#thread: woven back from violence

[hermidetta]

bernadetta can still on command as naturally as breathing. she can freeze with her eyes wide and staring right back at any villain who's raised a knife to her throat, waiting for the blade to sink in, waiting waiting waiting to be given that wretched permission.

when yuri catches her wrist, she halts. she listens. not a hair on your head out of place in exchange for not a hair on your head harmed. because that is what bernadetta's rotten adults have taught her, even though they break this promise as they please, cast the blame for it onto her like they would a mutt its bone and ask her to thank them for it. thank you for the tea. thank you for the seat. thank you for teaching me. thank you, sorry. sorry for kicking. sorry for bruising. sorry for speaking. sorry, sorry, sorry. (sorry, like she's the messed up one.)

but if yuri was a villain she'd have bled out long ago. she wouldn't be sitting here beside them. she wouldn't fold her trust into their palms like the handle of a knife, and neither of them would be reminiscing of dreams from a distant garden. the learned fear that leashes her, that makes her paranoid and nonsensical, it would never win out against what she innately gives yuri each time. bernadetta does not have to trust them on purpose; she does not have to think about it. why would she?

so bernadetta does not protest for yuri's sake, but she tightens her lips with a tiny nod and settles back down, gingerly, until she's got just enough of the blanket for her teeth not to chatter. yuri's hand is warm enough around her wrist, besides. whether they let go or not, their touch lingers on her skin more viscerally than the cold ever could.

"i do,"  bernadetta murmurs back. she does not elaborate which part she means—i do trust you, or i do remember, or i do miss it too—because it is her answer to all three, and those i dos to yuri matter infinitely more than the only one she's been kept alive for. the childhood memory, though, brings a small smile to her lips.

"but i knew you'd hear anybody in time. i could always count on you. and i said i'd protect you even if we got caught."  little bernie, protecting her friend. prepared to take the blame, prepared to keep them safe.

in the end, she had broken that promise. she wonders how they ever forgave her for it.

i miss when life was that simple. i wish we could've been happier. two petals on the same wilting stem.

"yuri..."  she lowers her gaze in half parts contemplation, half parts mourning. but bernadetta had mourned for about half of her life and had only come out of it after entering the monastery. she doesn't want to sink back into it.

"a lot of things aren't anymore,"  she agrees, voice a low murmur. "but maybe some things still can be... right? you're here. i'm here. we're still friends. what's so hard about that? and..."

bernadetta stirs then, only to curl all of her fingers on a hand except for her pinky. small, thin, and probably a little chilly—but it reaches out just enough to hook with one of theirs. her face tilts, cheek squished whimsically against the cushion of her other hand. just like all of the times she had turned under the blanket to blink sleepily at little jules.

"...and i promise to still be your friend, if that's okay. and you can still tell me stories, even if they're different and have things that are a little illegal in them, because bernie won't tell on you."  she doesn't crack the joke that she wouldn't be able to, anyway. not with yuri. she doesn't doubt for a second that they can silence whoever they want, whenever they want.

"i'll tell you lots of stories, too. i still won't get you in trouble with anybody, either. i definitely won't. if i do, i'll still— i-i'll just bite them really hard. and we can run away!"  somehow she really does always makes it sound so simple. but does that make it any less difficult to say? maybe it's just yuri who makes it easier. yuri, who bernadetta's heart could never tire of bleeding out for.

"um, i mean... if i'm allowed to,"  she mumbles, far more quietly and halfway into her hand. still wholly unguarded, and yet still so uncertain of herself, always waiting for the world to strike somehow because she's misspoken somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. probably everywhere.  "...run away with you this time. b-but i know you're probably sick of babysitting me, so never mind about that part."

＊ woven back from violence .

anni '24 | heavy armor +1　 ▪ ▪ ▪ 　yuri & bernadetta

[kathaelipwse]

A Little Too Close | S.Mingi

Pairing: Song Mingi x Reader

Word Count: 12,154 words | Reading time: 44-ish mins

Trope: Brother’s Best Friend | Slow Burn | Friends to Lovers | Protective Male Lead

Warning: Mild language, mentions of alcohol, emotional heartbreak, brief violence (non-graphic and not between mingi and y/n), soft angst with a happy ending, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Song:

Synopsis: You grew up with your best friend Nari and her charming older brother, Mingi. He was always just out of reach—too old, too flirty, too much of a heartbreaker. But when Mingi returns after three years abroad, everything changes. Lines blur, secrets surface, and your heart starts to beat a little too loud every time he’s near. And maybe… he’s always felt the same way.

Author’s Note: To the girlies who’ve ever loved someone they were never supposed to… who kept quiet out of respect, fear, or timing—this one’s for you. If you've ever smiled through the ache of watching him be someone else's or convinced yourself your feelings didn’t matter… this story will feel like home.

The chipped ceramic mugs, each bearing a faded illustration from a beloved children's book, sat precariously stacked in the cupboard. They were relics of countless childhood tea parties, elaborate affairs orchestrated by you and Nari in the sun-drenched backyard, filled with whispered secrets and the serious business of imaginary kingdoms. Your bond with Song Nari was an unbreakable thread, woven through scraped knees bandaged with cartoon plasters, triumphant performances in school plays where you always had each other's backs, and the bewildering, often hilarious, landscape of adolescence. And then there was Mingi, Nari’s older brother, a looming yet comforting presence who had always been a part of your shared world. Five years your senior, he was the one who could effortlessly reach the highest shelf where forbidden snacks were kept, the one whose booming laughter often echoed through the familiar chaos of your childhood home, and, perhaps most significantly for you, the one who had a way of making your stomach flip with a confusing mix of comfort and utter fluster.

Your first heartbreak had been a particularly brutal affair, the kind that felt like the world was ending. You’d stumbled through Nari’s front door, a hiccuping, tear-streaked mess of teenage angst. “He… he said I wasn’t… mature enough,” you’d choked out between ragged sobs, the callous words feeling like shards of glass lodged in your throat. Without a word, Nari had led you to her room, a sanctuary of plush toys and fairy lights, offering a comforting arm around your shoulders. But it was Mingi who had truly acted. He’d leaned against the doorframe, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a quiet intensity, his jaw tight with an unfamiliar tension. “Tell me his name,” was all he’d said, his voice low and carrying a hint of something that made you feel strangely safe amidst your despair. The next day, a series of hushed phone calls and cryptic teenage gossip confirmed that the offending boy had received a stern, albeit non-violent, talking-to courtesy of Mingi. “He won’t bother you again,” Mingi had simply stated later, ruffling your hair with a reassuring hand that lingered a moment too long, sending a confusing warmth through you. It was an act of brotherly defense extended to his sister’s best friend, but for your young heart, it had felt like something profoundly more.

That feeling, a quiet flutter of admiration that had stubbornly refused to dissipate over the years, had taken root early, like a tenacious little seed. Mingi, with his easy charm that could disarm even the strictest teachers and that lopsided grin that always seemed to hint at a shared secret, had unknowingly occupied a significant corner of your heart. “Hey squirt,” he’d often tease, using the childhood nickname that still managed to make your cheeks warm despite your protests. “Still tripping over your own feet?” But beneath the playful jabs, there was always a hint of genuine affection. But the unspoken rule, the invisible, yet fiercely enforced, boundary of him being Nari’s brother, had always kept those feelings carefully locked away, a secret you guarded closely. “He’s like a brother to me too,” you’d often tell yourself, a mantra whispered in the quiet corners of your mind, desperately trying to quell the inconvenient stirrings of your heart whenever he was near.

Three long years. That’s how long Mingi had been gone, chasing dreams of coding breakthroughs and late-night hackathons in the land of opportunity. “Finally escaping your annoying faces,” he’d joked dramatically at the airport, a mischievous glint in his eyes, but his hug had lingered a moment longer with both you and Nari, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that distance couldn't entirely erase. You, now twenty and navigating the chaotic landscape of university life with its demanding deadlines and existential crises, had grown accustomed to his absence, a dull ache of missing camaraderie settling into the background, like a familiar hum. Nari, ever your constant anchor, had filled the void with countless late-night study sessions fueled by instant ramen and impromptu movie marathons punctuated by insightful (and often hilarious) commentary. “Remember that time Mingi tried to cook pasta for us and almost set the kitchen on fire because he forgot to add water?” she’d laugh, and you’d laugh along, a bittersweet pang in your chest at the memory of Mingi’s sheepish grin and the smoky aftermath.

Tonight was one such night. Empty pizza boxes, adorned with greasy fingerprints, lay scattered on Nari’s living room floor, the delicious remnants of your earlier indulgence. You were cocooned in a fort of blankets and pillows, dissecting a particularly dramatic episode of a K-drama, your voices hushed with suspense. “Seriously, how can he just leave her hanging like that at the airport?” Nari had exclaimed, throwing a handful of popcorn in the air dramatically, the kernels scattering like tiny white hail. Just then, the familiar creak of the old kitchen door hinge announced an unexpected arrival, and the rich aroma of brewing coffee wafted into the living room, a scent that instantly brought back a flood of memories.

The kitchen door swung open wider, and the world, as you knew it for the past three years, seemed to tilt precariously on its axis. Mingi stood in the doorway, shirtless, his sleep-rumpled hair adorably messy, a sleepy haze still clinging to his features, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. The soft morning light filtering through the window behind him cast him in a warm, golden glow, highlighting the lean muscle he’d gained during his time away, a subtle transformation that made your breath catch in your throat. “Morning, sleepyheads,” he mumbled, his voice still thick with the comforting rasp of sleep. “Couldn’t sleep. Jet lag’s a real beast.”

The spoon you had been absentmindedly twirling in your empty soda can, lost in thought about the on-screen heartbreak, clattered against the cool tiles with a sharp, echoing sound, slicing through the comfortable silence like a sudden alarm. Your eyes widened, locking onto his unexpected presence, and your breath hitched in your throat. He looked… different. More mature, undeniably handsome, with a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before. “M-Mingi?” you stammered, the familiar name feeling foreign on your tongue after so long. Your cheeks already felt hot, a blush creeping up your neck. The years melted away in that instant, bringing back that familiar, unwelcome flutter in your stomach with an unexpected and potent intensity.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across Mingi’s lips as his gaze met yours, a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Well, hello there, Y/N,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver tracing down your spine, a sensation you hadn’t felt in years and one you instantly recognized. He knew. He had to know the effect his unexpected appearance, his casual state of undress, was having on you. Your carefully constructed composure, the wall you’d built around those old feelings, crumbled with alarming speed. A more coherent, “You’re back! When did you…?” finally escaped your lips, but the blush on your cheeks deepened, betraying your inner turmoil.

“Mingi!” Nari’s voice, sharp and exasperated, broke the charged silence, pulling you both back to the present. She strode over and delivered a solid smack to his bicep, a familiar sibling gesture. “Seriously? Put a shirt on! We have company.”

Mingi merely scoffed, rubbing his arm but his eyes still held a playful glint as they flickered back to you, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. “What? Can’t a guy get coffee in his own house without being assaulted by his overly dramatic sister?” he grumbled good-naturedly before turning to rummage in a drawer, the sound of rustling fabric filling the awkward silence.

Later, after Mingi had retreated upstairs, a plain white t-shirt finally adorning his broad shoulders, the comfortable atmosphere in the living room had shifted. Nari’s expression turned serious, her usual playful demeanor replaced by a thoughtful frown. “You still… you still like him, don’t you?” she asked softly, her gaze searching your face, her concern evident.

You avoided her eyes, picking at a loose thread on your blanket, the familiar gesture offering a small semblance of comfort. “It’s… complicated, Nari. He’s your brother.” The words felt inadequate, a vast understatement of the internal battle raging within you.

Nari sighed, running a hand through her hair, her brow furrowed. “I know. And believe me, if Mingi was the serious type, the kind who’d actually commit to someone, I’d be your biggest cheerleader. ‘Go get him, Y/N!’ I’d be shouting from the rooftops. But you know him, you. It’s always been flings, casual things, one-night stands. Remember Sarah from that party last year? Or what about…?” She trailed off, seeing the discomfort flicker across your face. “I just… I don’t want to see you get hurt, Y/N. He’s… well, he’s Mingi.”

The air in the room thickened with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. You knew Nari was right, knew the potential for pain was a very real possibility. Yet, seeing Mingi again, that unexpected, slightly disheveled appearance in the kitchen, had stirred something within you, a longing that had been dormant but never truly extinguished. The return of the elder brother had not only brought him back into your lives but had also reignited a tension, a silent, magnetic pull between you and Mingi, that promised to complicate everything. He was back, and suddenly, the carefully constructed boundaries you had painstakingly maintained felt dangerously, thrillingly fragile. “He just got back,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Nari, a fragile tendril of hope unfurling in your chest. “Maybe… maybe things are different now.” Nari just gave you a skeptical look, a familiar expression that spoke volumes, and you knew, deep down, you were probably just wishing on a star that had long since faded.

The days following Mingi’s return settled into an uneasy rhythm. Nari, true to her protective instincts, subtly positioned herself as a buffer between you and her brother. During shared meals, she’d strategically place you on the opposite end of the table from him. When Mingi offered you a ride to university, she’d suddenly remember she needed a lift too, effectively sandwiching you in the backseat. Her efforts, though well-intentioned, felt a little stifling, and you couldn’t help but notice Mingi’s occasional raised eyebrow and suppressed smirk at her maneuvers.

Mingi, for his part, remained outwardly respectful. He’d greet you with a casual, “Hey, Y/N,” his tone friendly, devoid of the flirtatious edge you’d sometimes imagined in your more fanciful moments. Yet, there were subtle hints, fleeting glances that lingered a fraction too long, a playful nudge of your arm when he told a joke that made your skin prickle with a familiar awareness. He seemed to be treading carefully, a stark contrast to the carefree, sometimes reckless, older brother you remembered.

Weeks drifted by, filled with the usual demands of university life – late-night study sessions, caffeine-fueled group projects, and the constant pressure of looming deadlines. The tension with Mingi remained a low hum beneath the surface, an unspoken acknowledgment of the complicated history and the uncertain present.

Then came the text from Mingi: “Parents are off to their meditation retreat for the weekend. House party at our place Saturday night. You both are obviously invited.”

Nari’s immediate reaction was volcanic. “A party? In their house? He knows how Mom gets about messes!” she fumed, pacing her room. “The last time he threw a ‘small gathering,’ we found a rogue traffic cone in the bathtub!”

You, however, felt a flicker of something akin to excitement. The constant pressure of university had been weighing you down, and the prospect of a night of carefree fun, even with the inevitable awkwardness of Mingi’s presence, felt like a much-needed release. “Come on, Nari,” you pleaded, sinking onto her bed. “We’re both stressed out of our minds. A little break won’t hurt. Besides,” you added with a mischievous glint in your eye, “it’ll be a good distraction.”

After a considerable amount of persuasion, and your promise to help with the inevitable cleanup, Nari reluctantly agreed. Saturday night arrived with a flurry of getting ready. Nari, ever the stylist, insisted on picking out your outfit. She emerged from her closet with a shimmering silver silk dress that cascaded like liquid moonlight. It had delicate spaghetti straps and a daringly low back.

“Wow, Nari,” you breathed, admiring the way the fabric caught the light. “This is… stunning. Are you sure it’s okay?”

Nari grinned, applying a touch of lip gloss. “You deserve to turn some heads, Y/N. Besides, I have a feeling tonight might be… interesting.”

As you both descended the stairs, the music already thumping a steady beat, a wave of noise and laughter washed over you. Heads did indeed turn. You felt a flush rise on your cheeks as you navigated through the crowd, catching the appreciative glances of several guys. But it was Mingi’s reaction that truly registered.

He was standing near the makeshift bar, talking to a group of friends, his usual easy smile in place. But the moment his eyes landed on you, his expression shifted subtly. There was no leering, no lustful gaze like some of the other guys who had checked you out. Instead, a flicker of something akin to concern crossed his features. He scanned your bare shoulders and the expanse of your back, his brow furrowing slightly.

The November air, even indoors with the throng of bodies, held a definite chill. Mingi, you knew, was acutely aware of how sensitive you were to the cold. He remembered the way your hands would turn icy even in a slightly air-conditioned room.

Before you could even reach Nari, who had been momentarily waylaid by a chatty classmate, Mingi was striding towards you, weaving through the crowd with a determined look on his face. He reached you quickly, and without a word, he shrugged off the dark, wool coat he was wearing and gently draped it over your shoulders. The heavy fabric felt warm and comforting against your bare skin, carrying his familiar scent.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, a hint of a scolding tone underlying his words, “it’s freezing in here. What are you even wearing? You know you catch a cold if a snowflake looks at you the wrong way.” His gaze wasn’t accusatory, but rather laced with a genuine concern that surprised you.

He adjusted the coat around your shoulders, making sure you were properly covered. Then, his hand lingered for a brief moment on your head, his fingers lightly patting your hair before he stepped back, his eyes still holding that perplexing blend of worry and… something else you couldn’t quite decipher.

Across the room, Nari, who had finally disentangled herself from her classmate, watched the exchange with a confused frown etched on her face. Mingi’s intense concern for you, so different from his usual detached demeanor, was a puzzle she couldn’t quite piece together. A seed of suspicion began to sprout in her mind. Was there more to her brother’s interactions with her best friend than she had initially assumed?

The house was quiet, the echoes of the party having retreated into the dusty corners and lingering in the faint scent of stale beer and synthetic fruit punch. You moved through the wreckage of the night, a solitary scavenger amidst the discarded remnants of revelry. Empty plastic cups lay scattered like fallen soldiers, their bright colors dulled by the dregs of forgotten drinks. Crumpled napkins, bearing the faint imprints of lipstick and hurried scribbles, lay abandoned on tabletops. Nari’s soft snores emanated from upstairs, a peaceful counterpoint to the lingering chaos below. You, however, felt a strange mix of exhaustion and a buzzing alertness, the events of the night replaying in your mind like a slightly blurry film reel.

You found Mingi exactly where you’d left him, still engaged in his impassioned, one-sided debate with the stoic ficus. “No, no, Ficus, you’re missing the crucial point!” he was slurring, his voice thick with the earnestness of the truly inebriated. He punctuated his points with dramatic finger gestures that nearly knocked over a nearby lamp. “It’s about… about the inherent conflict between… freedom… and… and… chlorophyll!” He squinted at the plant as if expecting a profound botanical rebuttal.

“Mingi,” you sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles were surprisingly tense beneath your touch. “Come on. Bed. The ficus will be here to discuss the socio-political implications of photosynthesis in the morning. I promise.”

He blinked slowly, his eyes struggling to focus. “Y/N? Is that you? Are you… are you the embodiment of arboreal liberation?”

You chuckled despite yourself. “Something like that. Now, up you get, sleepyhead.”

The journey upstairs was a slow, unsteady climb. Mingi insisted on stopping every few steps to share profound insights. “Did you know,” he announced gravely, leaning heavily on the banister, “that stairs… they’re just a metaphor for… upward mobility? Or maybe… downward spiral? Depends on your perspective, right?” He then proceeded to demonstrate both possibilities with a precarious wobble.

Finally, you managed to maneuver him into his surprisingly minimalist bedroom. As you attempted to guide him towards the bed, he latched onto your arm with surprising strength. “Don’t go,” he mumbled, his voice losing its playful edge, replaced by a raw vulnerability that tugged at your heartstrings. “Just… just stay for a little bit. My head… it’s all fuzzy.”

You sat on the edge of his bed, your hand still in his. “I just need to make sure you’re comfortable, Mingi. You’ve had a lot to drink.”

He squeezed your hand. “Talk to me. Just… just talk. About… about anything. Distract me from the… the spinning.”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Okay… um… did you see that shooting star last night? Before everyone got… well, you know.”

He frowned, concentrating hard. “Shooting star? Was it… was it fast? Like… like a fleeting moment of… of hope?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, kind of. Beautiful, but gone in a second.”

He sighed, his grip on your hand tightening. “That’s… that’s how I feel sometimes, you know? Like… like everything good… it just… vanishes.” He looked up at you, his eyes finally focusing with a startling clarity. “Like… like a real connection. You think you have it… and then… poof.”

A wave of unexpected empathy washed over you. “Not everything vanishes, Mingi. Some things… they stay.”

He shook his head slowly. “Do they? Or do we just… pretend they do? Because the alternative… the alternative is too damn scary.” He squeezed your hand again. “You… you always stayed, Y/N. You and Nari. Even when I was being a complete idiot.”

You managed a small smile. “We’ve known you a long time, Mingi. We’re kind of stuck with you.”

He chuckled softly, a low rumble in his chest. “Stuck, huh? Or… loyal?” He looked at you again, his gaze intense. “Loyalty… that’s… that’s important, isn’t it? More important than… than fleeting sparks?”

Before you could answer, he tugged your hand again, pulling you further onto the bed. You landed beside him, the mattress dipping precariously. “Just… just lie down for a second,” he mumbled, his eyes already drifting shut. “Just… just need to not feel so… alone.” His arms wrapped around you almost instinctively, pulling you close. “Promise… just… just a hug. Nothing weird.”

You hesitated, your mind racing. This was definitely crossing a line. But the raw vulnerability in his voice, the almost childlike need for comfort, chipped away at your reservations. “Okay,” you whispered, settling back against the pillows, his warm body pressed against yours.

He nestled his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. “You know,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, “the thing about… about putting your heart out there… it’s like… like giving someone your favorite toy… and just… hoping they don’t break it.”

“Maybe… maybe if it’s the right person… they’ll cherish it,” you murmured softly, your own voice barely above a whisper.

He sighed again, a long, shaky breath. “Maybe… But what if I give them everything… and they… they just don’t feel the same way? That… that’s the worst, isn’t it? To be all in… and the other person… they’re just… dipping their toes.”

Without thinking, your hand reached up and gently stroked his hair. “Not everyone is like that, Mingi. Some people… they dive in headfirst too.”

He shifted slightly, his face nuzzling against your jaw. And then, he kissed you. It was a soft, fleeting brush of his lips against your skin, a moment of unexpected intimacy that sent a jolt of electricity through you. He chuckled softly, a low, contented sound. “You’re… you’re warm,” he mumbled, hugging you tighter.

Lying there in the dim light, entangled in Mingi’s drunken embrace, a storm of emotions brewed within you. His raw honesty, his unexpected vulnerability, the fleeting touch of his lips – it all felt significant, a crack in the carefully constructed wall between you.

What did this mean? Was it just the alcohol talking, stripping away his usual defenses and blurring the lines of your friendship? Or was there something more profound stirring beneath the surface, a hint of the feelings you had tried so hard to suppress for so long? The warmth of his body against yours, the lingering scent of him, the echo of his heartfelt fears – they all hung in the air, a silent, weighty question mark that promised to change everything. The comfortable boundaries of your shared history felt fragile, on the verge of shattering, leaving you adrift in a sea of unexpected emotions and a profound, unsettling question: what happens when the lines you’ve carefully drawn for years suddenly begin to blur?

And with that you fell asleep.

--

Next Morning:

The abrupt transition from the chaotic, laughter-filled energy of the house party to the stark, almost clinical silence of the following morning felt like waking from a vivid, slightly unsettling dream. Mingi’s consciousness flickered on like a faulty neon sign, a hazy awareness of a relentless throbbing behind his eyes and a deeply unsettling sense of disorientation. He blinked, his eyelids feeling heavy and gritty, as if they were coated in a fine layer of last night’s regrets. He struggled to orient himself, the unfamiliar softness of the pillows beneath his cheek a stark contrast to the usual firmness he preferred. Then, like a sudden, unwelcome downpour, fragmented memories of the previous night – the insistent thump of the bass, the forced, slightly manic laughter, the acrid taste of too much cheap whiskey – coalesced into a more alarming and deeply personal realization: he wasn’t alone.

Beside him, nestled amongst the tangled, rumpled landscape of his bedsheets, was Y/N.

A jolt of pure, unadulterated panic shot through him, cold and sharp, like a shard of ice piercing his already throbbing skull. His memory of the night was a fragmented, unreliable reel of drunken pronouncements that now sounded utterly ridiculous in the clear light of day, slurred jokes that had likely fallen flat, and hazy, disjointed conversations that he couldn’t piece together with any semblance of coherence. He carefully, almost imperceptibly, shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in the disarray of your sleeping form. The shimmering silver silk dress, the one that had caught the light so beautifully the night before, a sight that had inexplicably tightened something in his chest and made him momentarily forget his usual teasing banter, was now twisted and askew. The delicate spaghetti straps had slipped precariously off one slender shoulder, and the hem had ridden high on your thighs, revealing the smooth, vulnerable expanse of your skin. The neckline had also shifted, exposing the delicate curve of your collarbone and the subtle, innocent swell of cleavage.

His alcohol-addled brain, despite the lingering fog, lurched into unwelcome, deeply inappropriate territory, a rush of almost primal thoughts flooding his system with an unsettling intensity. A wave of intense, burning shame washed over him, hot and immediate. This was Y/N, his sister’s best friend, practically family. He’d known you since you were a gangly kid with perpetually scraped knees, mismatched pigtails, and an insatiable curiosity that often led to minor household disasters. What in God’s name had happened? Had he, in his drunken stupor, crossed an invisible, yet sacrosanct, line? Had he, in his inebriated state, somehow taken advantage of your inherent kindness, your gentle nature, your unwavering loyalty to his sister? The very thought sent a sickening lurch to his stomach, a wave of nausea mixing unpleasantly with the relentless throbbing in his head.

With a jerky, almost violent movement, he carefully, painstakingly, unwound his arm from where it had somehow ended up draped possessively across your waist. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped, frantic bird. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, a fresh, searing wave of guilt washing over him for even entertaining those base, disrespectful thoughts. He fumbled clumsily for the discarded blanket at the foot of the bed, his hands shaking slightly, and gently, reverently, draped it over you, covering you from your exposed shoulders to your toes, as if trying to shield you from his own shameful thoughts. He needed to get out of here, to gulp down some fresh air, to try and piece together the fragmented events of the night without succumbing to the worst possible, and frankly terrifying, conclusions that his alcohol-addled brain was conjuring.

He slipped out of bed, his movements clumsy and hurried, his bare feet padding softly on the cool, polished wooden floor. He practically stumbled out of his room, the silence of the morning amplifying the frantic, guilt-ridden beating of his heart. The hallway was a silent testament to the previous night’s excesses, littered with stray cups and discarded clothing. He made his way downstairs, each hesitant step sending a jolt of pain through his aching head.

He found Nari in the kitchen, already surveying the domestic disaster zone with a grim, tight-lipped expression that could curdle milk. Empty bottles lay scattered across the countertops, overflowing ashtrays emitted a stale, unpleasant odor, and sticky rings marked the surfaces where forgotten drinks had rested. The moment she saw him, her eyes narrowed, sharp and accusatory, her arms crossing defensively over her chest, a silent barricade. “What the absolute hell happened last night, Mingi?” Her voice was low, dangerously controlled, each word laced with suspicion and barely suppressed fury.

He ran a shaky hand through his sleep-tousled hair, his head swimming in a nauseating sea of guilt, confusion, and a desperate need for strong coffee. “Nothing, Nari. I swear on Mom’s prize-winning orchids, nothing happened. I just… I think I had way too much to drink. I… I fell asleep. On my own bed.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet her direct gaze, the vivid, unwelcome image of you lying peacefully beside him still burned behind his eyelids.

Nari’s eyes narrowed further, her suspicion hardening into conviction. “Don’t lie to me, Mingi. I saw you two. When I came to check if you were both still alive amidst that carnage, you were… incredibly close. Like, disturbingly close.”

“We just… hugged,” he insisted, his voice strained, the lie feeling thick and heavy on his tongue, a betrayal of the trust he held with both of you. “I was drunk, Nari. I was being an emotional idiot, saying stupid, sentimental things that probably made no sense. But I swear to you, nothing… physical, nothing inappropriate happened. No kisses, no… nothing like that.” The lie about the soft, fleeting kiss on your jaw felt particularly corrosive, a small but significant act of omission that gnawed at his conscience. The thought of admitting even that small intimacy, that potential breach of the unspoken boundaries of their friendship, felt unbearable, a confirmation of his own potential for drunken recklessness.

Nari’s expression remained unconvinced, her gaze unwavering, boring into him with an intensity that made him want to squirm. “Just a hug? Mingi, you were practically spooning her when I saw you. Her head was nestled right on your chest.”

He winced, the hazy memory, though incomplete, confirming her damning words. “I was drunk and… and feeling things, okay? I said some stupid, sentimental crap about being scared of being alone. But I swear, Nari, nothing… untoward happened. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that to Y/N. Or to you. You have to believe me.”

Just then, you appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking slightly disheveled but thankfully enveloped in the comforting, oversized embrace of Mingi’s dark wool coat. You blinked, taking in the tense, silent accusation hanging heavy in the air. “Morning,” you mumbled, your voice still a little rough from sleep and the lingering effects of the previous night.

Nari’s gaze softened slightly as she looked at you, a flicker of genuine concern momentarily eclipsing her simmering anger towards her brother. “Are you okay, Y/N? Did he… did he do anything? Did he make you uncomfortable?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied, your eyes flicking briefly towards Mingi, a fleeting, unreadable glance, before quickly looking away, focusing on a non-existent speck of dust on the floor. “Just… a bit of a headache.”

The rest of the morning unfolded in a strained, almost surreal silence as the three of you navigated the monumental task of cleaning up the remnants of the party. The clinking of discarded bottles and the swish of the broom against the sticky floor were the only sounds that punctuated the heavy, unspoken tension. Mingi kept his physical distance, his guilt a tangible presence that seemed to radiate from him in waves. You, too, felt a strange, uncomfortable mix of embarrassment, lingering confusion, and a persistent, almost dreamlike warmth from the fragmented memory of Mingi’s unexpected embrace and that fleeting, almost innocent kiss on your jaw.

As the days bled into weeks, an unspoken, fragile agreement settled between you and Mingi: the intimate, blurry moments of that alcohol-fueled night were never explicitly acknowledged, relegated to the realm of hazy, unspoken anxieties. You both pretended it was a mere blur of excessive alcohol and shared exhaustion, a forgotten, slightly embarrassing footnote in the long, complicated history of your intertwined lives.

Mingi, however, found himself increasingly haunted by the fragmented recollections. The unexpected warmth of your body pressed against his, the soft, lingering scent of your shampoo that had inexplicably clung to his pillow, the surprising comfort of your quiet presence in his usually solitary space – these fleeting sensations haunted the edges of his thoughts, resurfacing in quiet moments. And then there was the kiss. He remembered the soft, almost accidental press of his lips against your jaw, a moment of unexpected intimacy that now filled him with a profound and persistent sense of guilt and self-reproach. He berated himself for his drunken impulsiveness, for potentially taking advantage of your inherent kindness and vulnerability in a moment of shared inebriation. Lost in his own self-recrimination and the weight of his perceived transgression, he didn’t recall the gentle, almost tender kiss you had placed on his forehead earlier that night, a small, unconscious gesture of care and affection that might have offered a completely different context to their shared intimacy, a potential sign of reciprocated feeling. He was too consumed by his own internal judgment to remember that fleeting act of reciprocal affection.

Then, a few weeks later, the carefully constructed silence shattered with the bright, unexpected news you shared. You walked into Nari’s apartment, your face flushed with a genuine, radiant happiness that hadn’t been there in weeks, a lightness in your step that was undeniably new. “Guess what?” you announced, your eyes sparkling with a newfound excitement that made Nari beam in response. “I’m dating someone.”

Nari’s face lit up, her earlier protective anxieties instantly forgotten in the thrill of your romantic development. “Seriously? Who is it? Oh my god, tell me everything! Spill the tea!”

You launched into an enthusiastic, detailed description of Lucas, a charming and intelligent guy from your literature class with a quick wit that matched your own often-cynical humor, kind eyes that seemed to genuinely see you, and a shared passion for obscure poetry. Nari was absolutely thrilled for you, her earlier protective instincts regarding Mingi seemingly assuaged by the tangible reality of your new, blossoming romance.

Mingi, who happened to be over that evening, ostensibly to return a borrowed video game and avoid the awkwardness of another silent dinner, offered a forced, somewhat strained smile and a casual, “That’s great, Y/N. Really happy for you.” But beneath the surface, a quiet, unwelcome pang of jealousy resonated within him, a dull ache in a place he hadn’t expected. He watched the genuine happiness radiating from you and Nari, the easy camaraderie of their shared excitement, and though he knew he had absolutely no right to feel anything other than platonic support, a small, unwelcome seed of regret began to take root in the quiet corners of his heart. He tried to push it down, focusing on being the supportive friend he had always been, offering a clumsy thumbs-up and a slightly too-loud, “Good for you! He sounds… great.” But the lingering image of you nestled peacefully beside him in his bed that blurry, alcohol-infused night remained, a persistent, almost taunting reminder of a connection that had almost been explored, or perhaps, had been tragically, irrevocably misinterpreted, leaving him with a gnawing sense of what could have been, and a growing, uncomfortable awareness of what he might have inadvertently lost, all because of a drunken night and a kiss he only partially remembered.

Weeks continued their relentless march, each day etching subtle shifts onto the delicate tapestry of your relationships. University life, with its demanding rhythm of assignments and looming deadlines, provided a superficial layer of normalcy, a distraction from the underlying tensions that simmered beneath the surface. The dynamic between you and Mingi remained a carefully constructed facade of polite camaraderie, punctuated by fleeting, almost accidental shared glances that held the weight of unspoken memories and a lingering, unresolved intimacy. Your relationship with Lucas, viewed from the outside, appeared to be blossoming with a comfortable, predictable ease. He was consistently attentive, showering you with carefully chosen compliments and seemingly thoughtful gestures, his efforts radiating a clear desire to solidify his position in your life. Yet, beneath the charming exterior, a subtle, almost imperceptible undercurrent of competitiveness towards Mingi persisted, a silent, unspoken rivalry that you couldn't entirely ignore, a feeling that something felt performative rather than purely genuine.

Your twenty-first birthday arrived, a milestone you had once anticipated with unbridled excitement, now tinged with a subtle layer of apprehension. You opted for a small, intimate gathering at your apartment, a familiar constellation of university friends, cherished faces from the comforting landscape of your childhood, and, of course, Nari and Lucas. Mingi had also been included in the invitation, a fact that seemed to cast a barely perceptible shadow of irritation across Lucas’s otherwise celebratory demeanor, a subtle tightening of his jaw when Mingi’s name was mentioned.

As Mingi and Nari arrived, bearing a brightly wrapped gift that looked endearingly unassuming amidst the more extravagant presents piling up on your small coffee table, you greeted Nari with a warm, familiar hug, a silent acknowledgment of the years of shared laughter and unwavering support. Then, you turned to Mingi, a genuine, heartfelt smile gracing your lips, a warmth spreading through you that had little to do with the celebratory atmosphere and everything to do with the quiet understanding that seemed to exist between you. “Thanks for coming, Mingi.” He offered a slightly awkward but undeniably sweet smile in return, his eyes briefly meeting yours with a fleeting flicker of something that resonated deep within you, a silent acknowledgment of the strange, blurry night you had both tried to forget. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

The party unfolded as a pleasant, if somewhat predictable, affair. Laughter filled the small apartment, fueled by cheap wine and the sugary rush from the birthday cake. Lucas remained steadfastly by your side, his arm often draped possessively across your waist, a subtle, almost territorial claiming of space. As the evening progressed, he dramatically announced it was time for the grand unveiling of the gifts, his eyes flicking towards Mingi with a barely concealed anticipation, a silent challenge in their depths. He presented you with a sleek, velvet box, its plush interior cradling a stunning ruby pendant, the deep red gemstone pulsing with a fiery intensity under the soft lamplight. “Happy birthday, my love,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of self-satisfied pride as he carefully fastened the delicate clasp around your neck. You thanked him, admiring its undeniable beauty, the weight of the expensive stone cool against your skin, but a small, almost imperceptible knot of unease tightened in your chest. It felt… impersonal, almost transactional, as if he were trying to impress not you, but someone else in the room, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint who.

Nari’s gift was next – a beautifully crocheted top in your absolute favorite shade of soft, calming blue. She looked a little nervous as you carefully unwrapped it, her eyes searching yours for genuine approval. Your heartfelt smile and the lingering hug you gave her were a silent acknowledgment of the years of shared secrets and unwavering support that bound you together. You opened a few more gifts, each thoughtful in its own way, before it was finally Mingi’s turn.

His gift was small, wrapped simply in unassuming brown paper tied with a piece of rustic twine, a stark contrast to the glossy, elaborate packaging of the other presents. Lucas, who was standing close beside you, his arm still possessively around your shoulders, let out a barely audible scoff, a dismissive sound that didn’t escape your notice. You shot him a subtle but pointed warning glance, a silent reprimand for his unnecessary rudeness, and turned your full attention to Mingi, a curious and genuinely expectant smile gracing your lips. As you carefully peeled away the plain paper, three sleek, slender tubes rolled out onto your palm. Your breath hitched, a wave of unexpected, almost overwhelming emotion washing over you. They were the exact three, incredibly elusive shades of a particular rare lip gloss collection you had been obsessed with since your early high school days. A limited edition release that had always seemed to be perpetually out of stock online, disappearing within mere seconds of being restocked. And here they were, nestled in your hand, a tangible piece of a long-forgotten desire, a small, potent reminder of a younger, simpler you.

A wave of genuine, heartfelt emotion washed over you, eclipsing the polite appreciation you had shown for the more extravagant gifts. You looked up at Mingi, your eyes shining with unshed tears, a lump forming in your throat. “Mingi… how in the world did you…?”

He shrugged, a small, shy smile playing on his lips, a hint of his old, teasing charm flickering in his eyes, tinged with a vulnerability you hadn’t seen before. “Nari might have… mentioned something… a long, long time ago. And I… well, let’s just say I have my… resourceful moments. Sometimes, the things that seem small are the ones that truly matter, right?”

Without a second thought, you stood up and hugged him tightly, burying your face in the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne, a feeling of unexpected warmth and profound understanding enveloping you. “Thank you, Mingi. This is… this is the absolute best gift. You remembered. You actually remembered.”

Lucas’s smile had completely vanished, replaced by a tight, almost petulant expression. He watched the genuine affection in your embrace with a visible annoyance that bordered on jealousy, his grip tightening imperceptibly on your shoulder. “Lip glosses?” he said, his tone laced with thinly veiled disbelief and a distinct hint of condescension. “Seriously? You like lip glosses more than a ruby pendant I specifically picked out for you?”

You pulled back from Mingi, a slight frown creasing your brow. The possessiveness in Lucas’s tone and his blatant dismissal of Mingi’s thoughtful gesture rubbed you the wrong way, a stark contrast to Mingi’s quiet understanding. “It’s not about the price tag, Lucas,” you said, your voice firm, a subtle edge creeping in. “It’s about the thought, the effort, the personal touch. Mingi remembered something I loved years ago, something that’s practically impossible to find now. That means more to me than just something expensive and… impersonal.”

Later in the evening, after a few more drinks had loosened inhibitions and perhaps amplified Lucas’s underlying insecurities, his simmering annoyance finally boiled over. He cornered Mingi near the dimly lit balcony, his voice tight with barely concealed resentment. “You know, you really try too hard, don’t you? Always hovering around, always trying to one-up everyone, even on Y/N’s birthday. It’s pathetic.”

Mingi, ever the reluctant participant in conflict, simply shrugged, a wry, slightly weary smile playing on his lips. “Just trying to give a good gift, Lucas. It’s her birthday. Thoughtfulness isn’t a competition. And I wasn’t aware I was ‘hovering.’”

“Yeah, well, she’s my girlfriend now, in case your selective memory is acting up again,” Lucas snapped, his tone sharp and possessive, a clear warning in his eyes. “Maybe you should remember your place and stop trying to impress her.”

Mingi’s smile finally faded, replaced by a flicker of something akin to annoyance, a brief flash of the protective older brother you had witnessed years ago. But he kept his voice even, refusing to be drawn into a petty, alcohol-fueled argument. “I do remember that, Lucas. And I genuinely want to see her happy. If your insecurity requires you to see my friendship with Y/N as a threat, that’s your issue, not mine.” He turned away, effectively ending the uncomfortable conversation, not wanting to cause any further drama on your special day, even if Lucas’s words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Days drifted by, the memory of your birthday lingering like a bittersweet melody. The ruby pendant remained nestled in its velvet box, unworn, a beautiful but ultimately impersonal symbol of a connection that felt increasingly transactional and driven by external validation. The three tubes of rare lip gloss, however, became your everyday indulgence, a small, tangible reminder of Mingi’s unexpected thoughtfulness and his quiet, enduring understanding of your inner world.

Then came the rain. It started as a gentle, almost romantic drizzle, the kind that lulled the bustling city into a quiet, contemplative hush, the droplets tapping softly against your windowpane. But with an almost violent shift, it escalated into a torrential downpour, the sky unleashing its fury in thick, relentless sheets of water that mirrored the tempest brewing within you. You stood on Nari’s doorstep, soaked to the bone, your hair plastered to your face, tears streaming down your cheeks, indistinguishable from the relentless rain. The moment Nari opened the door, her face etched with sleepy concern that quickly morphed into alarm, your carefully constructed composure, the fragile wall you had built to contain your growing unease, crumbled completely. Hysterical sobs wracked your body, each one a raw, guttural cry of betrayal. You stumbled inside, a broken, rain-soaked mess, leaving a trail of muddy footprints across Nari’s clean floor.

“He… he… cheated,” you choked out between gasps, the words feeling like jagged shards of glass tearing at your throat, each syllable a fresh wave of pain. “I went to his place… to surprise him… to maybe… to maybe try and talk about… about how things have been feeling… distant… and there were… there were heels… expensive, unfamiliar heels… and silk dresses… and… and lacy underwear… that weren’t mine. He… he didn’t even try to hide it. He just… he just looked at me like I was crazy for being upset.”

Nari’s face paled, her initial shock quickly morphing into a fierce, protective anger that radiated from her like a palpable heat. She pulled you inside, her strong arms wrapping around your trembling form, offering a silent haven in the storm’s fury. “Oh, Y/N… oh, honey. That… that absolute bastard. Come here.” She led you to the familiar comfort of her living room couch, gently pushing you down and grabbing a thick, fluffy towel to dry your shivering body, her touch surprisingly firm and reassuring.

Mingi, who had been sitting at the table, quietly working on his laptop in the corner, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his usually focused expression, watched the devastating scene unfold with a growing darkness in his eyes, a primal protectiveness surging within him. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching rhythmically in his cheek. Without a word, his gaze fixed on your broken, rain-soaked form huddled on the couch, he closed his laptop with a decisive snap, the sudden click echoing in the otherwise silent room. He grabbed his car keys from the nearby table, his movements swift and purposeful, and walked out into the raging storm, disappearing into the downpour without a backward glance, his silence more menacing than any shouted accusation. Nari, her full attention consumed by your inconsolable distress, barely registered his abrupt departure. You, lost in the fresh, searing agony of betrayal, didn’t even notice he was gone, your world shrinking to the suffocating weight of your shattered trust and the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the windowpane, a mournful soundtrack to your broken heart. Nari’s mother, hearing the commotion, came downstairs, her face etched with deep concern as she covered you with a warm, comforting blanket, her eyes filled with a silent, empathetic understanding of your profound pain.

The tempest outside gradually relinquished its furious grip on the city, the violent drumming of rain against the windowpanes softening to a melancholic rhythm, a somber soundtrack to the quiet devastation that had settled within the huge house. Hours crawled by with agonizing slowness, each tick of the clock amplifying the heavy silence, punctuated only by your ragged, uneven breaths as you wrestled with the raw, visceral agony of betrayal and the comforting, unwavering presence of Nari, a steadfast anchor in your storm-tossed world. Eventually, sheer exhaustion, the body’s desperate plea for respite, claimed you, pulling you into a fitful, dream-laden sleep on Nari’s familiar couch, the soft, worn blanket she had draped over you feeling like a fragile, inadequate shield against the sharp edges of your broken heart and the cruel indifference of the outside world.

Sometime in the pre-dawn hours, as the first faint streaks of grey began to paint the eastern sky, the front door creaked open, a wet gust of wind momentarily chilling the already tense atmosphere, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked earth and a raw, primal energy. Mingi stood silhouetted in the doorway, a dark, rain-soaked figure against the dim hallway light, looking like a wrathful spirit returned from a silent battle. Water streamed down his face, plastering his dark hair to his forehead, and his breathing was heavy, ragged, as if he had run a great distance or engaged in a strenuous physical exertion. His usually well-maintained hands were now clenched into tight fists, the knuckles visibly bruised and swollen, bearing the stark testament to a silent, furious confrontation waged in the darkness of the storm-ravaged night. He toed off his sodden shoes, leaving a small, dark puddle on the tiled floor, his gaze immediately finding you, curled up in a fetal position on the couch, your face pale and drawn in the vulnerable repose of sleep.

He looked up at Nari, who was sitting across the room in the worn armchair, her own eyes red-rimmed and weary from hours of silent vigil, her expression a mixture of lingering worry for you and a grim, almost resigned understanding of her brother’s actions. A heavy, unspoken question hung in the air between them, a silent acknowledgment of the violence that had likely just transpired in the tempestuous night, a violence born of fierce protectiveness and righteous anger.

Nari’s voice was low, barely a whisper, the question laced with a mixture of apprehension, a hint of fear, and a grim, almost resigned understanding of her brother’s volatile nature when those he cared about were hurt. “Lucas?”

Mingi simply nodded, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching rhythmically in his cheek, his gaze unwavering, fixed on your fragile form.

“Injured?” Nari pressed, her voice a shade louder, a flicker of something akin to grim satisfaction mingling with her genuine concern for your well-being. She knew Lucas had hurt you deeply, and a part of her, the fiercely protective best friend, couldn’t entirely suppress a sense of vengeful justice.

A muscle ticked more violently in Mingi’s cheek, the only outward sign of the controlled fury simmering beneath his stoic exterior. He nodded again, his eyes conveying a silent, resolute protectiveness that spoke volumes, a promise of retribution delivered without a single word. “A few… fractures. And a broken nose, for sure. He won’t be bothering her again anytime soon.” He didn’t elaborate on the brutal details of the encounter, the violence of it seemingly unnecessary to articulate between siblings who often communicated in unspoken understanding.

He moved with a quiet, almost stealthy purpose, shedding his soaked jacket and shirt in the hallway, leaving a trail of dampness on the floor like a silent testament to his nocturnal actions. He disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the shower running a stark contrast to the heavy, oppressive stillness of the apartment, a cleansing ritual after the night’s grim task. Twenty minutes later, he emerged, the steam still clinging to his damp hair, dressed in a fresh set of comfortable, familiar clothes, his movements now softer, more deliberate. He slid down against the side of the couch, sinking onto its soft fabric beside you, his gaze immediately softening, all the earlier fury replaced by a tender, almost reverent concern as he gently brushed a stray strand of damp hair away from your pale, tear-stained face, his touch feather-light, as if afraid to disturb your troubled sleep.

“……such a damn fool,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a self-reproach, as if he couldn’t fathom the callousness of Lucas’s actions. “To cheat on someone so kind… so beautiful… so stunning… how could he even think about inflicting such pain on someone like her?” His eyes held a bewildered anger, a fierce protectiveness that seemed to extend far beyond the casual boundaries of friendship, a possessiveness that surprised even Nari with its intensity.

Nari watched him, her earlier anger at Lucas slowly receding, replaced by a renewed, intense curiosity about the depth of her brother’s reaction, the raw emotion that seemed to emanate from him. She finally broke the heavy silence, her voice soft but direct, cutting through the unspoken emotions that filled the small room. “Mingi… do you… do you like her? Like, really like her? Not just as a friend, not just because she’s my best friend.”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand the weight of her question, the unspoken implications hanging in the air. He let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze still fixed on your peaceful, albeit fragile, sleeping face, a vulnerability etched onto his features that she rarely witnessed. “Yeah, Nari. I do. I have… for a long time. Longer than you probably realize.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly, genuine surprise evident in her expression, a flicker of understanding dawning in her eyes. “Then why? Why all the flings? Why act like you don’t take anything seriously, like every relationship is just a fleeting amusement, a way to pass the time?”

He finally looked away from you, his gaze distant, lost in a landscape of past insecurities and deeply ingrained self-doubt. “Because… because I’m scared, okay? Terrified, actually. Scared I’ll mess it up, scared I’ll hurt her. She deserves someone… someone who will be all in, someone who can give her their whole heart without reservation. And… and I’m afraid I’m not that guy. She probably thinks all I’m good for are… meaningless flings, fleeting moments of shallow connection, nothing real or lasting.”

Nari’s expression softened with a dawning understanding, a flicker of empathy for the internal battle her seemingly carefree brother had been waging. “You told her that night, you know. The night of the party. When you were drunk, you let some of that slip. About being afraid of putting your whole heart in and it not being reciprocated. That’s why you preferred those… no-strings-attached things, as a defense mechanism.”

Mingi’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of fragmented memory surfacing in their depths, a realization of the vulnerability he had inadvertently displayed in his inebriated state. He hadn’t fully registered how much of his carefully guarded inner world he had revealed that night.

Nari leaned forward in her worn armchair, her gaze serious and unwavering, her voice imbued with a protective intensity. “Look, Mingi. I know you. You can be reckless, you can be infuriating, and you can be a complete mess when you let your insecurities take over. But Y/N… she’s special. She’s kind, she’s loyal, and she doesn’t deserve any more pain, especially not from you. If you hurt her, if you ever do anything to cause her this kind of devastation again… I will personally ensure you regret the day you were born. I will unleash a level of sibling fury you haven’t even begun to comprehend. I mean it, Mingi.” Her voice, though quiet, held a steely resolve that left no room for misinterpretation.

Mingi went slightly red, a rare blush creeping up his neck, a testament to the seriousness of her threat and the depth of his respect for his sister’s fierce protectiveness. Nari’s lips twitched, a hint of her usual teasing nature momentarily returning, a small crack in the tense atmosphere. “But…” she continued, her voice softening slightly, a hint of something akin to approval, even encouragement, in her tone, “I also see the way you look at her, Mingi. It’s not the casual, detached way you look at those… fleeting connections. And… well, she’s not exactly oblivious. Give it time, Mingi. Be around her. Be the decent guy I know you can be, the one who kicked that idiot’s ass in high school for making her cry. Be yourself. And when the time is right… maybe, just maybe, ask her out. Properly. And for God’s sake, don’t be drunk when you do it.”

Mingi just nodded, his gaze returning to your peaceful face, a fragile flicker of something akin to hope – mixed with a healthy dose of trepidation and a newfound sense of responsibility – dawning in his eyes. The storm outside finally began to subside, the relentless drumming of the rain softening to a gentle patter against the windowpane, as if the heavens themselves were finally offering a moment of respite, a quiet promise of a new dawn breaking through the darkness.

The following weeks unfolded within the familiar, comforting confines of Nari and Mingi’s house, a sanctuary slowly transforming from a haven of solace to a space where the first fragile shoots of hope began to emerge from the cracked earth of your heartbreak.

You remained blissfully unaware of the silent confrontation Lucas had faced, and Mingi, ever mindful of your delicate emotional state within their shared living space, was subtly careful to keep his hands out of sight, often tucked deep into the pockets of his hoodies or deliberately occupied with mundane tasks – meticulously organizing the spice rack in the kitchen, or painstakingly dusting the already pristine shelves in the living room – whenever you were in the same room.

The bruises on his knuckles, a silent testament to a rage you never witnessed, gradually faded, their angry purple hues softening to a pale yellow, hidden beneath the guise of everyday activities within their home.

Mingi became a gentle, consistent presence within the familiar rhythm of their household, a comforting counterpoint to the emotional storm that had recently ravaged your heart. He’d leave your favorite artisanal chocolates on the small table beside the couch, suggesting low-key movie nights in the cozy living room, complete with oversized blankets and endless cups of herbal tea, or quiet evenings spent immersed in the strategic complexities of board games spread out on the dining table.

He seemed to instinctively understand that you weren’t ready for grand gestures or forced cheerfulness within the familiar comfort of their house. Instead, he offered small, consistent acts of kindness – a perfectly brewed cup of your preferred coffee left by your bedside, a carefully curated playlist of soothing instrumental music drifting softly from his room – a quiet understanding that allowed you to heal at your own pace within their shared living space.

One particularly languid afternoon, seeking a momentary distraction from the persistent ache in your chest that seemed to echo the quiet stillness of the house, you found yourself playfully suggesting a makeover session while all three of you were idly passing time in the sun-drenched living room.

Mingi, after a moment of comical wide-eyed hesitation witnessed by Nari’s amused smirk, gamely agreed to be your unlikely canvas. The sight of his usually stoic face adorned with bright pink blush, shimmering lavender eyeshadow, and a surprisingly artful application of glitter elicited genuine, unrestrained laughter from you for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a sound that warmed their shared home like a sudden, unexpected burst of sunshine filtering through the clouds.

He even patiently endured your attempts at a dramatic winged eyeliner, the results endearingly lopsided, making Nari snort with laughter. The easy camaraderie, the shared silliness within the familiar setting of their home, felt like a soothing balm to your wounded spirit, a gentle reminder of the simple joys that still existed.

Over shared meals at the dining table, Mingi would recount ridiculously embellished stories from his time in the States, exaggerating the comical mishaps and cultural miscommunications with a newfound flair for the dramatic that always managed to bring a genuine smile to your face as you all sat together.

In the evenings, as you sat curled up on the couch in the living room, he’d listen with quiet patience as you tentatively talked about Lucas, offering gentle words of support and validation without ever resorting to bitter recriminations against your ex, allowing you to process your tangled emotions without judgment within the comforting space of their home.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the light began to return to your eyes, the corners of your mouth curving upwards with increasing frequency as you spent time in their comforting presence. The inherent sunshine that had always been a part of your personality began to peek through the heavy clouds of your sorrow, illuminating the familiar corners of their house with its gentle glow.

In the quiet moments that punctuated their days within the shared rhythm of the household – a shared glance that lingered a fraction too long across the kitchen counter as you both reached for the same carton of milk, a comfortable silence that held an unspoken understanding as you sat side-by-side reading in the living room, a gentle brush of hands as you both reached for the same board game piece in the den – a different kind of connection began to subtly simmer between you and Mingi.

These small, wholesome moments, unfolding within the intimate space of their home, held a quiet, almost palpable tension, a nascent awareness of something unspoken and potentially significant, but never pushed beyond the comfortable boundaries of your established friendship. It was a slow, delicate dance of tentative emotions, a silent acknowledgment of a potential that neither of you dared to fully explore just yet under the same roof.

Nari, ever the astute and fiercely protective observer within the confines of their home, watched this subtle but significant shift with a knowing, almost conspiratorial smile playing on her lips. She saw the genuine, unguarded care in Mingi’s eyes whenever his gaze rested on you across the breakfast table, the way his usual teasing banter softened into gentle concern when you seemed down in the living room.

She witnessed the genuine, unadulterated joy that flickered in your eyes whenever he managed to elicit a heartfelt laugh in the kitchen. One quiet evening, as Mingi was about to retreat to his room after another comforting visit downstairs, Nari caught his arm in the dimly lit hallway. She looked at him, her usual playful demeanor replaced by a soft, encouraging smile that held a hint of mischievous anticipation within the privacy of their home.

“You know, Mingi,” she said, her eyes sparkling with a knowing glint, “the coast is clear. She’s starting to heal. Just… please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t screw it up. You both deserve a little bit of happiness in this house, after all the rain.”

Mingi’s eyes widened slightly, a hopeful flush creeping up his neck within the familiar surroundings of their home. He simply nodded, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his usual guarded expression as he headed towards his room, a silent promise hanging in the air. The silent rage had finally subsided, replaced by a quiet, tentative hope, a fragile sunrise beginning to paint the horizon within the shared space of their home.

The week that followed your emotional storm unfolded within the familiar, comforting embrace of Nari and Mingi’s house, a sanctuary slowly but surely transforming from a haven of solace to a space where the first fragile tendrils of hope began to unfurl from the cracked earth of your heartbreak. The raw, jagged edges of your pain had begun to soften, smoothed by the gentle passage of time and the unwavering, steadfast support of your two dearest friends, their presence a constant, reassuring warmth within the familiar walls. You remained blissfully unaware of the silent, furious confrontation Lucas had faced in the rain-soaked night, a consequence of Mingi’s fierce protectiveness that played out beyond your knowledge. Within the shared living space, Mingi, ever attuned to your delicate emotional state, was subtly, almost instinctively careful to keep his bruised hands out of sight, often tucked deep into the comforting pockets of his worn hoodies or deliberately occupied with mundane, everyday tasks – meticulously arranging the mismatched mugs in the kitchen cupboard, or painstakingly dusting the already pristine surfaces of the antique bookshelf in the living room – whenever you were in the same room, his quiet attentiveness a silent reassurance.

Then, one radiant, sun-drenched afternoon, as the air hummed with the promise of late summer, Mingi casually suggested a long drive, a spontaneous escape from the familiar confines of the house, a chance to breathe in the crisp, clean air of the countryside and perhaps, as he subtly hinted with a hopeful glint in his eyes, allow the vast expanse of the horizon to clear away any lingering emotional clouds that still clung to your spirit. "Just the three of us," he'd said, his gaze flickering between you and Nari as you all sat together in their brightly lit living room, the sunlight streaming through the window illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. "Some open road, maybe find a secluded spot with a killer view, catch a nice sunset." Nari had readily agreed, her enthusiasm a little too bright, a knowing, almost conspiratorial glint in her eyes that didn't quite escape your notice, but you were nonetheless grateful for the prospect of a change of scenery, a temporary reprieve from the quiet introspection that had become your constant companion within the house.

The designated day arrived, dawning with a clear, azure sky that promised a perfect escape. The allure of open roads stretching out before you like a beckoning ribbon of possibility, the anticipation of breathtaking scenic vistas, felt like a welcome balm to your weary soul, a tangible contrast to the emotional weight you had been carrying within the familiar walls of their home. As you were getting ready in Nari’s sun-drenched room, carefully selecting an outfit that felt both comfortable and imbued with a whisper of newfound hope – a soft, flowing dress in your favorite color – Nari appeared in your doorway, leaning against the frame with a knowing, almost mischievous glint in her eyes and a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "So," she began, her voice laced with a theatrical air of regret, "about that drive… something rather… extraordinarily pressing… came up. A matter of grave importance, you see."

You frowned, a sliver of disappointment momentarily clouding your burgeoning anticipation. "Oh? What in the world is it?"

She waved a dismissive hand, her eyes twinkling with undisguised amusement. "Nothing truly catastrophic, nothing that would warrant a national emergency, you understand. Just… a sudden, utterly urgent and frankly non-negotiable need to finally alphabetize my extensive collection of vintage vinyl records. You know how it is. The sonic vibrations of the universe have aligned in such a way that only perfectly ordered vinyl can restore cosmic harmony. It's a burden I must bear." Her smile widened, a clear, unsubtle signal that you weren't buying her flimsy excuse for even a single second. "Seriously though," she continued, her tone softening, her eyes holding a genuine warmth and a hint of conspiratorial excitement, "you two go. You both desperately need some time away from this house, some space to breathe. And… well," she hesitated for a fleeting moment, a delicate blush dusting her cheeks, a hint of nervousness momentarily crossing her usually confident features, "Mingi's been wanting to do this for a while, I think. It's… it's his kind of grand gesture, in his own quiet way." She gave you a gentle, encouraging nudge towards the door, her eyes sparkling with unspoken encouragement. "Go on. Have some fun. Enjoy the sunset. And for goodness sake, try not to overthink everything."

The drive with Mingi was surprisingly comfortable, the initial awkwardness that had occasionally lingered between you melting away with the passing miles and the shared soundtrack of your lives playing softly on the car stereo. Easy conversation flowed between you, punctuated by comfortable silences filled only with the hum of the engine and the whisper of the wind through the open windows. The scenery outside the window blurred into a calming, hypnotic rhythm, and the subtle tension that had simmered beneath the surface of your interactions for weeks, a delicate, unspoken dance of burgeoning feelings, finally began to ease, replaced by a quiet sense of anticipation, a hopeful stirring in your chest. As the afternoon sun began its slow, majestic descent towards the horizon, painting the sprawling sky in breathtaking, vibrant hues of fiery orange, soft lavender, and deep, velvety purple, Mingi pulled the car over to a secluded scenic overlook, a hidden gem he seemed to know well, the panoramic view stretching out before you like a vast, vibrant, living canvas, a masterpiece painted by the dying light of day.

He turned to you, his usual playful, teasing demeanor completely absent, replaced by a nervous sincerity that made your heart flutter like a trapped butterfly in your chest. He got out of the car, and for a fleeting moment, you simply admired the stunning vista alongside him, the silence comfortable and filled only with the gentle chirping of unseen crickets and the distant rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. Then, he turned back towards you, his gaze locking with yours, and your breath hitched in your throat, a sudden wave of understanding washing over you. He was down on both knees on the dusty ground, the setting sun casting long shadows behind him, a beautiful bouquet of your favorite pristine white lilies held out in his trembling hands, the delicate, fragrant petals catching the golden, ethereal light of the dying day.

"Y/N," he began, his voice a little shaky, the emotion in it raw and undeniably sincere, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your cheeks flush with a mixture of surprise and a long-dormant hope. "Can I… can I be yours? Can I be the one to finally chase away the shadows that have been clouding your light? Can I be the one to make you laugh that unrestrained, beautiful laugh again, every single day?"

Hesitation, a deeply ingrained habit of always considering Nari’s feelings and the potential complexities of your intertwined lives, flickered within you, a momentary shadow of doubt. A small, cautious voice whispered anxieties about disrupting the delicate balance, about the unspoken history that bound the three of you together. "Mingi… Nari… does she… is she truly okay with this? I don't want to… I don't want to come between you two."

He smiled, a genuine, heart-melting smile that reached the depths of his warm eyes, chasing away any lingering doubts like the setting sun dispelling the darkness. "She knows, Y/N. She's been… surprisingly, wonderfully supportive. She sees how happy you make me, how much I care about you, how much you both mean to me. She wants us to be happy, more than anything in the world."

A wave of profound relief washed over you, a lightness spreading through your chest, quickly followed by a surge of a different, more powerful emotion, a feeling you had tried to suppress for so long, a quiet ember finally bursting into flame. You reached out, not for the offered bouquet, but for his hands, your fingers intertwining with his, pulling him gently but firmly to his feet. Before he could fully register your intention, the last vestiges of your carefully constructed reserve, the walls you had unknowingly built around your heart, melted away like ice in the summer sun. You stepped closer, the scent of lilies filling the air between you, and you pushed him gently against the cool metal of the car, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was a culmination of unspoken feelings, shared laughter, quiet understanding, and a burgeoning, hopeful future.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and slightly dizzy, a soft, radiant smile bloomed on your lips, mirroring the joy in his eyes. "You have absolutely no idea," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I've loved you since high school, Y/N. All those stupid, ridiculous nicknames, all that incessant teasing… it was my terribly awkward, completely inadequate way of trying to get your attention, to be near you, to make you notice me."

A comforting warmth spread through your chest, a profound echo of his heartfelt confession resonating deep within your own heart. "We're in the same incredibly awkward boat then," you confessed, your fingers tracing the familiar, slightly rough line of his jaw, the stubble there surprisingly soft against your touch. "All those eye-rolls, all those sarcastic remarks directed your way… it was my equally terrible, equally inadequate way of trying to pretend you didn't make my stomach do ridiculous, embarrassing flips every time you were near."

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping securely around your waist, his embrace feeling like coming home after a long, arduous journey. He kissed your cheek, then the sensitive curve of your jaw, lingering there for a moment, a silent promise in the gentle pressure of his lips. You reached up and playfully ruffled his dark hair, a familiar gesture that now felt charged with a new, exhilarating intimacy, a tangible connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship. As the last vibrant rays of the setting sun bathed the two of you in a golden, ethereal light, painting the sky above in a final blaze of glory, a profound, quiet happiness settled in the air between you, a tangible promise of a beautiful, shared beginning unfolding under a sky ablaze with hope.

The End

[novaursa]

Fire Never Forgets

- Summary: Daemon swears to have you. No matter the cost.

- Pairing: sister!reader/dark!Daemon I Blackfyre

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence and all the other fluffy stuff)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The halls of the Red Keep were always alive with whispers, faint and elusive, as if the very stones had ears. You heard the rumors, of course—the ones that slithered into your chambers like serpents in the night. The court buzzed about Daemon Waters, the king’s unruly bastard son, the rogue boy who roamed the training yard with a smirk and a blade that sang like a lover’s sigh.

You were young then, barely past the threshold of maidenhood. Your world was still golden and unmarred, a delicate tapestry woven with tales of dragons and the dreams of kings. You had seen Daemon before, always from a distance—his pale hair gleaming under the sun, his violet eyes like shards of amethyst, sharp and cutting. There was something about him that unsettled you, a feral energy that prowled just beneath his skin.

It was not long before he noticed you.

The first time he truly saw you was during one of the king’s lavish feasts. You sat quietly at the high table, your hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes cast downward as the lords and ladies roared with laughter around you. Daemon was seated at the far end of the hall, amongst the lesser-born nobles and the bastards, his place at court as unsteady as his name. But his gaze found you nonetheless, cutting through the noise and the distance as if drawn by an invisible thread.

You felt it before you saw it—the weight of his stare, heavy and unrelenting. When you glanced up, your eyes locked with his across the room. A chill danced along your spine, though the air was warm and thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. Daemon tilted his head, a wolfish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It was the beginning of everything.

The next morning, you found him waiting in the gardens.

"Princess," he greeted, his voice low and smooth, a serpent’s hiss wrapped in honey. "I thought I might find you here."

You hesitated, your fingers clutching the edges of your silk cloak. "Ser Daemon," you replied, though he bore no knightly title. "What brings you here?"

He stepped closer, his movements languid and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. "You."

The single word hung in the air between you, heavy and undeniable. You swallowed hard, your heart fluttering in your chest like a caged bird.

"You flatter me, my lord," you said, forcing your voice to remain steady. "Surely there are more interesting pursuits for someone like you."

Daemon chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Perhaps. But none as captivating."

His eyes roved over you, unabashed and possessive. You felt exposed under his gaze, as though he could see every hidden part of you. The court had warned you of Daemon Waters—his ambition, his cunning, his charm that could melt steel. But standing before him now, you realized they had not warned you enough.

"I should go," you murmured, taking a step back.

"Why?" he asked, his tone almost playful. "Afraid of me?"

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. He took the opportunity to close the distance between you, his fingers brushing against your hand. His touch was cool, sending a shiver up your arm.

"You shouldn’t be," he whispered, his voice a caress. "I would never harm you."

The way he said it, soft and almost reverent, made you feel both comforted and unnerved. You pulled your hand away, your cheeks flushed.

"My father would not approve of this," you said, your voice firmer now.

Daemon’s grin widened, and for the first time, you saw the glint of ambition in his eyes—the fire that burned brighter than any dragon’s flame.

"Your father underestimates me," he said. "But you won’t. Will you, sister?"

The way he said the word sister made it sound like a claim, a bond that could not be severed. You took another step back, your mind racing.

"I must go," you said again, turning quickly and fleeing the garden.

Behind you, Daemon watched your retreating form, a smile curling on his lips. He had set his sights on you, and Daemon Waters was not a man who let go of what he wanted.

Not ever.

The throne room of the Red Keep was silent, save for the rustle of courtiers shifting in anticipation. King Aegon IV sat upon the Iron Throne, a mountain of swords forged in fire and blood, and the weight of his presence was suffocating. His indulgent grin held the promise of spectacle, for today, his bastard son, Daemon Waters, would be legitimized.

You stood among the lords and ladies, your place at court dutifully observed, though you wished to be anywhere but here. Your eyes darted to Daemon, who stood at the foot of the dais, head high, shoulders squared, a predator cloaked in finery. His hair gleamed like a crown beneath the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows, and his eyes burned with a fire that had always unnerved you.

The king raised a hand, silencing the murmurs that rippled through the court.

"Today," Aegon began, his voice booming, "I honor my blood. Daemon Waters, my son, I hereby legitimize you. From this day forward, you shall bear the name Blackfyre, a name as fierce and enduring as the blade I bestow upon you."

Gasps echoed through the chamber as a knight stepped forward, holding the famed blade Blackfyre in his hands. The sword, a symbol of Targaryen power, shone in the light, its Valyrian steel etched with dark ripples that seemed alive.

Daemon stepped forward, but instead of taking the blade, he turned his gaze to you. The intensity of his stare rooted you in place, and your breath caught in your throat. The court grew restless as Daemon spoke.

"I am honored by the name and the sword," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with danger. "But there is something I desire more."

The hall fell deathly silent, every eye shifting between Daemon and the king. Aegon’s brow furrowed, his indulgent smile slipping into something harder.

"And what is it you desire, Daemon?" Aegon asked, his tone wary.

Daemon’s lips curled into a smile, predatory and triumphant. He gestured toward you, his hand outstretched as if he already owned you.

"I want her," he said simply. "Your daughter. My sister."

The air left your lungs as gasps and murmurs erupted around the chamber. Your heart raced, your hands trembling as you felt the weight of hundreds of stares boring into you. Aegon leaned forward on his throne, his face darkening with rage.

"You dare?" Aegon’s voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade. "You speak of your own sister, my daughter, as if she is a prize to be claimed?"

Daemon did not falter. "She is more than a prize. She is mine. Always has been."

The court erupted into chaos, but Aegon raised his hand, silencing them once more. His expression was a mix of fury and disbelief as he addressed his son.

“Daemon!” The king’s voice thundered through the hall. “You will take the sword and hold your tongue, or you will leave here with nothing!”

For the first time, Daemon faltered, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tightening. He looked up at the throne, his defiance unyielding.

"So be it," Daemon said softly, his voice carrying the promise of violence. He turned back to the knight holding Blackfyre and seized the sword in one fluid motion. The Valyrian steel hissed as he swung it through the air, testing its weight. He smiled, though it did not reach his eyes.

"If I must bloody my way to her, so be it," Daemon declared, his voice ringing through the hall. "I will carve a path through this world until she is mine, no matter who stands in my way."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and you felt your knees weaken beneath you. He turned his gaze back to you, his expression softening into something almost tender, though it only made your skin crawl.

"Wait for me, sweet sister," he said, his voice dripping with possession. "This is not the end."

Before anyone could react, Daemon spun on his heel and strode out of the throne room, the sword gleaming in his hand, his silver hair streaming behind him like a banner of war.

The silence that followed was deafening. Aegon slumped back in his throne, his face ashen. The lords and ladies whispered among themselves, casting furtive glances in your direction. You stood frozen, your heart pounding in your chest.

Daemon’s promise echoed in your mind, a dark and terrible vow that you knew he would keep.

Daemon Blackfyre stood atop the battlements of his newly-claimed stronghold, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the Red Keep loomed in the distance. The sun dipped low, but the fire in his chest burned brighter than the dying light. Blood stained the earth beneath his boots—Targaryen blood, Velaryon blood, noble blood—all spilled in his name, all spilled for her.

The sword in his hand, Blackfyre, felt like an extension of his will. The weight of it was a comfort, a promise, a whisper in the dark that urged him onward. The blade, black as night and sharp enough to carve destiny itself, gleamed faintly in the twilight. It had tasted blood that day, and it craved more.

But no amount of blood would satisfy him until he had her.

She haunted him, her image as vivid in his mind as the first time he had seen her. The delicate curve of her neck, the soft sway of her silken gown as she walked, the light in her violet eyes that burned like dragonfire. She was everything he wanted—everything he deserved—and she was denied to him by a man who called himself king. His father had dared to refuse him, dared to speak as if she was some prize to be withheld.

“Mine,” Daemon growled under his breath, the word a low, guttural snarl that escaped without thought. She was his. She had always been his, from the moment he first laid eyes on her. The rest of the world just hadn’t realized it yet.

His tent that night was a place of solitude and chaos, mirroring the storm within him. Maps and letters lay strewn across a wooden table, inked with the names of those who had pledged to his cause. Lords who whispered of justice, of a bastard’s right to the throne, of their disdain for the Targaryens who ruled. Fools, all of them. They thought this rebellion was about a crown, about power.

They didn’t understand. None of them did.

This war wasn’t about the Iron Throne. It wasn’t about Aegon IV’s rejection, or the legacy of the sword he now carried. It was about her. Every step, every stroke of his blade, every castle he burned and every knight he cut down—each was a step closer to her.

He paced the tent, his blood singing with the madness of his obsession. Visions of her filled his mind. He could see her now, standing on the steps of the Red Keep, her hands clasped nervously, her lips trembling as she spoke his name. Not with disdain, not with fear—but with reverence. With love.

He paused, his hands tightening on the edge of the table. Love. The thought of it twisted in his gut, raw and consuming. Did she love him? Could she? Or was she as blind as the rest of them? Did she see him only as a bastard, a rogue prince, a usurper?

No. She would love him. She had to. He would make her see.

Daemon's laughter filled the tent, low and dark and unhinged. It echoed off the canvas walls, a sound that would have sent shivers down the spines of lesser men. He reached for Blackfyre, lifting the sword and examining its edge, still stained crimson. His reflection stared back at him from the blade, wild and fierce.

“If she won’t come willingly,” he murmured, his voice soft yet brimming with malice, “then I will take her.”

The thought ignited something feral within him. He imagined storming the Red Keep, the doors splintering beneath his strength, the court scattering like frightened sheep as he strode through their midst. He would find her, wherever she was hidden, and she would look at him the way he dreamed. She would finally see the man who had razed kingdom for her, who had spilled oceans of blood for her name.

They will write songs about me, he thought, a twisted grin curling his lips. Daemon Blackfyre, the bastard who burned the world for love.

A knock at the tent's entrance pole pulled him from his thoughts. One of his captains, bloodied and battered, stepped inside. “My lord,” he began, bowing low. “The forces from House Peake are prepared to march. We await your orders.”

Daemon turned, the grin fading from his face as he fixed the man with a piercing gaze. “We march at dawn,” he said, his tone calm but laced with menace. “And we do not stop until the Red Keep falls. Tell the men that anyone who stands between me and what is mine will die screaming.”

The captain nodded, a flicker of fear crossing his face, and quickly left the tent. Daemon stood alone once more, the weight of his obsession settling over him like a cloak.

He stepped outside, the cool night air washing over him as he gazed toward the distant capital. “Soon,” he whispered, gripping the hilt of Blackfyre so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Soon you’ll be mine, my sweet sister. I’ll paint the streets of King’s Landing with blood if I must. But you’ll come to me. You’ll see there’s no escaping me.”

The stars above were cold and distant, their light pale and indifferent to the madness unfolding below. But Daemon didn’t care. The world could burn, the heavens could fall, and the gods themselves could descend to stop him—it wouldn’t matter.

He would have her. And nothing, not man nor trueborn dragon, would stand in his way.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was eerily silent, its grandeur overshadowed by the chaos and death that lingered just outside its walls. The banners of House Targaryen still hung, but they were no longer symbols of your family’s strength. They were torn and bloodstained, fluttering weakly in the ash-laden breeze that seeped in through shattered windows.

You stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, your hands trembling as you clutched the fabric of your gown. Your heart was a hollow ache, a wound that bled for the family you had lost. Your father, your brothers, the loyal men who had sworn to protect you—they were all gone. Their screams echoed in your mind, drowned by the roar of Daemon Blackfyre’s armies as they stormed the capital.

Now, the victor was coming to claim his spoils.

The doors to the hall groaned open, and the sound of boots against stone shattered the stillness. Your head snapped up, and there he was. Daemon Blackfyre. His armor was stained with blood, his black and red cloak torn at the edges, but his posture was as commanding as ever. Blackfyre, the ancestral blade, hung at his hip. His violet eyes locked onto yours the moment he entered, and the air seemed to grow colder.

Behind him, his allies flanked him like wolves circling their leader. They carried the weight of victory on their shoulders, but it was Daemon who held the room in his grasp. He strode forward with purpose, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Leave us,” he commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.

The men hesitated for a moment, glancing at each other before filing out of the hall. The heavy doors closed behind them, and the silence returned, thicker and more suffocating than before.

“You’ve taken everything from me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. Tears brimmed in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “My family, my home… everything.”

Daemon stopped a few paces away, his lips curling into a smirk that made your blood run cold. “Not everything, my sweet,” he said, his tone soft but laced with menace. “Not yet.”

He stepped closer, and you instinctively backed away, your heels hitting the edge of the steps that led to the Iron Throne. You had nowhere left to run. Daemon noticed and chuckled, the sound low and predatory.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he said, his voice a dark caress. “I warned them. I warned you. I would spill oceans of blood to have you. And now, here you are.”

You shook your head, your throat tightening as panic clawed at your chest. “Please… don’t do this.”

His expression softened, but it only made him more terrifying. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “Oh, sweet sister,” he murmured, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “This is what was always meant to be. You and I, ruling together. Fire and blood, united.”

Before you could respond, his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you toward him. His lips crashed against yours, demanding and unyielding. You froze, every muscle in your body screaming in protest, but Daemon was relentless. His kiss was a claim, a branding, a promise that you belonged to him and no one else.

When he finally pulled away, you gasped for air, your chest heaving as tears streamed down your face. Daemon’s thumb wiped one away, his smile dark and triumphant.

“Bring the Septon,” he called, his voice echoing through the empty hall.

The doors opened, and the trembling figure of a Septon was ushered in by two of Daemon’s men. The holy man clutched his robes tightly, his face pale as he took in the scene before him.

“We will be married,” Daemon announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And then I will be crowned. The throne is mine, and so is she.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You can’t—”

Daemon turned to you, his hand gripping your chin firmly as he forced you to meet his gaze. “I can, and I will. You are mine, now and forever. You can fight me if you wish, but it will change nothing.”

The Septon hesitated, his voice trembling as he began the rites. You barely heard the words, your mind spinning with the weight of what was happening. When the time came for Daemon to speak his vows, his voice was strong and sure, each word dripping with obsession.

“I take you as mine, in fire and blood, now and always,” he said, his gaze burning into yours. “And I swear, before gods and men, that we will make this world kneel before us.”

When it was your turn to respond, you hesitated, your voice caught in your throat. Daemon’s hand tightened on yours, a silent warning. You forced the words out, each one feeling like a blade to your heart.

As the ceremony ended, Daemon turned to the Septon and dismissed him with a wave. The poor man fled the hall as quickly as his legs would carry him. Daemon’s attention shifted back to you, his smile returning as he gestured toward the Iron Throne.

“Come, wife,” he said, the word thick with satisfaction. “Our union is not yet complete.”

Your eyes widened in horror as his meaning became clear. You shook your head, backing away, but Daemon’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist like iron.

“Do not fight me,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “I promised myself this moment, and I will have it. We will make love on the Iron Throne, and the realm will remember it as the night House Blackfyre truly began.”

Tears streamed down your face as he pulled you toward the throne, his grip unyielding. The jagged steel of the throne loomed before you, a monument to power, cruelty, and now, the dark desires of the man who had taken everything from you.

Each step up its dais felt like a climb toward your doom, a spiral into the depths of Daemon's madness. His hand never left yours, his grip unrelenting as he guided you to the seat that had claimed the lives of kings. The steel beneath you was cold and unforgiving, a perfect mirror to the man who now stood before you.

Daemon's eyes were brilliant with triumph, his lips curling into a wicked smile as he towered over you. He had everything he had fought for—the Red Keep, the realm, and you. The fire in his gaze burned hotter than the dragons of old, and you realized then that there was no escape.

He lowered himself to his knees before you, though there was no reverence in his act, only possession. His hands found your waist, his touch firm and commanding as he pulled you to him. The kiss he pressed to your lips was fevered and insistent, a claim written in fire and blood.

"Mine," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with desire. "Always mine."

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free as you endured his touch. The throne cut into your back, its cruel edges biting through the delicate fabric of your gown, but Daemon seemed unbothered. He was relentless, his obsession driving him to take what he believed was rightfully his.

Time blurred, the world narrowing to the cold steel beneath you and the scorching heat of Daemon's presence. His whispers filled your ears, promises of love and power tangled with threats of what would happen if you ever tried to leave him. When it was over, the throne room was silent once more, save for the sound of your ragged breathing.

Daemon rose, his expression one of dark satisfaction. He reached down and pulled you to your feet, his hands lingering on your waist as he steadied you. The throne stood behind you, its cutting edges now marked with the blood of your union.

He stepped away briefly, retrieving something from a nearby table. When he returned, your breath caught in your throat. In his hands was a crown—a twisted masterpiece of Valyrian steel and black diamonds, its design sharp and imposing. It was a thing of dark beauty, as haunting and unyielding as the man who had commissioned it.

"This," he said, his voice reverent, "is yours. A queen must have her crown."

You shook your head, your lips trembling. "Daemon, please—"

"Silence," he interrupted, his tone firm but not cruel. "You are my queen, my wife, my equal by blood. This crown was forged for you, and you will wear it."

He placed the crown upon your head, his fingers brushing against your hair as he adjusted it. When he stepped back to admire his work, his expression softened, a rare glimmer of tenderness breaking through his dark obsession.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. "You are everything I dreamed of and more."

You stood frozen, the weight of the crown pressing down on you like the weight of the world. Daemon extended his hand, his smile widening as he awaited your response. When you hesitated, his gaze hardened.

"Take my hand," he commanded. "Stand beside me, and let the realm see its king and queen united."

Slowly, reluctantly, you placed your hand in his. His grip tightened immediately, a silent reminder of his control. Together, you descended the steps of the Iron Throne, Daemon leading you toward the hall’s open doors where his allies and soldiers awaited.

As the doors swung open, the crowd erupted into cheers. They hailed Daemon as the king who had taken what was rightfully his, and you as the queen who would rule at his side. But you saw the truth in their eyes—the fear, the uncertainty, the unspoken acknowledgment that their loyalty was born of necessity, not love.

Daemon raised your joined hands high, his voice booming over the crowd. "Behold your queen!" he declared, his tone filled with triumph. "She is mine, as this throne is mine, and together we shall forge a new world—one ruled by House Blackfyre."

The crowd roared its approval, but you felt none of their enthusiasm. Your heart ached for what had been lost, for the family and the life that had been torn from you. But as Daemon’s hand gripped yours, unyielding and possessive, you realized there was no escaping him.

This was your life now—a crown of blood and ash, a throne forged in obsession, and a king who would stop at nothing to keep you by his side.

[dreamersworldduh]

HI, NEIGHBOR — FINALE

• JASON TODD x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — you’re new to the neighborhood and find yourself becoming friends with the residential bad boy, Jason Todd. From his perspective, you seem like an outgoing guy yet there’s a mystery to you he couldn’t quite figure out.

WARNING! Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 2k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! Again, thank you for all the love and support for this series. Don’t worry, I have more series coming, but until then enjoy.

PREVIOUS PART! FOUR

Gotham's skyline stretched endlessly before you, jagged and unforgiving, a maze of towering steel and cracked concrete that clawed at the cold night sky. Neon signs blinked erratically in the distance, casting eerie glows of red and electric blue over rain-slick streets far below. The moon hung high and distant, pale and remote, its silvery light spilling unevenly across the city's twisted landscape like a half-hearted blessing.

The city never slept—could never sleep. Faint sirens wailed somewhere far off, threading through the ever-present growl of engines, the angry shouts of late-night arguments, and the persistent buzz of flickering streetlights. Gotham breathed in chaos and exhaled violence—steady, relentless, alive.

You stood at the edge of the rooftop, motionless, barely registering the sharp, biting chill of the wind cutting through the seams of your armor. It howled around you, fierce and untamed, tugging at your cape as if daring you to leap into the void below. You didn't flinch. You hadn't flinched in a long time.

Your gloved fingers rested against the rough, weather-beaten edge of the rooftop ledge. The old bricks were cold and crumbling, worn down by years of brutal winters and fierce summer storms. Your gaze was locked across the street, fixed on the darkened, silent silhouette of a familiar building—your old apartment.

The windows stared back, empty and hollow. Once, those windows had glowed warmly, their light spilling out onto the cracked pavement like a beacon in the dark. You could still see it in your mind—the soft, golden haze of a lamp burning late into the night, curtains gently swaying in the breeze from a half-open window.

You remembered the way the old wooden floorboards groaned beneath your boots after long nights spent chasing shadows, the smell of cheap takeout mingling with the ever-present aroma of strong coffee brewed out of necessity, not comfort. You'd sit there in the dim light, armor peeled away, tracing worn-out street maps spread across a scarred table, planning your next move... still daring to hope.

But that life felt impossibly far away now, like a half-forgotten dream. Someone else's life. Someone softer. Someone less broken.

Your fingertips drifted down, brushing lightly over the familiar, sharp edges of the bat-emblem etched into your chest plate. The armor was cold and unyielding beneath your touch, its matte surface rough and scarred from countless battles. It was a part of you now—woven into your identity as surely as the blood in your veins.

There was no going back. No running. No hiding.

This was your life now. The mission. The fight. The endless war.

And you weren't alone in it—not anymore.

The familiar, deliberate sound of heavy boots landing softly on the rooftop behind you broke through the quiet. You didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

Jason.

"Figured I'd find you here," his familiar, rough voice called out, warm and teasing. You could hear the faint smirk woven into his words even before you turned around. Jason had a way of speaking like he was in on a private joke the world hadn't caught up to yet.

You exhaled slowly, already feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to unwind. He had that effect on you—steady, grounding, like the first breath after being underwater too long.

When you finally turned, he was standing a few feet away, clad in his signature Red Hood armor, its matte-black plates etched with battle scars and worn edges from countless fights. His blood-red emblem gleamed faintly in the moonlight, sharp and bold—a warning to anyone foolish enough to challenge him.

His helmet was tucked loosely under one arm, his other hand resting casually on his hip. Wind tugged at his dark hair, tousling it in a way that made him look effortlessly rugged, though you knew he hated when it got in his eyes. His piercing blue gaze locked onto yours with that familiar, intense focus—sharp and assessing, but gentler now... softer, just for you.

"You gonna stand there brooding all night," he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, "or can I join in on the dramatic rooftop staring contest?"

You couldn't help the quiet huff of laughter that escaped you. Jason always knew how to break the weight of the moment, no matter how heavy it felt.

Shaking your head, you leaned back against the rough brick ledge, your fingers trailing over the worn edges. "Thought you were on patrol."

Jason shrugged, stepping closer until he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you. Even through his armor, you could feel the familiar warmth radiating from him, grounding you in a way the cold city air never could.

"I was. Then I heard you were out here looking all..." —he waved a gloved hand vaguely in the air— "dark and mysterious. Thought I'd check in... make sure you weren't planning anything stupid."

You smirked, bumping your elbow lightly into his side. "Only stupid thing I've done is let you follow me."

Jason chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, wrapping around you like a protective shield. He shook his head, lips twitching into that lopsided grin that always made your heart ache in the best way.

"You love it," he said with quiet certainty, no hesitation in his voice.

The familiar, comfortable silence settled over you both. The distant hum of the city faded into the background as you stood side by side, staring out over Gotham's sprawling, chaotic skyline. The cold wind tugged at your cape, howling around the edges of the rooftop, but it felt far away now—just another piece of the restless city neither of you could ever quite leave behind.

After a long moment, Jason's voice softened, losing its usual teasing edge. His words were quieter, tinged with something deeper.

"Thinking about... before?"

Your gaze drifted back to the old apartment across the street—the empty, dark windows that used to glow with warmth and light. Memories tugged at the edges of your mind: late nights spent over binge watching movies, coffee growing cold on the counter; quiet conversations whispered in the dim glow of the worn kitchen lamp; stolen moments of peace in a life that rarely allowed them.

"Feels like... another life," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like... someone else lived there."

Jason tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful—serious in a way only he could be when it came to you. He studied you for a moment, his sharp gaze searching yours like he could see the thoughts you couldn't quite voice.

"Maybe... but you're still you," he said quietly, with a conviction that left no room for doubt. "Different suit, different mission... but the same person who's always fought like hell to survive."

His words hit deeper than you expected, settling into your chest with quiet finality. He always had a way of cutting through the walls you put up—seeing through the armor, both literal and otherwise.

You turned toward him slowly, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes were steady and unwavering, fierce in their sincerity.

"You know that, right?" Jason asked, his voice rough but soft—open in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

The weight of his words settled over you, pushing past the cold ache that had lived in your chest for so long. You swallowed hard, feeling something warm unfurl deep inside despite the icy wind biting at your skin.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I know."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt charged, humming with everything unspoken—but understood.

Then Jason's mouth tugged into a familiar, mischievous grin, the teasing light returning to his sharp blue eyes.

"Besides," he added casually, the warmth creeping back into his voice, "you're way too badass to be some regular apartment-dwelling civilian. I mean... you fly, for crying out loud."

A surprised laugh escaped you before you could stop it, light and genuine. Jason's grin widened, his expression softening with quiet pride—like seeing you laugh, even here, even now, was the greatest victory he could ever claim.

Before you could overthink it, you stepped closer, your fingers brushing against the cool, worn surface of his armored chest. His breath hitched just slightly, but he didn't pull away—couldn't.

His free hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing gently against the back of your neck as he pulled you in with quiet reverence. His touch was steady, sure, yet so achingly careful—like holding something precious he couldn't bear to lose.

His lips met yours in a slow, lingering kiss—warm, fierce, familiar. He kissed you like it was the only thing grounding him to this brutal, unforgiving city... and maybe it was. His hand stayed firm against your neck, anchoring you both in that shared, perfect stillness.

For that one moment... nothing else existed. No city. No missions. No past. No future.

Just you and him.

Then...

"You do realize you're still on patrol, right?"

Bruce's sharp, no-nonsense voice crackled through the comms, cutting through the stillness like a blade. The words were clipped, precise, weighted with the authority of someone who never asked—only commanded.

You and Jason broke apart instantly, breathless but grinning like a pair of guilty teenagers caught sneaking out past curfew. The cool night air rushed in between you, sharp and biting, grounding you back in the reality you'd momentarily forgotten.

Jason groaned loudly, tilting his head back toward the sky with exaggerated exasperation. "Of course he's watching," he muttered, dragging a gloved hand down his face.

You chuckled, still catching your breath, already reaching for your helmet. "Can't say we didn't see that coming."

Jason shot you a sideways glance, his smirk slow and wicked despite his frustration. His ice-blue eyes still sparkled with warmth, the echoes of the moment you'd just shared lingering there, untouched by Bruce's interruption. "Told you we should've gone somewhere higher," he added with a low, teasing drawl.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing another laugh as you secured your helmet into place. The familiar click of the locking mechanism felt natural, practiced—second nature after all these years. The HUD display flared to life, casting your world in sharp, tactical clarity as it scanned the city's endless expanse of crumbling rooftops and twisting alleys.

Jason hesitated just a second longer, still watching you with that same soft intensity, even as he reluctantly raised his red helmet. The smooth, battle-worn surface gleamed faintly under the distant glow of the city's scattered neon lights. His expression stayed open and unreadable for just a moment longer—raw and unguarded in a way only you ever got to see.

"Alright," he finally drawled into the comms, his voice flattening into something cool and sharp—the tone of a seasoned vigilante back on mission. "We're moving."

He tugged the helmet into place with practiced ease, the familiar, menacing faceless mask transforming him in an instant. His voice crackled again through the comms, distorted but still unmistakably him. "You coming, or you planning to stare dramatically at the skyline all night?"

You snorted softly, already moving toward the edge of the rooftop. The city stretched out before you—dark, endless, defiant—its tangled streets a labyrinth of secrets and danger. Gotham's breathless pulse thrummed beneath your boots, calling you back into its relentless embrace.

You closed your eyes briefly, letting the familiar hum of your Chi energy stir deep within your chest. It started as a low, electric warmth, igniting like a spark caught in dry tinder. The power surged upward, rushing through your veins in a brilliant, burning pulse of golden light. Energy crackled around you, shimmering faintly like distant thunder in the charged air.

You took a steady breath, embracing the sensation, letting it lift you effortlessly off the ground. The wind roared in your ears as the rooftop fell away beneath you, leaving nothing but open sky and electric possibility.

Jason lingered for just a heartbeat longer, watching you ascend with that same quiet awe he never voiced but couldn't quite hide. The edges of his mouth tugged into a small, proud smile—soft, private, meant only for you.

With a low, knowing chuckle, he crouched, muscles coiling with practiced precision, and leapt after you—graceful, powerful, unstoppable. His silhouette cut through the dark like a blade, chasing after you through the sky...

...Always.

[vampsywrites]

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

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

Tags: Female! Mountain Na'vi! Reader, Arranged Marriage, Strangers to Lovers, Neteyam is whipped, Fighting, Mentions of blood, Mentions of Injuries, Graphic Violence and Wounds, Suggestive, It gets steamy at the end!

Word Count: 11k | AO3 LINK

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Weaving the thread under a loop, Neteyam meticulously fastened the neckpiece off and then carefully cut the excess string with his blade. As he held it up to the light, giving it an experimental stretch, the embedded crystals and gems sparkled and glinted beneath the warm honeyed glow of the rising sun, creating a mesmerizing dance of colors.

"Do you think she will like it?" Neteyam asked for what seemed like the hundredth time, his fingers still fiddling around with his work, and his eyes micro-analyzing every stitch and bead.

With a groan, Lo'ak ran a hand down his face.

Exasperated, he turned to Neteyam. "How many times are you going to ask me that? Did you not hear my answer last time? It looks fine."

Ignoring his brother, Neteyam stayed focused on the neckpiece.

"What if she doesn't appreciate Omatikayan weaving?" Neteyam bit his lip, a rugged hand nervously tugging at his braids. "I should have asked her opinion on it… What if these gems aren't the right color for her?"

"Bro, calm down," Lo'ak said, shaking his head. He reached over to gently grab the woven necklace away from Neteyam's fiddling hands, holding it up to examine the intricate detailing more closely.

Neteyam had dedicated the past three months to creating this special gift, pouring his heart and soul into every thread and gemstone. The pattern he had chosen was one only the most skilled weavers of their clan attempted, and Neteyam had executed it flawlessly.

There was not a single sign of a mistake, and the weaving flowed seamlessly, like a river meandering through a pristine forest. The beads adorned the piece like shimmering stars against the sky, their brilliance accentuated by Neteyam's careful polishing. Even to Lo'ak's untrained eye, he could recognize the skill and effort poured into the creation.

"Golden boy and his perfect weaving," Lo'ak whistled, smirking when Neteyam grumbled under his breath from the nickname.

Carefully, he handed the woven neckpiece back to his older brother. "Don't worry. She'll love it."

"Love what?"

As the silhouette of their father loomed over the hut, Neteyam glanced up, surprised by the unexpected visit. Jake stepped into the hut, parting the curtains to the side, and the warm light from the rising sun spilled into the room, casting a comforting glow over their faces.

"Father," Neteyam greeted with respect, setting aside the neckpiece.

"Neteyam," Jake replied warmly, his gaze holding a touch of concern that he didn't bother to conceal.

It was the morning before Neteyam was set to make the trek toward the peak with the other young members of the clan.

Their purpose was clear: to prove their worth and earn their place as adults within the community. However, amidst the group, all eyes were particularly fixed on Neteyam. His journey carried an added weight – the burden of proving himself even more than his peers.

Observing the exchange, Lo'ak locked eyes with Jake, nodding in understanding. He knew what was coming – another heart-to-heart talk between father and son. It seemed like these talks were becoming more frequent lately, and Lo'ak found it tiresome to witness Neteyam's constant overthinking about his upcoming crowning ceremony.

It felt like just yesterday they were dumbass kids climbing trees and exploring the vibrant forest together. Now, with the looming responsibilities of adulthood and leadership, everything felt different.

"Lo'ak, why don't you give us a moment?" Jake suggested, giving his youngest son a knowing smile.

"Finally. Some peace," Lo'ak mumbled to himself, wandering away from the hut to give Neteyam and their father some privacy.

Inside the hut, Neteyam and Jake settled into an intimate silence. The curtains were shut tight but dim light filtered through the gaps in the woven walls, casting soft shadows on their faces, creating a serene atmosphere that encouraged open conversation.

"Things have been hard as of late, huh?" Jake began, his voice gentle and understanding. "Ikinimaya is in a few hours… How are you feeling about the climb?"

Neteyam shrugged, trying to put on a brave front. "Not much," he replied with a smile. "I think I'm more focused on what happens after."

Jake's nod was thoughtful, his eyes reflecting a deep understanding of the burden that came with leadership. He was no stranger to the weight of such a role, having borne it himself as Eywa's chosen one.

After the ceremony, if Neteyam were to complete the ascent, his crowning ceremony as chief would soon occur. Unlike the Omatikaya, where they usually held separate ceremonies for these milestones, the Iuva'ri followed a different tradition, crowning their chiefs on the same day of their coming of age.

It was a big change for Neteyam, but Jake had confidence in his son's ability to adapt and lead.

"I was just like you back then," Jake grinned, nudging Neteyam. "It's a big moment in your life, and the responsibilities that come with it can be overwhelming. But you've got this. You've grown into a strong and thoughtful man."

Neteyam smiled gratefully at his father's words. "Thanks, Dad," he said softly, feeling a sense of reassurance and comfort wash over him.

As Jake's eyes fell on the necklace in Neteyam's hand, his face softened, and a warm smile tugged at his lips. "Is that for her?" he asked, pointing to the beautifully woven piece.

Neteyam nodded nervously, his heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and uncertainty as he held out the carefully crafted gift.

"Yes. I made it," he replied, his voice carrying the timbre of pride mingled with a touch of vulnerability. "What do you think?"

Jake's weathered hands accepted the necklace from his son's outstretched hand, cradling it delicately in his palm. His fingers traced the intricate patterns, each movement a touch of appreciation for the meticulous work that had gone into it.

As the beads slid under his skin, memories of his own courting days resurfaced, painting his thoughts with the vibrant hues of nostalgia. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of longing for the time when he had first encountered Neytiri, their connection as profound and tender as the bond that was now flourishing between Neteyam and his own future mate.

"This is beautiful work," Jake remarked, genuinely impressed by the piece. "She'll love it."

The tension in Neteyam's shoulders eased at his father's genuine praise, a tide of relief sweeping through him.

"I'm glad you think so," he admitted. "I really want this to be special for her."

Jake's expression softened.

"Go on then," he encouraged. He leaned over to hand the necklace back to Neteyam. "She must be waiting for you, boy."

With a grateful smile, Neteyam pocketed the necklace and stood up.

He stepped out onto the balcony, the cool early morning air brushing against his skin. There, he found Lo'ak waiting for him, leaning against the side of the hut.

"What did Dad say?" Lo'ak asked, trying to act nonchalant, but his eyes betrayed his genuine interest. It was clear he was evesdropping but Neteyam decided against bringing it up.

"He thinks she'll love it," Neteyam answered, a hint of relief and satisfaction coloring his words.

Lo'ak rolled his eyes playfully, though a glint of affection was unmistakable in his expression. "Well, then you better not keep her waiting."

Neteyam chuckled, grateful for his support. "I won't. Thanks, baby brother."

With that, Neteyam began his journey to your hut, his heart alternating between racing with anticipation and fluttering with nerves.

The familiar sounds of the mountain village greeted him as he stepped outside—the rustling leaves carried by the breeze, hushed conversations from nearby huts, and the distant chirps of the valley's creatures. It was a soothing symphony that accompanied his walk.

Following a rocky path, he caught sight of the warmth spilling from the oil lamps within your hut. The soft light painted inviting shadows on the walls, offering a sense of comfort.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Neteyam breathed deeply, letting the crisp air anchor him before he entered the hut.

And there you were, seated beside a small stove fire. The joy that lit up your eyes upon seeing him immediately melted away some of his apprehension.

You sat gracefully on a cushion woven from palm threads, encircled by bowls of luminescent paint, each brimming with vibrant hues.

"Ma'Teteyam," you greeted with a soft smile, setting aside the bowl of paint in your hands. "I had hoped you would come soon."

He approached you with a hum, feeling a delightful warmth spread through his chest at the sight of you.

"I wouldn't keep you waiting," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady despite the emotions swirling within him.

As you gestured for him to come closer, Neteyam sat down in front of you, feeling the space between you diminish as you scooted over. You dipped your fingers into one of the polished wooden bowls, and with a tender grace, you began painting delicate patterns on his skin.

Neteyam watched your every move, his breath hitching as your fingertips traced over his flexed muscles. It felt as though he was not just preparing for a ceremony but for a new chapter in his life.

The Na'vi closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to savor the warmth of your touch as you worked on him. The feeling of your fingers on his skin was both intimate and comforting, a silent reassurance that you were by his side, supporting him every step of the way.

His thoughts were momentarily interrupted by your soft voice, breaking the silence that enveloped the hut.

"You have put so much effort to prepare for this day," you said, your eyes locked on his face, "it is an honor to be a part of it."

He opened his eyes, meeting your gaze with sincerity. "I couldn't imagine sharing this moment with anyone else but you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The painting continued, each stroke of your fingers bringing you closer together, both physically and emotionally. Neteyam found himself mesmerized by your focus, the way you seemed to pour your heart and soul into every delicate detail.

Finally, you finished, and Neteyam admired the beautiful patterns adorning his skin. Your eyes locked again, and the moment hung in the air, heavy with emotion and anticipation. The crackling of the fire and the dancing shadows around you seemed to amplify the intimacy of this shared experience.

As the warmth of the stove fire illuminated your faces, Neteyam leaned in slowly. The world around you seemed to fade away as your lips met in a tender and passionate kiss.

As you parted, Neteyam whispered, "Nga yawne lu oer."

A wide smile spread across your face, and you replied, "Nga yawne lu oer.

Humming, Neteyam's arms wrapped around you, holding you close. With you in his embrace, he felt complete, and the weight of his future responsibilities seemed to lift, replaced by a deep sense of purpose and belonging.

The soft crackling of the fire filled the hut with a warm and comforting ambiance, lulling both of you into a comfortable silence. As the flames danced, casting flickering shadows on the woven walls, Neteyam's eyes never left yours, captivated by the tenderness not normally seen in them.

Your fingers traced gentle patterns on his painted cheek, and the affection in your smile made his heart jump with joy.

"I have something for you," you whispered, beginning to draw away from him.

Neteyam reluctantly released his embrace, but his hand lingered on your waist. You chuckled playfully, gently slapping his forearms, urging him to let go.

"I will not be far," you assured him, your eyes locking onto his with affection.

Reluctantly, Neteyam let you go, allowing you the space to retrieve your surprise. You moved towards the cabinets, and he watched with curiosity, wondering what you had in store for him. When you emerged with a fur coat and an axe in hand, his eyebrows raised in intrigue.

"These will help you with your ascent later," you explained.

With a swift movement, you draped the soft fur coat over Neteyam's shoulders, and he immediately felt the warmth of the fabric enveloping him.

The axe you handed him was a well-crafted tool, sturdy and reliable. Its wooden handle fit perfectly in his grip, and the weight was balanced. The crystal blade on it was a striking sight, capturing the firelight and reflecting it back in dazzling purple hues.

"Thank you," he smiled gratefully, his heart brimming with appreciation for your thoughtful gifts. He couldn't help but lean in to press another tender kiss on your forehead.

Nodding at him, you both stood up, your hands guiding him out of the hut. The soft light of the rising sun bathed the mountain village in a gentle glow as you walked together.

"Come," you smile. "The people are waiting."

When a person prepares to become one with your people, experiencing their rebirth, the clan initiates a ceremony. The warriors, adorned with vibrant paint, assemble before the Tsahìk as she prepares them for the ascent.

This final trial, the crucible determining their standing among the Iuva'ri, was a journey. A journey deep into the enigmatic Clouded Peak, a desolate expanse shrouded in snow with perils lurking in every corner.

Victory in this ascent signifies your second birth. Following this achievement, the clan engages in a celebration featuring dance, feasting, and storytelling—a tapestry that weaves bonds. These bonds intertwine them with the people.

This unity is then dedicated to Eywa. It is in that sacred space where a lifelong position among the people is earned, an indelible bond forged forever.

"Tìng mikyun ayoe rutxe nawma ma sa'nok."

As Tsahìk, you stand tall, hosting the sacred coming of age ceremony — The Ascent.

Before you, a line of tall, rugged young men and women stand. Each one carries their own axes and spears, protection for the challenges that lie ahead. Heavy coats rest upon their shoulders, ready to protect them from the biting winds of the ascent.

The presence of Eywa, the Great Mother, is strong and felt in every aspect of the ceremony, infusing the spirits of the young warriors with her guidance. Above, the sky hangs dark and heavy, the wind's mournful song echoing through the trees, creating an aura of solemnity. Illuminating the scene are tall torches lodged in the dirt, casting their flickering glow upon the sacred space.

Just behind you stand the families of the participants, emotions ranging from pride to worry visible as they bear witness to this pivotal moment.

With a solemn grace, you bestow your blessings upon each warrior, marking their foreheads with your painted hand, chanting sacred words as you invoke the great mother's protection and guidance.

"May the Great Mother be with you," you utter. A female warrior before you nods in acknowledgment, her face adorned with a respectful smile.

Moving through the line, you came to Tserat, his face shadowed by conflicting emotions. Unfazed by his glower, you placed your hand upon his chest, offering the same sacred blessing as you did for the others.

"May the Great Mother be with you," you repeated, watching carefully as the red paint stained on his chest. Tserat's head tilted slightly in a small nod, acknowledging the gesture, but his guarded expression remained.

Then, it was Neteyam's turn. As you approached him, your previously stern expression transformed into a genuine, warm smile. The fur coat you had lovingly bestowed upon him was draped over his broad shoulders making his figure appear larger and more imposing. The axe, with its striking purple blade, hung at his side.

As you bestowed your blessing upon him, his hand gently brushed against yours in a fleeting touch, a wordless reassurance passing between you.

"May the Great Mother be with you," you repeated once more. The smile you offered held layers of affection and respect. Neteyam nodded as he felt the warmth of your touch seeping into his very being, strengthening him for the path ahead.

"And to you," he replied, his voice soft.

With the blessings bestowed upon all the warriors, you stepped back and your mother took over. As they followed after her command, the warriors set forth into the mountain, spirits aflame with determination.

Neteyam turned back to you, his eyes locking onto yours once more. Then, with a final nod, he turned away to join the others, his figure blending into the shadows cast by the towering trees. As the last traces of the young warriors disappeared from view, you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon your shoulders.

The village around you was filled with hushed voices and a sense of anticipation, knowing that the destiny of the clan was now in the hands of the brave souls who set forth into the unknown.

"Hold strong, brothers and sisters!"

The peaks of the snowy mountains were a world unto themselves. As the young warriors ascended, they found themselves in a landscape that commanded and tested their physical and mental resilience.

The air, thin and brittle, clawed at their lungs with every inhale, as if the very atmosphere was challenging their presence. The winds, like invisible daggers, sliced through their heavy coats, piercing to the core with their frosty bite. The gusts carried echoes of warnings whispered by the mountains themselves.

The snowy terrain, draped in a pristine white cloak, was a deceptive tapestry of danger. Icy patches lay in ambush, waiting to send even the most seasoned warriors sliding down the steep slopes. The snow, once a soft and powdery expanse, became a battleground as it clung to their legs like quicksand, each step an arduous struggle against the weight of the drifts.

Throughout the ascent, towering rock formations rose like sentinels, casting eerie silhouettes against the darkening sky. Above them, dark and ominous clouds loomed, casting a shadow over the landscape. Visibility was limited, with the peaks shrouded in a thick veil of mist and fog, making it challenging to navigate and discern the safest path.

The ascent was grueling, and Neteyam found himself exerting every ounce of strength to overcome the challenges of the harsh terrain. He trudged forward, his breath visible in the frigid air, while the weight of his heavy coat provided some respite from the biting cold.

Despite the difficulties, Neteyam proved himself to be a skilled and determined climber. He navigated the icy slopes with skill, making steady progress as he ascended higher and higher.

However, even the most skilled climbers could falter in the face of such challenging terrain. It happened in the blink of an eye — a misstep, a patch of ice, and Neteyam's balance was compromised. His foothold gave way, and he found himself sliding down the slope, the cold snow and sharp ice clawing at his skin.

In the midst of his unexpected descent, a frustrated curse escaped his lips. "Fuck."

Tserat, never one to miss an opportunity to taunt him, couldn't help but let out a chuckle at Neteyam's misfortune.

"Forest boy!" Tserat's grin was wide, his amusement evident. "Careful or else you meet Eywa first before you reach the top!"

His comment was met with the amused laughter of some of the other warriors. Shaking his head with a smirk, Tserat turned to the rest of the group, speaking in the Iuvarian dialect, "Did you see that skxawng? He has two left feet."

Neteyam's pride stung, but he quickly composed himself. He shrugged off the snow clinging to his coat, his grip firm on his axe. With a grunt, he steadied himself, using the axe as an anchor to regain his foothold on the treacherous slope.

Finally, Neteyam found his balance and stood straight again. His shadowed eyes met Tserat's with an intensity as if he was silently daring Tserat to push him any further.

Tserat snorted dismissively at the unspoken challenge, opting to avoid further provocation. He turned his attention ahead, recommencing his climb in a brooding silence.

Then, in an abrupt upheaval of the tranquil surroundings, the ear-splitting roar of a formidable beast tore through the air. It emerged from the shadows, its massive form nearly matching the trees that lined the mountain slope, and its powerful muscles rippled beneath its thick, coarse fur.

"It's a Nix'feli!" one of the warriors roared out.

The beast's eyes were a piercing shade of amber, burning with an intense primal fury. Its fur, as white as the snow around it, was mottled with dark patterns, reminiscent of ancient tribal markings. Razor-sharp claws, capable of rending through flesh and bone, extended menacingly from its massive paws. A long, sinuous tail swished through the air, leaving deep impressions in the snow with each movement.

The warriors roared out battle cries as they tightened their grips on their weapons, readying themselves. Each one sought a strategic position, spreading out to encircle the formidable creature. However, unlike the other warriors whose moonlit skin offered them some natural camouflage against the snowy backdrop, Neteyam's dark indigo skin stood out vividly, drawing the beast's attention to him.

With a fearsome roar, the feline launched itself at Neteyam, claws extended, aiming directly at him. The world around him blurred as his instincts took over, and with a graceful leap, he evaded the deadly strike. The beast's claws scraped the air where he had stood just moments before, and the force of its attack sent snow flying in all directions.

"Wiya!" Snarling, Tserat managed to loop a thick rope around the feline's neck, anchoring himself in the snow as he strained to halt the beast's ferocious advance.

Several feet away, Neteyam landed with a heavy thud, scraping against the rocks, but swiftly regained his footing. The axe you had gifted him remained firmly in his hand, but he knew he needed a weapon better suited for this confrontation. With a quick decision, he released his grip on the axe and reached for his bow slung over his shoulders. He felt its reassuring weight in his hand as he notched an arrow and focused his gaze on the beast.

With measured intent, he released the arrow, it's trajectory a deadly precision. The arrow found its mark, embedding itself in the beast's eye, igniting a resonant roar of torment that resounded throughout the mountains.

"Another!" Tserat's grip on the rope grew ironclad, utilizing every ounce of his strength to restrain the writhing feline.

"Hold him steady!" Neteyam hissed, preparing for a second shot.

With another swift release, he unleashed another arrow into the frigid air. The arrow struck deep into the beast's flesh, piercing the creature's lungs.

With a final roar, the Nix'feli succumbed to the wounds it had sustained, collapsing onto the pristine snow. Its once-white coat was now marred by streaks of crimson, a contrast that painted the snowy canvas in vivid shades of red.

The young warriors erupted into cheers, hailing Neteyam's clean kill. They hyped him up with enthusiastic shouts and claps on his back, celebrating the triumph over the formidable feline.

Amidst the cheering, Neteyam's gaze locked with Tserat's once more. The Na'vi was rubbing his rope burned palms, blue skin bruising into a deep purple. Tserat stayed silent for a while, his pride momentarily giving way to a begrudging acknowledgment of Neteyam's abilities.

"Finish him off," Tserat ordered, throwing his rope back into his satchel.

Neteyam nodded in understanding, his heart still pounding with the adrenaline of the encounter. He trudged towards the beast, his blade gripped firmly in his hand. He then knelt beside the fallen creature, whispering words of prayer and gratitude for the life that had been taken.

With a final act of mercy, Neteyam raised his blade and delivered a swift, precise strike to the beast's heart. As the blade pierced through, ending the creature's suffering, a sense of peace seemed to settle upon the snowy mountainside. The once-ferocious feline let out one last exhale, and its fierce amber eyes softened in the moment of passing.

Suddenly, a hand reached out, and Neteyam looked up to see Tserat standing beside him.

"Get up," Tserat murmured gruffly, his voice carrying a strange blend of annoyance and something deeper beneath the surface. "We still have to complete the ascent."

Neteyam nodded and quickly rose to his feet, not at all surprised by the mix of emotions that Tserat's demeanor reflected. He stooped to retrieve his discarded axe, giving it a quick shake to dislodge the clinging snow.

As Neteyam continued his ascent, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. The triumph over the beast had been a demonstration of his skills, but it had also brought into focus the responsibilities he was about to embrace. The mantle of leadership was within his grasp, and he couldn't afford to falter.

Hours seemed to pass as they climbed higher, each step bringing them closer to their destination. The world around them became a blend of white and gray, the sky merging with the snowy landscape as they ascended into the clouds.

Finally, as the sun began its descent, casting a warm golden hue across the icy expanse, they reached the peak. A sense of awe and accomplishment washed over them as they gazed out at the breathtaking beauty before them.

Tserat's demeanor softened, his gaze capturing the ethereal view. With a slight nod, he turned to Neteyam, and in his eyes, a begrudging respect simmered.

"You did well, golden boy," Tserat admitted, his voice carrying a surprising sincerity as he crossed his arms.

Neteyam's smile radiated a sense of fulfillment. "You held your own too," he replied, a shared understanding bridging the gap between them, if only for a fleeting moment.

Once the weary but triumphant warriors returned to the village, families surged forward to welcome back their sons and daughters, now transformed into full-fledged adults of the clan. Amidst this sea of emotions, Neteyam found himself engulfed in the warm embrace of his family. Their pride and love encircled him, forming a cocoon of unwavering support.

However, he couldn't resist the pull to find you, the one who had been his pillar of support throughout his journey.

Amidst the collective embrace of the village, your figure stood tall. Your eyes, adorned with a glint of pride and affection, were fixed upon him.

A triumphant grin stretched on his lips as he closed the gap between you, his bright golden eyes locking onto yours.

"Sweet girl," his words brushed against your skin in a tender whisper as gentle kiss was planted on your forehead. The touch of his lips sent warmth spreading through your cheeks, and you reciprocated the gesture by pressing a peck to his cheek, the coolness of his skin still clinging from the snowy heights they had scaled.

"You did it, my mighty warrior," your voice held a note of sincere admiration, your hand reaching up to graze the rugged terrain of his jawline. He leaned into your touch, savoring the intimate connection between you amidst the surrounding crowd.

As the celebratory atmosphere gradually settled, your mother, called for all to gather. Neteyam was led to the forefront, his broad shoulders clasped by the palms of her wrinkled hands as she presented him to the entire clan.

"Neteyam Te Sulli Tsyey’ite, son of Toruk Makto, has completed the ascent! He has proven himself in our ways and is now fit to hold the position of Olo'eyktan!"

The announcement was met with thunderous applause and pride from the entire clan. But as Ìumayi's eyes swept over the crowd, they locked onto a particular pair. She caught sight of Tserat, who stood tall and proud among the assembled warriors.

Their gazes lingered for a moment before Ìumayi looked away, making it clear that the challenge for the throne had been expected. She gracefully slipped the fur coat off of Neteyam's shoulders and held it up for all to see.

"I now offer a chance at the throne! If anyone wishes to challenge him, step up!"

For a moment, the air seemed tense, silence falling over the crowd. Then, without a word, the people parted, and a figure stepped forward. It was no surprise to see Tserat stepping into the circle, signature scowl etched into his face.

Ìumayi nodded solemnly, acknowledging the challenge, and Tserat removed his coat, brandishing his blade with confidence. Neteyam, too, unsheathed his weapon.

"Tserat Te Ser'oa Aketo'itan has challenged Neteyam Te Sulli Tsyey’ite for the throne!" Ìumayi announced, her voice carrying authority as she gestured for the crowd to form a bigger circle around the two warriors.

Both Neteyam and Tserat locked eyes, their gazes dark and intense as they approached each other. Neteyam's expression was a portrait of unwavering composure, his eyes never straying from the piercing milky depths of Tserat's gaze. There was a quiet confidence about him.

On the other side, Tserat's lips curved into a grim frown.

His emotions were a storm—respect, undoubtedly, for the great warrior that Neteyam was. But beneath that, an undercurrent of uncertainty swirled like a glint of moonlight caught on the surface of a turbulent sea.

The recent display of Neteyam's strength had commanded his respect, but leadership was a different realm, a realm where hunting prowess, while significant, was just one facet of the mosaic of qualities required. Whether the forest dweller's completion of Ikinimaya made him fit enough to lead their people, was a question that churned in Tserat's mind like a tempest.

The challenge had been thrown, the time for words had faded—only actions remained to define their outcome.

Ìumayi raised her hand, and with a firm voice, she declared, "Begin!"

With a fierce battle cry, Tserat charged at Neteyam, his movements fluid and controlled. He swung his blade in a deadly arc, aiming for Neteyam's midsection. But the Omatikayan was agile and skilled, effortlessly sidestepping the attack.

As Tserat's blade sailed past, Neteyam countered with a swift jab of his own, aimed at Tserat's exposed side.

The sound of metal clashing echoed through the gathering as Tserat managed to block Neteyam's blow just in time. The crowd gasped, watching the intensity of the duel unfold before their eyes.

The clash of their weapons resonated like a symphony of steel meeting steel, each strike executed with unwavering precision and met with a fierce parry.

In the midst of this battle, Tserat's calculated maneuvers began to yield results. With a swift and precise strike, his blade found its mark on Neteyam's side, the sharp point penetrating deep into azure skin.

A searing pain tore through Neteyam's body, eliciting a wince that he fought to suppress. Rivulets of blood flowed down his side, staining the grass beneath him. Tserat's triumphant laughter filled the air as he twisted the knife, eliciting a hiss of pain through Neteyam's gritted teeth.

A knee to Neteyam's abdomen sent him stumbling, his foot catching on an uneven rock. The world seemed to warp and waver as he slid to the ground, the impact jarring his senses and amplifying the pain radiating from his wounded side. Dazed and disoriented for a heartbeat, Neteyam fought to regain his footing, his chest heaving with the effort.

"Get up!" Tserat hissed.

Jaw clenched tight, Neteyam summoned every last ounce of strength, his fingers curling around Tserat's blade. A grimace of pain etched onto his features as he yanked the weapon free from his own flesh.

"Come at me," Neteyam snarled, swiftly getting back to his feet. The blade spun in his free hand before he tossed it. It skittered across the ground and out of the circle, which now left Tserat disarmed.

Unfazed, Tserat moved to tackle him once more, bringing them crashing to the ground with a resounding thud that echoed through the expanse of the circle. The impact jarred both warriors, their bodies absorbing the shock as they grappled on the ground.

Amidst the struggle, Tserat seized the opportunity to deliver a series of powerful blows to Neteyam's face. Each strike landed with force, leaving Neteyam momentarily disoriented.

"Neteyam!" Your voice rang out, an anguished cry of worry cutting through the air as your tail lashed anxiously by your feet. You were poised to rush in, to throw yourself into the fray and intervene in his defense. But before you could act upon your instinct, your mother's firm grip on your arm halted your movements.

A mixture of shock and frustration crossed your features, your eyes widening in protest as you hissed at her.

"Mother—" you protested urgently, your voice edged with a mixture of fear and anger. "This is not a battle anymore! Tserat is turning it into an execution!"

"Let them be," she commanded, her tone unyielding as she met your gaze with a steady and unwavering stare. "This is our way. You cannot intervene."

A low, anguished whimper escaped your lips, a mixture of helplessness and frustration welling up inside you.

Tserat's triumphant sneer was a bitter sight to behold as he seized Neteyam's kuru, lifting him effortlessly from the ground. A kick sent Neteyam's own blade skittering away, leaving him defenseless and exposed to the mercy of his opponent.

The scene was agonizing, a twisting knot of emotions in the pit of your stomach.

"Where is your Olo'eyktan now?" Tserat's jeer echoed in the air, the words heavy with contempt. "This is no chief! Just a misplaced boy! Not fit to lead!"

Yet, Neteyam refused to give up so quickly. He kicked at Tserat's shins, causing the man to fall with a shout of surprise. With Tserat momentarily off balance, Neteyam seized the opportunity, his muscles coiling with determination. He locked Tserat in a chokehold, the strain evident in the tight set of his jaw and the flex of his arms as he pressed his forearm against Tserat's windpipe, causing the man to wheeze and struggle.

The battle raged on, their grunts and cries mixing with the roars of the crowd. The cheers and shouts seemed distant as Neteyam focused solely on the man on top of him. He could already feel Tserat's resistance waning.

“Yield,” Neteyam hissed, the veins on his arms bulging as his muscles strained with the effort, grip unyielding. "You are a mighty warrior! The people need you! Your people need you!"

Tserat hesitated, his breaths shallow and labored. The weight of his choices bore down on him, and in that moment, he saw the truth in Neteyam's words.

Slowly, Tserat's resistance wavered, his strength slipping through his fingers like sand. With a feeble tap against Neteyam's arm, he signaled his surrender, submitting to the man.

The cheers of the crowd echoed around them, celebrating their new leader, their new Olo'eyktan. As celebration filled the air, Ìumayi stepped forward to separate the two warriors, signaling the end of the intense duel.

With a low whine, Neteyam managed to get back on his feet, his body still tense with the pain from the wound in his side. He grimaced, feeling the warmth of his own blood seeping through his fingers as he held onto the injured area.

Drawing in heavy breaths, he directed his gaze downward, locking eyes with Tserat for a fleeting moment. Amidst the lingering animosity that had once defined their relationship, a flicker of understanding seemed to pass between them. It was a silent, unspoken acknowledgment of the strength they had both exhibited in this grueling battle.

"You fought well," Neteyam murmured. He extended his hand, a gesture of goodwill meant to bridge the divide between them.

"I know," Tserat scoffed, his pride not entirely diminished by the outcome. His hand slapped Neteyam's aside dismissively, his emotions still raw from the defeat. With a final glance back, he turned away, retreating into the crowd, his head bowed low in an attempt to save face.

Before Neteyam could take a step toward Tserat, a strong yet gentle grip on his side halted him. You were at his side in an instant, your gaze filled with concern as you carefully assessed his injuries. Your hands probed cautiously at the wound on his side, your touch gentle yet deliberate.

The sight before you made your heart clench — a deep gash on his side, his face marred by bruises and smeared with blood. His rugged appearance was in stark contrast to the tender expression in his eyes as he looked down at you.

All of a sudden, the adrenaline that had fueled the battle was now beginning to wane, replaced by the harsh reality of pain. Neteyam's groan cut through the air, his body doubling over in response to the searing ache that pulsed from his injuries.

"Oh, yawne," you murmured softly, your voice laced with concern and care. You moved closer, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him. Your touch was soothing, a balm for the pain he endured. "Come, let us go to our hut."

"Syulang," Neteyam murmured, his brow furrowing as he glanced at you with a touch of worry. His tongue darted out to swipe at the blood on his cut lip, his focus shifting between you and the path ahead. His voice held a note of uncertainty. "But what about the crowning ceremony? Your mother emphasized its importance. A lot."

Your mother and Neteyam's parents approached at that moment. Ìumayi acknowledged his comment with a nod, affirming the tradition.

"Yes. The crowning ceremony must proceed immediately after the ascent," she acknowledged, her gaze dropping to the visible injuries on Neteyam's form. "He will bear his wounds for the time being."

"My son cannot—" Neytiri began, intending to express her concern for his injured form, but you quickly interjected, not willing to let the ceremony take precedence over his well-being.

"I will not let him go through with the ceremony while he is bleeding out," you hissed, your determination clear in your voice and stance. Ears pinned back in frustration, you held your ground. "The traditions will have to be set aside. My mate comes first."

Neytiri regarded you with a surprised look, her gaze lingering on you in newfound admiration. She soon broke into a warm smile, her approval evident. In contrast, your mother seemed on the brink of an argument.

"It is his duty. The people are waiting," she hissed, gesturing to the crowd behind her.

You looked back, noticing that the people had already begun to disperse, making their way to the ceremony site in anticipation of witnessing the ascension of their new Olo'eyktan. And yet, your focus remained unswerving, your thoughts centered solely on Neteyam's well-being.

The idea of him undergoing the ascension ceremony while in his current state was unthinkable to you, and you were resolute in your determination to prioritize him above all else.

"This is a matter for the Tsahìk," you asserted, tail whipping by your feet in anger. "I will not have you ask me of this!"

With a final huff, you turned, guiding Neteyam gently back towards your healing hut.

The elderly woman let out an exasperated hiss, her fingers gripping at her own hair in a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "Great Mother, that girl wants to drive me to an early grave."

Frustration evident in her demeanor, your mother marched away. In the midst of this back-and-forth, both Jake and Neytiri observed closely, trusting your instincts and expertise as you led their son toward your hut.

"Eywa has chosen well for Neteyam," Neytiri spoke up, breaking the silence and drawing the attention of her family. With a playful grin, she gestured towards you. "I like her. She is a feisty one."

As you entered the seclusion of your hut, a sense of tranquility settled over you both. You gently helped Neteyam settle onto a soft fur-covered mat, supporting his back against a pile of cushions. His golden eyes locked onto yours, filled with gratitude and affection for your unwavering care.

"It's better you rest, yawne," you said, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. "The ceremony can wait. Your well-being is my priority right now."

Neteyam nodded, his hand reaching out to grasp yours, intertwining your fingers. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the battle and the strain of the day's events. "I don't know what I would do without you."

You simply smile and begin to tend to his wound, applying cooling salves and bandages, your gentle touch easing his pain.

The soothing motions of your touch have a profound effect on Neteyam. As the pain begins to lighten, he feels himself drifting into a drowsy state, his body and mind succumbing to much-needed rest. The tension and adrenaline from the battle slowly melt away, replaced by a sense of peace in your presence.

His eyes flutter closed as he leans into your care, finding solace in the knowledge that you are there, looking after him. With each soft touch, he feels the weight of the day's events dissipate, and the warm embrace of your love envelops him like a protective cocoon.

The sounds of the outside world fade away, leaving only the quiet hush of the healing hut. The scent of medicinal herbs and the familiar earthy aroma of the forest soothe his senses and he falls into a deep sleep.

Time seemed to pass in a dream-like haze, and as Neteyam finally awoke, he felt renewed and invigorated. The pain from his wound had significantly subsided, thanks to your skilled touch.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet, the moment for the crowning ceremony had arrived. The air was filled with anticipation and excitement as the Na'vi people gathered at the heart of their sacred spirit tree, where the presence of Eywa was strongest. The rhythmic beat of the drums echoed in harmony with the chants of the crowd.

Neteyam, now adorned in ceremonial attire, walked down the path toward the center of the gathering, the cheers of the people and the resonating drums echoing the rhythm of his heart.

He wore a tunic crafted from soft, supple leather, dyed in earthy tones that blended harmoniously with the surrounding forest. Draped across his chest and shoulders was a fur garment, a poignant reminder of his triumph over the fearsome Nix'feli he had vanquished during his rite of passage. Along its edges, two imposing fangs from the vanquished creature were displayed

As he reached the center of the gathering, where you and Ìumayi awaited, Neteyam knelt before you both, a gesture of respect and reverence for his beloved and his mother. Your eyes gleamed with love and admiration as you gently clasped a necklace over his collarbone, a cherished heirloom that had been passed down through generations of leaders.

Ìumayi, her previous ire now gone, regarded him with a warm and proud smile. Stepping forward gracefully, she lifted her headpiece from her forehead and carefully positioned it upon his head. It was a poignant symbol of the legacy she was entrusting to him, signifying the passing down of her mantle as Olo'eyktan.

"My son," she spoke with a voice of wisdom and love, "You are one of us now. You are to lead the people now."

Neteyam met her gaze, his expression one of deep gratitude and determination. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, accepting the mantle of leadership with humility and determination. As Ìumayi turned back to the crowd, her voice carried through the beats of the drums and the chants of the Na'vi, resonating with authority and pride.

"Come! Let us celebrate!" she declared, her smile infectious, and the gathered Na'vi erupted into joyous cheers, their voices united in celebration of their new chief and the hope for a bright and harmonious future under his leadership.

The celebration was in full swing, with the Na'vi people dancing around the campfire, their bodies swaying in perfect harmony with the rhythmic beats of the music that filled the air. Laughter and joy echoed through the night, as stories of bravery and triumph were shared among the warriors. Neteyam, still adorned in his ceremonial attire, found himself at the center of attention.

"The Nix'feli was like nothing I've seen before," Neteyam recounts as he gestures to the bow slung over his shoulder. "But in the end, it was struck down. AlI from two arrows."

The warriors gathered around him, whistling and poking at the bow in admiration, grinning proudly at their new chief. But amidst the festivities, murmurs spread through the group as Tserat approached, carrying a drink in hand. His gaze was dark, and the tension between him and Neteyam was palpable.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Tserat challenged Neteyam to drink. The crowd looked on eagerly, curious to see how their new chief would respond. Neteyam accepted the challenge and took a hearty swig from the cup, eliciting cheers from the gathered warriors.

Tserat, never one to back down from a challenge, also took a swig from the woven cup, the firelight casting a flickering glow on his face as he did so.

As the night wore on, their conversation took an unexpected turn, veering into a somewhat playful banter between Tserat and Neteyam.

"You know," Tserat slurred, his speech slightly affected by the drinks, "I was almost certain your stubbornness would have gotten you killed during the first trial." He raised his cup to his lips for another gulp, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Neteyam, his senses already dulled by the effect of the potent brew, swayed slightly on the log he was perched upon, managing to maintain his balance only with considerable effort. His response came out in a slurred drawl, eliciting laughter from the men who had gathered around.

"I don't give up easily," he mumbled, a playful smile curving his lips.

In the midst of the good-natured conversation, Neteyam's alcohol-fogged mind seemed to pause, a serious thought managing to cut through the haze. "I have a question," he murmured, his ears twitching as he leaned in slightly.

Tserat leaned forward on the log they shared, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight. His pale eyes bore into Neteyam's expectant ones. "Ask away."

Neteyam took a deep breath, the fogginess in his mind clearing momentarily as he focused.

"In the rite, you ran a knife through my flesh," he spoke in a hushed tone, his words carrying a somber weight. "I, in turn, humiliated you in front of the clan. I took your place. And yet, looking at your eyes now… there's no hatred. Why? Why don't you hate me?"

Tserat's initial response was almost dismissive. He scoffed, tossing his woven cup to the ground, the liquid within spilling onto the dirt.

"Tsk! I did hate you," Tserat admitted, going into a tirade. "I hated you when you entered my village and demanded uturu. I hated you when you took away my position. I felt the sting of rejection, so I acted on those emotions of hatred and look where it led."

Tserat gestured towards the bandages on Neteyam's side, a low laugh rumbling in his chest.

"That is payback," he smirked.

Neteyam, however, wasn't satisfied with this answer. His brows furrowed in confusion as he shook his head. "No, I understand those feelings well. What I mean is—during the battle ritual. When I told you to yield, you did so, and at the end, there was a different look in your eyes."

Tserat's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Yes," he finally responded after a long pause, his fingers drumming on the log's surface.

"And after the battle?" Neteyam pressed, his curiosity unyielding.

Tserat's nostrils flared slightly, his expression caught between annoyance and contemplation.

Wiya... This man. "No. I did not hate you then. I had just thought I was content to have lost to an equal," he replied, a trace of begrudging respect in his tone.

"Content to lose to an equal?" Neteyam repeated, his voice tinged with amusement. "Why me? How did you know I was an equal?"

Tserat laughed heartily, throwing his head back. He then leaned forward to grab a wrap of meat, fangs biting down on it’s leaf covering. "I know you," he said between bites, his demeanor oddly introspective.

Neteyam, still perplexed, shook his head slightly. "There is much you don't know about me. We've barely exchanged words."

“Ah. Words do not reveal much,” Tserat scoffs, leaning back as he pointed two fingers at his milky eyes.

“It’s all in the eyes. They never lie. I saw it in your gaze… One similar to mine," he mused, his fingers reaching out to clasp around Neteyam's shoulder, his gaze unflinching. "I saw you, brother."

A genuine smile tugged at Neteyam's lips, and he reciprocated the gesture by patting Tserat's back. "And I see you.”

Tserat leaned back with a smirk, scarfing down his wrap of meat.

"It's a pity," the man continued, a wistful undertone in his voice. "I could have been a remarkable Olo'eyktan."

Amused by the sentiment, Neteyam chuckled softly, his gaze momentarily distant as he imagined the alternative path that they might have walked. The atmosphere lightened, and Tserat seized the opportunity to grab another drink, the fleeting melancholy replaced by the camaraderie of their exchange.

Noticing the absence of Tsahìk, Tserat's curiosity was stirred. He leaned closer to Neteyam, his shoulders nudging his companion with a teasing grin.

"Where is your mate?" he prodded, his tone playfully taunting. "Leaving her all alone on the day of your ceremony? If I were you, we would be deep in Vitraya Ramunong right now!" he chuckled, earning hollers and laughter from the men around them.

"Do not talk about her like that," Neteyam hissed, shoving at Tserat's shoulder, his protective instincts flaring up.

Undeterred by Neteyam's reaction, Tserat merely raised his brows.

"So, what's the story?" he inquired, his grin unrelenting. "Why aren’t you stuck to her side like a fwampop today?”

A sigh slipped past Neteyam's lips, his gaze momentarily distant as he considered the complexities of the situation. "My sisters have taken her away," he eventually revealed.

Tserat's intrigue was far from satisfied. His brows remained raised, his curiosity persistent. "Why?" he pressed, the question hanging in the air, fueled by genuine interest.

Neteyam's shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug, his expression taking on a somewhat guarded quality. He took a sip of his drink, its bittersweet taste momentarily distracting him.

"Omatikayan matters," he replied, the words an attempt to deflect further probing.

In front of the warmth of the Sully's hut, you felt a mix of excitement and nervousness as Kiri and Tuk prepared you for the upcoming meeting with Neteyam. Kiri's hands were deftly braiding your hair into a classic Omatikayan style, and you couldn't help but pick at one of the braids out of curiosity.

"Interesting," you murmured, examining the beads she threaded into the braid. "Is this how your people did it back home?"

"Yes," Kiri beamed, her hands deftly working on another braid. "It's a classic hairstyle worn by Tsahìk back home. You look stunning with this style."

Her smile turned mischievous as she leaned in to whisper in your ear, dishevelled inky hair falling over her shoulders. "Neteyam will love it."

A bashful smile crept onto your face, and you couldn't help but hide your reddening cheeks with your palm. Kiri's teasing only added to your excitement for the upcoming celebration.

Just then, Tuk barged in with a bunch of woven tops in her arms. You examined the clothes with curiosity, noting how different they were from your usual attire. The tops were loose-fitting and incorporated more elements of the forest, in perfect harmony with the forest people's culture.

Kiri gasped as she noticed one of the tops in Tuk's hands. "Tuk!" she hissed, holding up a dainty lilac top. "This isn't mine! It's mother's!"

Tuk simply sighed, not too concerned about the mix-up. The young girl yanked the top out of her sister's hands and held the it up to your chest, almost as if she were envisioning how it would look on you.

"But she looks so good in it!" Tuk whined, pouting her lips.

You chuckled and gently took the lilac top away from her grabby hands. "It is pretty, but I am not too sure your mother would appreciate if I wore her clothes without permission," you said as you began to fold the woven top back up.

"I would not mind," Neytiri's voice suddenly filled the tent, and you all went quiet, turning to greet the woman.

"Neytiri," you spoke, pressing your fingers to your forehead and stretching it out in a gesture of respect. "I see you."

Neytiri nodded in acknowledgment and gently ushered Kiri away, taking her position in front of you. Her hands delicately held the woven top as she assessed it's appearance. The shift in atmosphere was palpable, and you couldn't help but sense an undercurrent of unspoken thoughts between you two.

The garment in Neytiri's hands, a woven top made of delicate lilac tendrils, was glittered with the shimmer of intricately woven gems. The weaving was intricate, elegant, and er... it left little to the imagination.

Neytiri's eyes appraised the woven creation, her fingers brushing over the patterns as if tracing memories. Her thoughts were a mystery, her feelings hidden beneath a veil of composure. These months of silent interactions had cast shadows of uncertainty, and you couldn't help but wonder how she truly felt about you marrying her son.

"This will look beautiful on you," Neytiri smiled warmly, seemingly approving of your choice. "Come and put it on. I wore this on my mating ceremony too."

With Kiri’s help, Neytiri slipped the woven top onto you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of honor wearing something with such personal significance to her.

"Beautiful," Neytiri affirmed, her smile radiant as she looked at you, her gaze holding a newfound warmth.

You returned the smile, feeling grateful for her acceptance. "Thank you."

Neytiri merely hummed as her focus shifted to your hair. With each twist and weave, she transformed your locks into an intricate masterpiece, her fingers moving with a practiced rhythm.

As she braided, her attention was drawn to a nearby pile of vibrant flowers. With an sense of which blossoms would harmonize best with your appearance, she delicately plucked a few yellow ones from the pile, their vibrant petals woven into your tresses.

“There,” she whispered, brushing her fingers through your braids. The subtle sound of beads brushing against each other accompanied the delicate sweep of her fingers. “You are ready.”

"Come on! I thought you could climb faster than this!" you playfully teased Neteyam, your laughter carrying through the night air as you both ascended the side of the hill. The moon hung overhead like a silver lantern, casting a soft glow on your surroundings. It was a clear night, the stars scattered across the sky like precious jewels.

Your fingers brushed against the rough texture of the rock as you found footholds, your muscles working in sync as you effortlessly moved upward. Neteyam was close behind, his own movements fluid and sure.

The air was cool against your skin, carrying the scent of the earth and the distant sounds of the ongoing crowning celebration. One that both of you had slipped away from in favor of some solitude.

You reached the top first and hauled yourself up, feeling the rush of accomplishment. But before you could fully revel in your victory, Neteyam, with his impressive agility, soared over the peak and hauled himself over. Running after you, he tugged at your tail, using it to pull you into his strong arms.

"Neteyam!" you laughed, the surprise of his actions quickly turning into delight as he showered you with kisses along your neck and cheek. In that moment of affection, you couldn't resist turning your head to capture his lips in a short, sweet kiss.

Neteyam smiled against your lips, the love in his actions unmistakable. With a tender touch, he then tucked his hands under your knees and shoulders, effortlessly lifting you into his arms. The muscles of his arms flexed, the strength in his embrace a reassurance of his protection of you.

"Where to?" Neteyam's voice was a soft murmur, his eyes locked onto yours as he waited for your instruction. You pointed toward a rocky path ahead, leading the way with a silent gesture.

Following your direction, Neteyam carried you along the path. It led you to a cave at the peak, a hidden gem adorned with the soft glow of radiant plants and flowers. The bioluminescent flora painted the space with an otherworldly light, casting a gentle, colorful illumination that danced across your skin. The air was tinged with the sweet fragrance of the herbs.

As Neteyam carried you into the cave, the glow intensified. The walls seemed to breathe with life, the colors shifting and changing in a mesmerizing display. The space felt like a sanctuary, a haven of beauty and tranquility that mirrored the depth of your connection.

“What is this place?” he questioned, wide eyes looking around in awe.

You snuggled against him, feeling a sense of belonging in his embrace.

"It is Vitraya Ramunong," you whispered, your voice filled with reverence. "The Tree of Souls."

Oh.

Neteyam's dark gaze shifted to you, his tongue running along his bottom lip. The intentions of you taking him here were crystal clear. Faintly, you could feel his nails digging deep into your skin and you bit back a smile.

As Neteyam walked further into the cave, he gently set you down to your feet. You started to walk away, but his firm grip on your hips stopped you, pulling you back against his strong front.

"Don't run away from me now," he murmured, his breath caressing your neck, sending delightful shivers down your spine. He turned you around with a tender touch, and his hand traced up the curve of your jaw, guiding your gaze to meet his intense, loving eyes.

And then, your lips met in a soft, sweet kiss. You could feel the depth of his emotions in the way his lips moved against yours, as if each kiss conveyed a thousand unspoken words.

As Neteyam pulled away slightly, his thumb lingered over your bottom lip, leaving you yearning for more of his affectionate touch. His other hand glided over your chest and now wrapped around your throat, but not with any intention of harm. It was a gentle gesture, one that made you feel cherished and protected. His thumb caressed the skin of your neck, golden gaze pouring over the stripes that lay there, admiring every inch of you.

"I have something for you," he finally murmured. He released his hold on you and reached into his pocket, retrieving the necklace he had crafted for you.

"Oh…Ma'Neteyam," you gasped, taking in every detail of the stunning gift.

Earthy brown tones formed the base, woven with intricate patterns and beads that told a story of his cultural roots—the Omatikayan style so unmistakably his. Yet, there was more to this gift than just his own heritage. Interspersed within the intricate weave were glimmers of polished crystal, a delicate incorporation of your own roots, a seamless merging of your two worlds.

As he clasped the necklace around your neck, his touch was gentle, his fingers lingering for a moment as he secured the knots. Tears welled up in your eyes. You could feel the beads and twine, cool against your skin, its weight a comforting reminder of his presence and affection.

“I hope it’s enough,” he murmured, his voice tinged with vulnerability as his hand traced the contours of the necklace, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “I… I don’t really know—”

With a soft click of your tongue, you silenced his self-doubt, your fingertips tenderly pressing against his lips. A gentle affirmation without words.

“It is enough," you reassured him. The corners of your lips lifted slightly, a soft smile that radiated your appreciation for his gesture. "It is more than enough."

Neteyam's own smile was a reflection of the relief that washed over him. He cupped your cheeks in his large, calloused hands, his touch both tender and possessive.

The warmth of his palms against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, a delicious contrast of roughness and gentleness. Gently, he tilted your head up, exposing your neck to his hungry eyes. Neteyam drank in the sight of the necklace—his necklace sat prettily across your skin, tongue curling around the point of a fang.

You, in turn, stared back up at him, emotions layed bare. As you fluttered your eyes, your thick lashes batted against your plump, flushed cheeks. The curve of the beads in your hair caught the ambient light of the cave, each bead gleaming like a star in the night sky. His eyes traced the path of those beads, capturing the radiance they added to your appearance.

And as his gaze drifted down to the attire Neytiri had allowed you to wear, his eyes recognized the intricate details of Omatikayan weaving that adorned your form. The woven tendrils of the top cascaded gently around your chest, its lilac hues blending harmoniously with the natural tinge of your skin. The top itself was a work of art, its design thoughtfully crafted to highlight your figure in the most flattering way.

Eywa. You drove him mad.

Unable to hold himself any longer, Neteyam guided the both of you down until you were kneeling in front of each other, the soft glow of the flora casting dancing shadows on your entwined figures. He pulled you into his lap, the heat of his body pressing against you, sending a shiver of excitement down your spine.

As he pulled you in closer, the texture of his inky braids brushed along your bare collarbones, accompanied by the warm sensation of his large palms resting against your flushed skin. His tail curled over your thigh, its gentle glide against your soft flesh forming a loose, comforting embrace that brought a rush of intimacy between you.

You couldn't help but stiffen slightly as you suddenly felt the tail trail up your thigh and wrap itself around your hips, flicking against the band of your loincloth. With shaky inhale, you returned your gaze to Neteyam's.

"Tsaheylu," he whispered, the word a delicate breath that carried a promise meant only for you, a secret shared in the quiet of that sacred space. His eyes held a mixture of hope and vulnerability as he waited for your response.

Speechless, you froze up in surprise, lips drawing flat, Neteyam's expression briefly twisted with a pang of dread, as if he feared you would reject him.

“Please, baby,” he begged, his voice a soft plea that held a world of longing.

With a deliberate slowness, his arm extended behind him, retrieving his kuru from where it rested. His fingers curled around the base, and the muscles in his bicep tensed with the weight of anticipation.

The purple tendrils of the kuru glowed with a soft luminescence, their ethereal light casting enchanting reflections against the cave's walls.

Your own fingers moved in response, mimicking his gesture, finding the familiar texture of your kuru. With a gentle pull, you brought the braid over your shoulder, its presence a reassuring weight against your hand.

The tendrils of both seemed to come alive, a dance of ephemeral energy unfolding before your eyes. They swayed like the intertwined branches of the sacred tree. Then, as if drawn together by a force, the tendrils began to weave, intertwining in a mesmerizing display of unity.

As the tendrils merged and embraced, an extraordinary rush of emotion surged through you both. It was as if a floodgate had opened, allowing a tide of feelings to wash over your senses. Electric energy pulsed through your bodies, as if the very essence of your beings was reaching out to connect, to become entwined.

"Fuck," Neteyam grit his teeth, burying his head into your chest. Shaking, your hands flew up to his bare back, palms pressed against the hard muscle and nails scratching at the surface of his skin.

In this shared moment, your heartbeats resonated as one, a rhythm of unity that pulsed through your chests. Breaths synchronized, you felt a deep bond. The barrage of emotions you both felt was overwhelming yet exhilarating, like a river of sensations flowing between you.

“Syulang…” With a shaky gasp, Neteyam leaned up and met your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss, his lips pressing against yours as if he had been waiting to taste you his entire life. He explored your mouth with his tongue, memorizing every curve and crevice, before gently sucking on your lower lip. You couldn't help but gasp in response, caught by the intensity of the moment.

Everything between you was heightened—the passion, the desire, the longing. Every touch, every glance, every shared heartbeat carried a weight that spoke of the depth of your feelings. The cave around you seemed to pulse with your shared energy as if you felt Eywa herself acknowledge the bond you had formed.

As you parted from the kiss, your eyes locked once more with Neteyam's, and you could see the raw desire and emotion swirling in his gaze. He appeared almost feral, his pupils wide with overwhelming passion, not missing a single twitch or movement in the intimate exchange between you both.

Unable to resist the pull, he pressed against you, causing you to fall back onto the cave floor, beads clicking as your hair spilled all around you. Crawling on top of you, Neteyam’s lips immediately chased yours once more in a primal hunger.

Lost in each other's touch, the world around you faded away, leaving only the echoing sounds of your breaths and the beating of your hearts, united as one in the sacred bond of Tsaheylu.

Amidst the lively celebration of Neteyam’s crowning ceremony, the music and laughter continued to weave a vibrant tapestry of joy. Jake and Neytiri found themselves seated together, basking in the warm ambiance of the party. The flickering flames from the central bonfire added to the enchantment of the night, casting a soft glow on their faces.

‘We are mated before Eywa, Ma’Neteyam’ your voice echoes in his mind. ‘I am with you forever now.’

Nearly a year had passed since they made the difficult decision to leave their clan. The abandonment of their home had left a wound which still carried a weight that was far from forgotten. The wound left behind by that loss was raw and gaping, still in the process of healing. However, here at Iuva’ri, they had been granted a fresh start. It was a place where they could breathe, live, and forge new connections without the constant shadow of war looming over them.

In the midst of the joy, a sudden hush fell over the crowd as Tuk rushed into the gathering, her tears glistening on her cheeks. Both Jake and Neytiri were quick to notice her distress, and they exchanged concerned glances before rushing to her side.

"Tuk?" Jake's voice held genuine worry as he gently wiped away her tears. "What's wrong, babygirl?"

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT (soon) >

Between gasps, Tuk managed to speak through her tears, "It's Kiri!"

______________________________________

teehee congrats on the new husband pookies<33 Neytiri is our mother now

If you can't see your blog, that means I could tag you! :(Also, if any new people want to be tagged - please send me an ask in my inbox or reblog instead! Bc the sea of comments are too much across all the posts :,)

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[veliseraptor]

genuine qn!! can you tell us more about mxtx and her preoccupations thematically and including character types and and relationship dynamics, so interesting

oh man so we'll see how long it takes me to answer this ask because I could probably write a whole goddamn essay for this. with footnotes and everything. am I tempted, yes, but the last time I did that it took me like a year and a half and I'm pretty sure nobody cared

anyway, yeah! mxtx is definitely a writer where I feel like I can see the throughlines in a lot of her work pretty clearly. some of these are probably generic and I'm only somewhat equipped to recognize those (being yet a novice in the world of danmei specifically and cnovels more generally), so I can't be certain all of this is mxtx and not just the generic milieu she's working within. but I tried to parse it out based on what I've noticed.

I focused on thematics because that's what I personally find most interesting (and easiest to elaborate on, since some of the relationship dynamics are less specific to MXTX than they are romance conventions, a genre I am less familiar with).

this is necessarily an incomplete list because I haven't reread in a hot minute and also I am, again, not writing a complete essay for this (right now)

Justice/injustice. This one recurs across all three novels, both in terms of the desire for justice and the ways in which injustice is woven into the fabric of society and sometimes, it seems, almost inevitable. There's something deeply pessimistic, for instance, about the way that MDZS deals with this question, or at least a certain ambivalence, but in general I would say it's a theme of MXTX's work that people don't get what they "deserve", and what is or would be just is at best a difficult and often an unanswerable question.

Cycles of revenge/violence. Relatedly: MXTX seems to me very concerned with cycles of revenge and violence and what comes of them - namely, nothing. In SVSSS you see it with Shen Jiu and PIDW!Luo Binghe in particular, and how Shen Yuan's cutting of that violent cycle transforms not just Luo Binghe but the fate of the world as a whole. In MDZS you see it most clearly with the Nie Mingjue/Jin Guangyao/Nie Huaisang situation, which ultimately ends with nobody winning, but also in Jin Ling's explicit rejection of revenge at the end of the novel. In TGCF you can see it in Black Water Arc, where - again - nobody wins, but you can also see it with Xie Lian and Jun Wu. This further relates to:

Disinterest in/distrust of punitive impulses. This is the one I wrote a whole essay about! But in general I think that MXTX is...skeptical...of the impulse to punishment/retaliation, because of the stance she seems to take that violence only ever begets violence and never makes anything better. Again this threads back to the aforementioned "nobody gets what they deserve" thing - because if nobody gets what they deserve, who decides what anyone deserves?

Ambivalence about the "fixability" of society at large. This also kind of goes back to the first point on this list, and specifically I think is illustrated through the fact that two of three of her main pairings retreat from the world at large at the end of their stories. They aren't completely removed from society, but they are distanced from it - in both cases, I would argue, out of some disillusionment with its functioning and/or their place within it. There is a certain feeling in MXTX's work that society is, if not irreparably broken, fundamentally unjust in a way that is difficult to change. (I think TGCF is an interesting outlier in this way, actually.)

Class/status dynamics. I'm not saying that MXTX is, like, writing about class or status, but I am saying that she seems to be interested in the role that it plays in shaping/defining a character, given how often it turns up as a factor - in Shen Jiu, in Luo Binghe, in Jin Guangyao, in Wei Wuxian, in Mu Qing, in Hua Cheng, even in Xie Lian's crash from the heights of wealth to the depths of poverty.

The fickleness of the crowd. This also has to do with the importance of rumor and reputation, but what it often seems to come down to in terms of impact is how quickly people at large change their minds and bend to the beliefs of the people around them; how much attitude toward a person is informed by, and defined by, public opinion - regardless of that opinion's basis in truth. Often, explicitly, in spite of the opinion's basis in lies.

[lila-lou]

✨Beyond saving✨

Summary: Dean became a demon and left you overnight. Three months have passed since then, in which you wanted nothing more than for him to finally come back. However, when he returned, it became painfully clear that he could no longer be saved.

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Rape, Language, Angst, Hurt, Violence, Humiliation - it´s just pure darkness

Word Count: 4289

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

You sat alone in the bunker, your breaths shallow and pained, the echoes of recent battles still reverberating in your mind. Sam, fueled by determination and desperation, had embarked on a relentless search for Dean, accompanied by Castiel. Left behind, you nursed your injuries.

Your ribs ached with every breath, a testament to the encounters with some demons in your relentless search for Dean. Each shadow seemed to whisper his name, taunting you with his absence.

Cradling your injured side, you sank into the cold embrace of a chair, the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon you. How long had it been since Dean had disappeared into the night, consumed by the darkness that had claimed him? The minutes stretched into eternity, each tick of the clock echoing the ache in your heart.

Outside, the world continued to spin, oblivious to the turmoil within the bunker's walls. But for you, time stood still, trapped in a limbo of fear and longing. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind, raised hopes that Dean would materialize before you, his familiar presence a balm to your weary soul.

But as the weeks slipped by, despair threatened to overwhelm you.

In the depths of your despair, a voice whispered a gentle reminder: hope. It was a fragile thread, woven with memories of shared laughter and whispered promises.

With each heartbeat, you whispered a silent vow to never give up on Dean, to keep fighting until he was safely by your side once more.

Two long weeks had passed since Sam and Cas had departed, leaving you to grapple with the silence that hung heavy in their absence. And three months had slipped by since Dean, consumed by the darkness of his demonic transformation, had vanished into the night, his departure leaving a void that seemed impossible to fill.

As you made your way to the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate, the pain in your ribs flared with every breath.

Reaching the refrigerator, you paused, your hand hovering over the handle as a wave of loneliness washed over you. The prospect of facing another day without Dean, without the warmth of his presence, felt like an insurmountable burden. But you couldn't afford to succumb to despair, not when there was still a glimmer of hope flickering in the darkness.

With a determined exhale, you opened the refrigerator door, the cool air washing over you. Amidst the assortment of food and beverages, your fingers closed around a cold bottle of beer, the familiar label offering a brief respite from the ache that threatened to consume you.

Bringing the bottle to your lips, you took a long swallow. For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to linger in the memories of happier times, when laughter had filled the air and the future had seemed full of endless possibilities.

That’s when you heard heavy footsteps echoed through the silence, sending a shiver down your spine as they drew closer. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear and longing coursing through your veins. You knew without a doubt who stood seconds later right behind you, his presence a familiar yet chilling presence that sent a tremor of apprehension rippling through your body.

Dean.

The name hung heavy in the air, laden with the weight of everything that had transpired in the months since his transformation into a demon. Three long months had passed since you had last seen him.

And now, as he stood mere inches away, his chest pressed against your back, you couldn't bring yourself to turn around. The air crackled with tension, thick with unspoken words and the palpable sense of danger that surrounded him.

You felt his breath ghost across the nape of your neck, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked within him. The urge to turn and face him, to confront the demon that wore Dean's face, warred with the instinct to flee, to put as much distance between you and his darkness.

But as the seconds stretched into eternity, you remained rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the fear that gripped you like a vice. Dean wasn't here to do nice things, of that you were certain. He was a harbinger of chaos, a reminder of the perilous path he had chosen.

And yet, despite the fear that coiled in the pit of your stomach, there remained a flicker of hope, a tiny ember that refused to be extinguished. Deep down, buried beneath the layers of uncertainty and despair, you held onto the belief that somewhere within the depths of the demon that stood behind you, a fragment of the real Dean still existed.

But as the moments ticked by, the silence stretching taut between you, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that whispered in the recesses of your mind. Would Dean ever be the same again? Or had he been consumed entirely by the darkness that now held him in its thrall?

With a trembling hand, you reached for the bottle of beer on the counter, the cold glass a tangible anchor in the storm of emotions that raged within you. And as you took a fortifying sip, steeling yourself for whatever came next.

Dean's voice cut through the silence like a blade, his words laced with a dark edge that sent a shiver down your spine. "Sweetheart", he drawled, the term dripping with mockery, a cruel reminder of the tender endearments he had once whispered in your ear. "Missed me, did you?", he taunted, his tone sending a chill down your spine.

You could feel his presence behind you, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in closer. The sensation sent a wave of unease washing over you, his proximity a stark reminder of the danger that lurked within him.

But even as his lips brushed against your ear, sending a shudder of revulsion coursing through you, you couldn't bring yourself to pull away. The memory of the man you had once loved, the man buried beneath the darkness that now consumed him, lingered in the recesses of your mind, a faint echo of a love that refused to die.

And as his lips lingered against your ear, his touch a visceral reminder of the danger that surrounded you, you felt a flicker of defiance ignite within you. Steeling yourself against the fear that threatened to consume you, you squared your shoulders and met his gaze head-on.

"Dean". you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, "this isn't you. I know you're still in there, somewhere"-. It was a desperate plea, a faint glimmer of hope in the darkness that threatened to engulf you both.

But as you spoke, the shadow that lurked behind his eyes seemed to deepen. And though you longed to reach out and pull him back from the brink, to save him from the darkness that haunted him, you knew that the battle ahead would be fraught with peril.

For Dean wasn't just fighting against the darkness within him; he was fighting against the very essence of his own soul.

Dean’s words struck you like a barrage of bullets, each one piercing your heart with a searing pain that threatened to consume you.

“All I want is to fuck that tight little pussy of yours”, he sneered, his voice dripping with venomous lust. “Tried so many girls these past few weeks, but none of them felt like you”.

Your breath caught in your throat. His words were like a dagger to your soul, shredding any remaining fragments of hope or love you had clung to.

As he pressed you against the unforgiving surface of the kitchen counter, his touch rough and unforgiving, you felt a surge of pain shoot through your body. Bruises blossomed beneath his fingertips. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let him see your weakness.

You were overwhelmed, broken by his actions and his words, but you refused to let him break you completely.

“Stop talking”, you whispered, your voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

Dean's laughter echoed off the walls of the kitchen, a cruel symphony of mockery that reverberated in your ears like a relentless assault. The sound of it sent a shiver down your spine.

"Aw, sweetheart, don't tell me you're jealous", he taunted, his voice dripping with derision as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your skin. "You wanna know how I fucked all those other girls while you were out there playing the hero, searching for me?".

The words hit you. You had risked everything to find him, to believe in the possibility of redemption, only to be met with scorn and betrayal.

But despite the pain, despite the overwhelming sense of despair that threatened to consume you, you refused to let him see your weakness.

"Go ahead", you spat, your voice laced with a bitter edge. "Show me. Show me just how little I meant to you. How easily you threw away everything we had".

And as he smirked, his features twisted with triumph, you braced yourself for the inevitable onslaught of pain and humiliation. Dean wasn't the man you had loved; he was a monster, a demon wearing the face of the man you once knew.

But even as he moved closer, his hands reaching for you with a hunger that made your skin crawl, you refused to back down. You were broken, yes, but you were not defeated. And as you stood your ground in the face of his darkness.

Dean's eyes gleamed as he leaned in closer. "Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea", he snarled, before he gripped your wrists with a force that made you flinch.

"I'm about to show you just how hard I fucked those sluts", he continued, his voice low and menacing. "Hard enough to land them in the hospital. They begged for it, you know. Begged for the touch of a real man".

The bile rose in your throat at his words, a sickening mixture of disgust and despair threatening to choke you. How could he speak of such violence with such casual indifference?

But even as the questions raced through your mind, you knew there would be no answers. Dean was lost. And as he moved closer, his hands trailing down your body with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl, you knew that this was about to get messy.

Dean's voice dripped with disdain as he sneered, "Where's your motivation, huh? You call yourself a hunter, but here you are, doing nothing to stop me". His words cut through the air like a whip, each syllable laced with hate.

You gritted your teeth against the surge of anger that threatened to consume you, meeting his gaze with a defiant glare. "My motivation", you spat, your voice trembling with suppressed rage, "is to stop you from hurting anyone else. To stop you from causing any more pain and suffering."

Dean's laughter echoed off the walls of the kitchen, a cruel mockery. "You really think you can stop me?", he taunted. "At the end of the night, sweetheart, I'll get what I came for. And there's nothing you can do to stop me".

“You´re pathetic, Dean”.

Dean's hand struck your cheek with a brutal force, the sharp crack of skin against skin echoing through the kitchen. Pain exploded across your face, a searing heat that radiated through every fiber of your being. You stumbled backward, the force of the blow sending you crashing against the wall, the impact jolting your already broken ribs.

Stars danced at the edges of your vision as you fought to regain your bearings, struggling to draw breath through the haze of pain that enveloped you. But even as you gasped for air, the taste of blood filling your mouth, you refused to let him see your weakness.

Dean loomed over you, his features contorted with a twisted mixture of triumph and cruelty. "Is that fire I see in you now, sweetheart?", he sneered, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Good. Because I want something to burn while I fuck you".

Your fists pounded against Dean's chest, each blow fueled by a desperate fury that threatened to consume you. But his laughter only grew louder.

"Aw, sweetheart, is that the best you can do?", he taunted. "I expected more from a hunter like you. But I guess I overestimated your abilities".

With a primal scream, you launched yourself at him once more, determined to land a blow that would wipe the smirk from his face.

But before your fist could connect, Dean moved with speed, his hand closing around your wrists with a vice-like grip. Pain exploded through your body as he squeezed, the bones in your wrists grinding together with a sickening crunch.

You cried out in agony as he pushed you against the kitchen table, the unforgiving surface digging into your spine. Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled against his iron grip, but it was futile. Dean was stronger, more powerful than you could ever be.

"Look at you, all fire and fury", he sneered, his breath hot against your ear. "But in the end, you're just a weak little girl, aren't you?".

With a trembling hand, you tried to push yourself up from the table, but Dean’s hand came down with a force that sent shockwaves of pain radiating through your body. You cried out as he pushed you back down, the unforgiving surface digging into your stomach, leaving you gasping for air.

“Oh, princess, don’t strain yourself”, he mocked. “You’re much prettier when you’re lying down”.

“You know, sweetheart”, Dean taunted. “I always did like a woman who knows her place. And your place is right here, beneath me”.

Dean's laughter filled the room like a sinister symphony, his eyes gleaming with pleasure as he towered over you. "Oh, sweetheart, look at you", he taunted. "All bruised and broken, yet still trying to get up. Admirable, really".

You winced as pain shot through your broken wrists and ribs, rendering you helpless against his looming presence. Every movement sent waves of agony coursing through your body, but you refused to let him see your weakness.

With deliberate slowness, Dean reached for his belt, his fingers tracing the buckle with a predatory precision. "You know, princess", he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "I've been looking forward to this. Been craving it ever since I left".

Your heart pounded in your chest, a sickening mixture of fear and revulsion churning in the pit of your stomach. You wanted to scream, to fight back with every fiber of your being, but the pain held you captive, a prisoner in your own body.

As Dean slowly undid his belt, a smirk played across his lips, his eyes alight with twisted desire. "You're going to love this, sweetheart", he groaned, his voice laced with a dark promise. "I'll make sure of it".

You knew what was coming, but you were powerless to stop it.

Dean's grip tightened around you as he pushed you further down the table, his movements rough. You winced as your broken wrists bore the brunt of his force, each new position sending fresh waves of pain shooting through your body.

With a smirk, Dean reached for the waistband of your shorts and panties, his fingers trailing along the fabric with a slowness that made your skin crawl. "Let's see what we have here, shall we?", he mused, his voice thick with anticipation.

As he pulled them down, exposing your dry folds to his leering gaze, a wave of humiliation washed over you. You felt exposed, vulnerable, as if every last shred of your dignity had been stripped away.

Dean's eyes alight with amusement. "Well, well, well", he taunted, his voice dripping with disdain. "Looks like you're making this harder than it should be, sweetheart. What's the matter? Not as wet as you used to be?".

You wanted to scream, but all you could do was lie there, exposed and humiliated, as Dean continued to mock and degrade you.

"Oh, sweetheart, this is going to hurt", he chuckled.

"You always did have trouble taking me, didn't you?", Dean jeered. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I'll make sure you feel every inch of me".

His words struck you like a physical blow, a reminder of the intimacy you once shared, now twisted into something dark and grotesque.

You lay on your stomach on the table, your breaths coming in shallow gasps as you braced yourself for what was to come. Your ass faced Dean, vulnerable and exposed, as he hovered over you.

With a chuckle, Dean reached for his jeans and boxers, pulling them down just enough to free his throbbing length.

"Oh, sweetheart, look at what you're missing out on", he taunted. "You used to beg for this, didn't you? Beg for me to fill you up until you couldn't take it anymore".

As Dean moved closer, his hands tracing the lines of your body, you felt a surge of panic rise within you. But even as you struggled against him, you knew that resistance was futile. He was too strong, too powerful, and you were helpless to stop him.

With a hard thrust, Dean tried to shove himself inside you, but your tightness proved too much for him to handle. The pain was excruciating, a searing agony that threatened to consume you from within.

"Fuck", Dean cursed, his voice strained with frustration as he tried to force himself deeper. "Why do you have to be so fucking tight?".

Tears welled in your eyes as the pain intensified.

"Looks like I'll have to make do," he sneered, his voice thick with contempt as he spat down on his cock. "All because of you, princess. Can't even get wet for me anymore".

Dean gripped your hips with a brutal force, before he thrust himself forward once more. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that threatened to consume you from within.

"Please, Dean, stop", you pleaded, your voice raw with desperation. But he only laughed, the sound ringing in your ears like a mocking taunt.

"Stop?", he scoffed, his grip on your hips tightening even further. "Why would I stop when we're just getting started, sweetheart?".

Tears streamed down your cheeks, knowing that there was no escape.

With a grunt of effort, Dean pushed himself inside you with force.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the unforgiving surface of the table beneath you, as he filled you with a brutal intensity.

"Fuck", Dean groaned, his voice strained with exertion. "You're so fucking tight".

As Dean continued to thrust into you with a relentless determination, the agony intensified, threatening to overwhelm you completely.

Your body bore the marks of Dean's brutal assault, bruises already blossoming across your skin despite his relentless onslaught having barely begun. Each movement sent shockwaves of pain rippling through your broken form, the agony etched into every line and contour of your battered body.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, silent yet relentless, as you fought to endure the torment that Dean inflicted upon you.

With a cruel grip, Dean pressed your head tighter against the table, his hands exerting a crushing force that threatened to suffocate you. "You're not enjoying this as much as I am, huh?", he taunted.

And then, with a suddenness that left you reeling, he pulled out completely, leaving you gasping for air as he prepared to thrust into you once more. "Let's see how much you can take", he growled.

The table shuddered beneath you as Dean drove himself into you with a brutal force, each movement wracking your body with a searing agony that threatened to consume you whole. "You like that?", he sneered, his voice laced with amusement. "Or do I need to go harder?".

Your pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as Dean continued his assault, his grip tightening in your hair, pulling your head up with a violent force. "Tell me how much you missed my big cock", he demanded, his voice a menacing growl as he forced you to look him in the eye.

You winced as your ribs cracked even further under the strain, the pain nearly unbearable as you struggled to form words through the agony. "Please", you gasped, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I can't...I can't do this anymore. Please, Dean, just stop".

But he only laughed, the sound sending a chill down your spine as he forced your head back down, his hands like vices around your hair. "Not good enough, sweetheart", he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Tell me you missed it. Tell me you've been dreaming about it every night since I left".

You choked back a sob, the words catching in your throat as you fought to resist his demands. But with each tug of his hands, each crack of your already fractured ribs, the pain became too much to bear. "I missed it", you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breaths. "I missed you".

His smirk widened at your admission.

"That's right, sweetheart", he groaned. "You missed me, didn't you? Missed my big cock pounding into you, making you scream".

With each brutal thrust, your cries of pain mingled with his laughter, the sound a symphony of torment that echoed off the walls. "Look at you", he sneered, his hands gripping your hips with a punishing force. "Crying like a little bitch while I fuck you senseless. You love it, don't you? Love being my little whore".

Dean's voice dripped with satisfaction as he hovered over you. "You feel so fucking good", he purred, his words like venom as he surveyed your broken form. "None of those other bitches could compare to you. None of them had that perfect ass and tits. None of them were as tight as you".

You winced as the pain in your ribs intensified with every thrust, each movement sending shockwaves of agony coursing through your body. It felt like your lungs were being crushed, the pressure unbearable as you struggled to draw breath.

Your face was red and swollen from being shoved over the table, tears mingling with sweat as you fought to endure the torment.

With a cruel grip, Dean pulled you around, forcing you to sit on the edge of the table. Your body felt heavy and limp, your senses dulled by the relentless onslaught of pain. You barely registered his rough handling as he grabbed your jaw with a painful force, forcing you to look into his eyes.

"Look at me", he snarled as his eyes transformed into pools of endless blackness. "I want you to see exactly who's doing this to you".

You whimpered weakly, your gaze meeting his dark, soulless eyes as he pushed himself inside you once more. The pain was blinding, a searing fire that threatened to consume you whole, but you were too far gone to fight back. Each movement leaving you teetering on the edge of consciousness.

"You're pathetic", he scoffed. "All this pain, and you still can't look away. You really are mine, aren't you?".

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to stay upright, your body wracked with pain and exhaustion.

Dean's grip tightened around your neck, nearly choking you as he held you up to keep you from falling. Your vision blurred, the edges of consciousness slipping away as the pain and lack of oxygen overwhelmed you. Yet, you remained trapped in his grasp, unable to break free from his cruel hold.

"You're still in love with me, aren't you?", Dean sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he mocked your lingering affection. " You actually think there's redemption for me. How sweet".

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each word he spoke a dagger in your heart. The weight of his words, combined with the physical agony, threatened to crush your soul entirely.

Dean chuckled darkly, his grip on your neck tightening even further. "I'm going to come inside you. Every last drop. So that even when I'm gone, you'll still have a piece of me to remember".

As Dean's lips crashed against yours with brutal force, you felt the sting of his bite on your lip, drawing blood as a surge of pain shot through you. With a loud groan, he released himself inside you, his body trembling with the force of his release.

Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, you felt another rib give way under the pressure, causing agony to lance through your already battered body. But you were trapped, unable to move or escape as Dean held you there to steady himself.

"You took me so well", Dean murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as he kissed your forehead tenderly. "You always gonna be my favorite".

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he finally released his grip on you, leaving you slumped against the table, broken and defeated. "I'll come back for you", he whispered, his voice filled with a promise of further torment to come.

Before he left, Dean turned back to you, his eyes cold and devoid of any trace of humanity.

"Stop trying to heal me", he commanded, his voice laced with a chilling finality. "I'm beyond saving".

His words hung in the air like a heavy weight, crushing your hopes and shattering your illusions of redemption. With a heavy heart, you watched as he disappeared into the darkness, leaving you alone with your pain and despair.

As Dean's words echoed in your mind, the world around you faded into darkness. The pain, both physical and emotional, overwhelmed your senses, pulling you into unconsciousness.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 I'm thinking about turning this into a multi-part Story. You up?

-

Part 2

[mauromance]

A case for Kastle | A way forward (my fan theory)

In the comics, Karen Page’s brutal death at the hands of Bullseye shattered Matt Murdock. But the MCU has a rare opportunity to subvert that fate: what if Karen doesn’t die… but fakes her death?

Instead of a corpse, she leaves behind a carefully orchestrated lie. A final, irreversible act to protect herself and the people she loves. A way to take control of a life that has been defined, over and over again, by other people’s violence.

Karen has been teetering on the edge of darkness since Daredevil Season 1, when she shot James Wesley. As more of her past is revealed—marked by guilt, grief, and survival—we see a woman constantly forced into life-or-death decisions. That history, and her relentless pursuit of truth and justice also makes her a permanent target for Wilson Fisk. To remain Karen Page is to remain vulnerable. And after Born Again opened with the devastating loss of Foggy Nelson, to kill off Karen too would feel like another lazy gut-punch. Just more pain to fuel Matt’s torment. 

But a faked death? That’s not trauma for shock value. That’s character evolution. A conscious choice that preserves Karen’s autonomy, lets her reclaim the narrative and grants her a rare gift in genre storytelling: the chance to walk away from trauma on her own terms.

Karen’s reinvention

After losing Foggy and distancing herself from Matt, Karen relocates to San Francisco, trying to rebuild a life out of the wreckage. But we know, she can’t stay away.

We’ve watched her grow: from a small-town girl with a tragic past, to a murder suspect, to Nelson & Murdock’s moral anchor, to a fearless investigative journalist at the Bulletin. Karen has reinvented herself before. But this would be her boldest reinvention yet. A total reclamation. Killing “Karen Page” allows the woman underneath to finally live.

MCU continuity

The MCU has already built the scaffolding for a story like this. Faked deaths. S.H.I.E.L.D. coverups. Clean slates. If Frank Castle can be given a second life, why not Karen? This opens the door for powerful storytelling while honouring the existing gritty, grounded, and emotionally complex tone of Daredevil and The Punisher. 

It also offers other character threads to be woven: Dinah Madani, David Leiberman, and more. A storyline where Karen fakes her death could organically pull some of those characters back in for final, meaningful resolutions without stretching plausibility.

Matt’s path forward

Karen’s "death" would devastate Matt, but it would also liberate him. It carries the emotional weight of her comic death, but with a quieter, more tragic finality. She’s not taken from him. She chooses to go. And in many ways, that choice might be even harder to bear.

But narratively, Daredevil is designed to endure. In the comics, he has loved and lost many times, and within the current state of the MCU has several romantic avenues to explore (Elektra, Kirsten McDuffie, She-Hulk, the list goes on). His romantic arc can evolve without being forced to erase or overwrite what he had with Karen.

And let’s be honest—the MCU rarely lets its heroes keep their great loves. From Star-Lord to Doctor Strange to Peter Parker, romance is often sacrificed on the altar of serialized storytelling. If Daredevil is here to stay (which it appears he is), a respectful, mature close to Matt and Karen’s chapter, one where she gets to decide when it ends, feels like the right choice.

How this ties into the Kastle ship

Frank Castle is nearing the end of his war. His body is breaking down—Born Again hints at his dependence on painkillers. His mission is losing meaning—everyone involved in the murder of his family is already dead. His grief has calcified into something quieter, heavier, more remorseful. “Look what it got me,” he tells Matt. One thread remains unresolved: his feelings for Karen.

Bullseye’s return forces a reckoning. And this time, Frank isn’t choosing between revenge and survival. He’s choosing between vengeance… and love.

In Born Again, Frank only springs into action when Karen calls on him—an unmistakable sign of his feelings for her. After their subtextually loaded moment together, their connection is further confirmed in a quiet conversation between Matt and Karen. Later, Frank is shown listening to radio chatter, monitoring the Punisher copycats. But he’s not tracking them for sport or ego. He’s listening for mentions of her. And when he hears them mention “the blonde”, and “hunting”, he moves. Because this isn't about his legacy. He couldn’t care less about that. What he cares about is protecting Karen. 

If Karen were to fake her death, it would become a natural out for Frank as well. He could finally walk away from the Punisher—not in defeat, but in purpose. He becomes her shadow. Her shield. Because let’s be honest: Karen Page, even under a new name in a new place, will still be chasing truth. Still investigating. Still lighting fires. And when things get too close, she’ll need someone who can keep her safe. Frank can give her that. And she’ll give him what he needs, too. Connection. Stability. Family.

It’s the most fitting conclusion to the slowest burn in MCU history. Not explosive. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, earned escape.

Why Kastle works

The Kastle dynamic fits perfectly because it’s not about saving each other. It’s about understanding each other. Reflecting each other. Becoming something whole, together.

Frank facing mortality: Karen represents his last chance at something more than violence.

Karen choosing agency: Faking her death isn’t surrender, it’s a declaration of autonomy.

A poetic reversal: Frank lost his family to violence. Karen refuses to be lost in the same way.

And unlike Matt, whose romantic arc resets and reboots, Frank’s emotional world is singular. Monastic. If Karen is the only person who ever made him believe peace might be possible after the tragedy of his family’s murder, then her survival becomes the final thread anchoring him to life.

A fitting farewell

This twist respects the comics’ emotional beats but refuses to fridge Karen Page. Her “death” marks the end of a chapter, not a life. It allows Matt to grieve, Frank to grow, and Karen to finally, fully reclaim herself.

And most importantly, it understands a hard truth: in the MCU, happy endings are rarely loud. Sometimes, they’re quiet. Fragile. Earned. For Karen and Frank, that ending doesn’t lie in a grave. It’s somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away from Hell’s Kitchen. 

A sunrise. A new name. A chance to be born again. 

--

Want to dive deeper? 

Coffee in the MCU

Why Karen and Frank are end game

Kastle scene breakdowns: The subtext you missed [WIP]

--

Published: April 23, 2025

Last edited: April 23, 2025

[tipsynight0]

Eyes like a prison

Parings - Liu woods, sully x female reader

Word count - 1.7k

TRIGGER WARNINGS - stalking, implied S/A, obsessive behaviour, violence, alcohol, invasion of privacy, slight nsfw?? Not really.

Summary - LIU and sully are pretty much hard core stalking.

Author's note- Oh boy, don’t even get me started on writer’s block. I’ve rewritten this thing like three times and still hated it, but I think it’s finally coming together now, haha. I’ve got so many ideas for how this could go, so maybe future chapters? First time writing Liu, so be gentle with me! Anyway, feel free to throw some requests my way >:)

Every night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the same mantra looping in his head: ‘I can’t get close to her. I’ll only hurt her.’ His jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching as the ceiling fan spun lazily above him. It did nothing to relieve the tightness in his chest. Why did they have to sell the damn house? The thought lingered in his mind like a nagging itch.

His eyes wandered to the window, the familiar red brick house across the street. It had been his home. His sanctuary. Now, it was nothing more than a distant memory. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see Jeff. The way Jeff would shove him off the porch, eager to get to the bus first. The same tire swing still swayed from the old oak tree, memories of their childhood woven into the threads of the rope.

‘Whoever gets to the top first wins!’ Jeff’s voice echoed in his mind, the sound of his laughter bittersweet. Jeff always had the advantage, always so quick, so sure of himself. Liu had to be smarter. He tugged at Jeff’s sneakers, throwing him off balance, just enough to slip past. The victory was his, and for a moment, it felt like the world made sense.

But the memory faded as quickly as it came, replaced with the one thing that always consumed him now. The thing he couldn’t escape. Her.

Her face. The way she smiled, the way she moved, the way her laugh lingered in the air like sweet perfume. It had started so innocently. He’d seen her around—at the store, around town, but over time, those brief moments had turned into a fixation. An obsession. He couldn’t get close to her, he told himself. But the more he tried to push the thoughts away, the stronger they became.

He had to stay away. He couldn’t risk hurting her. Yet, in the back of his mind, that voice whispered constantly: ‘She’s yours. You just need to get close. You just need to take her.’

He'd convinced himself he was being careful. He was protecting her. After all, he never went inside when she was there, right? But when she wasn’t? When she was at college, with those loud, obnoxious friends who had no idea how to treat her?

That’s when he’d sneak in. When she was at class, he’d come through the back, slipping into the house as quietly as a shadow. He knew her routine. He knew the pattern of her days better than she did.

Her room was just down the hall his old bedroom, the door always left unlocked. Sometimes, she would leave her windows open when she was gone, a small crack where the light would spill in, and Liu would sit there for hours. His eyes glued to the window as he watched the cars pass, listening to the quiet. Waiting. He would touch her things—her books, her hairbrush, the necklace she had carelessly tossed on the desk. His fingers would linger on the fabric of her clothes, the soft cotton of her favorite shirt, the panties that she would toss carelessly on the floor in a rush. the ones that had a faint trace of her scent. He would close his eyes, breathing in deeply. He didn’t want to admit the amount of times he’d gotten off to them.

‘Just a little longer, just a little closer.’

He wasn’t a creep, he told himself. He just had to protect her. It was for her safety. He couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to her.

The evenings were the hardest. The nights when she came home late, stumbling slightly, the weight of the world on her shoulders. He would watch from the shadows, waiting until her friends had dropped her off, until they left and she was alone. That’s when he would act.

His heart would race as he crept up the side of the house. The window—the one that opened into her room—was his way in. He had done this so many times, it was almost second nature now. His fingers would scrape along the old wood of the window frame, lifting it just enough to slide through. The familiar smell of her room hit him like a drug. The scent of lavender, of soap, of something deeper he couldn’t quite place.

She never remembered. Not really. She’d be so drunk sometimes, swaying on her feet, laughing too loud, her mind lost in the haze of the night. The smell of alcohol would be heavy on her breath, but Liu never minded. In those moments, he would sit by the window, watching her, making sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit, making sure she was safe.

He told himself it wasn’t a violation. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was protecting her. After all, she was too vulnerable. She didn’t know how dangerous the world was. He had to watch over her.

There were nights when she’d drift into a deep sleep, her breathing slow and steady, and Liu would just sit there, staring at her, the desire bubbling up in his chest like a poison. His eyes would track her every movement. Her soft, relaxed expression, the rise and fall of her chest. The way her lips parted ever so slightly in her sleep.

He couldn’t help himself.

Sometimes, when she passed out on her bed, so drunk she wouldn’t remember the next morning, he would slip closer, just for a second. His fingers would brush against her arm, her wrist. He would touch her clothes, tugging at the hem of her shirt, imagining what it would feel like to hold her, to take what he knew was his.

And every time, he would pull back, the weight of his desire too much to bear.

‘Not yet. Not yet.’

But the nights grew harder. The cravings, the need—it gnawed at him like a constant hunger, an ache that could never be satisfied. He had to get closer.

It wasn’t enough to watch anymore.

One night, he waited until she’d come back late, laughing too loudly with some guy—someone who didn’t deserve to be near her. Someone who touched her like he had the right. Liu’s fingers clenched into fists, his teeth grinding together. ‘He’s touching her.’ The thought made his blood run cold.

By the time she stumbled up the porch steps, the man trailing behind her, Liu was already watching from the shadows of the house across the street, his heart thundering in his chest. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t trust that guy. No one was going to touch her like that.

Liu couldn’t wait any longer. He was already climbing up the side of the house, his boots sinking into the ivy, the leaves scratching his hands as he moved. The window beckoned.

‘She’s yours. She just doesn’t know it yet.’

His breath hitched as he reached the window, prying it open, slipping inside. Her room, dark but familiar, felt like a tomb. And she was there—drunk, swaying, her eyes unfocused as the guy tried to guide her to the bed. His pulse quickened.

But this time—this time was different.

She needed him to save her.

Liu pulled out the pocket knife from his boot, the blade glinting in the moonlight. The sound of her breathing, slow and shallow, filled his ears as he took a step toward the bed.

His hands shook—tremors too violent to hide. His chest ached as every breath burned with the rage, the heat of it making his skin feel like it was on fire. His vision spun, everything warping, pulling him under.

And then, as if the world had finally split in two, the darkness consumed him completely.

When his eyes opened again, he wasn’t alone.

It wasn’t Liu anymore.

It was Sully.

The shift was like ice water flooding through his veins. The rage wasn’t just an emotion anymore—it was a voice, a presence. Something else—dark, hungry, and pulsing with violent need.

There was a man in front of him, standing too close to her. Hands on her, touching her like she belonged to him. And the sight of it twisted something in Sully—something deep and dark that had been festering in the corners of his mind. A sort of anger he hadn’t felt since Jeff.

Sully didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. His smile was slow, too slow. A thing of shadows.

“No one,” he growled, voice a low rasp like a blade scraping bone. “No one touches what’s mine.”

The man didn’t hear him at first, too focused on her. Her face was flushed, disoriented, drunk. And there he was, pushing her toward the bed like she was a thing—like she was just another conquest.

That sickening feeling, the need to kill, to slice this mother fuckers throat and make him choke on his on blood, overtook Sully. His breath came in jagged bursts now, his hands curling into fists, nails digging into his own skin. He wanted to feel it. Wanted to make this moment last.

Sully took a step forward, and it was as if the air itself thickened around him. The man’s head snapped up, but too late.

“I’ll carve every finger off that touched her,” Sully hissed, the words slipping out of his mouth like poison. “One by one. Then I’ll make you eat them. Taste them.“

The man recoiled, his eyes wide with fear, but Sully wasn’t done. His laughter—if you could call it that—was twisted, jagged, the sound scraping through the room like a knife against glass. “Your going to fucking regret this”

[hyacinthandmoss]

What the Dead Don‘t Take (18+)

Summary: You are Eclipsera. They call you a ghost. A myth. Some say you’re lady death. But you know better; you’re what comes when death hesitates. You move through shadow with a body built for ruin and reverence — soft, full, impossible to ignore. You are older than grief. More tender than mercy. So when you found Frank Castle dying, you didn’t take him. You let him stay. Because something in him flickered like a flame refusing to die. And you, well, you’ve always been drawn to fire.

Pairing: Frank Castle x AFAB!Reader (PLUS SIZE/FAT READER). Reader is described with fat body imagery.

Warnings: Minors DNI! SOFT SMUT (18+), canon-typical violence, injury, grief/loss, trauma responses, gentle angst with eventual tenderness, haunted softness, emotionally bruised Frank being tender.

A/N: hi, my dearest petals! thank you for wandering into this little story. i hope something soft in it finds you. Eclipsera is an OC i’ve been developing for some time, but for this story, i decided to share her through a reader-insert so you could feel what it’s like to bloom in her skin. if you’d like to see more of her, perhaps in a longer fic or as her full self in the punisher universe, let me know! your thoughts are like little wildflowers: small, beautiful, & always welcome.

🪻🍃🌾💫📖

New York pulsed with life, but you walked in the spaces between. The spectral realm hummed quietly beneath the city’s surface, a thin, silver thread woven through the neon chaos and cigarette smoke, through the clamor of horns and human grief. Few could see it. Fewer still could walk it. But you, you had always belonged to the quiet places where grief lingered, and breath faded.

They called you a myth. A ghost. A curse. Eclipsera. Lady Death herself.

You drifted down cracked sidewalks with no destination. Your steps made no sound on the pavement. Your soft, thick thighs brushed with every silent stride beneath a dress that clung to your body like it knew exactly what it protected. Your full hips swayed with purpose, your heavy form moving with grace that defied expectation. You could feel every soul humming beneath their skin. The living, wrapped tight in their breath and fear. The dying, fraying at the edges. The dead, watching with hollowed eyes, waiting to be remembered or forgotten. As you passed, your fingers brushed against a brick wall, and it told you a story. A fight. A bloodstain. A promise never kept. But you kept walking. Tonight felt heavier than usual. Like the city itself was holding its breath.

You paused beneath a flickering streetlamp in Alphabet City, head tilted slightly, lips parted like you were listening to something no one else could hear. And then you felt it. A tremor. Not in the ground, but in the thread,  the weave between life and death. Someone was slipping, and it wasn’t peaceful or quiet. It felt… stubborn. Violent. Refusing.

Your eyes narrowed, irises dark as soil, glowing faintly at the edges. Whoever it was… they didn’t want to die. Or maybe they shouldn’t. You turned toward the pull. The spectral plane rippled around you, doors opening where none existed, and then you stepped into the alley where fate had come to collect Frank Castle. Or so you thought. 

The alley stank of blood and ozone and something sharp beneath it… gunpowder, maybe. 

He was lying at the end of the alley. Half-slumped against the wall. One leg twisted unnaturally. Blood slicked across his chest like ink. It was the kind of wound you knew that mortals didn’t come back from. Yet he wasn’t dead. And more than that, he was fighting it.

The thread of his life was unraveling fast, frayed and stubborn, and snapping back every time death tried to reel him in. It was wild and violent. And so very loud in your mind. You moved toward him slowly, your long dress whispering beneath you like smoke.

He noticed you. His hand twitched toward the weapon at his side, but it slipped, useless in his grasp.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you said softly, voice curling into the air like incense. You knelt beside him, close enough for the tips of your fingers to catch the heat of his skin, close enough to feel him tethered, like he refused to let go, not out of fear, but purpose. Your gaze traveled across the ruin of his body, then up to meet his eyes.

“You’re dying,” you said simply.

He coughed, low and wet, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he rasped. “No shit.”

Your lips curled, faint and amused. “But it’s not taking,” you murmured. You tilted your head, studying him like a riddle you couldn’t quite solve. “You’ve eluded death’s embrace before.”

Frank Castle squinted up at you, breathing ragged. “What the hell… are you?”

You leaned in slowly, your hand lifting to brush a knuckle along the line of his jaw. The touch was light and careful. Far too intimate for a battlefield. Your fingers trailed down his neck, tracing the line of a scar that wasn’t from tonight.

“The infamous Punisher,” you murmured, your voice low and rich, like smoke curling in velvet. A faint smile tugged at your lips. It wasn’t mockery but recognition. “You’re quite the legend in the spectral realm.” You reached out, and the tips of your fingers ghosted along his cheek light as breath, but he felt it in his spine. “Always dancing on the blade,” you whispered. “Always flirting with death, and yet, somehow, you never let it take you.” Your eyes searched his,  not just looking but reading.

All Frank could see were your eyes that were ancient, knowing, and endless. His eyes narrowed, blood drying on his cheek. He gave a breathless, humorless laugh. Well, more of a grunt, really.

“Yeah?” he rasped. “You here to hand out metaphors or finish the job?” His tone was sharp and raw, the kind of edge you get when you’ve seen too much, bled too long, and don’t trust a damn thing that whispers in the dark.

You blinked slowly like his sarcasm was a language you spoke fluently. “Still fighting,” you murmured. “Even now.”

“Not fightin’,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Just don’t take kindly to cryptic shit when I’m leaking out on concrete.”

That earned him the ghost of a smile.

He hated that it made you look beautiful.

You moved closer, your knees brushing against his thigh, and leaned in close enough for your breath to graze his ear. “Then let me be clear, Frank Castle,” you whispered, and he felt his name curl down his spine like a brand. “You shouldn’t be dying. Not tonight. Not like this.”

He exhaled a shaky breath. “Yeah?” he rasped. “And what the hell makes you the expert?”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Your eyes shimmered in the dark like wet obsidian catching moonlight. There was no threat in them. Just knowledge. Weight.

“I’ve walked beside Death since the first star fell,” you said quietly. “I’ve stood where time ends, and silence begins.”

“And when Death falters—when Death doubts—I’m the one who decides who stays.” Your words hung in the space between you, ancient, undeniable, echoing somewhere deeper than just his ears.

Frank didn’t see you move.

In a sudden, fleeting moment, you were inches away from him, your warm breath teasing his ear while your fingers danced like whispers along the sharp line of his jaw. The next instant, the gritty alleyway vanished completely. The cold, unforgiving concrete beneath your feet, the vivid splashes of blood staining the pavement, and the distant wail of sirens—everything was erased. An eerie stillness enveloped you both in their place as if time had paused. 

Frank found himself in a shadowy realm, cloaked in tranquility and dimly lit by the flickering glow of candles casting soft, wavering shadows. It felt like an enchanted rooftop lounge, a hidden oasis suspended between memory and myth, as though this sanctuary had been plucked from his subconscious, a quiet refuge from the chaos that once surrounded him. Here, the world’s weight seemed to lift, offering a moment of respite. 

Frank slumped against a stone pillar, sucking in a shocked breath. “What the f—” He tried to move, but his body protested with sharp, searing pain.

“Easy,” you murmured, already kneeling before him again. “You’re safe here. No one can reach you.”

His hand twitched toward where his weapon should’ve been, but you were already reaching for him, not to disarm, but to touch. Your fingers hovered just over the gash in his abdomen, glowing faintly with that same silvery light he’d seen in your eyes.

“You’ve carried pain for so long, Frank Castle,” you whispered. “Some of it isn’t yours anymore. Let me take it.”

He should’ve pushed you away. Should’ve told you to go to hell. But all he said was, “You better know what the hell you’re doin’.”

A quiet smile curved your lips. “I do.” You placed your palm against his wound, and the moment your skin touched his, the pain evaporated like smoke. Not numbed but gone.

His head dropped back with a groan, breath catching in his throat. Frank’s eyes flicked open, wild and wide. “You’re not human.”

“No.” Your hand slid up, palm pressed against his chest, right over his heart.

He caught your wrist, grip weak but wanting. His breathing was shallow and uneven. “I don’t know what this is,” he growled, “but if you’re gonna kill me, stop playin’ with your food.”

“I told you,” you whispered, your mouth almost brushing his, “You don’t die tonight.”

His chest rose and fell under your hand, slower now but tight, like he was holding something back.

“You’re not real,” he said, voice gravel-thick, sharp around the edges. “You’re somethin’ else. Somethin’ fucked.”

You tilted your head, unbothered, your eyes glowing faint and eerie in the low light.

“I’m exactly what you needed,” you said softly.

His laugh was short and bitter, and he breathed more than sound. “Yeah? You think I need someone floatin’ outta nowhere, messin’ with my head?”

“I didn’t touch your head,” you murmured, inching closer. Your palm pressed over his heart, now deliberate, heavy.

His jaw tensed. That stare didn’t budge.

“And what is it you want, huh?” he snapped. “You already patched me up. You ain’t robbin’ me. You ain’t killin’ me. So what the hell is this?”

You leaned in, slow and smooth, just close enough that he could feel the warmth of your lips, which were just out of reach.

“Maybe I’m curious,” you whispered. “About the man Death hesitated to take.”

Frank’s breath hitched. Just slightly. But you caught it. He grabbed your wrist again.  Fast, firm, but not cruel. “You don’t get to play games,” he growled. “Not with me.”

“I’m not playing.”

“You’re somethin’, all right,” he muttered, his eyes locked to you by mouth now like he was daring himself not to move.

Your smile was curved and quiet and dangerous.

Frank still hadn’t released your wrist. His grip was firm but hesitant, a mix of control and uncertainty.

You could feel it. The way his pulse jumped under your touch. The way he was watching your mouth instead of your eyes now. “You keep staring like that,” you murmured, “and I’m going to start thinking you want something.”

He let out a sharp, low breath, part laugh, part don’t push me. “You talk like you know me,” he muttered, voice rough like sandpaper, “but you don’t.”

You didn’t pull back. Just let the silence stretch between you two like tension on a wire. “I know how your heartbeat changes when I touch you,” you said, your hand pressing a little harder to his chest. “I know you’ve been bleeding for years… and not all of it on the outside.” 

Frank’s jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. “I don’t need you figuring me out,” he snapped. “I sure as hell don’t need you crawling inside my head.”

“I’m not in your head,” you whispered, dragging your lips just barely across the shell of his ear. “I’m under your skin.”

And there it was… the moment of inhale. A quiet pause where he froze as if you’d struck something raw. “Careful,” he growled. “You don’t know what you’re pokin’ at.”

You smiled. “Oh, Frank. I do.”

Frank hadn’t blinked in what felt like years. His hand was still on your wrist, knuckles white from restraint. “You think you got me figured out?” he rasped.

Your eyes flicked to his. Not mocking. Not soft. Just… knowing. “I don’t need to figure you out,” you said. “I feel you.”

You shifted just enough that your thick thighs brushed against his. Enough to make him flinch like he’d been burned. “You ache,” you whispered, your lips ghosting the line of his jaw. “You carry your guilt like armor, and you wear your grief like a weapon.”

His eyes fluttered closed for a second, jaw flexing tight.

You let your nose trail down the side of his throat, never kissing, just hovering. Your voice dropped even lower, barely a breath, “But you want,” you said, “so much.”

Frank’s grip on your wrist tightened not to stop you, but like it was the only thing tethering him to control. His breath was ragged now, chest rising beneath your touch like it took effort just to breathe.

And still, you didn’t touch him any more than that. “You wanna keep pretendin’ you’re not feeling this?” You murmured, your lips now just above his.

His eyes opened, dark and furious, but not because he hated it. But because you were right. He held your stare like he was hanging by a thread.

“…You don’t shut up,” he growled. “You’re gonna find out what happens when I do stop pretending.”

And still, you didn’t pull back.

“Then stop,” you whispered. “I dare you.”

Frank didn’t move.

“I wonder,” you whispered, “if you’d even know how to touch someone without it feeling like violence.”

That made his breath catch a sharp inhalation that came unexpectedly, like a jagged shard of ice piercing through him. 

“I wonder,” you continued, your voice a purr against his ear, “if you even remember what softness feels like.”

His fingers coiled around your wrist with a pressure that suggested he was holding himself back, not out of rage, but sheer restraint. “You don’t know me,” he hissed, each word dripping with intensity.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again.“I know enough,” you said. “I know you crave closeness, but punish yourself every time it gets near. I know your body doesn’t understand tenderness anymore. Only tension. Only grit. Only the moments before something breaks.”You let your lips brush the scar above his collarbone, the lightest, cruelest whisper of touch.“I could break you,” you whispered. “Gently.”

He flinched but barely. But you felt it.

“I should push you off me,” he bit out. His voice shook with everything he wasn’t doing.

“You should,” you said, resting your forehead against his. “So why haven’t you?”

The silence that followed was thick and electric. He was breathing harder now. Chest rising fast under your palm. His jaw clenched so tight it trembled. Every part of him screamed with want and refusal, but he didn’t move. You did. Your lips brushed his once, soft as breath, just enough to touch without giving him anything more. And when you pulled away again, that damn smile was still there.

“You gonna make me stop?” you whispered, voice low, challenging.

His jaw flexed. That vein in his neck ticked. His breath was ragged now, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold himself back from devouring you. And then he moved. Frank’s hand came up fast, curling around the back of your neck, pulling you down hard and sure, like he’d finally decided he wasn’t letting you tease him into madness anymore. His lips met yours with a kind of heat that wasn’t gentle. It was raw like he’d been waiting all night for permission, and you’d just handed it to him on a silver blade.

You barely had time to gasp before his other hand slid down to your waist, gripping tight, anchoring you to him like he needed to feel your full weight on his body. You felt the low groan rumbling in his chest. He exhaled into your mouth like he hadn’t breathed until now. The kiss had cracked something open. Now, it was burning, and there was no pulling back. Frank’s hands stayed on you, one still cradling the back of your neck, the other sliding lower, fingers digging into the generous curve of your hip like he needed your solidness to keep from slipping away. Like the fullness beneath his palm was the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

Your breath hitched as he pulled you entirely into his lap, your thighs parting to straddle him, plush and warm as they bracketed his hips. Your softness spilled against him, belly pressing into his abdomen, breasts brushing his chest, and his breath caught like the sight of you had knocked the air out of him. The contact lit a fire between you two, sharp and immediate. There was no hesitation, no question. He needed you like this. All of you. Not something delicate to be handled but something whole to be held.

His eyes scanned your face as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. You were so close but still otherworldly. That faint glow beneath your skin. That calm in your eyes. “You good?” he rasped, his voice low, rough, frayed at the edges.

You nodded, your hand slipping into his hair, your body moving against his with a slow, deliberate grind that made him grunt, his hands clutching harder at your sides.

“Better than good,” you whispered, lips grazing his ear. “I want you.”

His mouth found yours again, rougher now. Not cruel, just hungry.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, dragging it up over healing muscle and scar. You moved with a kind of sacred slowness. It wasn’t hesitant but reverent. Like you understood what it meant for him to let someone this close.

He hissed when your hands ghosted over his stomach, but not from pain.

“I should be the one asking if you’re okay.” You said against his mouth, your voice low and velvet.

Frank’s hand slid under your dress, calloused fingers dragging slowly up the curve of your back to touch and feel. The softness there was warm, genuine, solid beneath his palm. His fingertips brushed over the dip of your waist, then higher, following the gentle slope of your plush back until he cradled you fully, pulling you into him.

“I’m alive,” he muttered. “Pretty sure that’s your fault.”

You smiled against his lips.

“Then let me show you what it means to live.”

Frank pulled you even closer, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh like he couldn’t believe you were real. “Shit,” he muttered, pressing his face into your neck. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”

You rolled your hips again, slower this time, and he shuddered. The friction, the heat, the way your full thighs tightened around him, grounding him, was too much. And still not enough.

“Say it again,” he breathed, “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gritted out. “I want all of you.”

You reached between your bodies, tugging his pants open, your fingers brushing the thick length of him through his briefs. His hips bucked instinctively, and you smiled.

“You’re hard for someone who was bleeding out a few minutes ago,” you teased.

His eyes locked on yours, dark and hungry. “I survived for this.”

And when you pulled him free and guided him into you, slow, aching, deliberate,  Frank groaned, his hands flying to your hips, head falling back, eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck,” he panted. “You feel so good.”

You took him slowly, deliberately, your body stretching around him, taking every inch until your thighs were tight against his and your belly pressed to his chest. And he loved it. The way your softness wrapped around him. The way your curves moved with every grind of your hips. The way you held him deep and tight and didn’t let go.

You gasped into his mouth as he hauled you closer, the strength in his arms coiling around your soft, generous frame like a storm about to break. You could feel it: the barely leashed restraint, the way his fingers dug into the plush at your waist,  not harsh, but like he was trying to memorize you with his hands. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d fall apart completely. He moved slowly at first, afraid he’d miss something if he rushed.

“Fuck,” he breathed like it hurt to say. “You’re… fucking unreal.”

Your back arched into him, full breasts pressing to his chest, your body moving with practiced confidence and heat. “You’re the one surviving gunshots in alleys,” you whispered, breathless. “Who’s the unreal one now?”

He huffed a laugh low against your collarbone, his stubble grazing your skin. “Don’t flatter me,” he muttered. “I’ll start thinkin’ I deserve this.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, curling just enough to pull him back to your mouth. “You do,” you said into his lips, hot and certain. “You do.”

His hands roamed everywhere like he couldn’t decide what part of you he loved most; the soft curve of your belly that met his with every roll of your hips, the weight of your breasts in his palms, the way your thighs wrapped around him like they’d never let go. His mouth was greedy, his touch bordering on desperation, like if he didn’t touch all of you right now, he’d lose the chance.

You moved against him in slow, deliberate rolls, letting your softness press into all the places he was hard and trembling. It made him hiss through clenched teeth, his hips jerking up to meet yours. His grip bruised in the best way, big hands sinking into your ass, dragging you tighter. Your nails raked down his back, your teeth sinking into his neck just to hear that growl he gave only to you. You moved like you were made for this. For him.

Frank’s back hit the cold stone floor, breath still ragged, muscles twitching from restraint and adrenaline. He looked up at you wild-eyed, sweat-drenched, like he wasn’t sure if this was real or some fever dream born out of blood loss and craving.

And then you straddled him, slow, fluid, deliberate. Your full, plush thighs settled across his hips, weight grounding him in the here and now. Your curves spilled over him, heat radiating off your body like a furnace, and he felt all of it. 

“I want to see you,” you whispered, voice warm against his lips. “Really, see you.”

His hands came up, palms wide and rough, ghosting over the thick swell of your thighs, up to your hips, where he squeezed slowly. 

“Yeah?” he rasped.

You nodded, breath shallow, heart open. “Let me lie back,” you said, the words trembling with something more profound. “Let me pull you in.”

You weren’t just asking to change positions. You wanted to look at him. all of him. To see the pain he’d carried for years, carved into every line of his body, and to try,  in the only way you knew how to take it from him.

You laid back slowly, your thick thighs parting for him, plush and warm as they cradled his hips. Your soft belly rose and fell beneath your breath, your chest flushed, your arms already reaching for him.

Let me do this, you thought. Let me hold him. Heal him. Let him know what it feels like to be touched without pain.

Frank followed by bracing himself over you, his body already shuddering from how much he felt. But when he sank back inside you, slow and deep, your body stretching to retake him, something shifted. You felt it. Not just the heat of him but the ache beginning to unwind inside his body. The pain was lifting like fog from muscle and bone. Your hands came to his face, cupping it as his eyes met yours.

See me, you thought. You arched up to meet him, the fullness of your body moving with his hips rising, softness pressing against scar and sinew, and through it all, your gaze never left his. You watched him fall apart and come back together. And Frank was breathless, gasping, forehead pressed to yours,  didn’t speak. 

At first, Frank didn’t notice. He was too caught up in the heat of you. But then… Something shifted.

Initially, it was subtle. He noticed the familiar throb in his ribs was absent. The burn from the old bullet wound in his shoulder was also gone. The chronic tightness in his hip, which flared every time it rained, had disappeared. He felt no pulling in the scar beneath his side where the stitches had never quite healed properly. His brow furrowed as his breath caught, not from pain but from the surprising absence of it.

“Wait,” he breathed, voice gravel-rough as his hands came up to cradle your waist, steadying you. “What—what is this?”

You looked up at him. “What do you feel?”

His chest rose and fell, sweat still clinging to him, but he blinked, confused. Almost disoriented. “It’s gone,” he rasped. “The ache in my leg, my side—fuck, even the shoulder—how the hell…”

“I’m just giving back what the world took,” your lips ghosting the corner of his mouth. Your voice was quiet, but it echoed in him louder than gunfire, sharper than grief. And it hit him somewhere he didn’t have armor for.

Frank stared down at you, breath caught in his chest, his body still deep inside yours, warm and held and seen. His jaw clenched like he was trying to swallow something he couldn’t name. For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. He just looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with the kind of softness you were giving him. Then, slowly, his head dipped. His forehead touched yours first, skin to skin like he was grounding himself there. His eyes shut. His breath shuddered out against your lips. Then he kissed you. His hand slid up to cradle your cheek, calloused thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “You didn’t have to do this,” he murmured against your mouth, voice raw and quiet. “You didn’t owe me shit.”

You looked up at him, your hand slipping to the back of his neck, fingertips curling in his short hair.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I wanted to.”

Frank’s eyes opened, dark, stormy, wrecked. And then he kissed you again, Harder this time Like he couldn’t take it. Something broke loose inside him, and the only way he knew how to thank you was to fall apart in your mouth.  He pressed into you again, slow and deep, and he gasped, not just from pleasure but from the feeling of something old releasing. And damn, it did feel like that. Like his body had been clenched for years, bracing against agony, and you were finally teaching it how to let go. Every thrust felt like light cracking through scar tissue. Every moan from your lips burned something clean inside his bones. His fingers curled into the fat of your hips, holding you tight, grounding himself in the weight of you. The kind of rhythm that didn’t just fuck — it felt.

“Don’t hold back,” you whispered. “I want to feel everything.”

And that broke something loose in him.

Frank began to move — slow at first, grinding into you with those deep, intentional thrusts that made your body sing.

You gasped, back arching, your soft stomach pressing into his as your fingers clawed down his back.

And his face was right there the whole time. Mouth parted. Brows drawn in concentration. Eyes locked on yours like he didn’t dare blink.

Your legs locked around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your body moving with his, all softness and heat and control. Every part of you welcomed him. Every inch made him fall. The slap of skin, the stuttered breath, the slick sound of him driving into you again and again was everything.

Frank’s hands slid under the curve of your back, dragging you up against him like he couldn’t get close enough. His hips snapped forward again and again, deeper, harder. “You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he groaned against your jaw. “You feel like—fuck—like you were made for me.”

“Then take me,” you cried, voice ragged. “I’m yours.  Just don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. He drove into you with everything he had left, mouth trailing down your throat, across your shoulder, anywhere his lips could reach. The tension was unbearable, the way your bodies fit, your weight beneath him, the softness cradling every thrust. He was so close. His rhythm faltered. He stuttered in your arms.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the stubble at the corner of his mouth. “Let go, Frank,” you whispered. “I want to watch you.”

And that was it. He snapped. His hips jerked, a low, broken groan tearing from his throat as he came hard, face buried in your neck, body shaking above you.

You followed right after,  tightening around him, dragging your nails down his back as your cry filled the space between you, raw and wrecked and so fucking real. When the tremors faded,  when all that was left was your breath and the thud of his heart against yours, Frank didn’t move. He stayed inside you, chest pressed to your full breasts, body still tangled with yours like he couldn’t bear to let go. One hand slipped into your hair. The other rested over your heart like he couldn’t believe it was still beating.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me.” he rasped, utterly spent.

You smiled against his cheek, soft and proud, brushing your lips over the sweat-damp skin there.

“Good,” you whispered. “Maybe now I can put you back together.”

His body was still shaking. Not from exertion and not from pain, but from the kind of release that stripped him bare and left no armor, no weapons, just Frank. Just a man coming undone in the arms of someone who held him like he was more than the violence behind his name.

You were still beneath him, legs loose around his waist, your complete, soft body molding to his like you were made to hold him this way. One of your hands rested at the nape of his neck, fingers slipping through sweat-damp hair. The other traced slow, lazy circles into his broad back, grounding him.

Neither of you spoke.

Frank’s face stayed tucked against your shoulder, the bridge of his nose brushing your throat, his lips ghosting your collarbone every time he exhaled.

You didn’t rush him. You just let him exist, let him feel.

And when he finally shifted, just enough to roll onto his side and bring you with him, he moved slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to let go of a single inch of you.

Your soft curves pressed into his chest, your thighs resting across his own, belly warm against him. He wrapped a thick arm around your middle and settled one wide, calloused hand along the curve of your spine,  his fingers spreading across your back like he needed the contact to breathe.

He held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world. His voice came quiet, rough, uncertain.

“…Don’t usually do this.”

You smiled into his chest, your cheek pillowing against his shoulder’s slope.

“You don’t say.”

He let out a breath, dry and rasping, half-laugh, half-weariness.

“I mean the… stayin’. The—after.”

You tilted your face up, brushing your fingers gently along the stubble on his jaw, your soft body still folded perfectly against his. “I know.”

He was quiet for a long time. “You ain’t like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I should hope not,” you murmured, voice a gentle tease. “I’ve been walking this world for a very long time.”

Frank’s eyes opened, and he looked at you like you weren’t just someone in his arms but someone who had found something in him that even he had forgotten was still there.

“…Why me?”

You let your hand slide up, resting over the steady thrum of his heart. “Because when death reached for you,” you whispered, “you told it to fuck off.”

That pulled a laugh from him; it was hoarse and real, the kind that hit deep and warm. He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead without thinking. “And here I thought I was subtle.”

You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and sure, then rested your forehead on his. “You burn so bright, Frank Castle. Even when you’re ready to fall apart.”

He didn’t answer. He pulled you tighter, one arm looping around your soft body, the other curling into your hair like he couldn’t let go.

And slowly, Frank Castle slept for the first time in longer than he could remember.

No tremors. No gasps in the dark. No blood-soaked dreams clawing their way up his throat. Just real, deep, unbroken sleep.

You let your palm hover over his side where the old wound used to throb in his sleep and felt only warmth. Only peace.

He’d never know what you’d taken from him. But you knew. And you’d do it again.

As quietly as you came, you stepped through the veil, the spectral realm folding open like silk. When the world reformed around you, you stood in the shadows of his hideout, a dark, cold, hidden room.

You laid him down gently, careful not to stir him, his body still heavy with sleep. A comforter pulled up to his waist. The scar on his shoulder is now smooth. The tension in his brow was gone.

You stood there for a long moment. Watching, Listening.

You didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you knew what this was, What you were. He was meant to live. And you… You weren’t meant to stay.

You leaned down, your hair spilling forward, brushing his cheek as you pressed a soft, slow kiss to his lips. His breath caught just slightly, but he didn’t wake.

“Try not to get yourself killed. Not so soon, anyway.” You touched his face once more, just a brush of fingers down his jaw. 

You were gone before the sun rose.

Frank didn’t know your name. But he’d spend the rest of his life trying to find it, to find you.

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 17

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Series Masterlist<3

Summary: Standing before your attackers, Homelander at your side, a thought settles in your mind—maybe everything truly does happen for a reason.

Warnings: sexual assault trauma/descriptions, violence, possessive behavior, yandere, controlling relationships, language, violence, gore

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Homelander has always been aware of your strength, admiring the effortless confidence with which you navigate the world. However, even he must admit—he hadn’t realized the depth of your power until now.

As someone more machine than man, he’s never truly grasped that real strength isn’t just about power. It’s something far deeper—something woven into the very soul of a person. And when you rise from your suffering—raw, scarred, unshaken—he sees it clearly: you are strength itself.

He catches your eye, and in that instant, all he wants is to take you away. To burn this place to the fucking ground. To rip them apart one by one. To carry you somewhere far, somewhere untouched, where no one can ever hurt you again.

But he doesn’t move. Because he knows—this is your fight to finish. Your chapter to close.

And for someone who has never truly been human, maybe the most human thing he can do now… is simply stay.

“I remember everything.”

The silence hangs heavy in the room, thick with unspoken truths and uneasy tension. Their guilty expressions telling you everything—you have them trapped, and they know it. They know you’re right.

But Jimmy? He isn’t going to admit it. Not now, not ever. Because deep down, he still doesn’t believe he did anything wrong. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out, other girls have suffered because of one judge’s reckless ruling—because of a decision made in a room just like this one.

“It seems like your memory is still confused,” Jimmy sneers, still clinging to that last, fraying thread of arrogance. His eyes gleam with something dark, something twisted, as he leans in just enough to make his presence suffocating. “Because all I remember is how wet you were.”

Then, with a sharp breath and a flick of his chin, he spits on the ground. His contempt dripping from his lips just as easily as the venom in his words.

Homelander’s eyes flick to the spot where Jimmy’s spit hit the floor, then slowly back to Jimmy. His expression doesn’t shift—not at first. But the air around him does. A sharp, suffocating pressure, thick enough to choke on. Then, in an instant, he moves.

Jimmy barely has time to blink before Homelander grabs him by the throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighs nothing. The boy’s arrogance vanishes, replaced with frantic clawing at the vice around his neck. His legs kick uselessly in the air.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Homelander’s fingers press in, squeezing, crushing, as if testing just how much pressure it’ll take to snap Jimmy’s throat like a twig.

“Didn’t your mother wash your mouth out with soap? No? Shame. Guess I’ll have to do it for her!”

Jimmy lets out a strangled gasp, his hands clawing desperately at Homelander’s wrist. The air leaves his lungs in short, frantic bursts. His body twitching as panic set in. Homelander loves watching him struggle, a small smirk curling at his lips. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sends Jimmy crashing to the floor like discarded garbage. He lands hard, coughing and wheezing, hands clutching at his bruised throat.

Homelander crouches down beside him, resting his elbow on his knee. His piercing gaze locked onto Jimmy’s crumpled form.

“Tell me, Jimmy,” he continues, his voice low, taunting. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Or do you just force it onto girls who are too far gone to fight back?”

Jimmy tries to speak, but only a strangled breath escapes.

Homelander chuckles. “That’s what I thought.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he stands, straightening his suit as if nothing happened. The other boys shake uncontrollably with fear. He lets out a slow, calm breath. Rolling his shoulders back as if shaking off the impulse to do more. Then, his gaze flickers back to you. And just like that? Nothing else matters.. Not the way he controlled you, not the way he could be cruel, not even the way he had hurt you—how he could hurt you. You don’t care it had only been a few weeks, that logic and reason screamed at you to run. You have spent so much time questioning life—wondering if there’s any meaning to the chaos, the suffering. But right now, looking at him? You have your answer. He is the meaning. He’s yours.

And maybe, just maybe, all the pain, all the heartbreak, all the moments that nearly broke you—maybe they led you here. Because in this moment, with him, you can feel it. Purpose. And if the pain was the price of finding him—it was all worth it.

No one has ever come close to caring for you like this. No one has ever protected you, fought for you—not like he has. Not in ways that burned, not in ways that stayed. And even if his love isn’t gentle, even if it isn’t what you had imagined, it was there. Unshakable. Unyielding. This love was once in a lifetime.

You turn, stepping closer to him, your heart pounding. The weight of every eye in the room—your attackers, watching in stunned silence—doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters. You reach for him, your hands cradling his face, fingers pressing into his cheeks. You look at him—really look at him—with something raw, something reverent. Admiration. Worship.

And he feels it.

A shudder runs through him, barely perceptible, but you can see it. You know this is what he craves. The devotion. The need. And right now, in this moment, you’re willing to give it.

“Homelander… thank you.”

You press your head against his chest. He hesitates before his fingers curl into your hair—he’s still learning how to love, still figuring out how to give affection in a way that isn’t about control.

“I want you to finish it.”

Homelander’s fingers twitch against your scalp. “You want me to kill them?”

“I know how badly you want to—and you know that’s just… not me. I can’t do it.”

Homelander exhales, eyes flickering across your face, searching.

“Go outside. You don’t need to see this.”

“I don’t have to go outside—”

“Please,” he interrupts, his tone firm but not unkind. “Please wait for me outside.”

You hold his gaze, then slowly lift your hand, pressing it against his chest. His heart beat strong beneath your palm, steady but quick.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But please know—nothing you do will ever change the way I feel about you.”

Hearing those words, something in him cracks wide open.

“Nothing you do will ever change the way I feel about you.”

He hears you. Really hears you.

It slices through him in a way nothing else ever has. Nothing else ever could. Nothing else ever will. Affection has always been foreign to him. Devotion without conditions? Unheard of.

And yet—here you are.

Wanting him despite it all.

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

tags: @raginginkedslut @lilyalone @helreyy

[betweenstorms]

Chapter 2/1 of Skin Of Thunder Veins Of Longing (previous chapter) (next chapter) (all SOT chapters) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“It appeared suddenly, like veins of longing threaded through the stillness of flesh, pulsing with a pitiful ache—woven into the very fabric of our creation.”

The C-130 touched down at the base with a thud that signalled an end to another mission. Ten gruelling days in Urzikstan, deep in hostile territory, and Task Force 141 had completed their objectives. As the ramp lowered, the team disembarked, thick boots hitting the tarmac with the weight of exhaustion dragging them down.

Dust from the mission still clung to their gear, faces lined with dirt, sweat and fatigue, but the mission was done, it was a success, and that’s all that mattered.

Ghost, as always, was the first to move, already sorting through the next steps in his mind. He moved with a focused efficiency, his black skull balaclava in place. His gear felt heavier than usual, but years of experience had taught him to power through. The rest of the team spread out, unloading their equipment, mentally shifting back into routine, ready for the debriefing.

The silence among them was the kind that followed a hard-earned victory, one where words weren’t necessary.

As they made their way across the hangar, Ghost’s eyes instinctively scanned the area—habit more than anything. That’s when he spotted you. Off to the side, near a group of high-ranking officers, a tablet in hand, following them like a lost puppy. Your peach-coloured blouse stood out sharply against the muted backdrop of the hangar. It looked ridiculous. It clashed with everything around you—your trousers, the hard edges of military machinery, and the sea of camo uniforms that surrounded you.

Ghost's jaw tightened.

He couldn’t help but think how childish you appeared, walking through the hangar like you didn’t notice the obvious contrast. But something held him there, eyes lingering on the sight of you longer than he intended. For some reason, he couldn’t imagine you wearing anything else. That ugly blouse, as absurd as it was, seemed to capture something about you, somehow representing the core of your entire being.

It was so… you.

Ghost couldn’t explain it, not even to himself.

As horrible as it was to admit, you had become something he couldn’t ignore anymore. Your awkwardness, your smile, the way your accent curled around words like you were cautious of each one—each detail was a quiet force, drawing him in like a current ready to pull him into you. It wasn’t the kind of attraction that struck like lightning; it was more like the slow pull of the tide, eroding his edges without him noticing until it was too late. There was no violence in it, no urgency. It was slow and soft, a lull that unsettled him more than any battle he had ever faced.

You moved through the world as though you were sorry for it, like even your presence was an apology. It woke something primal in him, something dark, deep and raw. It wasn’t just the instinct to protect, though that was there, lingering beneath the surface like a low hum. It was more. Much more. It was the urge to claim, to conquer, to pull you into the orbit of his world, to keep you there where no one else could touch you. The thought nagged at him, and despite himself, he found it hard to look away.

Soap’s voice cut in suddenly, pulling him back to the present.

“Oi, Lt.,” he murmured, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Didn’t think peach was your colour.”

Ghost tore his eyes away from you and your hideous blouse, feeling the familiar prickle of irritation at Soap's comment. He straightened, his jaw tightening beneath the balaclava.

“Shut it, Johnny,” he said, his voice low and edged with a warning. He wasn’t in the mood for Soap’s antics, not after ten days of dirt, sweat, and blood.

But Soap, being Soap, couldn’t resist pushing him a little further. “Aye, just sayin’. If you’re gonna stare, try to make it less obvious, eh?”

Ghost shot the sergeant with a sharp glare from beneath the balaclava, the cold intensity in his eyes enough to make most men think twice. But Soap wasn’t most men. He had a knack for pushing boundaries, especially with Ghost. However, before he could bite back, Price’s voice cut through the hangar, pulling their focus.

“Debrief in ten, lads,” their captain called out, his voice gravelly but commanding enough to halt the teasing. “Sort your gear, then meet me in the briefing room. Let’s not drag our feet.”

Soap backed off with a wicked smirk, but not without a parting comment. “Aye, Cap’n, but someone’s gotta remind Ghost to look past the paperwork.”

Ghost gave the Sctosman another look that could have frozen the blood of lesser men, but he said nothing, choosing instead to focus on the routine tasks of unloading. He was used to the grind, to the weight of exhaustion, but the banter was an unnecessary addition to his already worn-down nerves. He wasn’t in the mood for this, not after ten days in the heat, crawling through dust and gunfire.

Ghost continued unloading his gear, going through the motions with mechanical precision, but his mind wasn’t fully in it. Even as he mentally ran through the debrief and the next mission steps, you were there, invading his mind.

Fucking hell, he didn’t want to think about you. He certainly didn’t want to give Soap more fuel for his teasing. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore you, his eyes found you again.

You had moved further down the hangar, still trailing the officers, your attention absorbed by the tablet in your hands. From this distance, you were a splash of colour in a sea of greys and browns. He cursed himself for even glancing your way, knowing full well it would give Soap more reason to run his mouth. But just as he was about to tear his eyes away, you paused, as if sensing his gaze. You glanced over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Then, the eyes of the two of you met.

Ghost froze, caught off guard. He saw it, the faint blush creeping up your cheeks, even from this distance. There was something desirable in the way you hesitated under the weight of his attention, your lips parting slightly in surprise before pulling into a shy smile.

For a brief moment, you held his gaze, and Ghost found himself unable to look away.

He could feel his all too familiar frustration growing, but the urge to look away just wouldn’t come. Instead, he tilted his head slightly to the side, studying you as if trying to understand why you held his eye contact at all. Your lips quirked up in that awkward, bashful way, and then you quickly looked down at your feet, the spell between the two of you broken.

Price’s voice cut through the haze in his mind. 

“Debrief in five, lads. Let’s get it done.”

Ghost responded instinctively, his body snapping back into professional mode.

“Copy that,” he muttered under his breath, his tone low and gruff.

Within a second, it was like nothing had happened.

Like that brief moment with you was just a fleeting thought, something to be dismissed. And yet… it had happened. Something about it had cracked through his normally unshakable exterior, even if just for a heartbeat.

He quickly pushed the thought away, telling himself it was just exhaustion.

Ten bloody days in that goddamn scorching heat, running solely on adrenaline, was bound to mess with his head. Yes, that had to be it. He was knackered. That was the only reason he found it hard to focus, why his gaze kept slipping back to you, to someone who had no place in his thoughts. The idea of wanting was so foreign, so distant from him now that it should’ve turned to dust long before it reached his heart.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t attraction.

It couldn’t be.

He had lived in the barren space between men and monsters for too long, and those delicate things, like interest, desire, weakness, had learned to fear him, as if even the essence of such feelings knew better than to get too close to him. They withered before they could touch him, crumbling in the cold, like frostbitten petals beneath his boot. This quiet pull, this soft ache beneath the surface—he refused to give it a name. It was nothing.

It had to be nothing.

With that firmly settled in his mind, Ghost fell into line with the rest of the team, his body moving on autopilot as they left the hangar behind. The feeling of routine steadied him, and as they made their way toward the debrief room, he felt himself relax, if only slightly. He was already counting down the minutes until he could get out of there, have a smoke, and get his head straight. He definitely craved one. That much was certain.

“In the miserable bloom of longing, we learn that not everything grows in the light.”

Skin of Thunder Chapters

[xx-dinah-writing-xx]

Hands grabbing my throat

Daemon Targaryen x niece!Targaryen reader angst

————

The argument had begun with nothing more than an insult—a scathing comment from Daemon that cut her sharper than any blade. She wasn’t even sure how it had started anymore, the words between them blurring into shouts and accusations, the fire behind his eyes burning hotter with every breath.

“You think you’re so clever, so untouchable,” Daemon hissed, pacing in front of her like a predator circling prey. His voice was sharp, a thread of violence woven through every syllable. “But you’re nothing more than a little girl playing at power she doesn’t understand.”

Her chest rose and fell, her pulse pounding in her ears as she glared at him. “And you’re nothing but a man too fragile to accept that the world doesn’t revolve around him!”

Daemon stopped in his tracks, his violet eyes snapping to her with a cold, dangerous intensity. The room felt smaller all of a sudden, the air too thin.

“Say that again,” he growled.

She could have stopped. She could have backed down. But her temper flared hot in her veins, and her pride wouldn’t allow it. “You heard me,” she spat, her voice trembling despite her bravado. “You cannot stand that I don’t bow to your every word like the rest of the court. Is your masculine ego really so fragile, uncle?”

Something in him snapped. Daemon was on her in seconds, the space between them obliterated as he grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer until there was nothing but fire and fury between them. She gasped, her pulse spiking as she tried to pull back, but his grip was unrelenting.

“You little bitch,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous, so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin. “If I had known you would grow into such a venomous creature, I would’ve fucked Rhaenyra instead.”

The words hit her like a slap. Her chest tightened, the air fleeing her lungs as his insult dug into her like a dagger.

Her lips parted before she could stop herself, her voice trembling but full of venom. “And yet here you are, uncle. Still a niece-fucker.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Daemon’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing into something dark and unreadable. For a long, excruciating moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared at her, his silence heavier than his anger.

“You—” His voice came soft, almost a whisper, but she knew better than to mistake it for gentleness. “You truly have no idea what you’re doing.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, the earlier heat of her rage now replaced with something cold and terrible. She opened her mouth to respond, but Daemon cut her off, his hand releasing her wrist only to slam into the wall beside her head with a resounding crack. She flinched, her breath hitching as she stared up at him, her body rigid with fear.

“I have killed men for less than the insults you fling so carelessly,” he said, his tone eerily calm now. “Do you know that? Do you understand what it is you’ve provoked?”

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered, though her voice shook as her body betrayed her.

Daemon’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl, his gaze unrelenting. “Don’t be so sure.”

Her back pressed harder against the stone wall, as if the cold might save her from the fire raging in him. He was too close, too unhinged, his fury and obsession swirling into something she couldn’t quite define. She had wanted this—wanted him.But now, standing in the eye of his storm, she realized how dangerous her game had been.

“You’re a monster,” she whispered, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “You think you can control everything—me, Rhaenyra, this family—but you can’t.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed at the name, his jaw tightening. “Careful,” he warned, his voice like ice.

“No,” she pushed, though her voice was small. “You hate not being in control. You’re pathetic.”

His hand came to her chin suddenly, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to look at him. The touch wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either. “You play at strength,” Daemon murmured, his eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her feel stripped bare. “But look at you now. Trembling like a leaf.”

She was trembling. Fear clawed its way up her spine, making her breath shaky, her skin cold. And yet beneath it all—beneath the terror and anger—there was still something else. Some pull she couldn’t name.

Her voice broke when she finally spoke. “You frighten me.”

Daemon’s hand fell away, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something darker still. He took a step back, though the space between them still felt suffocating.

“Good,” he said finally, his voice soft but sharp. “Perhaps now you’ll remember not to tempt fate.”

She sagged against the wall when he turned his back to her, her body still trembling, her breath ragged. She watched him move toward the door, his steps slow and deliberate, as though he were willing himself to leave.

“You’re still pathetic,” she whispered, though the words were quiet, more for herself than him.

Daemon paused at the door, his hand on the frame. “And you are still mine, whether you’ll admit it or not.”

She watched him leave, her heart thudding painfully in her chest as she slumped to the floor, pressing her palms against the cold stone.

For all the fire and rage, for all the fear he inspired in her, she could not deny the truth she’d known all along: she still wanted him.

But now she realized she might not survive him.

[alwaysaglader]

A HEART WIRED FOR WAR (Ch. 2)

(BUCKY BARNES X READER + OTHER AVENGERS)

Chapter 2 - My Mind & Me

(Gentle Note: This chapter contains sensitive themes of trauma, conditioning, and emotional recovery)

At first, it was silence.

After Hydra fell, Y/N was pulled from the ruins of an underground lab — restrained, barely conscious, half-feral, her vitals fluctuating between superhuman and dangerously unstable. Even sedated, her body didn’t know whether to shut down or fight. 

She was brought to the Avengers Compound under heavy medical supervision. 

She was unconscious for the first two weeks.

When she finally woke, it was slow. Disoriented. Quiet.

Steve was the one who explained what had happened—gently, patiently—filling in the timeline she didn’t remember. He told her where she was, that Hydra had fallen, that she was safe now.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t speak. Didn’t resist when they moved her, but she flinched at certain sounds—boots on hard floors, the buzz of overhead lights, the mechanical hiss of an automatic door. Her eyes tracked movement, always alert, but never met anyone’s directly. 

But she was watching.

Even sedated, even weak, her mind was working. Calculating. Scanning. She noticed the rhythms of conversation, the patterns of their behaviour. She was cataloguing it all.

Because Hydra had trained her to recognise patterns—and she was using that training to get herself out.

AWARENESS

It started with body sensations.

The tremors before someone entered the room. Cold sweats when a certain tone played over the intercom. The instinct to dissociate when a male voice barked a command—even if it was just someone saying her name too loud.

Y/N noticed all of it.

She’d been trained in trauma before Hydra ever got their hands on her. As a psychiatrist, she knew how the brain protected itself. She knew how trauma loops worked. She knew what conditioning looked like. She had helped others through it.

Now, she was applying that knowledge to herself.

She wrote it all down. Simple phrases, repeated over and over:

“My name is Y/N”

“I am safe now.”

“The pain is a memory, not a command.”

She scribbled them on the backs of med charts, napkins, the margins of old files. Anything she could get her hands on. She hid them in drawers, taped them under her bed, stuffed them into her shoes.

So that when the dissociation crept in, she had something to find.

Something that told her: You’re not there anymore".

It didn’t stop the fear—but it gave her a thread to follow back to herself.

She began to recognise the physical cues—how her hands trembled at certain tones, how her pulse spiked at particular syllables. Hydra had wired her body to react before her brain even caught up. To freeze. To submit without choice.  

But she had studied this. She had trained for this. In another life, she had helped soldiers unlearn violence. Now she would help herself unlearn obedience.

REVERSAL 

She began to disarm the triggers.

Hydra had used repetition, sounds, scents, and scripts to break her down. And pain. Physical torture, layered into routine until her body learned to flinch before her mind even caught up.

But the hardest part was the words.

Trigger phrases, spoken in cold monotone, had been woven into her conditioning. They weren’t used to make her attack—but to make her obey. To still her voice. To freeze her body. To strip away her will without leaving a mark. Obedience on command.

She knew the method. Now she was flipping it.

Every night, she exposed herself to one of the cues that used to activate her—on her terms. She played tones similar to the ones Hydra used. Read fragments of the old command scripts —edited and controlled — just enough to face them without unraveling. Then stared at her reflection in the mirror, repeating aloud:"That was then. This is now. I am the one in control".

Some nights it worked. Some nights she collapsed into panic, shaking on the floor until her body came back to her. But every time she got back up, she reprogrammed her nervous system.

She didn’t avoid the physical triggers either.

The restraint pressure. The muscle memory. The phantom aches from old injuries. She recreated them, safely and in small increments—tight wraps around her wrists to mimic the cuffs, brief cold exposure, body-weight holds that once sent her spiralling. Then she grounded herself through it. Breathed through it. Interrupted the fear before it could loop.

And eventually, she recorded the trigger phrases.

Not the original voice. Not the same tone. She read them herself, clinically, like a case study. She listened in short bursts while tracking her breath, saying her name, keeping her hands still. Over and over. 

If repetition had been used to condition her, she would use it to reclaim herself.

She used her knowledge as a psychiatrist to reverse the damage: retraining the mind, memory integration, exposure therapy. If Hydra was a virus, she was the cure.

She started designing her own counter-conditioning.

The quiet weight of the warm mug in her hands—heat without threat, comfort without condition. The soft scent of jasmine from the sachet tucked in her pocket, chosen for calm, not control. And the gentle pull of the lanyard around her neck—her new ID badge, given to her the day she remembered her name. It wasn't for access. It was a reminder of who she used to be, back when she worked with trauma patients instead of being one.

She created a routine.

Wake up. Read the notes. Say her name out loud. Inhale the scent of jasmine. Feel the warmth of the mug in her hands. Acknowledge the weight of the badge. 

If her body learned fear through repetition, it could learn safety the same way.

OWNERSHIP

Eventually, she requested to be alone in a soundproof room. Bruce was hesitant, but she was clear: “I need to hear it and not break.” He agreed to trust her instincts. 

In the quiet, she played back old Hydra audio logs that had been recovered. She made herself listen. The original voice. The original tone. 

And when the trigger words came - those same syllables that had once activated her instantly — she didn’t move.

Her pulse jumped. Her hands shook. For a second, the world tilted.

But she grounded herself. Said her name out loud. Read from one of the notes she’d brought with her.

“This is a memory. Not a command.”

No blackout. No dissociation. No loss of time.

Just her. Awake. Aware.

That was the moment. The pivot point. She had broken the loop. The conditioning was a machine—and she had shut it down from the inside.

INTEGRATION 

The flashbacks didn’t stop. The nightmares didn’t magically go away.

Sleep wasn’t safe. Not for a long time. 

She’d wake up gasping, heart racing, fists clenched around sheets like restraints. Sometimes she couldn’t remember the dream—just the cold sweat and the instinct to fight. Other times, the scenes played out in vivid, unbearable detail.

There was no peace, even when her eyes were closed.

But she stopped running from it.

She began treating sleep like exposure—preparing for it like she did everything else. When the nightmares came, she started talking back to them. Repeating her grounding phrases even half-asleep, clinging to her name like a lifeline.

Some nights, she still woke up trembling.

But she didn’t avoid it. Didn’t push it away.

She talked to herself out loud when it got bad. Sat through the worst ones instead of shutting them down. Named what she was feeling. Brought it into language.

"This is fear. Not control." "This is memory. Not command."

One night, staring at her reflection, she said, “I remember the cold. I remember what they were turning me into. But I also remember who I was before.”

She wasn’t trying to forget anymore.

She was trying to include it. Make it part of her story, instead of the whole thing.

THEY WITNESSED IT. SHE DID IT. 

At first, they were cautious—unsure of how much she remembered, or what Hydra had buried in her. But they never looked at her like a threat. 

They gave her space but stayed close. 

From the moment she arrived—unconscious and barely stable—and in every day that followed, they treated her with quiet patience and steady respect. Like someone who hadn’t been written off.

Bruce took the lead—not just as a doctor, but as someone who knew what it meant to carry too much in your head. He checked her vitals like clockwork, monitored her progress, and always knocked before entering. He never hovered, but his quiet presence became something constant.

Whenever she asked to review her own brain scans, he handed them over without question. No lectures. No sugarcoating. Just data and trust—grounding her, not with sedation, but with science and calm.

He never treated her like a subject.

It was the first time she’d been in the hands of a scientist who didn’t hurt her, rush her, or tear her apart to understand her.

He offered the stillness she needed to untangle what Hydra tried to bury.

Natasha never pried, but she was always nearby. She showed up with sandwiches, and left quiet encouragement in unexpected places - a new notebook when the old one started filling up, noise-canceling headphones, a post-it on the mirror: “You’re doing better than you think.” 

As Y/N slowly settled into letting people close, Natasha got into the habit of braiding her hair - quick, practised fingers moving without fuss while talking about anything but the past.  It wasn't loud or emotional. It was steady. Protective. 

Sam didn’t push. He sat with her when it looked like she needed company - steady, present, never asking more than she was ready to give. He talked about flying, music, Steve’s terrible cooking—and eventually, about the soldiers he used to work with and the shared understanding of what people carried after combat. 

Bit by bit, Sam started catching her up on the world—new music, movies, weird internet trends, and the everyday chaos of a world that never slowed down.  No pressure. Just a steady, gentle stream of life, filtered through someone who made it feel safe to rejoin.

Clint taught her how to aim again - this time with intention, not instinct. He took her to the range late at night when the compound was quiet, when it felt less like a test and more like a reset.  

He walked her through it patiently, adjusting her stance, handing her different grips, letting her ask questions without judgment. “It’s not about hitting the target,” he told her. “It’s about proving you’re the one pulling the trigger now.”

He didn’t say much beyond that—but he kept showing up, always with a second set of earplugs and a quiet kind of watchfulness that made her feel like someone had her six.

Tony, in his own way, gave her access to control. He didn’t offer pep talks or check in the way the others did—he offered tech. “You don’t need permission to feel safe,” he told her. “You just need the right tools”.

He never asked what Hydra did to her. Never treated her like a problem to be solved. He just started fixing what he could reach. Every now and then, a random piece of tech would show up in her room: a portable white noise device, a motion-triggered nightlight labeled “Stark-grade” or she’d find a coded reminder on her screen added overnight that read: “You’re not a system. You’re a person”.

She never brought it up. He never admitted it. But for someone who acted like feelings were an inconvenience, Tony made sure she never had to fight for autonomy again.

Thor wasn’t around as often, but when he was, he made his presence known—in the gentlest way possible. He didn’t pretend to understand everything she’d been through, but he didn’t treat her like she was fragile either. “You are still here,” he said once, simply. “That means they did not win.”

He brought her Asgardian tea that tasted like starlight and citrus, told her wild stories of realms she couldn’t could picture. He didn’t ask questions, but he offered strength—sometimes through a ridiculous tale, sometimes through quiet, steady company.

One day, he handed her a small, rune-etched coin. “From my mother’s shrine,” he said. “She told me to carry it when I forgot who I was. Perhaps it will remind you—you are not lost. Only on your way back.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like healing was a journey he believed she would finish, without question.

And then there was Steve.

Steve never missed a day.

He showed up before every sunrise, with a hot cocoa in hand, knowing she found comfort in the warmth to start the day. She never told him that, but he noticed. He was observant like that.

The first time he handed it to her, he said, “Figured you’re more cocoa than caffeine,” then shrugged like it wasn’t the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for her in years.

He was the first one she let sit beside her without flinching.

It wasn’t a conscious choice, not at first. He just knew how to be still—how to sit in silence without making it feel heavy or expectant.

He never asked, “How are you feeling?”. Never made her explain herself. He just sat across from her while she scribbled grounding phrases into her notebook, ran breathing drills, or traced over the scars on her hands like she was mapping herself back together.

Sometimes they trained. Sometimes they walked laps around the compound, trading a few words. Sometimes they didn’t say anything at all. In the early days, she didn’t speak much. Just listened, nodded, kept pace. Steve never filled the silence unless she wanted him to—but he never left either. He showed up anyway. 

And when the words started coming—slowly, carefully—he never looked surprised. Just listened like he’d been waiting the whole time.

Every day she unlearned something. Every day she rewired another piece. Steve knew what that took. He knew it better than anyone.

They were both soldiers, just from different wars. But they understood the aftermath. The rewiring. The slow process of turning survival into living.

One early morning, they sat on the balcony watching the sun rise over the trees. She was quiet for a long time before saying, “I think the worst part wasn’t what they did. It was that they made me forget I used to help people.”

Steve didn’t hesitate. “You’re still helping. You just started with yourself this time.”

Y/N didn’t respond. Just sipped her cocoa and let the words settle. 

He looked at her—not like a mission, not like someone broken, but like he always did: like a soldier finding her footing again. Like someone who’d been through the fire and chose to walk out anyway.

The silence lingered, warm and quiet.

Then Steve let out a low breath, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know… for what it’s worth, the version of you sitting here drinks cocoa, kicked my ass in training, disarmed me in under a minute, and walked off with my shield like she owned it”.

Y/N raised an eyebrow over her mug. “You left yourself open.”

Steve shrugged, grinning. “Sure. That’s what we’re going with.”

She didn’t smile, exactly—but the corners of her mouth lifted just enough to count.

And the shield? She hadn’t given it back right away. Just stood there, holding it for a few extra seconds like it belonged in her hands. Neither of them said anything about it then.

They didn’t need to.

They were both soldiers, in different ways. That was enough.

THE TEST

An agent said one of her trigger phrases by accident.

They were reading from an old Hydra file—flat, procedural, unaware of what the words could still do.

It caught her off guard.

She heard it.

Her body froze—just for half a second. Muscles locked. Pulse jumped.

There was a flicker of static behind her eyes, like a memory trying to take control.

But then… nothing.

No blackout. No pull to obey. No override pressing down on her system.

She didn’t reach for the badge. Didn’t focus on jasmine or search for a grounding phrase.

She didn’t need to.

She just breathed.

And for the first time, she realised—she was the anchor now.

Then, steady as ever, she said the words:

“That doesn’t work on me anymore.”

She didn’t know it yet, but soon she’d be standing across from someone else Hydra had broken—and she’d be the one to help him say those same words.

--

Chapter 3 coming soon 

[scuttlingcrab]

So it's pretty obvious that Raphael would be a massive fan of luxury items. How would he react to Tav being able to make certain luxury items from scratch (such as lotions, massage oils, perfumes, soaps, etc.) and is really freaking good at it.

Maybe he learns this little fact about Tav when he receives a bundle of custom luxury items from one of his warlocks and it has a note which says, "To: Raphael. From: The mouse. A 'thank you' for the food." (assuming Tav filled a plate of food during the group's first encounter with the fiend)

Thank you for this awesome prompt. I took a liberty with this one, wanted to try something that maybe a writer hasn’t done before re: what luxury item Tav would make Raphael. I also referenced a few characters from my other stories. Marin, the composer from A Night at the Symphony and Dolofina, the warlock, from A Warlock is Born. I couldn’t resist! Hope you enjoy! And send on the next prompt if you haven’t already! :)

Summary: Raphael receives an unexpected gift from Tav.

Warnings: Mild violence/torture

––

A Perfect Fit 

(Image via violadesdragons)

The screams were like music to Raphael’s ears.

The torment that resonated from each shriek, every wail that echoed into his House of Hope, if directed well, could create a symphony that would feed Raphael for weeks. A melody almost as magnificent as Marin’s concertos. Raphael mastered what buttons to push, what minute threads to pull, to achieve perfection.

Every human was an instrument in their own right. They had a unique cord, an unsung talent, that Raphael knew how to excavate and mould. He had spent millennia fiddling with mortals, experimenting with different techniques to inflict pain or even less conspicuous means to really persecute his poor unfortunate pets. 

Nevertheless, Raphael despised it all. Torturing these creatures was so below his station, another idle role he had to play to keep up appearances in this never-ending farce to reach his objective, to reclaim the Crown of Karsus. He longed to see the players of his saga, his glorious ascension, leave the dark confines of the wings and enter the proscenium for all the planes to see.

Raphael listlessly looked up towards his current unfinished task, a withered mortal impaled on rusted spikes. No matter how hard Raphael stared at this rat, how tirelessly he worked his mind to calculate new methods to inflict agony, all Raphael could do was muster an apathetic groan in response. 

He was almost relieved to hear footsteps approaching the dungeon, identifying the bouncy gait of one of his warlocks almost immediately. Dolofina. 

Raphael smiled to himself, letting out a shallow breath as the doors slowly creaked open. He snapped his fingers, and another spike appeared, slowly lifting to meet the others.

“I do hope you have some interesting news for me. And think hard on your answer, or else I might swap you out with poor Boris.” 

Raphael turned to greet Dolofina, the whimpers of the tortured human slowly rising as he approached her. She stared back at him without any emotion, unmoved by the threat. He taught her well.

“Apologies for the intrusion, but a woman was insistent you receive this. She wouldn’t leave Korrilla alone until she confirmed we’d deliver it to you.”

Dolofina lifted the basket in her hands with a sigh, offering it to Raphael. 

“Pah! Which insolent creature is it this time? If it’s that damned–” 

“She only referred to herself as the, and I quote, ‘little mouse.’”

Dolofina seemed perplexed at the name, rolling her eyes as she waited for his response. Raphael’s mouth parted, his eyes instantly becoming more animated at the mention of her.

“Could she be crawling to me already?” So fast, and such a pity. He had been looking forward to a tussle.

Raphael gingerly picked up the basket, holding it in his hands and carefully inspecting every inch as if it was an ancient relic. What a simple little offering, merely a straw woven basket. Its contents were hidden under gold wrapping paper and held together delicately by a red bow.

“Don’t worry, we’ve already inspected it for traps.”

Raphael gave Dolofina a flat stare. 

“Do you think the creature would be so daft?”

Dolofina shrugged.

“I am merely a mortal, what would I know?” 

There was a hint of mischief in Dolofina’s eyes as she smiled back at Raphael, so pleased with herself. He growled, pointing towards the threshold of his dungeon. The skin on his human disguise hissed, verging on transformation. 

“You have overstayed your welcome. And might I remind you, I am your master. I can terminate our agreement whenever I see fit, be it from the smallest lapse in your performance. You know what that means for your future.”

“Yes, master.” Dolofina responded through tight lips. She promptly made her leave, but not without slamming the doors behind her. 

“Must every creature under my employment be so thickheaded?” Raphael whispered, taking a moment to massage the bridge of his nose. 

When Raphael was sure his boiling blood had cooled, he proceeded to focus his attention on the basket, now weighing heavy in his hands. It would’ve been a shame to have accidentally incinerated the gift with his temper, which was nearly uncontrollable in recent months, without even knowing what was inside.

Raphael started with the bow, carefully untying the knot. Once it was removed, he brought it to his nose, slowly taking in its scent. Cloves and roses. Oh how he relished it. Raphael placed the bow in his pocket and removed the wrapping paper. He discovered a small envelope sitting on top of a golden gift box. A sudden jolt of electricity shot through his veins as he opened the letter. 

To: Raphael  From: The Mouse  Thank you for the food. Please accept this gift in exchange for your hospitality. If the measurements are not sufficient, perhaps we can schedule a fitting. You know where to find me.

Raphael snapped his fingers, leaving the letter floating in the air beside him as he continued with the box. His fingers, usually so calm and still, twitched with excitement. 

Raphael gasped, removing a single doublet from the box, its red colour as dark as blood. The silk melted in his hands, the article of clothing sparkling against the roaring flames of the dungeon. Gold and silver markings were intricately embroidered throughout the jacket, infernal designs suiting Raphael’s tastes. The cuffs of the doublet were adorned with devil tails that swished and curled on a constant loop. 

“My, my, the little mouse has been busy indeed.”

And what artistry! It had been ages, no centuries, since his eyes fell on such an alluring piece. Is this what it would feel like once he held the Crown in his hands? 

Raphael snapped his fingers, the doublet now on his person. He sighed, oh it fit him perfectly, as if that creature knew Raphael’s body like the back of her hand. He raised his arms, bowed, did every possible movement that could come to his mind in that instant, and yet could find no imperfections. 

Raphael was a generous devil, perhaps often too generous. He wasn’t opposed to receiving such luxurious gifts on occasion, but it was dangerous to play with his food. He considered for a moment being harsher to his future clients. The little mouse had a long road ahead of her if she was to help Raphael get what he desired. She needed to focus. No more distractions. No more gifts. 

And yet… 

Raphael clapped his hands and a mirror appeared before him. He gave himself a little spin, grinning. It was a suitable doublet. Cursed creature! Perhaps he could make other uses of these tadpoled yet. What was that mortal saying he heard so often? Ah yes, all work, and no play… 

Raphael was pulled from his thoughts at the howls of the tortured mortal, still impaled above him. Raphael’s cheeks burned, he had been sloppy, overlooking that he was not alone.

He angrily snapped his fingers and the mortal combusted. Their screams died with the flames, leaving no signs of their previous existence as the ashes fluttered away. A waste of a soul, Zariel be damned. She’d never even notice it was missing. 

And with that, Raphael stormed out of the dungeon, proudly wearing his new doublet. 

[mikaylathenerd5]

Open Arms + Chapter 5

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Pairing: Roman Reigns x Black Fem OC (Isla Sage Navarro)

Content Warning: The chapters of this story may contain NSFW, profanity, potential violence, age gap, and themes that may be triggering. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Intended for mature audiences only.

Author's Note: Please be aware this is kinda a slow burning romance between Isla and Roman (Joe).

Song Inspo: "Open Arms" by SZA

Word Count: 6.3k

Joe slumped on a locker room bench at the Spectrum Center, black gear stretched tight across his chest, the Undisputed WWE Universal Championship belt heavy beside him, its gold edges dulled under flickering fluorescents, scratched from three years of relentless battles. His phone lay face-down on the bench, Six Flags pics with Isla tucked in the clear case—her shy grin caught mid-laugh under the Ferris wheel’s glow, his smirk softened by the sticky haze of cotton candy, her panda prize clutched in his hands, a fragile thread woven from Atlanta’s fleeting peace. Hair yanked back in a tight bun, he rubbed his hands slow, calluses rasping against each other, dark eyes fixed on the chipped concrete floor, stained with years of boots and sweat. The belt’s weight bore into him—three years of wars, all he had left after Lena walked out two summers ago, her silence a ghost haunting the empty corners of his apartment, a tether he’d bleed to keep from snapping.

Isla lingered near the door, headset dangling loose around her neck, clipboard clutched tight against her ribs, sneakers scuffing faintly against the floor as she shifted her weight, her breath shallow in the thick air laced with leather, sweat, and the faint edge of his sandalwood cologne. Joe’s text—“Locker room. Now.”—had pinged her phone an hour ago, still humming in her chest, a tangled pulse of nerves and a quiet thrill she couldn’t shake. She watched him, his broad shoulders hunched under an invisible load, sweat beading on his neck from a pre-show gym session, a man carrying more than the gold beside him—Jey’s scripted turn, Kyla’s creeping shadow from Atlanta, a reign balanced on a knife’s edge.

“You holdin’ up, babygirl?” Joe’s voice cut through the stillness, rough and steady, a lifeline tossed across the room as he lifted his head, dark eyes pinning hers with a flicker of warmth piercing the strain, his jaw tight but his gaze softening just for her, a rare crack in the Tribal Chief’s armor.

“I’m good, Joe,” Isla said, her voice snagging on the edge of her nerves, heat creeping up her neck as she gripped the clipboard’s edges, its corners biting into her palms. “I’ll be at the monitors, watchin’ your back like you wanted. Didn’t expect you’d pull me in here first—your space, before the storm hits.”

He stood, slow and deliberate, his bulk filling the room as he crossed to her in measured strides, one hand landing warm and firm on her shoulder, fingers curling gently against her jacket, sending a shiver racing down her spine that she couldn’t hide. “You’re family now, Isla,” he said, voice low and gravelly, thumb brushing her collarbone in a steady, grounding sweep. “Out there, I’m the Chief, belt’s mine to defend—but it’s all I’ve got left after her. Keeps me sane, keeps me fightin’ through the noise. Tonight’s heavy—Jey’s script, Kyla’s mess—need you close, keep me from losin’ it. You in?”

“Always,” she said, softer now, her voice finding its footing as she met his gaze, his trust sinking into her like roots cracking through stone, steadying her trembling hands. “What’d she take from you—Lena? You never talk about it, Joe, and I—I just wanna understand.”

He stiffened, jaw twitching, a shadow crossing his face—Lena’s empty closet flashing in his mind, her last cold glance as she walked out—then softened, eyes darkening with a pain he rarely let surface. “Too much, babygirl,” he said, quieter, raw, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he leaned closer, the weight of it pressing the air between them. “Peace I didn’t know I had ‘til it was gone, time I can’t get back—left me with this—” he nodded at the belt, its gold glinting faintly—“and a whole lotta nothin’ else. She gutted me quiet-like, and I let her. But not you—not what we’ve got here.” His hand slid from her shoulder, brushing hers, then locked tight, rough fingers threading through hers, holding firm as he stepped into her space, his breath brushing her cheek, warm and steady. “Stay with me out there,” he murmured, voice a gravel whisper, holding her gaze with an intensity that made her chest ache, his thumb tracing her knuckles slow, deliberate, a silent vow carved into the touch.

“Yeah,” she breathed, squeezing back, her heart skipping hard—Six Flags flashing vivid in her mind, his deep laugh as he handed her that panda under the arcade’s buzzing lights, her fingers brushing his in that fleeting, electric moment, a memory echoing this one, charged and fragile. “More than okay, Joe—I mean it,” she added, a shy smile breaking through, her pulse racing as his grip tightened, warm and unyielding, his calluses rough against her softer skin.

“Good,” he said, smirking faintly, a flicker of relief softening the strain in his eyes as he squeezed her hand again, his voice dropping lower, softer, a thread of vulnerability woven through it. “You’re my anchor tonight, babygirl—don’t forget that. Jey’s storyline’s twistin’ my head, Kyla’s noise is clawin’ at me, this belt’s ridin’ me hard—but you’re here, and that’s somethin’ I can hold onto, somethin’ real.”

“I won’t forget,” she said, voice trembling but sure, her hand still locked in his, his warmth seeping into her as she stepped closer, needing him to hear it, to feel it. “I’m not goin’ anywhere—not tonight, not ever, if you need me. You’ve got me, Joe, all the way.”

“Need you more than you know,” he said, his smirk fading into something real, unguarded, his eyes searching hers for a beat longer, a crack in the Chief’s stoic shell showing just for her, a glimpse of the man beneath the gold. “Let’s roll then—this night’s gonna bleed out there, and I ain’t facin’ it alone.”

He tugged her gently toward the door, their hands still entwined as they stepped into the hallway, the crew’s pre-show chaos erupting around them—headsets crackling with urgent calls, boots stomping past in a hurried rhythm, voices barking orders over the hum of tension. Joe’s stride cut through the bustle like a blade, steady and unyielding, her smaller fingers nestled in his rough palm, his thumb brushing her knuckles in a steady, absentminded rhythm that kept her grounded. Crew guys darted around, heads down, oblivious to the quiet tether between them, but she felt every brush of his skin, every sidelong glance he shot her—dark eyes steady, a quiet promise flickering in them as they wove through the maze of cables and crates toward gorilla position. The roar of the crowd pulsed faintly through the walls, growing louder as they neared, and he held her hand until the last second, the curtain looming ahead like a black void. He let go with a final, firm squeeze, his fingers lingering near hers as he murmured, “Stay close, babygirl,” before stepping forward, his silhouette swallowed by the shadows and the deafening surge beyond, leaving her skin buzzing where his touch had been.

The Spectrum Center erupted as SmackDown kicked off, Joe’s music slamming through the air, a deep, menacing pulse that shook the stands from floor to rafters. Isla stood at the monitors backstage, headset snug over her ears, clipboard gripped tight in her hands, the crowd’s roar crashing over her like a tidal wave—thousands of signs thrusting high, “Acknowledge Me!” clashing with “Yeet! Yeet!” in a loyalty war thick as the Charlotte heat. A crew guy sidled up, voice low under the din, “Press pass chick’s floatin’ around—got a bad vibe, heads up,” and her pulse kicked up, unease prickling her spine like static on a live wire. Joe strode down the ramp, belt slung over his shoulder, gold catching the blood-red lights slicing through the haze, sweat glistening on his arms from the gym, Jimmy and Solo shadowing him with tight jaws and coiled steps, Heyman scurrying behind, his smirk twitching nervous under the weight of the night.

Joe hit the ring, snatching the mic from Heyman’s sweaty grip with a sharp yank, raising a hand slow and commanding, the crowd’s noise choking off into a tense, electric hush that buzzed in Isla’s bones. “Charlotte,” he growled, voice slicing sharp through the arena, thick with menace that reverberated off the steel rafters, “you’re lookin’ at the Head of the Table. Three years I’ve owned this game—every fight, every scar, every drop of blood I’ve spilled to keep this.” He slapped the belt hard, the smack ringing out like a gunshot, gold glinting under the spotlight as he held it high.

Cheers surged, a wave of sound crashing against the boos clawing back from the upper tiers, the air crackling with division, fans leaping to their feet, fists pumping. “Jey Uso thinks he’s main event now?” Joe snarled, pacing the ring, sweat gleaming on his brow under the harsh lights, his voice turning cold, bitter, each word a fist slamming down. “My little brother—runnin’ wild since we were kids—pins me at Money in the Bank for the story, turns his back in the script? SummerSlam, Tribal Combat—I’ll break him down, snap him in half, make him scream ‘Chief’ ‘til his throat’s hoarse and he’s crawlin’. We built this together—beers, late nights, big plans—now he kneels in that ring, or he’s gone.”

The crowd split wider— “Yeet!” chants surged loud from the east stands, drowned by “Tribal Chief!” roars rolling from the west, signs flashing Jey’s grinning face against Joe’s stoic reign, a war of ink and noise splitting the arena down its spine. “Jimmy, Solo—you hearin’ me?” Joe snapped, stopping mid-ring, glaring at his brothers at ringside, their faces stone-still, eyes unreadable under the flickering lights. “Step outta line in the story, you’re next—don’t test me. Cross me—anybody out there—and you’re ash under my boots. This is my ring, my war—nobody takes it, not Jey, not a damn soul.”

The arena quaked, fans split down the middle, Isla’s grip white-knuckled on her clipboard, her heart pounding as Joe’s fury filled every corner, his presence a force that bent the air itself. He paced once more, mic gripped tight in his fist, sweat dripping off his jaw onto the mat, the belt gleaming like a crown he’d kill to keep, his eyes burning with a fire that promised blood and redemption. A monitor flickered beside her—Kyla, pink jacket stark against the sea of faces, smirking from the third row, phone up, filming Joe like a predator sizing up prey, her lips curled in a taunt Isla could feel across the distance. Dread sank cold and heavy in her gut, a chill racing down her spine as Joe’s music dropped hard, the segment slamming shut, leaving the air raw, charged, and teetering on the edge of chaos.

Backstage churned with frantic energy, crew shouting over the chaos—“Cody’s promo—five minutes!”—as gear clattered against the floor, cables snaked across the concrete, and footsteps echoed off the walls like a drumbeat. Isla stood at gorilla, headset dangling loose around her neck, pulse still hammering from Joe’s fire, his words—“my war, nobody takes it”—ringing in her ears like a battle cry that wouldn’t fade. Bayley stormed up, grabbing Isla’s arm with a quick, firm yank, her eyes blazing with purpose, Naomi flanking her, braids swinging as she scanned the buzzing hallway with a predator’s focus.

“I caught her—pink jacket, third row, smirkin’ like she owns the place,” Bayley snapped, voice cutting through the noise like a whip, her grip tight on Isla’s sleeve as she pulled her forward. “We’re not waitin’ around for her to slink closer—she’s not touchin’ the Chief, not after that X post crap in Atlanta callin’ you out. Let’s move, Isla—now.”

“Outshine her ass, Bayley,” Naomi said, smirking, leaning in close, her voice dropping low and fierce as she matched their pace. “Heard her braggin’ to catering staff ten minutes back—divorce dirt, loud and proud, like she’s got gold. Talent entrance—we hit her there, catch her cold.”

“Corner her,” Bayley growled, a dark grin tugging her lips as she released Isla’s arm, her stance shifting like she was itching to lunge, her boots scuffing the floor with restless energy. “Make her spill whatever poison she’s cookin’—every damn word—then she’s gone. I want her sweatin’, trippin’ over her own lies before security drags her out.”

“We’ve got you, Isla,” Naomi said, her hand landing firm on Isla’s shoulder, steadying the jittery shake in her bones, her grip warm and unyielding like steel wrapped in velvet, her eyes locking with Isla’s for a beat. “She’s been too damn close—press pass or not, she’s done slippin’ through. We’re endin’ this tonight, no question.”

“Let’s end it,” Isla said, her voice settling into steel, Kyla’s “sidepiece” jab from Atlanta burning fresh in her mind, Joe’s hand in hers minutes ago fueling her spine with fire that wouldn’t quit. “She doesn’t get near him—not after everything, not now.”

“Bloodline don’t bend,” Bayley said, nudging her side with an elbow, her eyes glinting with a fierce kind of pride, a smirk flashing quick as she straightened. “She’s about to learn—mess with us, you’re dust on the mat.”

“Talent entrance—she was there twenty minutes ago,” Naomi said, voice low, all business, her hand flexing like she was ready to strike, her gaze darting down the hall as she took the lead. “We move quiet, catch her slippin’—no noise, no heads-up, just us.”

A crew guy shuffled past, tray clattering in his hands, muttering under the noise, “Pink jacket—Kyla—laughin’ it up with Wrestling Insider near catering, thick as thieves.” Isla’s gut twisted tighter, the words sinking like lead as they started walking, steps syncing into a steady, purposeful rhythm through the maze of crates and cables stretching down the corridor. Ahead, a flash of pink darted around a corner—Kyla’s jacket cutting through the shadows like a flare—and her laugh sliced the air, sharp and taunting, a sound that set Isla’s teeth on edge, her fists clenching at her sides until her nails bit into her palms. A crumpled note lay half-tucked by a crate, “Joe” scrawled in red ink, jagged and bold, like a threat scratched in haste, its edges curling from the damp concrete.

The talent entrance stretched narrow and dim, crates stacked high along the walls, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced across the concrete floor. The crowd’s cheers for Jimmy and Solo’s tag match rumbled through, a low pulse vibrating under their feet, syncing with the tension coiling in the air. Kyla leaned against a crate, pink jacket glaring under the flicker, smirking down at her phone, lip curling as she typed fast with one hand, her posture casual but coiled, a snake waiting to strike, her green eyes glinting cold and sharp in the half-light.

“Well, look at this—press princess herself,” Bayley said, stepping up slow, voice dripping venom, arms crossed tight as she planted herself in Kyla’s path, her boots scuffing the floor with intent, her shadow stretching long across the crates. “Takes some guts showin’ up here, Kyla—real guts after you tried draggin’ Isla through the mud on X. What’s the play—more chaos with that pass, huh?”

“Hey, Bayley,” Kyla shot back, cool and cutting, dangling her press pass between two fingers like a taunt, her smirk widening as her gaze flicked up, sharp and mocking, her voice laced with a smug edge. “Just here for the show—all legal, signed and sealed by management. Joe ghosted me—fan signing, ‘22, walked right past me like I was air, ignored my DMs for months after. Guess I wasn’t hot enough then—now he’s gonna pay for it.” Her eyes sliced to Isla, narrowing cruelly as her smirk twisted tighter. “Still sore from Atlanta, huh, wallflower? Clingin’ to him like he’s yours—he’ll remember my name this time, not yours.”

“Cut it,” Isla said, stepping forward, voice hard as steel, clipboard creaking under her grip as she squared up, her pulse hammering loud in her ears, Joe’s hand in hers a burning memory fueling her spine. “You don’t touch Joe—not after everything he’s carried, not after Atlanta. What’s with the note—why’s his name on it? Talk, now.”

“Caught that little breadcrumb, did you?” Kyla laughed, cold and jagged, leaning closer, her breath brushing Isla’s face, her smirk curling into a sneer that bared her teeth. “It’s a gift for your precious Chief—just wait ‘til SummerSlam. I’ve got somethin’ that’ll hit him where it hurts, and you’re way outta your depth, sweetheart—go back to your clipboard and your sad little dreams.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Naomi snapped, lunging forward, slamming Kyla against the crate with a hard thud that echoed off the walls, her hands pinning the pink jacket tight, eyes blazing like coals in the dim light, her voice a growl that vibrated with fury. “Isla’s us—you’re trash, slitherin’ where you don’t belong, and you’re done.”

“Easy, Nao—hold it,” Bayley barked, grabbing Naomi’s arm, pulling her back with a quick jerk, her voice tight with control, glare locked on Kyla like a hawk sizing up prey. “Let her dig her hole deeper—keep talkin’, princess, let’s hear it.”

“I’ve got Lena on tape,” Kyla hissed, smirk twisting wider, brushing off her jacket like the shove was nothing, her tone dropping low and vicious as she leaned forward, green eyes glinting with malice. “Caught her in Tampa—sobby mess, cryin’ about Joe breakin’, fallin’ apart after she left him. SummerSlam, I drop it—his reign’s done, his whole damn myth crumbles. Got more too—divorce papers, whispers he’s losin’ it—watch it burn.”

“You don’t,” Isla said, voice rising, stepping closer still, heat flaring in her chest as she faced Kyla down, her hands trembling but her stare unflinching, Joe’s “you’re family” echoing loud in her skull. “He’s stronger than you’ll ever know—he’s fought for this, bled for it, carried more than you could dream—you’re nothin’ to him, nothin’ to us!”

“Sidepiece’s got bite now,” Kyla mocked, leaning in, her words dripping venom, green eyes glinting cruel as she bared her teeth in a taunt that cut deep. “Joe don’t care about you, sweetie—you’re a fling, a distraction, just like Lena was ‘til he broke her and left her cryin’. You’re nothin’—a warm body ‘til he’s bored, and I’ll be the one he can’t shake, the one he sees when it all falls.”

“You don’t say that,” Bayley roared, lunging this time, snatching Kyla’s arm and yanking her forward hard, fury sparking in her eyes like a live wire, her voice a snarl that bounced off the crates and filled the tight space. “You don’t know shit about him—or Isla. You’re finished here—done, you hear me?”

“Get your hands off me!” Kyla snapped, wrenching free with a sharp twist, glare darting between them, her cool cracking for a split second, a flash of panic flickering under the bravado before she steadied herself, brushing her jacket again. “You can’t stop what’s comin’—his reign’s ash when I drop this, and you’ll all choke on it, every last one of you pathetic losers.”

“You’re wrong,” Isla said, voice steady now, tears prickling hot but held back, staring Kyla down with everything she had, her spine straight, her fear burning into fire as she stepped into Kyla’s space, close enough to feel the heat off her. “Joe’s tougher than you’ll ever understand—he’s fought through worse than you, bled for this family, this belt, this life. We’re tougher—me, him, all of us—and you’re done breaking anything. SummerSlam’s ours, not yours, and you’ll be the one forgotten.”

A security guard rounded the corner, boots heavy on the concrete, radio crackling sharp in the tight space, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “Trouble here?” he asked, voice gruff, eyeing the standoff, hand hovering near his belt, his bulk filling the hallway like a wall cutting off Kyla’s retreat.

“She’s out,” Naomi said, pointing at Kyla, voice cold and final, her stance rigid, no room for argument, her eyes locked on the pink jacket like it was a target painted in neon.

“This ain’t over,” Kyla hissed, backing toward the exit slow, her smirk strained as a USB slipped from her pocket, hitting the floor with a faint clack—red “K” stark against the black plastic, glinting under the buzzing light like a dropped blade. “He’ll curse the day he met me,” she muttered, low and venomous, her eyes darting to the USB with a flicker of panic before she turned, bolting around the corner, the guard trailing her shadow with a grunt, his boots echoing after her into the dark.

“We’ve got it,” Naomi said, crouching quick, scooping up the USB and turning it in her hand, eyes narrowing at the “K” like it was a loaded gun primed to fire, her fingers tightening around it as she stood. “Lena’s voice on this? We crack it—now, before she doubles back with worse.”

“You held your ground out there,” Bayley said, hand landing on Isla’s shoulder, a firm squeeze cutting through her adrenaline haze, her voice softening just a notch with pride as she gave a quick nod. “You faced her down—damn proud of you, girl. Tell Joe—she’s not sneakin’ up on him, not with us in the ring.”

“SummerSlam’s her move,” Naomi said, slipping the USB into her pocket, voice dropping grim and certain, her eyes flicking to the hallway where Kyla vanished, her braids swinging faintly as she shifted her weight. “She’s got Lena cryin’ on tape, pushin’ Joe’s fall—Joe needs this tonight, before she twists that knife any deeper.”

Joe sat in the locker room, elbows braced on his knees, wrists freshly taped, jaw locked tight as the promo’s high faded into a slow, gnawing unease, the belt a heavy shadow beside him on the bench, its edges scratched from years of battles he’d won and lost. The door swung open with a creak—Isla stepped in, clipboard hugged close, Bayley and Naomi trailing her, their steps echoing sharp off the concrete walls, the air thick with tension and purpose that settled over the room like a storm cloud rolling in.

“Joe,” Isla said, voice low but urgent, stepping closer, meeting his eyes with a mix of fear and fire, her hands trembling around the clipboard as she stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his frame. “Kyla was here—backstage, right under us. She’s got Lena on tape, says it’s droppin’ at SummerSlam—meant to gut you, break you down.”

“What’s her angle?” Joe growled, rising slow, his voice a snarl as he pinned them with a look that could cut steel, hands flexing at his sides as he stepped toward her, his bulk shrinking the room, his eyes narrowing sharp and dangerous.

“Talent entrance, flashin’ that press pass like it’s a damn crown,” Bayley said, arms crossed tight, tone sharp as she leaned against the wall, her boots scuffing the floor with a restless edge, her jaw tight with barely contained fury. “She’s got Lena cryin’—caught her in Tampa, sobbin’ about you breakin’ after she left. Wants to blow it up at SummerSlam—turn your scars into her spotlight.”

“She’s got no damn right,” Joe snarled, fists clenching, Lena’s name hitting like a fresh bruise, her quiet exit two years back flashing in his mind—the empty apartment, the silence that cut deeper than any blade—his voice dropping darker as he glared at the floor, the concrete blurring under his stare. “That’s mine—my life, my pain—not her plaything to twist.”

“She dropped this,” Naomi said, stepping forward, holding up the USB, red “K” glaring under the fluorescent light, her fingers steady as she held it out, her voice grim and unyielding. “Lena’s voice is on it—she’s got Wrestling Insider tied in too, some reporter named Travis ready to run it. She’s loaded, Joe, and she’s aimin’ straight.”

“She’s turnin’ my past into a damn circus,” Joe said, snagging the USB from Naomi’s hand, rolling it between his fingers slow, voice low and dangerous, like a storm rumbling closer, Lena’s ghost twisting in his gut with every turn of the plastic. “Lena on tape? Cryin’ about me? She’s dust when I’m through—dead in the water.”

“I should’ve stopped her,” Isla said, her voice breaking, tears spilling hot down her cheeks as she stepped closer, hands trembling around the clipboard, her eyes searching his, wide and raw with guilt and fear. “Kept her away from you, from this—I let her get too close, Joe, and I hate it.”

“Nah, babygirl,” Joe said, his hand sliding to her neck, warm and firm, grounding her as he pulled her in, thumb brushing her jaw in a steady sweep, his voice softening but fierce, cutting through her spiral. “You fought for me out there—stood up to her, faced her down. That’s more than I could ask, more than enough. I missed her comin’—Atlanta’s on me, her X post, her games—not you.”

“I’m not lettin’ her cut you,” she said, voice trembling, raw and open, gripping his arm tight, her fingers digging into his sleeve, needing the anchor as tears streaked her face, her breath hitching. “Not after everything—the belt, Jey’s story, all you’ve carried—I can’t let her hurt you more, Joe, I can’t.”

“She won’t,” he said, pulling her closer, his hand cradling her neck, holding her gaze steady, his voice a quiet vow in the dim light, fierce and unshaken as he pressed his forehead to hers for a fleeting beat. “We’re locked in, you and me—through this mess, through all of it. She don’t get to touch us—not you, not me, not what we’ve got here.” He pulled back, turning to Bayley and Naomi, tone hardening again, all business. “We break this open—now, together, figure out her whole damn game before she swings again.”

“Nao’ll burn right through it,” Bayley said, smirking, leaning off the wall to cut the heaviness with a quick jab, her arms uncrossing as she stepped closer, her eyes glinting with fight and a flicker of mischief.

“Before you yeet her out an airlock,” Naomi fired back, a quick grin flashing as she crossed her arms, leaning into the banter, her stance easing just a fraction under the tension, her fingers tapping the USB in her pocket.

“Tech guy’s our next move,” Naomi said, voice steady and grim, her eyes flicking to Joe with a nod as she straightened, all focus again. “She’s still out there, reloadin’—we need this cracked tonight, Joe, before she gets another shot off.”

“You good?” Joe asked Isla, voice dropping quieter, stepping back but keeping his hand on her neck, eyes searching hers, checking for cracks under her tears, his thumb brushing her skin slow and steady.

“Yeah,” she said, a shaky smile breaking through, steadying under his look as she wiped her cheek with her sleeve, her voice firming with resolve as she met his gaze. “I’m good—I’m all in, whatever it takes to stop her, to keep you whole.”

“You’re gold, babygirl,” Joe said, smirking faintly, his hand grazing her arm slow as he stepped back, pocketing the USB with a tight grip, a flicker of pride in his eyes that warmed her through. “Tougher than she’ll ever know—tougher than me some days, and that’s the truth.”

In catering, a TV looped Joe’s promo on mute, the “Acknowledge Me” chant a faint hum through the walls, the air heavy with coffee and the faint tang of sweat from passing crew. Isla sat alone at a folding table, laptop open in front of her, USB plugged in, the “Tribal Chief” folder staring back—locked tight behind a password prompt that mocked her every attempt. “Lena_Tape.mp3” glared in red text, “Access Denied” blinking after each failed guess—Reigns2023, Bloodline, Chief, SummerSlam—each miss a jab at her resolve, her fingers hovering over the keys, steady but tense, her glasses slipping down her nose from hours of strain. Kyla’s “Lena’s tears” echoed loud in her skull, a dagger twisting, but Joe’s hand in hers, his quiet trust over diner coffee in Chapter 4, the panda he’d won her at Six Flags—those lit a fire she wouldn’t let die. She’d rip this open for him, no matter how deep it cut, no matter how long it took.

A crew guy shuffled by, tray clattering in his hands, muttering, “Main event’s wrapping—ten minutes,” and she glanced up, the clock ticking past 10 p.m., the night stretching long and heavy over her shoulders. She typed another password—Lena2021—watching it fail, her jaw tightening as she leaned closer, the screen’s glare burning her eyes until they watered, her hands curling into fists on the table, nails biting her palms. Kyla’s smirk from the crowd flashed in her mind, phone up, filming Joe like she owned him, and Isla’s breath hitched sharp, a surge of defiance flaring in her chest—she wouldn’t let her win, not Joe, not the crew, not this fight, not after everything they’d built together.

Production hummed as SmackDown wound down, the main event—Drew, Kevin, Sami vs. Judgment Day—fading out with a roar that shook the walls, crew packing gear into crates with sharp clangs that rang off the concrete. Joe leaned against a monitor, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes distant but sharp, the USB a weight in his pocket, its red “K” a taunt he couldn’t shake. Bayley and Naomi flanked him, quiet but alert, their presence a steady wall against the chaos, their shadows stretching long under the overhead lights that buzzed faintly. Isla approached, laptop tucked under her arm, the USB’s echo heavy in her mind, her steps slowing as she neared him, her throat tight with what she hadn’t cracked yet, her glasses fogging slightly from the heat of the packed space.

“Anything?” Joe asked, voice tight, straightening as she got close, stepping into her space, his eyes locking onto hers with a mix of hope and strain, his jaw clenched under the weight of the night, his breath faintly audible over the crew’s clamor.

“I tried,” Isla said, voice steady now, holding his gaze as she set the laptop on a crate beside him, her hands steady despite the ache in her chest, the sting behind her eyes. “Folder’s ‘Tribal Chief,’ file’s ‘Lena_Tape.mp3’—locked up tight. Need my college tools, more time—couldn’t break it yet. I wanted to hand you something solid, Joe—I’m still diggin’.”

“You’re solid,” Joe said, hand resting on her shoulder, warm and sure, cutting off her doubt before it sank, his voice firm but soft as he squeezed gently, his fingers pressing into her jacket. “You got us this far—put a name to her game, gave us a target. That’s more than I had when I walked off that ramp tonight.”

“Lena cryin’ on tape?” Bayley growled, leaning in, voice low and pissed, her arms crossing again as she glared at the floor, her boots tapping restless against the concrete. “That’s cheap—even for her. What’s she sayin’?”

“Wrestling Insider’s her gun,” Naomi said, arms still crossed, eyes sharp, stepping closer to the monitor, her voice cutting clean through the noise. “She’s got this Travis guy locked in—means she’s loaded, Joe, not just talkin’. Lena’s voice, divorce dirt—she’s got reach, and she’s aimin’ to bury you.”

“She’s turnin’ my scars into clickbait?” Joe snarled, rolling the USB in his hand again, jaw tight, Lena’s exit twisting into a knot he couldn’t untangle, his voice rising with a dark edge that silenced the crew chatter nearby. “Lena cryin’ for her mic? She’s over—done, outta moves when I get my hands on this, and she’ll wish she never stepped in my ring.”

“I’ll crack it at the hotel,” Isla said, stepping closer, resolve hardening in her voice as she met his eyes, her hand brushing his arm, a quiet promise in the touch as she straightened her glasses. “Get my software, dig in—I’ll get it open, Joe, I swear it. Whatever’s on it, we’ll know before she can use it, before she gets another swing.”

“Bet on it,” Joe said, smirking faintly, his hand lingering on her shoulder a beat longer, thumb grazing her jacket as he held her gaze, pride flickering in his eyes like a spark catching flame. “You’re covered—we’ve got your back, babygirl, same as you’ve got mine.”

“Tech queen’s risin’ up,” Bayley teased, nudging her side with an elbow, a quick grin breaking through her scowl, lightening the air for a split second as she leaned back against a crate.

“Who’s feedin’ her—Travis?” Naomi said, voice firm, already plotting, her hand flexing like she was ready to hunt, her eyes darting to Joe with a sharp nod. “Wrestling Insider’s just the mouthpiece—someone’s talkin’ to him, givin’ her this ammo.”

“We’re locked in,” Joe said, voice hard, eyes sweeping them all, landing on Isla last, steady and fierce, a quiet fire burning behind them that made her chest tighten. “She swings at us, she’s hittin’ the ground—hard. We don’t bend, don’t break—not for her, not for anybody, not tonight.”

The Charlotte Marriott room sat quiet, city lights filtering soft through the curtains, casting faint stripes across the carpet that stretched toward the bed, the hum of the AC a low drone against the silence pressing in heavy after the night’s chaos. Isla perched on the edge of the mattress, red silk pajamas catching the dim glow, glasses slipping down her nose as she hunched over her laptop, the USB plugged in, its red “K” a taunt in the corner of her eye that wouldn’t quit staring back. The “Tribal Chief” folder mocked her, “Access Denied” flashing after hours of failed passwords—Reigns2023, Bloodline, Lena, SummerSlam, Chief2021—each miss a bruise on her resolve, the clock ticking past 11:30 p.m., her eyes burning from the screen’s relentless glare, her hands cramped from typing, fingers stiff and aching.

A knock broke the stillness—11:47 p.m., sharp and steady against the quiet, cutting through her spiral like a lifeline snapping her upright. “Isla, it’s me,” Joe called, voice muffled but warm through the door, a sound that pulled her from the edge, her heart tripping over itself. She padded over, barefoot on the carpet, the cool floor a shock against her soles as she cracked the door open—his hoodie hung loose over his broad frame, hair free from its bun, spilling wild over his shoulders, eyes soft but tired, flickering over her silk set with a quick, approving glance that made her flush, heat blooming under her skin.

“Still grindin’ away, huh?” he said, stepping inside, smirking faintly as he leaned against the wall, arms crossing casual over his chest, his presence filling the room like it was made for him, his voice a low hum that eased her frayed edges, cutting through the silence with a familiar steadiness.

“Yeah,” she said, pushing her glasses up, gesturing at the laptop on the bed, voice quieter now, frayed at the seams from hours of failure that gnawed at her. “File’s locked tight—can’t get in yet, no matter what I throw at it. I wanted to crack it for you tonight, Joe—give you something real to fight with, something to hit her back with.”

“Stop that right there,” he said, cutting her off, stepping closer, his hand lifting her chin gentle but firm, thumb swiping a tear she hadn’t felt fall, his eyes locking onto hers with a steady warmth that sliced through her doubt like a blade. “You’re a fighter, babygirl—Kyla’s the rat here, not you. You’re killin’ yourself over this, and you don’t need to—not for me, not for any of it. You’ve done enough tonight.”

“She can’t hurt you,” she said, voice breaking, tears spilling faster now as she stepped into him, her hands fisting his hoodie, dampening it with her fear, her glasses pressing into his chest as she pressed closer, needing his solidity. “Not after everything—the belt, Jey’s story, all you’ve been through—I can’t let her cut you deeper, Joe, I can’t stand the thought of it.”

“She won’t,” he said, pulling her in tight, one hand cradling her head, fingers threading through her hair slow and deliberate, his breath warm against her scalp, his voice a quiet vow that wrapped around her like armor against the dark. “We’re iron, you and me—she don’t stand a chance, not against us, not against what we’ve got goin’. Lena’s on that tape? Let her cry—I’ve carried worse, and I’m still standin’. She’s got nothin’ that breaks us, babygirl—nothin’.”

“Got it,” she mumbled, voice muffled against his chest, clinging tighter, his heartbeat steady under her cheek, a rhythm she could sink into, her hands trembling less with every thump, his warmth chasing the cold from her bones as she pressed her face closer, breathing him in—sandalwood, sweat, safety.

“You’re haulin’ too much on your own,” he said, easing her back toward the bed slow, sitting against the headboard with a groan, guiding her down until her head rested on his chest, silk brushing his hoodie, his arm settling around her, heavy and safe, his hand stroking her back in lazy circles that melted the tension from her spine. “Family’s got you—let it go for tonight, huh? We’ll hit it fresh tomorrow—together, like we said, no rush, no weight you gotta carry solo.”

“Thanks, Joe,” she whispered, her voice fading as her eyes fluttered shut, tension bleeding out under his warmth, his hand steady on her spine, a silent promise in every touch that she wasn’t alone in this, that he wouldn’t let her fall.

“Anytime,” he murmured, voice soft, barely above a breath, his lips brushing her hair as he reached over, sliding her glasses off with care, setting them beside the USB on the nightstand, the red “K” glinting faintly in the dark like a distant warning. “You’re enough—just like this, just you.” He shifted, pulling her closer, his arm tightening around her as they drifted off, tangled together in the quiet, the city lights soft outside, a truce holding them in the dark, the fight paused but burning bright for the morning.

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