#this guy is as sharp as fucking log

[yudol-skorbi]

assholes

[youthereader]

Observed Behavior

pairing: Reed Richards x Fem!Mutant Reader

summary: 6.5k words. Dr. Reed Richards doesn’t pay you much attention. You’re just another intern in the lab—quiet, efficient, always taking notes. But you’re also a telepath. And Reed has no idea you can hear every filthy, unspoken thought he has about you.

rating: E. dirty talk. no infidelity, I promise! rough piv sex. oral (fem receiving). mind reading. mutual pining. semi-public sex. come on face.

a/n: omggggggggggggg I loved writing this. I only saw Fantastic Four: First Steps yesterday but I feel like I've been obsessed for months already. I actually wrote this before seeing the movie, but held off until today to post. hope you like it!!!! 💙

You don’t like Reed Richards.

You tell yourself this the moment you meet him. He barely acknowledges your existence. He doesn’t shake your hand. Doesn’t even make eye contact.

You say something polite—something like, "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Richards."

He says, without glancing up from the display in front of him, "The data’s unstable. Did you notice the gravitic skew in quadrant six?"

Oh.

Okay. That kind of guy.

Later, you categorize him like you’re filing a report: Brilliant. Socially stunted. One of those too-smart-to-be-nice types who treats human interaction like a necessary evil.

It makes your job easier. You’re not here to be liked.

You’re here to assist with the joint-mutant initiative. Quietly. Professionally. Keep your head down, do your work, keep the mental channel muted unless someone explicitly asks for help. Your mutation makes people nervous. Not everyone wants to know what they’re broadcasting.

But Reed Richards?

Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.

The first time it happens, you think you’ve misread. You’re across the lab, checking output from a cracked containment dome, and his thoughts slip past your mental wall like a hot breath on the back of your neck:

God, what those lips would look like around my cock.

How tight she’d be, wet and warm and surprised.

Bet she tastes sweet. Fuck, I’d drag it out. Make her beg.

She wouldn’t beg. She’s too proud. I’d make her anyway.

You jolt. Your pen jerks off the page. A shaky line across your log sheet. You don’t dare look up. You’ve never heard him speak like that. You’ve barely heard him speak at all. Reed is curt. Precise. Dismissive, even. But now you hear it in his head, like it’s on a loop, layered with vivid images — your thighs spread across his desk, his fingers prying you open while he murmurs clinical observations that make your cheeks burn.

She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.

You swallow, shift in your seat, force your hands to stay still. You should block him out. You usually do. No one wants to hear what people are really thinking. It’s invasive, and it’s dangerous, and it’s too much to carry.

But this? This is—

“Is something wrong?” His voice cuts across the room. Crisp. Flat. Like he doesn’t have his hand buried in your imaginary cunt.

You look up. Just once.

He’s watching you. Eyes sharp behind his glasses. No heat in his expression — none of the filth you just heard. He looks the same way he always does. Unreadable. Detached.

“No,” you say. Too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Reed nods once and returns to typing, but his thoughts don’t stop.

I wonder if she’d moan when I touch her or bite her lip to stay quiet.

Bet I could break her composure. Bet I could ruin her neat little posture.

You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Because now that you’ve tuned in, you don’t think you can stop.

-

The worst part isn’t how filthy it is.

It’s the contrast.

Reed Richards — Dr. Richards, to everyone — never even swears in conversation. He refers to the human body like it’s a schematic. He’ll say “pleasure response” instead of orgasm, and you’ve heard him refer to Sue’s divorce attorney as “a challenging presence,” which you think is his version of calling someone a dick.

So the first time you hear him think the word cunt, your brain short-circuits.

Bet it’s tight. Warm. Slick around my fingers. Her cunt would grip me like it knows me.

You grip the edge of the lab table.

Reed hasn’t moved. He’s still typing, back straight, posture annoyingly perfect. A model scientist. The embodiment of control.

But in his head—

I’d stretch her out with my tongue first. Just to taste. Just to make her shiver.

Then I’d fuck her open with two fingers. Maybe three. Just to see how much she could take.

You feel your face flush hot.

His voice in your head is the same one he uses when he’s narrating quantum anomalies. Methodical. Fascinated. Detached.

Like your body is a phenomenon he wants to understand. Just for the data.

She’s got sensitive tits, I think. Would need a gentle mouth. Then a rough one.

I’d chart how many licks until she breaks.

You turn away before he can see the expression on your face. Not that he’d be looking.

Reed doesn’t look at you.

Not unless you speak first. Even then, his gaze usually lands near your shoulder or just past your head — like you’re a part of the room’s architecture. Necessary. Functional. Forgettable.

Which is why you can’t fathom the sudden, overwhelming specificity of his thoughts.

Would she come if I sucked on her nipples and slid my thumb over her clit?

Or would she need to be fucked?

Deep. Slow. Me inside her while she tries not to cry out.

You have to leave.

You mumble something — “back in ten” or “need a break” — and Reed doesn’t respond. He doesn’t glance your way. Just lifts a hand absently in acknowledgment, still facing the board, still immersed in whatever algorithm or image his mind is chewing on.

Except now you know that algorithm is you.

Your wet heat. Your thighs. Your pulse as he imagines pressing his mouth to it and whispering, “Come for me. Let me see.”

You flee to the hallway, breath stuttering in your throat, shame and heat and disbelief running a relay race in your chest.

You’ve heard dirty thoughts before. You’ve had them.

But never from someone so composed. So quiet. So far removed from the possibility of ever touching you.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

He has no idea you can hear him.

And worse — he’s not trying to stop.

-

The rest of the day, you try to block him out.

You build mental walls. Steel-plated. Brick-layered. Reinforced with every ounce of discipline you’ve learned since puberty, when people’s thoughts started bleeding into your skull like background noise you couldn’t shut off.

But Reed’s thoughts don’t bleed. They pierce.

They stab through.

You’re elbow-deep in diagnostics when it happens again — no warning, no break in his typing cadence, no shift in posture.

Just a whisper inside your head like a hand between your thighs.

She’d come so pretty if I rubbed her clit just right. Not hard. Just enough to make her beg.

Your knees go weak.

You drop the calibration tool.

It clangs against the lab floor and rolls under a counter.

Reed doesn’t turn around. He never does.

But in your head:

Imagine her on my desk, shaking. Panting. Just a little ruined.

Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?

Fuck. I’d edge her until she sobs.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Grip the counter. Count backward.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

It’s not enough.

I wouldn’t even fuck her the first time. I’d make her ride my face. Learn how she moves. What makes her lose rhythm.

You suck in a breath and drop to your knees, fumbling under the bench for the runaway tool. Your fingers shake as you grab it.

You’re burning from the inside out.

He’s just standing there — chalk in one hand, the other curled around the lip of the console, muttering numbers under his breath.

As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, like he isn’t narrating how he’d make you come.

You crawl out from under the counter, wiping your palms on your lab coat. Try to focus. Try to breathe.

But the thoughts keep going.

She probably moans softly. Gasps, maybe. One hand on my wrist, the other gripping the sheets.

Would she let me come on her face? Or just in her mouth?

Your hand slips on the console. The system glitches — an alert flashes red on the screen.

“Everything okay?” Reed says, without turning.

His tone is bland. Neutral. The same one he uses when he’s asking about error margins or component failures.

You force your voice to steady. “Fine. Sorry. Just bumped the interface.”

“Run the sequence again,” he says.

You do.

But your fingers tremble the whole time. And every time you glance up, you see the line of his spine, the tension in his forearms, the methodical tap of chalk against board — like he’s not thinking about bending you over the lab bench and pressing his mouth between your thighs.

But he is.

And now you know.

-

It’s not supposed to be a social thing.

You’re huddled in the lab with Reed, Johnny, and a visiting biophysicist from MIT who talks with his hands and keeps spilling his coffee. It’s late afternoon. The conversation’s circling around particle harmonics and neural feedback delay — nothing you haven’t heard before.

Reed, as usual, is silent. Focused. His back to the room, one hand scrolling equations, the other holding a piece of chalk he hasn’t used in fifteen minutes.

You think maybe you’ll survive the day without hearing anything from him. You’ve built the walls again. Brick by brick. You’re not letting him in.

And then Johnny goes, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just read her.”

You blink. “What?”

Johnny laughs. “Come on, don’t play dumb. You could’ve. You always say that trick comes in handy when people lie.”

Your blood goes cold. You look up slowly. “Johnny…”

“Oh shit. Was that not public knowledge?” He raises both palms in mock defense. “Sorry. I mean, I thought everyone knew.”

They don’t. Not everyone. But Sue, Ben, Johnny — they do. Reed, you’d assumed… maybe. But not definitely.

Until now.

Because Reed goes still.

Not visibly. Not to the average eye. But you see it.

His hand halts mid-scroll. The chalk pauses just before touching the board.

He doesn’t turn around. Of course not. He never does.

But the entire current in the room changes.

The MIT guy, oblivious, whistles low. “Telepathy? That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, grinning. “She’s like a human lie detector. Except it’s not like she goes digging, you know? She just picks stuff up.”

The scientist nods. “Is it active or passive?”

“Both,” you say, voice light, controlled. “Depends on the day. And the person.”

“Must be fun.”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

Johnny leans on the console. “Sometimes not, huh?”

Your eyes flick briefly to Reed’s back. His hand is still frozen in midair, like he’s been caught in amber.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sometimes… not so much.”

The conversation moves on.

Someone cracks a joke about lab gossip being unsafe around you. The MIT guy asks a question about psi-shielding. Johnny starts talking about that one time you ruined a poker night by knowing someone’s cards.

But Reed doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

For the first time in days, his thoughts are silent.

You feel the absence like a blow.

No whispers. No fantasies. No wondering what your cunt tastes like or how you sound when you come. Just—

Nothing.

A void. You should be relieved.  Instead, you feel like you’ve been locked out of something you didn’t know you needed.

Behind Reed’s still frame, you can sense it — the slow, dangerous coiling of tension.

Not shame, not guilt. Only awareness.

He knows, and now he’s thinking about what you’ve heard.

-

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie in bed with your mind reeling, blankets too heavy, your chest too tight. The silence in Reed’s head echoes louder than any of the filth that came before. You didn’t realize how much you’d come to expect his thoughts. Not want them — not exactly — but… count on them. Like a metronome. Like proof he was human under all that restraint.

Now?

Nothing.

No late-night fantasies. No secret hypotheses about your body. Just a wall — colder and more deliberate than anything you’ve ever put up yourself.

He knows.

And now you’re waiting for the fallout.

You think about packing.

You think about going to Sue and getting ahead of it — telling her you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to listen, you never asked for the thoughts to come in like that, you tried so fucking hard to block them out.

You think about how Sue would tilt her head, lips pressed together in that gentle, unreadable way of hers, and say, “I’ll talk to Reed.”

That thought alone makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You don’t go to the lab the next morning.

You call in sick — stomach flu, maybe food poisoning.

You spend the day in your apartment, curled on your couch with a half-drunk mug of tea and the soft buzz of muted news. You try to distract yourself with papers, textbooks, even an old simulation of Mars terrain scans.

None of it sticks.

Because the only thought that plays on repeat is this:

You’ve ruined it.

You had one shot. One internship. One thread of hope that could’ve led to something real — something bigger than the lab, bigger than Earth.

You’ve wanted space since you were old enough to name constellations. You were supposed to be part of the next crew rotation. If you did well, if you impressed the right people, if Reed thought you were worth keeping—

But now all he sees is a liability. An intruder. A mind he can’t trust.

Maybe he’s already filed a report. Maybe by Monday you’ll be reassigned to inventory. Or security compliance. Some corner of the building where they can keep you out of people’s heads and off the launch manifest.

You curl tighter. You don’t cry but your throat aches like you might.

You’d rather he shouted. Rather he confronted you. Rather he called you invasive or perverse or unprofessional.

Instead, he just disappeared.

That silence — the absence of his voice in your head — feels like the worst kind of punishment.

-

You come in early the next day.

Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone else should be there.

Except he’s already in the lab.

You hear the soft click of the console keys before you see him. The low whir of cooling fans. The faint scratch of chalk across board.

When you step inside, Reed doesn’t turn.

He’s where he always is — back straight, eyes forward, sleeves rolled, a shadow of stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. His body is still, but his mind—

His mind is deafening.

F=ma. ΔS = Qrev/T. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing—

You press your hand to the doorframe.

It’s not that he’s shut you out.

It’s that he’s replaced the thoughts. Stuffed the filth back into its cage and barricaded the door with math. With precision. With the cold comfort of numbers.

But it’s loud. So loud.

Equations loop over and over, like static, like punishment, like he’s trying to drown himself in calculus and thermodynamics until there’s no room left for want.

You don’t say anything.

You just take your seat. Log into the console. Pretend the silence is normal. That the walls haven’t shifted. That this isn’t your fault.

But then, after twenty-eight minutes of stillness—

He turns.

Slowly.

His eyes meet yours for the first time in days.

And then, like the flip of a switch, the equations stop.

The noise cuts.

And what follows is even worse.

“I owe you an apology.”

The words land like glass.

You look up — stunned, unsure you heard him right.

Reed continues, voice stiff, almost formal. Like he’s reciting something practiced.

“I was unaware that my thoughts were… accessible. To you.”

He swallows. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I caused any discomfort, or crossed any boundary—”

“You didn’t,” you say, too fast.

But he doesn’t stop.

“I understand if you wish to leave the internship. I will personally ensure a neutral letter of recommendation and full academic credit, if you—”

“No.” You shake your head, your throat tight. “I don’t want to leave.”

Silence.

Your breath trembles in your chest.

“I’m not upset,” you say, softer. “I never was.”

Reed stares at you.

You’ve never seen him look so unsure.

“I should not have allowed those thoughts to form,” he says, quieter now. “I certainly shouldn’t have repeated them.”

You offer a breath of laughter — too hollow to be real. “You didn’t say them.”

He blinks. “I thought them.”

You nod. “You did.”

A pause.

Then you add, “But I heard more than what you thought.”

His brows draw together. “Meaning?”

“I heard how hard you tried not to.”

“I’m truly so, so sorry,” he says.

The words sound foreign in his mouth — like he doesn’t quite know how to say them aloud. His voice drops as he says it, too, like he wants to bury the sentence somewhere low between you.

“It was unprofessional.”

You blink. It hits different when it’s said that plainly — not just the apology, but the weight of the word.

Unprofessional.

He means it. You can hear it in his thoughts now, the edge softening — shame curling in the quiet corners. He’s not just sorry you heard him. He’s sorry he thought it at all. Sorry he let himself want. Sorry his discipline failed.

“Reed,” you say, gently. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, for a second.

It’s not the kind of apology that’s waiting for forgiveness. It’s the kind that assumes none is possible.

“I should have—” he begins, but the sentence crumbles.

You step closer before you can think better of it. Not too close. Just enough to catch the tiniest flicker in his eyes — a shift, like he’s bracing for something more than your words.

“I’ve heard worse,” you say, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “You just think very… graphically.”

His mouth parts — just slightly.  For the first time, you see something almost human flicker behind his usual impassivity.

Embarrassment.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes.

You reach for the console behind you, just to give your hands something to do.

“If you’re wondering whether I was offended,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

His gaze lifts to yours slowly. “You weren’t.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t… surprising.”

Something changes in the set of his shoulders. The faintest drop. Like a gear slipping in a machine.

You can hear it again, too — faint, fainter than before, but real: She’s not angry. She’s not leaving.

You lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely. “I’ve had these powers my whole life, you know. You hear people think things they’d never say. Half of them wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.”

Reed doesn’t respond. But you feel the shift. The stillness that isn't emptiness anymore — it’s presence. It’s him, fully here, not hiding behind data or circuits or chalk.

“It can be fun sometimes,” you admit. “Other times…” You trail off. “Not so much.”

His fingers flex slightly where they rest at his sides.

You almost expect him to end it there. To nod, turn away, retreat to the board, drown himself in equations again.

But instead, he says, quietly:

“I didn’t mean for you to feel like an object.”

Your chest tightens.

You meet his gaze.

“I didn’t.”

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to say next.

The lab is quiet. Still. The hum of the equipment blends into the background like white noise. Reed hasn’t moved since his last apology — hands loose at his sides, eyes lowered just enough that you can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or through you.

You shift slightly on the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?” you ask, softly.

It’s the gentlest question in the world. You don’t expect much. A nod, maybe. Or the barest deflection.

Instead, he huffs a laugh.

Short. Quiet. Almost self-deprecating.

And so out of place coming from him that it draws your eyes back to his face immediately.

He still doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. But there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might have once, in another life, remembered how.

Your chest eases — just barely — and you smile at him. Tentative. Careful. The kind of smile you give a wounded animal when you’re holding out a hand.

Reed blinks, and this time his gaze meets yours without hesitation.

He doesn’t say yes, or no, or I will be.

But he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t turn back to the board.

You take that as enough.

The air between you settles, not warm exactly, but less charged. Less sharp.

You glance down at your tablet, then back up. “Do you want to… work on the gamma dispersion scan?”

A pause. Then he nods.

It’s quiet again as you both fall into rhythm — screens blinking softly, files opening, measurements calibrating. For ten minutes, it almost feels normal. Like none of this happened. Like your body hasn’t been the subject of his private curiosity. Like you haven’t heard, in his own voice, the words tits and cunt wrapped in awe like he’s discovering a new element.

But every so often, you catch the stillness in him.

The way he doesn’t quite type as fluidly as before. The way his thoughts — no longer loud, no longer obscene — hover just out of reach. Reined in. Scrubbed clean.

Control, you hear him think, a little later. Keep control.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Because now that you’ve forgiven him — now that you’ve stayed — he’s afraid he’ll slip again.

He’s afraid of wanting.

Of letting you hear it.

And maybe, more than anything, he’s afraid you won’t look at him the same if you do.

You wait until the next lull. After the data finishes compiling. After you both fall into quiet, careful work, pretending the air isn’t thick with everything unsaid.

Then, without looking up, you ask:

“What are you really thinking?”

The words slip out like a whisper. Not a demand. A coaxing.

You hear him stop breathing.

His fingers freeze on the console.

You look up.

He’s staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else. His brows twitch — the smallest knot of conflict pulling across his forehead.

You don’t press. You wait.

He swallows hard.

“I—” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I don’t think I should say.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels like a coin balanced on its edge — waiting to tip.

Then, finally, Reed lifts his gaze to meet yours.

It’s not a sharp glance. Not a command or a calculation. It’s vulnerable. Raw.

“Are you sure?”

You nod before your brain can stop you. “I’m sure.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s charged.

And then—soft, almost reverent, like he’s saying it for himself more than for you—his thought brushes your mind.

She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.

You don’t move.

She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.

Your breath catches.

Reed’s eyes are still on yours. Steady. Honest.

I want to see her fall apart. Hear her. Feel her thighs around my face. I want her to let go with me. Just once. Just to know what it’s like to make someone like her come.

You’re frozen.

Flushed.

His thoughts echo again, softer now, barely there:

I would be gentle. At first. I’d learn her rhythms. I’d listen.

You part your lips, but no sound comes out.

Reed doesn’t look away.

You see the tension in his jaw. The restraint. The ache he’s too careful to name aloud.

But this time, he’s not hiding.

He’s giving you the truth.

And your whole body sings with it.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t break.

Reed watches you like he’s waiting for you to flinch. For you to run. For you to laugh it off or look away or say no.

You don’t.

Your breath is shallow. Your pulse pounds behind your ribs like a warning, like a promise. But you don’t move.

You stay.

Reed’s fingers flex slightly at his sides. A twitch. A tremor. And then—carefully, like he’s unsure the ground will hold—he takes one slow step forward.

Your heart leaps.

He pauses.

Then another step.

Still watching you.

You straighten, knees brushing the edge of the console. Your hands—useless at your sides—curl instinctively into the hem of your coat. You feel like a held breath. Like one word might shatter you.

And then he’s close enough that you can see it in his face—the nerves he’s trying to hide. The deep ache folded into his silence. The apology still lingering beneath his restraint.

But also the want.

So much want.

You reach out.

Just a little.

And that’s all it takes.

His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and finds yours midair. The contact is gentle. Barely there. Your fingers brush his palm and his thumb curves awkwardly over your knuckles, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

But you link your fingers with his.

You squeeze.

His breath shudders.

You’re close now. Not quite touching chest to chest. Not yet. But his body radiates heat like a solar flare, and your joined hands hang between you like a thread you’re both afraid to tug.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

His thoughts are quiet, but open. Not graphic. Not filthy this time.

She’s here. She’s still here.

You lift your other hand—slowly, carefully—and touch the crook of his elbow. His arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes under your touch.

His hand in yours tightens. Just a little.

You smile at him. Tentative. Like before.

And this time, Reed exhales like it breaks something loose inside him.

You lean in slowly.

No rush. No sharp breath or whispered question. Just instinct. Trust. The press of his fingers wrapped in yours.

Your lips find his.

A soft, fleeting brush.

So light you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it does.

He stills.

For a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then something inside him snaps.

Reed surges forward—still silent, but no longer hesitant. His free hand lifts to cup your jaw, fingers spanning your cheek with a trembling kind of reverence. His mouth crashes into yours again, firmer this time, open, hungry.

You gasp, and he takes it.

Takes you.

His lips drag over yours like he’s starved. His body leans into yours, chasing heat, chasing breath, chasing something he’s kept buried under equations and silence for too damn long.

You kiss him back, matching his pace, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt just to stay grounded.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy.

Teeth clash once. Your nose bumps his. He exhales sharply against your mouth, and you laugh, surprised and dizzy.

Reed groans low in his throat like it drives him wild.

His grip shifts—hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other pressing firm at your waist, tugging you closer. There’s no more distance now. You’re chest to chest, breath to breath, his mouth working yours like it’s a formula he’s been dying to solve.

You reach blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself.

Your fingers find the edge of his belt.

Not teasing. Not intentional.

Just need.

A way to keep your feet on the ground while the rest of you unravels.

You clutch the leather and kiss him deeper.

And Reed—God, Reed—moans softly into your mouth like he’s the one overwhelmed.

His thoughts flood through you again, all barriers down now.

So soft. So warm. She kissed me first.

I want to lift her onto the desk. Get my hands under that coat.

I want to taste her. Right now. Right fucking now.

Your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you with both arms, tugging you flush against him, the hard press of his belt against your stomach making your skin spark.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But you kiss like you’re telling secrets. Like you’re breaking rules. Like every second is borrowed time. 

Reed drops to his knees.

It happens fast. One second his mouth is pressed to yours, the next he’s sinking down like gravity’s claimed him — like he’s meant to be there. At your feet. Between your legs. Worshipful and wild.

His hands slide up your thighs, warm and unhurried. He lifts your skirt like he’s unfolding a secret he’s only ever dreamed of touching. You brace one hand against the console behind you, the other tangled in his hair, fingers trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He stares.

Like your thighs are a formula. Like the space between them holds the answer to every question he’s never let himself ask.

Then his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, and he leans in.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher.

Your breath catches as his mouth moves up your thigh—soft, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat across your skin. He hums low in his throat, like he’s cataloging every inch, and you feel it all the way to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head tipping back.

Reed doesn’t stop.

He kisses just beside the place you want him most. Once. Twice. Then his hands shift—firm on your hips—and he nuzzles against your panties, dragging his nose along the damp fabric like he needs to breathe you.

And then—his thoughts, finally, finally back:

She’s soaked. God, she’s so wet. All for me.

Your legs shake.

He pulls your panties aside and exhales softly at the sight.

Perfect.

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out—sharp and helpless—the sound echoing off the walls of the lab. He licks a slow stripe through your folds, groaning like he’s tasted something he’ll never recover from.

You grip his hair harder.

Reed doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He licks you like he needs it, tongue dragging up to circle your clit, then back down to press flat against your entrance. His thoughts are a blur—lust, wonder, obsession—louder now, less composed.

You whimper.

She’s so sweet. Want to keep her like this. Want her coming on my tongue.

He moans against you, the vibration shooting through your whole body. His mouth moves faster, more deliberate, like he’s testing responses, building a pattern. Every flick of his tongue is data. Every gasp from you is a new variable to study.

Your knees threaten to give, and he only grips your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, mouth never leaving you.

“Reed—fuck, I—”

You shatter.

Come for me, he thinks, right as his lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your cry rips through the air, your body spasming against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. He holds you through it—tongue coaxing, soothing, tasting every twitch and shake as you come undone.

And when it’s over, when your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling, he looks up at you.

Mouth wet. Eyes dark.

Ravenous.

He stands, slow and steady, hands dragging up your thighs as he rises. When he’s eye level again, you see it—his mouth slick with you, his chest rising hard like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just pulls you in and wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply.

And fucking hell, he smells like you.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty in your ear.

You let out a breathless laugh, your chest still fluttering. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He lets out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and you feel it more than hear it, vibrating against your throat. His hips are right against you now, belt biting into your lower stomach. He’s hard. So fucking hard.

You push against him, mouth near his jaw. “Reed.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And when he does, your hands come up to frame his face.

Not tender. Hungry.

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s about to lose it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

A pause.

Then his gaze darkens, and the answer bleeds out of him—wordless but clear.

I want to fuck her right here. I want to bend her over this table and hear what she sounds like when she’s cock-drunk.

Your knees go weak.

And he sees it.

You don’t say a word.

You just drop your hand from his face, trail it down between your bodies, and reach for his belt.

Reed doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even blink.

He watches, jaw tight, as you tug the leather loose, then work open the button and drag the zipper down. The metal teeth part with a low rasp, and he exhales sharply when your hand slips inside.

You wrap your fingers around him.

Hot. Heavy. Hard as hell.

“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath, stroking him once, slow and deliberate.

Reed’s head tips back.

His hips jerk forward slightly, chasing the friction, but he still doesn’t touch you. Just lets you have him, your hand moving over his cock like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks.

(You have.)

His thoughts are a mess—fractals of want, raw and unfiltered.

You squeeze a little tighter.

She’s touching me. She’s—fuck—she’s got her hand on my cock. I’m not going to last.

His breath catches.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” you ask, voice low, thumb swiping the head.

“Every goddamn day,” he grits out.

You jerk him faster.

He growls.

And then—too fast to brace for—he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Your palms slam against the console. You gasp, but you don’t stop him—not when you feel him crowding up behind you, not when his hands drag your skirt back up to your waist, not when he rips your panties down your thighs in one fluid motion.

One hand slides up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush to the table.

The other guides his cock to your entrance.

“Say you want this,” he breathes out, the head of him nudging against your slick folds.

You push back into him.

“Reed,” you pant, “just fuck me already.”

He groans like it’s ripped out of his throat and then he slams into you hard.

Your gasp turns into a choked moan as your body jolts forward from the force of it. One of his hands clamps tight around your hip, the other braced beside your head on the console. His cock drives into you again, again, again—deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath stutter with each slap of skin on skin.

The sounds echo off the lab walls—your gasps, his ragged breath, the obscene wet suck of your cunt taking him over and over.

“Fuck,” Reed growls, hips snapping, “you feel even better than I thought.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

His mouth is right at your ear now, breath hot and filthy.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you walked in,” he pants. “That face. Those sweet thighs. Wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you stupid.”

You cry out—high, breathless—when he grinds into you just right, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you.

“I knew you’d be wet for me,” he growls. “But this?”

His fingers slip down, find your clit, and rub fast, hard, cruel.

“You’re soaked. So fucking messy.”

You brace yourself on trembling arms, the pressure building fast—too fast. He’s everywhere, filling you, touching you, whispering things he should never say out loud.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he grits out, voice tight and close.

You whimper, legs shaking. “I—fuck, I think I—”

“You’re close,” he hisses. “I can feel it.”

His pace goes brutal. He fucks into you like he wants to break you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing over every surface, every panel and beaker forgotten. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, and your voice breaks into a cry as your climax rips through you.

You don’t just come. You gush.

A warm burst sprays out of you, splashing down your thighs, hitting the tile with a wet splatter. You cry out, humiliated and wrecked and still twitching, your walls milking his cock in desperate aftershocks.

Reed groans like he’s dying.

“God damn,” he breathes.

You can’t speak. Your cheek is pressed to the console, mouth open, panting, whole body slick and trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, harder now, more ragged. You feel the way your slick coats his cock, dripping down onto the lab floor with every brutal thrust.

You feel ruined. Your legs give out.

There’s no warning. No graceful slide. Just the quivering collapse of overstimulated muscles, your knees hitting the tile with a soft thud, skirt bunched around your waist, panties still tangled around your thighs.

You don’t care, you don't think you could.

Not with your cunt still twitching from the last orgasm, your thighs sticky, the lab floor glistening with the evidence of just how hard he made you come.

Reed groans above you and you glance up.

He’s flushed and wrecked, shirt untucked, cock still slick with your arousal as he strokes himself, fast and frantic, hand gliding over the mess you left behind.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look—Jesus.”

You open your mouth, just slightly.

Not coy nor innocent, but ready.

You brace yourself on one arm and tilt your chin up, eyes locked on him. The unspoken invitation hits him like a punch.

His grip falters. He bites down a moan. You see his whole body jerk with restraint.

“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse and aching. “I want it.”

That does it.

He grunts, cock twitching in his hand. “Fuck—fuck—”

He steps forward, the tip of him flushed and slick and angry-looking, and you hold steady even as your thighs tremble. His breath goes wild, chest heaving as he pumps himself harder, faster, your name breaking on his tongue like a prayer.

“Gonna come,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Thick, hot ropes paint your cheek, your lips, your chin. One lands across your chest, the rest splashing across your flushed skin. You close your eyes as the first drops hit, lips parted as you gasp at the heat of it.

He moans—deep, guttural, undone.

You feel it drip down your neck, cooling already.

When you blink up at him again, his hand is still wrapped around his cock, his chest still rising like he’s run a mile. His eyes meet yours—dark, dazed, hungry—and the raw possessiveness isn’t there.

There's only you. 

His gaze drops to the mess he’s made of your face, and then to your mouth.

You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip, tasting him.

His breath stutters again.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You smile, slow and blissful. 

[novaimperia]

★ 3am frustrations with streamer!choso

“‘take…your…shirt off.’ what? no, guys, please stop asking me to remove my clothes. for the last time, they’re staying on.”

on balance, choso would say he enjoys streaming – he essentially gets paid to do the things he does for free such as play video games, eat copious amounts of ramen whilst watching true crime documentaries, and talk about his day. the freedom to choose his own schedule and make decisions for himself is priceless. especially since he’s got to prioritise his classes and see his friends and family. 

it took a while to get to where he is now. at first, when he was set on just displaying whatever game he was playing, he had only one or two viewers. but after an accidental click and a flash of pig-tails, face tattoo, piercings, of a shirtless torso, hard and sharp abs, the viewership skyrocketed. comically so. now, he earns enough to be able to retire. all his friends respect and envy him. one must admit he is living the life.

if he had to pick a flaw in this whole thing, however, he might hesitantly and reluctantly point to his followers. they’re both the greatest part about his side gig, what with their never ending jokes and support, as well as the worst; there’s no telling what they’ll suggest in his comments next. 

“chat, stop asking me to go through my underwear drawer. no, they don’t have holes in them.” he squints at the screen and makes a frustrated sound. “i am not going to twerk while naked. guys, what the hell is wrong with you all? just tell me how i can defeat this boss so i can get the materials to level up my venti…oh, thanks, ‘chosoismypuppyboy69.’ i’ll be sure to change my team then.”

sighing, he keeps tapping on the keys, spamming with no rhyme or reason. for a computing student, he’s not very good at these games, but it sure does entertain the twenty thousand people watching at 3am. seeing him fumbling about, flinching at the most harmless of things, and constantly dying is apparently what they’d rather do than get some good night’s sleep. not that he’s any better. the man hasn’t had a full eight hours sleep in years. or maybe ever.

“‘do you tickle your prostate?’ what even is that? alright, that’s enough for tonight. i can’t deal with you guys; you’re like gremlins – yeah, i know what that is; i’ve watched the movie. yeah, obviously i watched it with my girlfriend; you know i don’t watch scary movies on my own. it is scary! i am not going to debate which movies are scary or not. what the hell? stop asking me to flash my dick piercing, oh my god. i regret ever telling you guys about that. okay okay. night, assholes.”

and with that, he logs off and leans back into his chair, staring up at the sky and wondering if the thousands he earned in just a few hours was worth it. 

then, his hips jerk up and a dog-like whine leaves his lips. 

“aw, cho…are they being annoying again?” 

he looks down. the sight of you kneeling between his spread legs, mouthing at his throbbing cock like the cum leaking from his piss slit is ice cream and you’re soaked with the sweat a hot summer’s day brings. ring-clad, his hand falls on top of your head, petting to both push you off and keep you there. “y-yeah, they’re the worst. they never know when to quit. i can’t believe you -ah fuck don’t suck so hard- you stayed there the whole time.”

you shrug, fingers leaving the shadows cast by the desk, flying up into the air and landing on his awaiting, parted lips which sloppily suckles at the sweet juices dripping down your digits. “mmm, such a good boy…how could i possibly leave you to fend for yourself with those horny vultures? who else was going to listen and send you the answers to your questions, huh, cho?”

big hands grip the armrests. the chair rattle with the shaking of his hips. balls squeeze painfully tight whilst choso licks his bottom lip, searching for any remnants of your taste and moaning loud and breathlessly at the feel of your hot, wet mouth engulfing his entire quivering length. grunting, he asks, “did you h-have to choose that username though? it’s -hmm i’m close baby- it’s embarrassing being called a p-puppy boy.”

“you aren’t my puppy boy?”

“no. i am.”

smirking, you blow a kiss up at him. slowly and with an extra amount of mischievous intent, you drawl, “then prove it, cho-cho.”

in this moment, as he stares with lidded eyes at the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen, the kind that sports power that can bring him to his knees at the snap of a finger, he realises he was wrong – his followers aren’t the worst. you are. because they ask knowing they’ll never get what they want whereas you ask knowing you will. you never hesitate to wield that sword, like lady justice, except instead of scales it’s his balls you hold in your spare hand. 

and who is he to argue?

so, with a blush on his cheeks, he shyly follows orders. 

“bark…b-bark…now -ahem- please make me cum. making me hold it in for hours is mean…bark.”

[konigsm]

professor!simon riley x professor f reader

Rumor has it that war veteran professor Riley from War Studies and the Literature professor are definitely sleeping together.

Or : where you and Simon are definitely NOT dating— but somehow, the entire student body is convinced you are. There's even a fan club for it. On Telegram.

Pt2 🐙

[anonstudent4ever]: guys i just walked past riley's office and guess WHO was in there again.

[bookedandbusy]: let me guess. the lit prof in her lil trench coat and smug aura???

[anonstudent4ever]: BINGO. door wasn't fully closed either. risky little freaks 🏃‍♂️

[chaoticneutral]: they are so obviously boning it's killing me. my tuition is paying for them to make heart eyes over WWII artillery maps 😫

[hotgirlwithacitation]: update: they sat next to each other at the faculty mixer. she laughed at something he said 😧☕

[jeremyonice]: They shared a coffee in the faculty lounge. We have EYES 🕵️‍♂️ Stay sharp, team

[tenurethirst]: what could Simon Riley possibly say that's funny. like what's he gonna do. war joke?? "haha remember the Geneva Conventions?"

[hotgirlwithacitation]: ok but she did laugh. she did the head tilt and the arm graze. she TOUCHED HIS ARM.

[proseb4hoes]: You think they trauma-bonded during committee meetings?

[bookedandbusy]: Absolutely. Probably over faculty budget cuts and unresolved PTSD.

[proseb4hoes]: God, I wish that were me😩

New Message from @tenurethirst: BREAKING: Someone in Professor Riley's Tuesday 9AM asked him what he thinks of literature 🫢

[hotgirlwithacitation]: WHAT DID HE SAY

[anonstudent4ever]: "I don't have the patience for fiction. I prefer the truth. But... some people make poetry worth tolerating." 🫢🫢🫢

[chaoticneutral]: HANG ON HANG ON BACK UP!!! BACK UP!!!!! SOME 👏 PEOPLE 👏 MAKE 👏 POETRY 👏 WORTH 👏 TOLERATING 👏

[bookedandbusy]: he meant her. HE MEANT HER. professor y/n, literature dept, first of her name 🗣️🗣️🗣️

[tenurethirst]: Do y'all think he's annotating her poetry like "p. 47 - is this about me?" i'm going to combust💔💔

[anonstudent4ever]: "p. 31 - unclear metaphor. ask her later. alone." 🙊

[hotgirlwithacitation]: i bet she writes vague lines like "a man who speaks in silence, who walks like guilt, who smells like ash" and riley's in his apartment like: fuck

[bookedandbusy]: they're literally literary soulmatesss 👏👏 she gives lectures about metaphors for grief and he is the metaphor for grief

[mutualdestruction]: that's why they work. she's the novel he never thought he'd read. he's the war she keeps writing poems about.

[spiteandprejudice]: Bro.. that was so poetic what the fuck 🥶

[whoiselena44]: do y'all think she calls him "Simon" when no one's around 🥺

[Jeremyonice]: Obviously dude 😵‍💫

[notyourvalentine]: no. she calls him "riley" like it's a challenge n he calls her "professor" like it's a sin 👀

[proseb4hoes]: imagine he says "say it again" and she's like "Simon" and he's like "no. 'sir.'" ok bye logging out now

[bookedandbusy]: y'all have FICS saved in your drafts don't you?!??

... actually based on my own fucking class 😭 anyway wtf

[smittenkittens]

Everybody is a suspect.

Yandere Ethan Landry x fem reader

The dorky guy is not only a serial killer, he also wants to fuck you.

CW: dubcon!!!!!!!!! oral, spanking, cum eating, smut, stalker/perv Ethan, degrading, praise, talk of anal at the end.

Answering the phone during the rampant violence wasn’t a good idea. But you had always been either braver than most. Or stupider than most. However, once you heard the altered voice of Ghostface, you hung up the phone immediately. You grabbed whatever weapon was near you, a bat and prepared to swing at the enemy.

You heard the door open and you charged out, screaming but it quickly disappeared in your throat when you saw Ethan. The dorky man who also happened to be in your college class. He was advancing quickly in studies and you were close to graduating. But the two of you bonded regardless of the slight age difference.

“Jesus! What’s with the bat?” Ethan winced at your position and you rolled your eyes.

“I thought you were a murderer.” He scoffed and extended his hand.

“No, that would be you if you hit me.” You hesitated but gave him the baseball bat. “But what happened? Why did you think I was a killer?”

Sighing, you lifted up your phone. “Ghostface. He’s been calling me. I guess I’m his new target.” Ethan rushed to you, his hands on your shoulders. He examined you and you rolled your eyes. “I’m not hurt. It was just a phone call.”

His brown eyes were darker for a moment and then his gripped tightened. You tilted your head. Ethan was always awkward, clumsy in movements and he always acted scared of a woman’s touch. But now, you realize that your back is being pressed against the wall.

Ethan removed one hand from your shoulder, pulling out his phone and your breath left you. You were looking at a photo of yourself in bed. You were sleeping but the picture was taken from your closet. And then, he showed you a call log.

“Ethan-“ you began but his large hand came up and he pressed a finger to your lips.

“Shh, I wouldn’t hurt you. I just wanted to scare you a little. Ghostface isn’t who I am all the time and you just look so pretty when you’re scared.” Your nerves twisted and your stomach went into a knot. You went to move his hand but Ethan seized your wrist. He held it above your head and then leaned down to press his lips to your ear.

“I also heard you moaning the other night…whimpering actually. And a name came through those pretty lips.” You started panting and Ethan moved back to face you with a wicked look. “My name.”

Your bottom lip quivered in fear as Ethan pulled out a knife and slammed the sharp end beside your head. Eyes squeezed shut, a warm kiss brushed against your cheek and you shrieked.

“Shhh, I said I wouldn’t hurt you. But I just need you so bad. I’ve waited so long, baby.” Ethan then hauls you to your bedroom and you fight him the whole way. “Come on, sweet girl. You know you’re not gonna win.” You try and hold onto whatever you can grab. Ethan claps a hand over your mouth and manhandles you onto the bed.

“Get the fuck out! You’re a fucking killer! Don’t touch me!” You shout from behind his palm and Ethan looks incredibly angry. But your efforts are worthless as he pins you down. His curly hair tickling your face.

“If you keep screaming, this will be harder than it needs to be. I won’t kill you. But I’ll punish you. And I promise you sweet little dumb girl, you won’t like it.” Ethan growled and fight left you. You didn’t shout again but you gave him a glare.

“Why would I want anything to do with you? You’re a murderer. Fucking freak.” You hissed and the tension was thick but you gasped when Ethan grabbed your thighs. Your black skirt was hauled up and he looked at your soaked panties.

“Oh now that’s rich. This turns you on? Me being a little rough with you? scaring you brainless?” Ethan’s big hand landed on your ass, your legs still pushed back and your eyes were wide. He landed several hard spanks and a red bruise formed.

His fingers looped around your underwear and dragged them down your legs and shoved them in your mouth. His brown eyes were focused on your skin and the wetness in the middle. You whined as Ethan dragged his fingers along your inner thighs and groaned. He took in the way you rolled into his touched but you still showed fear.

He touched your center, feeling the swollen clit and moved his hand back. Ethan watched, mesmerized by the stringy arousal. He popped his digits into his mouth and made a noise of satisfaction. “You’re so creamy.” He said in praise and looked down at your deshelved body.

Ethan knelt down and clutched your hips. You could hear your heartbeat as he wasted no time by shoving his face in your cunt. You sharply inhaled behind your underwear as he sloppily sucked your clit, stretching it and then licking with hard pressure. You accidentally moaned but cleared your throat to try and mask it. But Ethan heard you. He pushed your legs apart further and focused his tongue on your clit. It was evident he was inexperienced but the hunger he had caused your nipples to harden.

“Been wanting a taste.” He said lowly and shoved his tongue in your entrance. You let out a louder cry, unable to hold back and he held your legs down as he aggressively made out with your pussy.

Your high came and you creamed on his face but he showed no sign of stopping. It was getting overwhelming and you tried to push his head away. But Ethan caught your hands and didn’t stop until you came another two times.

Tears streamed down your cheeks and he finally lifted up. His lips were coated and dripping. Ethan crawled up and hovered over your mouth.

“Swallow what you fucking did.” He plucks the panties from your mouth and you taste yourself as it falls on your tongue. You looked at him with doe eyes and Ethan crushed his lips to yours in a fierce kiss. His strength was greater than you expected and he felt your curves. You tried to pull away but his hand wrapped around your neck and he tugged your bottom lip.

“Stop fighting it.” He kissed you again, hard enough that the breath left you as he shoved his pants down. You clawed at his back but his efforts didn’t end as you felt his hardness. A moan broke out again as he sucked the sweet spot on your neck, your morals were leaving as he focused on your collar bones.

“You want it, I know you do. You are a messy little girl and you’re craving to be filled up.” You cried out in pleasure as you felt the thick head of his cock push in you. Ethan heaved out a series of swear words and grunts as he lifted your leg higher on his hip. It mildly hurt but the pain disappeared as a deep pull in your core began. You felt like a drooling mess as he thrusted, hitting the spots you could never reach.

“You’re such a fucking whore. A pathetic cum filled mess. Too weak to fight back against a goddamn killer.” Ethan continued fucking you with relentless energy and your mouth went slack as he spit inside. He sucked your lower lip and palmed your tits. You completely succumb to him, letting him circle your clit as you screamed. The orgasm was so powerful your vision went black for a few seconds and he was soon after spilling into you.

He pulled out, jerking his dick until you were covered in cum and he grabbed you by the hair. You faced his pulsing cock in front of your face. “Lick it off. You wanna be a little weak puppy? You wanna be a little bitch for me? Then lick off what you did and then I’m gonna fuck that ass of yours. Serves you right for wearing those slutty skirts.”

@hauntedfawnn @eerielamb @marchsfreakshow

[megalomaniacz]

SWEET CHERRY 🍒

camgirl!reader x toxic actually loserish really pathetic!vi

diva mode activated halfway through writing this…guys idk i’m gay okay and if it isn’t good i never wrote it…okay? erm nsfw!! listened to tate mcrae and charli while writing this if that means anything to u. also, my birthday is tomorrow!! might drunkenly pump out a toxic!cait one shot OMG WHO SAIDDDD THAT

PART ONE: $EX. LIE$. UGLY. TRUTH.

the time on her computer screen read 11:07 pm. you were two minutes behind schedule. every regular viewer, including vi, was on the edge of their seat. licking at chapped lips and rubbing lotiony hands together. eyes wide with wonder, refreshing the site every 10 seconds until you popped onto screen.

you were wearing your signature cherry red lingerie, flawless makeup, soft pop music playing in the back. nails sharp and adorned with cherries. you held a sucker that read eat me in your hand, slowly unwrapping it for the camera. “hi cherries, guess what flavor this is.”

vi was foaming at the fucking mouth, adjusting the computer in her lap. eyes glued to the screen while she bit her lip and held onto your every word.

you moved closer to the screen. “grape? chat what do you mean? cmon guess and you get a prizeeee.”

the way you spoke, singing your words. ending the sentence in a suggestive tone. your sultry manner and bedroom eyes. everything was driving vi up a goddamn wall. you were all that and bag of fucking chips. she couldn’t stop thinking about you since she found a video of you fucking yourself with a dildo on an adult site. lezgetbusy or something fucking stupid. scrolled through the comments (5,000) until someone alluded to the fact that you cammed.

then she followed your profile and immediately paid your $50 messaging fee.

in all honesty, she was talking to herself in there half the time. the rare moments in which you did respond gave her a euphoria she couldn’t contain. she wanted to fuck you. no, she needed to fuck you. with her fingers, her tongue, her strap, and whatever the hell else will fit up there. it was driving her crazy.

grandSurpass: grape lol

justmyego: strawberry?

Several_means: lick it again please :(

she rolled her eyes at the screen. “idiotic men, it’s fucking cherry.” she begins to tap in the chat. she presses send, and when she sees you reading it? mouthing her comment? she nearly chokes, feeling her face flush.

“very good, vi? violet22. very good.”

her hands were stuffed into her pants now, legs spread while she toys with herself. you said her name. you said her fucking name! she throws her head back, thinking about how easily it fell off your tongue.

“since you guessed right, you get, drumroll pleaseeee.”

she was close now. pool of wetness filling her boxers. legs shaking, mouth wide open. please keep talking, please keep talking…please…

“a chance to chat with me personally! this stream, and others, will be a bit shorter as i’ve decided i’ll be doing one on one chats with some lucky cherries. congratulations vio-“

she slams her computer shut, takes her hand out of her pants, and jumps off her bed. stumbles into her bathroom, washes her hands and splashes water on her face, then stumbles back to her room. reopens her computer, runs a hand down her face, types in the website url again. logs in. clicks watch stream. and checks under her ass for shit because she swears she just shat herself. just now.

“oh, vi is back. okay guys.” you swish the lollipop around in your mouth a bit before continuing to speak. “i’m going to send you a link in private message, violet22. see you soon!” a toothy and cheery smile spread across your sweet face.

the second the link shows up in her inbox, she clicks it. hits the $200hr pay wall. fumbles in her pockets for her wallet, fuck she left it in the bathroom okay she’s got it dammit she’s shaking. can barely put the card numbers in. she’s making you wait she’s making you wait fuck.

after payment is secured, you in all your sweet glory, pop up on her screen. you’re sat on your bed, sucker hanging from your lips, fiddling with your freshly manicured nails. you hear the ding, realized she’s joined, and lay on your belly. tits squeezing together on the bed.

“hi! violet22? is that you? i can’t see you, turn your camera on!”

oh fucking fuck the fuck fuck fuckity FUCK FUCK. she has no time to fix her face up for you, or change out of her 2 day old t shirt. atleast you can’t smell her through the screen. she clicks on the small camera icon in left corner of the screen, and puts on an awkward smile.

“hi. there you are.” you smile, kicking your feet.

“hi sweet cherry. fuck. i’ve come to your videos so much nothing gets me so worked up. fuck. sorry.”

you giggle a bit and her face visibly becomes 3 shades redder. looks like she’s got some sort of filter on.

“it’s okay. thank you so much, your support means the world to me. do you have any personal requests while you’ve got me? clocks counting down.” you pucker your lips.

the time on the right corner of the screen is counting down 4:56…4:55…

vi’s eyes widen, and she gulps. finding it hard to think of anything to say. she was in complete shock. you’re looking at her. talking to her. you’re talking to her,,,oh fuck you’re talking to her.

“i-i’m- hmmm.” she stutters, picking at a hangnail. the clocks on 4:01 now and her heart seems to damn near be beating out of her chest.

“how about we play a quick game, okay? and next time, maybe you’ll have something thought of. maybe we’ll have more time…” your smile melts her heart. next time? GEE WILLIKERS!!! someone check this bitches pulse.

“okay.” she nods, barely present. still unsure if this is some sort of orgasm induced illusion.

“if you can guess the word i’m thinking of, i’ll take an extra special picture just for you. kay?”

you wink and she feels like the wind has been knocked out of her. she gives you a small nod, and it makes you laugh. she’s so cute and pathetic.

3:48…3:47

“okay. it’s a type of flower.” you lick your sugar ridden lips, putting the entire sucker in your mouth then pulling it out slowly.

vi’s about to piss herself. or is that come? man these boxers are gonna need a deep clean.

“is it a rose? a tulip?”

you shake your head, taunting smirk on your face. “try again, cutie.”

oh she’s so gonna ride a pillow with your picture on it tonight. might even get the picture all wet with her slick, imagine her sweet pussy on your perfectly plump lips. wait what was the question?

“ummm lillies? dandelions? sunflowers?”

you shake your head, sticking your tongue out and directly swiping it over the fading words. eat me do you know how bad she wants to?

“hint, please?” she looks at you with sad eyes. feels like she’s being edged or something. pussy growing wetter by the minute FUCK 2:49…2:48

“cmon, you’re smart. use that big brain of yours.” you follow with a taunting laugh. she’s too fucking horny for this, and you look so good. she wonders how you feel. your skin. bet it’s warm and soft. bet you’d grip the sheets when nipped at your thighs. back arching-

“daises? did i say that already?”

you shake your head and look over at the small timer taking a bite out of the sucker, now it reads at me.

“lavender is a flower? right?”

you sit up on the bed, and she watches the way you widen your thighs. pretty little red bow right above your pussy. you arch your back, ass in the air, chewing on the candy. “close.”

the money she’d spend to have one night with you. ass up face buried in your silky red sheets. cock buried so deep in your pussy it’s kissing your stomach. WHAT WAS THE QUESTION AGAIN?

“aww your time is up.” you pout. there’s five seconds. vi’s drooling, all over herself. like actually. she wipes her mouth, slow blinking, taking mental pictures.

“the word was violet, silly! see you next stream.”

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck

[delilahsturniolo]

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡ pogue!chris getting into a fight with your boyfriend at a bonfire

the fire crackles loud, music bumping from someone’s busted speaker, beer bottles scattered in the sand. everyone’s here. pogues, kooks, and everyone in between. you’re standing near the edge of the flames, arms crossed, pretending not to look for chris.

your boyfriend, caleb, born-and-bred kook, country-club raised and punchable, has a possessive hand on your lower back, and he hasn’t shut up since you got here. he’s talking about his boat or his car, but most likely himself. you stopped listening five minutes ago.

“may i offer you a drink, princess? you look tense.” a familiar voice cuts through the heat. you turn. chris stands a few feet away, shirt untucked, rings glinting in the firelight, a beer in each hand, one already half-drunk. he holds the other out to you without breaking eye contact.

caleb’s grip on your waist tightens immediately. “she’s good,” he snaps. “she doesn’t drink cheap shit.” chris’s smile twists slow and dangerous. “she can speak for herself.”

“back off, pogue,” caleb says, stepping forward. “you’ve got a death wish or something?” jj leans over to pope from the logs near the fire and mutters, “ten bucks says chris punches him before this song ends.”

“shut up,” pope hisses, but he’s watching.

kiara groans. “here we go again.”

“caleb,” you warn under your breath, “just drop it.” but he doesn’t. he steps in chris’s space, puffed chest and entitlement, jabbing a finger at his chest. “you think you’re cool because you live in a shack and steal beers from corner stores?”

“nah,” chris says calmly, “i think i’m cool because i don’t treat girls like they’re property.”

“say that again.”

and then caleb shoves him. bad move. chris doesn’t hesitate. he swings, hard. fist slamming into caleb’s jaw with a sick crack that echoes over the fire. caleb stumbles back, dazed, but chris doesn’t stop. he charges him, tackling him into the sand with a grunt, fists flying. the bonfire crowd erupts.

“yo, chris—!” matt shouts, already jumping to his feet. nick’s running over too, but chris is locked in, all fury and rage and something deeper, maybe jealousy, maybe pride, but it’s pouring out in punches. he slams caleb’s head into the sand once, then again.

“chris, stop!” you yell, heart pounding. “chris, please!” he doesn’t even look up. just grinds caleb’s face deeper into the sand and mutters low, “did you say something, princess?” you freeze, breath catching in your throat. the tone is dark. teasing. dangerous. and for a second, your entire body goes still.

jj’s the first to grab him. “yo, that’s enough!”

“chill, bro, get off him—” john b jumps in too, tugging at chris’s shoulder.

matt and nick finally reach him, nick grabbing his arm, matt pulling him off caleb by the collar. “dude, chill the fuck out. it’s not worth it.” chris finally lets go, breathing hard, jaw clenched, knuckles split and bleeding. caleb coughs in the sand, spitting and swearing.

“he started it,” chris says, glaring down, chest heaving. “yeah, and you finished it,” sarah says from behind you, her voice sharp. “nice job making a scene.”

kiara just crosses her arms. “didn’t think he’d actually do it.” pope shakes his head. “this is getting out of hand.” jj scoffs, “woah woah, you owe me 10 bucks buddy.” jj says to pope, who just rolls his eyes.

you’re still frozen, watching chris with wide eyes. he turns to you finally, blood on his hand, hair falling over his eyes, and for a second it’s just you and him and everything unsaid between you. he smirks slightly, like he knows exactly what he’s done.

“still think you’re with the right guy?”

then he walks off, matt and nick flanking him, jj, john b, pope, and kiara trailing after, the crowd parting like waves. sarah gives you a sympathetic smile as she walks away too. you’re left standing there, your boyfriend groaning in the sand, your heart hammering in your chest. and for the first time in weeks, you don’t have an answer.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: raise your hand if you think i should kill caleb off <33333 (i’m literally the writer and he pisses me off)

[sexytwerkerr69]

sweetest high

pairing: nam-gyu x reader content warning: profanity, smut, light degradation, PinV, oral (m!receiving), violence, death, mention of drugs and drug use, shitty ending

a/n: can you tell this is my first time writing smut? anyway this was all written while i was sitting in a pool

see the original request here

Anyone from Club Pentagon’s staff could tell you one thing about him; Nam-gyu was hostile to everyone. No one knows how he got hired with how he acted, but damn was he good at his job. Every night, without fail, the club was full of people looking to dance and drink themselves numb. The dance floor was never empty, and the bar was always crowded. Even if he put up this facade for people looking to try out the club, there was always a hint of distrust in his eyes. Not that the patrons noticed— too inebriated to care. 

As soon as he was out of those people’s sight, his stupid, wide smile would drop. He hated niceties. 

Yes, Nam-gyu was hostile to everyone. But you didn’t know that. Because somehow, you had gotten through to him without even having said a single word. The second he saw you working behind that bar, shaking and mixing drinks for sleazy people and offering polite smiles to people who didn’t deserve to see it, he was hooked. But he didn’t have a particular reason why, he just… was. To him, you were more tempting than the white powder in the little baggies that he distributed to keep people coming back. More tempting than the colorful pills that were delivered to the club in bulk. Just for you, he’d been a little more tolerant of people just because he didn’t want to scare you away. 

You were like sandpaper, dulling his sharp edges down every time you rubbed against him. Literally.

To him, you were the sweetest person ever— in more ways than one. You were sweet when his head was shoved in between your thighs, lapping at your core desperately like a dog. You were sweet when you took care of him during the crashing lows, when he’d relapsed again after promising to be sober for you. Even when you left after having had enough of his empty promises, he couldn’t bring himself to truly hate you. It was easy to let his mouth run and to call you every name under the sun, but when the night came? Every inch of his body screamed for you more than it did for the pills. He didn’t think you were someone who had debt. The second his eyes landed on you in the lobby of these death games you had signed up for, he was making a beeline for you and dragging you back to the corner where he and a familiar purple-haired guy had settled. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Nam-gyu asked, his voice low as he unconsciously gripped your arm tighter than he intended to. “Same as all of us here,” you scoffed, pulling your arm away from his grip. 

“No. I don’t believe you. You’re not that type of person. Now tell me the truth.” Your resolve faltered at his blunt words. He was right. You didn’t have debt, per se, but your father did. The bastard piled it all up and bolted, leaving your poor mother to pay it all off. Now she was sick and unable to work— and those debt collectors couldn’t care less if she was on her last breath. 

So now, you are here. You were desperate, and willing to make it out of these games alive to relieve your mother of the debt piled on her. 

Your shoulders slumped a little, sighing. 

“My mother’s sick,” you could barely bring yourself to mumble. He didn’t need to hear any more, only sighing softly and running his palm over his face. That night, Nam-gyu insisted that you sleep in his bed, no matter how cramped it may be. He told you that it was for your own safety. You acquiesced, laying as still and tense as a log under the blanket he’d pulled up for the both of you. 

════════════════════════════════════

“Where are you going?” he mumbled sleepily, eyes adjusting in the dark as he felt the bed dip as you stood, his hand immediately reaching for you.

“Restroom.” “I’ll come with you.” “...Fine,” you sighed, knowing he would have followed even without your approval. 

You could hear your faint footsteps in the eerie quiet of the lobby, and the halls leading to the restroom. He trailed behind you, an arm’s length of distance between you. Like he wanted to touch you but was scared of you pulling away again when he’s just gotten you back. 

“What’re you doing? This is the women’s bathroom, Nam-gyu.” 

“I know.” Nam-gyu responded, staying in place— leaning against one of the many doors in the restroom. 

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, his cheekiness getting under your skin, “I don’t want you to listen to me piss, Nam.” His breath hitched at the nickname. He hadn’t heard you call him that in such a long time. Being called that made all the blood in his body rush to his cock like a goddamn sleeper agent. He shoved his hands in his pockets, standing at an angle he hoped would hide his fucking hard-on, scoffing. “You’re embarrassed about pissing now, huh? You weren’t so shy when I fucked you in the Club’s bathroom—”

You cut him off as you slammed the door to one of the stalls, opting to just do your business as quietly and quickly as possible. 

════════════════════════════════════

You finished and went out to wash your hands in one of the sinks, almost missing Nam-gyu’s absence. You didn’t hear the restroom’s entrance open and shut, you were certain. Wiping your hands on the turquoise jacket you were dressed in, you debated just going back to the lobby without him. You thought maybe he actually already went back. 

Your hand was already grasping the handle of the door, about to open it when you hear it: a subtle, breathy sound of someone whimpering your name. Not just someone— Nam-gyu. 

You tensed, feet staying planted on the floor where you stood. Your hand dropped to your side, stepping carefully away from the door as you went towards the abnormal allure of the call of your name. You stood in front of the stall where you heard the noises amplify, hand pushing the door open. You wanted to feel appalled at the sight, you really did, but… 

His pants were pushed down to his ankles as he sat on the closed toilet, slender hand wrapped around his own cock. The moment you opened that door, his eyes connected to yours, but he never relented on his pace. He kept going, a smile even tugging on his lips. That evil fucking grin, teeth bared with amusement as he put on a show for you. 

“Fuckin’ missed you,” he panted out with along with a soft moan of your name. 

“Don’t just stand there, princess. I know y’wanna help me.” 

════════════════════════════════════

You don’t even know how fast you got on your knees. It felt like you just singlehandedly threw away all your self respect the second you saw him like that. 

“A-ah, shit, just like that,” he hissed blissfully, easing your mouth upon his length, hand flying to your hair to push your head down. As a small gag erupted within you, a breathy whine left his lips. Your hands trailed up his bare thighs to assist yourself, one hand on the base of his shaft and gripping it pleasurably. 

“You're s-still so good at it— fuck,” Nam-gyu all but whined, with the stroke of your tongue along the underside of his shaft. The warmth of your mouth, added with the residual effects of whatever Thanos gave him… Fuck, it was so much better than getting high again. 

His hand gripped at your locks to pull you off his dick, your lips releasing the pale pink tip with a small ‘pop!’. 

“Need’a be inside your pussy again, wait.”

He stood up and pushed you against the wall of the stall, two fingers dipping in the garter of your tracksuit’s pants and pulling it down as low as his were. 

A strangled moan left your lips as he pushed himself inside you, not a single finger to prep you for anything. Both your hands settled on the wall, both a few inches beside your head to find purchase as Nam-gyu began a desperate pace. 

Each blow of his hips sent you forward, your cheek pressed against the cold tile. His hands gripped at your waist harshly, perhaps enough to leave bruises, while his cock went in and out of you at a mean, glitchy pace. 

“Still s’tight for me, babe, ah–” he gripped your hips tighter, “So wet for me, too.” Shit, you didn't even notice. 

“N-Nam—” the beginnings of a moan of his name left your lips, cut off by your own whine. 

“Fuck, I really hope the g-guards can hear— hear us,” Nam-gyu chuckled through gritted teeth, “Let ‘em hear how much of a fucking slut you are for me, huh?” 

“Nam-gyu, ah, p-please–”

“Already close?” he breathed out shakily as he went harder, deeper, letting your mouth run with needy little squeals, “Kn-knew you were desperate for this dick, hah– bet those t-two months you were gone, you kept thin-thinking of me fucking you like this, huh?” 

It was mostly Nam-gyu who did that, truthfully. 

Soon, you found yourself holding back whimpers laced with pleasure, gummy walls spasming around his cock rested deep within you. He soon followed after, spurts of his hot come filling you up. 

Nam-gyu's breaths were heavy, chest pressed against your back as the two of you took a moment to recover. He let go of your hips, in favor of wrapping his arms around your torso that was coated with a thin sheen of sweat. 

“Gonna get the both of us out of here, alright?” he murmured against the side of your neck, lips pressing against them between every word to emphasize them. Each kiss an unspoken promise to keep you safe until that piggy bank high up on the ceiling had enough for at least one billion for each of you, then you would get out. 

════════════════════════════════════

You pushed your shaky hands inside the pockets of your jacket as your ‘group’ was walking back to the lobby after the third game. You were aware, from the first round, that these were death games. You knew that choosing to stay was a wish for death. So why were you so shaken up? 

…You knew why. 

You saw how easily one of you was kicked from the so called ‘team’ you were a part of. Gyeong-su. One round called for a group of six, one less person of your group’s total. That purple-haired lunatic, or Thanos, as he insisted to be called, spun his head around rapidly as if to assess who was going to be separated, before quite literally kicking him out and finding the rest of you a room. You let yourself get practically dragged by Nam-gyu, but you couldn’t tear your eyes off him, the poor guy. You saw him long enough to see him freeze up, clearly not having expected to be the odd one out. 

That could’ve been you. Thanos knew you as well as he knew Gyeong-su. If it weren’t for the fact that Nam-gyu showed mild interest in you around him at best, you would have been kicked out too. The image of your mother having no one left to help her if you died was more than convincing for you to vote to leave. 

The money accumulated in the piggy bank held up to the ceiling, once divided, would only be enough to cover at least half, if not more, of your father’s debt. It might not be enough, but it would be a weight lessened on you and your mother’s shoulders. 

Nam-gyu loomed behind you, hands on your shoulders and leaning down to whisper what you dreaded: “You’ll vote O again, right? Just one more game, baby.”

You could feel his eyes on you once you started walking towards the front of the lobby, where you would publicly cast your vote. Min-su and Se-mi already voted X, and that in itself was betrayal. Nam-gyu’s eyes were dark as he kept an eye on you, daring you to make the same choice as them. 

The X button’s red light casted upon your face as you made your vote, ripping the blue patch off your jacket’s chest and replacing it with the red one to designate what you voted for. You didn’t dare look back where you once stood, knowing what was waiting for you. You stood beside Se-mi, who gave you a slight smile. 

“Good choice. I thought you’d follow after your boyfriend.” “He’s not my boyfriend. Never was,” you responded. Se-mi chose not to speak again after that, instead giving you a look. 

════════════════════════════════════

You couldn’t sleep that night. You didn’t even eat, opting to give today’s meal away to another player without having opened it. You laid in your bed, tense, and even a bit nauseous as the events of earlier replayed in your head. A fight broke out in the bathrooms just before lights out, with Nam-gyu himself having announced that someone from your side attacked them. Of course, this was disputed by someone else on your side. 

There was a horrible, sour feeling resting within your gut. Something was going to happen. Something felt wrong. 

And wouldn’t you know it— you were right. 

Those motherfuckers from the O side attacked every single person in sight. You were placed on a lower bed, with the rate in which they were attacking, you knew you were fucked. But you tried to hide, nonetheless. You had to stay alive for your mother. 

But your fate was soon sealed as you felt a hand wrap around your ankle as you attempted to climb up to the higher beds. The man slammed you down as hard as he could to the floor, and just by that, you could already feel your own blood rushing out from where your skull cracked. But that wasn’t enough, not for your attacker, as he felt it appropriate to decorate your neck and your torso with stab wounds from a fork. 

The last thing you ever saw was your attacker being kicked away as well. The last thing you ever thought was how sorry you were, to your mother. An apology she would never get to hear. 

════════════════════════════════════

Nam-gyu, with all his intoxicated might, kicked the man away from you. He was covered with the blood of multiple people on your side, yet here he was— stuffing his fork in the neck of your attacker, taking it out, and doing it again. As if it would save you. As if it would save him the guilt. He didn’t stop, not until he caught a glance of your corpse in the corner of his eye under the flickering lights. 

He stayed beside you, taking your body to a corner and holding you. Holding you the way he should have when he could. The metallic smell of blood barely bothered him anymore, but it smelled a lot stronger and dizzying now that it was yours. 

“You stupid bitch,” he breathed out shakily, both hands cupping your face, “You should have stayed with me, could’ve given you everything.” 

Your eyes were half-lidded, lifeless. Nam-gyu felt like his stomach was in his throat. He couldn’t stand seeing you like this.  You were limp and heavier, something that he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t you, just what was left of you. He knew you when you squirmed and whined underneath him, and when you held him and took care of him. 

Carefully, he laid your body down on the floor once more. He opened the cross he’d snatched away from Thanos’ neck just hours prior, taking another of the colorful pills. Kneeling beside you, he’d open your jacket, searching for something to hold onto, keep him grounded while he was as high as a kite. 

Around your neck was your jade coin necklace. Nothing fancy, at first glance— but it was real jade. You could have pawned the necklace for extra money, but you didn’t. And he knew why. It was the first token of affection he’d given you. You called him stupid for giving you something as expensive as that when you two weren’t even an item  he was already in debt. 

“Knew you still loved me,” he chuckled, pocketing the necklace. There was nothing funny about it, but he still found himself laughing. 

Every step he took to walk away from you felt heavy. But he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself by sobbing like an idiot over your dead body. He only watched from his spot on the other side of the room while the guards collected every single dead body and placed each of them in the ribboned boxes. 

“She was just a good fuck, nothing more,” He told himself over and over, until it stuck, trying to ignore the better part of him that wanted to grieve you.

[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 @k-s-tumbler

I planned for this part to write smut, but fuck the tumblr block limit, a part can't be that long. So unfortunately I had to cut this part in half again. Sometimes this part feels a bit choppy or rushed and it feels like there are omissions, but that's actually because I can use those in the next chapters. trust the process. love you guys!

Part 26: To change

Part 27: To go Home

They stood in silence, the air between them thick, a taut cord stretched between fury and disbelief. You stared at him—at the man whose work you once adored, whose voice had narrated your dreams of Pandora for years—now standing across from you with all the weight of his choices in his eyes.

And you couldn’t speak.

Not at first.

Because no words could capture what was clawing at your chest: the frustration, the betrayal, the confusion, the fear. It tangled inside you like thorns. You didn’t even know what to feel first—so it all poured together.

“I…” you started, but your throat burned. You blinked, trying to breathe through it.

Your voice broke. “You put something in me I never asked for.”

He stood still, watching you, letting the silence stretch long enough to feel like it might break something between you.

“I didn’t want this,” you said finally, louder now, voice sharp and uneven. “I didn’t agree to it. You didn’t ask. You didn’t warn me.”

You took a step toward him, your grip tightening on the edge of the desk.

“I could die. Still. You don’t even know if it’s permanent, do you?” you snapped. “You don’t know if tomorrow I’ll just collapse. If my organs shut down. You don’t know anything! You just played god with me like I was one of your failed rats!”

And now your voice was shaking—part fury, part fear.

“I don’t even know what I am anymore. You had no right!”

Veyren didn’t flinch. He only watched you quietly, his face unreadable.

“You had no right to do this to me,” you said again, louder this time, your voice rising. “You injected me with something you knew could kill me. Something that did kill everyone else before me. Something you created knowing it had no reversal, no undoing—no cure.”

You took a step forward, eyes burning. “You altered me. You changed what I am. And I didn’t get to choose that.”

“I know,” he said simply, his voice low, calm—too calm. It only made you angrier.

Then, finally, he walked forward.

No excuses. No apologies.

He stepped to the desk, brushed aside an old datapad, and picked up another from the corner. His hands moved quickly��deliberate, precise—scrolling through files, tapping into a log you hadn’t seen yet.

He turned the screen toward you.

Data. Vitals. Live recordings. The kind of readouts that monitored a patient moment by moment—pulse, oxygen levels, blood pressure, neural activity. Dated two days ago.

Your name was on the chart.

“You didn’t just crash,” he said, tone now clinical, detached. “You flatlined. I had to resuscitate you.”

He turned the screen toward you.

“There.”

You stepped closer.

The datapad’s interface displayed your vitals from that night—scrambled, jagged data that made no immediate sense, until he zoomed in on one panel.

A pulse line.

It started irregular. Then slowed. Then dropped.

A flat line. For nearly thirty-seven seconds.

You covered your mouth with your hand.

You watched the log entry where he said you died, but watching as the line getting straight, and every number erratically changed to 0 was something else.

“I brought you back,” Veyren said quietly. “That was before the serum.”

You stared at the screen like it might start beating again. But it didn’t. The data was clear. Inarguable.

You had died.

Whatever happened next, whatever he had done—was done to a corpse.

You looked at him again, throat tight, heart pounding with too many feelings to sort. Anger still pulsed in your blood—but so did something colder. Sharper. Fear, maybe.

Veyren didn’t speak right away. The hum of the lab filled the space between you—machines on standby, monitors blinking slowly in the dark. You still hadn’t looked away from the datapad, where the flatline pulsed like a cruel punctuation mark.

“You watched the logs,” he said quietly, not accusing—just certain.

You said nothing.

“I know what’s in them. What you saw. I left them unencrypted because I knew… eventually, you’d want the truth.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “So you know. About the test animals. The failures. The soldiers. The way they died. The way they didn’t come back whole. The way no one lasted more than two weeks.”

Your eyes met his, cold and burning all at once.

“I gave you the serum because I thought—what did it matter?” he said bluntly. “You were already gone. I revived you once. And then twice. I knew it wouldn’t hold. Your circulation was collapsing again—your organs were failing. So I gave you the last ampule.”

His voice dropped lower, more certain. “And something changed.”

He lifted the datapad again, tapped through a few screens, and showed you a new data set.

Your vitals. The same charts, but dated from hours after the injection. You could see it—see how your heart rate stabilized. How your oxygen levels normalized. How your cell repair metrics spiked. In the span of three hours, you had gone from a dying patient to… alive.

Not just alive.

Thriving.

“There was no neural degradation,” he said. “No respiratory collapse. No coma. You came back.”

You swallowed hard.

“And not like the others. The soldiers—they breathed for a time, but they never woke up. And the one who did… he wasn’t there anymore. His eyes moved, but there was nothing behind them.”

He looked at you then, not with pity, but with awe.

“But you… You talked. You moved. You remembered your name. You were you.”

He stepped a little closer, tapping gently on the edge of the datapad.

You stared down at the screen he now offered you—your data. A readout of your body in the hours after the serum. The lines were steady. Strong. Even.

And you remembered.

The warmth you felt even as your body convulsed. The tingling at your fingertips. That flicker of light in the darkness. That golden aura. The warmth. The voice.

“…maybe it was when I saw Eywa,” you said softly.

Your voice came out barely audible, the words tumbling from your mouth before you even realized you were speaking.

Veyren blinked.

You looked up at him, not sure what expression you wore. Not fear now. Not even confusion.

Wonder, maybe.

“That night,” you said, a little louder. “I saw her.”

He stared at you as though you’d grown a second head. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

“I wasn’t dreaming,” you said, firmer now. “First I saw my family on Earth, but then it changed. I only saw light and it felt like a warm hug. I felt her. Not just around me—inside me. Like I belonged there. Like she knew me. Like She was ready to hug me if I die.”

A stillness fell over him so absolute it felt like time paused.

Then, slowly, cautiously, his expression changed.

His pupils dilated. His breath hitched. A strange, quiet awe bled into his eyes, like some ancient hope had stirred awake in him after decades buried under madness.

“You…” he breathed. “You saw Her?”

You nodded slowly.

And it was like watching a man unravel in reverse. Not into chaos—but into purpose.

The silence hung heavy for a long moment before Veyren whispered again, reverently:

“She spoke to you.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t even sure you could.

But you saw the way it changed him. His shoulders straightened slightly. His breath grew steadier. His eyes gleamed—not with obsession, not with mania, but with something dangerously close to belief.

You stared at Veyren as though through a pane of warped glass, your mind struggling to process his words, your thoughts splintering and fracturing, spinning violently in circles.

He stepped toward you—slowly, like he knew how precariously close you were to breaking. But you stepped back, pulse racing faster.

“No—” You shook your head sharply, voice wavering. “Please don’t.”

He halted, expression guarded, wary, careful. The awe had faded into something more cautious, like he was watching a fragile creature on the verge of flight.

Your breathing quickened sharply, pulse thundering in your ears. You raised a trembling hand, palm out as though to hold him at a distance.

“I… I need a moment,” you managed, your voice shaking so badly it barely sounded like your own.

He only watched, silent, patient, uncertain.

Without another word, you turned away sharply, clutching your own arms, wrapping them tightly around your ribs, grounding yourself as you walked quickly toward the hallway, eyes fixed on the path that would lead back to the sterile, quiet room that had become your strange refuge.

Each step echoed sharply in the empty silence.

You closed the door behind you, the soft click sounding louder than it should.

Alone now, you leaned back against the cold metal, chest heaving, your pulse racing faster by the second, a ragged, stuttering beat in your throat. The silence pressed around you, thick and suffocating, magnifying the panicked cadence of your heart.

Your legs gave out suddenly, and you slid down, knees hitting the floor painfully, the cold metal grounding you only briefly.

You couldn’t breathe.

Not properly.

Your breaths came shallow, rapid, uneven—your throat closing tight as the full weight of what you’d learned crashed into you.

You had died.

He had brought you back—twice.

Injected you with something that had killed every other living creature before you. Humans. Animals. All dead. None survived.

None except you.

But for how long?

Your hand flew to your chest, fingers clawing at your shirt as though it might give you room to breathe. But there was no space—only panic clawing sharply up your throat, tears stinging hotly behind your eyes, blurring your vision.

You couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t escape it.

You were different now. Altered. Your own body foreign and unknown.

You pressed your forehead to your knees, eyes squeezed shut as your breathing quickened into short, rapid gasps. The room seemed to shrink around you, walls pressing in tighter, the sterile air heavy and cloying.

You needed to leave this place.

You needed to run away.

But where could you go?

What was left for you now—unknown, untested and unsure?

You wanted this nightmare to end.

You wanted to wake up safe in Neteyam’s kelku, wrapped tight in his arms, his breath soft against your temple, the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath your cheek. You wanted to open your eyes and see his face looking back at you, golden eyes warm with quiet certainty, the one stable truth in a spinning, unsteady universe.

But Neteyam wasn’t here.

He couldn’t save you—not this time.

You were alone.

You clenched your fists against your temples, pressing hard, fingers trembling violently.

This had to be a nightmare.

Any moment, you’d wake.

But your heart hammered violently, your breath quickened sharply—and you knew you were awake. Horribly, painfully awake.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, your shoulders trembling as your panic spiraled into something deeper, darker, uncontrollable.

You didn’t want this.

Didn’t ask for this.

But it was inside you now, an irreversible, unknown thing—a ticking clock counting down, unstoppable and unpredictable.

You sobbed quietly into the silence, the sound muffled by your own palm.

Your body shook as you curled tighter against yourself, desperate for warmth, for comfort—for something stable in a world suddenly unmoored.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking sharply, speaking to the empty air, to Eywa herself, to anyone or anything that might hear. “Please, I don’t want this. I want to go home.”

But no answer came.

Only silence. Only the faint hum of machinery around you, indifferent and unchanging.

You sank deeper, your breath ragged, your thoughts spinning faster, chasing their own tail, twisting into tighter and tighter knots.

No escape.

No relief.

Just the empty silence of your own changed body and the cold, sterile room around you, pressing ever closer.

You wanted nothing more than to vanish—to fade away until you could wake in the only place that still felt safe: Neteyam’s arms, his voice murmuring softly in your ear, promising you were okay, promising you were safe.

You didn’t know if you were blessed… or damned.

And right now, you didn’t want either.

You just wanted Neteyam.

*

You sat there on the floor for a long time—shaking, heart thundering in your chest, every nerve in your body screaming confusion and fear. But slowly, slowly, the panic ebbed—like a tide pulling back. Not because you were calm, but because you had to be.

Because you had no other choice.

You inhaled shakily, eyes burning, and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. Your legs trembled as you forced yourself to stand, gripping the wall to steady yourself. One foot, then the other. Not grace. Not strength. Just sheer will.

You made it to the bed and collapsed into it, curling under the blanket like it might shield you from everything clawing at your insides. You pulled it over your head and shut your eyes tightly, pressing your palms to your temples. You focused on the rhythm of your breathing. In. Out. Again. Again.

You stayed alive in the forest for nearly a week, you told yourself. You crawled through mud, bled from a wound on your hand, ate raw teylu almost threw up and kept going. You weren’t supposed to survive that either.

But you did.

You’d done the impossible before. You could do it again.

And you had to.

Because now… now there was something even more important than survival.

Neteyam.

Your breath caught.

His name was a balm and a blade all at once.

You needed to see him. Not later. Not eventually. Now.

Before it was too late.

Because whether Veyren would admit it or not, whether the vitals on that datapad looked stable or not, the truth clawed at your spine: you didn’t know what this serum would do to you next. No one did. Everyone before you had died. They seemed fine until they weren’t. One moment breathing, and the next—

Gone.

You didn’t have time to waste.

You had to get out of here. Leave this lab. Leave Veyren and his silence and his ghosts behind. You needed to make your way back to the outpost. You needed the other scientists to know you were alive. You needed someone to know what had happened.

And above all—

You needed to see Neteyam.

You needed to hold his face in your hands, feel his forehead pressed to yours, hear the way he whispered your name like it meant something sacred. You needed to kiss him. Not through a mask, not under sterile lights, not surrounded by datapads and failed theories.

You needed to tell him what happened. Everything. The teylu. The thanator den. The mycelia.

And most of all—

That you loved him.

That you loved him so much it scared you. So much that the idea of dying without telling him again was unbearable. So much that it was the only thing giving you strength now.

You turned onto your side, staring blankly at the wall, heartbeat thudding beneath your ribs like a warning bell.

There was no more time to hesitate.

You had no certainty left, no map to follow. But that didn’t matter.

You would leave this lab.

You would go back.

And if you had only one day left before your body betrayed you, before the serum turned its slow poison inward—

You were going to spend it telling Neteyam exactly how much he meant to you.

Tomorrow, you would start. No matter what it took.

*

The morning came heavy with dread.

You hadn’t slept much. Maybe two hours at most. But when the artificial lights overhead flickered on in the hallway outside your room, you sat up with purpose burning through your limbs like fire.

You dressed in silence, tied your hair back, and stepped out into the corridor—barefoot, steady. The lab was already humming. Veyren, as always, had been awake long before you. Or maybe he never slept.

He was at one of the side stations, scrolling through data when he heard your footsteps.

You didn’t waste time.

“I want to be tested.”

He turned, blinking. “Tested?”

“To see if it’s true,” you said. “If I can breathe out there. Without the mask.”

His expression didn’t change at first, but you saw the way his hands stilled—completely motionless on the console. His pale eyes locked with yours, unreadable.

“I thought you didn’t want to know,” he said after a pause.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “But I need to. I can’t walk into the jungle with false hope. I can’t go back to the outpost not knowing if I’ll suffocate in five minutes.”

He watched you a moment longer, then gave a small, stiff nod. “There’s a containment greenhouse at the end of the east corridor. I’ve cultivated native flora there for decades. The air is entirely Pandoran—same pressure, same toxins, same humidity levels. It’ll give us a controlled test. A true reading.”

You nodded.

“I’ll be there,” he added, voice quieter now. “To monitor everything. Record vitals. Observe behavior. For science.” His eyes flickered, earnest. “And for your safety. If something goes wrong—”

“I know,” you said. “Just do it.”

He hesitated, then moved swiftly to prepare the datapad, calibrating the monitors with trembling fingers. You could see it in him now—how the old spark returned to his movements. How this, whatever it meant, whatever you were, had become his final answer. His salvation.

You didn’t share the feeling.

But you owed him this.

Despite everything—the secrets, the choices, the violation—he had saved your life. Whether through selfish intent or not, you were standing because of him. And because of him, you might see Neteyam again.

So you followed him.

Down the long hall.

Past the glass-sealed doors.

And into the containment lab.

The air was humid as the first airgate hissed shut behind you. Veyren tapped on the tablet beside the door, locking it fully, double-sealing it. He put an exo-mask on his face from the wall next to the tablet. After he pressed his palm on the scanner, the second gate opened as well. The fresh yet humid air hit your body, but as you still wore the exo-mask it doesn’t bother you as much.

“This is it,” he said softly. “Same nitrogen levels. Same toxins. The real thing. If you can survive in here—you’ll survive anywhere.”

You turned toward him, heart pounding against your ribs. “And if I can’t?”

“I’ll get the mask back on you before your lungs seize. I swear it.”

He lifted the datapad, thumb hovering over the record button. “Are you ready?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

You reached up with trembling hands and unlatched the seals of your exo-mask. The hiss of the release echoed through the sealed chamber like a gunshot.

You hesitated. Mask still resting on your face.

Then—slowly—you lifted it off.

At first, you held your breath. Every instinct screamed against it. It was hard to override everything you learnt about Pandora. When the first thing was you learnt is the air is your worst enemy. Your lungs ached, desperate for air, but you couldn’t. Not yet.

You turned slightly away from him, your fingers tightening around the mask in your grip.

Then—

You exhaled.

And inhaled.

The breath hit your chest sharp and deep, instinctively bracing for pain, for collapse, for the taste of the toxins.

But it didn’t come.

Instead… the air filled your lungs like any other. Cool. Damp. Alive.

You breathed again—faster now, in disbelief.

No burning in your throat. No choking. No spasms.

Just air. Real, natural Pandoran air.

It was like breathing Earth again. Easier, even. Richer. Your whole body pulsed with it. Every cell lit up like someone had turned on a switch beneath your skin.

You let out a shaky laugh—half cry, half disbelief.

Veyren was already tapping the datapad rapidly, muttering breathless notations to himself. “Oxygen saturation normal… CO₂ exchange stable… pulmonary function holding… no signs of neurological stress… My God.”

He looked at you—really looked at you, like seeing a ghost, or maybe a miracle.

And for the first time in all those videos, all those decades of trying—

He finally saw success.

But you didn’t care about that.

You were too busy breathing. Really breathing.

You could survive out there.

You could leave.

You could find him again.

Neteyam.

And now?

Nothing would stop you.

*

Veyren was silent a moment, his gaze sharp yet thoughtful, carefully tracing the lines of data scrolling across his datapad. He looked at you again, disbelief and wonder mixing uneasily in his pale eyes.

"I don't understand how," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "The serum shouldn't work this seamlessly—not while you're conscious. You shouldn't be talking, thinking, functioning normally."

You took another slow, deep breath, savoring it. The air was sweet—rich in a way you'd never imagined. The mask filtration system always killed almost every scent. Sometimes it was a good thing if you met with a smelly plant, but otherwise you never were so lucky to smell any flower out there. Your chest expanded freely, easily, the lack of mask still surreal.

For a moment, silence lingered, the soft hum of machinery filling the space as you simply breathed, feeling the air move through your lungs, your blood, your cells.

You closed your eyes, fighting sudden tears that rose hotly behind your eyelids. "I never thought I'd feel this close to Pandora. No matter how much I learned or studied. Even…" You paused, heart tightening painfully. "Even with Neteyam, I always thought I'd be an outsider."

Veyren glanced up sharply, curiosity flickering in his expression. "Neteyam?"

Your throat tightened. You hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. But then your longing overcame caution, and your voice softened. "Jake Sully's son."

Surprise flickering clear across his weathered features. "Sully's boy. He's your—"

"My mate," you whispered, voice trembling slightly with emotion. "We're together. Have been for some time."

Veyren nodded slowly, eyes turning distant, thoughtful. "That makes sense."

"What does?" you asked, wary.

Veyren’s eyes widened faintly—but then, something in his gaze retreated. A silent shift, something internal pulling back into itself. He looked away and murmured, more to himself than to you.

You furrowed your brow. “What?”

But he shook his head quickly, brushing it off. “Nothing.”

The silence fell again, and this time it didn’t feel so full of awe. It felt like grief.

You bit down on your lip hard, tasting salt before you even realized tears had begun to spill. The pressure broke like a dam. Everything hit at once—the air, the truth, the logs, the forest, him.

“This should feel like a dream,” you whispered. “I should be happy. I should be screaming with joy because I can finally breathe, because I can be with him—without worrying if my mask will crack or if I’ll suffocate the second he kisses me.”

Your hands curled into fists.

“But I’m terrified, Elias. Because I don’t know if I’ll be alive tomorrow. Or next week. Or two weeks from now.”

You wiped at your eyes with your sleeve, breath shaking. You know you shouldn’t cry before him, but you couldn’t help. In the last few days you never cried yet now felt different…

Tears prickled sharply at the corners of your eyes, your vision blurring. "I need to go back to him," you said quietly, voice cracking. "I don't even know how much time I have left. Every other test subject… you said it yourself, two weeks was the longest. What if I only have days left, or hours? I need to see him."

He moved closer, his gaze serious yet strangely gentle. "I’ll help you," he said quietly. "You saved my life's work. You showed me it's possible. I'll give you everything you need to reach him." He paused, looking at you carefully. "But I need something from you in return."

You stiffened, wary. "What?"

"Come back to me," he said, voice quiet yet firm. "If you survive past two weeks—if you defy the psychological boundary that killed all the others—I need to know. I need data. Evidence. Proof."

You hesitated, watching him warily, feeling the weight of his request settle heavily between you.

He must have read your uncertainty, because his voice softened, eyes growing tired, older. "You don't owe me anything, not truly. I know that. But if you return—if you survive—it might change everything we know. It might give humans a chance on Pandora. A real one. Please."

You nodded slowly. "If I survive, I'll come back. I'll help you understand whatever I can."

He exhaled quietly, relief clear on his lined features. "Thank you."

You watched him silently a moment, your chest tightening. Then quietly you said, "Before I go, I have to see her."

His gaze sharpened instantly, wary now. "Who?"

"Epsilon," you whispered. "The avatar body from your logs. You talked about her like a daughter. I want to see her."

He hesitated, something guarded flickering across his eyes. His jaw tightened faintly before he gave a reluctant nod. "Alright," he murmured softly. "I'll show her to you. But later. After dinner."

You nodded in quiet agreement, not pushing further.

Then he stepped to the door, fingers tapping the keypad. The seal hissed open, sterile air from the air gate rushing in.

He turned toward you. "Come. You've breathed enough for today. We’ll continue when it's time."

You followed him silently back into the corridor, your chest still buzzing softly with wonder, your heart still aching fiercely with longing for Neteyam.

You would see him again.

You would find your way home, even if only to say goodbye.

*

The hall to the west wing was colder. Or maybe it only felt that way—its silence was different than the rest of the facility. The other rooms hummed with the soft static of machinery or airflow. Here, the quiet was thick. Still. Heavy.

Veyren walked a few paces ahead of you, carrying a slim utility lantern in his hand. The overhead lights flickered on reluctantly as he moved through them, casting pale pools of light onto the old walls.

“Those doors was closed for years” he said, voice low but not mournful. “Abandoned. I kept it sealed after the final test subjects were… removed.”

You swallowed, your eyes catching the faint peeling of a doorframe as you passed.

He gestured faintly toward a rusted hatch. “That one—the first trial room. The soldiers. I kept logs of their decline there. Monitored the neural responses as far as they held. It didn’t last long.”

He didn’t linger. You wanted to ask what he did with the bodies, but you stayed silent.

A few doors down, he gestured toward another. “That was the incubation room for Gen-One avatar shells. Four of them made it to adolescence. All failed. Their bodies rejected the rapid aging sequence.”

Your steps slowed.

He moved on, his voice turning distant. “Storage. Bio-processing. A second containment tank for airborne pathogens—long obsolete. I used it once to test my own immunity… nearly collapsed my lungs.”

He stopped.

In front of one of the last doors.

You felt the change in him before he even touched the control panel. His shoulders eased—just slightly. His fingers hovered over the keypad with a strange reverence, like opening a chapel.

With a soft hiss, the door slid open.

The lights inside bloomed to life in slow succession—gentle, warm. Not the sterile white of a lab. Not the icy blue of testing bays. But something in between. Muted. Soft.

The room was cluttered but not chaotic—books on the floor, hand-written notes stuck to half the walls, a blanket folded on a small cot in the corner. But your attention was immediately pulled to the center of the room.

A standing amnio tank.

Tall. Sleek. Lit from beneath by a cool bioluminescent glow.

And inside—floating, serene—was her.

Epsilon.

The fluid shimmered faintly as it cradled the female Na’vi form within. Not a fetus. Not an undeveloped shell. She was fully formed—slender, elegant. Easily the height of any adult Na’vi. Her long black hair drifted through the fluid like silk in water, coiling gently as the filtration system stirred beneath her.

Her face—peaceful. Striking. Almost… regal.

You stepped forward slowly, as if afraid the very sound of your breath might wake her.

Veyren spoke quietly behind you.

“When the others failed, I thought she would too. She grew slower than any of the others. Almost painfully so. But she… endured.”

You turned to glance at him.

He wasn’t watching you.

He was watching Epsilon.

“I slept here sometimes,” he said after a long pause looking around the room. “When the silence in the rest of the lab got too loud. When I thought I might… break. I’d lie there.” He gestured to the cot. “And just talk. Even though she couldn’t answer. Even though she was never meant to.”

You looked back to the tank.

Epsilon drifted weightlessly in the fluid, arms at her sides, head tilted ever so slightly toward the light. She was beautiful. Not just in the way Na’vi were—wild, graceful—but in something crafted. Like she’d been designed to be something perfect.

Something believed in.

“She’s the last one,” Veyren said. “The only avatar I never shut down. I couldn’t. Even after I stopped trying to make more, I kept her tank running. Year after year. I thought…”

You let your hand gently press against the glass, slightly tilting your head to look back at him waiting him to finish his sentence.

“Nevermind…” Veyren said, as looking at your face now.

You swallowed back the lump in your throat.

And whispered, “She’s beautiful.”

Veyren exhaled slowly.

“Yes,” he murmured. “She is.”

And this time… his voice didn’t sound like a madman’s.

It sounded like a father’s.

You stepped closer to the tank, your breath fogging the glass just slightly. Your eyes drifted down from Epsilon’s serene face to her hands—floating gently, half-curled in the amnio fluid.

And that’s when you saw it.

Your brow furrowed.

Four fingers.

You blinked, then quickly glanced down, squinting through the shimmering blue light at her bare feet, floating just above the tank’s filter port.

Four toes.

Not five.

“Wait,” you said quietly, stepping back a little. “She has four fingers.”

Veyren didn't respond right away.

You turned to him. “She’s not like the other avatars.”

His gaze was already on her, expression unreadable. “No,” he said, voice low. “She’s not.”

You looked back toward the tank. “But… avatars are supposed to have five fingers. Five toes. The same number as the driver. That’s how they’re built—so they’re compatible. So the body accepts the human consciousness through the link. Even Jake’s had five.”

Veyren finally moved, walking up beside you, his eyes still locked on Epsilon. “That’s the old way,” he said. “The standard method. DNA splicing to create a hybrid structure between human and Na’vi. They believed the brain needed a mirrored body to sync with. But I always thought that was… arrogant.”

He folded his arms. “It wasn’t the number of fingers that made the connection work. It was Eywa’s acceptance. Jake wasn’t chosen because of his genetics. He was chosen because he belonged.”

Veyren's expression shifted as you asked your questions—not annoyed, not defensive. If anything, he seemed... glad to explain it. You were a scientist too, and you could follow what most others couldn’t. And in this strange, terrible place, it meant you spoke a shared language.

He nodded once, then stepped slightly closer to the tank, eyes fixed on Epsilon as she floated like a ghost in stasis.

“I used to follow every avatar protocol exactly,” he began, voice low but even. “Start with a Na’vi base. Splice my DNA early—during the blastocyst phase—so the body begins forming to match the driver. That gave us five fingers, five toes. Skull symmetry. Calibrated neural mapping. Perfect compatibility.” He looked at you. “But it was costly. Clumsy. Years in the lab. Billions in materials. And even then, we created bodies that were only mostly compatible. Not truly Na’vi.”

You folded your arms, listening intently.

“So I thought,” he continued, tapping lightly on the glass of the tank, “what if we removed the early splice? Let the body form purely Na’vi. Full development, full integrity. And only at the very end—just before link testing—introduce the driver’s DNA. Enough to imprint, to allow recognition, to give the avatar a face that matches the soul behind the wheel.”

You blinked. “So the only human traits that show up—”

“—are in the facial structure,” he finished for you. “A small shift. The bone contours. Subtle things. Eyebrow density. Shape of the lips. Cheek spacing. Nothing more.”

Your mind raced as the implications clicked into place. “That means… this method—Epsilon—could allow for avatars that look like their drivers but are indistinguishable from the Na’vi otherwise. Four fingers. Four toes. Full anatomical purity.”

“Exactly.” He smiled faintly. “And that makes them better—not just spiritually, but logistically. They’re faster to grow. Less rejection. Less immune instability. And far, far cheaper. Not five billion credits. Not even close.”

You nodded slowly, impressed despite yourself. “That male model,” you said quietly, “the one you tried to link with. The one that looked like you. He was made the same way, wasn’t he?”

Veyren’s eyes flicked toward you, and for the briefest moment, there was a crack in his expression. Something… vulnerable.

“Yes,” he admitted. “He was part of the fourth wave. I followed the same methodology. Built him with the same base process as Epsilon. He developed well. Showed full neural response. I thought—maybe this time it will work.”

You remembered the logs. The one where he sat beside the tank, speaking softly like a father to a child. Then the one after—his despair. The shutdown.

“But it didn’t,” you said.

You could feel the regret in his voice, even though he was trying to sound clinical.

“But the moment I linked in, he shut down. Just—gone. Flatlined. My mind snapped back to my body like a slingshot. I couldn’t breathe. It was like dying.” His jaw clenched. “Maybe I wasn’t meant to. Or maybe… he wasn’t.”

You stared at him. “So you shut it all down after that.”

“All except her,” he said quietly, nodding toward Epsilon.

The question had been building since you walked in.

You finally asked it.

“…Why her?”

Veyren didn’t look at you.

He stepped closer to the tank instead. Laid one palm flat on the glass.

He was silent for a while. Long enough that the quiet began to stretch.

Then, in a voice so soft it barely crossed the air between you, he said:

“I know she is waiting.”

You blinked.

“For what?”

His gaze never left the girl in the tank.

“For someone.”

You frowned, unsettled by the tone in his voice. “You mean… for a driver?”

Veyren didn’t answer. Not in the way you expected.

Instead, he just whispered, almost to himself, “Maybe… she was waiting for you.”

Your breath caught.

A cold weight settled low in your stomach.

“What?” you said, voice barely a whisper.

But he didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t need to.

Because somewhere—beneath the layers of science, data, and bone-deep uncertainty—you felt it too.

The same unspoken thing that had clung to you since you opened your eyes in this place.

The same flicker of knowing when you stood in that forest and felt Her presence… even through death.

The same resonance that echoed now as you looked into Epsilon’s face, floating peacefully behind the glass.

It made no sense.

It couldn’t.

And yet… it felt true.

*

You stood utterly still, the quiet hum of the amnio tank filling your ears, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. Epsilon hovered before you, peaceful, suspended like some ancient, ethereal spirit trapped behind glass.

She was nearly three meters tall—statuesque, elegant, powerful. Each line of her form was flawlessly Na’vi, from the curve of her neck to the effortless grace in her hands.

And yet…

For just a fleeting instant, your eyes drifted across her delicate features—high cheekbones, gently arched brows, full lips—and something inside you shifted. Her face was beautiful, alien, Na'vi—but your mind conjured the smallest hint of familiarity.

Was that your jawline, subtly mirrored in the delicate lines of her bone structure? Was there something in the shape of her eyes, the sweep of her lashes, that echoed your own? Or was it just your imagination, desperate to find a connection?

Your breath caught in your throat, and you tried to push the thought away, but it persisted stubbornly.

For years, an avatar had been an impossible dream for you. You’d arrived on Pandora as a scientist—passionate, committed, but never wealthy enough to afford an avatar of your own. You’d watched from afar as the chosen few inhabited those graceful Na’vi bodies, experiencing Pandora as natives did, breathing its air, feeling Eywa beneath their feet.

You had pushed away the selfish longing long ago, burying yourself in work. But now… now the temptation resurfaced stronger than ever. Veyren’s cryptic words echoed in your head, filling your thoughts with possibilities.

Could you actually have this? Could Epsilon really be meant for you?

Your mind raced forward—picturing yourself walking beside Neteyam as an equal. No longer a fragile human he had to protect, no longer separated by the thin, cold barrier of a breathing mask. You imagined Neteyam’s smile as you approached him as a Na’vi woman for the first time. Would he be relieved, happy? Proud? Would his clan finally see you as more than just the human, but as someone worthy of him? Would you stop being his burden?

Your pulse quickened with yearning and hope—but then a darker thought intruded:

Would he love you more as a Na’vi?

And worse… could you live with yourself if the answer was yes?

You stepped back abruptly, breaking the spell, breathing sharply through your nose. Your stomach twisted painfully. It felt selfish—wrong—to even entertain such fantasies when there were still so many uncertainties. Your altered body, the ticking clock of the serum—every passing moment still shadowed by the threat of collapse, failure, death.

You turned slowly toward Veyren, heart aching, mind crowded with a thousand conflicted emotions.

“Maybe…” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. “Maybe someday. But not now. Right now… I need to go back. Who knows how much time I have left—I can’t waste it.”

Veyren watched you carefully, his expression unreadable, eyes searching your face as if trying to see beneath the surface of your fear, longing, doubt. There was a steady calmness in him, a certainty that unnerved you deeply.

“Maybe,” he echoed softly, nodding. “We’ll see.”

Your brow creased in confusion.

His conviction unsettled you. You wanted to ask why he was so certain—how he could possibly know what Eywa intended, or why Epsilon had survived, or why you, of all people, had been brought here.

But you said nothing.

Instead, you looked once more toward Epsilon—at the strange, beautiful reflection of a life you had always quietly longed for. Your throat tightened, and your voice was quiet but firm as you turned back toward Veyren.

“I have to go back,” you repeated, your resolve solidifying again. “To the outpost. To Neteyam. I don’t have much time—and if I do survive… we’ll talk then.”

Veyren studied you silently, carefully, before finally dipping his head in quiet acknowledgment.

You felt his eyes on your back as you walked slowly from the room, leaving Epsilon floating serenely behind the glass—a beautiful, impossible dream suspended in time, waiting for someone, waiting for you.

*

The next morning found you standing rigidly before Veyren in the quiet sterility of the lab.

“I’m leaving now,” you said firmly, with a steadiness you didn’t entirely feel. “No matter what.”

Veyren regarded you silently for a moment, the soft hum of machinery filling the air. Then, with a sigh, he nodded, his eyes betraying quiet resignation.

“I assumed you’d say that,” he murmured softly, turning away briefly before picking something up from his desk. He handed you a brand-new datapad, the surface cool and clean against your fingers.

“This will help you, since yours is broken.” he explained. “It’s got a live satellite feed—mapping your route back to the outpost. I've already loaded all the data you'll need: terrain maps, known danger zones, potential rest spots.”

He moved closer, tapping quickly through screens to illustrate. A thin, glowing line appeared over detailed terrain maps, marking your journey clearly.

“You should move carefully. Take frequent breaks,” he said softly, eyes fixed intently on yours. “You’re still injured. The wound at the back of your head isn't healed fully, the cut on your palm is still vulnerable, and your legs are weak.”

You nodded slowly. The truth was obvious—your body still felt battered and uncertain—but you couldn’t wait any longer.

“How long will it take me?” you asked quietly.

Veyren hesitated, glancing briefly back at the satellite image before returning his eyes to your face.

“At your current condition—at least two days. Possibly two and a half,” he answered honestly. “You'll find natural shelters along the way—safe enough for rest. I've marked them on your datapad.”

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself, and then looked up at him again. “I'll take a mask. I know I can breathe out there now—but... just in case the serum fails,” you said, the words tight with lingering fear.

Veyren nodded solemnly, reaching into a cabinet beside him. He handed you a fresh exo-mask, the filter shining silver in the sterile light. You took it gratefully.

He hesitated again, studying you carefully, before reaching into a nearby drawer and handing you something else—a small, compact pistol.

“Take this too,” he said simply. “It might not do much against something like a thanator—but it’s better than nothing.”

You accepted it, weighing it briefly in your palm. It felt strange and heavy, but reassuring in its own way.

He stepped forward slightly, eyes intense and serious.

“You have to come back,” he said quietly, firmly, almost pleading. “You promised. Two weeks—survive past the serum’s threshold. Show me you're still alive.”

You met his gaze steadily. Despite everything—the serum, the secrets, the uncertain future—he had saved your life. You owed him this much.

“I will,” you replied softly. “I promise.”

Veyren held your gaze a moment longer before nodding once more. Without another word, he turned, walking you silently through the corridors, past the silent doors, the sterile rooms that had held his secrets, his failures, his hopes.

The outer doors hissed open at his touch, and for the first time in days, you saw sunlight—clear, golden, filtering softly through Pandora’s trees. It felt surreal, like stepping from one world into another.

At the threshold, you paused, looking back at him.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Veyren gave a slight nod, a faint, almost imperceptible smile softening the lines of his worn face.

“Take care,” he whispered.

You turned away then, facing the dense foliage before you. Your heart was pounding, your breath shallow and quick. The forest whispered softly, full of life, promise, and danger. Days ago you were terrified but now somehow you felt braver.

You hesitated only briefly—then stepped forward.

Slowly, deliberately, you moved into the wild embrace of Pandora, clutching your datapad tightly, the exo-mask hooked onto your belt, pistol secure against your hip.

You didn’t look back again.

Ahead lay days of uncertainty, pain, struggle—but also hope. Neteyam waited somewhere at journey’s end, and the need to see him, hold him, tell him everything, propelled your exhausted limbs forward.

One foot in front of the other.

Into the forest.

Into whatever awaited.

*

You drew in a shaky breath, the tears still hot on your cheeks as your thumb gently circled over Neteyam’s high cheekbone, your touch light, reverent. His skin was warm beneath your fingers—solid, real. His golden eyes flickered across your face, still disbelieving, still trying to take in every detail of you like he feared you might vanish if he blinked too long.

He was kneeling in front of you, tall frame folded low, and even like this, he radiated strength and protection. But now, face to face, eye to eye, you felt… level. Equal. Like the entire world had narrowed to the breathless space between your chests.

You brushed a strand of your tangled hair behind your ear, the weight of everything pressing in—but softer now, more bearable with him here.

Neteyam’s gaze drifted, then froze.

He saw it.

The bandage on your neck—white and clean, but fresh enough to still cling to the curve where your neural queue would be if you were like him. Then, his eyes dropped to your hand, his brows drawing in tightly.

His ears lowered immediately, flat against his skull, the subtle shift betraying how quickly concern overtook his awe.

He reached for your hand gently—carefully—taking it in his much larger one, the pads of his fingers brushing lightly over the cloth bandage wrapped around your palm.

“You’re injured,” he said, his voice low and quiet, but tense with barely restrained worry. “Your hand. Your… your neck.”

You looked at him—at the sheer sorrow and worry twisting across his beautiful face—and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. So you just smiled softly, your free hand lifting to press against the center of his chest, where you could feel his heart pounding wildly beneath his skin.

“It’s nothing,” you whispered.

Neteyam’s eyes lifted back to yours instantly, frown deepening. “Nothing?” he echoed softly, clearly not believing you. “You’re bandaged. You look—exhausted. Starved. You disappeared for almost two weeks, and now I find you here—walking without a mask, breathing the air like a child of Eywa…”

His voice cracked slightly as his hand carefully cupped your jaw again, thumb brushing along your tear-streaked cheek.

“I don’t understand what happened to you,” he whispered, barely audible. “But something did.”

You hesitated. Your heart twisted.

You could’ve told him. About the serum. About Veyren. About the things that scared you to your bones—the fact that you shouldn’t even be alive. That no one else ever survived this long. That you might still die, tomorrow or in a week, and there was no way to know.

But not yet.

Not when his breath was still shaky and his hands were still trembling slightly from the fear of losing you.

So you just nodded, small and solemn, and leaned forward again, pressing your forehead gently to his.

His eyes fluttered closed immediately, breath catching in his throat as he leaned into the contact.

“I’ll tell you,” you murmured. “Everything. But not now.”

You pulled back slowly, your fingers slipping down to squeeze his hand. His expression remained unreadable for a beat—but he nodded.

You hadn’t planned to cry.

You hadn’t meant to break.

But the second his hand lifted from your wrist to your waist, and his breath swept gently against your skin, and you looked up into those golden eyes—the dam inside you shattered.

It wasn’t just tears—it was a collapse. A full-body unraveling. You sobbed like a child, breath hitching in jagged gasps as you gripped the front of his chest strap, your fingers curling into the worn leather like it was the only thing holding you to the earth.

Neteyam flinched, startled by the sudden storm breaking loose from you.

“Hey—hey,” he whispered, panicked, lowering himself again, his hands hovering helplessly at first before gently anchoring on your trembling arms. “Yawne—what is it? What’s wrong? You’re safe now, it’s okay—shh, hey, breathe, breathe…”

But you couldn’t.

You just kept crying—harder, louder, shoulders shaking as your tears soaked into his chest. “Neteyam…” you whimpered brokenly, your voice nearly swallowed by your sobs. “Neteyam—I was so scared…”

Your eyes, puffy and red, desperately sought his. “I thought I’d never see you again…”

That broke him.

In a heartbeat, he pulled you in—fully, completely—arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he crushed your small body to his chest. His tail curled around your legs, anchoring you. Holding you like he could shield you from the whole damn planet.

“I know,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I know, yawne—I’m here now. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

You pressed your face into his shoulder, sobbing violently into his skin, unable to stop. “It was so dark… I was alone—I didn’t know if anyone was coming—I thought—”

His hands rubbed your back, strong and steady despite the tremble in his own breath. “You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to your head. “You’re never going to be alone again.”

Your fists clutched his chest harder as you spoke between ragged sobs, words tripping over themselves. “The nights were so long, Neteyam. I was cold, and everything hurt, and I didn’t even know which way was home—and I thought maybe Eywa took me away from you—”

He held you tighter. “Eywa would never take you from me,” he whispered, so quietly it broke inside his own throat. “Never. She brought you back.”

You stayed like that for long minutes—your body trembling, your tears soaking into his skin, his arms the only thing tethering you to reality. He let you cry. Let you pour every nightmare out of your lungs. Let you collapse, again and again, and caught every piece of you without flinching.

And through it all, Neteyam held you with a reverence that bordered on holy.

Because you were alive.

And he didn’t care how.

You were alive.

Despite everything he didn’t understand—why you could breathe this air now, why your body still bore wounds yet stood, why your heartbeat pulsed steady against his—he knew one thing:

Eywa had given you back to him.

And he would never forget it.

He would thank Her every day for the rest of his life. He would thank you for surviving—for holding on when this world tried to take you away. You had survived something impossible. A planet not made for you. A forest that had swallowed stronger beings whole.

And now?

Now he vowed, silently and with his entire soul, that he would never let you out of his sight again.

Never.

When your sobs began to slow, your breath evening out in weak little hiccups, he finally shifted—pressing a long kiss to the top of your head, one hand gently cradling the back of your neck, his voice just a whisper against your hair.

“You’re safe now, yawne,” he said. “You’re home.”

And this time, when you cried again—it wasn’t from fear.

It was from the kind of relief that felt like sunlight warming skin that hadn’t felt it in days.

*

You stayed pressed against him for long, silent moments—your sobs quieted now, though your body still trembled faintly. His arms didn’t loosen. Not even an inch. He held you like you were made of something breakable. Like he still feared you might disappear again if he let go.

But eventually, gently, you pulled back.

Your hands reached up to your cheeks again, wiping away the smeared tears, and you let out a shaky, awkward laugh.

“Oh great,” you mumbled, voice rough from crying. “There’s—tears. On your chest.”

You looked down at the dark, glistening patches of wetness your face had left on his blue skin and straps, and instinctively tried to wipe them off with your palm, sniffling softly. “Sorry, it’s like—emotional biohazard. You’ll need a full cleanse.”

Neteyam didn’t laugh.

He only watched you.

Watched the way your shoulders rose and fell unevenly. The way your hands moved, still slightly unsteady. The way your eyes, puffy and red, still searched his like they needed something from him—grounding, maybe. Or safety.

Then your gaze met his again, soft but steady now, and you said quietly, “I want to go home.”

His heart squeezed in his chest.

Home.

To her, it probably meant the outpost. The metal corridors. The tiny rooms. The same sterile halls where a few days ago they’d spoken of her in the past tense.

But to him?

Home meant his kelku. The thatched dome nestled high in the trees. The soft pelts bedding. The low bioluminescent light. The sound of the forest at night. The scent of her skin wrapped in his arms.

Home meant her—in his world, where he could keep her close.

Safe.

And alive.

He remembered the looks on the faces of the scientists. The pale stares. The clipped, cold words when they told him she was gone. And worse—the way no one had fought it. They accepted it after a few days. Moved on.

They didn’t search. Not like he did. Not like he would have done forever if Eywa hadn’t guided him here.

He couldn’t take her back there.

He wouldn’t.

“Let me take you to the village,” he said softly, reaching to brush your hair behind your ear. “To my kelku. You can rest. You can sleep. You’ll be safe there.”

But your eyes shifted—almost apologetically—as you shook your head.

“I need to see Kate. And Brian. And Norm,” you said quietly. “They probably think I’m dead. I need to tell them I’m not.”

Neteyam’s ears flattened immediately, pressing tightly to his skull.

His tail curled tighter around your leg without even thinking.

“No,” he said, voice barely a whisper. Then firmer: “No. I don’t want to bring you there.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Neteyam—”

“They left you,” he said, voice lower now, a growl barely buried beneath his calm. “They gave up. They didn’t look.”

“You almost died. I found you out here—alone. With no mask. With injuries,” he said, his gaze flicking to the bandage on your nape again, then to your hand. “They didn’t protect you. I won’t let you walk back into that place like nothing happened.”

You watched his jaw clench, the fierce fire in his golden eyes dimmed only by the fear still bleeding through his voice.

His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. You could tell—he was fighting something inside. Logic, maybe. Or trust. Or fear of losing you again.

You reached up carefully, placing your hand against his chest again, fingers splaying over his heartbeat.

“I need to tell them I’m alive,” you said gently. “That’s all. Just that. Then I’ll go with you—to your kelku. I promise.”

His gaze searched yours, as if trying to detect any lie, any sign that you might slip away again.

You didn’t flinch.

You loved him. And you were here.

Finally, after a long silence, he exhaled hard through his nose, looking away for a moment like it pained him even to consider taking you back to that place.

“…Fine,” he said, reluctantly. “But I’ll be with you. And I don’t leave your side.”

You nodded. “Deal.”

His eyes flicked back to yours—still unsure, still deeply protective. But this time, when he looked at you, it was with the quiet, resigned understanding of someone who knew he couldn’t cage the person he loved.

But he could guard them.

Always.

And quietly, without needing to be asked, Neteyam stood.

You craned your neck to look up at him again, the full weight of his height rising over you—but now, it didn’t feel imposing. It felt protective. Grounding. Like the sky had reached down to anchor you.

“Come,” he said softly, voice gentler than a breeze. “Let’s get you home.”

*

Neteyam shifted slightly on his feet, his golden eyes still locked on yours—brimmed with that raw storm of relief, fear, and love barely held together by sheer will. Then, without another word, his strong arms slipped beneath you.

One under your knees, the other around your back.

You barely had time to gasp.

“Aah! Neteyam—!” you squeaked, instinctively looping your arms around his neck as he lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing at all. The world tilted beneath you, your legs swinging slightly as he straightened to his full height, cradling you securely against his chest.

You giggled, your heart skipping wildly as you pressed your cheek against the side of his neck. “You never warn me when you do that…”

“I don’t have to,” he murmured, his voice low and quiet—steadying.

You closed your eyes, letting your fingers thread through the long braids behind his neck. In his arms, you felt like a child again—small, warm, weightless. But not fragile. Never fragile with him.

You were protected.

He carried you with the ease of a warrior—silent, purposeful steps through the underbrush, your body curled gently against his, rocking with his movement like a boat across still water. His scent was earthy and familiar, soaked into the leather straps across his chest. You’d never been more exhausted in your life, but in this moment, you could’ve stayed in his arms forever.

When the trees opened and the sunlight filtered through, you lifted your head slightly—just in time to see the clearing come into view again.

Tawkami stood waiting.

The great ikran’s massive wings flared slightly at the sight of Neteyam approaching, and then its piercing eyes caught sight of you.

The shriek it let out was high and sharp—startling, but not threatening. If anything, it sounded almost… celebratory.

Your heart jumped.

“Tawkami,” you whispered, breathless with a grin.

Neteyam crouched low beside the beast to let you down gently. As your bare feet touched the mossy ground again, you stepped forward with slow reverence, eyes never leaving the ikran’s massive head.

Tawkami dipped it toward you, inquisitive, as if checking that what it saw was real.

With trembling hands, you reached up, fingers brushing gently along the smooth, leathery skin of its snout. The ikran purred lowly, pressing its forehead briefly to yours in what could only be described as affection.

You laughed, tears stinging your eyes all over again as you leaned in closer. “I missed you too, big guy.”

Neteyam stood behind you, silent—watching.

Watching the way Tawkami leaned into your touch like a loyal animal finding its rider again. Watching the way your body moved—slower than usual, tired, healing—but still alive. Still whole.

He let out a long breath, one hand dragging over his face, then through his braids. His chest rose and fell, his entire being trembling just beneath the surface.

She’s here, he thought. She’s really here.

Every step he'd taken in these two weeks had been toward this moment. Every prayer to Eywa. Every sleepless night. Every ache in his chest. And now she stood there—smiling in sunlight, touching his ikran, breathing Pandora’s air like it was her birthright.

He hadn’t known if he’d ever see you again.

And now that you were in front of him—whole and warm and so heartbreakingly you—his soul didn’t know what to do.

How do you breathe when the person you love most has already taken your last breath with them… and then given it back?

He blinked, exhaling slowly, watching the way the sun caught in your hair as you looked back over your shoulder.

“Ready?” you asked, smiling, voice soft and hopeful.

Neteyam didn’t speak right away.

He just walked forward, placed a hand gently on the small of your back, and nodded.

Yes.

Because whatever came next, whatever secrets were still tangled behind your eyes and stitched into your breath—he would carry you through it.

You were his home. And now he had you back.

Neteyam stepped closer again, eyes unreadable now, quieter than before—his joy tempered by something more instinctual. Protective. Fierce.

Without a word, he gently lifted you again—his hands firm at your waist—and placed you carefully onto Tawkami’s back, right on the saddle. The ikran shifted beneath you with a low growl, not in protest, but in acknowledgment. Like it understood this was where you belonged.

As you steadied yourself, brushing a hand along the worn leather of the harness, you glanced down at him. He was reaching toward your satchel—toward the exo-mask tucked neatly inside.

And then, to your absolute confusion, he handed it to you.

You blinked at it. "...Why?"

Neteyam didn’t meet your gaze immediately.

He leapt onto the saddle behind you in a smooth, practiced motion, his body warm against your back as he settled in. You could feel the faint pressure of his chest with every breath he took.

Then he reached behind him, his long fingers wrapping around his braid—his kuru—and connected it to Tawkami’s with a sharp, practiced twist. The connection was silent, but immediate. You felt the shift in the ikran’s posture as they became one.

Still, your gaze lingered on the exo-mask in your hands.

“Neteyam,” you started again, tilting your head to look over your shoulder, “why should I wear it? You saw me. You know I’m fine without it.”

His arm slid around your waist, anchoring you to him. You felt his forehead press lightly to the back of your head, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low. Firm. Quietly urgent.

“I don’t want them to know.”

You blinked again. “Who?”

“The humans,” he said simply. “At the outpost.”

His voice turned sharper then—flatter. The edge of his pain returning, of memories that still bled at the edges.

“They already said you were dead,” he murmured. “They don’t deserve to ask questions now.”

You swallowed hard, hearing the weight behind his words.

“I don’t want them touching you. Testing you. Asking what’s different or what changed or how you lived. I don’t want them poking at you like you’re something to study.”

He leaned forward more, his cheek brushing against your temple. His tail coiled around your hip now, tighter.

“I just got you back,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “And I won’t let them take any piece of you. Not even answers.”

You didn’t speak at first. The exo-mask in your hands suddenly felt heavier than it was. You looked down at it, hesitating.

But then you felt it—Neteyam’s hand slipping from your waist to your palm, curling your fingers around the mask.

“Please,” he said. “Just wear it. Let them think you’re still the same like before. We don’t stay long. Just enough for what you need. Then we leave.”

You could feel it in his heartbeat—fast and strong against your back. You weren’t just someone he found in the forest. You were someone he lost. And now someone he refused to lose again.

You nodded slowly, pressing the mask to your face. It hissed softly as it sealed.

“…Okay.”

His arms tightened briefly around your middle in silent gratitude.

And in the quiet that followed, you heard it—just barely—a whisper from him, low and full of something almost possessive, almost pleading:

His tail curled around your thigh unconsciously. “I found you, yawne. I did. And I don’t want to share you with them.”

You turned your head fully now, peeking at him over your shoulder. His golden eyes were no longer calm. They were molten.

“I just got you back,” he whispered. “Let me have you to myself… just a little longer.”

The way he said it—there was no demand in it. Just quiet pleading. The fierce protectiveness of a warrior who’d spent days imagining your body in the jungle soil, cold and still. And now, you were warm again. Alive again.

You bit your lip and slowly reached out for the mask.

You didn’t need it.

But you understood.

Without another word, you slid the mask over your face and pressed the seals tight. The hiss of pressurization clicked into place, and the world became a little quieter behind the glass.

Neteyam watched your movements carefully, and only when the seal was secure did he order his ikran through their connection to move.

Tawkami shrieked once—almost joyfully—and leapt into the air, wings slicing upward through the clearing like a blade through silk.

The wind ripped around you as the ikran climbed hard, soaring above the trees in wide spirals, and Neteyam’s arms circled instinctively around your waist—grounding you as the world dropped away beneath your feet.

He held you close, the mask hiding your breath, your body pressed to his chest, and his heart thundering behind you.

He didn’t speak again.

But you felt it in the way he held you—tight, possessive, trembling with quiet awe:

You’re mine again. And he wouldn’t lose you twice.

*

The sun was high when Tawkami circled the outpost—its vast metal perimeter gleaming beneath the humid sky. The clearing around it was quiet, punctuated only by the buzz of Pandoran insects and the occasional distant bird call. From above, it looked deceptively peaceful.

But Neteyam’s grip on you never loosened.

You felt the tension radiating from his body like a storm held barely in check. His jaw clenched, his arms firm around you. His silence said more than words ever could.

As Tawkami angled down toward the outpost, one figure stood in the clearing near the outer fencing—head down, datapad in hand. Brian. His shoulders hunched, sweat soaking the back of his shirt as he checked the vitals of a container filled with Pandoran flora.

He didn’t even look up when the ikran landed, wings flaring wide before settling with a low chuff.

Only when Neteyam dismounted with a heavy thud did Brian glance up—and then, when Neteyam turned and reached up to lift you down gently from the saddle…

Brian froze.

His fingers slipped from the datapad. It clattered to the ground beside the container, screen still blinking with open readings.

His mouth parted—but no sound came.

It took him two long seconds to understand what he was seeing.

And then he screamed.

“KA—KATE! NORM!” he shouted, stumbling backward, eyes impossibly wide. “SHE—SHE’S—GET OUT HERE! GET—OH MY GOD!”

The airlock doors hissed open almost immediately, voices raised in confusion and urgency.

“What the hell is—Brian?” Kate’s voice rang out sharply. “What happened?!”

Max and Norm were behind her, already halfway out the doors.

Brian just kept pointing, staggering sideways, face pale. “Look—LOOK—”

And then they saw.

You.

Standing beside Neteyam, your hand in his, your hair wild and sunlit, a mask covering your face—but unmistakably you.

Alive.

Whole.

Real.

Norm’s mouth fell open. Max paled, a hand rising to his chest. Kate froze, her lips trembling, eyes wide with disbelief.

Neteyam didn’t move.

He was crouched beside you now, one arm protectively around your waist, his tail low and tight behind him, golden eyes narrowed at the group like a warning.

Kate took one trembling step forward.

“Wait—wait—” she breathed. “Is it—oh my god—is it really—?”

But as she reached toward you, Neteyam let out a low, warning growl. His arm tightened sharply around your waist, pulling you flush to his side. His body arched subtly in front of yours like a shield, a snarl curling in his throat.

“Stay back,” he hissed, voice low and feral. “You gave up on her.”

Kate froze, eyes snapping to him, stunned.

“You don’t get to touch her,” Neteyam spat. “You don’t get to hug her or ask her if she’s okay. You don’t even get to look at her like this is some miracle you earned.”

Norm opened his mouth—but nothing came out. His face crumpled slightly, pain settling across his features.

Neteyam looked down at you, his eyes still blazing with fury, but now there was something else there too—hurt. Betrayal.

“You filed her as dead,” Neteyam snapped as he looked back at the other humans, his voice a low, seething snarl. “You didn’t search. You didn’t wait. You buried her in a box and made room for a replacement!”

Max opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Silence followed. The jungle buzzed with evening life, but around the outpost… it was deathly still.

You looked up at him slowly, your heart thudding.

“Neteyam…” you whispered, confused, your fingers tightening in the fabric near his hip. “What are you saying?”

He looked down at you. His expression shifted then—not fury, not pride—just… grief. Still fresh. Still raw.

“You were already declared dead,” he said quietly, his voice cracking faintly. “They gave up, yawne. They marked you as lost. ‘Presumed gone.’ Your things were packed. Your room cleaned out. They said someone else was coming to take your place.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You turned toward the people who had shared your life, your laughs, your notes and theories and long nights in the last four years. They were you family.

Kate’s face was pale, her eyes brimming with tears.

You stared at him, the breath leaving your lungs in one sharp rush.

“No…” you whispered, eyes darting toward Norm, toward Kate, toward the boxes.

Kate stepped forward, voice trembling. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Yes,” Neteyam growled. “It was. You gave up. All of you.”

You turned to Norm, your voice cracking. “Norm…?”

He looked at you then, something hollow behind his eyes.

“I didn’t want to,” he said quietly. “But we couldn’t find you. We thought—”

“You didn’t believe me,” Neteyam cut in, voice cold as steel. “I told you she was still out there. I knew it. Eywa told me. But you looked at me like I was just grieving. You smiled and nodded, and you still filed the loss.”

Max looked away, jaw clenched.

You stared down at the dirt beneath your boots, breath trembling in your chest.

You knew the protocol. Of course you did. You had helped write some of them, even enforced others when others went missing in the field. After a week without signal, without trace, the logs changed. From active to pending. From pending to missing. From missing… to presumed dead.

But knowing it didn’t soften the blow.

Not when you’d fought so hard to stay alive.

“I know the protocol,” you whispered, voice low, flat. “I know… I know you had to mark me as lost after a certain amount of time. I know what HQ demands.” You lifted your gaze slowly, eyes rimmed red. “But it still hurts.”

You swallowed hard. “Four years. I lived here for four years. That room was my home. And now someone else is coming to live in it.”

The silence grew heavier.

Neteyam’s arm tightened around you, his chest warm and steady behind your back. You leaned into him instinctively, your hands curling into the fabric of his chest wrap.

Kate looked like she’d been punched. Her mouth opened, but no words came.

Norm finally stepped forward, guilt carved deep into his face. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Truly. You were declared MIA. Days ago. And that meant… we had to file your replacement. Bridgehead already approved the request. Someone new is coming from base.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

It wasn’t just a file, or a quarter being reassigned. It was everything. It was erasure. As if your blood, your sweat, your hours in the field—all of it had been stored in a box and replaced with a new ID badge.

You finally forced the words out. “Did you throw my things out?”

Kate stepped forward quickly, her voice urgent. “No. No, nothing was thrown away. I made sure of it. They're in the storage crates, right there.” She pointed to the side of the outpost where the gray containers sat, still sealed. “I told them not to dump anything. I… I didn’t believe it was the end. Not really. I couldn’t.”

Neteyam’s eyes were molten with fury.

“But you didn’t keep searching,” he hissed, his voice like venom. “You packed her up like the story was over.”

Max rubbed his temples, then looked up, his voice taut. “We didn’t have the luxury to scour the forest on the back of an ikran for days, Neteyam. We had two drones. And a Samson No flight clearance beyond sector fifteen. You know what happens if the RDA sees unauthorized movement.”

Neteyam growled low in his throat. “The avatars could have gone. Even on foot. They could have covered ground. But no one did.”

He stepped forward slightly, shielding you again with his broad chest. “You say you belong on this world, yet when the jungle gets too deep, you let your people go silent. Is that what Pandora means to you? Paperwork? Timetables? Replacements?”

No one answered.

Even the insects quieted.

You looked from one face to another—Norm, Kate, Max. People who once felt like family. Now… strangers with downcast eyes.

And you leaned into Neteyam’s warmth again, trembling from the storm you couldn’t name.

Because as much as it hurt to nearly die in the forest, it somehow hurt worse to come back and realize no one thought you would.

Norm took a hesitant step forward, his expression tightening with concern.

“I… I don’t know where you’ve been,” he said quietly, his voice threading between guilt and duty. “But you’re injured. We can see that. Your head—your hands—look, I’m not trying to stop you, but you need to be examined. Monitored. You’ve been missing for nearly two weeks. If something happened out there—”

Behind you, Neteyam’s hold tightened around your waist, fingers pressing gently but possessively into your side. His body was tense against yours, golden eyes trained coldly on the group before him. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t care what they thought they owed you now.

You turned your head, angling just enough to look at him. His brows were furrowed, his jaw clenched. He was still crouched beside you, but the second your eyes met his, he softened—just barely.

And you whispered, voice low and steady, “Will you take me away from here?”

Neteyam’s entire body shifted.

He stood.

Without a word.

He reached down, his strong arms sliding easily beneath your knees and back as he lifted you again in one graceful, fluid motion. You let out a small breath—half sigh, half surrender—your arms curling instinctively around his neck. You felt light in his arms. Safe again.

He walked you to Tawkami with a purpose no one dared interrupt.

“Wait—please,” Norm tried again, stepping forward, hands raised. “You’re not well, you’re not—just let us check you over. We’re not trying to keep you here. You’ve got wounds, you could be—”

Neteyam ignored him completely. His focus was on getting you away from them, from this place that had already buried you once.

He placed you gently on the ikran’s saddle.

You settled into it quietly, but your eyes were on the crates by the wall—the ones with your initials still stenciled onto their steel faces. They looked like they belonged to someone else. A past life that had already been signed away.

Norm tried once more, more desperate this time. “You need help. Medical scans. You might have a concussion. Infection. At least stay the night—please—”

Neteyam was already climbing up behind you, his large body curling protectively over yours, his tail tightening instinctively around your leg again. He reached back, grabbing the kuru from his hair, and connected with Tawkami in one swift, seamless movement.

And you said only one thing:

“You already made sure I didn’t have a place here anymore.”

Your voice was quiet, but it cut through the courtyard like a blade.

The silence was absolute.

Tawkami screeched once, wings spreading wide with anticipation. The gust of wind kicked up dust and dry leaves, scattering the last words you’d spoken across the landing zone like ashes.

And then, with a powerful leap, Neteyam urged the ikran skyward—taking you with him.

You didn’t look back.

Not once.

*

Tawkami landed gracefully beside Neteyam’s kelku, talons gripping the thick branches. Your limbs felt heavy, your body suddenly drained beyond measure.

Neteyam dismounted quickly, strong hands immediately reaching out to help you. He lifted you from the ikran with care, steadying you as your feet touched the familiar woven floor of his home-tree. His kelku stood open and welcoming—warm and filled with the scents that had always meant safety, peace, and him.

You didn’t pause. With shaking fingers, you dropped the heavy bag you had been carrying and, stepping inside the kelku, pulled the exo-mask from your face, letting it fall aside without care. Your breath came easily, the natural Pandoran air filling your lungs without struggle. That realization alone—so strange yet so exhilarating—was enough to send your head spinning.

You barely made it to the thick, soft furs before your knees gave way entirely, and you collapsed upon them, curling instinctively into their softness, relief washing over your body in waves.

Neteyam followed you quickly, settling down on the furs beside you. You felt the warmth of him, large and reassuring. His body curled protectively around yours, an arm sliding beneath your head, the other coming around your waist. He pressed himself against you gently, his breath soft and warm against your neck, his heartbeat a comforting rhythm against your back.

“Yawne…” he whispered, voice full of awe and disbelief, breath catching slightly. He tilted your head gently towards him, golden eyes wide, reverent, and just a little afraid—as though he feared blinking might erase this miracle before him.

“Neteyam,” you murmured back, smiling weakly, tracing your fingers slowly across his familiar features, following each glowing bioluminescent dot, a quiet laughter trembling from your lips. He was staring at you now with childlike wonder, eyes bright and eager, touching your skin with feather-light fingers as though you were something infinitely precious, infinitely fragile.

“Ma yawne,” he whispered again, voice low, aching. His fingertips traced the curve of your cheekbone, the line of your jaw, the soft rise of your lower lip. His touch was tender and careful, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real, solid, alive. “Are you truly here?”

You laughed softly, fatigue settling comfortably over you as you leaned into his touch. “I am here,” you murmured, voice weary but warm. “Right here, with you.”

Neteyam’s breath shuddered softly, relief and gratitude flooding him. He leaned in, pressing kisses softly against your forehead, your temple, your eyelids, your cheek—tracing every part of your face with quiet reverence, as if he needed to commit every inch to memory again. Each kiss whispered silent gratitude to Eywa, a wordless vow to never lose you again.

“Neteyam…” you laughed gently again, breath catching sweetly as his lips brushed your nose. Your fingers tangled softly in his braids, holding him close, basking in the warmth and solidity of his presence. “You’re acting as though you’ve never seen me before.”

“It feels that way,” he murmured quietly, lips curving into a smile against your cheek. “I am afraid if I stop, you might vanish. Like a dream.”

You pulled back slightly, cupping his face tenderly between your palms. “It is not a dream. I promise.” Your voice softened, trembled faintly. “Though… when I was lost, I dreamed of you. I saw you clearly, kneeling at the Tree of Souls. Praying. Calling out to Eywa.”

Neteyam’s eyes widened, surprise and awe coloring his expression, and his fingers tightened reflexively against your waist. “Yawne… I did. Truly, I did,” he whispered, voice low and vulnerable. “I was desperate. Nearly mad with grief and worry. I asked Eywa for guidance, for mercy. I begged her to give you back to me.”

You smiled, leaning forward gently to kiss the tip of his nose, your voice soft and certain. “And She did.”

“Yes,” he breathed, pressing his forehead tenderly against yours. “She did.”

You caressed his face, your thumb tracing lightly over his sharp cheekbone, gazing deeply into the golden warmth of his eyes. “I promise you, Neteyam. I will never disappear again. You won’t lose me.”

He smiled softly, arms tightening gently around you. “I will hold you to that promise,” he murmured warmly, eyes gentle and full of love.

You nestled yourself closer into his embrace, your breathing slowly syncing with his, body relaxing fully against him. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, you felt truly safe.

Truly home.

Right here, with Neteyam.

*

The soft hush of the forest drifted in through the open entrance of the kelku—distant birdsong, the rustle of leaves, the heartbeat of Pandora pulsing quietly beneath it all. Wrapped in the comfort of Neteyam’s embrace, your breathing finally began to even out. He held you like he still didn’t trust the world not to take you again, his fingers splayed across your back, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

But eventually, silence gave way to thoughts. And thoughts led to questions.

Neteyam’s voice broke the quiet, low and tentative, brushing the air like a ripple in still water. “What happened?” he asked, pulling back just enough to see your face. His golden eyes searched yours with quiet intensity. “How can you… breathe?”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the truth settling behind your ribs. “It’s… a long story,” you murmured, a tired little laugh escaping. “Let’s just say it was the experience of a lifetime. And I think…” You tilted your head, thinking. “I think Eywa and I might’ve… become closer.”

Neteyam’s brows furrowed, clearly confused by your wording, but before he could ask, you placed your hand over his heart and shifted the conversation.

“What about you?” you asked gently. “What did you do… while I was gone?”

He blinked at you, ears twitching, like it was a question that didn’t even need asking. “I was looking for you,” he said simply, as if the answer had always been obvious.

You smiled faintly, eyes warm, but a flicker of something deeper—something darker—passed through your gaze. Your voice came out soft, almost unsure. “And if I hadn’t been found? If I didn’t make it back?”

Neteyam’s expression faltered. His ears drooped sharply, folding back against his skull as the question landed. His hands tightened gently on your arms. “I would’ve never stopped looking,” he said, voice firm but trembling at the edges. “I would’ve searched the whole planet if I had to. I would’ve never given up on you.”

You stared at him, heart swelling with so much emotion it hurt. It was stupid. So painfully stupid—and yet so beautifully him.

A soft laugh bubbled up through your chest, watery and aching. “You’re such an idiot,” you whispered, lovingly. And then you leaned forward, brushing your lips against his with soft finality. “But I love you for it.”

You pulled back just enough to see him clearly and cupped his face between your hands. “I did everything I could to get back to you,” you said softly. “Even if it meant…” Your voice trailed. “…meeting Eywa.”

Neteyam froze.

He blinked slowly, golden eyes narrowing just a fraction as the weight of your words settled.

“…What?” he said, sitting upright abruptly, his long body unfolding as he crossed his legs beside you, towering even as he sat. His ears twitched with confusion. “What did you say?”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t stammer. You simply looked at him—calm, steady.

“I met Her,” you said softly. “I saw Eywa.”

Silence fell like a curtain between you.

Neteyam’s pupils dilated, his breath caught in his throat. “No one sees Eywa,” he murmured. “Not unless—” His voice choked off.

Unless they die.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

His face shifted—slowly, like understanding was a heavy weight being lowered onto his chest. His hands went still. His ears flattened again, his tail went rigid behind him.

And then you saw it—that look. That haunted, too-still look of a man realizing the one thing he feared most had already happened.

For a brief, unbearable moment, you saw the memory in his eyes: standing in the forest, seeing you breathing without your mask, thinking it was a hallucination. A trick of the mind. A desperate, grief-born illusion.

“Eywa took me,” you whispered gently, standing slowly in front of him.

He remained seated on the furs, long legs crossed, his broad chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. You stood before him, and for once, you were eye level. A strange symmetry.

His eyes flicked up to yours—wide, vulnerable, disbelieving.

You leaned forward and cupped his face once again, your thumbs brushing against the high curve of his cheekbones. “I’m here,” you whispered, gaze soft, voice steady. “Neteyam… I’m here.”

His eyes fluttered closed.

A slow breath escaped him. His jaw clenched like he was trying to hold something back.

Then, finally, his hands reached for you. Long arms wrapped gently, but firmly, around your waist. He rested his forehead against your sternum, breathing you in as if to confirm, again and again, that you were real. That you’d come back.

You threaded your fingers into his braids, resting your cheek against his head, your body fitting into him like you were always meant to belong there.

And for a while, the world was quiet again. Just the sound of two heartbeats, tangled in love and grace and the miracle of being found.

You pulled back gently, keeping your fingers threaded softly into his braids, feeling his heartbeat steady against your palm. Neteyam remained still, breathing quietly against your chest as if savoring each rise and fall.

But you knew you had to keep speaking. The truth wasn't finished yet—there was more he needed to understand.

"Neteyam," you whispered gently, tilting his face up so he could meet your eyes. "I really died."

He blinked, the golden hue of his eyes brightening in confusion and disbelief. His ears twitched backward, a wary tension tightening his expression.

"I don't understand," he murmured, fingers tightening carefully against your waist. "You said Eywa—"

"Eywa let me back," you interrupted quietly. "But someone else helped. A human scientist saved me."

Neteyam's brows furrowed, his gaze growing uncertain. "Did Eywa show you some human? A vision?"

"No," you shook your head, your voice steady. "He's real. He's been living deep in the forest, hidden from everyone. Even from the outpost. No one knew about him."

Neteyam grew silent, absorbing your words. When he spoke again, his tone was low, cautious. "Human footprints," he murmured slowly. "I saw them near the den. They were too large to be yours." His eyes sharpened, fixed on yours. "They were his?"

You nodded gently, thumb softly brushing over his cheek. "He found me near the thanator den. I was already dying. I would've died there, Neteyam, if he hadn't come."

A muscle jumped in Neteyam's jaw. You felt his grip tighten just slightly, his gaze growing darker, unsettled. "You were gone... and he brought you back?"

Your chest tightened painfully at his hesitant tone, at the disbelief and fear hidden in his golden eyes. "Yes," you whispered softly. "I died the first night. I was gone, completely. He had something—a serum, something he'd created. Something no one else knew about." You swallowed hard, voice steady but quiet. "He gave it to me as a last attempt. He thought it wouldn't work. But then... I woke up."

Neteyam stared at you wordlessly, his features taut, conflicted. Confusion and uncertainty flickered openly across his face, his pupils wide and vulnerable.

"And now you're breathing Pandora's air?" he finally asked, voice raw, searching for confirmation.

You nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. "Yes. Whatever he gave me—it changed something inside me. It lets me breathe here, without a mask."

Neteyam exhaled slowly, disbelief shadowing his features. He leaned slightly away, his hands loosening gently from around your waist. His ears flattened fully against his skull, confusion tightening his gaze.

He looked at you as though trying desperately to process what you'd just told him—as though you were speaking impossible things.

A soft, shaky breath slipped past his lips. "This... is impossible."

You reached gently for him, carefully brushing a few stray braids from his temple. "I know it sounds impossible," you whispered. "I know how it sounds. But it's true. I'm here, aren't I? And I'm breathing without a mask.”

Neteyam stared at you, golden eyes shadowed with worry and uncertainty.

He didn't speak immediately, and for a moment, the silence between you felt heavy and oppressive. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet, deeply unsettled. "This human... you trust him?"

You sighed gently, fingers tightening slightly on his shoulder, offering reassurance. "I don't know if I trust him completely," you admitted softly. "But he saved my life, Neteyam. Without him, I wouldn't be here."

His ears twitched uncertainly, but he nodded slowly, thoughtfully. He seemed lost in thought, processing everything you'd told him.

Finally, he looked back at you, a strange intensity in his gaze. "You breathed the air in front of him? And you were fine?"

"Yes," you confirmed gently. "We tested it together, in his lab. He monitored everything."

He drew a quiet breath, still hesitant. "But you could still be in danger. Something might go wrong."

You exhaled softly, your voice quiet but firm. "I know," you whispered. "I know the risks."

Slowly, carefully, he pulled you close again, burying his face into your shoulder. You felt him sigh heavily, deeply conflicted, deeply worried, and yet unwilling to let you go.

"I still don't fully understand," he murmured against your skin. "But Eywa gave you back to me. Whatever else happened… it brought you home."

You wrapped your arms gently around him, pressing your face into his hair. "I'm here now," you whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

He held you tighter, as if reassuring himself you were real. And for now, that was enough.

You smiled softly at him, gently stroking your thumb along his jawline. "I'll tell you everything," you whispered, voice low and tender. "But let me just settle a little, please. I need to let it sink in—that I'm finally here, with you, and not just dreaming."

Neteyam gazed down at you, eyes glowing softly in the gentle bioluminescence that filtered through the kelku. A faint, tender smile curved his lips as he brushed a strand of hair back from your face.

"You have time, yawne," he murmured softly. "I'm not going anywhere. Rest. I'll be right here."

But despite his words, he slowly leaned closer, drawn in by the quiet magnetism of your presence. His face tilted, breathing gentle against yours, lips hovering just inches apart. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting softly against your lips, a whisper of promise.

And then, slowly, softly—he kissed you.

It began tender, almost hesitant, his lips brushing yours as if reassuring himself you were truly there. The kiss was sweet, gentle, slow—full of quiet reverence and gratitude. A kiss that spoke softly of relief and reunion, a fragile acknowledgment of the reality you'd finally reclaimed.

Yet slowly, inevitably, the kiss began to deepen.

Your fingers tightened unconsciously into his braids, pulling him closer with instinctive need. His own grip tightened around your waist, his strong arms encircling you, locking you securely against his chest. His lips parted slightly, deepening the kiss with quiet intensity, claiming you gently yet unmistakably.

You felt heat rising within you, your pulse quickening as the kiss became something more—warm, possessive, eager. Your grip on his braids tightened slightly, a soft hum of satisfaction escaping your throat.

When you finally broke apart, your breath trembled, your chest rising and falling sharply as you struggled to gather your thoughts. You looked up at him with a sly smirk, your voice husky with amusement.

"You know," you teased softly, tracing your thumb gently over his lower lip, "Now that I don't need that mask anymore, I can kiss you whenever I want… and do other things without worrying about suffocating."

Neteyam's eyes darkened with unmistakable heat, his lips curving into a slow, knowing grin. A low rumble of amusement vibrated through his chest, his hold on your waist tightening possessively.

"Is that so?" he murmured playfully, golden eyes flickering with quiet hunger. He leaned closer again, lips grazing gently along your jaw, whispering softly against your skin, "Then perhaps you should show me exactly what you have in mind, yawne."

His breath against your neck made you shiver in anticipation, a smile blossoming slowly across your lips as you pulled him closer again, savoring the warmth of his body against yours—finally free to love him without barriers, without fears, without limits.

You bit back a soft sound when Neteyam's sharp canines grazed the sensitive skin of your throat, a shiver skimming down your spine. He chuckled low in his chest, clearly pleased with your reaction, and leaned in again—but you quickly pressed your palms to his chest and pushed gently.

"Neteyam," you whispered between breathless giggles, lips brushing his, "the sun is still high in the sky."

You glanced toward the kelku’s entrance, the flap barely drawn. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could hear. Your cheeks were already warm, your breath short, and you swore you could hear his tail thumping happily against the floor. Thump. Thump. Like a satisfied drumbeat.

He grinned, sharp and full of mischief, golden eyes glittering as he leaned down, his forehead touching yours.

"So?" he murmured playfully. “It’s our kelku.”

You couldn’t stop the burst of giddy laughter that left your lips, muffled slightly as you buried your face against his neck, gripping his chest like you might evaporate from embarrassment.

But then—just as you started to breathe again—

“Neteyam!”

The voice was unmistakable. Firm. Strong. Familiar.

Neytiri.

You froze.

Your entire body went stiff in Neteyam’s arms, eyes wide as panic seized your chest.

She was right outside.

She’d must seen Tawkami land.

She knew Neteyam was home—and now she was standing only a few meters away from where you currently stand, tangled in her son’s arms, still breathless and flushed from kissing him like it was the last time on this moon.

You bolted upright, looking around the kelku as if you could vanish into the furs.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “Neteyam. Neteyam—what do we do?! She can’t see me here—this is your home! There’s no explanation. No excuse. We’ll die. I’ll die. You’ll die.”

But when you turned toward him in full panic, you found Neteyam… completely unfazed.

Still sitting where you'd left him—cross-legged on the floor, arms resting across his knees, tail lazily swaying behind him. His expression?

Amused.

Just… mildly, exasperatingly amused.

“She already knows,” he said, voice calm, like you weren’t on the verge of total social collapse.

You blinked.

“What?”

Part 28: (Soon)

[girlinterupptedsblog]

Mine, Even If You Don’t Know It

Pairing: possessive-best-friend Rafe x reader

Summary: rafe hates the fact you are talking to new guy. So when he gets chance takes your phone and calls it off with the guy. Bwhinde your back.

The sun had been relentless all day, baking your skin as you lounged beside the pool. Rafe had been in and out of the water, but you preferred soaking up the warmth, only dipping your feet in when it got too hot. You two had spent the whole day together, just like always—laughing, teasing, bickering. It was effortless.

Except, something was different today.

Rafe had been quieter than usual. Not distant, just… distracted. His jaw clenched every time your phone vibrated. And it had been vibrating a lot.

He knew why. He always knew everything about you. That was the thing about being best friends with Rafe Cameron—there were no secrets. Not because you told him everything, but because he found out.

This new guy—Jake, Jason, something like that—had been texting you for days, and Rafe had seen it. He'd caught glimpses over your shoulder, the way you smiled at your screen, the way you typed fast, fingers hesitant but excited. It pissed him off more than it should have.

Now, you got up, stretching lazily. "I gotta pee," you announced, setting your phone down on the lounge chair. "Be back in a sec."

Rafe didn’t respond. Just watched you walk inside, eyes tracking every step. The second the door shut behind you, he moved.

Water dripped off his body as he climbed out of the pool, barely bothering to dry his hands before grabbing your phone. His thumb swiped up. No password. Rookie mistake, sweetheart.

He went straight to the messages.

Jason: Had fun last night. When am I seeing you again? ;)

Jason: Damn, you’re really ignoring me now? That’s cold.

You: Sorry, I’ve been out all day. Maybe this weekend?

Jason: Can’t wait ;)

Rafe scoffed. His grip on your phone tightened. Can’t wait? The fuck did that mean? What exactly had you done last night? You hadn’t mentioned anything to him about this.

His pulse hammered as he tapped the call button before he could stop himself.

It rang twice before the guy picked up. "Hey—"

"You’re done talking to her." Rafe’s voice was low, even. But there was an edge to it, sharp enough to cut.

"...What?"

"You heard me," Rafe said, his grip on the phone tightening. "She’s taken. Stop texting her."

A pause. Then, laughter. "Taken? Dude, she didn’t say anything about a boyfriend."

"Yeah? Well, she wouldn’t. But she is. And if I see your name pop up on her phone again, we’re gonna have a fucking problem."

Silence.

Rafe smirked. Smart guy.

He hung up and quickly deleted the call log. Then, for good measure, he went back into your messages, blocking Jason’s number before placing the phone back exactly where you left it.

By the time you stepped outside, Rafe was back in the pool, arms resting along the edge, looking as unbothered as ever.

You picked up your phone, checking it absentmindedly before frowning. "What the hell?"

"What?"

You looked at him, confused. "Jason blocked me?"

Rafe blinked, playing dumb. "Damn. Sucks for him."

You huffed, tossing your phone down with an annoyed sigh. "God, guys are so weird."

Rafe chuckled. "Yeah," he agreed, smirking as he dunked his head back in the water. "They are."

[sebmindbreak]

HATRED!BUILDERMAN X YOU! HEADCANONS

I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!

heheh

I LOVE ANY BUILDERMAN , PERIOD.

HHEHE I GOT TONS OF FOOD I WROTE U BETTER BE READY!

ANYWAYS

HEADCANON TIME!!

Platonic Headcanons

Builderman pretends not to care, but he keeps a mental log of everything you say especially your fears, habits, and favorite things.

He’ll insult your choices but and tries to manipulate you while playing nice

just wants your soul , you are nothing of importance to him

just another thing he can break

First Meeting Headcanons

He looked at you like you were just another bug to squash. You looked at him like you had something to prove.

When you didn't cower, didn't run just stared him up ,he tilted his head with genuine curiosity.

"You're either bold... or stupid." was his first real comment about you.

He expected fear. You gave him a spark of interest.

Getting Along Headcanons

You surprised him by keeping up, again and again. He didn’t say it, but he started waiting for you to catch up rather than leaving you behind.

You bantered back, mocked his arrogance, rolled your eyes at his superiority complex and he secretly loved it.

Builderman started walking beside you instead of ahead.

The silence between you became less tense. More... comfortable.

Realizing He Has Feelings

It hit him like a train, you smiled at him one day, so casually, and his heart stuttered.

He stared at your empty spot when you weren’t there. Just stared. Annoyed. Restless.

He NEEDED to have you to himself only.

How He Confesses

He doesn’t. Not right away. He tries to act meaner to push you away.

You during his fight , get hurt and that’s the breaking point

He chuckles before going to you , licking the small cut he had inflicted on your arm.

"you are mine now."

Romantic Headcanons

He still acts like he’s above you. But his tail always wraps around your ankle when you’re near.

When he’s tired, he leans into you like it’s the most natural thing. Not asking. Just taking.

You are HIS , no matter what.

You’re the only one allowed to touch his work hoodie, tug his tail, or hold his hand though he’ll grumble the entire time.

If anyone dares to flirt with you, Builderman doesn’t speak. He stares them down until they physically leave the room.

or maybe they dissapear , who knows, you don't see them again.

He flirts, but only when he wants something. He knows how to use his words like nails to a wall: sharp, efficient, and hard to pull out. "Oh? Blushing already? Tch… Pathetic. But cute." It's always cocky, always controlled

He’s insanely possessive, but it’s layered beneath smugness. You belong to him. Period. He won’t say it directlyinstead, he’s constantly positioning himself between you and everyone else. Subtle. Protective. Menacing. "You don't need anyone else. Not when you have me. Got it?"

Touchy, but only with you. He doesn’t like others in his space, but you? You get all of him. His tail wraps around you when he’s comfortable. His hoodie is suddenly your hoodie. He pulls you into his lap and grumbles about it the whole time while stroking your back like it’s instinct.

NSFW HEADCANON TIME!!

-Breeding kink

loves LOVES , just throwing you anywhere , the bed, the wall , or even while you guys are fighting and just start to pound into you like there's no tommorow.

absolutly loves seeing how much rounds he can do before you are completly full of his cum.

-Cream pie

like the breeding kink , loves to cum inside you , seeing your stomach swell up with how much he came inside you ?

yeah thats hot

-Rough sex

doesn't like to go slow, the gentle pace ? he hates it , he likes to drag you close to him when he is in the mood and immedialy goes down on you.

-"Hate" sex

I like their favourite time to have sex with you is during a fight , seeing you so vulnerable , makes him all hot and bothered , can you blame him ?

loves to degrade you during it

"awww look at you , you're supposed to defeat me , and here you are getting fucked by your enemy , so cute ,its pathetic."

-Dumbification

LOVES turning you dumb , and make you agree to everything they say due to how much he turned you dumb on his cock

"that's it , no more smart thoughts , just let go" , "thats it , get fucked stupid , whore."

-Marking

uses his tail , claws , or just anything to mark you up, and if you bleed a bit from the cuts and bites ? thats even better , he'll lick it for you

WE ALL LOVE BUILDERMANNNNN

[iraot]

Dead On Paper

Pairing: Dawnbreak/Zayne x f!reader Summary: He is hired to kill her, but realized he was born to protect her instead. Genre: Romance, Some Smut, Blood, he's an ASSASSIN GUYS so just... he kills people. Word Count: 17, 896 AO3

A sealed, untraceable burner device chirps once—no vibration, no screen light, just a short mechanical tone sharp enough to pierce the hush of Zayne’s safehouse. He picks it up without hurry, thumbprint unlocking the message buried under four layers of encryption. Coordinates first. Then a face scan, timestamped, taken from a distance with low exposure. She’s walking near a market, head tilted to the sun like someone who’s never felt watched.

Target: a civilian woman. No priors. The file confirms it—no aliases, no history with black-market trades, no contact with arms or laundering circuits. Even her financial records look clean outside of a few late payments, nothing criminal. Her name’s been scrubbed from the brief, redacted by whoever ordered the kill. That’s unusual. Even high-profile jobs rarely erase the subject's name unless there’s heat somewhere.

Zayne narrows his eyes as he decrypts the secondary layer of metadata. The source trails back to a shell entity registered in Singapore—long dissolved on paper but active in deep channels. One of a thousand fake fronts tied to an old laundering tree used by both legacy cartels and the newer syndicate branches that spun off during the post-2008 chaos. He knows the kind. Family dynasties and private enforcers. The kind of people who issue death orders not to eliminate threats, but to humiliate those who failed them.

He reclines back in the steel-framed chair, fingers drumming once on the desk beside him. The image of the woman lingers on the cracked screen—arms full of greenery, face turned just slightly, mouth open in what looks like mid-laughter. Civilian. Young. Alive. And someone wants her very much not to be.

The reward is abnormally high—seven figures for a civilian who’s never touched a gun, never crossed a border under false papers, never whispered a name worth killing over. It makes him pause, green eyes narrowing on the screen like it might flinch under the scrutiny. This isn’t about threat mitigation or cleanup. This is punishment by proxy, and she’s the proxy—collateral born from blood ties to someone who fucked the wrong people and fled before the debt collectors came knocking.

Zayne leans forward, elbows on the metal desk, and reads the fine print again. No time limit. No discretion required. They don’t care how messy it gets. That confirms it—this is about spectacle, not silence. Someone wants her to disappear as a lesson carved into bone, left bleeding in the air as a warning to others who forget who they owe.

He exhales through his nose once, controlled and quiet, and types a single line of reply into the secured channel: I’ll handle it. Four words. Enough to signal acceptance, initiate payment escrow, and launch a countdown no one will trace back to him. But it isn’t final. Not yet. Zayne doesn’t pull triggers on photographs.

He scouts. Confirms. Decides. Always.

Zayne rents the unit under a fake name, cash only, no questions asked. It’s bare inside—concrete walls, no windows, stripped light fixtures. He brings in his own power supply, a collapsible chair, surveillance gear tucked into repurposed moving boxes labeled “kitchen” and “holiday lights.” Across the street, three ordinary-looking orange cones sit angled just right, each one housing high-res lenses wired into a portable server cooled by fans that hum beneath the drone of traffic.

For two weeks, he watches her from behind glass and code, logging everything with sniper precision. She opens the nursery each morning at exactly 6:45AM, sliding the gate open in one smooth motion before disappearing behind a veil of condensation and leaf-shadow. Her routine is seamless. Reliable. She starts her day with chamomile and mint tea in a chipped mug painted with violets, always held in both hands like it centers her.

She plays music through a speaker rigged near the herb section—first soft jazz, low saxophone and brushed percussion, then Spanish ballads after 9AM, lilting and sad. She hums sometimes, unconsciously, her mouth twitching with lyrics she doesn’t say aloud. Her lunch is always packed: boiled egg, vegetables, rice in a reused takeout container. Never any takeout. Never anything prepared by anyone but her.

She doesn’t answer phone calls. The burner she carries stays buried at the bottom of her bag, screen unlit, battery rarely above fifteen percent. Zayne tracks her movements through the rest of her week—short walks, two bus routes, no deviation. Once a week she slips into a hole-in-the-wall bookstore and leaves with worn paperbacks, crumpled bills exchanged with the owner in silence. No credit. No receipts. Just cash.

When her shift ends, she rides her rusted bike home with a basket full of trimmings and dented groceries, her fingernails dark with soil, her posture sagging with work. She greets no one. She never invites anyone in. And behind the nursery, under the old brick archway where vines have begun to grow wild, she kneels with a bowl of tuna for three stray cats—thin things with matted fur that purr when she speaks.

Zayne watches all of this. Records every minute. And finds nothing. No tail, no accomplices. No panic in her steps, no precautions. If she knows someone’s watching her, she hides it perfectly. But he doesn’t think she knows. She looks up sometimes at the sky, eyes wide like someone waiting for a better life to descend gently, green and growing, into her palms.

She’s crouched near a table of succulents, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with potting soil, when a child comes barreling into the nursery. A boy, maybe five or six, wild curls and mismatched socks, clutching a bruised fern like it’s a treasure. He says something—Zayne can’t hear it through the feed, but her laughter rings out anyway, rich and spontaneous. She throws her head back just slightly, eyes crinkling, lips parted in a way that makes it unmistakable: it’s real.

Zayne blinks behind the scope, momentarily still. It takes longer than it should for his breathing to return to its usual rhythm. He shifts his position by instinct, recalibrating for line of sight, but the laugh echoes in his memory like an anomaly. It shouldn’t matter. It bothers him that it does.

She’s a target. That’s the refrain. Simple. Clean. She exists in this file for a reason—because someone, somewhere, decided her continued breathing was a liability. Zayne doesn’t ask why. Not usually. The 'why' makes the hand shake. Makes the bullet miss.

But something isn’t sitting right this time. Her routine is too open, too linear—no dead drops, no burner swaps, no subtle check-ins with strangers or mirrored surfaces. She doesn’t take alternate routes home. She doesn’t scan the street before she locks up at night. She walks like no one’s ever told her to be afraid. Like she doesn’t know that death is parked across the street in a borrowed van watching her finish a conversation with a six-year-old about aloe and water schedules.

She’s not avoiding being tracked. She’s not hiding. She doesn’t even know she’s being watched and that’s what makes it harder.

He enters the house at 2:14AM, lock bypassed in under four seconds, gloves on, eyes already mapping the interior like a living schematic. The place is small—one bedroom, no signs of luxury, no hidden compartments or surveillance. She sleeps in a bed without a headboard, covered by a faded quilt with stitched vines and leaves, the kind that looks handmade. He doesn’t linger. Just moves like smoke through each room until he finds what he’s looking for.

The shoebox is buried in the closet, tucked behind rain boots and a crate of broken ceramics. No lock, no alarm—just taped shut and sealed with old, half-peeled stickers. He opens it with a scalpel. Inside: a stack of unopened letters, official and bland, with seals from places like “Collection Units,” “Asset Adjustment Services,” and “Financial Intercession Groups.” Corporate euphemisms for legalized extortion. Some are printed on thick cardstock, others typed in sterile fonts, but they all have the same tone—pay what they owe, or we’ll extract it elsewhere.

He flips through them until the photographs start. Surveillance shots. A man and a woman—her parents. Stained shirts, glassy eyes, one of them half-smiling in a gas station mirror. Each image is stamped “DELINQUENT” in red ink. Beside it, a breakdown of debt portfolios: gambling, laundering, crypto fraud, unpaid smuggling tolls. One sheet reads $2.3 million outstanding. Another simply says: ASSET RECOVERY: ALL TIED.

Zayne stares at the handwriting below the photo.

Last known location: UNKNOWN.

So they went dark. Cowards who left their daughter as collateral.

She’s not part of the scam. She’s just the remaining name with a heartbeat. On paper, she’s tied into the debts—accidental proxy, inherited without consent. Her only crime is not covering their tracks for them.

He sits on the edge of her couch, documents spread like tarot cards across his lap, and exhales—slow, silent, like something sharp’s being drawn out of his chest. His code is old, quiet, carved into the marrow: no innocents. No children. No ghosts forced to carry the weight of other people’s bad decisions.

No one deserves to die for the sins of absentee, criminal bloodlines and no one gets to hunt her while he’s watching.

The rental sits to the left of her house, a sun-bleached skeleton with warped siding, blistered paint, and a roof that sighs in high wind. Zayne signs the lease as Elias Tan, a name clean enough to pass background checks and common enough to be forgettable. He doesn’t move in all at once—just a few boxes, a mattress, and the quiet thrum of tools unpacked with surgical precision. Each day he fixes something small: a cracked shingle, a leaking gutter, the stubborn back gate that swings open in storm wind.

He starts a garden along the fence line, nothing flashy—just cucumbers, rosemary, a few heirloom beans in salvaged planter boxes. The kind of thing you can ask advice about, even when you don’t need it. The soil is poor, so he tills it by hand, sweat running down the curve of his spine under worn cotton. It gives him something to do that looks honest.

She sees him for the first time on a humid Tuesday morning, dragging a twenty-pound bag of fertilizer across the gravel path, breath hitching at every uneven step. He’s trimming back lemon balm when he glances up. No words at first—just a look, held for a beat too long.

“You need a hand?” he asks, voice even. No smile. No pressure.

She shakes her head, arms locked around the bag. “Got it.”

He nods and steps back, she passes, and they leave it at that. Non-threatening. Just a neighbor with dirt under his nail a man who builds, instead of destroys.

The second time they speak, she catches him mid-morning, crouched beside a weather-beaten citrus tree he’s trying to revive. He’s trimming back curled, browning leaves with surgical snips, expression focused, hands steady. She walks by, slows, and tilts her head with the quiet confidence of someone who knows plants like they’re kin.

“You’re cutting too close to the node,” she says, nodding at the branch in his hand. “You’ll stress the stem.”

He looks up at her, eyes unreadable but attentive. “I thought it was rot.”

“It’s calcium deficiency,” she replies, stepping closer, brushing her thumb across one of the leaves. “Soil’s probably too acidic. Try crushed eggshells.”

He considers this, then asks, “You ever grafted from a lemon onto an orange base?”

That catches her off guard—in a good way. Her face brightens, eyes sparking like someone who didn’t expect to be taken seriously. “Yeah,” she says, grinning. “You’re braver than you look.”

He doesn’t respond, just returns to trimming, but there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, almost like amusement.

A week later, there’s a knock at his door. He opens it and finds her holding a woven basket filled with tangled sprigs of mint—wild, unruly, fragrant from several feet away.

“For tea,” she says, lifting it toward him. “Or whatever it is you drink after sunset.”

He takes it without hesitation. “I make chili jam,” he offers, stepping aside to retrieve a jar from his kitchen. “Want to try some?”

She perches on the edge of his porch while he unscrews the lid. There are no spoons, so she dips a finger directly into the thick, red mixture and brings it to her lips. She licks once, slow, thoughtful, then gasps quietly.

“Oh, that’s—hot,” she laughs, eyes wide. “But really fucking good.”

He says nothing. Just watches her mouth, the shine on her lower lip, the shape of her laugh as it curls out of her like steam. She talks for another minute or two, but he doesn’t hear much of it. Not really.

That image—her finger, her lips, the moment—lodges in his mind like a trigger half-pulled. He files it away with clinical care, like evidence but he doesn’t delete it.

The burner glows faint blue in the dark, a signal pulled through a quiet channel that only speaks in silence. Zayne uploads a high-resolution image of bloodied clothing—a hoodie similar to the one she wore last Tuesday, torn and stained with carefully applied theater blood. He pins it to GPS coordinates leading to an isolated burn site he used three years ago, a gravel pit ringed with trees and ash that no one patrols. No body. No teeth. Just enough residue to imply a conclusion.

The contract broker responds in under forty minutes. Confirmation flags appear, payment clears, and her profile gets an automated status: TERMINATED. Zayne watches the progress bar complete, then files the job under his real alias, Dawnbreaker—signed, sealed, archived with the others. She’s dead now, on paper. Dead enough that no one with a price list will come looking for her again.

He opens the encrypted archive, scrolls down to her original file, and deletes the biometric images from the kill folder. Gone, as protocol demands. But he copies one—the unedited one, the one where she’s smiling at a pigeon from across the street—and drops it into a buried partition in his personal archive. Just in case, he tells himself. Contingency. Not sentiment.

Still, when the screen fades to black, he doesn’t close the laptop right away.He just sits there, staring into the dark, and for once it doesn’t stare back. –

He learns her schedule like a melody—one note at a time, steady, familiar. Not for strategy or escape routes, not anymore. There’s no ambush in his mind, no scope tracking her from across the street. He memorized her routine the way a man memorizes the tide: because it matters to him, because its rhythm softens something he didn’t know needed softening.

She hums when she waters the plants, low and tuneless, like her thoughts are too full to keep silent. He hears it even from his yard, faint through the breeze, sometimes rising into fragments of a melody he never recognizes. She sways gently as she moves, trailing her fingers along leaf edges, like she’s reassuring them that she’ll be back tomorrow. It’s ritual, not work.

On slow afternoons, she reads pest control manuals with frayed spines and penciled notes in the margins. Half the time she forgets them outside, pages curling in the sun until he quietly gathers them and drops them off by her door. She never asks how they get back there. Just smiles, mutters “thank you, plant gods,” and tucks them under her arm like sacred texts.

When snails invade her violets, she crouches with a flashlight and whispers threats like a tired parent. “You little bastards better not touch my orchids,” she mutters, plucking them off one by one and dropping them gently into a tin. She keeps a kill count on a sticky note taped to the windowsill. He pretends not to smile when he sees it hit twelve.

One evening, she waves him over with dirt-streaked gloves and a furrowed brow. “Spider plant’s got something weird on its leaves,” she says, holding it out like a sick child. “You ever seen spots like this?” He leans in, fingertips grazing the edge of the pot, shoulder brushing hers. He tells her it’s fungal. She tells him she’s relieved it’s not a curse. He doesn’t correct her.

— It's late afternoon when the conversation slips past weather and watering schedules. They’re seated on her back porch, her feet bare and tucked under her, Zayne leaning against the railing with a glass of cold water in one hand. The sun is low, casting long gold stripes through the latticework, dust motes swirling in the light between them. She pulls her hair back absently and asks, “So what do you do, exactly? You’re too methodical for accounting, too quiet for customer service.”

He answers without hesitation, calm and rehearsed. “Freelance logistics. Short-term supply chain stuff. Inventory control.” It’s vague but plausible, the kind of job that sounds both boring and too technical to probe deeper. She nods like it makes sense and doesn’t ask more—not because she believes it entirely, but because she doesn’t want to ruin the quiet by making it heavy.

She’s silent for a moment, eyes scanning the small garden bed in front of them. Then she speaks without looking at him. “My parents disappeared six years ago. Took a bunch of other people’s money with them. Left me the mail, the debt collectors, and a name that doesn’t belong to anyone respectable anymore.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, just takes another drink and waits. She exhales slowly, like it costs her something. “I don’t hate them. I did for a while, sure. But mostly I don’t think about them now. It’s like… they were a dream someone else had, and I just woke up in the part where everything’s wrecked.”

He watches her, eyes unreadable but steady. “That’s a heavy inheritance,” he says.

“Yeah.” Her laugh is soft and dry. “Would’ve preferred land or a timeshare. Maybe a haunted watchtower or something. At least that comes with ghosts you can see.”

He doesn’t chuckle, but there’s a shift in his posture, something just shy of warmth. “Most people don’t talk about it like that.”

“Most people try to solve it,” she replies, glancing at him sideways. “Tell me to track them down, sue someone, write a letter, ‘process the trauma.’ You didn’t do any of that. You just… let it sit.”

He shrugs slightly. “Not everything needs fixing.”

She nods, a small smile flickering at the edge of her mouth. “That’s rare. Most men don’t know when to shut up.” He doesn’t say anything to that either. Just watches the way her shoulders loosen when she’s finally said too much and didn’t regret it.

The evening is quiet, heat bleeding off the pavement in slow waves, when she appears at her back door with her arm cradled awkwardly against her chest. She tries to wave him off with her good hand, downplaying it with a weak smile and a casual, “Clumsy me—smashed a pot. Got a little too aggressive with the shelving.” The gash is long, stitched but fresh, the skin around it red and taut, still swollen beneath gauze that’s already soaking through. Zayne says nothing, just nods once, but his eyes never leave the wound.

The cut’s too clean for a terracotta shard—too long, too precise, no drag marks or irregular tears that would come from jagged edges. She was cut with intent, not accident. She moves slower than usual, flinching when she bends, but hides it behind chatty small talk and jokes about tetanus shots. He offers her tea; she declines. Says she’s tired, just needs to sleep it off.

That night, after the neighborhood has gone dark, Zayne pulls a tablet from a false bottom in his tool chest and taps into the nursery’s security feed—something he wired on his second week without telling her. He scans back six hours. There’s a man in the footage, medium height, leather coat, mirrored glasses that don’t reflect the camera. He isn’t browsing. He’s cornering her near the back greenhouse, gesturing wildly while she stands still, arms crossed but shoulders tense.

The feed’s audio is too low for voices, but the body language tells enough—she tries to walk away twice, and both times he blocks her path. She finally pushes past him, hand gripping her forearm tightly, blood already soaking into her sleeve. The man leaves calmly, no rush, no panic, head down. Professional. Former debt collector, Zayne guesses—someone hired to rattle cages, remind her what happens when money owed goes unpaid or unforgotten.

Zayne closes the feed and deletes the last twenty-four hours. Not just the file, but the server metadata. Wiped. Gone. He sits back in the dark of his living room, lit only by the glow of the screen and the soft green flicker of the security router’s heartbeat.

He doesn’t plan revenge. Not yet.

But he writes down the man’s face. And he doesn’t forget.

The trail isn’t hard to follow—not when you know how collectors move, how they drink cheap coffee in laundromats and always overstay their welcome at low-end motels. Zayne pulls surveillance from street cams and ATM clusters, piecing together the man’s route through the city. Credit card pings lead to a port-side warehouse district full of abandoned freight, rusted chains, and stacked shipping containers that haven’t been checked in years. He gets there just after midnight, boots crunching over gravel, gloved fingers tracing the latch of a container with a scent that’s wrong—coppery and humid, like something that’s been left too long.

Inside, the collector is slumped against the back wall, head tilted unnaturally, arms bound with zip ties still cinched tight at the wrists. Blood pools beneath him, sticky and black. His tongue is missing, lips parted as if trying to scream even in death. There are no signs of struggle—just execution. The work is professional, deliberate. Someone wanted him silent, and someone wanted it understood.

Zayne crouches beside the body, eyes scanning the scene without emotion. He didn’t do this. That much is clear. No one kills like him—his method is cleaner, colder, a scalpel where this was a scalping knife. But this wasn’t random. Someone else followed the same scent trail, maybe smelled the same debt. Maybe decided this wasn’t about her anymore. Maybe it never was.

He rises slowly, shutting the container door behind him without leaving a trace. Back outside, the air feels heavier, thicker with something unseen. He doesn’t know who got to the man first.  

But he knows this much now: He’s not the only one watching her.

She knocks just past eleven, a soft, almost apologetic tapping against his doorframe. Rain sheets down behind her in cold, silvery lines, her hoodie soaked through, dark curls of wet hair plastered to her temples. Her fingers tremble around her phone, the screen dim and cracked, useless. “Power’s out,” she says, voice small, breath hitching. “And the storm’s freaking me out. I just… didn’t want to sit in the dark by myself.”

Zayne steps aside without a word, letting her pass into the warmth and light of his kitchen. He hands her a towel first, then a dry shirt, heavy with his scent, and turns to the stove without watching her change. She sits quietly while he brews tea, eyes following the motion of his hands, precise and sure. When he opens a drawer for a spoon, she spots the knitting needles tucked neatly beside utility tools, long metal ones with red-painted tips.

“You knit?” she asks, not teasing—just surprised, intrigued.

He doesn’t answer. Just closes the drawer again. She doesn’t press. The silence between them is soft, not awkward, and when he returns with two mugs, she accepts hers with a nod of thanks.

They sit on the couch, close, steam curling up between their hands. Her shoulder brushes his, light but unmistakable, and neither of them moves away. Outside, the storm cracks across the sky like bone splitting. Inside, she doesn’t flinch. She exhales slow, steady, then turns slightly and rests her head back against the cushion beside his. Doesn’t speak.

When she leaves an hour later, wrapped in a dry coat and steadier than when she arrived, she pauses in the doorway and smiles. Not wide. Not performative. Just quiet, real, like something settled. Zayne watches her cross the gravel back to her house, headlights from the streetlight flickering over her path.

He stares at the door for a long time after it closes

Not thinking. Just feeling.

Like something important nearly happened, and might again.

The night air is thick with late-summer damp, cool on sweat-slick skin but not enough to banish the warmth still radiating from the soil. Overhead, string lights stretch between two fences, swaying faintly in the breeze, casting broken amber light across the backyards. Zayne is crouched near the rosemary, the scent sharp on his hands as he trims back a branch with the precision of a surgeon. Across the narrow space, her silhouette shifts among tomato vines and sprawling mint, dirt clinging to her calves, hair tied messily off her neck, the fabric of her shirt sticking slightly at the small of her back.

They’ve been working like this for nearly an hour—no music, no conversation, just the clink of tools, the occasional rustle of plants being turned or watered. It’s quiet, but not sterile. Comfortable. Her presence is a soft hum in the background of his mind, rhythmic and grounding. He’s gotten used to it—her garden gloves tossed onto the fence post, the way she hums tunelessly when she concentrates, the soft curse when she finds aphids again on her basil. It’s not surveillance anymore. He isn’t watching. He’s just…near.

Then her voice slices gently through the quiet.

“Want to see something?”

He looks up, blinking, surprised by the interruption but not displeased. She stands near her porch, wiping her hands on a ragged kitchen towel. There’s dirt under her nails, smudges on her cheeks, and something lighter in her eyes. “The lavender finally came up,” she says, nodding toward a tray sitting under a makeshift UV lamp. “They’re tiny, but they made it. You said once you never bothered starting them from seed.”

He doesn’t remember saying it out loud, but he nods and follows her across the yard. Her porch creaks under their weight as she leads him toward the table where the tray rests, a grid of damp soil and fragile green shoots barely taller than a fingernail. She kneels beside it, gestures for him to come closer, and starts talking—explaining the mix she used, the spray bottle technique, the humidity dome she rigged out of an old cake cover.

As she looks up to speak again, the porch light catches on a streak of dirt across her cheek. Without thinking, Zayne reaches out. His thumb grazes her skin, a slow wipe from just below her eye to the edge of her jaw, lifting the smudge away in one clean stroke. Her breath catches. She doesn’t lean back.

Her eyes lock onto his, wide and startled—not in fear, but in sudden awareness. He’s still close, hand halfway raised, her skin warm where he touched it. She swallows, then says his name—soft, quiet, almost questioning.

“Zayne.”

He says hers in return. Low. Careful. Like it might break something if he isn’t gentle with it.

There’s a pause. The porch is quiet but for the rustle of nearby leaves and the gentle creak of the wind nudging the wood. Then she steps forward, slowly, her fingers brushing against the edge of his shirt as she closes the space between them. She rises onto her toes and presses her lips to his—light, cautious, but not uncertain. It’s not a question. It’s a confession wrapped in silence.

The kiss lingers. Just lips against lips, the soft, warm pressure of something new testing its weight. She tastes like mint and rain, and something delicate and unnamed trembles between them. He doesn’t deepen it. Doesn’t pull her in or press back harder. He simply lifts his hand again, cups her jaw with deliberate tenderness, thumb tracing along her cheekbone in a way that says he could destroy anything that dared harm her—but he won’t ever touch her like glass.

She pulls away first, breathing just a little heavier, her hand still hovering near his chest. She looks at him like she’s not sure what she just did, but doesn’t regret it. Her mouth opens—no words come. Instead, she exhales slowly and nods.

“I should—” she starts, then stops. “Goodnight.”

He answers, quiet but unshaken. “Goodnight.”

She leaves barefoot, dirt still clinging to her soles as she disappears down the steps and across the lawn. She doesn’t run, but she moves quickly, like something might stop her if she stays.

Zayne remains where she left him, hand still faintly warm, jaw tight. When he finally sinks back into the chair near the table, it creaks beneath him. His fists curl on his thighs, fingers digging in, knuckles white. He doesn’t turn off the porch light. He doesn’t sleep, not because of threat but because he can still feel her lips—gentle and unguarded—like a promise he didn’t deserve and couldn’t bear to break.

—

The evenings fall quiet by the time he shows up, arms full of rosemary, garlic scapes, lemon balm clippings wrapped in damp paper towels. She’s already boiling water or roasting something when he knocks, expecting him without ever saying she is. The kitchen is small but warm, the walls honey-colored with steam curling against the windowpanes, and the scent of earth and spice fills every corner. She gives him a wooden bowl to clean the herbs, humming softly as she stirs miso paste into broth or brushes oil over warm flatbread.

They eat at the small table near the back door, the one facing her little herb patch where wind chimes tangle softly in the breeze. Sometimes she asks if the thyme tastes too strong, or if the eggs cooked long enough, but mostly they eat in silence. It’s not awkward. It’s familiar—the kind of quiet that feels earned, like something shared rather than something missing.

She sits closer now, not quite pressed against him, but near enough that her thigh brushes his beneath the table when she shifts her weight. The first time it happens, her knee knocks into his and she doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t move either. Just takes another bite of soup, slow and measured, while their legs remain gently aligned, a quiet point of contact neither acknowledges out loud.

Once, while she’s scraping lentils from the bottom of the pot, she glances over her shoulder and says, “You don’t talk much, do you?”| “Don’t need to,” he replies, eyes steady on her hands.

She grins without looking at him again. “Good. I like that better.” And he understands then—it’s not that she wants company. It’s that she wants someone who doesn’t demand to be seen while she's still learning to be.

It happens just past midnight. Zayne is in the backyard, securing the last of the hose reels and flipping off the porch lights, the moon heavy and yellow behind a veil of slow-moving clouds. The wind picks up in short, sharp bursts, rustling leaves and bending the tomato stakes at his feet. As he turns toward the gate, his gaze catches on the glass of her greenhouse—just a shimmer at first, but then a shape, dark and still, reflected in the pane.

It stands where it shouldn’t—between the rows of hibiscus and lavender, too tall for her, too motionless for wind. The figure’s not moving, but the angle is wrong, the placement off; it’s not inside, it’s behind her greenhouse, lit by nothing but moonlight. He drops into a crouch before he even thinks, sliding a blade from his boot, eyes locked on the shimmer. But by the time he rounds the fence and reaches the spot, it’s gone. The space is empty. Still. No footprints in the mulch. No broken stems. No sound except the soft rattle of string lights overhead.

Zayne doesn’t believe in coincidence. Whoever it was stood there long enough to study her, to memorize angles, movements, maybe wait for a moment when she’d step into that glass room unaware. It wasn’t random—it was recon. Someone watched her like he once did. But not like him. Not to protect. Not to keep.

He doesn’t tell her the next morning. She’s smiling too easily over breakfast, teasing him about overwatering his thyme, and he lets it lie for now. Instead, he spends the afternoon laying ground sensors six inches beneath her rose beds and reprogramming the micro-cameras he once installed for his own surveillance. Now they feed directly to his secured server, pinging alerts to his burner phone. She doesn’t know he’s building a fence of code and eyes around her life. She doesn’t know yet someone else is trying to slip in through the cracks.

The sun is low, slanting in through the kitchen window, catching dust motes and bathing the room in soft orange. She’s cleaning with casual energy, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hair messily twisted on top of her head, humming as she sorts mail and shoves worn dish towels into a drawer. Zayne leans against the counter, watching with that quiet stillness that never quite leaves him, offering to help only once. She waves him off with a laugh and tosses a sponge at his chest.

Then she opens the bottom drawer near the floor and stiffens—just slightly, just enough. Her hand lingers a second too long before she pushes it shut with her hip and says, “That one’s just old bills. Junk I keep meaning to shred.” Her voice is breezy, light, but her eyes don’t meet his as she turns back toward the counter. He makes no move to question her, doesn’t even change expression. But he logs it, like everything else.

When she excuses herself to shower, he moves across the room without a sound. The drawer slides open easily—she didn’t bother to lock it. Inside, the papers are folded, some crumpled, others stiff with age and creased from too many hands. Envelopes marked with return addresses he recognizes from years of contract work: Collection Units, Financial Intercession, Recovery Escalation. No names on the senders. No signatures. Just threats. Demand letters. Photocopied photos of her face, her place of work. She called them bills. But they’re warnings. And they’ve been piling up.

The drawer’s contents spill like a confession—torn envelopes, hastily folded sheets, paper still dusted with the residue of anger. Each one is different in format—some printed on faded company letterhead, others handwritten in thick black marker like a ransom note. No return addresses. No official seals. Just half-legible demands scrawled in frantic script, the kind that smudges when written too fast, too hot with rage to wait for the ink to dry.

Some pages are short, just one or two lines. “You’ll pay what they owe.” “Blood knows where to find blood.” Others are longer, bulleted, spiraling with accusations and threats of “enforcement visits,” thinly veiled beneath legalese. One page simply reads “RUN. IT WON’T HELP.” in red ballpoint, the letters jagged, pressed so hard into the paper it left grooves on the envelope beneath.

Zayne doesn’t react. He sifts through the pile like an archivist, hands careful, eyes scanning each word without giving away a thing. The rage behind them is unmistakable—not the cold precision of hired killers or corporate silence. This is desperate fury, the kind that comes from men whose money’s gone, whose power’s cracked, lashing out at anything left to punish and all of it points back to her. Not because she did anything wrong, but because she’s still visible. Still reachable and someone—more than one—wants to remind her of that.

Zayne returns to his safehouse just before dawn, slipping in through the side entrance beneath the vines. The sky’s beginning to pale, but his thoughts stay anchored in the dark. He powers on the encrypted terminal hidden behind a false panel in the wall, fingers moving with practiced ease through layers of security. He isn’t looking for names. He’s looking for shape—slant, pressure, pattern. The way certain letters lean too hard to the right. The way the lowercase “f” never crosses fully. The handwriting in the threats burned itself into his mind the moment he saw it.

It doesn’t take long. He opens an old dossier from six years back, a failed collection job out of Detroit, and there it is—black and angry across a confession letter, nearly identical. Same pen pressure. Same malformed “r.” The signature at the bottom: Victor Dunn. Former enforcer. Known for using fear before force, humiliation before blood. Tied to the Mendez line—a syndicate with long money and short patience, the same one that sent the kill order on her weeks ago.

Zayne stares at the file, jaw tight. Dunn shouldn’t be active. Last he heard, Dunn had gone underground after botching a protection job and leaving a trail of bodies no one wanted cleaned up. But if he’s resurfaced, if he’s part of the threats then this isn’t coincidence. 

 It’s legacy. 

Vengeance and he’s not the only one circling her at least not anymore.

—

Victor Dunn dies on a Wednesday.

The bar is a low-lit dive on the edge of the industrial quarter, a place where the floor sticks and the jukebox eats quarters. Dunn sits at the far end, nursing cheap bourbon from a cloudy tumbler, the type of man who drinks alone because it makes him feel harder. Zayne walks in unnoticed, hood up, the weight of a flask already resting against his palm. The bartender never sees the sleight of hand—how the bottle Dunn brought in for himself ends up dosed with an odorless sedative laced with synthetic aconite.

The fight starts ten minutes later, as planned—two hired drunks swing at each other just behind Dunn’s stool. Shouting. Glass breaks. Chairs screech. In the commotion, Zayne nudges the bottle an inch closer to his target’s hand, lets the chaos cover the moment Dunn tips the rest of it back and grimaces. It takes eighteen minutes for his throat to swell, his heart to stutter. He’s dead before he hits the floor. To the rest of the room, he just passed out. To the police? Another overdose in a city full of them.

Zayne slips out through the back and walks five blocks before ditching the hoodie in a trash bin. No fingerprints. No witnesses. No security cameras facing the alley. Dunn’s death is ruled as accidental. Case closed in under forty-eight hours.

Zayne doesn’t relax. He watches the digital trail. Waits. And someone else keeps watching her—another set of eyes in the dark, patient, methodical. Whoever they are, they haven’t moved yet. Haven’t struck.

Which means they’re waiting for something.

Not her death.

Her vulnerability.

And Zayne knows now—this isn’t about if they’ll try again.

It’s about when.

-

The camera feed comes in just after 2:00 a.m.—a whisper of movement pinging Zayne’s encrypted server. The alert is faint, almost subtle, not the kind that would raise alarms for anyone but him. He’s already half-awake, seated at his desk, sharpening a blade he doesn’t need to use tonight. When the motion alert flashes, he taps the key, leans in, and watches.

The footage is black and white, softened with the grain of lowlight exposure, but the figure is clear. A dark sedan idles across the street from her house, tucked just far enough into the alley to avoid the streetlamps. The headlights are off. Engine silent. It wasn’t there five minutes ago. The driver doesn’t exit. He leans forward against the wheel, elbows propped, gaze fixed not on the front door, but the side yard—the greenhouse. Zayne’s chest tightens as he realizes the man isn’t surveying the house. He’s watching her route. He knows her pattern.

Zayne magnifies the feed, enhances the angle. The man’s face is partially obscured by shadow and tinted glass, but he’s clean-shaven, short dark hair, wearing a collared shirt and gloves. Not street muscle. Not a junkie collector. Professional. His posture is too composed. Too deliberate. There’s no fumbling with a phone, no cigarette, no nervous shifting. He’s not casing the house. He’s confirming something.

The car doesn’t idle long. After exactly twenty-three minutes, the headlights flash once—low beam, quick flick, not an accident. The engine murmurs to life, soft as a cat’s breath. By the time Zayne bolts out the back door and crosses three yards in a straight sprint, the car is gone. Not a sound of tires screeching. Not a trace of burned rubber. Just absence, clean and surgical.

He checks the camera playback, frame by frame, until he gets a brief shot of the license plate—centered, perfectly lit by the greenhouse flood light. He runs it through two firewalled databases, both civilian and military. The number pings back: valid registration, leased vehicle, no name attached. Clean. Too clean.

No traffic tickets. No parking violations. No servicing record. The plate’s not fake—it’s sanitized. Zayne leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the blank digital report. That’s worse than fake. It means the plate’s real, but protected. Government issue or black market protected. Which means someone has reach. And they know where to look.

He watches the footage again, this time focusing not on the car, but on the angle. The driver wasn’t just watching the greenhouse. He was watching her window. The one with the chipped paint and the vine pressing against the pane. The one she leaves cracked open at night because she says she sleeps better with fresh air.

Zayne’s fists tighten. He tells himself it could be a coincidence. A passerby. A curious neighbor who parked in the wrong place but he doesn’t believe it. Coincidences don’t sit motionless in the dark for twenty-three minutes and drive off without a headlight blink of confusion.

He doesn’t tell her. Not yet. In the morning, she’ll hand him a sprig of sage, smiling, saying it helps with pests.

Instead, he spends the rest of the night on his laptop and gear, rerouting the greenhouse camera feed to a secondary off-site server. He replaces the standard motion sensor with a military-grade proximity net and walks the perimeter twice in silence. Then he loads two guns—one for open carry, one for his ankle—and sets a third beside the couch where he pretends to sleep. He watches until the sun comes up because someone else is watching her and Zayne doesn’t share.

—

The evening is soft with heat, the kind that lingers even after sunset, wrapping around bare skin like a second shirt. They sit outside on her back patio, tucked beneath the overhang strung with mismatched glass lanterns that cast warm colors across the worn wooden table. The wine is red, rich, sweating in mismatched tumblers that catch the flicker of citronella candles. Zayne sips his slowly, eyes fixed on the curve of her throat as she speaks in half-hushed tones, like the words are fragile, easily shattered if said too loud.

The air smells like grilled zucchini—charred skin, oil, cracked salt—and she nudges a plate toward him without looking. Her hands, usually so steady when repotting basil or coaxing root bulbs from old soil, tremble slightly as she wipes her fork clean with a paper napkin. She doesn’t notice the shake, but he does. His fingers pause on the stem of his glass, silent, alert.

“They knew what they were doing,” she says finally, not looking at him. “They knew how deep they were in, and they still signed everything under my name.” Her voice is calm, but her shoulders are locked tight, posture stiff like she’s bracing for an argument she’s already lost. “Because it’s easier to disappear when you leave someone behind to clean up the wreckage. Easier to vanish when there’s a name on the books who isn’t yours.”

Zayne says nothing. Just watches her, head tilted slightly, green eyes unreadable but focused. The air between them grows heavier, no storm—just tension, memory, the weight of past decisions she had no part in. She takes another sip of wine, this time with both hands, like she’s steadying herself on the glass alone.

“They left like it was a heist. Neat, silent, timed.” She laughs once—sharp, brittle. “But I got the aftershock. Collection calls. Doors kicked in. People who didn’t care that I didn’t even know how deep it went. Just that I was easier to find than they were.”

Zayne shifts, just slightly, leans his forearm on the table and says, low and level, “Do you think they’re still alive?”

She hesitates. For once, her voice falters. “I don’t know. And I’m not sure I care anymore.” Her eyes lift to meet his, and for a moment, she looks older, worn down—not tired from work, but tired of surviving other people’s messes. “If they are… I hope they’re scared. Just a little. Like I was.”

He nods, slow. Doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t tell her they’ll get what they deserve. He just holds her gaze until her breath steadies, until her grip on the fork eases, and the wind carries the scent of burnt herbs off into the dark and in that stillness, she starts breathing like she finally has room.

He doesn’t speak when she finishes. Doesn’t offer apologies or platitudes, doesn’t reach for her hand or murmur something sweet to bridge the quiet. He just watches her—eyes unmoving, green and sharp in the flicker of candlelight, studying her face like it’s a map that leads somewhere dangerous. Every word she’s spoken, every hitch in her breath, every time she swallowed hard before saying something honest, he files it away. Like evidence. Like a puzzle that, if assembled correctly, will reveal where the next hit is coming from.

She looks down at her plate and pretends to be done with the conversation, but he knows she’s still bleeding inside from it. She changes the subject, asks him about companion planting, jokes about the weird bug she found in her kale earlier that morning. He goes along with it, nods when he needs to, offers a few soft, dry answers that won’t pull her back toward the hurt she’s trying to bury under grilled vegetables and red wine. But his mind is already elsewhere—clicking through shadows and data points, building patterns she doesn’t know he’s seeing.

Later that night, when the house is dark and she’s asleep behind closed curtains, he sits in his own kitchen with only the glow of his laptop for company. No lights. No music. Just the soft mechanical hum of the air conditioner and the steady tap of keys beneath his fingers. He reroutes a former fixer—an old contact who owes him silence more than favors—redirects him off his current surveillance gig and toward a new assignment: run traces. Not on her.

On everyone else.

Every property sale within a five-block radius. Every background check that’s touched her name in the last ninety days. Every camera that picked up the black sedan. He doesn’t just want to know who else is watching her. He wants to know how long they’ve been in his orbit. and if someone else is circling her, they’re already living on borrowed time.

It arrives in a plain white envelope with no stamp, no seal, no sender. Just her name written across the front in sharp, slanted letters—bolder than the last ones, as if whoever wrote it didn’t care about hiding anymore. She finds it that morning nestled between junk coupons and the local circular, her fingers pausing mid-sort when her eyes catch the handwriting. Her chest tightens before she even opens it. Some part of her already knows this one is worse.

Inside is a single sheet of glossy paper. No words. No warning. Just an image: her, walking home, head down, grocery bag in one hand, keys in the other. The angle is low, taken from behind a row of hedges. She remembers that day—it was raining lightly, and she paused at the gate to shake water off her shoulders. She never looked back. The timestamp in the corner is from forty-eight hours ago. Whoever took it was close. Watching. Waiting.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t throw the paper away. She stumbles inside, locking the door with trembling fingers, and makes it as far as the kitchen before her knees buckle. The letter crumples in her fist as she slides down against the cabinets, back hitting the cold tile with a soft thud. Her breathing is shallow, uneven, and her eyes won’t focus—she keeps glancing at the door like it might open, like someone might already be standing on the other side.

That’s how Zayne finds her. He doesn’t knock—he hears the change in her pattern from outside, hears the absence of movement where there should be footsteps, humming, her usual distracted energy. When he opens the door and steps into the kitchen, he sees her on the floor, knees pulled up, the paper clenched so tight in her hand it’s creased through the ink. Her eyes snap up to him, wild and wide, and for a second she doesn’t say anything. She just stares.

“I didn’t see them,” she whispers, voice frayed. “They were right there, and I didn’t even feel it.”

Zayne crosses the room slowly, crouches in front of her with a stillness that feels like a held breath. He doesn’t ask questions. Just pries the paper gently from her hand and scans it once.

He memorizes the angle. The distance. The background blur. Then he folds the letter and tucks it into his jacket. He says nothing. But the look in his eyes tells her: someone is going to pay for this.

He doesn’t ask if she wants to get up—he simply acts. In one fluid motion, he leans down, slides an arm beneath her knees and another around her back, and lifts her as if she weighs nothing. She makes a quiet sound in her throat, not quite protest, not quite surrender, her hands clutching at his shirt before she can think better of it. Her face burrows against his collarbone as he carries her into the next room.

The couch creaks softly beneath them as he sits with her still curled against him, his body solid, unmoving, wrapped around her like a wall. He grabs the knit throw folded over the back—gray, soft, worn in places—and pulls it over her shoulders without ever letting her go. She trembles under it, breath ragged, fingers gripping the front of his shirt in tight, stuttering motions. He doesn't speak. Doesn’t shush her. Doesn’t offer hollow words.

He just lets her cry.

His hand comes up once to the back of her head, palm wide and steady, thumb brushing her cheek. He holds her like armor, like gravity, like silence itself. And all the while, his eyes stay open, fixed on the front door—not to watch for danger but to dare it to come through.

It starts small—barely-there touches that could be passed off as accidental. A hand grazing his shoulder as she walks past him in the garden. Her fingers brushing the inside of his elbow when she leans closer to show him the pest bites on a leaf. She laughs more now, and when she does, she’ll rest her palm lightly on his forearm, like it’s instinct, like her body forgets he’s supposed to be a stranger.

Zayne never flinches. He doesn’t lean into it, but he doesn’t move away either. He allows it, absorbs it, and stores the sensation like a secret kept under his ribs. Her touch is light, never lingering too long—yet somehow, he feels it hours after it’s gone.

When she talks, especially when she’s animated—telling him about a plant’s root system or the nightmare customer who tried to haggle over a bag of soil—he finds his gaze drifting. Not to her eyes. Not to her hands. To her mouth. The curve of it when she smiles. The way she presses her lips together when she’s thinking. He watches, quiet and still, never interrupting and she notices. He knows she does—sees it in the flicker of her glance, the subtle way her teeth catch her bottom lip, the way her words slow, like she’s suddenly more aware of how they leave her but she doesn’t stop. If anything, she speaks softer. Holds his gaze longer. Like she wants him to keep looking.

She finds the box propped against her back door one morning, unmarked except for her name written in clean, deliberate handwriting across the top. No return address, no company logo—just the weight of something personal wrapped in plain brown paper. Her boots crunch lightly over gravel as she picks it up, tucking it under her arm while balancing a tray of seed starts in the other. It’s still early, the dew clinging to every leaf like breath, and the sky hasn’t fully decided if it wants to be blue or gray.

She opens it in the garden, seated on her overturned bucket stool between rows of kale and sunflowers. Inside: a pair of gloves, not the flimsy canvas ones she’s always buying in packs of three, but stitched leather, supple and strong, padded across the palms, designed for real work. They’re her favorite shade of green—the kind that matches the moss creeping up the base of her fence. A folded note sits on top, small, simple, scrawled in his tidy, unassuming hand: “These should last longer.”

Her throat tightens immediately. She blinks fast, head bowed as she turns the gloves over in her lap, running her thumbs across the seams like they might split under her touch. The tears come before she can stop them, sharp and hot. She bows her head lower, lets her hair fall forward to hide her face from no one.

She doesn’t go inside. She doesn’t wipe her cheeks. She just stays there in the garden, knees in the dirt, pretending the wind is too strong today. Pretending it’s the pollen in the air. Not kindness that broke her open.

– It’s early morning when Zayne notices the disturbance—just after sunrise, dew still clinging to the blades of grass, the garden glazed in silver light. He’s doing his usual perimeter check, nothing new expected, just routine. But then he sees it: bootprints, fresh and deep, sunk into the soft mulch along the side of her greenhouse. Not his. Not hers. The spacing’s wrong. The tread is military-issue, not casual—a brand he recognizes from tactical catalogues used by low-visibility ops teams.

The prints stop just beneath the greenhouse window, the one she always opens a crack when the humidity gets too thick inside. He kneels, fingers brushing the edges of the sole mark. There’s no attempt to hide the approach. No backtracking, no scuffing. Whoever it was wanted a clear view—inside the structure, toward her workbench where she drinks her morning tea with her legs curled under her on the stool.

Zayne glances through the pane, and it hits him: from that spot, at that distance, they could see everything. The mug she favors—white with a faded botanical print. The way her shoulders curve as she leans over soil trays. The damp strands of hair that fall along her neck while she works, sweat collecting at the hollow of her throat. Whoever was there stood close enough to see details, not just surveillance patterns.

He rises slowly, eyes scanning the surrounding fence line, the street beyond, the way the shadows fall in angles too familiar now. Someone’s testing proximity—measuring comfort. They weren’t just watching anymore. They were imagining the moment they’d step through the gap and reach for he and that makes this different.

This isn’t recon.

This is intention.

Zayne adjusts his schedule without a word, slipping into a rhythm that most soldiers take years to master—three hours down, three hours up, cycling through the night like a machine with a heartbeat. He builds his waking hours around hers, always keeping her within reach, eyes on the monitor even when she’s asleep. When she’s awake, he’s calm, present, making tea or trimming basil. But the moment she closes her door for the night, he becomes something else—watcher, hunter, guardian with no uniform but instinct.

One evening while she’s inside humming along to a jazz record, he climbs the side of her house in silence. Gloves on. Tools tucked into a roll at his belt. The eaves give just enough shadow to conceal his work, and within minutes he’s mounted a pinhole camera barely wider than a screw head, tucked into the weathered fascia above her back porch. It syncs directly to his private relay, filtered through a triple-layer proxy chain. No sound. Just a live feed. Just enough.

She never notices. Not the shift in air when he slides past her window, not the faint scrape of metal against wood. She trusts him. Enough to lean on him, laugh with him, fall asleep knowing he’s next door. And he hates how easy that trust comes, how effortless it is to exploit  but he keeps the feed up anyway.

 Because her safety isn’t a luxury anymore.  It’s a line in the sand.

And he’s already killed for it.

—

The sky outside is bruised purple, the last edges of daylight fading into shadow, and the kitchen smells faintly of rosemary and something sweet she baked earlier—he doesn’t know what, didn’t ask. Zayne stands by the table, fingers brushing the spine of the manila folder he set there minutes ago, unopened. A small USB drive rests on top, matte black, unmarked. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move toward her. Just waits until she finally looks up from her tea and catches the seriousness in his posture.

“What’s that?” she asks, her brow furrowed, her voice hesitant like she’s bracing for bad news.

He gestures once, a slight incline of his chin. “It’s a new name,” he says, voice low but steady. “Driver’s license, social number. Birth certificate. Clean record. There's a bank account with a work history already attached—quiet, believable, enough in it to not raise flags.”

She stares at the packet like it might bite. “Zayne… what is this?”

He doesn’t blink. “In case you ever want to leave everything behind,” he replies. “Walk away. Start somewhere else. Some people get to choose. You haven’t had that in a long time.”

Silence falls between them, soft but sharp around the edges. Her fingers toy with the rim of her mug, eyes locked on the papers like they carry weight she can’t lift. “You think I should run?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he says, and for once, there’s something warmer under his tone. Not soft, exactly. But protective. “I think you should have the option. I think you deserve to choose what happens to you next.”

She doesn’t answer. She just stands and walks the two steps between them, then presses her arms around him—not polite, not casual, but full-bodied and immediate, like she’s anchoring herself to something solid before the floor can fall out again. Her face buries against his chest, and he stands still for a second, surprised. Then his arms wrap around her, slow but firm, like drawing a line between her and everything that still wants to claim her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs against him and he doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t have to.

—

The broker’s flat is a third-story walk-up tucked between a shuttered liquor store and a dog grooming parlor with flickering neon. It smells of stale coffee and burnt wires, the kind of place people choose when they don’t want to be found. Zayne gets in without a sound—lock picked, gun holstered, no mask, no hesitation. The broker doesn’t even look up until Zayne’s already inside, standing by the window, the glint of a syringe caught in the room’s weak yellow light.

“Zayne?” the man croaks, half-rising from the chair. His laptop is open, cursor blinking over a series of encrypted message logs. He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, grabs the back of the man’s neck, and drives the needle in cleanly behind his ear. The body slumps. No struggle. No sound. Just a heartbeat that fades and never returns.

Zayne glances at the laptop, fingers already working over the keyboard. Not for records of the original contract—he’d already erased those weeks ago. He’s looking for names. Echoes. Anyone else who accessed the job file after it was marked “complete.” What he finds sends a cold ripple through his spine: a mirrored access code. External. Burned through an anonymizer but still traceable in the backend metadata.

There’s a name. A digital fingerprint. A secondary inquiry logged by someone who had clearance—but not from the same family. Different domain. Different scent. The man in the black sedan. The one at the greenhouse.

Not working for the same people. Not following orders. Acting alone.

Zayne wipes the terminal clean, removes the drive, and closes the laptop with slow, surgical care. The body goes into the back of a van he parks behind a condemned warehouse two blocks over. That night, it’s buried six feet under an abandoned greenhouse outside the city, compost shoveled in thick layers over the grave.

He scatters lily bulbs across the soil. By spring, they’ll bloom blood-red.

There are no loose ends now, except for one and Zayne has a name,  a name, a face, and a promise: No one else touches her.

Not ever.

—

The blanket they lie on is old, worn soft by time, with its corners curled and stitching coming loose in places. She’d pulled it from the hall closet earlier that evening, laughing that it smelled like rosemary and mildew, but it had served its purpose well—spread across the patch of grass beneath the oak, away from the porch lights, half-wrapped in shadow. The air is cooler now, touched by the first hint of autumn, and the grass beneath them carries the damp memory of the day's heat, breathing up through the weave of the fabric. Above, the sky is wide and open, a dark indigo ocean scattered with stars that blink slowly, half-hidden by shifting branches that cast long, reaching silhouettes across their legs.

They’re both stretched out in parallel, shoulders just shy of brushing, but the space between them feels electric—charged, not by nerves, but by awareness. No phones buzz, no music hums softly from a speaker. There is only the steady, organic chorus of the night: cicadas rasping in waves from the treeline, the soft whisper of wind through the tall grass, the occasional rustle of leaves disturbed by some unseen thing. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn't demand conversation, only companionship, a kind of stillness neither of them had known in other lives, and they lie there suspended in it, neither moving, neither speaking, but completely present.

Zayne rests with his hands folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded, not quite closed, his breathing deep and even. To an outsider he might appear relaxed, lost in the stars like she is—but beneath his skin, every sound still registers with sniper clarity, every leaf that shifts too sharply, every break in the rhythm of the wind. His mind never fully softens, even here. But her presence at his side makes the edge duller, the silence less like a battlefield and more like a held breath he doesn't mind waiting through.

She’s quiet for a long time, fingers tangled loosely in the fraying edge of the blanket, eyes fixed upward with a look that doesn’t quite belong to the moment—distant, wide, searching. And then she speaks, barely louder than the wind, her voice steady but pulled from somewhere vulnerable.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hang in the air, light but impossible to ignore, like the scent of something blooming after dark—unexpected and intimate. She doesn’t glance at him after she says it, doesn’t gauge his reaction. Her eyes remain fixed on the stars, as if it’s safer to address them than face whatever might be in his expression. Like saying it aloud was hard enough without inviting confirmation or denial. Her breath catches slightly at the end, not quite a hitch, but a subtle tension in her chest as she waits—maybe not for an answer, but for the weight of having said it to settle somewhere inside her.

Zayne doesn't answer, at least not with words. He doesn’t shift to meet her gaze, doesn’t offer the easy comfort of reciprocation. But after a long pause, he moves his hand from behind his head and reaches across the space between them, finding her hand with a certainty that is quiet but unmistakable. His fingers thread between hers—not tentative, not testing, but firm, as if this gesture alone is his reply. Not a promise. Not a confession. But something with gravity.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or speak again. Her grip tightens slowly, gently, like she’d been waiting for something to anchor her. Her thumb brushes over his knuckles once, a silent thank-you, and though the words still echo softly between them, neither of them breaks the quiet.

And under the endless dark sky, with their hands linked and hearts laid bare in the hush of cicadas and shifting wind, neither of them moves, because whatever this is, it’s real now and neither of them is ready to let go.

–

The storm rolls in heavy, all color stripped from the sky and replaced with bruised clouds that churn and flash with the promise of something violent. Rain comes in sheets, sudden and unforgiving, hammering rooftops and rattling downspouts with a wild rhythm that turns the air electric. Zayne hears it long before the knock—feels the shift in pressure, the air thickening, the scent of ozone and soil rising through the floorboards like a warning. But it’s her silhouette in the window that tenses his shoulders, the shape of her framed in shadow and lightning.

She’s barefoot when he opens the door, toes wet and mud-speckled on the porch, the hem of her thin cotton dress clinging to her knees. Her hair is damp, curls plastered against her cheek and forehead, cheeks flushed and mouth slightly open, chest rising with the rush of running through rain. She doesn’t step inside immediately—just stands there grinning, half breathless, like this is all one big dare she hasn’t decided if she regrets.

“Tea,” she says, voice pitched with amusement, as if the word excuses everything. Her smile is crooked, teasing, but there’s something in her eyes that betrays her—something uncertain, raw, wanting. The kind of look you don’t wear for a drink. The kind of look you give someone you don’t want to leave alone anymore.

He doesn’t ask why she came. Doesn’t tell her she’s wet, doesn’t hand her a towel. He just steps aside, lets her in, and shuts the door behind her with the same quiet finality he reserves for chambering a round.

They don’t bother with the kettle because what she really came for has nothing to do with tea.

The door has barely latched behind them when she turns, still flushed from the run through the storm, rain dripping from her lashes, chest heaving beneath the cling of soaked fabric. Her fingers twitch like she wants to reach for him but hasn’t given herself permission—until she does. A hand rises, hesitant, then decisive, touching his chest just above his sternum, and she leans in without ceremony. The kiss is soft at first, trembling with restraint, a question wrapped in heat. She tastes like rain and something sweeter—like surrender held between teeth.

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. The moment her lips part against his, he steps into the space between them, crowding her back until she hits the wall, hands sliding firmly to her waist like she belongs beneath his grip. His mouth finds hers again, deeper this time, answering the question she didn’t dare ask with something elemental and sure. His breath is hot against her temple when he breaks for air, the kind of exhale that shudders through him like restraint cracking at the edges.

She gasps when he lifts her—shocked more by how easily he does it than the movement itself—her legs instinctively winding around his hips, bare thighs tightening at his sides. His hands are under her now, one bracing the small of her back, the other cupping beneath her thigh as he carries her across the room like she weighs nothing, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment she first smiled at him over seed trays and spilled tea. Rain hammers against the windows, thunder shaking the panes, but inside the world has gone narrow and burning.

He sets her on the kitchen counter, the cold marble making her arch with a startled sound that dies against his mouth. His body presses into hers, solid, overwhelming, and her fingers dive into his hair like she needs to anchor herself to something real or drown in it.

And Zayne? Zayne feels like he’s not kissing her—he’s claiming her. With his mouth, his hands, his breath and she lets him.

The counter is slick with condensation from her skin and the rain still clinging to her dress, and he doesn’t rush—he doesn’t need to. Zayne kisses her like it’s been etched into him, mouth dragging slow and deliberate along the curve of her jaw, then down her throat where he lingers, tasting her pulse. His hands work at the thin fabric clinging to her, sliding it up inch by inch, exposing her like an offering, like she’s something to be unwrapped not with urgency, but with reverence. When he pulls the dress over her head, he does it with the precision of someone unwrapping something sacred, not hurried, not rough—just steady, determined, sure.

She’s already trembling, the cold of the air mingling with the heat rising in her, her legs parting instinctively as he lowers her onto the cool countertop. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just slides his hands down the sides of her thighs, fingers drawing invisible lines, mapping every shiver like it’s telling him something. His mouth finds her collarbone, her sternum, the dip of her navel—and then lower, lower, until she’s gasping just from the proximity of his breath.

When he kisses the inside of her thigh, her body jerks, tension melting into something deeper, needier. He doesn’t go straight to where she wants him. He teases—devours the soft skin at the bend of her leg, tongue tracing fire that only delays the inevitable. And when he finally moves between her, when his tongue finds her—slow, firm, consuming—her breath hitches, then breaks.

She lets out a sound that isn’t a moan, not at first, but a whimper, a soft, shocked exhale like she wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to be wanted like this. Her fingers dive into his hair, gripping tight, hips lifting against his mouth as if her body is trying to keep pace with what he’s doing to her. Her voice fractures with each flick of his tongue, each deep stroke, each pause where he watches her with dark, focused eyes before continuing. 

Outside, thunder rolls like a heartbeat, but inside—she’s the storm, when she comes, it’s not a scream—it’s a surrender. A low, shuddering cry pulled from her very center, her thighs locked around his head, her hands shaking, his name lost somewhere in the breath she can't quite catch. And Zayne? He keeps going. Until he’s sure she won’t forget that this—his mouth, his hands, his hunger—belongs to no one else but her.

Her breath is still uneven, chest rising in shallow pulls, skin flushed from where his mouth left a trail of devotion across her body. Her fingers twitch where they rest on his shoulders, gripping the cotton of his shirt like she’s afraid to let go, like she’s not ready to lose the weight of him against her. He kisses her again—not her mouth this time, but her ribs, her hip, the inside of her wrist—each one quieter, more reverent, like punctuation in a language only they understand. And then he’s above her, between her, his gaze locked on hers with a kind of focus that borders on unholy.

He slides into her slowly, deliberately, with a groan that catches in his throat and dies against the warm skin of her neck. Her body arches into his, welcoming, trembling, wrapping around him as if she’s known this weight her whole life but never had the name for it until now. His thrusts aren’t fast, aren’t greedy—they’re measured, deep, a rhythm built on the unspoken. Each one presses the breath from her lungs, not from force, but from how close he feels—how real.

He doesn’t whisper dirty promises. Doesn’t say her name over and over like a chant.

He’s quiet—achingly so—but everything he doesn’t say is in the way he holds her, the way he presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes like this is the only place in the world he can be still. He isn’t trying to leave a mark. He isn’t trying to conquer.

He’s just… there. Fully. Undeniably.

Inside her in a way that feels less like sex and more like something old, something foundational. As if, in this moment, with her wrapped around him and her hands buried in his hair, he's saying without speaking: You’re mine. Even if you never know it. Even if you never say it back.

You already are.

She moans softly into his neck, the sound muffled by skin and storm, her fingers sliding from his shoulders to his back, nails dragging just enough to feel him shudder. Her legs tighten around his waist, holding him to her like she’s afraid he might slip through her fingers, like if she lets go the moment might dissolve. But Zayne doesn’t move fast—doesn’t chase it. He stays inside her, steady, his hips rolling with the kind of control that makes her fall apart all over again with every deliberate thrust.

Each movement sinks deep, unhurried, like he’s carving her into memory. There’s no rush in his touch—just reverence, heat, weight. His hand finds hers above her head, fingers threading through tightly, anchoring them both. She opens her eyes and sees him watching her—really watching—and something in her chest cracks open, wide and silent, like this isn’t just a man holding her. It’s him staying. Rooted.

Their bodies move together like they've done this a thousand times in some other life. He shifts just slightly, hips angling different, and her gasp punches out like it surprises her. Her back arches, and he swallows her next sound with a kiss, slow and deep, like the rhythm of his body inside hers. His other hand is on her waist, thumb brushing her skin, grounding her in a moment that feels impossible—too full, too real.

She whispers something—maybe his name, maybe nothing at all—into the shell of his ear, and it makes him tremble. Not from lust, not from control slipping, but because she wants him like this. Sees him. Without question. Without fear.

He groans again, lower this time, buried against her throat, body tightening with the weight of what he’s feeling but can’t let out. His release comes quietly, teeth clenched, muscles locked, like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want the moment to leave him. He stays inside her afterward, still hard, still trembling faintly, his face tucked into the crook of her neck, their breath tangling in slow, uneven waves.

Neither of them speaks.

She just runs her fingers through his hair, soft and absent, the same way she touches seedlings before she sets them into fresh earth. And Zayne breathes with her—in sync, shared, like he’s been chasing silence all his life and finally found a version of it he doesn’t want to escape from.

—

She thinks it’s a whim—an idea born over too many late dinners and the restless quiet that settles over them after midnight. Just a weekend trip, she says with a half-smile, somewhere green where they can drink tea outside and pretend the world doesn’t exist. She talks about wildflowers and maybe picking up a packet of heirloom seeds if they find a roadside market. Zayne nods, offers to drive, listens to her dream out loud like it wasn’t already carved into the next steps he’d laid weeks ago.

Long before she brought it up, he’d already selected the house—a two-bedroom cottage tucked into a grove off a dirt road no one travels without intention. He booked it under a shell name four identities deep, a registration that doesn’t trace to anything real. The payment was routed through a layered system of burned cards and buried crypto accounts, untraceable, disposable. While she packs clothes and gathers jars of herbs, he sits at his terminal wiping her forwarding address from three databases, planting a redirect in its place: an empty apartment in another city, already rigged to show false movement on security footage.

He doesn’t tell her what he’s doing. He doesn’t need to. Her hands are busy folding sweaters into a canvas duffel, her mind already halfway to the scent of loamy earth and morning dew. She trusts him—implicitly, without hesitation—and that’s something Zayne doesn’t take lightly. He watches her from the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, memorizing the soft hum in her throat as she packs, the way she tucks one sock into another like ritual.

When they leave just after dawn, her eyes are bright with the thrill of escape, her window rolled down to let the wind mess her hair. She doesn't ask why he takes the longer route. She just rests her hand on his knee and starts pointing out birds on fence posts, talking about names for a garden they haven’t even walked through yet. Zayne keeps his hand on the wheel, his other curled loosely around hers, and behind his calm silence, he’s already watching the road in layers—routes in, routes out, no cameras, no tails because this isn’t a break.

It’s the extraction and he’ll make sure she never has to return to what they just left behind.

The road stretches out like silk ribbon unwinding beneath the tires, long and quiet, lined with pine and low-slung fog. The sun hasn’t broken fully yet—just a pink bruise on the edge of the sky—and the cabin is filled with the steady hum of the engine, the occasional shuffle of her shifting in her seat. She sleeps curled toward the window, cheek pressed to her shoulder, breath soft and even. He keeps one hand steady on the wheel, but the other drifts—light brushes against her thigh, small, absent touches that ground him more than he’ll ever admit.

She murmurs in her sleep once, the sound slurred, soft. His name. Not his alias. His name. The real one she doesn’t know she knows. His fingers pause where they rest, a breath catching somewhere beneath his ribs. He doesn’t react outwardly, but in his mind the syllables echo—Zayne—and he files it away, precise and quiet, like tucking a blade into a belt. Not for violence. But for proof. That even in dreams, she’s reaching for him.

The moment they pass the crooked county line sign, he hits the first trigger. GPS signal reroutes through a spoofed beacon on a highway two states south. He doesn’t slow down. Just tilts his phone screen once, confirms the signal bounce, then opens the secondary server tethered to the signal relay. Purge begins. Encrypted logs are scrubbed. IP pings rerouted. Facial recognition masks uploaded to rerun loops of her entering false locations—libraries, coffee shops, train stations—all automated ghosts that will confuse any tracker with less than government-grade clearance.

Then he plants the breadcrumbs. Three separate data points: a credit card ping in Chicago, a burner number attached to a cabin rental in Oregon, and a fake pharmacy script logged under her new name in Nevada. Each one clean, shallow, intentional. Not enough to catch, just enough to chase.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift his expression. Just drives, knuckles pale, eyes calm, the woman beside him sleeping like there’s nothing left in the world trying to find her. And if Zayne has done his job right, there isn’t.

The town unfolds slowly, like a secret kept between hills and tree lines, tucked too deep into the folds of the land to show up on anything but paper maps or memory. Cell reception is thin. Gas stations have mechanical pumps. The post office shares a roof with the general store, and everyone waves at everyone whether they know them or not. The signs are hand-painted and chipped, boasting names like “Pine & Petal” and “Cassie’s Feed & Fix,” and the only currency more stable than cash is reputation—earned through presence, not paperwork.

The nursery is just past the edge of town, where the gravel road curves between two weeping willows. The sign out front sways gently in the breeze, its paint faded and soft, the script curling around a hand-painted sunflower. On her first day, Zayne walks her there, not because she needs help finding it—but because he needs to see it. Needs to know what kind of people she’ll be surrounded by, what kind of ground she’ll be standing on when he isn’t right beside her.

She meets the owner—a stout, sun-tanned woman with a voice like velvet and dirt under every fingernail—and within five minutes, they’re laughing like old friends. Zayne watches from the corner of the greenhouse as she unpacks starter trays with practiced ease, her fingers quick and sure. He listens as she tells a half-true story about growing up surrounded by bad decisions, about how the only thing that made sense back then was soil. “People ruin things,” she says, smiling softly, “but plants just… try to live. Even in the wrong place.”

The owner nods. Offers her the job before she finishes the sentence.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. Just slips away before she can look for him, leaving her with a clipboard, a watering schedule, and the first real piece of peace she’s been allowed in years. He walks back home the long way—through the woods, eyes scanning shadows—not looking for threats. Just making sure there aren’t any.

The path home winds along a dirt road lined with blackberry brambles and old fencing, the boards warped by sun and time. She walks beside him with her hands in the pockets of her dress, shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely are, the tension that usually knots between her shoulder blades finally smoothed out. The late afternoon light catches on her cheeks, and there’s a smudge of soil across her jaw that she hasn’t noticed. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does, her voice is lighter, like it no longer has to push through static just to be heard.

She smiles, the kind that isn't polished or guarded, just open, and tilts her head toward him as they near the cottage. “I forgot what it feels like,” she says, half-laughing, half in awe. “To breathe with both lungs. Like I’m not waiting for the next hit.” She doesn’t cry. But her eyes shine like she might, if she wasn’t so busy memorizing how safety feels on her tongue.

Zayne doesn’t respond. Not with words. He watches her, nods once, and reaches ahead to open the front door before she can. It’s not ceremony—it’s ritual now, the smallest act of shelter. Inside, he takes off his boots, washes his hands, and begins pulling ingredients from the pantry. Onions. Rice. Stock. His movements are fluid, practiced. He doesn’t say it, but everything in how he dices, simmers, stirs says: you’re home now.

She hums as she waters the rosemary in the windowsill. Not to fill the space. Just because she can.

He builds it behind their cottage, just beyond the blackberry hedge where the grass grows thick and the ground is soft from years of being left alone. The greenhouse rises slowly, beam by beam, frame by frame, salvaged lumber hauled from an old barn a few miles out—wood worn smooth with age but still strong. He doesn’t use power tools, doesn’t rush the process. Each cut is deliberate, measured with a craftsman’s eye and the kind of care he never shows when he's breaking bones or snapping triggers. His knuckles split more than once from splinters and hammer strikes, blood drying in thin lines across his skin.

He never wears gloves. He wants the ache. 

Wants the realness of it.

She comes outside in the mid-mornings when the light is gold and clean, balancing a mason jar of cold water with lemon slices and a little mint plucked from the porch planter. She leans against the half-finished frame, watching him work with amusement softening every edge of her voice. 

“You’re going to burn like a fool,” she says, smirking as she catches sight of his reddening shoulders and the sweat beading along his neck. 

He glances up at her, shrugs once without breaking rhythm, and keeps hammering, jaw set in that quiet way of his that means I’d rather blister than be soft. She rolls her eyes and sets the jar down beside his tool kit anyway.

He’s halfway through anchoring one of the side panels when the hammer slips, catching his thumb with a vicious crack. The hiss he lets out is low and bitten off, more pain than he usually allows to show, and he presses his mouth tight to the back of his hand as if to seal it in. She startles at first, then covers her mouth with her soil-streaked fingers and laughs—full, unrestrained, the kind of laugh that leaves her slightly doubled over. “That,” she says between giggles, “was dramatic.” Her grin is so wide it lights her whole face.

He turns to her, breath still tight, but that laugh hits something inside him hard—softer than bone but just as permanent. He doesn’t speak. Just steps forward and kisses her without warning, without plan. His hands are rough and still stained with sawdust, his mouth insistent, hungry in the quiet way only he can be. It isn’t a thank you. It’s a vow. Built beam by beam with everything he doesn’t say.

The frame is finished by dusk, clear panels slotting into place like held breath finally exhaled. The inside smells of sawdust and warm earth, of work and beginnings. The soil in the beds is freshly turned, dark and damp, rich with compost he mixed by hand. There’s no ceremony when she steps inside barefoot, hem of her dress brushing the floorboards, trowel in hand. Just a quiet kind of reverence as she kneels in the corner where the light falls best at sunset, and presses the roots of the first cutting into the earth.

Lavender, of course—soft and stubborn, fragrant even when bruised. She hums to herself as she pats the soil around it, fingers stained with the same dirt she’s been working into her new life. The leaves shiver slightly under her breath, like they know they’ve been placed somewhere safe. When she looks up at him, there’s a smudge of soil on her cheek and peace in her smile.

Zayne steps forward, silent as always, and takes the watering can without a word. The spout tilts, a slow, steady pour soaking into the roots, the water catching light like glass. He uses his right hand—the same one that had held a gun only weeks ago, finger steady, gaze cold, ending the last man who knew what her name used to be. That hand, now dappled with dirt and dew, moves with surprising care.

She watches him with quiet wonder, like she knows but doesn’t speak it and in the hush of the new greenhouse, among seedlings and shadows, he waters the first bloom of the life they’ve stolen back together. Not as a soldier. Not as a killer but as a man learning how to grow something he never meant to keep.

They’re sitting on the porch steps, the evening sun filtering gold through the trees, casting long shadows across the overgrown path leading back to the road. She’s barefoot, toes curled against the wood, sipping from a chipped glass of red wine she keeps swirling like it might reveal something at the bottom. The air is quiet, slow-moving, a hush that’s become routine between them—comfortable, unspoken, full of weight. He’s beside her, one hand resting against her thigh, thumb stroking slow arcs over the fabric of her dress.

She speaks softly, like she’s not sure it’s worth mentioning. “There was a man at the nursery today. Older. Said the violets looked like they’d been raised on patience.” She chuckles once, but it fades quickly. “Then he asked if I’d always worked with my hands. Said it like he already knew the answer.”

Zayne freezes. Completely. His wine glass hovers midair, motionless, the red liquid catching the light like blood on glass. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Every sense in him sharpens, collapses inward to the single name he’d memorized and buried: Rian Sorn. Not Caleb. Rian. Older brother. The last enforcer. Disavowed from his house after their father’s death but known for keeping blood promises long past when they were due.

“Had that strange smile,” she continues, absently. “You know the kind. Not friendly. Not creepy. Just… like he knew me. Like he was waiting to be remembered.”

Zayne slowly lowers the glass, sets it on the step without looking. His pulse doesn’t quicken—it concentrates. Thoughts click into place behind his eyes like a scope narrowing, cold and silent. He nods once, just enough for her to stop talking, and then gently shifts the conversation to something else—soil pH, basil rot, anything—because she can’t know what’s coming. Not yet but in his mind, he’s already reaching for the old tools. The knives he hasn’t touched since the last death. The burner phone no one knows he reactivated because if Rian Sorn is here, he didn’t come for flowers.

He came to finish the contract Zayne already buried and this time, Zayne doesn’t intend to leave a body anyone can find.

Rian Sorn isn’t like the others—he doesn’t work for contracts, doesn’t answer to syndicates, doesn’t need a reason beyond the weight of unfinished blood. He’s the kind of man who kills out of inheritance, not obligation. His name never appears in records; there’s no heat trail, no payment logs, no messages. Only results. Silent disappearances. Houses burned down with no arson trace. Entire bloodlines snuffed out under the guise of accidents. Ritual violence—methodical, clean, personal. And if he’s close enough to make small talk about violets, then he’s already mapped the house, the exits, the blind spots. He already knows where she sleeps.

Zayne moves differently that night. There’s no panic, no rushing—just a complete shift in rhythm, like gears locking into place. He walks the property twice, barefoot, ears tuned to every creak of wind, every bird that doesn’t sing. Inside, he checks the locks—not once, but twice, fingers brushing along bolt edges, making sure the screws haven’t been tampered with. He flips the window latches. Secures the basement access. Even resets the motion detectors, narrowing the radius to just beyond the treeline.

In the quiet of the bedroom, she’s already asleep, curled on her side in the dip she’s worn into the mattress beside his. Her breathing is slow, lips parted slightly, one hand resting across his pillow. He watches her in the dark for a long moment, reading every line of her body like scripture—where she’s most vulnerable, where she trusts without thinking. Where he’d bleed the world dry to keep her untouched.

The knife he hides beneath the bed isn’t the folding kind tonight—it’s longer, sharper, a single-edged Karambit wrapped in oil cloth. He sharpens it slowly at the kitchen table while the kettle whistles and the lights stay off. Then he places it within reach, exact angle, practiced muscle memory. When he finally lays down, it’s not to rest. It’s to wait.

He doesn’t sleep not until the sky begins to pale. Not until he’s sure Rian hasn’t come to claim what Zayne has already marked as his.

Zayne picks up the trail in silence, without fanfare, relying not on devices or drones but on the patterns that live in muscle memory. He doesn’t need GPS when he knows how a predator moves—doesn’t need a name when he has behavior. Caleb—or Rian, he knows now—has been cautious, skilled, leaving no digital trace, but he’s not invisible. Zayne catches the first break when he spots the faint shimmer of heat in a parking lot near the edge of town—an exhaust signature too fresh for how still the car looks, parked at a blind curve near the woods. The thermal haze rises in waves from the tailpipe, subtle, nearly lost in the afternoon glare. It’s a trick he learned in Prague, when heat was the only language you could trust and every breath might get you killed.

That night, Zayne uses one of the few remaining contacts he hasn’t burned—an old fixer who owes him for a job that saved her life and took someone else's. The message is simple, clean: a digital tip-off that the girl is using an alias and just got spotted in New Mexico. Zayne even attaches a blurred photo—low resolution, plausible enough, timestamped for twenty minutes in the future and pinged through a burner signal off a modified dashcam.

The bait is too perfect to ignore, and the timing is surgical. Rian, meticulous and hungry for closure, takes it. By the time he moves—quick but not rushed, confident enough to fall for the misdirection—Zayne is already one step ahead. The false sighting routes him toward the old nursery’s delivery zone, an overgrown backlot once used for storing soil, pallets, broken tools. It's a dead space now, no witnesses, no cameras, a fence with a single weak link that only someone tracking a trail would push through.

Zayne waits in the shadow of the half-collapsed greenhouse, crouched behind a rusted steel rack, heartbeat steady, knife ready, eyes fixed on the path. The wind stirs loose paper and pollen. The dirt here smells like memory and rot. And when Rian steps into the clearing—silent, curious, reaching for the last breadcrumb—Zayne moves because this is where it ends. Not in bloodlines. 

Not in threats, but in a grave no one will dig but him.

The clearing is silent but tense, every insect gone still, the branches holding their breath. Zayne doesn’t give a warning—there’s no sharp callout, no monologue. Just movement, explosive and lethal, as he lunges from the greenhouse’s ruined frame like a blade in motion. His boots skid across packed dirt as he closes the distance in three quick strides. Rian barely registers the shape bearing down on him before instinct kicks in, knife flashing out from beneath his jacket, but it’s too late—Zayne is already on him.

Their bodies collide with a bone-jarring crack, momentum carrying them both sideways into the delivery shed’s rusted wall. Zayne drives a knee into Rian’s ribs, catching the wind out of him, then follows with an elbow to the temple that makes the other man grunt and stagger. Rian recovers fast, trained—he swings low with the knife, a practiced arc aimed for Zayne’s thigh. Zayne twists, the blade grazing cloth, not skin, and responds with a brutal hook that snaps Rian’s head back. There’s no choreography here—this is dirty, close, every blow meant to maim or drop.

Rian spits blood, face curling into a grin that’s half malice, half respect. “Knew it’d be you,” he growls through grit teeth. Zayne says nothing. Just slams his forearm into Rian’s throat, knocking him into a stack of plastic pots that scatter with a crash.

They wrestle into the mulch beds, slipping in compost, the smell of fertilizer sharp in the air. Rian lands one solid punch to Zayne’s jaw—makes his vision blur white at the edges—but Zayne absorbs it, turns the pain inward, and redirects the force with a twist of his hips. His knife comes up, low and brutal, slicing across Rian’s abdomen in a single, controlled stroke—hip to sternum. The sound isn’t dramatic. Just wet. Final.

Rian staggers backward, clutching his guts like they’ll stay in place by sheer will. His legs buckle. He drops to his knees in the dirt, fingers twitching in the mulch, trying to rise again even as blood pools beneath him. He gasps—chokes once—then folds forward, face pressing into soil.

Zayne watches, chest rising slow, calm. His hand doesn’t shake. His breath doesn’t falter. He looks down on the dying man like a gardener pulling weeds by the root. No rage. No gloating.

Just precision.

Just necessary removal and when Rian’s final breath rattles out through blood and spit, Zayne kneels. He grips the body by the collar and begins dragging it into the dark edge of the clearing—toward the shallow pit already carved beneath the compost tarp, because this isn’t vengeance.

It’s maintenance 

The wind shifts just enough to carry the sound of something wrong—metal scraping, a grunt swallowed by mulch, the final wet thud of a body hitting ground. She sets down the seed trays she was sorting, suddenly breathless, the hairs on her arms lifting like static. No one called her name. Nothing in the air says danger aloud. But she moves anyway, slow but certain, down the overgrown side path that leads to the back of the old nursery where she was told not to go.

Her boots crunch over shattered pots and torn landscape fabric, the scent of blood sharp and out of place in the sun-warmed dirt. When she rounds the corner of the collapsed greenhouse frame, her breath catches—but she doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t collapse. Doesn’t run. Zayne is there, crouched low beside the body like a storm paused mid-movement. His shirt is torn across one shoulder, blood slick down his arms to the elbows, one hand still clutched around the hilt of a blade so red it glistens.

He looks up, and in that moment, he doesn’t look like the man who fixes her sink or makes her tea or knows how she likes her toast just barely burnt. He looks like something older, carved from ash and oath, shaped by violence in the quiet way war is—not fire, but pressure. His eyes are not pleading, not defensive. Just watching. Waiting.

Her gaze shifts from the body to his face, then to the blood on his hands. She doesn’t ask who the man was. Doesn’t ask what he did. She knows. She’s always known and instead of breaking under the truth, she simply breathes it in.

“You did that for me,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, but carved from something unshakable. It isn’t a question. It’s a truth, spoken like a thread pulled taut and tied.

He says nothing. He couldn’t explain it if he tried. He just looks at her with the weight of everything he’s done—for her, to keep her, to build a life neither of them believed they’d survive long enough to live. There’s something unspoken in his expression, burning low and furious, like he’d do it all again and not blink and then she does the only thing that matters.

She steps into the bloodstained quiet, past the corpse, past the fear, past the violence, places her hand on his face, and holds him. Not like a man who’s broken.

But like one worth saving.

The porch is quiet beneath them, the night air soft and threaded with the scent of soil and cut grass. The moon hangs heavy and full above the treeline, its light glinting off the rim of her mug as she cradles it in both hands. The tea has long gone cold, but she hasn’t let it go, just rests it on her knees like a keepsake she’s not ready to part with. Her eyes are half-lidded, the exhaustion of the day tucked just behind her quiet, steady breathing. She hasn't spoken in a while, and he hasn't filled the silence—he never does. Some part of him knows silence is a kind of safety, too.

Zayne sits beside her, legs braced apart, elbows resting on his knees. His hands are scrubbed raw, fingertips still faintly pink from the cleaning they took after Rian. The scars across his knuckles are old but tight tonight, skin stretched and healing slow. There’s a kind of stillness to him that’s different from calm. Like he’s holding his breath somewhere under his ribs, waiting for something to finish settling in the air around them.

Without ceremony, without pause, he pulls something from his pocket. Not the usual folded paper, not a new ID packet. Just a small, square box—worn at the corners like it’s been in his coat too long. He holds it in his palm for a second before handing it over, gaze fixed not on her but the shadows moving just beyond the porchlight.

“This isn’t backup,” he says, voice low. “It’s not about running. It’s not a new name or a file to burn.” He glances at her now, just once, eyes fierce with something he rarely lets show. “It’s a future. If you want it.”

She looks down at the box in her hands, not moving, not breathing, then opens it with fingers slow and careful. Inside: a ring. Simple. Silver. Worn like his hands, forged for use, not flash. But beautiful, in the way something becomes beautiful when it’s meant.

Her throat tightens. Not from surprise. From understanding. From the weight of everything he’s never said until now. “You had this?” she whispers, voice cracking like the night itself.

He nods once. “A while.” Then, softer: “I didn’t want to offer it until I knew I could protect what it meant.”

She says nothing at first. Just reaches out and places the box down beside her, then shifts and leans fully into him, head against his shoulder, hand slipping down to find his. She squeezes. Hard. Like grounding herself to the moment so it doesn’t vanish.

“You really think we get that?” she murmurs. “A future?”

 He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again—sharp, green, unblinking.

“Since you,” he says. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t have to,  just laces their fingers together and stays pressed to his side until the moon slips west and the mug in her lap is cold and forgotten.

And Zayne, for once, lets himself hope.

The ceremony is unceremonious in the way only the truest things are. No audience. No rehearsed lines. Just a morning that begins like any other—with coffee that she forgets on the windowsill, and him quietly ironing his one good shirt at the kitchen table, jaw tight with concentration as he avoids the patch that never quite sits flat. Her dress is simple, linen the color of rain-bleached stone, and her hands still carry the soft scent of mint and clay from the greenhouse—because even on the day she marries him, she couldn't resist tending her seedlings.

They walk out together just past noon, barefoot in the grass still wet from the morning’s dew. The old oak at the edge of the property stands like a sentinel, its branches heavy with age, framing the clearing where bees hum low around wildflowers in accidental rows. There’s no music, just birdsong and wind and the sound of her breath hitching when he takes her hand. He’s not holding a script. There is no officiant. Just them, and the silence of something sacred blooming without spectacle.

They stand beneath the tree and say nothing for a long while. No promises out loud. No recited declarations. Just the look they share—a gaze full of every night they spent surviving, every morning they chose to stay. When it’s time, Zayne doesn’t say “I do” like he’s reciting a ritual. He says it low, quiet, voice grounded like the soil beneath them.

Like he’s not just agreeing to love her but swearing to root himself beside her. To grow something together that no one—not ghosts, not debt, not blood—can dig up again. She doesn’t cry. Just steps forward, slips a small sprig of rosemary into the loop of his belt where a blade once rested. 

“For remembrance,” she murmurs, fingertips brushing his waist.

He catches her hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses her palm like it’s the center of the world, like it’s already his and in that patch of wild grass and wind, they are married—not by law, not by witness, but by the earth itself.

The cottage is warm with a kind of hush that feels earned, stone walls holding the heat of the fire flickering low in the hearth. The logs crack softly, throwing ribbons of orange across the wooden floor, across the bed they made themselves earlier that day—simple sheets, thick wool blanket, lavender tied with twine above the headboard, perfuming the room like memory. Rain whispers against the windows in gentle pulses, steady, private. The storm isn’t wild. It’s intimate. Like it came only to witness this.

She steps away from him without a word, untying the sash at her waist with slow, sure fingers. The linen dress slips from her shoulders, puddling around her ankles as she stands in the firelight—bare, unhurried, her skin kissed gold by the flicker of flame. She doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t shy away from the way he’s looking at her. She just watches him watching her, the shadows moving across her collarbones, the slight swell of her breath. And when she climbs into his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, she does it like ritual, like every inch of her already knows where to go.

His breath catches the moment she sinks down onto him, a soft, broken sound exhaled against her throat. Her hands brace against his shoulders, steadying herself as she takes all of him in one slow, aching stroke. He groans, low and guttural, pressing his forehead to her chest as his hands slide up the smooth length of her back, then down again to grip her hips with the kind of strength that says I will never let you go. Not in this life. Not in any.

She begins to move—slow rolls of her hips, deep and deliberate—and he doesn’t rush her. Doesn’t take control. He just watches. Watches the way her mouth parts, the way her lashes flutter, the way she bites back soft, strangled sounds when he shifts just right inside her. Each thrust is measured, more pressure than pace, his hands guiding, grounding her. She whimpers his name, voice thin with pleasure, full of trust.

And then he says hers.

The first time.

Rough and reverent, like something pulled from the bottom of his chest—something he never dared give voice to until now. Like it’s not just her name. It’s his home. tags: @blessdunrest @starmocha

[sylv-tf]

Just ReLAX

"Shit, not the fucking door too man!" cussed Connor as the door to his dorm's shared bathroom laid sideways in the frame, having just fallen off its hinges. College was supposed to be his big new start, but everything in this first day had been shit. He missed his first class going to the wrong building, had the tires on his bike stolen, and at the end of it all he had to walk back to his run-down dorm building where the hot water still wasn't working... and now the door.

"Fuck it, I'll just play some WoW or something," he said, walking over to his computer setup. Within five minutes though, he was up again, having discovered the internet connection was so bad he couldn't even log in. It was still early afternoon outside, the sunlight filtering in through the dusty window of his dorm. At the very least he could make sure he knew where his next class was, so he didn't miss it like the first one. Throwing his ratty shoes and loose-fitting knitted sweater on, he headed out the door. Thankfully this one didn't fall off like the last one, but he still just felt tense as he walked out the building's lobby and into the afternoon sun.

His dorm building sat just off the campus quad, which at this point in the day was filled with both students rushing to class and those doing anything to avoid it. As Connor walked across the cracked sidewalks that crisscrossed the green lawn he couldn't help but notice the number of guys just relaxing in the sun. It was hard not to feel outclassed, comparing his greasy brown hair, sweater, and loose jeans to their clean cuts and perms and athletic clothes that draped ever so perfectly against well-defined muscles.

Whatever, he knew he was a nerd. It was fine. Why should he care about fitting in - he didn't in high school anyways. He'd just keep on with his online friends... unless they got busy. That could be a problem. Well, he couldn't even worry about that now since the internet sucked. Maybe his suitemate would know how to fix it? No, they hadn't even moved in yet. And what are the chances they'd even speak to him after he already broke the bathroom door! Fuck, he'd have to get that fixed soon. Where was the maintenance office? Wait, no he was supposed be looking for his next cla-

WHAM

Connor felt a sharp pain on the back right of his skull and the world seemed to spin and flash white for a bit. When he finally got a hold of himself he was looking up at the sky... and there was some guy in orange and white on top of him. Was he... talking? His mouth was moving at least...

"...ro. ...ey, bro ar... ... Bro? Bro, are you okay?"

"Ugh... yeah, I guess, what happened?" replied Connor. The guy above him seemed to lean back a bit after hearing him speak. His bright ginger curls looked fiery in the sun, and dang, he was kinda built too. Was he an athlete? "Yo, I'm so sorry man. I was laxing out with my bro, Casey, and you looked like you zoned out right in the middle of our pass. Freaked me out when you just stopped moving like that, can't like."

"Oh... uh, sorry? I didn't notice I guess. Was kinda wrapped up in my own thoughts or something." Connor couldn't help but mumble. The day just couldn't get any worse could it.

Meanwhile, the ginger hunk squatting over him just turned slightly and yelled back over his shoulder, "Yo, Casey, hurry up with the ice would ya'? And grab a drink too, this guy looks like he could use it!"

He turned back to Connor now, "Nah bro, you're all good. It just happens sometimes. You seemed super stressed out so, I get it bro. Casey and I are like that too right before a big game, but then you like, lock in super hard when the whistle blows and it all washes away and shit."

Connor just stared blankly at this mystery man, clearly from a different world than his own. "Uh... right." As he sat up straight, he felt the burly hand of this ginger "bro" hold his shoulder steady, directing his gaze towards another guy, presumably Casey, jogging over with a wet-looking blue bag and a sports bottle.

"Zach, I got the stuff. How's he doing?" Casey was similarly built to the ginger guy, who Connor assumed to be Zach, but with straight brown hair, squatted down on his left and handed him the drink.

"Where does it hurt bro? We got an ice pack for you."

Sheepishly, Connor accepted the drink and started to look around. There were a few stray glances from passerby, but thankfully it didn't look like he caused a scene... "Just the back right of my head, I can get it," he replied, taking the ice pack with his free hand and holding it to his head.

The cold was sharp but quickly became soothing as it spread from the base of his neck to the rest of his head. As he took a sip of the drink too, he found it tasted oddly good. There was a distinctive metallic note to it, but mostly it was a fruit punch flavor with lots of pineapple and orange. Before he knew it, Connor had downed the whole bottle.

"Fuck, that tasted really good? What is that anyways?"

Casey spoke up, "It's Coach's recipe for the lax team. Gatorade but with his special blend of electrolytes and shit, more or less."

"Huh, so you guys play... lax? Is that a sport, I guess?"

Zach and Casey laughed. "Lacrosse bro. It's sick, you ever played?"

"Nah, look at me man. I haven't played anything in my life." Zach seemed to give the faintest smirk to Casey. "You sure bro?" At this point he began to stand up, and with Casey lifted Connor up by his arms. "I've got a hard time believing someone with these arms doesn't at least work out."

Connor glanced down at his arms. They didn't look particularly built. Well, were they always that tan? He moved them up and down, flexing them a bit. They weren't as twiggy as he thought they were... huh.

"Nah, I really didn't play anything. Guess it's just natural?"

Casey responded, "Fuck bro, if that's natural you've definitely gotta lax out. Come over here."

The two athletes practically pulled Connor along towards their bags, which had been sitting out on the ground a ways away. Connor could see sticks with nets on the ends sticking out, a number of pieces of what looked like chest pads, white rubber balls (presumably what he just got hit with) and a number of other things he didn't quite recognize.

Zach, meanwhile, had already grabbed a set of pads and a stick and was heading back to Connor. "Here bro, throw this over your head," he said, tossing him the pads.

"What?"

"Just do it bro, you don't wanna get beamed with the rock again, right? Casey's got a lid for you too."

Connor looked uncertain but seeing both guys smiling was enough to win him over. "Hey," he thought, "may as well see what it's like to be an athlete for a bit." He struggled briefly with the pads before Zach helped to slide them into place over his shoulders. They felt a bit heavy, but it felt kinda nice too. He was still chilly from the ice pack and the heaviness just made him feel... calm. Or maybe just chilled out?

Casey came in quick with the helmet from the left. Connor had only caught a glimpse of it before. It looked wild, being mostly white but with burgundy and gold decals all along it. Wait... those were the university colors. Was this a helmet from the lacrosse team?

Connor took a step back from Casey. "Wait, guys, is this university property? That's a bit too much for me, I mean I'm just-"

Casey was already at his side and the helmet came down. The inside was soft, not at all what he expected from how jagged the outside looked. It was kind of dark as well, though he could see through the first gap between the bars on the front. Was he actually wearing the school helmet? Was he wearing sports gear right now? In public? What would people think?

Connor could feel and hear the two athletes still strapping on elbow pads but at the same time he felt that calm from before. Did it really matter? He was just trying it out. And the two players with him would clear up any confusion, since they seemed like bros. Yeah... this was fine actually.

He reached up to adjust his helmet a bit as Casey approached with a stick. "Here bro, just follow along with Zach and I and we'll teach you the basics. Just relax."

Connor's mind was blank. Whatever Casey and Zach said was what he did. Learning how to hold his spoon, passing around the rock, stationary at first and then while running. Somehow, no matter what he did he never felt tired. And when the group got thirsty, Coach's drink was always close at hand. As the sun began to set, Zach and Casey called it in.

Connor, like the other two, was drenched in sweat. He didn't even really remember taking his sweater and shirt off, but he must have at some point, because he was bare torso in the setting sun. But man, his body really was better than he gave it credit for. Zach had even said his genetics were crazy to have abs without working out. And Connor felt great. Amazing even! What was he even worried about earlier today? Nothing important, he was sure.

"Zach, Casey, bros. Lax is like, crazy dope dudes."

Zach was the first to reply. "Bro, it's insane you've never laxed before, you picked it up crazy fast. You should honestly talk to Coach. He's got walk-ons next week and if you work with him and us a bit more, I bet you could clinch a spot."

"No way bro, that's crazy. Play for the school? I'm not as good as you two."

Casey butted in. "Bro, you're insane for a newbie. Trust the process, bro. You'd be on in no time. In fact, we should head over now so you can meet him. Help us pack and shit, and we'll jog over. You down?" "Damn bro, really? Fuck yeah, let's do it."

----------

Needless to say, the walk-on tryouts were a bit of a blowout. With Coach's guidance, Connor was a standout performer, ready to take the field for the team and crush their opponents every time. His new shorter haircut that Coach recommended suited him, just like his new number, #17, and his new carefree, cocky attitude. And like the loyal bros they are, Zach and Casey made sure to grab a picture with their new recruit at media day.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

The Nights

Pairing: Legend x Reader

Warning(s): none, but reader is assumed female for having a period.

Notes: Written for the bestest big sis ever, @h4wari, ALSO inspired by the song "Some Say" by Nea

Masterlist

It had been a day.

A terrible, rotten, no-good day that had you wishing for the ground to simply swallow you up once and for all. Not even Wind's cheerful chatter could assuage the annoyance you felt upon waking up before the sun to an unholy pain in your abdomen and tell-tale stickiness on the seat of your pants. It was only by the grace of whatever deities existed that you managed to sneak away from the group with your dignity intact, several thick rags stuffed in your tunic. The nearby river was mercifully abandoned as you took care of business, grumbling about the throbbing in your lower half.

The rest of the afternoon passed similarly, with you distinctly remembering silencing several of Twilight's concerned gazes, his nose slightly wrinkled, with a look patented specifically for situations like these, all the while dodging Wind's queries on why you were walking funny. The sailor's worry was cute, you had to admit, but it was the last thing you wanted to experience when you were currently aching and bleeding.

That didn't mean there weren't saving graces, of course. You had nearly cheered when multiple breaks were taken for seemingly no reason and almost shed tears when it was suggested that the group stay at the inn of the town you were passing through.

"Rough day?"

You practically jumped when Legend plopped down beside you, hands resting in his lap as he gazed curiously at you. You shrugged, bracing yourself when the log rocked slightly at the added weight. The sun shone through the gaps of the trees like a beacon, bathing you in tangerine light; you had been unable to relax in your room, so the log at the back of the inn seemed the next best place.

"It's fine," your stomach throbbed in a way that was undoubtedly not fine. "I'm fine."

"Funny, because I don't believe you," Legend said like he was merely pointing out the weather, and your neck nearly cracked with the force with which you turned to glare at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Unexcused," he said without missing a beat. Your eye twitched. "I'm not a child, (Y/n)–"

"You sure act like it–"

"–And I can tell when someone's in pain," there was a sharp look in his eyes that you weren't sure you liked, especially when another spike of pain tore through your abdomen, followed by a rush of wetness that had you wishing for death. "Especially when it's someone I know."

You raised an eyebrow, trying and failing to hide your discomfort. The way his violet eyes studied your face was unnerving, but you couldn't help but notice the other emotion lurking at the very center of his gaze.

Was it...concern? The very thought seemed preposterous--a mere wish taken from the depths of your subconscious--but the longer you looked, the longer you knew it was true.

Legend was concerned for you, and you had no fucking idea how to proceed. If there was any comfort in the terrible reality of having periods, it was that you always knew what to do when they arrived, but now, you were floundering. Badly.

What were you to do? Console him? Tell him to fuck off and mind his own damn business? Ask what in Hyrule had possessed him?

Legend's mouth moved once more, and you realized he was going to decide for you.

"I have something for you."

You blinked. Twice, then thrice.

"You have what?"

"Something," he shrugged, not bothering to elaborate as he rifled through his pack. "For you."

"...That's ominous," you said, not quite knowing how to proceed. On one hand, it was sweet, but on the other... "Dare I ask what you're plotting?"

Legend paused to fix you with an unamused gaze. "Woooow, can't a guy be generous without criticism?"

"Not when it's you," you shot back, wincing when a terrible shock shot up your spine. It was simultaneously too hot and too cold, and you were practically on your last wits.

"I'm generous all the time," the Vet scoffed. "You just never noticed."

"Because you're an asshole."

"So are you," he rolled his eyes, and you were forced to accept the terrible predicament of him being right, though it didn't stop you from gaping and wondering why his head hadn't exploded from the sheer rage in your gaze. "Here."

All your thoughts skidded to a stop when he tossed a gray square-shaped object into your lap. It was soft and round, with gentle edges, but the most startling observation you made was how warm it was. You lifted the square, marveling in the sheer amount of heat soaking into your palms.

"It's a heat pack," Legend explained quietly, averting his eyes from your face, expression uncharacteristically shy. "It's supposed to help with cramps and... all that."

All that.

You were silent, holding his gift like the treasure it was. It had been so long since anyone had been this thoughtful, and the fact that it was from Legend, of all people, baffled you to no end.

"Why?" you asked... and immediately felt dumb for it; you understood why, it was just...

"Because you're a lot less annoying when you're not in pain," Legend responded and you paused to contemplate what exactly you had seen in him. It wasn't a secret that he was blunt and snarky, just as capable of being a true asshole as he was being a decent person.

"Right," you studied the square for a long moment. "Where did you even get this?"

There was a pause.

Your eyebrows shot skyward when he blushed. The Veteran, king of sarcasm and plentiful digs at one's character, grew redder than his tunic in the face of a simple question. One thing was clear; whatever his answer was, it would be good.

"Legend."

Silence, save for the rustling trees and swaying grasses. You shielded your eyes against a stray ray of sunlight, biting your lip when another bout of pain stabbed your stomach.

"It's not going to work unless you use it," the Vet mumbled, still refusing to look at you. You immediately placed the pack against your abdomen, and, fuck, did it feel good. It was a battle unto itself to keep any... pleasured noises at bay when delicious warmth soaked directly into your poor, tired muscles.

Violet eyes flicked to you, then back down to the grass by his boots. You pretended not to see anything.

"Thank you," the words felt thick on your tongue. "This... thank you."

"It's nothing," the hero responded slowly, though the flush on his cheeks hinted that it was anything but. It was cute that he was so flustered, even if he was also being a jerk about it. "...I should go inside."

You watched him stand, deftly wiping imaginary dust from legs, and considered letting the moment end. It was late, and you were exhausted.

But.

"You made it, didn't you?"

Legend froze, boots kicking up some grass from how hard he stopped. You stayed quiet as he stood with his back to you, nearly motionless. A long minute passed before he turned, cheeks pinker than a cherry blossom tree at the height of spring.

"Yeah."

You pressed the pack closer, relishing as more heat swept into your aching skin. "How?"

"Does it matter?" Legend's response was sharp as his arms crossed over his chest, and it was a response you knew well. He had always been guarded, even when no one was there to hurt him.

"Maybe," you said, smiling ever-so-slightly. It felt good to grin again, like life had finally decided to act in your favor. "I'm just curious."

Legend rolled his eyes, lips twisting into a sneer that was so unadulteratedly him that you had to look away for a second, though the expression didn't reach his eyes, which were bright and focused. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that curiosity killed the remlit?"

"Just now," you managed a chuckle when he blinked, clearly not expecting a response. "But satisfaction brought it back."

The Hero of Legends was silent, until the mask cracked and a low chuckle escaped him. Maybe it was the dusk, casting a golden glow on his skin, or the breeze, ruffling his strawberry-blonde hair in a manner than would never not be him, but you felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to enact a move only accomplished in fairytales and dreams.

You rose to your feet, clutching the pack closer as your muscles screamed in protest, and hobbled over to him, one hand resting on the smooth fabric covering his right shoulder. Legend stiffened, eyes widening when you pressed the softest of kisses to his cheek. He stuttered something, cheeks practically exploding with color, but you were already gone, headed to your room with warm cheeks and a satisfied expression.

Legend knew he was in deep shit.

He had watched you all day, noting the way you clutched your stomach when you thought no one was looking, or the face you made when Wild mused about making stew for the fifth time in a row. Don't get him wrong, he loved stew, but the expression on your face was enough to have him butting in to suggest they expand their culinary horizons to fried rice. Twilight, the bastard, had given him a shockingly astute gaze, followed by a soft head tilt in your general direction, but Legend had contained himself impressively, only responding with a certain finger pointedly raised in the air.

When night had fallen, he followed you out of the inn for some goddess-forsaken reason, clutching an item he had spent an embarrassing amount of time making. Heat packs weren't difficult to enchant, but the process was nonetheless finicky--with a single wrong move capable of rendering the thing useless--and he wasn't interested in handing you anything but the best. He had a reputation to uphold, for Hylia's sake!

Until you kissed him.

It wasn't even romantic, the Vet reasoned, just a gesture of appreciation from you to him. Nothing more, nothing less. That is, if he had been able to excuse the feeling of your lips against the skin of his cheek as anything but perfect, so soft and warm that it threw him for a loop for a solid minute. It had been a miracle that he hadn't collapsed on the spot, still reeling from the situation.

And now, even as he walked down the moonlit hallway to his room, the thoughts of you were still there. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Kiss you? Confess the crush he had been nursing for weeks? Ignore everything and pretend he was above this like he always did?

No, Legend reasoned, hand falling on the doorknob. He was many things, but a coward wasn't one of them. He pushed the door open, only to freeze when he caught sight of what was inside.

It was you, because who else would it be, with a look of barely-disguised realization on your face. An identical room key dangled from your grasp, and Legend could have cursed whoever decided to give that damn rancher control of room assignments for the night.

"...I can explain," you began, though it was obvious you couldn't. The key jingled when you brought it up to the light. "Twilight–"

"Yeah," Legend cut you off with a short wave, closing the door behind him. The silence was deafening, and just staring at each other was getting really awkward. "He's an ass."

"I wouldn't say an 'ass'," you chided, though it was half-hearted at best. Legend noticed you were bereft of your usual tunic, dressed in only a shirt with no sleeves and some ratty trousers. He couldn't recall seeing you like this before, but it wasn't an unwelcome change. The subtle bulge around your abdomen indicated that you had made good use of the pack, and that was pleasing in its own right. "...But he doesn't skimp on causing trouble."

"...So he's an ass."

You snorted, embarrassment fading as you rested your hands on your hips. "Har har, very funny."

"I wasn't joking."

"You were."

"Nope."

"Yes."

"N–"

"You're fucking lucky I don't have the mental fortitude for this right now."

Legend fell silent, finally noticing the bags under your eyes, not to mention the way you seemed to hunch in on yourself, one hand pressed to your belly, and it was enough to make him actually consider his next words carefully.

"...Is it working?"

He knew it was a dumb question, but someone had to ask it.

Your expression softened and you nodded, brushing some hair behind your ear, gaze flicking to the bed. Legend tried not to blush any more than he already was. "...It's getting late."

"...Yeah."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. It was a sound he had heard many times, typically when someone had decided to be a pain in the ass, but he had always tried to keep it from being directed specifically at him. "Don't look so scared, I'm not kicking you out."

Legend blinked. "You... aren't?"

You rolled your eyes. "Of course not," your tone was light, and it made him feel a bit better about the situation. "We can share."

Share. Share.

He was familiar with the word, of course, and it would have been no big deal with literally anyone else, but the thought of sharing a bed with you was... well, it seemed too good to be true.

"Unless you're uncomfortable," you amended quickly, the tiniest hint of red blooming over your cheeks. "I'm sure Wind and Four–"

"No!" Legend could have cursed himself for sounding so desperate, but the mere thought of spending the night alone left a bitter taste in his mouth. "I mean–... we can share."

You nodded, the ghost of a smile on your lips, and made your way to the bed. The sheets rustled as you slipped beneath them, shuffling over to make room for him. Legend used those few precious seconds to remove his boots and red tunic, setting them carefully atop the provided dresser next to your own clothes. His belt was placed next to the pile, the edge hanging down to brush the hilt of his sword.

By the time he was ready for bed, you had already dozed off, curled on your side with both arms around your stomach. Legend allowed himself to smile, sliding into the empty spot beside your form. The bed was firm enough to be comfortable, not to mention a lot less lumpy than expected, but he would have slept on the floor itself if you were there.

A quiet whimper broke through the silence.

Legend shot up like a spring, scanning the room for threats before focusing his gaze on you. The bed creaked as you rolled onto your back with a noise of discomfort, brows furrowed and eyes screwed shut. Your shoulders trembled noticeably and his heart felt like it was being stretched in a million directions.

You were cold, in pain, or possibly both.

Legend knew he had to fix it.

With ninja-like stealth, he crept from the bed, snagging his tunic off the dresser. You made another noise when he tucked the item around your form like a second blanket, pulling the comforter all the way up to your chin, deftly ignoring the somersaulting feeling in his stomach at the sight of his tunic over you. It was neither the time nor place to be pleased at... whatever this was, so Legend smoothed the bedsheets and settled atop them. It was a warm night, so he wasn't worried about getting chilled as he pulled you close, arms encircling your form.

A sigh left your mouth and your head turned to the side, settling in the junction between his neck and shoulder like you belonged there. You were asleep, the Vet knew, and would likely not remember any of this come morning, but he allowed himself to lay his head just above yours, letting your scent wash over him as he fell into the best sleep of his life.

I just realized that Twi is literally a wingman in every one of my stories, he'll get his turn eventually <33

[mariishka]

I am cruel (and you’re still here) [1]

Pairing — Gojo Satoru x Fem! Reader

Part 2;

Summary — You meet the most obnoxious guy ever in some online shooter lobby.

Unfortunately for you, xX6Eyes6Xx is incredibly clingy and won’t leave you alone. He’s obviously not properly socialized, apparently he’s some sort of genius prodigy, who’s stuck at home. With his non-existent charm, he is able to worm himself into your messy life.

As it turns out, he’s not as bad as you thought. He’s especially practical to have around when your house starts to become haunted, by something that you’ve been carrying around for years.

Tags: Idiots to Friends to Lovers; Mention of Parent Loss; Gojo is chronically online; Reader has anger issues; Reader is Gojo‘s first friend

———

Your first slammed down on your wooden desk. Voices boomed through your headset, which just felt like blades in your ears. Right before your eyes laid your player: Completely dead. A grenade hit your head and before you realized it you got shanked from behind.

This fucking guy. You have known him for longer than you’d like to admit. No matter what you do, he ends up on your lobby with the different variations of the same username. It always included something about six and eyes. Whatever the hell that means.

His laugh echoed in your ears, and before you could stop yourself you pulled out the chat.

[Reader]: I hope only bad tings happen to you.

[Reader]: You useless

[Reader]: Unloved

“Awww, are you going to throw a tantrum?” His taunting, puberty riddled voice cooed at you.

[Reader]: GO K1LL Y0URS3LV

BANNED

With quick, choppy movements you ripped your headset off and threw it across the room. Since it was connected to your desktop, it didn’t fly far. Once again you raised your fist, and banged it against the edge of your table. The pain felt freeing.

Angry tears started to gather in your eyes, and sobs wrecked your body. You weren’t sad, this isn’t your first ban and it won’t be your last, you were just so fucking angry. Things get under your skin quickly. No matter the offense, it always immediately hits your many soft spots.

The air was stuffy in your room, the summer heat was merciless and downright oppressive. If only it wasn’t so humid. Pushing away from your desk with your chair, you slammed your knees into the floor and with that you just plugged your whole pc off. Sitting under your desk, you wiped away your tears.

Now, this is why you never participate in voice chats. Besides the fact that you’re a girl, you’d embarrass yourself simply by how high pitched your voice gets.

Covering your mouth with your hands, you screamed into them. Your feet came drumming down on the wooden floor. It’s already enough that you live in some remote village, where you just got wifi a year ago, and your PC has the audacity to piss you off? Your grandparents pay for you to get angry? Yeah, no.

And still you logging daily. What are you? An idiot? Probably, since some 13 year old was able to cyber stalk and bully you and you let it get to you. At this point, you should just delete this stupid game and spend all your time on Sims.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, trying to stop the tears from running down your cheeks by applying pressure. This is getting ridiculous. Well, throwing a tantrum in your room, under your desk, is better than you beating up your classmates. It’s either tantrum or violence.

With a heavy breath, you wiped your face clean and crawled out. The air was horrible in your room. Blessed be the ground floor. Standing up, you brushed your hands over your knees. With more force than you intended, you slammed the fusuma open. It immediately opened to the engawa. Glancing over the shrine grounds, you could see your grandmother sweep the floor. For what, you weren’t too sure.

Her sharp eyes went to you, and you cringed away from the glare she shoot you. Not slamming the doors, and whatever else she keeps trying to drill into your head.

“Do we have ice cream?” You yelled the question out.

She rolled her eyes, but tension left her body. “Not for you!” She yelled back, a slight teasing tone in her voice.

You rolled your eyes at her, waving her off. Shuffling your feet across the floor, you made your way to the kitchen. As you were digging through the freezer, you pulled out some ice cream. While you were at it, you pulled an ice cub to hold in your hand. With ice cream in your mouth, you also started to rub the ice around your eyes. To help with puffiness.

And before you realized it, your grandfather snuck up on you. And with his charm, he roped you into helping him with some projects around the grounds. From holding the flashlight, to giving him his tools, you were kept busy. He finally fixed the bike rack beside the house. It kept falling over to your dismay.

Once the sun started to disappear behind the mountains, you were back in your room. Your knees scrapped across the floor while you crawled back under your desk. Plugging your PC back in, you nearly hit your head. Thank god, you were able to avoid a concussion.

It took a hot minute, or two, or ten for your desktop to load up. Swinging your legs while sitting in your chair, you finally felt calm enough to start another round. Hopefully the boy is in bed by now and you’re un-banned.

A friend request popped up on TeamSpeak. From that fucking 6 eyes guy.

Never in your life have you rejected a request faster. With the way the request immediately flew in again, you started to get annoyed. What the hell does he want from you? To humiliate you more? Is he actually stalking you?

This time you hit the block button.

And it just took him 10 minutes for him to create another account, with a similar username. What a fucking dickhead. You pressed your tongue against your teeth, the sharp pain helping you to keep your head cool.

With a heavy sigh you accepted the friend request. This is what you get for using the same username for every platform.

[Reader]: What the fuck do you want.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: lul ur alwayz so angy

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: how come

[Reader]: Because you’re talking to me.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: rofl

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: anywayz wanna hop on a round :3

[Reader]: No.

[Reader]: Go die in a ditch.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hoi

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ur talking to the strongest sorcerer here :p

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: impressive right???

[Reader]: Strongest sorcerer?

[Reader]: You’re into DnD?

[Reader]: Ew.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: oh forget that

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i was just mezzing around x3

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: come hop onnnnnnnnnn

[Reader]: Fucker I’m still banned.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: orz

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ಥ‿ಥ

[Reader]: What the hell do you want from me. Seriously.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ur the only person i know who’s not a complete noob lol

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: but well ofc u aren’t as good as me

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i’m the best at everything

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: natural genius and all that ٩(ˊᗜˋ )و

Oh, you hate this guy with your whole heart.

Instead of dignifying this with an answer, you simply decided to turn off your PC. It was late anyways. There’s a ton of homework you had to do, too.

After you were done, you crammed out your futon. Damn, you have to make sure to let the futon get warmed up by the sun tomorrow. Even though it’s summer, the night still gets cold.

———

Today had been a good day. You didn’t get into any trouble, and actually got an acceptable grade in a test. The only thing that sucked, is that you had to ride your bike home. The hill you live on is evil. The shrine sitting on top of it didn’t protect the hike you had to take. You weren’t even on your bike, you were pushing the useless peace of metal up. One of the many cons of living in the rural parts was the fact there was no bus. You had a tiny train station, and for whatever reason you actually had schools. Yeah, plural.

Probably because you live in the main-village. You even got a convenience store and the temple. So everyone from around comes here for their errands.

Once you reached the top, you were sure you were going to die of some sort of asthma attack. Straightening up your back, you wheezed out a painful breath. Sweat pooled….Everywhere. Great.

You angry stomped across the shrine grounds, and without care you threw your bike into the grass besides your house. The newly repaired bike rack abandoned. Walking up the few steps, you opened the front door. Changing from your outside shoes to your house shoes, you shuffled across the floor.

“I’m home!” You yelled out, and no answer came back. Damn.

Ah, there’s a note saying your grandparents are at a market. Whatever keeps them out of your hair. Stretching your arms out, you walked to your room. With all your pent up emotions, you chucked your bag towards your desk. The slam was weirdly satisfying. Even though there was a shit ton of schoolwork you have to do, you didn’t bother with it.

Hitting the power up button, you went to open the fusuma. The fresh air flowed in, helping with the stuffiness. Wiping the sweat away from your forehead, you moved to take out fresh clothes. Your school uniform is completely wet. You can’t wait for summer break to finally come.

You went to the bathroom, and got undressed. Sitting in the washing area, you let the water from the shower head run over your body. It was relaxing and cooling. Scrubbing your body clean, while sitting on the stool you let yourself breath. You glanced at the soaking tub, but in your opinion it’s way too hot to soak. Your grandparents on the other hand were apparently from hell, because they can bath in hot water all day everyday.

After you successfully cleaned yourself, you dried off. Getting dressed in your clean clothes, you threw your dirty uniform into your laundry basket. While humming a song, you went back to your room. Sitting down on your chair, you pulled your legs up and rested your chin on your knees.

Unread messages practically glared at you.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: anywayz

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hit me up when ur unbanned

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: us on a team???

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: we’d be unbeatable!!!!

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: think about it!!!!

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ٩(•̤̀ᵕ•̤́๑)ᵒᵏᵎᵎᵎᵎ

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: are u ignoring me now

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i’m v persistent

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hey

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hellu

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: bro

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: u can’t escape me!!!!

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i will break through

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: your wolls

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: walls*

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: or is it your bedtime lol

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: are u 10?

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: or 12?

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: or maybe 40

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: are u already w one leg in the grave

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: be honest

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: u can tell me everything

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: trust

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ༼ ༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ༽

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: 8===D- - -

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hehehehe

What the hell is the matter with this guy? There were more messages, one more obnoxious than the other.

[Reader]: How old are YOU? 12?

The response was near immediate.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i’m 14 ⊹⋛⋋( ՞ਊ ՞)⋌⋚⊹

[Reader]: Good for you. Now leave.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ( •_•)>⌐■-■

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: no

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: are u banned still

[Reader]: No.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: :OOOO

INCOMING CALL: xX6Eyes6Xx

Shit. Your headset was plugged in and works, but you’d prefer not to talk with this weirdo. Sadly for you, your hands were shaky from anxiety and instead of hitting the red button, you hit the green one. The call successfully connected. Your mouth dropped open in shock. Oh no.

“Hello, hello, hello! I knew I’d be able to beat you down!” His familiar voice was cheery, in an annoying way. Why can’t he be miserable? So he’d leave you to game in peace? Ugh!

You pressed your lips tightly together. Most guys who play are obnoxious, especially when you’re a girl. It’s something you learned quickly.

“Yello~ Can ya hear me??” His finger tapped against his microphone. It was an annoying drumming sound in your ear. “Speak up! We can’t dominate the server without communication!”

A soft, “Shut up.” Slipped past your lips.

A beat of silence and you were going to plug your PC out again and ugh, you’re going to have to deal with this guy thinking he’s better than you just because he’s a stupid boy and-

“She speaks! Yay! What a relief, honestly. I thought I’d have to bring all the entertainment here, which, don’t get me wrong- I loooover hearing myself speak, of course, but I do like an audience which validates me.”

You rolled your eyes, “I think you’ve been validated too much in your life. Has someone ever told you to just zip it?”

“Nope! You’re the first. Feel free to feel special, I’m usually surrounded by annoying yes men.” You could hear typing from his keyboard, “Log in, we have people to head shoot.” The grin was incredibly audible in his voice.

With a sigh you started your game.

———

“This game is so damn stupid! I can’t believe it! And the players? The worst! They should all die!” You seethed out. This has been your third last round. You want to leave on a win.

Your newly found game partner laughed at you, “But you’re doing so well?”

“I hate you the most!” Your feet drummed against the floor impatiently, “…Can you hurry up and heal me?!?” Seeing your character crawling on the ground depressed you.

“Your knight in shining amour is on the way!” He was practically singing.

Finally, Eyes was able to get to you. Your character stood there proudly, and finally you could go and plant the bomb. Hopefully.

It did end up working out for you and Eyes guy, since you ended up being the only ones alive on your team. He has scarily good aim. It was impressive. Seeing the Win plastered across your screen made you sigh out in relief.

“Finaaaaaaaalllyyyyyy…” Your hands rubbed across your forehead.

The guy chuckled, you could hear his chair squeak through your headset. “So…What’s your name?”

You couldn’t help but groan at the incredible intrusive question.

“My name is-“

And with that you hung up on him. You didn’t care for his name. Or anything for that matter. The less he knows about you the better. What if he turns up to your house? Stranger danger? Leaning back, you flexed your fingers.

The landline started ringing. Standing up, you walked to the hallway where the phone was kept. “Hello?”

“Evening, sweetheart.” The warm voice of your grandmother greeted you, “I just wanted to tell you, that we will be home late today. At the market we saw your aunt, and well…We will bring you her soba noodles when we get home.”

“Oh, that’s okay. When will you be home?” You wrapped your finger around the curly phone cord.

“Hmmm, it will be past your bed time. Don’t make me catch you on that glowing box at 3AM again!” Her voice was teasing.

You groaned, “That was one time! Whateverrrr. Don’t stay out too long.”

“We love you. See you later.”

“Love you too.” With that you put the phone back.

Just as you turned around, the phone rang again. Damn, did she forget something?

“What’s up?” You casually picked up the phone. “…Hello?”

There was nothing on the other line. Slowly, you started to hear heavy breathing. Oh, so there was a pervert on the other line. Rolling your eyes, you were about to hang up, but static filled your ear. Frowning, you held the phone away from your ear. Man, this was loud.

A screech suddenly yelled out, the voice distorted and barley human. “STAY AWAY.”

In shock you dropped the phone, and with that it hit the wall. Good thing it was still connected by the cord. Carefully, you moved to pick the phone up. “….What?”

But that was all you got. The hallway felt awfully cold, and your neck and shoulders felt stiff. You quickly glanced around while hanging the phone up, but you couldn’t see anything. Taking a peak into the living room, you saw the tamaya. Everything was the way it supposed to look. The picture of your parents smiled at you. Still, your body was covered in chills.

Trying to shake the feeling off, you went into the kitchen. You were so busy yelling at the Eyes guy, you forgot to eat.

The feeling of being watched never really left you, though.

[shizuturnspages]

Hello, can I ask you for the headcannons of yandere Kinich and Sethos? (separately)

Of course!!!

I searched for some good pictures of them, but there aren't enough T^T

I don't know much about Sethos' character, but I tried my best to write his headcannons. Forgive me if they're inaccurate.

Anyways, here they are. Hope you enjoy <3

Yandere Kinich

❥ Kinich isn’t the loud, in-your-face type. He’s the silent, calculating motherfucker who keeps his obsession locked up tight behind that calm exterior. He’ll act all chill, but behind those eyes? He’s fucking burning with possessive desire. You won’t even know you’re trapped until it’s too late, because he’s got that smooth manipulation down to a fucking science.

❥ Kinich isn’t the type to make his presence obvious, but trust me, he’s always watching. Every move you make, every word you say—it’s all logged in his mind. He knows your habits better than you do, and he’ll use that knowledge to keep you in check. You think you’re doing something out of free will, but it’s all part of his plan. You’re playing his game, and he’s already won.

❥ Kinich is smooth as fuck with his words, always calm, always saying the right thing. He’ll comfort you, make you feel safe, but if anyone crosses him or tries to take you away? That calm turns to fucking ruthlessness. He’ll deal with threats swiftly, efficiently, and with no remorse. And the scariest part? He’ll make it seem like it was all for your benefit, like he’s protecting you from the world.

❥ This guy doesn’t need to be aggressive to control you. He’ll use that sharp mind of his to manipulate you into thinking you need him. Every conversation, every interaction is carefully crafted to pull you closer, make you more dependent on him. You’ll start to believe that he’s the only one who understands you, the only one who can keep you safe. It’s fucking terrifying how easily he’ll twist your mind without you even realizing it.

❥ Kinich won’t come off as possessive at first. No, he’s too smart for that shit. He’ll wrap his obsession in concern, in care. He’ll say he’s just looking out for you, that he wants what’s best for you. But underneath all that sweetness? He’s fucking claiming you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left that’s yours. Your thoughts, your actions, your fucking soul—it all belongs to him. And the worst part? He’ll make you thank him for it.

Yandere Sethos

❥ Sethos is smooth as hell. He’s got that charm, that charisma that pulls you in like a moth to a flame. But underneath that charming innocent smile is a fucking storm of obsession. He’ll make you feel like the most important person in the world, but once you’re in his grasp? That charm turns into a weapon. He’ll use it to manipulate you, to keep you close, and to make sure you never, ever leave his side.

❥ Sethos doesn’t fuck around when it comes to control. He’ll make sure every aspect of your life revolves around him. You won’t even notice it at first—he’s too fucking smart for that. He’ll slowly weave himself into everything you do, until he’s the one pulling all the strings. You’ll feel like you can’t breathe without him, and that’s exactly how he wants it. Every move you make is under his watchful gaze, and good luck trying to slip away. You can’t escape the fucking web he’s spun around you.

❥ Sethos doesn’t just love—he consumes. His affection is all-encompassing, and he’ll make sure you know that you’re the center of his world. But here’s the fucking twist: his love is dangerous as hell. Anyone who gets too close to you? They’re fucking gone. He’ll smile through the bloodshed, making sure you know that no one is allowed to take his place by your side. His love comes with a body count, and he’s not afraid to add to it if anyone even thinks about touching you.

❥ You think you can run? Fucking think again. Sethos is relentless when it comes to keeping you close. He’s not just physically strong—he’s fucking brilliant. He’ll always be one step ahead, knowing your plans before you even make them. Try to leave him, and you’ll find every door closed, every path blocked. You’re not getting away, no matter how hard you try. And the worst part? He’ll make you feel like there’s no place safer than right by his side, even though he’s the danger you should be running from.

❥ To Sethos, his obsession isn’t just love—it’s fucking devotion. He’ll worship you in his own twisted way, making sure you know you’re his entire world. But that devotion comes with chains. You’ll never be free, because in his mind, you belong to him, completely. And he won’t let anyone, not even you, change that. His eyes will always be on you, filled with a fierce, terrifying love that burns hotter than anything you’ve ever experienced. You’re his, and he’ll make damn sure you never forget it.