Nothing. You were nowhere. Panic gnawed at him. That cold, sharp panic he rarely let himself feel. Not in battle. Not in hunts. But now.

He was losing you. He staggered through another wall of green, nearly slipping in the wet moss—and stopped. There. By the creek.

Colourful fishes flitted around your fingers, nibbling curiously. You wiggled your fingers at them with a soft, delighted laugh, your hair falling in messy strands across your face. The sunlight kissed your skin, and for a moment, you seemed almost made of it.

Relief hit Neteyam so hard he nearly dropped to his knees. He exhaled, a raw, broken sound he barely recognized as his own, and started toward you. Of course you had wandered off. Of course you were chasing something curious and beautiful. It was who you were. And how could he ever stay mad at you for it?

He walked closer, the ground cool beneath his feet, his voice soft and cracking at the edges. “There you are,” he said.

You looked up at him, your face splitting into a huge, radiant grin. Your eyes sparkled in the sunlight—alive, mischievous, full of everything he loved and everything that scared him to death.

Without a word, you pushed yourself upright and reached toward him with wet, dripping hands. Before he could react he was already leaning down to your level, your palms cupped his face—cold, slippery from the water—and he froze, wide-eyed. Your grin widened. “You found me,” you said, like it was the most obvious, wonderful thing in the world.

Neteyam swallowed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders all at once. “I always will,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

You laughed again, bright and easy, and gently dragged your thumbs across his cheeks, leaving damp streaks behind. “You were worried,” you teased, your eyes narrowing playfully.

He huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a groan. His hands lifted to cover yours, pressing your palms firmer against his face, grounding himself in the feel of you. “You don’t listen,” he muttered, his forehead brushing against yours as he closed his eyes. “You never listen.”

You only laughed again, tilting your face up so your mask bumped his head. “That’s why you love me.”

And Eywa help him, it was true. Neteyam exhaled against the glass panel, the warmth of your hands cradling his face still grounding him—when something shifted. He blinked.

And the world was no longer bathed in gold.

The sunlight vanished, swallowed by a heavy, oppressive darkness. A cold rain lashed against his skin, the roar of the storm all around him. The trees groaned under the weight of the wind, their branches thrashing like wounded creatures.

Neteyam realized he was crouched on a high branch, slick with rain, the bark beneath his hands cold and wet.

For a moment, disoriented, he looked around—searching, heart pounding against his ribs. Then he saw you. You were there, only a few feet away, clinging to the branch, your body trembling with cold and fear. Your hair, soaked and tangled, stuck to your mask and neck. Your clothes clung to your small frame, and you pressed yourself low against the bark as though trying to disappear into it.

Before he could call out, before he could even breathe your name, you turned your head sharply toward him, eyes wide with terror. You pressed your small fingers quickly to his lips, shaking your head with urgent ferocity.

Be quiet.

He froze instantly, obeying without question. Your lips trembled as you leaned in, close enough that he could just hear your whisper over the rain: “They’re here,” you breathed. “Viperwolves.”

Neteyam’s blood turned to ice.

Your eyes darted downward—and he followed your gaze. Far below, weaving through the underbrush like dark, restless shadows, the viperwolves prowled. Their sleek forms slithered through the misty forest floor, low to the ground, muscles rippling under soaked fur. Snarling. Sniffing the air.

Hunting.

Hunting you.

You pressed closer to him, your body rigid with fear. He could feel the way you shivered, not just from the cold—but from terror. Real, paralyzing fear. And Eywa, he had never seen you like this. Not you. Not the girl who laughed at storms and climbed higher than any scientist had any right to. Not the girl who would poke at a thanator’s pawprint just to marvel at how big it was.

He felt something hot coil inside him—a fierce, protective anger. His hand moved automatically, sliding down across his chest, fingers brushing the hilt of the knife strapped there. His instincts roared awake.

Protect. Shield. Fight if you must.

He leaned in closer, so their shoulders touched, so you could hear him even through the rain. His hand brushed lightly over your arm, steadying, grounding. “Hey,” he whispered, voice low and steady. “Breathe. You’re safe.”

You shook your head slightly, your wet hair clinging to your cheeks. “They’re hunting me. They followed me. I ran, but—”

“You did good,” he cut in gently. His hand pressed against the small of your back now, warm despite the rain. “You climbed. You got out of reach. That’s smart.” You blinked up at him. He could see the doubt, the terror clawing at you. He shook his head firmly. “I’m here now,” he said. “They won’t touch you. I swear.”

Slowly, very slowly, he moved his hand up and cupped the side of your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain, shielding you from the fear. Your forehead leaned instinctively into his palm, seeking the warmth and safety. “I will protect you, yawne,” he murmured. “Always.”

Another snarl echoed below—but Neteyam didn’t flinch. His whole focus narrowed to you—to the way you trembled under his hand, to the way your heart raced against his side. “We’ll wait,” he whispered. “Let the storm cover us. Then I’ll get you out. You trust me, yes?”

Your lower lip trembled, but you nodded. Pressed your forehead against his shoulder. Neteyam’s arms tightened around you instinctively. Nothing would take you from him. Not rain. Not fear. Not viperwolves. He closed his eyes, feeling your small form against him, the storm raging around them—but in the hollow space between you, there was something stronger. Something steady.

And he held onto that as he planned the way down—already thinking of how to move, how to shield you, how to make sure, no matter what, you would make it out safe. You were his to protect. And he would never let you fall.

Neteyam woke with a sharp breath, like he had surfaced from deep water.

For a moment, he just sat there in the dim morning light, blinking blearily at the woven ceiling of the kelku, his heart still pounding dully in his chest. The storm had passed sometime during the night; he could hear the steady drip-drip of rainwater sliding from the leaves outside, the soft hum of the waking village in the distance.

He dragged a hand over his face, his palm rough against the skin still damp with sweat. The dream still clung to him—sticky, heavy, colder than anything he'd ever dreamt of you before.

Normally, dreams of you were warm, sweet things. Quiet laughter. Whispered words. The soft brush of your fingertips against his chest. Sometimes, dreams he woke from with his cheeks burning, your smile flashing in his mind like a secret only he was allowed to carry.

But this... This had been different. Dark. Terrifying in a way that gnawed at his gut even now. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the tight knot of unease coiled low in his belly. It was just a dream. Nothing more. You were safe. You were fine.

Probably hadn’t slept all night, though, he thought with a small, dry smirk. He could practically picture you now: bouncing from workstation to workstation at the outpost, hair a mess, goggles pushed up onto your forehead, muttering rapid-fire notes into your recorder as you tested the new spore samples the xenobotany team had pulled from the pit.

You lived for discovery. You never slowed down. And Eywa, he loved you for it. Even if you wore yourself to the bone sometimes. You never could resist new samples. He chuckled under his breath. His relentless, unstoppable little human.

He sat up slowly on the edge of his pelt, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering tension. Already, his thoughts were drifting to you—how your face would light up when you explained some new discovery, how your hands would wave wildly as you tried to describe some chemical reaction that made absolutely no sense to him but sounded beautiful all the same because it was you saying it.

He missed you. Even though he had seen you the morning before. Even though it hadn't even been a full day. He missed you enough that a new idea slipped into his mind, quiet but insistent. I should see her tonight.

The thought settled there like a promise. He would find an excuse to slip away after the evening duties. Maybe just watch you work and listen to your ramble yourself into laughter. Anything. He just needed to see you. To remind himself you were real and alive and safe.

Just as Neteyam started to push himself up from his pelt, thinking about slipping away quietly to start his day before anyone could catch him, a soft sound made him stiffen — the faint swish of vines parting.

He looked up sharply.

At the entrance to his kelku stood Neytiri, her silhouette outlined in the pale morning light. Her expression was calm. Too calm. Neteyam immediately felt the tension return, settling deep in his spine like a coil ready to snap.

“Ma’itan,” Neytiri said, stepping lightly into the room.  It wasn’t a mother checking on her son. It was the Olo’eyktan’s mate arriving with duty. Expectation.

He said nothing. He only straightened where he sat, waiting.

"You will go with Sa’nari today," Neytiri said without ceremony. No greeting. No kindness to soften the blow. Just the words, heavy as stones.

Sa’nari. Another one of the “chosen” girls. A skilled healer, yes. Gentle, wise, kind — all the things a good tsahìk might look for in the future mate of an Olo’eyktan. Exactly the kind of girl his mother and grandmother would favor. Exactly the kind of girl that wasn't you.

Neteyam blinked slowly at her, forcing himself to stay still when every part of him wanted to groan, flop backward into his pelt, and will himself into nonexistence. Eywa help him, he had barely survived yesterday being paraded around like a prize calf for K’shi—and now this?

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at her, jaw clenching tighter. Neytiri stepped inside a little, her expression softening just barely. "Sa’nari is skilled," she said, as if that explained everything. "A healer. Gentle, but strong. Mo'at sent her to gather herbs today by the western basin. The creek." Her eyes met his pointedly. "You will go with her." A pause. "Guard her. Learn from her. Know her."

Neteyam’s fists curled against his thighs. He knew better than to speak quickly—but the words came out anyway, sharper than he meant. "I don’t want to go."

Neteyam stared at his mother, a muscle ticking in his jaw. But Neytiri’s gaze pinned him where he sat. Calm. Expectant. Unyielding. She wasn’t asking. She stepped closer, folding her hands neatly. “She needs protection.” Her tone shifted slightly, almost too casual. “And... time to be known. To you.”

Neteyam let his head fall back slightly, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Of course. Of course it wasn’t just about guarding. It was another push. Another quiet pressure disguised as duty. He fought the heavy sigh rising in his chest. “I have patrols,” he said tightly. “Lo’ak can go with her.”

“Lo’ak is needed elsewhere,” Neytiri said swiftly. “You are free this afternoon.”

He gave her a look — flat and unamused. “Mother—”

She lifted her hand in a quiet but firm motion. “You already hurt K’shi’s feelings yesterday,” Neytiri said, her voice sharper now. “You will not behave like a reckless boy again. You are a grown man, Neteyam. Start acting like one.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because they were the same ones Jake always used too, whenever he wanted to twist the knife deeper. Grown man. But still being told who to speak with. Who to walk with. Who to consider worthy.

Neytiri turned away before he could say anything more, already moving toward the kelku’s entrance with the quiet, predatory grace that she carried everywhere. “This is not about what you want,” she said over her shoulder, soft but cutting. “It is about what you owe to your people.”

Neteyam looked away, jaw clenching, fighting the urge to argue—to shout. To say that the only hands he wanted to hold were already too small, too human, too forbidden. That the only future he could picture smelled like earth and lab-ink and laughter.

Instead, he said nothing. He just stared at the floor until Neytiri sighed quietly. "You will go," she said, final and heavy.

Before she slipped through the hanging vines, Neytiri’s voice floated back to him, quieter now, but still unrelenting. “She leaves within the hour. Meet her by the eastern path.”

And then she was gone. The kelku was silent again, except for the steady drip of water from the leaves outside. Neteyam sat there, unmoving, for a long moment. Eywa, he wanted to scream. Instead, he dragged both hands down his face, groaning low into his palms. Another wasted day. Another charade. Another moment spent pretending he didn’t already know where his heart belonged.

And it wasn't with Sa’nari. It was with the small, stubborn, relentless human who was probably covered in soil and glowing spores at that very moment, laughing to herself in a lab somewhere far too close to danger. Neteyam dropped his hands into his lap, exhaling hard.

Fine. He would go. He would guard Sa’nari. He would play the good son. The good warrior. The good heir. And then, when it was done, when he could finally slip away into the cover of night—he would find you.

He would find you, and maybe—just maybe—he could finally breathe again.

The scent of crushed herbs and damp moss filled Mo’at’s tent, rich and grounding. Bundles of dried roots hung from the ceiling, swaying gently with the morning breeze, their shadows dancing across the floor. The old tsahìk sat near the hearth, her fingers busy weaving a new binding cord from thin, water-soaked reeds. Her movements were slow, methodical—yet even in her stillness, her presence commanded the air like a quiet storm.

Neteyam stood at the edge of the space, tense and unblinking. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “You know.”

Mo’at didn’t look up, but the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth told him she’d been expecting this conversation. “I know many things, ma’itan,” she said evenly.

“You know about her.” He stepped forward, not angry—yet—but tight with confusion. With frustration. “You know what she means to me. You’ve helped us meet here. You said her learning from you gave her a reason to stay in the village at night.” He gestured around the tent, to the walls where his human had sat cross-legged for hours beside the old tsahìk, soaking up knowledge like the forest soaked rain. “You said—”

“I said it made sense,” Mo’at interrupted gently. “Not that it would last forever.”

Neteyam’s mouth opened, then closed. His hands moved unconsciously to the stone in his fingers—the iridescent one from the creek. It had been resting in his palm without him realizing since he left his kelku, shifting slowly between his thumb and forefinger as if it had grown attached to his skin.

Mo’at’s eyes followed the movement, her gaze landing on the stone for only a second before she resumed her weaving. “She will not be harmed,” she said softly, as if sensing the darker thread beneath his words. “Not by me. Not by this.” Then her eyes lifted again, sharper now. “But your mother is not so patient. And she sees your future clearly, as I once did with hers.”

“That’s the problem,” Neteyam muttered, jaw clenched. “She sees a future. Not my future.”

Mo’at set the half-finished cord aside and leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “You are not wrong to feel it,” she said. “But you are wrong to think you can ignore it. Your mother… does not yet understand how deep your bond runs.” Her eyes met his squarely. “But she fears losing you. To a path she does not know.”

Neteyam looked down again, his grip tightening slightly on the stone. His chest felt too small. The air too thick. “So I just go?” he said. “Pretend? Smile? Spend the day walking beside someone I don’t want, when the only person I—”

“—is probably halfway through cataloguing a leaf sample and humming to herself,” Mo’at said mildly, a knowing glint in her eyes.

Neteyam blinked. He couldn’t help it. His lips twitched. Just barely.

Mo’at smiled. “Then make this journey useful,” she said, gesturing toward his hand. “You will walk by the creek, yes? The vines there hang strong. Good for bindings.” She nodded toward the stone. “That one would suit a thread of river-hanger vine. Smooth. Durable. Fitting for something meant to last.”

Neteyam stared down at the little stone in his palm, light dancing across its surface in soft hues of purple and blue.

Mo’at leaned forward slightly, voice dropping low, wise and wicked all at once. “Gather what you need. Pretend for your mother’s sake. But weave your own path, ma’itan. Quietly, if you must.” She smiled, eyes gleaming. “Even a Tsahìk cannot bind the heart.” Mo’at's voice was gentler now, like wind brushing over leaves.

“You do not have to give them your heart, ma’itan. But you do have to give them your presence. For now.”

He swallowed thickly. “And after?”

Mo’at only smiled again. “After? You will return to the outpost. And someone very small and very stubborn will probably throw herself at you the moment you step through the door.”

Neteyam barked a quiet laugh, low in his throat.

Mo’at’s smile turned sly. “And you may give her that stone. And perhaps she will kiss you. And perhaps your mother will still be angry, but perhaps… that kiss will be enough for a little while longer.”

He closed his fingers around the stone, warm now from his touch. “I hate this.”

“No,” Mo’at said, rising to her feet slowly. “You just love. And love is always heavier than duty.”

Neteyam stood silent for a moment longer, the stone clutched in his palm like an anchor. Then, reluctantly, he nodded once and turned to go. Outside, the path toward Sa’nari waited. But so did the creek. So did the vines. And later—so did you.

The forest was quiet in that damp, post-storm way—leaves heavy with lingering droplets, the underbrush glistening under the muted morning sun. Birds chirped high in the canopy, but otherwise, the air felt still. Waiting.

Neteyam walked behind Sa’nari in near silence, his steps measured, his bow strapped loosely across his back. The light played across her shoulders as she moved, her braid trailing down the center of her back, her satchel bouncing softly against her hip with each step.

She was speaking softly to herself as they went, fingers brushing certain plants, occasionally pausing to tug a leaf or run her thumb across a petal. Her hands were deft—gentle but sure. Trained. She didn’t fumble or hesitate. Every movement had purpose.

She had always been like that, even as a child. Smart. Precise. Focused. She finally broke the silence after they passed a patch of sun-drenched ferns. Her voice was soft, careful. “You do not have to look so tense, Neteyam. I will not bite.”

He huffed a small breath through his nose—not quite a laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t sleep well.”

Sa’nari nodded slowly. “Storm?”

“Something like that,” he said, eyes flicking ahead toward the path, unwilling to give more.

They walked for a while longer in quiet, the creek now murmuring somewhere ahead, just past a dip in the terrain. Birds rustled through the canopy. The wind carried the scent of water. “I heard the hunt was a success,” Sa’nari said lightly. “Even if some of the younger ones panicked.”

He allowed a small smile. “They’ll learn. They did well enough.”

She glanced at him sidelong, her eyes sharp and warm all at once. “You sound like your father when you say that.”

Neteyam grimaced slightly. “Let’s hope not too much.”

That made her laugh softly. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she walked—a quiet confidence in her, not unlike Kiri’s, though less wild, more restrained. Everything about her was composed. She reached out to pluck a sprig of redroot from the moss, tucking it neatly into her pouch. “I’ve gathered here many times,” she said, “but it’s nice to have someone with me this time.”

Neteyam offered a noncommittal sound.

“Redroot, five clusters,” she murmured now, mostly to herself. “Three more of the silvercap. And I’ll need river moss if it’s still holding—” She paused, then glanced back at him, eyes shy but bright. “You can tell your mother I am not wasting the day,” she said with a faint, sheepish smile. “Mo’at will have more than enough herbs when we return.”

Neteyam gave a quiet huff, not quite a laugh. “She doesn’t think you’d waste it.”

Sa’nari smiled again and turned back toward the creek. They kept walking for a while, the sunlight filtering through in soft shafts, their shadows stretching long. Eventually, she slowed as they reached the low western basin, where vines hung down in heavy coils from the upper branches and the water ran cool and shallow. Dragonflies buzzed lazily along the surface, their wings catching in the light.

Sa’nari knelt beside a patch of flowering reedgrass and began to work, carefully clipping stems and tucking them into her pouch.

Neteyam stood nearby, gaze drifting to the vines overhead. River-hanger. Just as Mo’at said. His fingers itched slightly.

But then Sa’nari spoke again, her voice quiet. “You’ve changed, Neteyam.”

He looked at her slowly. “How?”

“You’re quieter now,” she said without turning. “Heavier.”

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. It was the kind of observation only someone who’d known him a long time could make. And Sa’nari had. She’d been there since they were children—never loud, never pushy. Just always there. A quiet presence in the village. The girl who knew how to stop a bleeding wound faster than most warriors could draw a bow.

She gathered a bundle of moss into her palm and stood, brushing her fingers together. “Your mother wants what’s best for you,” she said gently. “We all do.”

He turned to look at her fully then. And she met his eyes. Sa’nari glanced at him again. This time, her eyes lingered. He knew that look. Longing. Quiet, hopeful longing.

He had seen it a hundred times before, in so many girls’ eyes. He’d caught them watching him across the hearth fires, smiling too brightly during training, lingering too long during blessings. At first, he hadn’t known what to do with it. Now… now he just felt tired.

Because he knew the truth. Knew how cruel it was. Sa’nari would make a wonderful mate. Any warrior would be proud to walk beside her. But she would never have his heart.

Because someone else already held it. And Sa’nari didn’t even know she’d never had a chance. “I’m glad to have your company,” she said after a moment, quieter now. “Truly.”

He swallowed, the weight of her sincerity pressing heavily in his chest. “You’re easy to walk with,” he said honestly. “That’s a gift.” Her smile flickered, then steadied.

They reached the creek shortly after, the water trickling over smooth stones, reeds swaying gently at the banks. Sa’nari moved to the edge without hesitation, beginning her work—snipping, sorting, murmuring the names of each plant she gathered.

Neteyam stepped away slightly, eyes scanning the trees, but really… he was searching the vines. His hand slipped to his pouch. The stone waited there, quiet and warm.

He would find the right one. A strong, supple strand of river-hanger vine. Enough to cradle the stone, to let it rest where it belonged—over your heart. He moved silently along the edge of the creek, scanning, gathering, his fingers brushing over the vines one by one. And as he worked, the ache in his chest softened slightly.

Because he wasn’t just here to follow orders. He was weaving something of his own.

Neteyam knelt some paces away, his fingers brushing over the heavy strands of river-hanger vine dangling from the branches. He tugged gently on a few, testing their strength, his mind already moving through the steps. The stone in his pouch would hang best from something soft and braided. He could reinforce the base with fine leather, maybe add some carved bone or seed beads to make it more personal. She liked when things told stories. Maybe he’d carve a small pa’li figure, or a little sprig of that glowing fern she’d once fallen in love with. His lips twitched faintly at the thought.

“You’re making something,” Sa’nari said suddenly, her voice calm but perceptive.

Neteyam froze just briefly, then resumed his work. “Maybe,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly. “Something for someone?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a soft grunt that could’ve meant anything. She smiled faintly to herself and stood, brushing the dirt from her knees and moving toward another patch of herbs. “Can I ask you something?”

Neteyam glanced up, wary but open. “You can.”

Sa’nari’s fingers hovered over a cluster of blossom-fronds before she spoke. “Do you ever wish… someone else could choose for you?” Her voice was soft. Unassuming. But the words carried weight.

Neteyam straightened slowly, letting the vine fall from his fingers. “No,” he said. “I think… I’ve always known what I want.”

Her back remained to him, but he could see the stillness in her spine. “That’s rare.”

He considered her carefully, then asked, “And you? Did you ever love someone? Or did you just wait… for your parents to choose for you?”

She turned then, her eyes thoughtful and open. “I used to think I would wait,” she said. “Until someone was chosen for me. It seemed easier. Simpler. But…” She gave a small shrug. “I learned that simple things don’t always feel right.”

Neteyam looked away, down at the vines, at the way they curled like veins along the branch. “You’re kind,” he said after a moment. “Gentle. If you wanted to be chosen… you would be.”

Sa’nari smiled faintly. “Maybe I was.” Her gaze was steady. Not pressing. Not accusing. Just honest. “But sometimes I think we are all just trying to be someone our families can be proud of. Even if it means hurting ourselves a little.”

The words settled in him with an uncomfortable truth. Sa’nari knelt again to gather a flowering stalk, but her voice carried across the hush between them. “I’ve seen the way you walk with humans. How you speak with them. The way they trust you.”

Neteyam blinked, glancing back toward her.

“I think your father must be proud,” she continued, “that you never turned bitter. That you never resented those who were worthy of our respect—even if they shared blood with those who hurt us.”

Neteyam’s fingers curled unconsciously around the vines in his hand. He thought of you.

Of how you always apologized for things you never did. Of how you looked at Pandora like it was a sacred book, not a prize. Of how your hands trembled the first time you touched a glowing tree and whispered, “I don’t want to break anything.”

You were human. But you had never been a sky demon to him. You were his little star. And stars, he thought, don’t destroy. They guide. “They’re not all the same,” he murmured finally, voice low. “She never hurt anything,” he murmured under his breath, not even realizing he said it aloud.

Sa’nari tilted her head slightly, but said nothing. Just listened. After a while, she smiled. Soft. Knowing. “You will be a wise leader, Neteyam,” she said. “When your time comes.” He looked at her, caught off guard. “You carry many things quietly,” she added. “And you do not speak hate, even when your heart is torn.” After a moment, she said, “Your father must be proud of you.”

Neteyam huffed a breath, not quite agreeing, but not willing to argue.

The path back to the village was quieter than the one they had taken out.

The basket slung over Neteyam’s shoulder was heavier than it looked—overflowing with herbs, moss, and flowering stalks, the day’s careful work bundled tight. Sa’nari walked a few steps ahead, her pace light despite the long hours, her head tilted slightly as if still listening to the songs of the forest.

Neteyam didn’t mind the silence. It wasn’t awkward, just… still. Like the earth had settled again after the storm. As they passed under the heavier canopy near the village’s outskirts, he felt it. A gaze. Heavy, focused. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Still, he glanced once—and immediately regretted it.

Neytiri stood just beyond the main clearing, near the tsahìk’s tent. Her posture was proud, her arms folded loosely over her chest, her head tilted in that quiet, pleased way that said she was already imagining the future—one where he and Sa’nari stood together, mated under the eyes of Eywa, strong leaders for the Omatikaya.

Neteyam turned his head away sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He didn’t want to see that look. Not when it wasn’t meant for the life he wanted. They reached the slope where the healers’ supplies were sorted, and Sa’nari slowed, finally turning to face him. She reached out carefully, taking the heavy basket from him with a small, grateful nod. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For today.”

Neteyam managed a small, genuine smile. “You didn’t really need guarding.”

“No,” she agreed easily, adjusting the basket against her hip. “But it was still... better. Having someone there.”

He inclined his head slightly. At least, he thought privately, she hadn’t been as pushy as K’shi. Sa’nari had let the day breathe. Let the spaces between words stretch comfortably. That counted for something. He turned to go, but her next words stopped him.

“I’m grateful you walked with me,” she said, her voice lower now, almost hesitant. “Even though your heart is already... elsewhere.”

Neteyam froze, blinking once. He almost did a double take—almost stumbled.

He turned slowly to look at her. Sa’nari only smiled up at him, shy but calm. No accusation. No anger. Just a quiet understanding. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are, Neteyam,” she said with a soft chuckle, her eyes bright with kindness. “Whoever she is… she must be very special.”

He swallowed thickly, unsure what to say. His hand twitched at his side, almost reaching instinctively for the small stone still tucked safely in his pouch.

Sa’nari’s smile softened further, and she stepped past him, the basket swinging gently at her side. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said lightly over her shoulder. “It’s not my story to tell.”

Neteyam watched her go for a moment—watched the way she disappeared into the crowd gathering near the healers’ tents—before finally exhaling.

The knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. She understood. More than he had given her credit for.

And even though the path laid out for him still felt impossibly narrow, impossibly sharp, at least there was someone else who knew he was already walking another one. Quietly. Stubbornly. Truly.

For you. Always for you.

Neteyam turned away from the gathering crowd, slipping quietly back toward the edges of the village, where the trees grew thick and the sky opened wide.

Tonight, he would find you. Tonight, he would slip through the outpost’s barriers, find the light in your window. And maybe—maybe—he could hold you again and remember that, no matter what the world tried to make of him, he was still yours. Yours first.

Yours always.

Later that night, after the suns dipped low beyond the treeline and the village fires began to burn soft and golden, Neteyam found Lo’ak lingering near the kelku.

He moved quickly, keeping his voice low. "If anyone asks," he said, tightening the strap on his bow, "tell them I'm on patrol."

Lo’ak turned, catching the tone immediately. “To her?” he asked, a sly grin tugging at his mouth.

Neteyam gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t deny it. “If anyone asks, I’m on patrol.”

Lo’ak rolled his eyes, but there was understanding in them. “They always ask. Especially Mom.”

“Then lie better,” Neteyam muttered.

Lo’ak sighed, raising his hands. “Fine. You’re deep in the southern trail. Dangerous patrol. Very heroic.” Lo’ak smirked, flicking a pebble into the ring. “You’re getting worse at sneaking out, you know.”

Neteyam just raised a brow. “You gonna rat me out?”

“Please. I’ll say you were wrestling a palulukan bare-handed if it helps,” Lo’ak grinned. “Tell her I said hi. And not to throw you out if you fall asleep mid-sentence again.”

Neteyam rolled his eyes but gave him a quiet, grateful nod. “Irayo.”

He turned and made his way to the high perch just beyond the village, where the ikran rested. His bonded mount, Tawkami, raised his head the moment he approached, eyes bright with recognition. He let out a sharp, echoing chirp, already rising to his feet and shaking out his wings. Neteyam reached up to press his forehead against his, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You can feel it too, can’t you?”

He warbled low, nuzzling against him with excitement. The bond snapped into place with ease, tsaheylu weaving their thoughts together. Tawkami’s wings lifted with anticipation.

They launched into the sky together, slicing through the rising winds. The world stretched beneath them in darkness and silver moonlight, but Neteyam’s heart was steady. He knew exactly where he was going. The anticipation of seeing you again, of slipping into the quiet safety of your light and your laugh, filled him with something electric.

He hadn’t seen you in almost two days. And even though that wasn’t unusual for you—especially during sample analysis—it had still gnawed at him all day. He needed to see you. Hear your voice.

But when he reached the outpost, it was not the calm haven he had imagined. As the outpost came into view—a small glint of artificial light tucked between the trees—he felt the anticipation swell. Tawkami descended in a tight spiral, and Neteyam leaned into her rhythm, expecting quiet. Calm. Maybe your soft humming from inside the lab tent.

But something was wrong. The outpost wasn’t silent. It wasn’t calm.

The floodlamps along the wall were on, buzzing faintly in the humidity. The front gate was open, the interior glow flickering through the plastic panels of the lab’s main structure. But more than that—Neteyam’s eyes narrowed as he landed beside the Samson.

Its engine was still warm. Freshly used.

He ran a hand along the metal, frowning. That ship had returned with the xenobotany team just yesterday. If they were testing samples, they wouldn’t be flying again. They had protocols. Safety rules.

Why had it been used?

He dismounted in one swift motion, his instincts sharpening as his boots touched the packed soil. Tawkami shifted behind him, feathers twitching as she sensed his tension. Neteyam stepped into the main yard—and that’s when he saw them.

Norm. Max. Brian. Kate. And few other scientist whose names he didn't bother to remember.

All in full field gear—vests, boots, packs still strapped across their backs. They stood around one of the large plant containers near the far wall, a datapad held between them, its screen glowing faintly with a map.

A map of the mining zone. They didn’t look up right away. But Neteyam saw their faces—drawn tight with stress, eyes shadowed, clothes rumpled like they hadn’t slept in two days.

And she was nowhere. His chest went still. Cold. At first he thought—maybe she’s inside. Maybe she's working late again. Maybe— But then Max turned. Saw him.

And froze.

That look.

Neteyam knew it instantly. Something happened. He took three steps forward, voice low but hard. “Where is she?”

Norm looked up then, his face pale, jaw tight. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a beat. Neteyam’s heart thundered in his chest. “Where is she?” he demanded again, louder now.

Norm exchanged a glance with Max. Kate stepped back slightly, rubbing at her brow. Brian whispered something under his breath. Something that sounded like “shit.”

Neteyam’s stomach dropped. “She’s inside… is she?” he said, even though he already knew the answer.

No one spoke. Not yet. The only sound was the quiet hum of the datapad and the soft, electric whine of tension rising in his blood. Then Max finally stepped forward, slowly. “Neteyam,” he said, voice low, careful. “We need to talk.”

The world tilted. Cold and sharp. And Neteyam already knew:You were gone. And he had no idea where.

Kate was the first to break the silence. “You should’ve come earlier!” she snapped, voice sharp with frustration and something deeper—fear, maybe. “Maybe then we could’ve found her!”

Neteyam’s eyes snapped to her. “What?”

But Kate didn’t stop. Her words tumbled out too fast, like she’d been holding them in for hours. “We waited too long. We split up twice. The ridge was already washed out by the time we circled back, and then we couldn’t pick up any signal—not from her tag, not from the datapad. That fucking flux vortex… If you were here—if you’d just come earlier—”

“What do you mean find her?” Neteyam asked, the word catching in his throat. His voice was low, dangerous, but laced with disbelief. “Why would you need to find her?”

His breath was shallow now. In his mind, up until this moment, you were safe. You were in the outpost. You were maybe inside the lab, maybe reading, maybe sketching those new plant samples you found. You were waiting for him.

But the way they looked at him told him otherwise. He turned to Norm, needing to hear something—anything—different.

The man had known him since he was a baby. He’d patched his wounds, watched him take his first steps, taught him human words when Jake had refused. He had never looked at Neteyam with fear.

Until now. His lips parted. “Neteyam…” Norm said gently, like one might speak to a wounded animal. “She disappeared.”

The words didn’t land at first. Didn’t make sense.

“Disappeared?” Neteyam echoed, the syllables dull and foreign on his tongue. “No. She’s not—she wouldn’t—she was supposed to be here.”

“She went missing yesterday,” Max said, quietly stepping in. „But it was already near eclipse, and the storm rolled in faster than expected. We stayed until we couldn’t see anymore. We searched for hours.”

“You left her?” Neteyam growled, his voice raw now, cracked wide open.

Max stepped forward, raising his hands. “We didn’t want to—Neteyam, listen. We stayed as long as we could. But visibility dropped to nothing, and the eclipse was setting in fast. The storm was—”

“You LEFT her!” Neteyam shouted now, taking a step toward them.

“We marked the area!” Brian snapped back, frustrated. “We left signal markers! We planned to return at first light!”

“And what did you find?” Neteyam hissed.

The silence that followed was the worst part. Nothing. No one looked at him. Max rubbed his temples. “The rain washed everything. No tracks. No trail. No broken brush. Her comm is dead. Or damaged. We don't know.”

Neteyam’s chest heaved. His breath burned in his lungs. You weren’t here. You haven't been here since yesterday. You were out there. In the forest. Near the old mining zone. You had been out there during the eclipse. Alone. During the storm. During the night. And he—he had spent that night thinking you were safe, warm, maybe curled up with your datapad and tea.

But now—now he remembered the dream. You, trembling, soaked, clinging to a high branch in a blackened forest, lightning flashing around you. He thought it was just guilt. A stupid dream. He wanted it to be just a dream. But now— Now it felt like truth. You were still out there. His mate. You were still out there. “I’m going after her.” His voice was low, guttural. He turned on his heel.

“No, Neteyam, wait,” Norm stepped in front of him. “It’s dangerous. There’s another storm rolling in tonight.”

“I don’t care.” His jaw clenched. “I’ll find her.”

“You can’t see anything out there in the dark,” Max said. “We can barely navigate that terrain in daylight, even with scanners.”

Neteyam was already moving toward Tawkami, who growled low as if sensing his rider’s boiling fury.

“Neteyam!” Kate shouted. “If you get lost too, what good does that do her?”

“I won’t get lost!” he snapped. “I know that forest. Better than any of you. I know the pit. I know how the water runs.”

“But you can’t help her if you’re dead,” Norm said firmly, stepping between him and the ikran. “You go out there now, in this storm, in the dark, we may lose both of you.”

Silence followed that. Tawkami hissed softly behind him, restless. His heart roared in his ears. His whole body was screaming to move. But Norm stood there like stone. Unmoving. Max beside him, rain starting to tap on the Samson’s hull. The others watched, hollow-eyed.

Neteyam's breath came hard. He hated it. Hated waiting. But some small part of him—buried under the panic—knew they were right. Still, he turned his back on them and walked several paces away, just far enough to breathe, to feel the air against his skin.

“She was alone,” he whispered, barely audible. “All night.” No one answered. The wind picked up again, as if the forest itself mourned with him. And in his heart, something curled—tight, angry, and aching. Because waiting might be wise. But every second was agony.

For a moment, there was only the sound of rain beginning to pick up again—slow, steady drops on the metal roof of the outpost. The tension in the air was thick, almost electric, like a storm itself was standing in the room with them.

Then, from behind the group, a quiet voice broke through. “She didn’t have anything with her,” Raj said. His voice was small, almost hesitant. Neteyam turned slowly. His stare locked onto Raj’s like a spear thrown mid-flight. “Just… just her satchel. And a field knife. That’s it.” His voice cracked. “We thought… in the morning, with the storm and all—”

Kate hissed, “Raj, shut up—”

But it was too late. The words had already landed like knives in Neteyam’s chest. His vision tunneled. He stepped toward Raj slowly, his entire frame radiating something primal. The heat of fury rolled off him like smoke, barely contained. The others tensed as his shadow fell over the smaller man. “You thought you’d find her corpse?” Neteyam repeated, voice deathly calm.

Raj paled. Kate whipped around to stare at Raj. “You fucking idiot! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Raj flinched, clutching his side. “I didn’t mean—I was just saying—”

Neteyam was already walking toward them. His face was unreadable, but the way he moved—deliberate, quiet—set the hairs on Max’s arms on end. His eyes locked on Raj, dark and wild like a brewing storm. “Say one more thing,” Neteyam said lowly, his voice like thunder before the strike. “Say one more word that implies she’s dead.”

Raj swallowed, suddenly very aware that Neteyam, standing tall and furious, was ten feet of trained warrior who could break him in half without even trying. “You thought you’d find her body?” His voice was so quiet it was nearly a growl. “So you left her out there. You left her—with nothing but a knife—while the storm was coming.”

Max tried to step in, his hands raised. “Neteyam, listen, we—”

“No,” he snapped. “You listen. If anything happens to her—” he jabbed a finger at the group, his chest rising and falling with fury “—if she’s hurt, or worse, because you left her out there… I will make every single one of you regret the day you set foot in our forest.”

His voice dipped lower, deadly calm.

“I’ll burn this outpost to the ground. I’ll drag each of you into the forest and leave you to survive with just a knife. I don’t care what deal my father made. I don’t care about your research. If she dies—your lives mean nothing to me.”

The group fell silent. Pale.

“You think you’re here because Eywa allows it?” Neteyam’s voice rose like thunder, snapping around them like a whip. “You live in our forest because my People lets you. Because we chose to trust you.”

He pointed sharply toward the map still glowing on the datapad. “You call yourselves scientists, protectors of life—but you left one of your own behind.”

Even Norm took a step back, his hands half-raised, trying to de-escalate. “Neteyam, I get it—she’s important to you,” he said carefully. “But threatening us won’t help her.”

Neteyam bared his teeth—not in a snarl, but something close, his tail lashing behind him. “You think this is me losing control? You haven’t seen what happens if I do.”

Raj looked like he wanted to disappear. Brian wouldn't even meet his eyes.

“We did what we could,” Max insisted, voice tense. “We stayed as long as we could. We waited as long as we—”

“You’ve done nothing!” he shouted.

The air went dead quiet. Even the machines around them felt silent.

Neteyam loomed over them, muscles tight, his chest rising and falling like a warrior before battle. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Couldn’t. The only image in his head was you—cold, trembling, bleeding maybe, hiding from viperwolves or worse. Maybe still curled on a high branch, like in his dream. Maybe already—

No.

No.

“You think scanning empty ground and waiting till morning counts as doing something?” Neteyam hissed. “She’s not a sample. She’s not data. She’s my mate.”

The silence that followed was stunned. Max’s mouth parted slightly. Brian swallowed hard. Even Kate looked like she’d been slapped. Norm’s expression changed. Not surprise—but realization. Quiet and heavy. Finally, without another word, Neteyam turned, storming toward Tawkami.

“Where are you going?!” Kate called after him, but he didn’t answer.

Tawkami crouched low at the signal, sensing his rider’s fury like a second skin. As soon as Neteyam swung into the saddle, the ikran launched upward in a burst of wings and wind, scattering dust and fear in every direction.

The outpost vanished beneath him like a bad dream. But the fire stayed. The forest was vast, and yes—he could search alone. He would search alone. All night if he had to. But he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He needed help. Real help. His family.

Kiri could hear through the forest better than anyone he knew. And Lo’ak—Lo’ak would fly through a hurricane if he thought it would help Neteyam find her. He tightened his grip on the harness, heart hammering.

The woven walls of the kelku were bathed in a flickering gold from the fire pit outside, but Neteyam didn’t feel the warmth. His steps were sharp, restless, pacing tight lines across the floor as he moved back and forth between his storage chest and the saddle pack laid out on the mat.

Bow. Quiver. Rope. Flint knife. Water skin. Another blade strapped across his lower back.  Everything he could possibly need—and none of it would be enough. He dropped a folded tarp into the pack and buckled it shut just as the flap at the entrance rustled open.

Footsteps sounded behind him—quick and uneven. Lo’ak. “Bro, I thought you’d be back at dawn,” he said, pushing aside the kelku’s curtain with a lazy grin. “What, she kick you out this time or—”

He stopped dead when he saw Neteyam’s face. The smile fell off his mouth instantly. Neteyam didn’t even look up. Just secured the pack with a tight pull and dropped it near the door. “She’s not at the outpost,” he said, voice hollow and flat.

Lo’ak’s brows pulled together. “Wait—what?”

Neteyam finally turned, his eyes sharp, glowing like coals beneath the low firelight. “She went missing yesterday. During the field run.” His jaw flexed. “They lost her. Eclipse was setting in. Storm was rolling. They left her.”

Lo’ak’s eyes widened, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “What do you mean, left her?”

“I mean she never came back. And they abandoned the search after dark.”

Lo’ak stared at him, stunned—then his hands curled into fists. “Eywa…” he muttered. “And you didn’t kill them?”

“Not yet.”

Lo’ak looked at the pack, then at Neteyam’s gear. His brother. Always calm. Always in control. But now? He looked like a blade waiting to snap. “Who else knows?” Lo’ak asked.

“No one,” Neteyam said. “Not yet. And I want to keep it that way—for now.” He stepped forward, grip tightening on his bow.

Lo’ak stood frozen for half a second—then swore under his breath and stepped inside. “Eywa. Are you—shit. That’s why you’re back. You wanna go after her.”

Neteyam nodded once. “I need someone I can trust with this.” He grabbed the pack again and slung it over his shoulder. “Where’s Kiri?”

Lo’ak didn’t hesitate. “Still in the healer’s tent. She was helping Grandmother with the vision sap harvest.”

“Good. Get her.” Neteyam glanced up sharply. “We need her. You know how she hears things—how she feels things. She’ll help us track.”

“When do we tell Dad?” he asked after a moment.

“Not yet,” Neteyam said. “Not unless we have to.”

Lo’ak didn’t argue. He knew what it meant—for their father to find out. For their mother. “I’ll get Kiri,” he said quietly, then turned toward the door. Just before he stepped out, he paused, looking back. “We’ll find her,” he said firmly. “We’re not letting the forest take her.”

Neteyam didn’t answer—he just nodded once, eyes burning. Because she wasn’t gone. Not yet. And he would tear through the jungle with his bare hands to bring her home.

The storm had returned with a vengeance.

Wind howled through the trees outside the kelku, rattling the woven walls like angry spirits. Rain lashed the leaves in sheets, the forest moaning under the weight of wind and water. Thunder cracked above like a whip, and still Neteyam stood near the doorway, his pack at his feet, ready to run into it.

He was shaking. Not from fear—but from the raw, unbearable need to move. Then the curtain pulled back again.

Lo’ak stepped in first, face grim, and right behind him came Kiri, her braids still damp from the rain. She stopped when she saw Neteyam—really saw him—and her expression faltered.

Her eyes were wide the moment she entered, searching the space for something—anything—that might change the words her brother had just spoken. But all she saw was Neteyam, fully armed, jaw clenched, chest heaving like he hadn’t stopped since the second he landed. “She’s gone?” Kiri whispered, her voice cracking.

Neteyam didn’t answer at first. Kiri already knew. Lo’ak had told her everything. Kiri crossed the floor quickly, rain dripping from her braids, and stopped in front of him. Her hands were trembling, but she was trying to keep it in—trying to be calm. Trying to be steady. “She’s one of us,” she said, barely above a whisper. “She’s my friend too. Don’t shut me out.”

Neteyam closed his eyes briefly, nodding. “I’m not.” He opened them again, looking at her with raw, carved honesty. “I need someone I can trust with this. That’s why you’re here.”

Kiri walked further in, standing beside Lo’ak. “What are we doing?” Kiri nodded once, lips pressed tight.

Neteyam didn’t hesitate. “We find her.”

“Without telling them?” she asked, but it wasn’t judgment—just clarification.

He nodded. “If Mother and Father find out… they’ll demand answers. They’ll ask why I’m ready to tear apart the forest for a human girl. We don’t have time for that.”

Lo’ak gave a tired snort from near the door. “You say that like she won’t smell the panic coming off you tomorrow.”

Neteyam shot him a look. “Then we don’t give her time to. We’re out before sunrise.”

Kiri’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more. She understood. They all did. Neteyam’s jaw clenched again. He didn’t answer. Kiri rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to stop the shiver that crept through her. She moved to sit beside the fire pit, staring into the flames, letting the silence stretch until she could breathe again.

Neteyam took a breath and moved toward the corner of the kelku where a small pile of scattered belongings rested. He crouched down and moved aside a folded cloth.

Lo’ak beat him to it—his fingers brushing against the cracked, black casing of a datapad half-buried beneath a pelt.

“Is this…?” he asked, holding it up.

Neteyam nodded once. “She left it here. A few weeks ago.”

Lo’ak sat on the floor, thumbing the cracked screen. “Still works.” He tapped a few controls, the screen flickering weakly to life.

Kiri leaned in. “She kept maps on it, didn’t she?”

“She kept everything on it,” Neteyam said, unable to help the faint smile that ghosted his mouth for a second and then turned back to Kiri.

Lo’ak tapped the screen, and it flickered to life, dull and sputtering—but functional enough. The blue-white map display shimmered into view, blurry lines tracing the jungle in grainy detail.

Kiri stepped closer, kneeling near his pack. “We’ll need a plan. Not just charge out there and hope. She’s smart,” she finally said. “If she knew she was lost, she’d look for shelter first. Not run around like a fool.”

“She has nothing but her satchel and a knife,” Neteyam said. “But she’s not helpless. I taught her what to do. Where to hide.”

“So do I,” Kiri said. “I trained her. Every herb I know. Every sign in the trees. She’s not Na’vi, but she listens better than most of us.”

“She’s smart,” Kiri said, voice tense. “She wouldn’t just wander aimlessly. She wouldn’t panic. Not after everything we taught her.”

Neteyam looked at her. “So where would she go?”

Kiri’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful now. “If she realized she was being left behind… she’d go high. Somewhere dry. She wouldn’t risk the waterline in a storm.”

“I know.” Neteyam crouched beside her. “We start at the mining zone. She was lost somewhere near the old ridge—right where the western shelf starts to collapse into the basin.”

“She’s smart,” he said. “If she got turned around, she’d know better than to stay near the pit. Too exposed. She’d move.”

“To where?” Kiri asked, kneeling beside him.

“Would she go east?” Lo’ak asked. “Toward the outpost?”

“She’d try,” Neteyam said. “She’d want to get back. But not in a straight line—not without direction. Not without light.”

Lo’ak crouched beside Kiri, turning the tablet so she could see. “There,” he pointed. “The pit. And the outpost. She’s somewhere in between.”

Kiri leaned in, her eyes scanning the terrain. “You think she’d try to go east?”

“But even if she did,” Lo’ak said, voice hesitant, “she’d have to stay hidden all night. Through a storm. She must’ve been so scared…”

Neteyam looked away. He didn’t need to imagine it. He dreamed it.

“She’s smart,” Kiri added. “But that’s still days of walking. Through unfamiliar terrain. Alone. It’s full of palulukans out there. Lanay’kas too.”

“But look,” Lo’ak pointed. “These creeks—there’s a few between the pit and the outpost. If she found one, maybe she followed it. Water leads somewhere.”

“We’ll need more hunters,” Kiri said finally. “Even just two. If we split the area, we’ll cover more ground.”

“No,” Neteyam said. “Not yet. I don’t want anyone else involved. Not unless we have to.”

Kiri glanced at him, eyes sharp. “Neteyam—”

“She’s mine,” he said quietly. “They wouldn’t understand. I won’t let her name be whispered through the clan like a curse.”

Lo’ak looked at him, the weight of that word—mine—settling deep between them.

Kiri exhaled. “Fine. Then we do this ourselves.” Neteyam nodded. “But not tonight.” He looked up sharply. “You know we won’t find anything in this storm,” Kiri said gently. “It’ll bury any trail she left behind. If we go now, we’ll waste energy. We’ll miss signs.”

Neteyam hesitated. Every instinct in his body screamed go. Every heartbeat was a drum pounding now, now, now. But he also knew Kiri was right. She always was. He dropped the charcoal and let his hands rest on the mat.

“You need to rest,” Kiri said. “Both of you. We’ll go at first light.”

Lo’ak sighed. “She’s right, bro.”

Neteyam sat down hard on the edge of his mat, burying his face in his hands. The rain thudded against the kelku like a war drum. His heart beat in time with it—furious, aching.

“Get some rest,” she added. “You need to be strong. For her.”

He didn’t argue. No one spoke for a long moment. He just stared at the storm outside, praying—begging—that you were out there, still fighting. That somewhere under all that rain, you were waiting for him to find you. And he would. No matter how long it took.

The night held no peace.

Outside the kelku, the storm raged—rain battering the woven walls like distant drums, thunder rolling across the canopy in great, groaning waves. Inside, Neteyam sat still for hours, legs crossed near the entrance, unmoving, listening to the wind and the rise and fall of his own breath.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged him down. He didn’t remember closing his eyes. But he dreamed. Again.

He found himself in a clearing. It wasn’t like before. Not rain-soaked branches or shadows full of teeth. This time, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The air was soft and heavy, the storm strangely absent here. Everything was quiet—too quiet. No insects. No rustling leaves. Just the sound of creaking metal and the slow moan of something swaying in the wind.

Between the trees, a Samson hung broken from the high branches. Its tail section was caught on a twisted trunk, the body dangling at an awkward angle—like a forgotten toy. The wind stirred it gently, letting it creak and swing in slow arcs. Half the cockpit window was cracked. Panels torn away. The metal gleamed wet and sharp.

And in the grass below it— You.

You sat curled on the damp moss, your knees drawn in, your satchel spilled to one side. Your hair was a tangled mess, stuck to your cheeks and brow. And your hand—your small, shaking hand—was cradled in your lap, slick with blood. A deep, angry slice carved across your palm, oozing fresh and vivid.

You were crying. The sound hit him like a spear to the chest—soft, trembling sobs, the kind he’d never heard from you before. Not in the labs. Not in the field. Not even in your worst moments.

He stepped forward slowly, his feet soundless on the moss. Your head jerked up. And when you saw him—saw Neteyam—you didn’t speak right away. Your lower lip wobbled, and you blinked hard, trying to clear the tears.

Then you reached out toward him. You showed your hand to him like a child might, small fingers shaking, your palm smeared with blood. A jagged cut sliced from the base of your thumb to the edge of your hand, the skin torn and pulsing.

“It hurts, Neteyam,” you whispered. Your voice was soft. Broken. Like a child. He dropped to his knees in front of you, reaching for your wounded hand, cupping it gently in both of his. You winced. “I climbed… I thought maybe I could reach the comm system,” you whispered, not meeting his eyes. “There was a shard of metal—I didn’t see it until…”

You trailed off. He gently turned your hand over in his, examining the wound. Deep, but not fatal. Not if it was cleaned. Not if it didn’t get infected. But the way your fingers curled inward told him you were in pain. Real pain.

And not just physical. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He looked up sharply. “For what?”

You shook your head, tears spilling over your lashes. “For being scared.”

He froze. You never said that. Not in the field, not in the labs, not even when he warned you of creatures in the trees. You’d always smiled and said you’d be fine. “You’re here, aren’t you?” you’d say, like that was all you needed.

But here, now, you were trembling in front of him. And you couldn’t look him in the eye. Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “Stop.”

“I just—” you exhaled shakily, still not looking at him. “You’re a warrior. You wouldn’t be afraid if you were alone like this. You wouldn’t cry.”

He gently tilted your chin up with two fingers. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t want to die out here,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Not alone.”

Neteyam felt his whole chest collapse inward at the sound. You finally looked up at him. And your eyes—those bright, curious, maddening eyes—were rimmed with red, filled with something raw and terrifying. “I want to see you one more time,” you said, barely audible. “Even just for a minute.”

His hands slid to your face, cupping your cheeks with infinite care. “You will,” he said fiercely. “You’ll see me again. I promise.”

“But what if I don’t—”

“You will.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “You will, yawne. You hold on.”

You nodded, tiny, trembling. And then—

He woke. His breath left him in a sharp gasp as he sat up straight, drenched in sweat, the woven mat beneath him cool from the night air. The storm had passed sometime before dawn. His heart still thundered in his chest.

Outside, the sky was turning faintly gray.

First light.

Neteyam ran a hand down his face, dragging air into his lungs as if it might slow the pounding. He looked around, the kelku still and quiet, Lo’ak and Kiri probably preparing already, waiting. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at his trembling hands.

What was that?

A dream. Just a dream. But it hadn’t felt like one. It felt too sharp. Too vivid. He could still feel the warmth of your blood on his fingers. Still hear your voice in his ears. He clenched his jaw. His mind was playing tricks on him. It had to be. Showing him things—fears, nothing more. You were smart.You knew how to survive. You would survive.

And they would find you. He stood, shoulders squaring as he reached for his bow and strapped on the pack.

The morning brought a break—just enough light to fly under—but the forest was soaked, the canopy still weeping. Everything beneath the trees was washed clean. Or, at least, clean enough to make tracking impossible.

They flew out before the sun fully crested the ridgeline, a trio of silent shadows on their ikran: Neteyam, Lo’ak, and Kiri. No one else. No word to their parents. Not yet. Neteyam wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t take the weight of Neytiri’s disapproval—not when every second was a scream echoing through his bones.

They swept past the cliffs in tight formation, their path following the old scar of the mining pit—a stretch of land long since swallowed by vines and forest, but still raw beneath the surface. The ghosts of what had been done there still lingered, in broken stone and blackened soil. Neteyam hated this place. And now it hated him back, swallowing the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

They searched for hours.

Kiri guided them in long, looping arcs, dipping down every time she felt something—movement, a wrongness, even the softest disruption in the silence. Lo’ak stayed close to Neteyam, knowing better than to let him veer off on his own. Not now. Not when he was wound so tight he looked ready to snap his bow over his own knee.

Neteyam didn’t speak much.

Every few minutes he’d dive low, scanning the mud for a boot print, a scuff, a sign. But the rain had done its work. Nothing remained. Every root was clean. Every patch of soil was untouched. The forest was too quiet. As if it was hiding something.

By midday, they regrouped at a narrow ridge above the northern basin. Lo’ak circled overhead once before landing beside his brother. “Nothing,” he said, breathless, frustrated. “Not even a broken leaf.”

Kiri landed just behind them, her braid plastered to her neck with sweat. Her face was pale. Tired. “It’s like she vanished,” she said softly.

“She didn’t vanish,” Neteyam growled, pacing along the edge. His steps were sharp, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. “She didn’t just disappear.”

“Bro…” Lo’ak tried gently. “The storm—”

“I don’t care about the storm,” Neteyam snapped, turning sharply. “She had to go somewhere. She’s not stupid.”

Kiri approached carefully, her voice even. “And maybe she went west. Or south. Or climbed high to stay out of the water.”

“You saw the map,” Neteyam said, voice low and fierce. “There’s no shelter past this point. No caves. No high ridge that would hold her weight in that storm.”

Lo’ak glanced toward the trees. “Then maybe she backtracked.”

“We would’ve seen it.”

“Maybe not,” Kiri said. “Maybe she covered her trail. Or maybe Eywa covered it for her.”

Neteyam’s jaw worked, his fists clenched at his sides. “Or maybe she’s lying out there somewhere dying, and we’re here talking about maybes.”

That was the first moment they saw it—really saw it. The crack starting to form. Neteyam had held himself together through everything—through duty, through pressure, through the endless push and pull between his family and his own secret love. But now? Now he looked like a cliff edge after the rain. One more tremor, and it would all fall.

“Neteyam,” Kiri said softly, stepping forward. “Please.”

He didn’t move. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need to go back. Just for tonight.”

“No.”

“Neteyam—”

“No,” he snapped again, but this time his voice cracked at the edges.

Lo’ak stepped in next, placing a hand on his other shoulder. “We’ll come back. At sunrise. Just like now. But you have to rest.”

“I can’t rest.”

“Then fake it,” Lo’ak said, eyes sharp. “Because if you collapse out here, we’ll be dragging both of you back to the village.”

Neteyam hesitated—but his legs trembled just enough to give him away.

Kiri tightened her grip. “She’s alive,” she whispered. “I know it. Eywa hasn’t taken her. I would feel it.”

Neteyam turned toward her then, finally, his eyes wide and hollow. “What if I can’t? What if we’re too late?”

“You won’t be,” Kiri said. “Because we’re going to find her. Together.”

Neteyam stood there, trembling, for a moment longer. Then finally—finally—he let his shoulders fall. “Fine,” he whispered. “But we leave again at dawn.” They left in silence. The rain had started again, light but steady, soaking through their clothing as they mounted their ikran and soared back into the grey.

It felt like defeat. But it was survival. Just barely.

Day Four

They left again before dawn. This time, the light was clearer. The storm had finally passed in the night, leaving the air cleaner, cooler. The sun broke through the canopy in soft gold streaks as they returned to the last known location, the wind carrying birdsong and the scent of wet bark.

And it was Neteyam who saw it first. They were passing the northeastern edge of the basin, gliding above a ridge when something below snagged in his vision—a shape, tall and gnarled, rising from the slope near the ravine.

A tree. But not just any tree.

It stood out from the others—its bark weathered and dark, limbs twisted like old hands. One of its roots had grown high over a rocky outcrop, forming a natural hollow. Shelter. High enough to escape floodwaters. Thick enough to shield from rain.

He nearly dropped from his saddle. Lo’ak and Kiri followed without question, their ikrans diving after him. They landed on the ridge beside the tree, and Neteyam was off his ikran before her talons touched the earth. He ran straight to the trunk, sliding to his knees beside the hollow.

It was there. Neteyam didn’t answer at first. He just stared. There, halfway up a steep, moss-covered rise, was a tree.

A thick-barked colossus with roots that rose like spires around its base, and a hollow carved into the trunk high above—just large enough to shelter a body. Neteyam’s heart slammed against his ribs. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s the one.”

Lo’ak frowned. “What?”

“I saw this tree,” Neteyam said, already dismounting. He stepped through the mud, pushing toward the roots. “In my dream. The night she vanished. I saw her—shivering—in the hollow. And there were viperwolves circling the base.”

Kiri followed fast behind, her voice cautious. “Are you sure?”

“I remember the shape of the branches. The tilt of the roots. The way the light cut through here—” He pointed to the canopy above. “It’s the same.”

Lo’ak followed, brow furrowed. “You think it was Eywa? A vision?”

Neteyam didn’t answer. He was already climbing. The roots were slick but solid. He hoisted himself up with quiet, practiced movements, and when he reached the hollow—

He went still. Inside, the tree was dark, lined with old nesting leaves and bark. But near the back, half-buried under a clump of moss, was a shape.

His hand trembled as he reached for it. A single white button. Round. Stretched along the edge. It was from the shirt you wore the morning you left. He remembered the way it sat just beneath your collarbone. You’d complained the buttons were old. He’d joked that he’d just rip them all off next time. Now it lay in his hand.

“Neteyam?” Kiri called from below.

He turned slowly, clutching the button so tight it nearly cracked in his palm. “She was here,” he said, voice hoarse. “She was alive. She made it through the storm. She climbed up here to escape.”

Kiri and Lo’ak stared up at him, eyes wide. “And the wolves?” Lo’ak asked.

“No blood,” Neteyam said. “No bones. No torn cloth. She wasn’t attacked.” He dropped to the ground in two swift motions, landing hard.

“She survived. And she moved on.”

Kiri’s eyes narrowed. “That hollow’s old. She might’ve only stayed a night.”

“But she was alive when she did,” Neteyam said, voice full of urgency now. “We’re close.”

Lo’ak looked around. “So what now?”

“We switch tactics,” Neteyam said, breathing fast. “We stop flying. From now on, we track on foot. She’s not in the trees. She’s moving through the ground. We need to see the forest the way she would.”

Kiri nodded. “Pa’li, then. No ikran. Ground only.”

“She’s not far,” Neteyam whispered, clutching the button like a lifeline. “She’s not far. And she’s still alive.” And this time, he was sure. The forest hadn't taken you yet. And he would find you. Even if it took every step, every hour, every last piece of himself to do it. He would bring you home.

The kelku was quiet, lit only by the flickering fire pit. The smoke curled lazily toward the open vents in the roof, but Neteyam barely noticed. He sat cross-legged on the edge of his sleeping mat, spine rigid, head bowed. The white button lay in the center of his palm, resting there like a fragment of bone. Small. Insignificant.

And yet it felt like it weighed more than stone. It was the only thing he had from you since you vanished into the forest. The only proof that you were still out there. That you hadn’t just… disappeared. He turned it over slowly between his fingers, rubbing the edge with his thumb.

Now it was the only thing he had. Not your laugh. Not your touch. Not the way you’d wrinkle your nose when you concentrate too hard or hum that one off-key Terran tune you swore was “meditative.”

Just… this. A button. The first sign you had survived that storm. That you had made it through one more night alone, in a world that wasn’t made for you.

His eyes drifted down to the half-carved neckpiece at the side of the pelt. The one he’d started for you, the one he couldn’t finish because the day he picked up the stone was the day you went missing. He reached toward it, slowly, running one hand over the notched bone beads already strung. The river-hanger vine rested beside it, partially braided, the iridescent stone glinting faintly under the firelight. It should’ve been done by now. Should’ve been around your neck, warm against your skin, fingers brushing it every time you laughed.

Instead it lay unfinished. Empty. He leaned forward, pressing his palms into his eyes, breathing slow, deep, strained.

He couldn’t lose you.

He should finish it. That was the plan. When you came home, he’d give it to you, watch the way your cheeks flushed and your fingers fidgeted, and you'd mumble something about how you didn’t deserve something so pretty.

Couldn’t let that dream become a prophecy—the one where he’d seen you sitting in the tall grass under a low-hanging Samson, blood dripping from your hand like petals. He hadn’t told anyone about that one. Not even Kiri. Not when it felt so close. Too close.

But now…

He clenched the button tighter in his palm. Now he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get the chance. The fire cracked softly. Outside, a breeze stirred the trees. And then, without warning, the curtain at the entrance shifted. Neteyam’s shoulders tensed instantly. A tall shadow stepped in.

Jake.

His father.

He stood there in silence for a breath, just watching. Neteyam said nothing. Didn’t even try to hide the way he bristled. Jake’s eyes flicked once around the kelku. The gear piled neatly by the wall. The bones. The carving tools. And the half-finished pendant resting beside his son’s pelt.

His gaze narrowed. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said finally.

Neteyam didn’t move. “You found me.”

Jake stepped inside, brow furrowed. “You’ve been gone every day since the last hunt. Always out before dawn. Always coming back after dark. And your siblings are with you.”

Neteyam didn’t answer. His fingers twitched around the button.

Jake took a breath. “You’re going back to the clearing, aren’t you?” he said, tone low. “Where we saw the assault ship. You think there’s movement there.”

Neteyam’s head snapped up. “No.”

Jake raised a brow. “Don’t lie to me, boy.”

“I’m not,” he said sharply. “You want to talk about recon? Ask anybody elsei. I’m not wasting time going back there.”

Jake crossed his arms, watching him. “Then what are you doing?”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched.

“You don’t answer to no one now?” Jake asked, stepping forward. “You disappear for days at a time. Avoid your mother. Duck out of every gathering. Refuse every invitation to meet with Sa’nari. You don’t even look at K’shi anymore. Your mother says you haven’t shown interest in anyone.”

Neteyam laughed, bitter and low. “I wonder why.”

Jake’s brows lifted.

“I’m out there,” Neteyam said, rising slowly to his feet, “doing what you raised me to do. Surviving. Working. Leading. And suddenly, you’re interested in my love life?”

Jake didn’t flinch. “I’m interested in what you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Jake’s eyes flicked again to the pendant beside the pelt. “What’s this?” he asked, reaching out.

Neteyam was on his feet in an instant. “Don’t touch it.”

Jake looked up, startled. Neteyam’s face was drawn tight, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “Is it for Sa’nari?” Jake asked carefully.

“I’m not telling you.”

Jake’s expression darkened. “That’s not how this works.”

“Funny,” Neteyam said bitterly. “Because nothing about this has worked for me.”

Jake took a step forward. “Neteyam—”

“I’m doing what I have to do,” Neteyam said, voice low and tight. “I’m trying to do everything right. And still—it’s never enough. I’m either too stubborn, or too cold, or not enough like you.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” Neteyam barked a laugh. “Because it sure as hell feels like it.”

Jake’s tone shifted, quieter now. “I get it. You think I don’t? I know what it’s like to carry too much. I became Olo’eyktan before I was ready. I led a war before I understood what leadership really meant. And every day after that, I had to prove I was good enough to stand in the place I’d taken.”

Neteyam’s breath hitched—but he didn’t speak.

“I know it’s hard,” Jake said. “I know it feels like you’re being crushed from every angle. Like you have to carry the future while everyone tells you how to live it. But you don’t get to shut me out when things get hard.”

Neteyam finally looked at him.

Neteyam’s throat worked. He wanted to scream it. That you were missing. That you were alone. That every breath he took without knowing where you were was agony. That he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t breathe without seeing your face somewhere in the trees. But if he said it—if he said your name—it would be over. He turned away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Jake’s voice dropped. “Try me.”

Neteyam froze. The silence stretched. Then finally—slowly—he turned his head just enough to speak over his shoulder. “There’s someone out there,” he said. “Someone who matters.”

Jake’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Neteyam didn’t elaborate. His eyes flicked to the pendant. The button. The fire.

Jake took a breath. “You’re scaring your mother.”

“I’m doing what you taught me to do,” Neteyam said coldly. “Protect what I care about. Even if it means breaking the rules.”

Jake stared at him for a long time. Then, finally, he stepped back toward the entrance. He paused at the curtain, one hand lifting it just slightly. “You’re keeping something from me, Neteyam. I know it.”

Neteyam didn’t look at him.

“I just hope,” Jake said quietly, “it’s not something that gets you killed.”

Then he was gone. The curtain swayed. Neteyam stood there for a long time and every breath felt like a countdown.

You were out there. And he was out of time.

The day was already thick with heat when they rode out.

The air clung to Neteyam’s skin like oil, humid and oppressive beneath the canopy. Their pa’li moved steadily over the forest floor, hooves squelching in soft earth, rain still dripping from swollen leaves. Kiri rode ahead, her eyes sweeping the ground. Lo’ak flanked behind, quiet for once.

Neteyam said nothing.

He hadn’t spoken since before dawn—not after another restless night spent staring at the unfinished neckpiece beside his mat. Not after his father’s visit. Not after pressing the white button to his lips and swearing he would not return without you.

They moved past a low stretch of reeds near the creek when Kiri reined in sharply. Her pa’li snorted. “Wait,” she murmured, swinging down. She knelt beside a clump of ferns, brushing her fingers through the damp leaves.

Neteyam dismounted fast, landing beside her. There, wedged under a moss-covered rock, was a shred of something pale. Kiri carefully pulled it out—a torn corner of paper, stained and softened by the rain.

Lo’ak squatted beside them. “Is that…?”

Neteyam grabbed it gently, turning it in his fingers. It was some kind of book—standard RDA stock, crumpled and torn, the ink smeared into illegibility. And stabbed through the center? A thorn. Clean. Deliberate.

“She marked it,” Neteyam whispered. He stood fast, scanning the trees—and then he saw another one. Farther ahead, tucked into the crook of a low branch: another scrap of paper. Pierced through and fluttering slightly in the breeze.

“She made a path,” Kiri said, eyes wide. “Eywa…”

Neteyam didn’t wait. He was already mounting. “Let’s go.”

They followed the path for half an hour—scraps hidden under stones, wedged behind bark, clinging to vines. Each one was like a heartbeat. A pulse. A whispered sign that she was still fighting. Still alive.

And then the trees opened. A clearing stretched before them—tall grass swaying in the midmorning light, golden-bright and deceptively peaceful. But it wasn’t the clearing that made Neteyam’s breath catch. It was the shape above it.

Suspended between the high trees, caught in a web of vines and roots and gravity’s slow mercy, hung a Samson gunship. Rusty. Broken. Twisted with age. Just like in his dream.

His pa’li halted with a soft grunt, sensing the shift in his rider’s pulse. Neteyam didn’t dismount. Couldn’t. He sat frozen, staring at the hanging craft like it had dropped out of his nightmares.

It was the exact same clearing. The exact same spot. The tall grass. The angle of the trees. This was where you had sat in his dream. This was where he’d seen you bleeding. “Eywa…” he whispered.

Behind him, Lo’ak was already moving, climbing up the low branches toward the side of the Samson. “I’ll check the cockpit,” he called.

Neteyam barely heard him. His vision swam. Please no. Please. Then, above him—

“Shit,” Lo’ak said. Neteyam’s head snapped up. And then the words came, sharp and terrible: “There’s a corpse up here.” It was more of a statement.

It was like getting shot in the chest. Everything inside Neteyam dropped. He was moving before he realized—bolting forward, leaping onto a twisted root, scrambling up the tangled vines as if his body no longer belonged to him.

He didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

She’s gone. She’s gone. You were too late. You should’ve gotten here days ago.

His hands slipped on rusted metal, vines tearing under his grip. He hauled himself up over the edge of the broken ramp, eyes wild.

He was going to see you.

Dead.

Cold.

Eyes closed.

Face slack.

Gone.

The metal groaned beneath his weight as he pulled himself into the dark interior of the Samson—and stopped.

There, slumped in the pilot seat, was a corpse.

But not your corpse.

The uniform was faded tan. RDA insignia still barely visible on the shoulder.

The body was long decayed—just bones and sunken fabric, held together by rot and time. Probably had been here for twenty years, left behind after the war when this Samson crashed and never recovered.

Neteyam sagged forward, pressing one hand to the wall, breathing hard. He hadn’t realized how certain he was that it was you. How much he had already braced himself to see you—cold, broken, gone.

But it wasn’t you. It was some ghost of the past. A pilot who hadn’t made it out of the war. Neteyam didn’t respond right away. Instead, his eyes began to move across the interior.

The cockpit was rusted, yes—but solid. It had held together over the years. The control panels were useless, the wiring fried, but the frame was intact. It could have held weight. A person.

You.

He crouched lower, eyes scanning the corners, the dust-covered floor— And then he saw it. A helmet. Not the soldier’s.

An RDA exo-mask. Propped on its side in the corner, just beneath the pilot’s seat. Inside it… was liquid. Red-brown. Thick. His heart jumped. He reached for it, carefully, lifting it with both hands. The inside panel had been cleaned, smoothed out into a curve—used like a bowl.

First, he thought it was blood. His chest went cold. But then—he brought it to his nose. And stopped. Herbs.

Rulvansip.

Medicinal.

It smelled like the inside of Mo’at’s tent. It smelled like healing.

You have been here.

You used this.

You had treated a wound.

Just like the dream. A wound in her palm. He ran a shaking hand over the glass. “She was here,” he said hoarsely. “She stayed here. She used this.”

Kiri and Lo’ak looked up from below. “Then we’re still on her trail,” Lo’ak said. “Right?”

Neteyam didn’t answer. He just sat there, holding the mask, staring into that rusted cockpit, knowing that for one moment—one terrifying, beautiful moment—he was sitting exactly where you had once sat.

And it meant one thing.

You were still moving.

You were still fighting.

You were still alive.

The fire burned low, its glow soft and unsteady as it crackled in the center of the kelku. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering in slow waves across Neteyam’s face as he crouched near the hearth, unmoving, eyes locked on the flames. The broken screen of the old datapad lay between them, its display cracked and stuttering—sometimes showing the trail map, sometimes just static.

Lo’ak sat cross-legged, turning a dull knife slowly in his hands. Kiri leaned back on her palms, eyes scanning the glowing map projection as it flickered. They’d been going in circles for hours—marking paths, arguing possible turns, retracing your steps in their minds.

Maybe you’d doubled back. Maybe you had turned east again, toward the outpost, following the sun like Neteyam had taught you—head low, wound bleeding, stubborn and alive.

Lo’ak lay on his side nearby, one arm folded under his head, his voice hushed but tense. “We could backtrack to the outpost. If she was trying to follow the sun east, she might’ve tried to stay close to old trails. Even if she veered north, that whole quadrant’s easier to move through.”

Kiri nodded, sitting cross-legged near the fire, frowning in thought. “I’ve been thinking the same. She wouldn’t have gone north. Not with a wound. And the forest gets denser out there—steeper, more dangerous.”

Lo’ak added, “From the Samson to the outpost is not far. We can ride straight in from the creek basin. Be there by midday. But for her on foot…”

Neither of them looked at their brother. Because Neteyam hadn’t said a word in over an hour.

He crouched by the fire pit like a statue, shoulders taut, tail flicking in short, restless motions. His breath moved slow—too slow—and his eyes… weren’t really watching the flames. Not anymore. He was somewhere far deeper.

Inside.

Spiraling.

The heat licked his face, dry and too bright. But it was the only thing anchoring him now. I can’t breathe. He hadn’t breathed properly since the day you went missing. Not really.

For a year, you were just another human—just another voice in the outpost, tucked behind a datapad with dirt under your nails and stubbornness in your voice.

For two years after that… you were a strange ache in his chest. A curiosity. A spark. Someone who saw Pandora like it was made of wonder, not war.

Then you started saying his name like it mattered. In time, you stopped being a scientist to him. And then—somewhere in the quiet moments between shared glances and too-long conversations—you became something more. His distraction. His gravity.

His little star.

You burned so differently from his world—so strange and stubborn but gentle with every living thing. You weren’t Na’vi. You weren’t meant to belong. But you did.

To him.

In the last half year, since the first time you kissed him—messy, laughing, breathless—it had become unbearable to be apart. He’d never been meant for hiding, for secrets. But with you, he would hide forever if it meant keeping you. If it meant waking to your touch, even in silence. If it meant you were still his.

And now?—now you were gone.

He clenched his jaw, nails digging into the skin of his palms as he stared into the fire.

íYou have become part of him.

Every day they were apart since that first kiss had felt wrong. Empty. He needed you near him—needed your laugh, your warmth, your hand brushing his. He didn’t care that it had to be secret. Didn’t care that no one would understand. He needed you like breath. Now, all he had left was a trail of torn paper. An old dream. And the smell of herbs in a mask you’d used to heal yourself.

If I’ve already lost you…

He couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t let it live inside his head. His throat felt tight. His chest burned.

I can’t lose you. Not now. Not when you are finally mine.

He reached toward the flames without thinking—just close enough for the heat to bite his skin—and curled his fingers inward, as if grasping for something that wasn’t there. Kiri watched him, her voice faltering as she trailed off mid-sentence. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she leaned forward.

“Neteyam,” she said gently. “You’re doing it again.” He didn’t blink. “You’re slipping,” she said, softer now. “You’re going too deep.”

Still nothing. Kiri moved toward him, settling beside his crouched form, her hand brushing his arm. “Neteyam,” she whispered. “Look at me.”

His breath came out as a shudder. Then, slowly, he turned toward her. “I need to find her,” he rasped. His voice cracked on the last word. Kiri nodded, her grip tightening. “I need her, Kiri. I can’t—I can’t lose her. Not when… not when she’s finally mine.”

It slipped out of him, barely above a whisper. And that’s when the curtain at the entrance rustled.

Neytiri stood in the doorway, framed in firelight. Her eyes were sharp. Her expression is unreadable. “What did you say?” she asked, voice like a drawn bowstring.

Neteyam froze.

Kiri went still beside him.

Lo’ak straightened slowly, the knife slipping from his hand with a dull thud against the floor.

Neytiri stepped further inside, eyes narrowed, locking onto her eldest son with slow precision. “Neteyam,” she said again. “Who is… ‘yours’?”

The fire snapped. The datapad flickered. And in the suffocating silence that followed, Neteyam didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Because everything—everything—was about to break.

And he didn’t know if he could stop it.

Part 24: To breath

The next part will be again from reader's pov.

[metalbuckaroo]

The Chase

Summary// "we had a deal, my dove. You promised."

AU// WinterSoldier!Bucky x F!Reader

Warnings// chasing kink, unprotected sex, smut, a yank to the hair, cursing, use of petnames- dove, dovey

Note// I think I'm a little rusty, but I'm also beyond tired rn so it could also be that ehsudienaua. This is a part two to the Black Mail fic I did for kinktober many moons ago

"Who is he?" He was everywhere. His gruff voice echoing through the trees, surrounding you as you frantically looked around. Trying to find a way out of this situation. "I don't share, dove."

He was right behind you, your legs working before your mind to carry you in the opposite direction. Lungs burning from the cold night air as his dark chuckle faded in the distance.

But, he was quick and quiet. Moving just as fast as you could look over your shoulder before slamming into what could only be described as a wall of pure muscle, sending you falling back onto the leaf covered ground.

"Please- James, please. I'm sorry." You pleaded, tears stinging your eyes as he stood over you. The same mask Hydra forced him to wear covering the lower portion of his face.

He kneeled down, denim blues dark with something you couldn't place. "I won't ask again. Who. Is. He."

"Your way out! Please, just let me go. I still have a week!" The metal of his left hand gleamed in the moonlight as he reached his hand out to grasp your chin. Pupils blown and touch gentle.

"I'll give you a headstart. You have three minutes, dovey." You just stared at him wide eyed, chest heaving and heart hammering against your ribcage. "Run."

As if on instinct, you scrambled to your feet, trying to find your footing to dart back into the darkness the trees provided.

You knew you couldn't go much longer, your aching muscles sending pains through your legs each time your feet would hit the ground. There was no use in running anyways, he'd always win.

"We had a deal, my dove. You promised." You swore you could hear the grit of his teeth when you'd stopped, so close to giving in as you leaned your forehead against the rough bark of a nearby tree. Fingers curving against the wood. "You're just like them."

"No, I'm not." You heaved, trying to take a moment to catch your breath.

"I saw you with him at that diner. You're suppose to be mine."

His voice was getting closer, making you bite down on the inside of your cheeks to take some of the attention away from the burning in your legs before taking off again.

Though, you didn't make it far before fingers curled in the back of your hair. Crying out when he barely yanked to make you stop.

"I was doing what I was told. You want out, I have to find someone who can do that." You tried to reason, words not coming easy from the way he had your head craned back. His warm right arm snaking around your waist to pull you against him.

"Lies." He seethed, calloused fingers slipping under your shirt. "I've dreamt of you. Craved you. Now I finally have you again. I've been so cold without you my sweet dove."

Your body gave in the moment nimble fingers flicked the button of your pants open.

There was something twisted inside of you that liked the chase, the constant looming feeling you'd had over the weeks since you'd last seen him- like he was just lying in wait for the right moment.

It was hard to think of much else than the last time you'd saw him. The drag of his fingers against your skin, the way his lips seared kisses to your throat- much like now, cold and warm hands dragging against your sides as your fingers worked at the tactical belt that kept you from what you were truly after.

The ground freezing against your bare back not slowing you from getting what you craved.

It seemed to take ages for James to notice your struggle, his hands replacing your own to easily pull open the buckle as yours went to unclip the mask. Carelessly tossing it into the leaves to pull his lips to yours.

The hunger behind his kiss fueled you, your fingers weaving through his long locks and legs going around his waist to pull him closer. Swallowing breaths and quiet grunts as his hand fumbled to grasp his shaft.

The shudder that rolled through your body as he pressed into you was enough to send your mind reeling, everything else around you fading away and your senses overwhelmed by only him as he found his pace. Short, hard thrusts rocking your body- sending shocks of pure pleasure shooting down your legs.

You'd missed how full he made you feel. An emptiness left behind in his absence, his touch electric as he groped at your chest and left sloppy kisses along your throat. Deep moans vibrating against the skin, mixing with your whines in the cold night air.

"Can feel you milking me, dovey. Make a mess, show me who I belong to." James panted, drinking in the pleasure drunk scrunch of your face as your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

Wedging his arm under you for a better angle, he didn't change his pace. Taking the opportunity to slot his lips over yours when you cried out in bliss, swallowing the sultry sound as your cunt clamped around him. His hips jerked forward at the feeling, the swirling sensation at his base building until he couldn't take it anymore- spilling into you with a huffed grunt.

The warmth of his body was quickly replaced with the night air, goosebumps prickling your skin as you whined in response. The dull ring in your ears making it hard to focus as you found your jeans to redress.

"One more week, dove. Better hurry."

[novaursa]

Hi Nova!

Oberyn Martell x Stark!reader x Ellaria Sand

Reader escape the Red wedding with her direwolf and she has a cut in her cheek. She take a ship without knowing it go to sunspear. The guards see them and take them to the Martell family. 🤍 You can choose how it ends!

I really love your stories and i was wondering if i could join your Oberyn Martell taglist? 👀

No One Left but Us

- Summary: After escaping the Red Wedding, your journey brings you to two people that have thirst for the same kind of vengeance you crave.

- Pairing: Oberyn Martell/stark!reader (x Ellaria Sand)

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (violence, blood, gore)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: You will be added to the tag list for Oberyn. 🫶

The wind howled through the trees as if the gods themselves were wailing, a warning carried too late. You rode hard, your fingers white where they clenched the reins, the pounding of hooves beneath you nearly drowned by the thudding in your chest. Your cloak streamed behind you like a banner, dark as a raven’s wing, and your direwolf, Harrow, loped silently beside you—shadow and fang. You’d meant only to arrive late, to avoid the noise and spectacle of the feast at the Twins, to enter with quiet dignity after Robb’s bannermen had gorged themselves and settled. But the smell on the wind had turned your blood to ice long before the Twins came into view—smoke, iron, and blood. The stench of betrayal.

You crested the hill and saw it all at once. The red flames licking the night, screaming horses, the sounds of steel on steel, and worse—of flesh torn open, of children crying, of men dying with your family’s name on their lips. Stark. You could hardly breathe. The banners of House Frey flapped in the smoky air, joined by the golden lion of the Lannisters. Freys and Lannisters. Blood and ash. You knew then, with a clarity that shattered your heart into jagged pieces, that this was no battle. It was slaughter.

“No,” you whispered, too softly for anyone but Harrow to hear. He snarled, ears pinned back, his muzzle wet with the mist clinging to the riverbanks. “We’re too late…”

And then the first arrow hissed through the air.

You ducked instinctively, the shaft grazing your cheek and searing fire into your skin. Blood splattered your collar, warm and immediate. Harrow roared—yes, roared, not barked—and launched himself into the woods as more arrows thudded into trees and mud, some striking dangerously close. You kicked your horse’s flanks and bolted after him, your heart crashing like a war drum. A voice shouted behind you—"Stark! That one’s a Stark!"—but it was lost to the wind.

You didn’t know how long you rode. Minutes? Hours? Your limbs burned, your breath came in sobs. Harrow guided you more than you guided him. Eventually, the trees thinned and the shoreline opened before you, the river dark as pitch, wide and endless. A ship stood docked, sails unfurled, rocking gently. Lanterns swung from her bow. A voice called, rough and accented: “We set sail now! If you're not on, you're left behind!”

You didn’t think. There was no time to think. You spurred your horse forward and leapt from the saddle before the ship’s crew could turn you away, landing hard on the deck as Harrow bounded after you. The sailors reeled back at the sight of him—black-furred, eyes pale as ice, his mouth dripping froth and fury—but you rose to your feet and grabbed the nearest man by the sleeve.

“Please,” you rasped. Your voice cracked from smoke and screaming. “Please, just go. Don’t ask me why. Don’t ask my name. Just go.”

The man looked you over—saw your fine dress, now smeared with mud and ash, saw the cut on your cheek, still bleeding, saw the direwolf that stood pressed against your legs like a silent sentinel. Whatever he saw in your eyes, it made him nod.

“Aye, girl. You're not the first ghost to come aboard bleeding.” He gestured with two fingers. “Hoist anchor! Let the Twins burn.”

You collapsed against the railing as the ship lurched away from shore, the gentle splash of water against the hull a grim contrast to the chaos you’d left behind. The flames still burned in the distance, and you watched until they blurred, until you no longer knew if it was the fire that stung your eyes or the tears. Harrow pressed his nose to your hand and whined, low and soft. You buried your fingers in his thick fur, your body shaking.

“They’re gone,” you whispered. “Mother, Robb… even Grey Wind. They’re all gone.”

Your voice cracked on your brother’s name. Harrow whined again and laid his head on your lap. Somewhere behind you, a gull cried. The river widened, then became the sea. You didn’t know where the ship was headed, and you didn’t care. You only knew you couldn’t look back.

But still, you did.

And the fire still burned.

The voyage had been long, but the sea had offered you a strange kind of peace—cold, constant, and vast, like the grief that lived in your bones. The crew of The Sand Serpent had become your shield and solace in those drifting days, rough men and weather-worn women who had grown used to the silent girl cloaked in black, with hollow eyes and a direwolf that paced the deck like a guardian spirit. Harrow had terrified them at first. Now, they tossed him scraps from their meals and offered gruff greetings as they passed, always keeping a respectful distance. They never asked your name. They didn’t need to. They knew loss when they saw it. And you knew that even if you’d arrived on their deck bloodied and broken, you were safe among them.

The call of gulls and the scent of sun-warmed citrus greeted you as the ship glided into the harbor. Sunspear rose before you like a mirage—red sandstone towers rising in elegant coils from the bronze dunes, domed roofs glinting beneath the brutal Dornish sun. The breeze that swept across the port was dry but fragrant, carrying the smells of spiced wine, lavender oil, and roasted goat. It was nothing like the North, and the moment your boots touched the stone pier, the heat wrapped around you like a living thing, coaxing sweat from your skin beneath your heavy Northern furs.

“Gods, you’ll roast in that,” one of the sailors chuckled, nodding at your layered cloak. He hefted a barrel of olives onto his shoulder and winked at Harrow. “Though your beast don’t seem to mind.”

You glanced down. Harrow was already panting, tongue lolling from his mouth, but his tail twitched at your side as if he were trying not to look too impressed with the land of endless sun. You murmured, “We’ll find shade soon,” and scratched behind his ears, your voice quiet from disuse. He pressed against your legs in reply, watchful as ever.

The crew disembarked to unload their cargo, and you walked among the market stalls that clustered along the sun-baked streets near the docks. Everything shimmered in golds and reds, brilliant silks hanging from awnings like banners, the air thick with the perfume of crushed dates, mint, and exotic resins burning low in clay bowls. The vendors called out in a cacophony of tongues—Valyrian, the other various guttural tounges of Essos, and the singsong lilt of Dornish. You ran your fingers over baskets of ripe pomegranates, glazed amphorae, and blades curved like the crescent moon.

People stared at you, but not with cruelty. Your Northern face stood out among their tan skin and black curls, your pale cloak marking you as foreign as surely as your quiet posture did. Still, they didn’t look with suspicion—only curiosity. But one pair of eyes lingered longer than the rest.

“You walk like someone with ghosts at her heels,” came a voice—smooth as silk and sharp as a dagger. You turned, slowly, and found him standing beside a fig seller’s stall, leaning lazily against a pillar of sun-warmed stone.

Prince Oberyn Martell was unmistakable. He wore no armor, only a light, ochre tunic that left much of his chest bare, the fabric clinging to his lithe frame. His skin was sun-kissed, his lips curved into a knowing smile. A woman stood beside him, her arm looped easily through his. She was stunning in a way that left the air feeling too thick to breathe—long-limbed, wild-eyed, a vision in crimson silk with curls cascading down her back like a dark waterfall.

Ellaria Sand tilted her head, studying you. “You’re far from the snows of the North,” she said softly. Her gaze fell to Harrow, who stood rigid beside you, his fur bristling. “And not just a traveler. That beast… only one house raises wolves.”

You froze, every instinct screaming to flee. But your feet stayed rooted. You had nothing left to run to.

“I know you,” Oberyn murmured, stepping closer. “You were not at the feast, but your face—your eyes. You're a Stark.”

Your voice came out hoarse. “And if I am?”

“Then we mourn the same death,” Ellaria said. Her voice held sorrow, yes, but also fire. “The Red Wedding was not just your family's funeral. It was an insult to all who value honor. A dagger in the back of the world.”

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion. In understanding. “They butchered your kin at a feast. Slaughtered your brother beneath guest right, murdered your mother while she begged. And still you live. That is no accident.”

You blinked, mouth dry. “I was late.”

“Then perhaps the gods spared you for a reason,” he said. “Come with us.”

You shook your head instinctively. “I don’t even know where to go.”

Ellaria stepped forward, her fingers light as feathers when she touched your arm. “Stay with us. At the palace. You will have protection, comfort… and something more.”

You blinked. “More?”

“A chance to fight back,” Oberyn said. “A chance for justice. For vengeance. The Lannisters have touched my family with betrayal and blood before. They will do it again. But not if we burn them first.”

Ellaria smiled, slow and warm. “And you’re beautiful. Tragic. Fierce. Stay, and you won’t need to be alone with your sorrow. You can share our bed, our fight, our future.”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught. The market faded around you—the calls of merchants, the buzz of heat and sun—and all that remained were their eyes. His, bright with promise and passion. Hers, gentle and wild, like an oasis in the sand.

Harrow nudged your thigh and sat beside you. Silent approval.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let out a breath. Not quite trust. But something close to hope.

“…Take me with you,” you whispered.

[xillpregnant]

Deliverance Park

World count: 1K

Synopsis: Emma and Sarah have been inseparable since childhood, sharing joys, heartbreaks, and now the most life-changing moment of all: the birth of Emma’s twins. But when labor begins, Emma refuses to stay confined indoors. Driven by instinct, she decides to give birth outside, beneath the night sky in a nearby park.

This is a work of fiction and does not aim to be entirely realistic. Anyways I hope you enjoy it!

-------------------------------------------------

Emma and Sarah had been inseparable since childhood. They had shared laughter, sleepless nights, and heartbreaks, and now they shared the small apartment where they lived together. Sarah had been the first to know about Emma’s pregnancy and, ever since, had been by her side for every ultrasound, every late-night craving, and every fear. Emma couldn’t imagine anyone else with her for this moment—the birth of her children.

When contractions started around 11 p.m., Emma was already used to the discomfort of the past few weeks, but this felt different. A deep pull in her lower belly made her stop in her tracks in the middle of the living room. A second later, a shiver ran down her spine as she felt an internal snap, followed by a warm gush of liquid trickling down her thighs.

"Sarah… " she gasped, eyes wide.

Sarah looked up from her book, immediately alert as she saw the growing puddle beneath her friend.

"Emma, your water… I’ll get everything ready for the birth, just like we planned. " Sarah stood up right away, moving toward her.

Emma shook her head urgently, breathing heavily. "No, I don’t want to be trapped between four walls. It suffocates me. I need to move, I need fresh air. Let’s go to the park."

Sarah hesitated for a moment, but she knew Emma well enough to understand she wouldn’t change her mind. Without wasting any more time, she grabbed blankets, towels, and everything they would need, then helped Emma out of the apartment.

However, halfway there, Emma had to stop, doubling over with a strangled moan.

"Ahh… OH GOD! " She clung to Sarah’s arm as her belly tightened like a rock.

"Breathe, Emma. You’re doing great. "Sarah held her firmly " I’ve got you."

Every few steps, Emma had to stop again, bending forward as the pain took over. Her body trembled with each wave of pressure. Sarah worried about how far along she was. She wasn’t a doctor, but she had done her research. During one of the pauses, she helped Emma lean against a streetlight and, without hesitation, lifted the hem of her dress, pulled aside the damp fabric of her underwear, and carefully slipped her fingers in to check. The moment she felt something firm and round pushing downward, her eyes widened.

"Emma… " Sarah swallowed hard "You’re almost fully dilated… I can feel the head. "

Emma gasped, her legs shaking.

"Sarah, I can’t… I need to push!"

"Not here. We’re almost there, just hold on a little longer."

With great effort, Emma managed the last few steps to the park. Sarah found a secluded spot under a large tree with an old swing and spread the blankets on the ground. But Emma didn’t lie down. Her body demanded movement. She clung to the tree trunk, her nails digging into the rough bark as a brutal contraction tore through her.

"AAAAH! "she roared, feeling an intense, burning stretch. The contractions slammed into her with overwhelming force. Emma could feel her skin stretching to its limit as the baby’s head began to crown. With each push, the burning sensation intensified, the pressure unrelenting.

"You’re doing amazing. I can see the head! "Sarah’s voice was full of awe and excitement as she positioned her hands, ready to catch the baby.

Emma sobbed, her body opening even more.

"It burns! Oh God, I can’t!"

"Just a little more. One more push."

With a final, desperate effort, Emma screamed, feeling the wet snap as the baby slipped free. Sarah caught the newborn with steady hands, quickly wrapping him in a blanket.

"It’s a beautiful baby boy!"

Emma, trembling and breathless, collapsed to her knees. Tears of relief streamed down her face as she reached for her son. But then—her relief vanished. Her belly was still tight. The pressure hadn’t faded.

"Sarah! " Her voice trembled, eyes wide with panic "The another one!"

Sarah’s face turned alarmed as she looked at her still-rounded stomach. Emma was utterly exhausted, but the second baby still needed to be born. Yet the contractions had weakened. Emma, desperate, started pushing without waiting for another wave of pressure, but all she did was tire herself further.

"Come on, come out! " she cried, tears streaming down her face.

"Emma, not like this. Pushing without contractions won’t help. " Sarah tried to calm her, but Emma was frantic.

Then Sarah remembered what she had read about stimulation. Without hesitation, she first helped Emma change position, having her sit on the swing that hung from the tree. She unbuttoned the top of Emma’s dress and began massaging her nipples, rolling and pinching them gently. At the same time, she pressed key points between Emma’s legs, applying firm pressure. Emma gasped, clutching the swing’s chains, her body slowly responding.

Suddenly, another internal snap made her jolt. A second gush of warm liquid soaked her thighs and the blanket beneath her.

"Ahhh! It’s coming! " Emma screamed. Her body tensed again as the second baby’s head started to emerge, this time with greater difficulty.

"Come on, Emma. Just a little more… " Sarah encouraged her, hands ready.

"It’s tearing me apart! " Emma roared, gripping the swing’s chains tightly. She felt like she was splitting in two.

Sarah watched as Emma’s skin stretched to the max, carefully supporting the baby’s head as it slowly crowned.

"Take it slow. Push when you feel ready. " Sarah whispered, guiding her.

Emma took a deep breath, and with the next push, the head was fully out. Sarah held the baby carefully, waiting for the next surge. The shoulders were the hardest part, but with one final, agonizing cry, the baby slipped free into Sarah’s hands.

The newborn took a deep breath, then let out a loud cry. Sarah laughed through her tears, placing the baby against Emma’s chest.

"You did it… " she whispered, pressing a proud kiss to her forehead.

Emma, exhausted but overwhelmed with joy, held both of her babies close, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. It had been the most intense moment of her life—but also the most beautiful. She looked at Sarah, her eyes shining with tears, and smiled weakly.

"Thank you… for being here with me."

Sarah hugged her gently, whispering into her ear:

"I’ll always be here. You’re my best friend."

The End.

[slutoru1207]

mark grayson x reader

smut

public semi sex

MDNI 18+

The cool night air sends shivers down your spine as you lean against the tree's rough bark, the thrill of being outside heightening your senses. You can hear the rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of the city, but all you can focus on is the heat radiating from Mark behind you.

“Do you know how much I want you right now?” he growls, his voice low and filled with desire. You can feel his breath against your neck, sending a thrill through you as he steps closer, his body pressing against yours.

“Please,” you whisper, the need in your voice evident as you push your hips back against him, craving the contact.

“Please what?” he taunts, his hands gripping your hips tightly. “You have to ask for it, baby.”

His words send a rush of excitement through you, and you can’t help but moan softly. “I want you,” you breathe, desperation lacing your voice.

“Good girl,” he replies, his tone dripping with satisfaction. In one swift motion, he pulls your hair back, exposing your neck as he leans in closer. “Now let’s see how much you can take.”

With that, he thrusts into you from behind, the force of it making you gasp. The sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel every inch of him as he fills you completely. “You like that, don’t you?” he growls, his grip on your hips tightening as he begins to move.

“Yes,” you manage to gasp, the pleasure mixing with the slight pain of his grip on your hair.

“Who do you belong to baby?” he demands, his voice rough and commanding as he drives deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

“you,” you cry out, the words spilling from your lips as he continues to pound into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet of the park.

“Louder,” he growls, pulling your hair harder as he increases his pace. “I want everyone to know who you belong to.”

“You!” you scream, the words filled with desperation and need as he pushes you closer to the edge. The thrill of being outside, the danger of being caught, only adds to the intensity of the moment.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice thick with desire as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re so fucking perfect for me.”

With each thrust, he drives you closer to the brink, the pleasure building within you as you surrender completely to the moment. “I’m going to make you come,” he growls, his hands gripping you tightly as he quickens his pace, the urgency in his movements evident.

“Please, I need it,” you beg, your voice trembling with need as you feel the tension coiling tighter within you.

“Not until you say it again,” he demands, his voice low and rough. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours!” you scream, the words bursting from you as the pleasure reaches its peak.

“Good girl,” he growls, and with one final thrust, you feel the wave of ecstasy crash over you, the intensity of it all sending you spiraling into bliss. You cry out his name, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night as you lose yourself completely.

As you come down from the high, he holds you close, his grip still firm as he breathes heavily against your neck. “You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice filled with satisfaction. “Next time, I want to hear you scream for me again.”

im backkkkkk

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-One: hyacinth; purple

tw: none

Simon’s knuckles split on the first punch, but he can’t stop now that he’s started. 

Shockwaves ripple through his arms until he feels the dull, thrumming ache in his shoulderblades, and even then he persists. Right hook. Then left. A wide swing with his elbow. Each time his body makes contact, he wishes his target was something tangible. Something that would scream and groan and choke on its own spit and blood as they fought—as Simon sought penance. Instead, the sand-filled cloth does nothing but sigh as the chain connecting it to the ceiling creaks beneath the weight. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been at it. Time seems to warp differently in Terminus’ basement. Price always keeps a fair amount of workout equipment for anyone to use as they wish, yet it’s not properly kept—the walls are full of chipped paint and the ceiling dips as if it holds the weight of the world. As soon as Simon got off work, he hunkered down to lift weights with subpar rock music blasting through the ancient speakers, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. 

The anger doesn’t quell. The yearning for ichor refuses to quiet. Each time Simon’s fist meets the punching bag before him, all he can think about is how he’d much rather put it through the cinderblock walls, or through a pair of sickly green eyes. Green like an infection. Green like radiation. 

Green like rot. 

He thinks that if he can punch a hole through the universe, he can distort time. He can walk into Tsar Trading before you had ever sat in that wretched chair—before Marco ever laid a finger on you—and water the earth with one more unmourned degenerate. But he can’t. Now, he’s stuck with the mental image of your fear; of you looking up at a man who smiles with unabashed perversion as he does what he wants with you. If he closes his eyes he can still feel you trembling against him. He can still feel the hot tears on his chest. He can still hear your voice cracking. 

I was worried that if you ever knew what Marco did to me t-that you wouldn’t like me anymore because you’d think I’m gross…

Something peels. It shrivels like the eye-patterned bark of an aspen tree, withered and crumbling. Simon pauses, chest heaving with each panting breath that he sucks in as he looks at the state of his fists. Briney sweat dribbles into his eyes, burning the scleras. Squinting through the sting, he sees the way the skin of his knuckles parts like dried riverbeds at the sweltering apex of summer. Blood weeps from the wounds. His skin puckers as it slides along his wrist.

He craved ichor so terribly and yet the only taste he’s gotten has been his own. 

Huffing, Simon finally forces himself away from the punching bag. Stiff knees give out as he sits in a chair that creaks beneath his weight and he allows the stillness of the weight room to wash over him as he stares at the floor. Florid liquid seeps into the navy of his jeans, darkening the fabric, but he can’t get himself to care about the stain. 

Simon has never felt so useless in his entire life. Looking after you was supposed to be simple. Keeping you safe was supposed to be easy. It’s all he knows how to do—fight. Protect. Yet, his job was ruined years before it was ever bequeathed to him—how can he kill a ghost? How can he kill a memory that lingers like nicotine in the fine strands of hair? 

Quick feet tap down the wooden stairs, and the dull thumps cut through the music loud enough for Simon to quirk his ears. Rubbing at his nose, he wipes his knuckles off on his jeans, smearing the blood along his thighs until there’s nothing put a pink stain on the back of his hand. Staring at the door, he awaits for it to swing open. 

Expecting Johnny, Simon’s rather surprised to catch sight of Kyle. 

He enters the room with his phone in hand. The screen illuminates his face as he scrolls with pinched brows and tight lips. He’s come prepared—donning a light cotton t-shirt and joggers, the bag slung over his shoulder makes him appear as if he’s been plucked out of a men’s sportswear magazine. The growling rock music eventually snags his attention, and Kyle’s eyes break away from his phone with a hum. 

“Oh. Morning, Riley,” he greets stiffly. 

Not having looked at his phone or a clock in hours, Simon decides to take his word for it. “Morning.” 

Pausing, Kyle allows his eyes to sweep over Simon. He does it cordially. Someone who didn’t know any better would have missed it, but not him. Blood on jeans, dark circles beneath even darker eyes, sweat soaked shirt—Kyle sees it all. 

“Late night?” he inquires carefully as he treads further into the room. 

“Can’t sleep,” Simon shrugs. 

“Yeah, me neither.” 

As Kyle dumps his bag onto the floor, Simon sneaks his phone from out of his pocket. There are no new messages from you, which is something he expects. You stopped replying to his texts around one in the morning, hopefully having fallen asleep, and it’s still too early for you to be up yet. Your last correspondence had led him to believe you were feeling better than you were this morning, yet that seed of doubt still roots too deep in his mind for him to pluck it out. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Kyle then asks. He’s sitting on the bench press cushioning with his elbows on his knees—relaxed, and in no rush. 

Simon nearly scoffs, but he holds himself back in fear of coming off too crass. Canines digging into the insides of his cheeks, he flexes his fingers and tries not to hiss at the sting of raw, stretching skin. 

“Reckon this might be above your paygrade, Garrick,” he says with dull humor. 

“Yeah,” Kyle replies, eyes flickering to Simon’s hands. “Might be.” 

A sepulchral cloud hangs heavy in the air, and Simon finds himself wanting to bark at the dull atmosphere. Though he’s been a good boy for a long time, something within him aches and writhes. It yearns to hear a scream. It revels in its virulent desire—one that he has to shove back in his ribcage to keep himself sane. 

“How’re things with Lucy?” Simon asks instead. 

He nearly laughs at the way Kyle’s lips quirk into a smile at the mere mention of the name. “Good. Yeah, things are really good. She’s a bit excited about getting Valentine’s day off work this year. Don’t think she’s had it off the last two, three years or so. We’ve got a big date night planned.” 

“Yeah?” Simon teases. “Gonna be makin’ grandbabies for your dad, then?” 

Kyle’s laugh is pitiful. Airy—half-hearted. Still he nods as his head falls, and he raises it just in time to answer. “Yeah, he’d like that.” 

“You’ve got plenty of time,” Simon excuses. 

“Yeah, but he doesn’t.” 

Though most of the bleeding from Simon’s knuckles is stunted, there’s still drops that slip through the cracks. Nodding, he rubs his hands on his jeans once more to get rid of the evidence of his fury. “How’s he doing?” 

“About as well as usual,” Kyle says with a shrug. His smile fades like snow in the wind. “He’s back in the ICU.” 

“Is it his liver again?” Simon asks with furrowed brows. 

“Nah, pneumonia,” he replies flippantly. “He gets it every winter, which is why it’s infuriating that the doctors ignored him for so long, especially given his health has been shit for the last twenty years. Spent most of the night with him, actually. Until Lucy kicked me out, anyway.” 

All that frustration that once festered in his chest slowly fades as Simon watches Kyle’s shoulders slump. “She’ll take good care of him.” 

“Yeah… yeah, she always does.” 

Caught in a caprice, Kyle’s somber attitude switches to something lighter as he leans his hands back against the bench press. His eyes warm as he stares at the floor as if watching a film ticking in the back of his skull. 

“She keeps… getting me things. Little gifts. I keep telling her not to, y’know with mum sending me all that hush money and all, I’ve got more than enough disposable income than most. She still does it anyway, and tells me that she loves me too much not to.” Pausing, Kyle shakes his head. “She does so much for me. For my dad, too. I’d give the whole world for her, man.” 

Simon’s chuckle comes soft. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” 

Suddenly, Kyle’s eyes dart across the dilapidating room as he grins. “Yeah, reckon you do. Heard you’ve been getting comfy with Chip now, that right?” 

“Johnny needs to keep his mouth shut.” 

“Nah, I heard that from Mrs. Price, actually.” 

Always getting caught in your gravity, Simon’s thoughts wander back to you. He tries to stave off the acrimonious memories of your trembling skin against his in favor of something softer. The skin of your forehead against his lips. Your form curled and burrowed beneath blankets in bed—in his bed. The idea of it has him feeling silly. He’s been here locked up in some basement punching a bag when he could have been holding you all along. 

“Yeah,” Simon finally admits. “She’s been stayin’ with me for a couple weeks now.” 

“That’s what she mentioned. Said Chip’s apartment had water damage or something of the sort,” Kyle nods. “Reckon the two of you will be married by spring at this rate.” 

Scoffing, Simon taps his phone against his thigh before shoving it back into his pocket. “Forgot you’re a comedian.” 

Kyle innocently shrugs his shoulders. “All I’m saying is that Lucy and I will be expecting an invite. Summer at the latest.” 

“I wouldn’t count on it.” 

Simon spends only a little while longer in the basement with Kyle before he’s cleaning his hands upstairs in the bathroom. The bleeding has stopped, leaving nothing but oval shaped wounds along his first two knuckles. Fluorescent pink paints the peaks with irritated, peeling skin that cries whenever he clenches his fist, but he ignores the pain as he grips his steering wheel and drives through London’s morning rush. 

Fatigued muscles begin to contract in his upper back and in the deep tissues of his thighs while he drives, but he ignores the way his body attempts to call him home. (To you. To where you rest curled among his mattress and pillows). 

There’s something he needs to do. 

The florist is picking at her nails when Simon enters the store. Wiry hair pokes out in haphazard spikes among the bun on her head, and she attempts to use a headband to keep her grey hairs from cowlicking upwards, though its endeavor proves to be futile. The bell ringing on the door catches her attention, and her crows feet deepen when she catches sight of Simon sauntering into the store. 

“Good morning. Can I help you find anything?” 

Her Brummie accent washes over Simon, and somehow he feels his guard let down just a little. “Just looking.” 

And he does—look. His thick fingers brush over silky daisy petals and he prods at tangy scented stems and greenery. Multi-colored cellophane glints in the morning sun with prismatic fractals that paint his fingers every color of the rainbow, though he finds his eyes wandering over to the tan floral paper on his right. It smells like the fresh newspaper his mother would always read with her mid-morning tea every Sunday when he was a child. 

“What’s the occasion?” The florist, having nothing better to do, has been tailing behind the large beast that is Simon Riley as he weaves around displays like a thorn in a field of wildflowers. “Valentine’s Day?” 

Simon shakes his head. “No. Just… wanna get ‘er flowers.” 

“Do you know what kind she likes?” she asks as she fixes her oversized spectacles on her nose. 

Again, he shakes his head. “Dunno. She’s never mentioned it before. But she likes foxes, got any of those critters in the back?” he deadpans. 

Grinning, the florist holds her finger up as she takes a step back. “I think I’ve got just the thing.” 

Simon drives home slower than he ever has before, worried about damaging the precious plants seated in his passenger’s seat. He’s half tempted to buckle them up after he has to slam on the brakes when a student driver merges without bothering to engage their indicator, but he holds himself back and curses beneath his breath instead. The sweet sillage of garden roses and mums fills the interior of his car as if he’s being held hostage by some department store worker begging him to buy an overpriced bottle of perfume. His eyes feel heavy, and somehow his knuckles seem to throb worse now than they did before, but he ignores the feeling as he parks in the garage and heads into the house with his gift. 

The only thing harder than picking out the perfect floral arrangement for you is figuring out how to prop the damn thing up when he didn’t buy a vase to go with it. Wrapped in floral paper and ribbon, it won’t stand on its own, but he feels odd just letting it sit on the kitchen counter. Does it look better propped up? No, no that looks worse. Why does it look so pathetic lying down? Should he wake you up and give it to you? 

“Si?” 

Your groggy voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and Simon finds himself spinning on his heels to face you. Still dressed in your nightclothes, his heart softens at the sight of you. He wants to scoop you up. Drag you to bed and keep you close. Drown in your scent as he lets the thud of your heart against his own lull him to sleep. 

“Did you just get home?” you ask as you trot across the kitchen. 

“Late night at work,” he excuses. Still clutching the bouquet in his hands, he stiffly holds it out for you. “I got you something.” 

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you allow a soft gasp to escape your lips as you’re fully able to comprehend the item he presents. Gently cupping it in your palms, you breathe in the scent of fresh flowers while you study the floral paper it’s wrapped in—foxes. Tiny foxes sitting proudly with fluffy tails and pointy noses, leaning against one another for support. The pattern dots the paper in a mosaic. Your heart swells—you can’t recall a time when you were gifted flowers for a reason other than bereavement. 

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, eyes beginning to well with tears before you can even make sense of the overwhelming ardor that drowns your heart. “Simon, I… you’re so sweet. Oh, I love them.” 

Temporarily placing the bouquet on the counter, you wrap your arms around Simon with a strength that nearly knocks the wind out of him. He smells strongly of tobacco and sweat, and a thick warmth radiates from his body like summertime humidity. Chuckling, he holds you as he rubs his fingers along your spine. 

“They’ve got little foxes and everything!” you continue. 

“I thought you might like that,” he says while pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

After you feel you’ve sufficiently crushed Simon’s ribcage to the best of your ability, you pull away and cup his cheeks in your palms. They’re cold to the touch, still bitter and angry from the algid February weather. Still, you pull him to you, tilting your head so that your noses don’t knock together when you kiss. Hands wandering down to your hips, his fingers press into your skin as he hums, more than content.

When you pull away, you look at him and feel yourself begin to melt in his arms. “Thank you.” 

“Anythin’ for you, baby,” he says before placing one more chaste kiss against your lips. 

Grinning, you turn your attention back to the flowers. Your fingertips are drawn to the petals. You squeeze them, but not hard enough to bruise—only enough to feel every fiber that attempts to pulse beneath your skin. 

It’s in this moment that you realize the full capacity in which your life has changed since Simon snuck his way into your heart. When the world used to end for you—when it would quake beneath your feet, awaking a chasm meant to swallow you whole—it took so long to rebuild. You’d have to slap up every wall of every home you ever lived in just to put yourself back together again. Worst of all, you did it alone. 

Yet when the world ended yesterday—when you cut yourself open and allowed Simon to look at all the noisome wounds that have haunted you for ages—it’s now as if it had never happened. You’re still in his arms. You can still kiss his lips. He saw that rot and now it’s as if it hasn’t existed in a long, long time. 

“Gettin’ a little tired, sweetheart. Gonna go lay down for a bit,” Simon says, wrapping his arms around you with his chest pressed against your back. 

Humming, your lips part to respond to him, but you cut yourself off when you notice the marks on his knuckles. “Simon, your hand,” you gasp. 

“It’s nothing,” he assures. “Was boxing at the gym.” 

Comforted by his words—and the fact that there is a lack of bruises anywhere else on his body—you let your guard down as the two of you begin to sway. His lassitude seeps into you. Warmth bleeds like the transfer of fond memories, and though you roused yourself from bed not too long ago, you feel your eyes begin to grow heavy. 

“Gonna come to bed with me, sweetheart?” Simon hums. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice.” 

You giggle as he begins to drag you back away from the counter, and your heart quivers with effusive desire. Before you turn around to follow Simon to the bedroom, your eyes catch sight of something that forces your chest to tighten. There, on the counter next to your bouquet, lies a long rectangular box. Glistening in red foil, you recognize it to be newly bought toothpaste with the words great cinnamon flavor! stamped across it. 

Smiling, you snatch Simon’s hand into your own before following him to bed.

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