#Thread Lift Blog

[supraxstcllas]

@dementedspeedster: (@ Match) "There was something I was wondering..." Thad starts, "You know how your telekinesis sorta just expands around you?" Like how his hair would move and float at times, Thad couldn't help but think, but he doesn't mention it out right for both of their sakes, "Is there a limit to your range? Could you theoretically pick something or someone up a distance away? Can you feel anything when you use your power?"

" Yeah? " he says, head quirking at the line of questioning. arms cross over his chest as he thinks, " I think I have a limit? Haven't really checked it since before I uh... left the Agenda. They'd test me every once in a while to see if it had gotten stronger. " now that he thought about it, maybe he should do a few tests himself.

" As for feeling... its like static on my skin and a warm feeling in my chest. It doesn't take much thought, it just kinda happens. Like breathing or blinking. " he says, pointing his hand at the other and letting his ttk spread out to gently raise the blonde's hair in the air, " Just point and shoot, basically. "

there's a soft hum, " We're both curious now, wanna help me test it? "

[vastnbeyond]

to me, all my muses here are princes, just that some sometimes they forget it -coughs- gilly -coughs- romano -coughs- f.eliciano -coughs-

[nanaslutt]

always the hero

ʚ pairing: nanami kento x reader

ʚ cont: fem reader, oral (nanami!r), deep throating, established relationship, kinda sub nanami??

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

Once the door clicks shut, the silence that falls is deafening. Nanami is backed up against the door, with you standing too close to him, but neither of you move, neither of you breathes. Ever since the argument earlier, things have been tense. That tension that radiates between you is now filling up the room and making breathing nearly impossible. Unbearable.

After a few moments pass, Nanami clears his throat and steals your eyes to his, but before his parted lips can make words, you raise a finger to them and shake your head, all in silence. His brows furrow, but you don't feel like talking. Not right now. Not like this.

Dragging your finger down his nape, he lifts his chin as you trace down his chest, staying for a second longer on the warm skin that peaks out from his unbuttoned collar. Your touches are painfully slow and torturous, meant to drag this out until he's clenching his fists and breathing ragged.

You stop at his belt line and pull his tucked shirt up, dragging it out of the confines from where it's tucked into his pants. Through it, Nanami is quiet, but his breath hitches when you pull the shirt free. Lifting the fabric, you toy a single finger between his belt and lower abdomen.

Nanami lifts a hand and grips your wrist--not to tell you to stop, but his eyes are full of questions, unspoken thoughts, and... Lust. He's exactly where you want him. "What are you doing?" His deep whispered voice seems to echo off the walls of your shared home.

Holding eye contact, you pull your finger out and use both hands to undo his belt, his hand still cautiously on your wrist. "I thought I told you not to speak right now?" You said, the clinking of metal filling up the space around you. His breath hitches when you bump into the proof of his arousal while undoing his belt, and his throat bobs as he looks down at your hands that make slow, precise work of him.

"We should talk." He says, his grip on your wrist turning firm.

Earlier, Nanami put himself in danger to eliminate a curse--something you had told him before not to do. The last time he did it, you weren't with him, so your fright wasn't as potent, but seeing how close he got to... 

Seeing it so close made you feel helpless. It was a feeling you never wanted to replicate again.

"I don't want to talk." You said, slowly dropping to your knees while looking up at him through your lashes.

Nanami pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and fights back a groan at the sight, warring with himself internally. You look so beautiful, but he knows you're still upset with him. 

You run your hand up his thighs and stop at the top before sliding your fingers into the band of his boxers and sliding them down inch by inch. His breath seems to stop completely as you rid him of his clothes, slowly barring him and giving him no choice but to repent in the way you want him to. By letting you take him.

"Sweetheart..." He whispers through a groan when his cock bounces free of its confines, wet at the tip and so hard he's fucking twitching.

"Kento." You chastise. What about not talking doesn't he understand?

His hand threads into your hair gently, and his eyes look so tortured and pained. You love it. "I don't deserve this." He says so softly, almost insecurely. And you nod. "No, you don't"

"Then why-"

Your hand wraps around his impossibly stiff cock, and he cuts himself off, inhaling sharply through his teeth while the back of his head knocks into the door. Such a simple touch and Nanami Kento is debased to his most basic animalistic urges. You rub the head of his cock, massaging your thumb into that sensitive spot on the underside of his head, and are rewarded with his abs clenching and a drop of precum.

"Speak again, and I'll stop." With those parting words, you suck him between your lips and he fucking melts. 

Kento grunts, his free hand slamming into the wall behind him in a balled fist when you effortlessly slide him to the back of your throat. This isn't about his pleasure, much as it seems. You aren't going to take it easy or spare his pride, this is to torture him, to make him feel as helpless as he did you.

His hand in your hair tightens, but he makes no move to thrust into your mouth or shove you onto his cock. His body jerks and his back arches when you take him too deep, but he catches himself before he thrusts into your warm mouth as much as he wants to.

A long grunt that turns into a groan is torn free from his throat when you start bobbing your head up and down at a merciless pace, using a hand to stroke the rest of his length that doesn't fit in your mouth, while you slide your other hand up his shirt to caress his abdomen and feel what you do to him.

His abs flex under your touch and your ministrations. His breathing is ragged and ruined, and sounds that would usually be hidden back from your ears, are being forced free. He's not hiding a thing. You didn't even know he could be this loud while receiving head even after being together for a year. The sounds are mostly pants and grunts, but they're sounds all the same, and they're making you feel insane.

Pre-cum floods your tongue when you swallow around him and time your thrusts with your hand, determined to jerk his soul out of his cock when he cums. And he feels fucking close. He keeps twitching inside your mouth, his abs are flexing his body is bowing, and his breaths are turning choppy and debauched.

"Sweetheart... A-ah." You know you said you would stop if he spoke again, but when he sounded so fucking good, it was hard to want to stop. "I'm going to cum, stop." The last word is grunted with a surprising amount of restraint and control, but you continue regardless as if you didn't hear it.

This time, his hips do jerk, and the precum that floods your mouth makes it feel like he's already cum. "My love, you need to-" You look up in time to watch his mouth fall open and his eyes roll back in his head before he bites down on his teeth and groans through them. "You need to stop or I'm going to cum."

Always so considerate, even when he's getting blown an inch from his life. Popping off from his cock only long enough to talk, you rake your nails down his abdomen and jerk him off as quickly as you were sucking him, not wanting him to lose that buildup. "Cum in my mouth."

He looks like he wants to retort, but it dies on his tongue when you take him back into your mouth and double your efforts, massaging your tongue on that one spot that makes him see fucking stars. 

It only takes a second before his grunts turn to pants and his pitch raises in volume. You hold eye contact with him while he watches you take him to the near base, then he explodes, and you taste the specific taste of him on your tongue.

His face screws into pleasure and his body goes rigid as his balls empty into your mouth. It's a fucking pleasure seeing him come undone. His cheeks and ears are flushed, even in the dark they look like bright red tomatoes, and his throat that bobs as he struggles to do so much as swallow is beautiful.

When you pull his cock free, he twitches and his hand balls in your hair before he's dropping to his knees and slamminghis mouth to yours, tasting himself on your tongue. He grunts and groans into the kiss, licking inside like he's greedy to share some of the burden. And you love it. 

He parts your lips and cradles your face in his hands, wiping away the saliva on your cheeks and lips. "I don't deserve you, but please let me return the favor." He whispers, a misbehaving hand sliding down your body to rub you over your panties.

Your eyes roll back, and his lips part in awe as he decides between watching you as he rubs your clit, or watching your face screw into pleasure. "Please, my love." He begs in that sinfully deep voice.

He's so damn polite.

[sourpeachsayshi]

(Minors / ageless / blank blogs dni) - slight degradation; mention rough sex

you knew nanami was fit. you knew he was made of muscle. but you had no idea just how strong your boyfriend actually was until you both moved into your new place. you watched him pick up heavy furniture with such ease. move all the boxes without ever breaking a sweat. at one point you were standing in his way and he mindlessly just lifted you up and moved you aside like you were nothing to him.

three weeks since that day you have not stopped thinking about it. it boiled up and made you restless, until finally you had enough.

you sit down next to him on the couch this evening and demand: “I want you to me fuck me,”

kento’s eyes widen with surprise at your tone. his face puzzled as he registers what you just said.

you’re in a pair of panties and an oversized tee, while he’s still rocking his dressed down suit.

“well, good evening to you too…”

“please?”

“is someone in a mood?” he teases, eyes flickering to the book on his lap, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

you nod your head, the space between your legs throbbing.

your lover lets out a low and delicious laugh. “get in bed, and take off your clothes. I’ll be there in a minute…”

your heart thumps, “and you’re going to…fuck me, right?”

confusion contorts the muscles on his handsome face. “Isn’t that what I usually do?”

your cheeks burn. you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth and swallow your last nerve.

“you make love to me,” you explain, “but…you don’t fuck me…”

kento furrows his brows innocently, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “do you not enjoy it when I-“

you cut him off before he has a chance to finish. “no, no, it’s not that…” you crawl on top of his lap, and over the length of his body. you pluck his glasses away from his face and put down his book. “I want you to use me, to be rough with me…”

“hmmm,” he acknowledges, his legs spreading underneath you as he allows you to melt over him.

“I just…” you babble, two fingers reaching to play with the tips of his blonde hair. “I just didn’t realize how…strong you were…”

the tips of his cheekbones now turn red. he’s a little caught off guard, but you enjoy doing that to him once in a while.

“I don’t want you to hold back tonight. Pull my hair, tie me up, throw me down on the mattress. Whatever you want. I can take it…”

his dick twitches - and you feel it. you can see his tawny eyes go hazy as he attentively hangs onto your every word.

he swallows the catch in his throat.

“I could hurt you, love. I don’t want to do that…”

you shake your head in disbelief. “I don’t think you will. I trust you, kento…”

his index finger taps your back in contemplation.

“you want me to tie you up?” he repeats and your heart races as you eagerly nod your head.

“use you?”

you nod again.

“pull your hair?”

you nod once more, your breath going heavy.

he pushed the weight of his body up, the hand on your back trails up the spine until it threads between the strands of your hair. he grips it tight and brings his lips against your ear.

“you want be fucked?”

excitement builds in your core, the depth of his graveled voice sparking your arousal.

“yes,” you pant.

“you asked for this, my love,” he breathes, a shift in his tone sending shivers all over your body. “I won’t stop unless you say “strawberries”, no matter how much you beg…”

his lips brush against your cheek, pulling back until it lightly grazes over your mouth.

“and you…are just going to take it, like you said you would. am I right?”

your whole body hums at the shift in his demeanor, at this sudden seductive darkness that seemed to have taken over of your lover’s body.

“yes,” you agree, making him grin cheekily.

“that’s a good girl,” he praises, and pulls a gasp from your lips when he rips the string of your panties and yanks off the material, before discarding the garment over his shoulder and stealing a kiss.

[taetebebe]

BELOW THE SKIN

Pairing: Jungwon x afab!reader

Synopsis: They say moles are where your lover kissed you in a past life. If that’s true, Jungwon’s been searching for your skin for centuries. WARNING: SUGGESTIVE + INTIMATE (no smut)

Word count: 2.2k +

Author's Note: I've always thought about this myth - lmk what you guys think.

Playlist by @princesspeachicedtea

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

You’ve had the same constellation of moles your whole life.

They dotted your skin like stories someone wrote in a language you never learned to read. There was one nestled at your collarbone that people mistook for a fleck of chocolate. One right at your wrist that friends would sometimes trace absently. Your hands were speckled with tiny dark spots, enough that you sometimes hid them under sleeves during childhood photos.

Your neck had another. Your shoulder blade, too. A large, almost heart-shaped one sat at the curve of your waist—barely visible unless your shirt lifted just right. And then there were the others.

The ones you didn’t notice at first. On the inside of your thigh. Below your navel. At the bend of your knee. Beneath the slope of your breast.

None of them symmetrical. None of them in places people talk about in beauty blogs or skin-care reels. But your grandmother used to say they were marks left behind by the lips of someone who loved you in a past life.

“That boy must’ve adored you,” she’d said once, tracing one just below your collarbone. “He kissed you like he was afraid to forget.”

You had laughed at the time. You were twelve. You thought it sounded romantic—but silly.

You grew up and left the idea behind.

Until him.

Jungwon isn’t the kind of boy who flirts. He doesn’t toss compliments like confetti or brush fingers against yours just to make you flinch. He watches people quietly. Speaks with purpose. Carries a kind of stillness that makes noise feel like an interruption.

You meet him in a class you almost didn’t take. He sits beside you on the first day and doesn’t say much—just a small, polite smile. But every time you turn your head, he’s already looking at you.

You’d be unnerved if it didn’t feel… familiar.

Weeks pass. Assignments are shared. Inside jokes exchanged. One rainy afternoon, he pulls a loose thread from your sweater sleeve and tucks it into his pocket.

And then one night, you fall asleep on his couch after watching a late film, and you wake up with your hand in his.

Palm up. Fingers slack.

His thumb moves softly over a tiny mole near the base of your thumb. Like he’s memorising it.

You pretend to still be asleep.

“I have too many,” you joke one day, holding out your arm to show him. “Moles, I mean. My friends used to count them like stars.”

He doesn't laugh. He takes your hand in both of his.

Jungwon notices them like they mean everything.

He’s quiet. Gentle. The kind of person who doesn’t just look—he sees. You meet him through a class project, but he talks to you like he already knows your laugh, your hesitations, your tells.

And your moles.

The first time he holds your hand, he brushes his thumb over the tiny one near your thumb joint and murmurs, “Still here.”

You frown. “Still where?”

He doesn’t explain. Just smiles.

“This one,” he murmurs, brushing your wrist. “This one was always my favorite.”

You blink.

“You’ve never seen it before.”

You stare at him.

He doesn't elaborate.

Later, your roommate says Jungwon’s the type of boy who probably remembers his dreams in colour.

You think he remembers more than that.

You dream of him before you ever fall asleep in his arms.

In those dreams, he’s not always him. Sometimes, he wears different clothes. His hair is longer, his voice deeper. You wear gowns. Sometimes armor. Sometimes you wear nothing at all—just silk sheets and a name you barely remember.

But the moles are always there.

The one behind your knee. The one on your neck. The one beneath your breast, especially.

And always—always—he kisses them like they’re precious.

Like he’s afraid they’ll fade if he doesn’t.

One night, as his mouth moves against your collarbone, you feel his hand slide gently over your waist. It pauses over the large mole there, fingers spreading as if to cover it. He kisses just beside it, breath warm.

“I found this one in every lifetime,” he whispers.

You shiver.

Tangled in sheets and silence, you ask him directly:

“Do you believe in past lives?”

He nods, eyes open and honest. “Yes.”

“Do you think we were… something? Before?”

He smiles. “I don’t think.”

He pauses.

“I remember.”

It spills out slowly, like water leaking through cracks in the wall. In the quiet hours, in the pauses between kisses, he starts to tell you pieces.

“In one life,” he says, “I was a scholar, and you were the daughter of a nobleman. We passed each other once at a temple, and I only caught your eyes. But I knew.”

He kisses your collarbone then.

“In another, you were a musician. I waited every week just to hear your voice.”

His mouth finds your shoulder blade.

“Once, I found you after a war. You had forgotten your name, but you smiled at me, and I didn’t need to know anything else.”

You shiver.

“Were we always together?”

He shakes his head.

“Sometimes I was too late. Sometimes you loved someone else. Sometimes… you died before we found each other.”

You lean back against the pillows, letting the silence settle. Then you ask the question that’s been burning in your throat:

“And this time?”

He looks at you.

And he says it like a promise.

“This time, I’m going to love you long enough to make it count.”

After that, you start noticing the pattern. The way he kisses every mark. Not just the visible ones. Not just the convenient ones.

Once, when you’re lying beside him after a long day, half-naked and exhausted.

Then, without warning, he presses his mouth lower—beneath your breast—to that mark you’ve always avoided. The one you forgot to be embarrassed about.

You flinch.

He pauses. Looks up.

“No one’s touched that before,” you admit.

“I know,” he says. His hand spreads across your ribs, steadying you. “You never lived long enough.”

Your breath stops.

You stiffen.

But he doesn’t look up.

He just breathes against your skin like he’s thanking it.

And then he says, almost too quiet to hear: “I lost you holding you like this.”

Your eyes sting.

And something inside you remembers—a flash, a fever, your chest aching, his voice calling you back when your body already knew how to let go.

Your first time together is slow.

You’re half-nervous, half aching, and he treats you like porcelain wrapped in something ancient.

It’s the first time someone sees all of them—really sees you, laid bare, constellation and all. His touch isn’t just careful; it’s reverent.

His lips ghost over your shoulder blade, where a dark spot lives like punctuation.

“This one was on your back when you ran through a river,” he murmurs. “You wore white. I remember seeing it through the fabric.”

You bite your lip. “You're making things up.”

He smiles softly. “I’m not. You had the same laugh then.”

His lips brush the skin again—slower this time, with more meaning than you know how to hold.

You start counting them again after that.

One on your neck. One on your collarbone. Too many on your hands to name. One on your wrist, right where he always kisses you when you’re nervous. One on your shoulder blade that he traces when you’re curled against him. One just below your belly button that he smiles at before pressing his mouth there. The large one on your waist he rests his hand over like it’s a place he belongs. The one behind your knee that makes you giggle when his fingers find it. And the one—the first one, the final one, the one that feels like a return—beneath your breast, where his kisses always linger the longest.

After that, you start to really see yourself too.

In the mirror. In his gaze. In your dreams.

The one mole at the curve of your inner thigh. The one behind your knee. The one low on your back that tickles when his fingertips trace over it.

Sometimes, when he’s between your legs, his lips will pause over each spot like checkpoints—like he’s returning to every place he missed you.

Once, he kisses the one just below your navel and whispers something you don’t catch.

You ask him what he said.

“That’s where I felt your- our first child kick.”

Your eyes widen.

He adds, “In the third life. Y-you died the same year.”

You start noticing his moles too.

There’s a small one on his jawline you always glance at when he’s speaking.

“I like this one,” you murmur, brushing your lips against it during a lazy morning.

“It’s new,” he says, smiling. “I didn’t have it in our first lives. But you kissed me here once, and it showed up in the next.”

You stare at him, awed. “What, like I… created it?”

“Maybe.” His eyes soften. “Love leaves marks.”

You find more.

One near his hip that you kiss when he’s half-asleep. One behind his shoulder you trace with your fingertip when he’s lying face-down on the bed. One under his ribs that only shows when he stretches, which he lets you explore when you press your lips to his skin in quiet wonder.

You whisper once, “Why don’t I remember you?”

He kisses the back of your knee, where a mole hides in the bend.

“You always forget,” he murmurs. “You’re not supposed to carry the pain.”

“But you do.”

He nods. “I’d rather remember and find you again than forget and lose you forever.”

Your roommate asks if you’re obsessed with each other.

You don’t answer. Because it’s more than that.

It’s recognition.

It’s waking up with your head on his chest and realising your fingers always drift to his jawline mole without thinking.

It’s him pulling your hand to his mouth and kissing each tiny mark like he’s saying hello in a language only you understand.

It’s one night—late, breathless—when he has you pinned beneath him, and he leans down to kiss the mole just below your breast, again and again, slower each time.

“I lost you like this,” he whispers, voice cracking.

You wrap your arms around him. “You found me again.”

It’s scary how much you believe him now.

Scary how much sense it makes.

Like your body remembered before your mind did.

Like the ache in your chest wasn’t yours—it was his.

Eventually, you tell him the truth.

“I hated my moles,” you admit. “I felt like they made me look messy.”

He laughs gently, tilting your chin up. “You’re not messy. You’re written. You’re a love letter someone, I, finished in another lifetime and mailed to this one.”

One summer night, you lie in a patch of moonlight, completely bare, nothing between you but breath.

He kisses each mole slowly, thoroughly, until you’re trembling—not just from arousal, but from the intimacy of being seen like this.

When he reaches your inner thigh, he lingers.

“I never got to touch you here,” he whispers. “Not until now.”

You arch into his mouth, and he takes his time, his hands steadying you, anchoring you to this life, this love, this version of being together.

Afterward, you hold him just as gently.

You trace the mole at his jawline with your lips, whispering, “You’re mine too, you know.”

“I always was,” he says.

Some nights, when you’re half-asleep and tangled in sheets, you ask him about your past selves.

“Which one was your favourite?”

“This one,” he answers instantly.

“No,” you murmur. “I mean… before.”

He hesitates.

“You once danced barefoot in a garden. I watched you through a screen door and thought—if I could just hold you once, that would be enough.”

He kisses the mole on your shoulder blade, where you’re curled against him.

“Was it?”

“Never,” he says.

You tell your grandmother once, just before she passes:

“You were right, you know. About the moles.”

She smiles, eyes twinkling.

“I only told you what my mother told me.”

“Did she ever find her lover again?”

“She did,” she whispers, already fading.

And then: “Just once. But it was enough.”

You count them all once, together.

You name them.

He remembers their echoes.

He kisses the one below your navel and calls it “home.” The one on your inner thigh becomes “devotion.” Your wrist, “first sight.” Your shoulder blade, “loss.” Your waist, “belonging.” The one beneath your breast—“the promise.”

And his?

You call his jawline “anchor.” His rib “yearning.” His hip “gravity.” His shoulder “return.”

Years pass.

He still traces them.

When you fight, he kisses your hands.

When you cry, he finds the one on your collarbone and presses his forehead there.

When he asks you to move in, he kisses your wrist.

When you say yes, he finds the one at your waist.

And when he holds you that night—like he’s holding every version of you that ever lived—his mouth finds the one beneath your breast again.

Slow.

Tender.

Certain.

And you finally ask, breathless, “Why there?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“That’s where I kissed you last.”

That night you fall asleep with his lips pressed just above your heart.

And you think, If we live again…

But you don’t finish the sentence.

Because now—now—is enough.

Now, your body remembers.

And his hands answer every question your skin ever carried.

© taetebebe 2025

[lazysoulwriter]

why did you stop? - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: fluff so soft it might kill you, clingy Pedro, gentle intimacy, sleepy cuddles

---

He was practically melting on top of you — all warmth and weight and barely-there sighs. One leg draped over yours, chest pressed flush against your stomach, cheek resting right between your collarbones like he belonged there.

You felt him exhale slowly through his nose, and smiled. Your fingers were still in his hair, twirling a loose curl around one finger. Soft. Messy. Sleep-warmed. You played with it gently, then slid your nails across his scalp in lazy, affectionate strokes.

That was his favorite. The scalp massage. He’d never admit it out loud — not properly, not with words — but you’d caught him shifting into your lap more than once after a long day, looking casual but angling his head just so, waiting for your hands to move.

You obliged every time.

Now, his breath had slowed, and his arms had gone slack around your waist. Each time you scratched behind his ear or threaded your fingers into his curls, he made the tiniest sound — not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. Just something low and content and helpless.

You kept going. You loved watching him like this — Pedro in total surrender. Sleepy, quiet, undone. His lashes fluttered. His mouth parted. He looked so beautiful like this, peaceful in a way he rarely let himself be when the world was watching.

And then, eventually, he fell asleep.

Fully. Boneless. Breathing even and soft against your chest.

You smiled and slowed your fingers, letting them rest for just a moment — your hand still nestled in his hair, not even pulling away.

That’s when it happened.

His head lifted instantly, curls tousled and eyes half-lidded with sleep, but his expression was crystal clear: offended.

“Why did you stop?” he mumbled, voice rough and pouty. His brow was furrowed like a little kid who just got told recess was over.

You laughed softly, brushing his forehead with your thumb. “You were asleep, baby.”

“I wasn’t.” “You were snoring.” “Liar.”

You giggled again and scratched lightly at his scalp. His eyes rolled back a little, head dropping right back to your chest with a low groan.

“God,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“I know.”

He went quiet again, muscles relaxing as your fingers resumed their slow dance through his curls.

Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbled, already half gone again. “Not even if the house is on fire.”

You smiled, kissed the top of his head, and whispered, “Deal.”

And just like that, Pedro Pascal fell asleep with your fingers in his hair, and a smile on his lips.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[junkiex0]

“Let Me Eat You.”

a/n: this is just a short one shot. I didn’t want my blog to be empty any longer😭. Hope you guys enjoy! more content is coming soon <3

c/w: explicit sexual content, including oral (f receiving), possessive/monster lover dynamics, and strong themes of yearning and intimacy

Moonlight spills in through the slats of your blinds, silver and soft, casting pale ribbons across the bed. It’s the only light in the room, and it bathes everything in a hush, like a secret being told in the dark. Your thighs tremble around his head, your breath catching as he continues to feast on you like he’s been starved for centuries.

His face glows where the light touches him—cheekbones sharp, lips glistening, eyes smoldering as he looks up at you. The kind of gaze that leaves you bare in more ways than one. You let out a fragile whimper, your fingers twisting in the sheets, overwhelmed by how much he wants you.

Slowly, he pulls back from your heat, the loss of him making you shiver. He rests his head against the plush of your inner thigh like it’s the softest pillow he’s ever known. One hand lingers, rough palm caressing the curve of your opposite leg with a touch that is both reverent and possessive.

“I’ve been starving, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and aching. There’s something feral in it, but also tender—like hunger wrapped in silk.

You reach down, threading your fingers into his hair, stroking gently before letting your palm rest against his cheek. He leans into your touch like a prayer being answered. Then, with a slow, almost worshipful movement, he lifts your wrist to his lips.

He breathes you in, his lashes fluttering closed. “Let me eat you,” he whispers into the delicate skin, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your pulse. Then come the kisses—slow, deliberate, like he’s marking you as his with each one.

You know what he is. A monster, yes. But under the hunger, under the roughness and ruin, he’s soft with you. Gentle. Loving, in his own dangerous way.

His grip tightens just slightly, his fingers curling around your wrist like he’s afraid you might vanish. Like if he holds on hard enough, you’ll say yes.

And god—you want to.

[thatbadadvice]

Help! I Just Got Identified As An Absolute Creepo Rip-Off Artist!

The Bad Advisor deals with a lot of Wrong Shit; it's pretty much what I do here! Bad Advice trades in People being Wrong, and doing Wrong Stuff. But the most consistently Wrong-est thing that the Bad Advisor has dealt with on this blog lo these 11 (!) years of Bad Advice is the wholly incorrect perception that Neil Gaiman is its author.

I used to find this flattering, even charming, because Neil's fans (among which I counted myself since I started reading the Sandman series in the late 90s) incorrectly perceived his reposts as evidence that this blog was his work, not mine.

This blog is not now, and has never been, the work of Neil Gaiman.

It feels weird to spell it out, but also necessary. Occasionally I have responded to some posters who thought I was Gaiman (there truly have been too many over the years to respond to all of them). But Neil never did so, even in comments on his reposts that praised him for being the Bad Advisor, which he surely knew he was not.

Backstory: the Bad Advisor posted her first Bad Advice almost exactly 11 years ago today. In ensuing years, Bad Advice Nation has been a space of camaraderie and education and mutual support. The Bad Advisor herself (me, Andrea, the person writing this post) has generally shied away from affirmative self-identification; it was more interesting, I thought, to let the Bad Advisor exist as an idea rather than as an individual, even as Bad Advice existed elsewhere (RIP The Establishment) and was in some places attributed to my government name.

One of the first champions of Bad Advice, and arguably the reason Bad Advice originally went viral and garnered the audience it has, is because the sci-fi/fantasy author Neil Gaiman often reposted the blog. I was, initially and at length, flattered and enthused by Neil Gaiman's attention, because I was a near life-long fan of his creations, and thought that his affinity for my writing signaled something important about my talent and creative capacity.

Years ago, because Gaiman knew I was the Bad Advisor, Gaiman even invited me to meet him -- and then failed to deliver on that invite. I wrote it off at the time as a bummer but inevitable experience with fame.

I now suspect I dodged a bullet, knowing what we know about Neil Gaiman's predatory behavior toward women younger than him.

I posted a Bluesky Thread about this whole shebang, and the tl;dr is that it now seems obvious to me that Gaiman would never have even thought to correct posters who attributed my work to him, or credit me my for Bad Advice work, even when he knew people wrongly perceived him as being the Bad Advisor.

Neil Gaiman does not appreciate, celebrate, or lift up women's writing and intellectual work, despite his ill-earned reputation as a feminist man. If you love Sandman, as I once did, the Bad Advisor implores you to avail yourself of the work of Tanith Lee, who Gaiman never credited as inspiration for the story.

It's hard to have heroes. Some of them will fail us, inevitably. We are all broken, fallible people who will fuck up now and again. Some harms are beyond repair, while some harms bring us closer to each other as we persevere through them, together.

But we do not need to entertain fuckery.

Do not entertain fuckery.

Signed, The Bad Advisor (Andrea Grimes, not Neil Gaiman)

[kathaelipwse]

"Keep Writing Sweetheart" | C.Seungcheol

Warnings: Explicit Language (MDNI 18+) | Heavy Teasing | Suggestive | Seungcheol Being a Menace Synopsis: You never thought your little Seungcheol thirst blog on tumblr would catch his attention—until it did. A simple fan meet turns into the most humiliating, exhilarating, and downright sinful encounter of your life. Now, with your sanity hanging by a thread. One question remains: How the hell did Choi Seungcheol find your filthy smut? Word Count: 1.5K Author's Note: This started as a delulu thought and spiraled into absolute chaos. Seungcheol is filthy, cocky, and entirely too powerful, and I refuse to be normal about it. Enjoy suffering.

You were a seasoned veteran in the chaotic realm of Seungcheol fanfiction. Your Tumblr blog, a veritable altar of carnal devotion, had recently exploded, hitting 10K followers—a milestone you celebrated with a brazen face reveal.

A simple selfie, captioned: "Now y'all know who's been thirsting over Cheol the most."

The response was a digital riot.

Mutuals screamed, thirsty asks flooded in, and the discourse was gloriously unhinged. But you remained steadfast, continuing to post your most depraved fics, crafting scenarios where Seungcheol was worshipped, debauched, and insatiably ravenous.

And then, the Seventeen fan meet happened, a cruel twist of fate.

You'd fantasized about this moment—meeting him, hearing his deep voice pronounce your name, but the reality was a wicked deviation from your wildest dreams.

As you slid your album across the table, Seungcheol looked up, his eyes locking onto yours, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips. "So… a Tumblr writer, huh?"

Your soul evaporated.

Your grip tightened on the table's edge, knuckles white. No fucking way. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he—

But then, he signed your album with a predatory smirk, scribbling something extra before returning it.

Your gaze dropped, your breath catching in your throat.

"To my favorite writer. Keep up the good work, sweetheart. ;) (P.S. I especially enjoyed the one where you described me wrecking you apart in the dressing room my sweet needy girlfriend.)"

Your entire reality shattered.

The staff called for the next fan, but you stood there, petrified, decimated, obliterated. When you finally stumbled away, your hands trembled, clutching the album like a lifeline.

You needed air. You needed to purge your blog from existence.

The event concluded, and you were poised for a swift escape, but a staff member intercepted you.

"Seungcheol-ssi asked if you could wait a moment."

Your stomach plummeted into the abyss.

Minutes stretched into an eternity before he appeared—casual, confident, dangerously alluring.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he mused, his voice laced with amusement.

You opened your mouth, but utter silence was your only response.

Cheol stepped closer, arms crossing over his broad chest. "Cat got your tongue?" His biceps strained against his shirt, and you hated how your eyes were drawn to them. "That's funny, considering how much you write about me using mine on you."

Your breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping your lips.

He chuckled—low, guttural, dripping with sin. "Oh, don't look so shocked. You didn't think I'd find out?" He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming. "Some of those fics… incredibly detailed. Specific. Makes me wonder—"

His eyes traveled over your body, slow and deliberate, lingering on your curves.

"Have you been fantasizing about me, sweetheart? About every single word you wrote?"

Your knees threatened to give way.

"I—"

Cheol took another step forward, cornering you against the wall. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body, his cologne—woodsy, musky, intoxicating—filling your senses.

"You don't hold back when you write, do you?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "All that talk about me ravaging you. Tasting you. Making you beg for mercy."

Your lungs seized.

His hand lifted—not touching, just hovering. His fingers ghosted over your wrist, your waist, your hip, the delicate curve of your throat, not quite making contact, but your skin burned with the phantom touch.

"You paint me as a man consumed by lust in your stories." He smirked, his eyes locked onto yours, dark and predatory. "Tell me, sweetheart… do you want to find out if your depictions are accurate?"

Your stomach dropped into your core.

He leaned in, his breath brushing your ear.

"Or maybe," he murmured, his voice a velvet rasp, "you'd rather write about what happens next? About how I finally claim you, how I fill you with every inch of me, how you scream my name until you're hoarse?"

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your mouth opened—desperate to speak, to deny, to beg, to say yes, anything—

But Seungcheol pulled back, letting the moment hang in the air, a taut, electric tension stretching between you. He smirked, a predatory grin playing on his lips, like he'd won some wicked, unholy game.

"Keep writing, sweetheart." His voice was thick with amusement, laced with a hint of something darker. "I love seeing you try to fit me in… somewhere. Especially when you describe me stretching you out, filling you up, making you mine."

Your heart flatlined, then restarted with a violent jolt.

And then, just like that, he turned and walked away—leaving you standing there, utterly wrecked, ruined, undone.

Your blog was about to implode in a blaze of glory. You needed to write. You needed to describe the way his eyes looked, the way his voice sounded, the way the air crackled between you. You needed to write every single explicit detail, and you needed to post it immediately.

---

[musubi-sama]

Papa Mama, Kiss!

Nanami Kento, girl dad, and how the small commands an almost-2year-old can etch into his heart.

A/N: Thanks @pseudowho for the gentle nudge to write this one out. And for everyone else, if it's not obvious, based on real events.

WC: 1.4K

Fatherhood, raising and nurturing children to become their best selves. To give them wings and teach them to fly on their own. This is what Nanami Kento dreamed of for years. But almost two years in, his daughter was testing his last thread of patience.

“Papa, milk!” Kento returns with a glass of milk.

“Papa, tea!” Kento blinks, and returns with a glass of tea, finishing off the milk for himself along the way.

“Milk?” Kento sighs. Just as he starts to lift himself from his chair, you put your arm on his.

“Sweetest, could you take a sip of the tea first?” you offer the glass to your daughter, and she happily starts to drink the water, quickly emptying the cup. Sufficiently satiated, she goes back to eating her lunch.

You shoot your husband a soft smile, you’re met with a weary, but loving gaze in return. Features worn by time, bolstered by love, and cut by the effort of child rearing.

You both had done your research, coming to similar conclusions with differing approaches on how to tackle the approaching “Terrible Twos.”

Kento couldn’t understand the parenting blogs, as they made any solutions to challenges seem so…. simple to solve.

“Guaranteed to solve purple crying with one simple trick!” “Sleep training made easy! You’ll have quiet nights in less than a week!” “10 steps to handling a temper tantrum in public. Number 6 will surprise you”

But every solution seemed to be milquetoast, at best, and unhelpful at worst. But almost two years in, he started to get the hang of things. The secret is that his daughter was her own person and required him to think on his feet. And despite the new levels of exhaustion he had reached, especially in the early days, Nanami Kento was euphoric to see his daughter every morning. He missed her in the depths of his heart every second she was at daycare, or even just with you running errands.

Kento was a modern dad, bucking the trend by taking the full year of paternity leave along with you. Reassuring you that there would still be an open spot in daycare once it was time to return to work. And he was right. He helped fill out the pages and pages of paperwork. And choosing the 13 facilities to rank in hopes you were offered a spot at your number 1? Of course, your salaryman husband excelled at sorting the data and organizing the thick booklets of information.

When it came time to drop off your daughter on her first day, and it was only for two hours, you both arrived with big, nervous, first-time parent jitters. And were the only full family there in the morning drop off. The other parents sharing knowing glances at you and Kento fumbling clothes, trying to find the bins you needed, almost dropping the thermometer, and giving maybe one, two, three, too many kisses to your daughter as you handed her off.

The walk to the local coffee shop was filled with dreams of what fun your daughter would have with her class. Kento was hiding his nerves well, but you could see right through him. You saw the tremor in his hand, the nearly imperceptible gravel in his voice. He didn’t hold back for the other parents’ sake; he’d never do that. But he didn’t want your daughter to catch his nervous and scared energy. He knew if she felt his anxiety, it would make handing her off so much harder. He couldn’t bear to hear your cries of separation.

So, when you both returned two hours later, Kento lit up with the biggest smile and the most eager arms as the workers handed your daughter off to him.

“Oh, my love, I’ve missed you! What did you play with? Who did you meet? Please tell me all about your day, spare no details,” your doting husband cooed at your one-year-old. He continued an entire conversation with her, even if words didn’t form from the baby babble.

You spoke with the workers to understand how she fared for the short visit. They told you how she didn’t cry not even once. And how tomorrow your daughter can stay even longer, through the morning snack. It made you so happy to get such fantastic feedback.

After a few weeks, you all settled into a lovely routine. Both of you working from home left flexibility for drop off and pick up. And as your daughter became more capable of bigger play times, Kento would take her out to the local park so that you could make dinner most days. You loved the peace and quiet, he loved the bonding time.

As your daughter’s language built up over the months leading up to her second birthday, she was beginning to string together commands. Able to ask for help, food, drink, toys. She even started to command who could sit next to her and then tell them to “moot (move)” away and a new person would be not-so-gently asked to sit next to her.

“Papa,” she would point to a spot on the ground next to her, in the middle of the playground. And Kento is not the type to ignore the requests of a child. He took a polite squat next to your daughter, waiting with bated breath for the next command she would give.

“Mmm. Ah…up,” she reached her hands up in the air.

“Do you want up?” Kento reached over to lift his little one up in the air with a light, controlled, toss.

“Papa!��

You sat on a nearby bench watching, camera clicking over and over, catching the precious moments to share with your friends and family across the world.

That night ran like every other, a well-oiled machine. You took a bath with your daughter, Kento took her for a fresh diaper, clean pajamas, and to help him make, and for her to drink, the nightly milk bottle.

And the final step, you welcomed a sleepy toddler into your weary arms. Tonight, she was laden down with her stuffies of choice, a small Sylveon and Doraemon.

“Okay, let’s cuddle up here, please,” you coax a sleepy toddler into your lap and to lay against your chest. It seems like every day it gets harder as she grows bigger. What happened to your teeny tiny bub?

“Good night, I love you,” Kento leans down to give a kiss to the tiny (well, not so tiny anymore) forehead. “And I love you,” he leans over to your waiting lips as you tilt your head up. Every night you get a soft, but gently urgent kiss from Kento.

“Papa iss?” you both break from the kiss to hear a tired request. Your daughter had sat up from your chest and looked expectantly at Kento.

“Of course,” he leans down for another kiss, this time her cheek. A satisfied smile spreads across her face.

“Mama iss?”

“Yes, love.”

“Mama papa iss?” and you looked up at Kento to make sure you heard her correctly.

“Did she…?”

“You heard her now,” and Kento leans down for another kiss, this time he lingers a heartbeat longer. As he pulls away, in the dim haze of the nightlight he catches your waterline beginning to fill.

“Oh, baby, you’re so sweet,” you coo at your daughter, pulling her into a tender hug.

“Good night, you two,” Kento is standing by the door, soft smile from lips to eyes. He slips out and gently shuts the door.

After you spend a few minutes cuddling with your daughter, you gently lay her in the crib and quietly slip out of the bedroom, leaving her to take the last step to dreamworld.

You sit down on the couch next to Kento. Still feeling the buzz from twenty minutes ago, he reaches over to cup your face.

“How are you feeling?”

“I am going to ride that high for weeks. I can’t believe it,” your eyes can’t hold back the tears of love and happiness. You feel every bit of the dichotomy between the hard moments and the soaring highs of happiness.

Kento could feel his heart grow and swell. The small command would replay in his mind until his dying breath. It would be a story he shared as the father of the bride. An endearing tale he treasured, a memory he could rely on to get him through overtime.

Coaxing you into his lap, Kento presses his lips to yours much more urgently than the last kiss.

[jj-one]

PRESS PLAY !

your boyfriend Jungkook convinces you to make a sextape with him, ultimately ending up with you getting wrecked on camera.

pairing: bf!Jungkook x gf!reader genre/tags: pwp (plot is barely there), smut, piv, unprotected sex, dom!jungkook/sub!reader, manhandling, daddy kink?, there is absolutely nothing holy about this fic… read at your own risk that’s all i’m gonna say tbh words: 3.0k

[note] if you remember seeing this before yes i’m the original author i didn’t plagiarize lol, i made a new blog and was formerly known as @milkychae but deleted a while ago. i’ll be reposting all my old deleted fics and using this as an archive !

Jungkook checks himself out in the mirror one last time, threading his fingers through his thick, silky hair before hitting the record button to start filming.

He had the camera set up on a tripod placed in front of the bed, flashing you a soft smile. You couldn’t stop ogling his divine features, he looked so damn good. His messy jet-black hair swept the sides of his face and was only in a pair of white Calvin Klein boxers. He just looks like pure heaven, unable to keep yourself contained as you sneak glances at his nicely toned, heavily tattooed body. You can literally stare at his beautiful sculpted abs all day, he was the true definition of perfection.

‘How’d I get so lucky to have the hottest boyfriend alive?’ You often thought to yourself.

“M’kay, ready babe?” Jungkook asks reassuringly, he knows you’re excited to do this just as much as he is.

You nod your head “mhm, was born ready!” He chuckles at your cuteness, pressing the little red ‘record’ button on his camera.

Once the camera begins rolling Jungkook wastes no time to spring into action, turning towards you to cup your face in his large hands. He kisses you hungrily, causing you to moan ever so slightly into him, without breaking the kiss you both land onto the bed— he’s hovering over your frame providing light touches to your thigh. You were enjoying every minute of this so far, never getting enough of the sweet taste of him. Pulling away for a second, he grabs ahold of your neck, keeping you in place while his free hand roam all over your upper body. He presses wet kisses to your jaw and chin, then comes back up to kiss your pretty lips once again, making the kiss grow sloppier and heavier. A string of Jungkook’s saliva forms when he momentarily detaches hisself from your lips, smiling down at you. It was more of a devilish smile though, a smile that looks like he was going to snatch the soul out of your body. You two play around on the bed for a bit, passionately kissing and enjoying each other’s presence.

“Come here baby,” Jungkook says, instructing you to get on top of him now, positioning himself behind one of the fluffy pillows on the bed. You do exactly as you’re told and get on his lap to straddle him, he grabs your face with his left hand to kiss you some more while rubbing your ass, harshly slapping it in the process. You wore the tiniest pink micro skirt with bows on the side, it was a mesh material and super see through. Jungkook loved the outfit you were wearing since it was a tiny two-piece crop top and skirt, adoring the curves and shape of your body in the least bit of clothing possible. Slowly lifting up your skirt now, he licks his lips when looking down at your bare pussy, teasing your entrance with his tatted fingers. You quietly gasp as he rubs your soaked folds in an up and down, slow motion, making you subconsciously twitch from sensitivity.

“My god.. you’re so fucking wet babygirl,” Jungkook groaned as he slid two fingers inside, “look how much you’re dripping already babe.” he whispers, staring in awe at his fingers disappearing into your sweet cunt. The room’s filled with only sounds of your wetness, combined with the soft moans you utter, all the juices dripping down your legs and his thumb brushing over your clit was having you see stars.

“You hear that? That’s what good pussy’s supposed to sound like,” Jungkook brags while looking over at the camera, he’s taking this very serious, as if you’re going to end up posting this on PornHub or something. You loved it though and you can tell how into this he is, which only makes you want to do a better job at pleasing him. You moaned louder for him as his fingers go deeper into you, reaching those spots that you never could. Rolling your eyes back as he fingers you harder, he was soaked in your juices, obsessed with the view behold him. You match the movements of his pace, grinding against his digits whilst he reaches a certain spongy spot— feeling so close to cumming already.

Then he abruptly took his fingers out of your dripping cunt, denying you of your orgasm. You whined loudly, clenching again just to feel something, wanting more of him filling you up at this very moment. You childishly pout and beg for more, but he just shushes you and flashes a smirk at your whininess. “Don’t worry sweet pea, m’gonna give you exactly what you need..” Jungkook rasps, still staring down at your cute pussy, but this time spreading your lips apart. He ran his finger down to your clit once again to gently rub in circles, making it even more puffy and swollen. Basking in all your beauty as you threw your head back from the intense pleasure.

“Wanna taste you,” Jungkook’s voice almost sounds desperate, not wanting to waste another second. “Come sit on my face babydoll,” he motions for you to temporarily get off of him, lying down on the bed, requesting that you still keep your skirt on. Placing yourself onto him and comfortably sit on his face, his mouth attaches to your pussy quicker than you can form a thought, already ferociously sucking on your clit. His hands went straight to your ass, slapping each cheek every chance he could, forming blatant red hand prints on your butt.

Jungkook was eating you out like his life was depending on it, uncontrollably moaning his name over and over again. You were in a frenzy as you grind on his face, grabbing the top of his head as if he was able to even go anywhere, his face was quite literally glued to your pussy. Jungkook kept at it for what felt like hours, your juices leaking all over his face without a care in the world. Then all of a sudden you felt this weird sensation, something you’ve never experienced before. It was the same slimy sensation that was all too familiar, but just in a different hole instead. Jungkook was licking your ass, his tongue kept flicking it at first, but now he’s fully immersed into it. He’s never done this to you before but it felt so amazing, it felt just as good as him eating you out but had a distinctly different feel to it.

“You like it baby?” He asks when pulling his tongue away, replacing it with his fingers. His fingers go so deep in your little hole making you squeal out loud.

“Mmm… yes daddy, I do!” A string of moans escape you, sounding so pretty that it’s like music to Jungkook’s ears. Smirking up at you while his digits continue going in and out of your ass, planting a quick kiss to your pussy.

“Fuck, I love you so much my love,” even during moments like these, Jungkook still reminded you how much he adores you, going back to licking your sensitive clit while still fingering your ass. You were in utopia, lost in the magical feeling of his tongue and fingers doing wonders on you. Jungkook could totally be a pornstar if he wanted to, he had the looks, the skill, and stamina.

“I love you so much kookie..” you mewl, closing your eyes from how intense all of this was. You can feel your release coming any minute and you only got louder for him, grabbing the strands of his hair, gripping it with everything you had. You were riding his face like a rodeo and he was more than here for it, his tongue never letting up on your clit. When he dragged a long stripe across your heat, that was all it took for you to cum all over his face. Slowing down your pace as you finally chase your high, smothering Jungkook with your creamy, juicy pussy.

“Goddamn babe, you made such a mess.” Jungkook grunts out when releasing you from his grasp, his face completely drenched with your juices. You come down from being on top and lower yourself to kiss his wet lips, getting a taste of you on his tongue.

Jungkook tells you to get up and stand directly in front of the camera, you immediately follow his orders. He makes his way over to you, ordering you again to get on your knees in a stern tone. Situating yourself down onto the floor, you pull his boxers down and his cock springs out freely from it’s barriers. Making steady eye contact with the camera while grabbing his thick, lengthy cock, the tip was so red and puffy, precum leaking out to make you even more hungry for him. You wasted zero time in filling your mouth with Jungkook’s cock, it felt so warm against your tongue, loving the prominent veins that would show when he was extra hard. You start taking in his length and getting a good rhythm going, bobbing your head up and down. Jungkook winces at the sensation, taking a fistful of your hair and slamming the entirety of his cock into your mouth. His length hits the back of your throat, coming into contact with your uvula, causing you to make a sudden gagging noise. The drool peeking out from the corners of your mouth becoming more apparent as he fucks your pretty mouth.

“You have the best lips for giving head babe,” Jungkook coos while sighing out and throwing his head back, “your mouth is so fucking good to me…” He couldn’t stop praising you, you were like an angel to him. An innocent angel that was only a freak for him. Jungkook starts to get a little rougher with you, forcefully pushing his cock even further down your throat, causing you to choke for real this time.

“Yeah just like that baby, choke on it,” he strokes your hair out the way to get a better look at you. He thrives off taking control of you, see how far he can push you, he knows you can handle it though, he does it out of pure love. “Like being stuffed with a mouthful of my cock, hm?”

“You’re such a dirty fucking slut, look at you,” Jungkook continues degrading you, “sucking my dick on camera like the filthy whore you are.”

You keep on sucking his cock as you look him in the eyes, the words he’s saying right now is all you need to hear for you to become even more of a dripping mess. Your wetness is only growing and it’s starting to spill onto the floor, oh how embarrassing…

Jungkook’s cock was buried deep inside your mouth, managing to fit all of him without gagging anymore. He’s trained you so well over the years it doesn’t take much warming up for all of him to settle in perfectly, it’s like it was made specifically for you. You stay like this for a while, feeling his fat cock throbbing in your mouth as you gaze up at his gorgeous face through your lashes, appreciating how much you admire him. You’d honestly do anything to make him happy. After awhile, you release him from your mouth and go straight to his balls, sucking them up like a vacuum. Jungkook moans out so violently that you think the neighbors could probably hear that one, your eyes grew wide as you didn’t expect him to be so vocal from that. Seeing the biggest smile etched on your boyfriend’s face.

“Shit.. you’re so good at that baby,” he compliments you again, holding the back of your head for dear life. You could suck him off for hours without ever getting tired of it.

He pulls you away from him, telling you to get back on the bed and to bend over with your ass facing up. You do so without hesitation and begin arching, ready for him to do whatever he wants. He proceeds to spread your pussy lips again, as if earlier wasn’t enough already, he dips his tongue back into your soaking wet heat. Your mouth goes agape, barely able to make a sound, only letting out a small moan as he continues, spitting a little on your slit and rubbing it in. He eats you out again while you look back at the camera, whimpering when he squeezes your left ass cheek and gives it a harsh slap. You whimper from all the stimulation, body vibrating as he chuckles at how adorable you are.

“Your pussy tastes so fucking good,” Jungkook is so obsessed with you, but it’s a mutual obsession amongst each other. He took a short break away from your wetness, “you don’t know what you do to me y/n.”

All you could do in that moment was moan like crazy, he was making you feel astronomically good. He licked a couple more languid stripes across your slit and gave it a little slap once he was done. Lifting his head up, he’s finally going to do what he’s been waiting for this entire time. He rubs your ass with one hand while stroking his cock for a little bit with the other, bringing the tip to the entrance of your slit and teasing your hole. His dick slipping in between your wet folds is driving you insane, making you want to just slide it in already.

“C’mon Koo, fuck me alreadyyy.” You were practically begging for him to stuff you at this point, wiggling your ass against him, wanting nothing more than to be filled up by him and only him.

“Alright babe damn, always so eager for me,” he groans as he starts pushing his cock inside of you now.

A broken moan escapes from your lips as you’re feeling him slowly opening you up, your tightness already adjusting to his girth. He began fucking you from behind at a rough pace, giving you exactly what you needed the most. Jungkook grabs your neck once again and brings your back towards his chest, saying all types of dirty, sinful things in your ear while he relentlessly fucks you, slamming his cock in and out of you making you go delirious. Practically shoving his hard length into you, you couldn’t help but scream out in pure ecstasy. His cock felt was the best thing on earth and the more he slammed into you the more you didn’t want it to ever be over.

He was so big you could feel his cock in your stomach, all your insides were being rearranged by him. Your ass was jiggling on his cock so nicely, giving him an absolutely stunning view. Firmly settling your face back into the pillows again, while looking down at your ass he grabs your waist firmly with one hand, the other being on your right butt cheek which was severely bruised from him spanking you earlier. You were so beyond soaking wet that the only noises filling up the room were the gushy sounds of your wetness and the ceaseless thrusts of Jungkook’s cock going deeper in you than ever before.

“Just wanna fill up your tight pussy with all my cum…” Jungkook coos, sounding so pussydrunk from all the pleasure he’s feeling right now. “Show me how desperately you want my cum inside you,” he keeps going, urging you to give him more of a reaction, probably since you’re both on camera.

“Mmm… yes daddy, need you to fill me up and make your cumslut pleasee,” you beg for him to continue fucking you, bouncing back on his cock and making him growl. You wanted him to feel like he was on top of the world, like you were a drug and the only cure for his addiction was your pussy. He keeps thrusting into you erratically, his strokes getting messier and sloppier as he soon reaches his climax.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh fuckk—“ Jungkook belts out a string of curses as he fucks your tight cunt, “m’gonna fucking cum babe… so close..” he grips onto your waist tighter, indefinitely picking up his pace as he starts to see flashes of white invade his vision. He was fucking into you so hard and fast that you couldn’t think or speak coherently anymore, just saying random words and babbling the entire time.

“Jungkook I love you, I love you so much..” was all you were able to say, to which he replies with “I love you more” and continues fucking you from behind like the rent is due. Your eyes were permanently at the back of your head as you were absorbed in the utmost pleasure. Jungkook’s hand reaches over to rub your clit as he proceeds to hit all the right spots inside you, his cock felt so good, everything just feels otherworldly to you right now.

“Ah! Cumming babe, gonna cum—“ Jungkook lets out the deepest groan as he shoots his load inside your warmth, “Oh my god, fuck yes…” he felt like he was on cloud nine, thrusting into you with slowed movements while coating your walls with his thick hot cum. You contract around him, soon reaching your climax right after him, both of your releases mixing together inside of you.

Once he pulls out, you were bodies intertwined with one another again, forgetting all about the camera that was still rolling. You aggressively kiss him, tongues mingling together as if you’re trying to swallow each other’s existence. You took a glance at the camera, checking the time on the screen to see that it’s been going on for almost an hour and thirty minutes now… Jungkook pulls away, noticing you looking at the camera, leaving for a quick second to finally turn it off. He faces back in your direction and presents you with the warmest smile, looking down at your thighs and eyeing the creamy mess that’s dripped down between your legs.

“Let’s get you all cleaned up huh darling?” Jungkook cutely offers, gently kissing your cheek. His big boba ball eyes were staring right into your soul with nothing but admiration and love for you. The duality of his actions were almost surreal, he just fucked you like the devil reincarnated but then acts like the sweetest angel once it’s all over. You’ve always adored that special quality about your boyfriend.

[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ HOUSE OF BALLOONS (richgirl!yn | chaewon x reader )

richgirl ⭢ that girl (she’s delicious) ⭢ idon’t smoke ⭢ pretty when you cry ⭢ homesick ⭢ super rich kids ⭢ girl, so confusing ⭢ take your mask off ⭢ carmen ⭢ untitled

— BONUNS CHAPTER | the dark sides of the moon family- the tales of the three young moons on a power trip (or slowly loosing their minds) the lost media of the young heirs that can never be found

SEPTEMBER 1st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“RICH KIDS GONE BAD??”

“a deeply unsettling video featuring moon yn, a first-year high school student, and her older brother moon jae, now in his final year, has started circulating online and it’s sparking serious concern.” click the video below ⭣

the shaky footage, clearly taken in secret, shows the two siblings in their school uniforms, each wearing a distinct chanel brooch. but this was no time to admire their luxury.

the video begins with a girl standing nervously in front of them. jae has his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. his words are too quiet to hear, but his body language says enough, sharp, intimidating, and cold.

he lets go of her chin and moves his hand to her shoulder in what looks like a comforting gesture, until he begins applying pressure, pushing her down until she’s sitting against the wall. he lets out a low laugh and walks away, leaving yn standing over the girl.

yn kneels in front of her, mimicking her brother’s earlier gesture. she lifts the girl’s chin again, but where jae’s aggression was clear, yn is harder to read calm, collected, and unreadable in a way that makes your skin crawl. she says something too quiet to hear, then smirks.

as she straightens up, she turns her head, looking directly into the camera. there's a soft gasp from behind the phone as the person filming realizes they’ve been caught. the video cuts off abruptly.

the internet explodes… and then goes quiet

but as quickly as the clip emerged, it vanished. users began reporting that links were broken, posts were mysteriously deleted, and accounts sharing the video were suddenly locked or suspended. some claimed the file had been “scrubbed” from search engines entirely. a few who claimed to have saved the video reported their files becoming corrupted.

with no formal statement from the moon family and no official media coverage, the moment began to fade from public memory. a handful of reddit threads and obscure blog posts remain, clinging to what little evidence is left, but for the most part, the world has moved on.

those who still remember are left with questions, unease, and an unsettling silence.

but who they to question what’s going with the moon family? whatever yn and jae did was completely warranted obviously.

THE VIDEO IN THIS ARTICLE IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

OCTOBER 31st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“WHO WOULD’VE THOUGHT THE YOUNGEST WOULD BE LIVING UP THE MOON NAME THE MOST?”

“a voice audio of who seems to be moon yn the youngest of the moon family talking to a teacher has people thinking only one thing, her father sure did raise her.” click the video below to hear the audio⭣

it starts off soft.

“sir…” her voice is sweet, almost delicate. “I’ve been feeling like this for a while, and my brother’s noticed it too. it seems like you’ve been treating us a little unfairly… because of our name? would i be correct if i said that?”

there’s a pause before the man responds, calm and condescending. “yes, you would.” his voice is firm, too confident. “the moons need humbling, and you prove that every day. I’ve been doing this since your oldest brother was here. he took it. so did jae. now it’s your turn. moons don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, so suck it up, young lady.”

“oh…” she sounds hurt. quiet. small. but don’t be fooled.

“that’s too bad,” she says, and there’s a shift. some faint shuffling. her tone sharpens, losing its sweetness. “but here’s the thing… I’m not like my brothers. take that as a mental note.”

he doesn’t respond. silence.

“but anywho…” she sighs, fake and theatrical. “I should get going. it’s a shame we couldn’t come to better terms.”

then, her voice lowers to a near whisper. “but I guess everyone’s gonna love to hear about how much you like your female students.”

the laugh that follows is soft. too soft. and then, the audio cuts.

as of now, moon yn, is rumored to be a trainee under sm entertainment. insiders claim she’s been groomed for the spotlight her whole life, and based on this clip, it’s clear she knows how to perform, even when no cameras are supposed to be rolling.

but just like the infamous school hallway video of the moon siblings, this audio has vanished from the internet.

accounts that posted the original clip were suspended, links broken, files corrupted. forums discussing the audio were locked or mass reported. even users who claimed to have saved it privately say the file mysteriously disappeared or won’t play. no trace remains, and most who've heard it now speak of it like an urban legend, something you had to be online at the right time to witness.

and now, another piece of moon family history is buried.

but hey, she was so right, who was he to mistreat a moon?

THE AUDIO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

FEBRUARY 5th 2017

ARTICLE HEADLINE — “ALL THREE MOON SIBLINGS CAUGHT IN DISTURBING LATE NIGHT FOTAGE.”

a leaked clip of daeun, jae, and yn leaving an exclusive bar has resurfaced whispers about the moon family and this time, no one was laughing. click the video below to watch ⭣

it’s dark, filmed from across the street, blurry, shaky, and obviously taken in secret.

the video opens with the glowing sign of the club, an exclusive bar only frequented by chaebols, heirs, and politicians' children. entry is invite only. drinks are never cheap. and minors are never allowed.

but in the video, all three moon siblings step out of the building. daeun, the eldest and the only one legally allowed to drink, walks out first in a sleek designer coat, jaw tight with exhaustion. jae follows, swaying slightly as he pushes his hair back and looks like he’s trying to hold back a glare. and yn the youngest walks behind them both, not stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

the three of them look like they’re falling apart in silence. no one speaks. no one smiles. the air is thick.

a black car pulls up, but none of them move toward it.

daeun turns to jae and says something low. he flinches. daeun throws his cigarette down. yn leans against the wall, staring at the pavement like it’s talking to her. none of them look like they want to be there. none of them look like they want to go home either.

and then, jae lashes out, not violently, but enough to startle. he kicks something near the curb, mutters something at yn that makes her roll her eyes, and she finally snaps back. it’s silent on video, but the way they speak, no hesitation, no filter, it’s clear the masks they wear in public aren’t on tonight.

daeun rubs his temples. he looks older than ever.

the three eventually pile into the car. the door slams shut. and the video ends.

why was this ever online?

the footage appeared online late one night under the caption “are the moons okay?” and in less than an hour, it was reposted hundreds of times. viewers weren’t shocked by the drinking, they were disturbed by what it revealed.

“daeun looks like he’s seen hell.” “yn isn’t old enough to drink and she looked the most checked out.” “jae’s energy is always so off. the way he moved… i can’t explain it but it made me sick.” “why did they just stand there like that for so long? they looked so… broken.”

and then it was gone.

just like the school hallway video. just like the teacher audio. accounts were suspended, posts wiped, and copies of the video corrupted or removed. users now speak about it like some sort of cursed file — if you didn’t see it when it dropped, you probably never will.

some believe sm’s legal team got involved now that yn is a trainee. others say the moon family themselves had it buried. and a few claim it was never supposed to exist at all.

THE VIDEO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

[whytheylosttheirminds]

june gloom - r.c.

rafe cameron x pogue!reader

note: originially posted on my old blog in September! there are only two parts and will be no happy endings so only read if you're prepared for true angst!!

summary: After 8 beautiful months tangled up with the richest man on the island, your tryst comes to a screeching halt when it's time for him to find a girl more suited to his lifestyle. Even though you tried to move on, a photo of a new girl on his arm sends you both into a spiral that ends with him back in your bed.

cw: hurt no comfort, smut, 18+ minors do not interact!

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂

You met him in September, at a nightclub on the mainland. You had been dancing with your girlfriends all night, celebrating your best friend’s bachelorette party. It was the fourth bachelorette you’d been to in a year, now at the age when all of your friends were settling down and getting married. There was no ring in sight for you, though. Your friends would laugh and call you the wild stallion, a running joke among the group that no man could tame you. You never saw the point in marriage. You were stubbornly independent, insistent that you would make your own way in the world, promising yourself you’d never be just someone’s little wife. 

You knew this choice meant you’d struggle a little more than your friends, most of whom ‘married-up’ financially. You didn’t grow up with money, and you didn’t have any now. You had spent your whole life on The Cut and you had no problem spending the rest of it there. If the trade off for living your life however you wanted was hustling and jumping between dead-end jobs, so be it. You were much more interested in collecting stories anyway, always looking for wild nights and strange characters to fill your life with, briefly, not keeping anyone around for too long.

You went out every weekend, no Monday 9-to-5 looming over your fun. You’d brought many guys back to the little shack by the water that you rented, your barely-one-bedroom, as you called it lovingly. All the other bachelorette parties ended up with you bringing some guy back to your apartment for some pretty good sex and a completely ingenuine “I’ll text you sometime.” So when you stepped off the dance floor, sweat making your silk-slip dress cling to your curves, and the bartender handed you a drink that was a gift “from that guy over there” you smiled wide, knowing this night would go exactly as planned.

You smiled slyly at the tall blond in the corner as you took a delicate sip of your drink. He was gorgeous, eyeing you up and down like he was starved for you. His large frame was crowding the booth of the VIP section as he winked and lifted his glass to you in salute. 

This time, there was a problem. This time, the sex wasn’t pretty good. This time, the sex was earth shatteringly incredible. You genuinely didn’t know sex could be that good, that a guy you met at a bar could ever be capable of making you feel so euphoric, or come so hard, so many times. You didn’t know your own body was capable of the things he got it to do. You didn’t think you’d ever want to stay up talking and laughing with one of your hook-ups like you did that night. You didn’t think you’d ever wake up disappointed that the guy from the night before wasn’t in the bed next to you. And you definitely didn’t think you’d ever be the one to pull out your phone and text him first.

After that night, you saw each other regularly. It turned out he lived on the island too, though his estate was on the rich side of town. That first night, he only told you his first name. But when he had you put your number in his phone and text yourself so you’d have his, a note popped up at the top of the text thread that said “maybe: Rafe Cameron.” You recognized the surname immediately, it was everywhere on this island. After he left the second time, you googled him. Thousands of hits came up, articles about his family, pictures of them at their estate, on their yacht, at charity galas and property groundbreakings. Even though you knew his drive back from your place was only a couple of minutes, every night when he snuck out into the darkness, you couldn’t help but feel like he was retreating to a completely different universe.

After a few weeks, Rafe’s late night visits started getting longer and longer. After he’d fold you into shapes you didn’t know you could make and fuck you breathless, you’d lay in your bed, his head on your chest, smoking a joint and talking for hours. You talked about everything, the conversations weaving between casual chats about your common interests, to deep talks about purpose, values, and trauma, to joking around and teasing each other until you were giggling below him and he was smiling into the skin of your neck. 

You’d tell him about your plans to never settle down and keep chasing the next adventure. He’d tell you about his asshole of a father and the grand plans he had for him. Neither of you ever acknowledged how antithetical your life plans were. The truth that nothing real would ever work between you would hang in the air everyone once in a while, but you’d just push away the tension with a joke and fuck again. 

Even though your nights together would bleed well into the early morning, Rafe never stayed over. It was an unspoken rule between you, he never told you he wanted to stay and you never asked him to. You told yourself it was a good thing, exactly what you wanted, as you shivered in your empty bed and cursed the loss of his warmth.

One night, that May, you and Rafe sat on your bed, eating the take-out he had ordered to your apartment after you’d finished fucking. He was quieter than usual, distracted. Just a little earlier, he had gone down on you for longer than he ever had. Taking his time, praising every inch of you with kisses. He whispered little nothings into the soft skin of your inner thighs before devouring you. “So beautiful” and “so good to me, baby” and “all I can fucking think about.” He always talked to you sweetly, saying the nicest words while doing the filthiest things to you, but this time was different. Typically he was rough, which you loved, but this night he moved slowly, without his usual urgency. He brought you to orgasm on his tongue twice, before fucking you in missionary, his forehead against yours as you came at the same time. Since that moment, he’d barely said anything to you outside of asking what you wanted for dinner.

You sat in silence and picked at the Chinese food he’d gotten from your favorite place. You watched him as he shifted uncomfortably on the mattress and twirled a chopstick between his long fingers.

“You don’t like your food?” You asked him hesitantly.

“Hmm?” He looked at you for the first time in several minutes. “Oh, no it’s fine, it’s good.”

His smile was tight as he set the containers on your nightstand, out of the way.

“Really? ‘Cause you didn’t eat any of it,” you pointed out. You hoped your teasing would loosen him up a bit, but he just sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Hey, is everything okay?” You asked quietly, your hand reaching out to gently pat his leg. You had never seen him like this before and had no idea how to proceed.

He looked up at you and leaned back against the headboard, biting the skin around his thumbnail. You were getting nervous.

“Rafe?”

“I, uh, had a talk with my dad today,” he muttered.

“Oh?” You raised your eyebrows in curiosity. “And how did that go?”

“About as good as you might think,” he chuckled humorlessly. 

Even though you didn't know his dad, after the many stories Rafe had told you about his father’s temper and general disapproval of him, you hated him.

You sat in silence, hand still on Rafe’s knee, as you waited for him to tell you more.

“He said, uh…” Rafe stalled, like he was struggling to find the right words.

“He said what?” Your heartbeat quickened in anticipation, the unfamiliarity of his tone throwing your thoughts into chaos.

When he still didn’t answer, you whispered, “Rafe you’re making me nervous.”

He responded to this, clearly feeling bad when he realized he had you on edge. He placed his hand over yours and finally made eye contact with you. You tilted your head and tried to read his expression with no luck.

“He told me he wants to make me the VP of Acquisitions at Cameron Development,” he finally said.

You shook your head slightly as a big smile of relief spread across your face.

“Oh,” you half-chuckled. “Well, Rafe, that's great! That’s what you wanted right?” You placed your other hand on his forearm and shook him playfully. “That’s good news, why are you acting like someone died? Jesus, you scared me!” 

He smiled at the gesture, you knew he liked the way you’d mess with him. But then he straightened up more against the headboard, pulling away from you slightly.

“That’s not all he said,” he explained.

“What else? He’s going to give you a million dollars?” You joked.

“No,” he said sternly, making the smile fall from your lips immediately. “He said if I want this promotion that I need to get my shit together and…settle down.”

“Oh,” your brows furrowed as you considered his meaning, not quite understanding at first. When it hit you, you pulled your hands away from him completely. “Oh.”

“Y/n,” Rafe whispered, observing the way your lips curved down slightly.

“You’re ending this,” you said flatly, gesturing between the two of you.

“I didn’t say that,” he winced.

“But you are, though, I mean you have to,” you had steeled yourself into an impassive tone, trying to come across as unaffected.

Internally, you were on fire, feeling so foolish for how happy and giggly you had just been, oblivious to the fact that you were essentially being dumped.

Neither of you had ever said this was exclusive, you weren’t a couple, there was no commitment made. Still, the way he’d talk while he was inside of you made your head dizzy with the possibility of it all. There was an alternate universe out there somewhere in the cosmos, where he made you his for real, claimed you in public, put a ring on your finger. Sometimes, when he was so deep you were seeing stars and telling you how much he “loved being inside of his girl” you’d allow yourself to get lost in the fantasy, just for a minute.

Then you’d wake up alone, still poor, still a pogue. You’d light up a cigarette and let the smoke engulf your delusions.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “He made it very clear that he expects me to find someone soon, to get married and start a family. I can’t do that with you, obviously.”

Obviously. Your throat tightened at the hurtful assertion.

“Right, obviously,” you agreed. “I mean I’m just a pogue who lives in this shithole and you should be with someone more worthy of you.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Rafe muttered, closing his eyes tight in frustration. “I meant, ‘cause you know, you don’t want all that.” 

You rolled your eyes. “It’s okay, Rafe, I get it,” you scoffed. “This was never meant to be a long term thing anyway, we’re just fucking.” 

It was such a ridiculous assertion, your trist had gone so far past just fucking, but you needed to convince yourself it was true otherwise there was no way you’d make it out of this unscathed. 

Rafe just blinked back at you for a minute before standing from your bed. You were grateful he was moving quickly, the last thing you wanted to do was let him see you cry.

“Right, just fucking,” he agreed. “And I need someone who can run a house and have a family, y'know, and understands my world.”

Every single word felt like a knife in your gut. You nodded like you couldn’t agree more, shuffling down in your bed and pulling the covers up.

“Okay then,” you fluffed your pillow, as if it was any other night and you were just getting ready for bed. “I hope it all works out. This was fun, though. Lock the door on your way out?”

Rafe looked down at you for a few seconds, your back to him as you settled into your pillows. 

“You got it,” he answered. 

And then he was gone. And for the first time in your life, you cried yourself to sleep.

It was June now, a month had passed since the night you last spoke to Rafe. You had started going out even more than you were before you met him. You friends joked that you were alive from the dead, since you had chosen nights in with Rafe over social events for so many months. 

You were dancing at the same club where you met Rafe so many months earlier. You joined a few of your girls at the bar and waved down the bartender for another drink. 

“...posted on her story,” you leaned in to catch the end of your friend’s sentence. The girls were all leaning over to look at something on one of their phones.

“What are we looking at?” You slurred, already a few drinks deep.

The girl holding the phone told you they were looking at the instagram of a local influencer you all knew of.

You made a fake gagging noise. She was one of the richest girls on the island, infamous among you and your friends for her obnoxiously lavish lifestyle and her overly edited social media pictures.

“Ew, why?” you questioned them, accepting your usual drink from the bartender with a wink.

“Look at what she posted tonight,” your friend holding the phone showed you the screen. 

You studied the photo, your grasp around the cold glass got tighter as you took it in, your knuckles going white. It was a selfie - the girl you couldn't stand all done up in diamonds and red lipstick, gazing up lovingly at Rafe Cameron.

There was no caption, just a little heart-eyes emoji and his instagram tagged.

You never told your friends about you and Rafe. You felt strangely protective over what you had with him, not willing to hear any negative feedback about fucking around with a Kook prince. You knew they wouldn’t understand how perfect and intense your nights with him were. They wouldn’t believe that he was funny, sweet, tender. No one would ever know him like you did.

Like you used to know him. 

You took a sip of your drink and tried to act unaffected by the picture. In reality, your world was crashing around you. You knew he’d find his perfect Kook princess eventually, but you didn’t know it would be so soon, or that it would be her. You half-listened as one of the girls explained that she heard from a mutual friend that they weren’t official yet, but you knew they would be soon enough. Everything would go to plan for him, he’d get everything he ever wanted and you’d just watch through a screen. 

After telling your friends you had a headache, you took a ferry back to the island and walked to your apartment in the dark. It was a questionable choice in this part of town, but you needed the early summer night air to clear your brain. By the time you got back to your apartment you were sober, and yet you still felt like you might throw up.

You ran the shower in your tiny bathroom, letting the steam fill up the space and sink into your pores. The hot water turned your skin red and blotchy, but you couldn’t feel a thing.

BANG BANG BANG.

Your eyes flew open and you turned the faucet off quickly, hands shaking in panic. It was nearly 2 a.m. and someone was pounding on your front door. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded lightly over the front door. 

“Who is it?” You yelled, trying to sound as menacing as possible.

“It’s me,” a deep voice answered from the other side. You peered into the peephole, even though you didn’t need to see him to know who the voice belonged to.

Rafe stood on the other side, his white button up untucked and his tie loosened. It must be the same outfit he was wearing in the picture.

Your body and brain both paused, unable to process the shock of seeing him standing under your porch light.

“What do you want?” You questioned.

“Can I come in please?” His voice was strained, weak even.

“Why?” You said with a guarded edge to your tone.

“Y/n…” Rafe pleaded.

Despite every instinct you had, you opened the door.

He looked frenzied, his hair tousled, and the hem of his suit pants splattered with mud. He still looked fucking hot, his sleeves rolled up a bit, revealing his muscular forearms.

“What happened to you?” You asked.

“I walked here.” His eyes flickered up and down your figure, taking in the sight of you in just a towel, licking his lips.

Your stomach tightened at the hunger in his eyes, but the pain of the last month burned fresh in your mind. Getting over him was the hardest thing you’ve ever done, and the long, painful process wasn’t even over yet. Seeing that picture tonight was just another sharp spike in the barbed wire he had wrapped around your heart.

“She couldn’t have given you a ride?” You spat at him.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need to ask who you were referring to.

“I asked her not to post that picture, I didn’t want you to see that,” he huffed.

“Why not? I knew it was coming." You summoned the same unbothered tone from the night he left you.

“We’re not-” he stumbled over his words, looking down at his feet. “She isn’t my girlfriend…”

“Yet." You jumped to the end of his sentence for him. His eyes flew up to yours. “But she will be,” you surmised with a sad smile.

He doesn’t disagree with you.

“She’s perfect,” you continue. “Gorgeous, rich, part of your world.” 

He sighs regretfully, both of you recognizing the words he said to you a month earlier.

“I know,” he agrees.

“Then why did you come here?” 

He doesn’t answer you, just clenches his jaw and keeps his eyes firmly locked to yours.

“She’s everything you wanted,” you point out. 

He nods his head in agreement again, “you’re right.”

“So then why are you here?” You repeat.

He cocks his head to the side ever so slightly, blue eyes locked onto your lips.

“‘Cause she’s not you.”

You wish it didn’t make your heart race, wish it didn’t make your stomach flip, and you really wish it didn’t make you let out a small, nearly inaudible gasp. His heavily lidded eyes fogged over with need as he studied your face intently. Your gaze dropped from his eyes, to his lips, to his heaving chest, to his wringing hands. He flexed his fingers anxiously, and you wished you didn’t know what they felt like buried inside of you.

Your mind was racing, a million thoughts and most of them were warnings. You knew how this ends, the morning would come and he wouldn't be there. And a year from now they’ll be married and you’ll be haunted by this night. Every self-protective instinct you have left screamed in your head, pleading with you to make the right choice.

You were ready to appease the voices, about to close the door in his face, when his fingers reached towards you and just barely grazed the seam of your towel, tugging slightly with the most restraint you think he’s ever shown. All the noise in your head just stopped. Suddenly there was nothing in the entire world except for the man in front of you.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you breathed out hard and fast before grabbing his face in both of your hands and crashing your lips into his.

He lost it at the sound of his name on your lips and the taste of you on his tongue. His hands landed firmly on your waist, squeezing hard. His lips parted yours and his tongue invaded your mouth, hot and greedy. His hands slipped to your lower back, caging you into him with a flex of his biceps. You let out the sweetest little grunt as you jumped up, your arms and legs wrapping around him so he could carry you.

With you in his arms, he walked into your apartment. Still kissing him, you reached out and slammed the door closed. He let go of you with one hand to reach back and turn the lock, a sign of strength as he held up your whole body with one arm like you weigh nothing. He walked you both through your small apartment, not needing to look where he’s going to find your bedroom.

He bent low to drop you on the bed, you released your grip around his shoulders just long enough for him to roughly rip his shirt open and pull it off. He was back on top of you in seconds, lifting you up to scoot you both up to the top of the mattress. 

As his lips moved to your neck, you realized you’re already falling back into your old patterns, with Rafe controlling the tempo and doing most of the work. The familiarity made you anxious, you had gotten so addicted to the way he commanded your body and you weren’t sure you’d survive another detox. When he started rolling his hips against you, you could feel how hard and ready he was under his slacks, and made a decision.

You reached up behind his head and laced your fingers through his hair, tugging hard to separate his lips from your skin. A gasp passed through his lips at the sensation.

“You want me, baby?” You purred.

His brows furrowed, but he was too desperate to play games.

“So badly,” he admitted.

“You want to be inside of me?”

His eyes rolled back slightly at the sound of your dirty words. When he didn't answer, you arched your back and pressed up into his aching cock, letting the towel open just enough to expose your bare core, your wetness soaking into the soft fabric of his pants.

“I need it,” he groaned. “Need to feel your pussy around me again.”

At this confession, you released his hair and pressed against his chest to roll him onto his back, straddling him. You kissed him again, just as fevered as before. While your mouth clashed with his, your hands undid his belt and he lifted his hips to allow you to pull his slacks down, leaving him in his snug briefs. You bit his lip, smiling smugly when he moaned. You licked a stripe up his neck, loving the salty taste, Rafe already sweaty from how worked up you’ve got him.

You kiss up his neck, until your mouth is pressed into the shell of his ear.

You whispered, “Does she feel as good as me?”

Rafe said your name in warning, clearly not wanting to talk about her while you were on top of him like this.

You pulled his earlobe between your teeth and bit down, making him wince, pleasured by the pain.

“Answer me,” you demanded.

“N-no,” he stuttered as you pressed your hips down hard, your now dripping pussy sliding over the outline of his cock. 

You sat up straight, and he tried to follow you, his head lifting from the pillow, but you laid your hand softly on his chest and pushed him back down.

Rafe watched as you slowly open the towel and dropped it to the floor, revealing yourself completely. He lifted his hands subconsciously, reaching for your tits. You grabbed his wrists and held his hands back, just inches from your skin. 

“Does she make you as hard as I do?” You said with another circle of your hips.

He shook his head back and forth rapidly, relenting to your game. You lowered one of his hands, raising your hips off of him slightly, one more question in mind. 

He inhaled sharply as you dragged his hand against your pussy, his fingers instinctively rubbing with the perfect pressure.

“Does she get this wet for you, baby?”

“Fuck,” he grunted through clenched teeth, “No.”

You leaned back over him, lips hovering over his, your breath intertwined.

“Then fuck me like you’ll never be able to fuck her.”

Rafe’s restraint snapped in half and he flipped you on your back. He ripped his briefs down with one hand, while the other ran over your calf and brought it to his shoulder.

He filled you like only he can, like he was tailor made for you. You clenched around him hard as he pounded into you, eventually lifting your other leg so you could dig your heels into his shoulder. No more words were exchanged, the ecstasy and exertion and emotion all too intense for either of you to form words. 

This is it, you told yourself, tomorrow he’ll belong to her. 

The tops of your thighs pressed into your stomach as he bottomed out over and over again. You hoped he would think the water in your eyes was just a result of the pressure. He must've noticed it though, because he threaded his fingers with yours to soothe you, pressing his forehead against your temple, and panting desperately into your ear.

It only took a few more strokes for you both to come. The last time you heard his voice, he was crying out your name. He filled you completely, and you were still dripping with him when he climbed off of you, pulled his clothes on wordlessly, and left.

You laid still for a long while. No tears came to you this time, a bitter acceptance washing over you. 

He’s gone for good now, leaving you with another wild story to tell and freeing you to throw yourself into the next adventure. And he’ll have a picture perfect life, with the perfect girl.

You both got exactly what you wanted…

…right?

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂

a/n: had to bring this baby back too, it hurts too good. there will not be a part 3/happy ending so only read part 2 if you want true angst! xoxo

[gardenladysworld]

Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @fanchonfallen, @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple, @420slvtt, @zimerycuellat @k-s-tumbler

Part 24: To breath

Oh my fucking god. This chapter took way too long to write it. :(

I want to apologize for taking so long to write a chapter. I'm just tired all the time. Sometimes I just want to sleep all day and do nothing. I really tried my best, but even though I had ideas, I didn't have the strength to implement them. Until now.

Part 25: To thread

The fire crackled softly between them, casting long, shifting shadows along the kelku walls. The glowing datapad flickered once, then again—its fractured screen catching Neytiri’s eye as she stepped further inside.

Kiri and Lo’ak both turned toward her, frozen in place. Kiri remained still beside Neteyam. Her hand, still resting on his arm, didn’t move. But her fingers curled slightly, as if preparing to hold him together should he fall apart. She said nothing. But the tension in her shoulders was loud enough. Lo’ak’s jaw tensed. Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t have to.

Their silence said enough.

Lo’ak first didn’t even glance at his brother. He just looked at Neytiri—his eyes wary, cautious—then flicked a quick glance back toward Neteyam, like he was waiting for a signal. A command. Anything.

But Neteyam stayed silent.

Neytiri’s gaze swept over them with the precision of a huntress—first her daughter, then her youngest son, and finally… her eldest.

Neteyam still crouched by the firepit, unmoving.

He looked like a statue cracked from the inside. Like if someone touched him the wrong way, he’d fall to pieces.

His eyes flicked up. Met hers.

She didn’t blink.

Her voice came again, low and sharp like the edge of obsidian. “What did you say, Neteyam?” Her tone carried no fury yet. Just the heavy weight of demand.

He didn’t answer. Not yet. His shoulders were tight; his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Kiri looked down at her hands. Lo’ak shifted, the knife he'd dropped still lying between them, glinting faintly in the firelight. Both of them glanced toward their brother, then toward their mother. Waiting.

Neytiri’s golden eyes narrowed, blazing with questions.

“Who is yours?” she asked again. This time, the words were quieter. But sharper. More dangerous.

She looked around the space—slowly. Methodically. As if trying to find what didn’t belong. Her eyes lingered on the glowing datapad between Kiri and Lo’ak, then at the carving tools. The unfinished pendant. The button near Neteyam’s knee, now half-hidden in the folds of his sleeping mat.

And then, her gaze returned to him. Hard. Unrelenting. “What are you hiding from me?”

Neteyam didn’t flinch. But the words pierced.

He could feel it—the pressure building. Not just from her stare, but from the weight of five days. Five days of searching. Of silence. Of fear gnawing at his ribs. His knuckles trembled where they pressed into his knees.

Five days without you. Five days knowing you might be cold. Wounded. Lost. Five days since the forest swallowed the only part of him he could not live without. And now… now this.

He finally lifted his eyes to her.

And her gaze—Eywa—her gaze was daggers. Not cold. Not cruel. Just sharp. Sharp with confusion. With pain. With the realization that something was happening to her son—and she hadn’t seen it.

Couldn’t see it. Not until now.

“You speak of someone,” she said, voice taut. “Someone you would not lose. Someone who is… yours. But there is no mate. No promise made. You have refused all who were offered. You’ve ignored every call to courtship.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? The clan sees. The elders speak.”

Lo’ak and Kiri remained silent.

But they were looking at her now. Not startled. Not confused. Just… waiting. Waiting for the choice that wasn’t theirs to make. Neytiri noticed that too. Her mouth tensed.

“Your sister and brother—they might know.” She turned her eyes back on Neteyam, the weight of them like stone. “But I do not.” She took a step forward. “You hide something from me, my son.”

Neteyam inhaled slowly, feeling every breath like broken glass through his chest. He held her stare, even though it burned. And the weight of her gaze hit him like a storm.

Her eyes—once the eyes that had soothed him after every scraped knee and fevered night—were now sharp enough to cut. She wasn’t angry yet. Not fully. She was confused. Wounded. There was something raw in her expression. Something he hadn’t seen in years.

Hurt.

Because she knew. She didn’t know what she knew—but she felt it. That her son hiding something. Something deep. Something true. Something he had not given to her.

And Neytiri didn’t understand why. She looked at him like he had betrayed her.

Neteyam felt it all. Every line of disappointment in her face. Every unspoken accusation. Every flicker of grief—for the bond between mother and son that now felt strained, distant.

And that truth—whatever it was—was written in every inch of his body.

In the way he had refused every girl she placed before him. In the way he had pulled away these past moons.

In the way he now sat, crouched and burning, looking like the very world had come undone beneath his feet.

“What is happening to you, ma’itan?” she said again. Quiet now. Just a mother’s voice. “What are you not telling me?” Her eyes shimmered. “Why do you look like something is tearing you apart?”

He didn’t know what to say.

How to start.

How to explain that the one thing that gave him peace, the one person who made him whole—was the very thing she had taught him to distrust. To fear. To resent.

Human.

He dropped his gaze for a moment. Just long enough for the words to crawl up his throat like thorns.

He blinked. Once. Then he stood. Slowly. Carefully.

Neteyam body tense like a bowstring pulled too tight. The firelight cast his face in sharp angles—his jaw clenched, his breath uneven.

He looked at Neytiri, eyes burning.

And when he spoke, his voice came low. Controlled. But shaking at the edges. “Does it matter what’s happening to me?” The words landed like a stone in still water. Neytiri’s expression faltered, just slightly—but he didn’t stop. “You ask what I’m hiding. Why I turn away. Why I don’t chase the girls the elders place in front of me like prizes. But tell me—did you ever ask what mattered to me?” His voice rose—not shouting, but close. Strained. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Lo’ak’s eyes darted to Kiri. She didn’t move. Her hand was still braced lightly on the floor beside where Neteyam had crouched, but her shoulders were taut. Tense.

His tail flicked once, then again, erratic and agitated. Every part of him radiated strain.

Neytiri took a breath. “Neteyam—” Neytiri’s brow furrowed, confused. Wounded. “Of course it matters. You are my son—”

“Then why do I feel like I’m drowning every time I speak to you?” His voice finally rose. Not shouting—just… breaking. Coming apart at the seams.

Kiri’s head snapped up. But Neteyam wasn’t done. He turned toward her fully, chest rising and falling in shallow, angry bursts. “You ask why I don’t want Sa’nari. Why I don’t chase K’shi. Why I don’t sit at the fire with the girls the elders pick. You act like it’s some great mystery.” He took a step closer. “But did you ever stop to ask who I wanted?”

Neytiri’s lips parted—but no sound came.

“Did that ever matter?” he snapped, his voice cracking wide open. “Or was I only ever supposed to obey? To mate when you said, with who you said? As if my heart was something that could be passed like a tool between hands?”

“Neteyam—” she started.

“No,” he said sharply. He looked to the fire between them, the scattered pieces of his life laid bare. The unfinished pendant. The datapad. The button. He was unraveling. Finally. All the pressure. All the silence. All the pain of five days without you.

It was coming loose.

“I am not some perfect son. I’m not a symbol after the war. I’m not a pawn to bond with some hunter’s daughter so the elders can nod and say ‘he follows the path.’”

Neytiri stood rigid. Her jaw clenched. “Neteyam, you don’t understand what this means—”

“I understand exactly what it means!” he snapped, voice like a roar now. “It means I have to stand here, pretending I’m not falling apart, while you demand to know why I won’t give my heart to someone I’ve never loved—when the person I do love might be dead in the forest right now!”

The last word hit the air like a thunderclap.

Silence. A thick, suffocating silence that stretched like vines. Kiri stood slowly, eyes wide. Lo’ak shifted but said nothing. Neytiri didn’t move.

She just stared.

Neteyam’s shoulders heaved, his eyes burning. His throat tight. His fists clenched at his sides.

“I don’t care about tradition,” he said, lower now. Barely audible. “I don’t care about what the clan expects, or what you wanted. I care about her.” The words barely left his mouth before the next ones followed—inevitable. Final. “Even though she’s just a human.”

Everything stopped.

Neytiri’s eyes widened—just for a moment. Then narrowed. Sharpened.

Like a blade drawn too fast from its sheath.

The fire popped between them, but the sound was drowned in the silence that fell like a sudden storm.

Neteyam watched it happen. The shift. The flicker of confusion… replaced by horror. Then betrayal. Then something deeper. Darker.

Rage.

“Human?” Neytiri whispered. The word left her mouth like poison. Like it tasted wrong. She took a slow step back, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No, no—you’re lying.” She turned from him—her tail lashing behind her. “You would not.”

But Neteyam didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. He just stood there. Silent. Still. Burning.

Neytiri turned back toward him with eyes blazing gold and wet with fury. “You… love a sky demon?” she hissed.

The words were sharper than anything she had ever thrown at him before. And somehow, they hurt worse than if she had struck him.

She began to pace. Back and forth, across the kelku floor. Her steps were sharp. Erratic. The kind of motion born from disbelief that was quickly curdling into rage.

Her tail whipped once, then again. “I cannot believe this.” She spoke more to herself now, pacing the space like it was the forest and she was hunting for answers. “I gave you everything. We raised you to honor your People. To protect them. To protect your blood.” She turned toward him, face twisted in anguish. “And you—you choose one of them?”

Neteyam said nothing.

“A human? A human?” Neytiri’s voice cracked with the force of it. She was circling him like a predator circling prey—or like a mother circling the grave of the son she thought she knew.

“Do you know what they did to us? What they’ve taken from this land? From me? My father. My home. My sister.” Her voice shook with old pain. She turned from him, pacing like something caged. Her voice rose—not a yell, but a snarl behind her words.

“I warned you about them. Since you were children. I taught you what they did to our People. How they desecrated the land. Our ancestors. Our god.” She spun around, eyes blazing. “And you let one of them touch you?”

Neteyam flinched—but only slightly.

“She touched your heart, your soul, your thoughts—and you let her?”

He swallowed hard, but said nothing. Neytiri moved again, circling. Stalking. Her breath was fast and ragged. She looked around the kelku—his kelku—at the datapad, the pendant, the tools that suddenly felt foreign to her.

“Where is she?” Neytiri demanded, suddenly. “Where is this… demon who poisoned my son?”

Neteyam’s fists curled tighter. “She’s not—”

“Don’t,” Neytiri snapped, her voice trembling. “Don’t you dare speak as if she belongs here. As if she is one of us.”

“She is mine,” he growled. “Eywa chose her for me.”

Neytiri’s breath hitched. Her eyes flashed with something almost fearful. “Do not speak her name to justify this,” she said, voice low, shaking. “You think the Great Mother would bless this? A union with the very blood of those who tried to destroy her?”

Neteyam stepped forward now. Something in him rising. Something that had had enough.

“She listens,” he said. “And she saw me. She saw us. And you—” His voice cracked, and for the first time, pain bled in. “—you talk about her like she’s filth. Like she’s unworthy. You talk about her like she’s a stain on me.”

“She is!” Neytiri shouted. The words slammed into the space like lightning. Neytiri’s eyes were wild now, gold blazing with fury and disbelief. “She tainted you,” she hissed. “I should have seen it. The way you changed. The way you pulled away. Refusing everyone. You would not look at them. You would not speak to them. You had already chosen, hadn’t you?”

Neytiri’s breath caught in her throat.

And now she saw it. Clear as starlight.

The mornings and nights he disappeared without a word. The solitude. The way he refused every Na’vi girl the clan paraded before him. The move to his own kelku. The coldness. The change.

Everything. Everything made sense now. And she hated it. “You lied to me,” she whispered. “All this time.”

“I protected her,” Neteyam said. “From this.”

Neytiri shook her head, tears brimming now—not of sorrow, but of fury. “She doesn’t belong here. She’s not of us.”

He nodded. “She is mine. That’s all she ever needed to be.”

For a long, cold breath—no one moved.

Then Neytiri turned her back to him. “Tell me!” she shouted. “Tell me what I did wrong—because I must have, if my firstborn son has forgotten who he is!”

Neteyam closed his eyes. “You taught me to trust in Eywa. To listen when she speaks. So tell me—if she placed this bond in my path, if she tied my soul to hers, if she is the one who led her to me and me to her—how can you call that a mistake?” His hands trembled at his sides, but his stance was solid. “How can you speak of Eywa’s wisdom, and then spit on the gift she gave me?”

Neytiri’s lips parted, but no words came.

Because there was no answer.

Neteyam breathed in through his nose, holding it. Holding everything in place.

Then:

“You may hate her. You may see a demon when you look at her. But I see the one Eywa made for me.” His throat tightened again, the weight of five days crashing over him. “And she’s out there. Alone. Maybe dying. And every second I waste here being berated for loving her…” He shook his head. “…is a second I could have spent bringing her home.”

Neytiri stepped closer. Her eyes wild, glittering. “Home? I cannot believe it. I won’t believe it.” She spat the words. “The son I carried, the son I taught—falling in love with a sky demon?” She shook her head again, furious. “What did she do to you, hm? What lies did she tell to make you forget who you are?”

And that—that—was the line.

Neteyam inhaled sharply. Then slowly—finally—his voice cut through the storm.

“Enough.”

Neytiri froze.

His voice was quiet—but it cracked through the kelku like lightning through bark.

He took a step forward. His eyes burned. Not with guilt. Not with fear. But with something fierce. Defensive. True. “Don’t you dare speak of her like that.”

“You let her inside you,” Neytiri spat, practically hissing now. “Into your heart. Into your soul. Do you even know what you’ve done?”

His hand moved to his chest, over his heart. “She is not just someone I love. She is my mate. In soul, in breath, in spirit.” He took another step forward. “She belongs to me. As I belong to her.”

Neytiri’s face twisted, her breath ragged. “No—no, that cannot be—”

“It is,” he growled. “And if you can’t see it, that’s not my failure. That’s yours.”

She recoiled like his words burned her.

But Neteyam was past the point of softening them. Past the point of begging for her understanding.

Because his mate was still missing.

And he didn’t have time for her fear. Or her anger.

He looked past her now, to the trees beyond the kelku. “Believe what you want,” he said, his voice quieter now. But deadly calm. “But do not ever call her a demon again. Not in my presence.” He breathed harshly, staring directly into her eyes, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You never understood why—but now you know. And I will not apologize for loving her.”

The room fell silent again, the only sound Neteyam’s ragged breathing.

Neytiri’s expression softened fractionally as the full truth settled over her—the distant look, the cold refusals, the withdrawn son she couldn’t reach—it all made sense now. Horrible, heartbreaking sense.

But her face hardened quickly again, determinedly set against this truth she could never accept. “You are blinded, Neteyam,” she whispered bitterly. “This path you have chosen—it will only destroy you.”

He shook his head once, sharply, his eyes burning into hers.

“You may refuse to see it,” he replied quietly, evenly. “But it does not change the truth. She is mine. And I will tear this forest apart to bring her back.”

They stood there, locked in a painful silence—mother and son, both wounded, both stubbornly refusing to yield. In Neytiri’s eyes, there was still anger, still disbelief, still grief—but now there was understanding too.

Now, at least, she knew.

But her eyes remained hard. “Then you are truly lost,” she whispered finally.

Neteyam didn’t blink.

He just stared at her—his mother, the woman who had once been the center of his world—and now, he couldn’t even recognize the shape of her love anymore. Not when it came with such cruelty. Such rejection.

His voice came out low. Icy. Final.

“Leave.”

The room froze.

Neytiri’s eyes widened slightly. Not in shock at the words themselves, but at the way he said them. Cold. Unforgiving. Sharp like obsidian. She had never heard her son speak like that—not even as a child. Not even in war.

Her tail lashed violently behind her once, twice, then a guttural groan broke from deep in her chest—half anguish, half fury. She turned sharply on her heel and stormed out of the kelku.

The flap rustled violently behind her. Silence fell like dust.

Neteyam let out a long, slow breath through his nose, then tilted his head down and raised a hand to his temple. His fingers dug in, massaging slowly, like he could somehow press the headache out of his skull. But it was no use. It wasn’t just pain—it was everything.

Grief. Fury. Guilt. And beneath it all—an unbearable ache.

Kiri stepped forward wordlessly. She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to fix it. She just set her hand gently on his arm again, grounding him. The contact was small, but steady. A silent I’m here in the dark.

But before Neteyam could say anything, it was Lo’ak—still sitting on the floor—who broke the silence first.

“You did such a great job, bro.”

His voice was soft. Honest. Maybe even proud. But Neteyam’s head snapped toward him, his expression like a blade. A sharp glare cut across the firelight—silent, precise, dangerous.

Lo’ak shut up immediately.

The younger brother’s mouth closed with a click, and he nodded once, quickly. Message received.

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. Kiri rubbed his arm once more, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders, but it wasn’t just his muscles shaking anymore—it was his whole body.

He couldn’t stop trembling. It wasn’t rage anymore. Or even fear.

It was the unbearable weight of it all. The truth laid bare. His mother’s horror. The look in her eyes when he said the words out loud—“She is mine.”

But more than that… it was her. You were still gone.

Still lost out there somewhere, and he was standing here in a kelku full of firelight and broken pieces, arguing about love instead of finding you.

He couldn’t think about Neytiri’s fury. Or her grief. Or the ancient wounds she had torn open again with every word.

He had something more important to worry about.

“Please leave,” he said hoarsely. Quieter this time. Almost a whisper. But it cut clean.

Kiri just nodded. She didn’t argue. She knew the storm that still raged inside him hadn’t passed.

Lo’ak stood first, brushing the dust from his hands. At the entrance, he paused, casting one last look back at his brother.

“We’ll start again at dawn,” he said quietly. Not a question. A promise.

Then he slipped through the flap and vanished into the night, with Kiri following close behind.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was heavy.

As if the kelku itself was holding its breath.

Neteyam’s legs finally buckled beneath him, and he dropped down to the pelts with a low thud. His elbows braced on his knees, his hands gripping his head.

He felt the sting behind his eyes.

But he didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

He had no more tears left to give—not to this.

He never wanted it to go like this. Not with Neytiri. He had been ready—so ready—to lie for the rest of his life if that’s what it took to protect you. To protect the only thing that ever made him feel whole.

But somehow… the truth had slipped from him like blood from a wound.

And the most surprising thing?

He didn’t regret it. Not really. He should have.

But as he sat there, heart pounding like war drums in his chest, the only thing he felt was this sharp, aching need.

To find you. To bring you home.

The rest—the clan, his mother, tradition, the elders—none of it mattered now.

Only one thing did.

You.

And Eywa help anything or anyone that tried to stop him.

*

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there.

The fire had burned low, its crackling now just a soft murmur against the silence, flickering faintly like the last breath of a dying star. Smoke curled lazily through the air, rising toward the thatch ceiling in whispers. The world outside was quiet. The rain had stopped. The clan was asleep.

But Neteyam was wide awake, eyes locked on the flame as if it might whisper the one thing he needed to hear.

Where is she?

He hadn’t moved.

His body ached, but he didn’t feel it. His fingers were numb where they pressed into his knees. His tail lay limp on the floor. The datapad had gone dark some time ago, the screen slipping into standby mode, forgotten where it lay beside the fire—black, empty. As empty as the space beside him.

He was crumbling. Quietly. Slowly. Every passing minute stole another piece of him.

His chest felt hollow—like someone had carved out everything that once filled him with purpose and left nothing behind but the echo of your name. His breath was shallow. Every inhale felt like it scraped down his throat like thorns.

He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. Couldn’t rest. Not with you still out there. Not when the forest could be swallowing you whole. Not when he had wasted hours arguing with the only person who was supposed to understand him—only to find that she didn’t. Not anymore.

All he wanted was to see you. Just once.

To hear your voice, even if it was hoarse from exhaustion. To feel your small frame pressed tight against him—warm, trembling, real. To tuck his face into the crook of your neck and just breathe. To press his lips to yours and remember what it felt like to belong somewhere.

Because that’s what you were to him.

Home.

And without you, he didn’t know how to stay whole.

He leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, head hung low. The trembling had stopped—but only because he felt numb now. Hollowed out. Like something essential had been ripped from his chest.

The silence in the kelku was thick, heavy, suffocating. And the firelight cast shapes on the walls that danced too much like ghosts.

Neteyam didn’t move.

He barely breathed.

His thoughts spiraled tighter and tighter, circling the same ache. The same images. You, smiling up at him. You, laughing at something he said. You, brushing your fingertips along his jaw. You, looking at him like he was more than just a son, more than a warrior, more than a duty to the People.

You had never wanted anything from him except him.

And now you were gone.

What if you didn’t make it?

The thought slid into his mind like a knife.

He shuddered and shut his eyes hard, forcing it out. No. No, he wouldn’t allow that thought. Couldn’t. Not now. Not when hope was the only thing keeping his soul tethered to his body.

Come home. The words didn’t leave his lips, but they pulsed like a prayer in his chest. Please, come home.

He closed his eyes, only for a second.

But behind them was your face. That soft smile you gave him when you thought he wasn’t looking. The way your hand always found his in the dark as you lied beside him on the pelts. The look in your eyes when he called you ma yawne.

And something inside him shattered all over again.

His hand moved without thought—down to his hip, where his songcord hung in the woven threads of his belt.

Fingers brushed the familiar loops.

Threaded strands of memory.

He pulled it loose gently, like handling something sacred. Something fragile. And maybe he was.

The cord spilled into his lap—long, worn smooth by years of wear and prayer. He turned it over slowly in his hands, his fingers moving with practiced ease down the length of it. Each bead held a memory, a story, a moment carved into his soul.

But his hand stopped when it found that one—the bead that shone like starlight in the fire’s dying glow.

A single bead, yellow-gold, polished smooth by time.

He had threaded it nearly four years ago.

He remembered that day—standing at the Tree of Souls, kneeling in the dirt, palms pressed together, eyes closed as he prayed to Eywa for purpose. For direction.

He hadn’t expected her to answer.

And he definitely hadn’t expected her to answer with you.

A tiny human girl with sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, with hands that smelled of soil and glass, who couldn’t even reach his stomach but managed to curl her whole body around his heart like it was made for her.

Eywa had given him you.

And now that he had you, he could not—would not—survive a world without you in it.

He turned the bead between his fingers slowly, over and over, grounding himself in that old prayer and the new truth it had given him.

His chest hurt. Not from exhaustion. Not from the fight.

But from this unbearable, desperate, aching need.

To find you. To hear your voice just one more time. To make sure the forest hadn’t stolen you from him.

His fingers trembled against the songcord. He held the bead tighter. Pressed it to his forehead. His eyes closed.

“Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely audible. “Please. Just let her be alive.”

Because if Eywa had brought you to him, if she had truly chosen you to carry his heart, to walk beside him on this path—

Then surely… surely she would not take you away now.

Not when he’d only just begun to live.

Neteyam’s fingers drifted down the songcord again—slow, reverent—until they found it.

One of the last beads.

Not the one he’d added most recently. No. The one.

The one he carved after your first kiss.

It was different from the others—smoother, rounder. A bluish, iridescent pearl he had found near the river after a long patrol. It caught the light just right, shifting from sea-glass green to storm blue when he turned it between his fingers. He had never planned to use it. But something about it had reminded him of you—the quiet gleam of it, the way it shimmered in soft light but hid something deep beneath the surface. So he carved it. Not perfectly, but carefully. Threaded it onto the cord with hands that shook just a little.

He remembered that day like it lived just beneath his skin.

How he had barely dared to kiss you. How he had crouched before you, slow, cautious, like the world might shatter if he moved too quickly.

And when your lips met his—

Eywa.

You had tasted like warmth and starlight and something dangerously real. Your lips were as soft as he had imagined all those long nights he lay alone on the forest floor, thinking of you. Wishing for you.

And in that moment, holding you close, feeling your breath catch as his hands moved gently to your back, he knew.

He was never going to be the same.

You had felt so fragile in his hands—so small, so human, so breakable. But not weak. No, never weak.

You had been right. Like you had always belonged there. Like you had grown into his hands and he had grown into yours.

And now—

Now that same forest he had once thanked for bringing you to him had stolen you away.

He clenched the pearl between his fingers, chest aching, trying to anchor himself in the memory. But it was no use.

The memory didn’t ground him—it tore him open.

Because while he had sat here just days ago, carving your pendant, shaping a river pearl what was looking just like the same as the one on his songcord to match to it—thinking you were safe, maybe laughing with Norm or fixing some experiment with the new samples at the outpost— you were already gone.

Already bleeding. Already running. Already fighting for your life.

And he had done nothing.

How foolish he had been.

Neteyam pressed the bead to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against it. “I should’ve known. I should’ve gone to you sooner.”

The guilt crawled beneath his skin like fire ants. It had been eating at him since the second you didn’t come back.

He’d held it together. Pretended for Kiri and Lo’ak. Took charge. Led the searches. Gave orders. Made plans.

But Kiri… Kiri had seen through him.

He knew it. The way she looked at him. Gentle, careful, like a healer holding something that might break apart in her hands. She knew how close his mask was to crumbling.

And it was crumbling. Because he couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep breathing while not knowing.

He knew he needed sleep. That maybe—maybe—if he could find rest, Eywa would show him something. A sign. A glimpse. Like the last times. The dream-walks that weren’t dreams. The memories not his own. The pieces of the forest whispering your path.

But what if this time…

What if this time Eywa didn’t show him anything? What if she showed him a body? What if the forest glowed red? What if you were gone?

His breath hitched in his throat. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low, the songcord clutched so tightly in his fist the beads dug into his palm.

The fear was worse than exhaustion. Worse than grief. It wrapped around his chest like vines, squeezing, pressing until he couldn’t breathe.

Because he couldn’t bear to see you dead.

Not in a vision. Not in the roots of the forest. Not anywhere.

You weren’t supposed to leave. You were supposed to stay.

You were supposed to argue with him over human things that didn’t make sense to him. Whisper stories in his ear when he couldn’t sleep. Roll your eyes when he said something too poetic.

You were supposed to live. He tried to focus. To breathe. To call on Eywa with more than grief and panic. To ask—not beg—for guidance.

Just one more thread. One more glimpse. One more path through the trees.

He whispered her name into the firelight, like a prayer, like a promise.

And then slowly, he lay back onto the pelts. Eyes wide open. Muscles tight. He didn’t know if sleep would come. He didn’t know if Eywa would show him mercy.

But if she did—

He would follow that thread. No matter where it led. Even if it led to the very edge of the forest. Even if it led to death.

Because you were out there. And he was the one meant to bring you home.

*

Sleep eventually took him.

Not peacefully—not gently—but suddenly, like being swallowed by the waves.

When Neteyam opened his eyes, he was standing in the forest. Not the calm, familiar trees near Home Tree, but something deeper—older. The trunks here were massive, their bark rough, covered in thick layers of moss. Every breath of air carried a cool, ancient weight. Silence pressed in from all sides, heavy and absolute.

He turned slowly, scanning the trees for a sign—any hint of why Eywa had brought him here.

Then he saw it. A flicker between the branches—a shadow moving quickly, carefully. His heart lurched.

Human.

Your shape—small, unmistakably human—running quietly through the trees ahead. He couldn’t see you clearly, only glimpses of you slipping through the brush, moving fast.

Without thought, without hesitation, Neteyam took off after you.

His feet hit the ground silently, swiftly, his breath even, strong. Yet no matter how hard he pushed himself, how much he stretched his legs to run faster—you never came any closer. Always just out of reach, always slipping around the next bend, behind another trunk, vanishing into the shadows again.

“Wait!” he called, voice cracking, panic rising in his chest. “Please—wait for me!”

But your shadow didn’t pause, didn’t slow. It moved steadily away, deeper into the darkness of the trees. His pulse hammered in his throat. His lungs burned. But he couldn’t stop—couldn’t bear the thought of losing you again, not when you were so close.

“Come back!” His voice cracked in the air, raw and breaking. “Don’t leave—please, don’t leave me!”

Then suddenly, the forest opened.

A clearing stretched before him, bathed in soft silver moonlight. Massive, ancient trees circled its edges like silent watchers, their twisted roots breaking up the soft earth. But the space itself was empty.

You weren’t there. No human shape. No movement. Nothing. No trace of the small figure he had chased. “No,” he breathed, heart dropping painfully in his chest. “Please…”

But as he spun around again, his body froze.

Then something growled—low, deep, dangerous. His head snapped up.

At the far edge of the clearing, near a dark shadowed alcove in the roots, stood a palulukan. A female, huge and sleek with night-black skin and eyes glowing like molten emerald. Her shoulders were hunched defensively, teeth bared, the long tendrils around her head whipping in agitation.

Around her feet huddled small pups, their little bodies barely visible beneath their mother’s bulk. Their soft yelps of fear echoed across the clearing as they quickly scurried back, disappearing into the den behind her.

Neteyam froze, muscles tensing, eyes locked onto the predator. He knew he should retreat, move away slowly—but something stopped him.

Something at the palulukan’s feet gleamed in the moonlight.

His eyes snapped to it, heart dropping like a stone into his gut.

An exomask.

Small. Shiny. Cracked and smeared in blood. Its curved glass surface caught the pale light like a beacon, mocking him.

Your mask.

The mask you needed. The mask you never went without outside the outpost. It lay shattered at the feet of the beast, splattered with red—your blood.

“No,” he whispered.

His knees buckled beneath him. He sank heavily into the tall grass, kneeling, shaking, eyes fixed on the broken mask. His chest tightened, the air searing painfully in his lungs.

This was Eywa’s sign. The message clear as blood on glass.

She’s gone.

His breath came shallow, ragged. Every beat of his heart echoed painfully in his ears.

You’d died alone. Here—in the dark forest, among roots and shadows. Without him.

Without the chance to hold your hand, without a final goodbye. He felt something break open deep inside. A grief sharper than any blade he’d known. “No,” he gasped again, louder this time, voice shaking with desperation, defiance. “No, you’re strong. You wouldn’t—you couldn’t—”

But even as the words left his mouth, he knew the truth. Without the mask, without air—you stood no chance. Something warm blurred his vision, hot and stinging. He blinked hard, vision swimming.

Tears.

For the first time since you disappeared, tears finally slipped free, burning down his face. His shoulders shook, head bowed as he sobbed quietly, alone in the silver-lit grass. His fingers tangle into his braids, like he wanted to rip them out one by one.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly to the empty clearing. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

The palulukan growled again, softer now, almost mournful, before turning and slipping back into the shadows, leaving him kneeling alone beneath Eywa’s silent trees.

He had asked for a sign. And now he wished desperately he never had.

*

Neteyam woke with a jolt.

His body snapped upward like it had been yanked from the depths. His chest heaved, lungs desperate for air, every breath sharp and ragged like he'd just surfaced from drowning.

The light inside the kelku had changed—no longer dim and flickering with firelight, but soft and pale. Dawn. The forest outside was beginning to stir.

And beside him, Kiri knelt—eyes wide, face pale, the deep furrow between her brows carved deeper than usual.

“Neteyam,” she said urgently, her voice low and shaking, “Neteyam, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

He turned to her like a ghost—his eyes wide and unfocused, as if the world around him didn’t make sense anymore. His mouth opened, but it took a second before the words formed, breathless and broken.

“She’s dead,” he whispered.

Kiri blinked. “What?”

“She’s dead,” he repeated, voice cracking at the edges. “She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.” The words came like a mantra now, a litany of grief whispered under his breath as he rocked slightly on the pelts.

Kiri grabbed his arms, grounding him. “Neteyam—hey, look at me.”

His eyes finally met hers, and what she saw in them made her heart sink. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even panicked. He looked lost—like the light inside him had been blown out. Like he was watching something precious drift away and couldn’t reach it anymore.

“I saw it,” he breathed. “I saw her mask. Bloody. Lying at the feet of a palulukan. Eywa showed me. That was the sign. That must be the end. She’s gone, Kiri.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper. “She’s really gone.”

Kiri shook her head. “No. No, Neteyam, listen to me.”

“She showed me the tree branch before—the one where she was hiding from the nantang. In the storm. I saw it in the dream. And then I saw her under the hanging Samson. That was real too. We found it, Kiri. All of it. Those dreams were real.” He gripped her arms tighter, like the weight of his words might otherwise collapse him. “So this one—this dream—must be real too. And the mask was broken. She was gone.”

Kiri swallowed hard, staring at him. She wanted to believe he was wrong. She needed to believe he was wrong. She pressed her forehead to his, grounding them both, breathing slow. “Maybe… maybe Eywa wasn’t showing you that she’s gone.”

Neteyam pulled back slightly, confused and shaking his head. “What else could it mean? A broken mask is death for her.”

“I don’t know,” Kiri admitted, her voice low and gentle, but firm. “But maybe it wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was a direction. A place. Like the others. Maybe she’s showing you where to go, not what’s already happened.”

He stared at her, torn.

“Eywa didn’t just give you the end,” Kiri continued. “She gave you pieces before—clues. That tree hollow. The Samson. We followed them. We found them. And you didn’t find a body, Neteyam. You didn’t find a grave. Just a trail.”

She squeezed his hand now, hard. “So maybe… maybe that broken mask means she lost it. Not that she died there. Maybe it’s a sign we’re close.”

“But without it…” Neteyam started, his voice hollow. “She can’t breathe.”

Kiri’s voice broke with emotion, but she held firm. “Then we don’t stop. We don’t grieve until we know. We keep moving. We search that clearing. We find that den. You said it was near a glade, surrounded by ancient trees. We’ll track it. We will. But not if you collapse before we try.”

Neteyam stared at her for a long time, breathing unevenly, his body still trembling. Then he nodded once. Slowly. He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, forcing himself to sit up straighter. “You’re right,” he whispered, voice raw. “We follow the trail. We search.”

Kiri nodded. “We follow what Eywa gave us. Every thread. Every sign. Until we find her.”

Until we bring her home.

*

They searched until the sky bruised into dusk, until the shadows beneath the canopy deepened and spread, until the ache in their bones was as heavy as the ache in their chests. Still, the forest yielded nothing but silence—no tracks, no marks, no hints beyond the haunted vision Eywa had given Neteyam.

As they slowly made their way back to the village, the only sound was the tired plodding of their pa'li and the soft rustling of leaves beneath their hooves. The quiet stretched between them, thick and somber.

When they reached the village outskirts, Kiri and Lo'ak dismounted first, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Neteyam hesitated, sitting motionless on his pa'li, his gaze distant and heavy. The thought of entering the village, facing the whispers and glances from those around the communal fire—he couldn't bear it.

Not tonight.

Lo'ak cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing up at his brother. "Are you…?"

Neteyam shook his head quietly. "No. You two go ahead."

Kiri's expression tightened slightly, worry etched deep into her features. She reached up, touching his knee lightly. "Neteyam, you need to eat. You've barely—"

"I'll be fine," he interrupted softly, voice drained. "I'm just not hungry."

She hesitated, searching his eyes with a gaze sharp and careful, as if trying to gauge how close he was to breaking completely. Then she gave a reluctant nod.

"Alright," she said quietly. Her fingers lingered on his knee for a moment longer before dropping away.

As Kiri turned to walk toward the communal fires, her eyes caught the glow of the flames ahead, just briefly. But in that flicker of firelight, Neteyam saw something new in her expression—something he'd never wanted to see. At least not now.

Pity.

It was there for just a heartbeat—a tiny, unmistakable glimmer of doubt and sadness—and then gone again as she averted her gaze.

His heart sank. It wasn't anger or impatience or frustration—not even disappointment. No, this was gentler, crueler.

She pitied him.

Because even Kiri, the one who had anchored him these last days, who had reminded him again and again to hold on to hope—now she doubted. Now even she was beginning to believe he chased nothing but a ghost.

Lo'ak lingered a moment longer, shifting uneasily as Kiri began walking away. "Maybe tomorrow we could head back to the outpost," he suggested hesitantly. "Check in with Norm or Max. Maybe they found something. Maybe they noticed something we missed. You weren’t at the outpost since you knew she went missing."

Neteyam didn't look up at first. He didn't answer immediately. Just nodded slowly. Lo'ak shuffled his feet, clearly uncertain how to help, how to comfort. Finally, he sighed. "We'll figure it out. Tomorrow, we'll… we'll find something."

Empty reassurance, but sincere.

Neteyam nodded again, finally meeting his brother's eyes. "Irayo, Lo'ak," he said quietly, the gratitude in his voice genuine, if weary. "For everything. Tell Kiri the same."

Lo'ak offered a small, tired smile. "Always, bro." Then he turned, heading after their sister, leaving Neteyam alone in the quiet darkness at the edge of the village.

Neteyam stayed there a long moment, staring after his siblings until their shapes melted into the golden glow of the communal fire. The distant murmur of the clan was a low hum, just background noise. Something he no longer belonged to—not fully. Not without you.

He swallowed around the painful lump in his throat and finally turned away, urging his pa'li back toward his kelku.

Because the truth was, he saw their doubt clearly—both Lo'ak’s weary uncertainty and Kiri’s silent pity. Even they thought he was losing his grip. Even they were beginning to believe the worst.

But he didn't say anything. He couldn't afford to. Not now. Not yet.

Instead, he pushed it down deep inside, burying their doubt beneath layers of raw, stubborn hope—however fragile, however foolish.

Because even if everyone else had begun to believe you were truly gone, he refused. Even if he was chasing a ghost, he would chase you to the very edge of this world and the next.

He would not stop until he found you—until you were safe in his arms again. Or until the Great Mother herself tore the last breath from his body.

Neteyam slid off the pa’li slowly, his body heavy from exhaustion. He placed a gentle hand on the creature's powerful neck, stroking softly. “Go rest,” he murmured quietly. The pa’li chuffed once, nudging his shoulder gently, before trotting away into the gathering twilight.

Neteyam stood alone for a moment, watching the beast disappear into the shadows. Then he turned, his eyes settling on the warm glow emanating from his grandmother’s tent. He hesitated briefly, then moved toward it, his steps quiet but steady.

As he brushed aside the curtain and stepped into the healer’s tent, Mo'at’s sharp eyes instantly found him, and she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You look like a ghost, grandson,” she said bluntly, her voice a mix of concern and mild irritation.

Neteyam snorted softly, the sound bitter and humorless. “Maybe I am,” he muttered, sinking slowly onto one of the mats near the entrance. “I need something. Something to help me sleep tonight. I need energy for tomorrow.”

Mo'at narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him in silence before nodding. She turned toward her shelves, fingers brushing thoughtfully over bundles of dried herbs.

“Your father worries,” she said evenly, her voice low as she plucked a small pouch of crushed leaves. “He thinks you neglect your duties. That you no longer care for your people.”

Neteyam let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Typical,” he murmured quietly, half to himself, half to the emptiness. “It’s always like this. If I step away, I am lazy. If I do everything they ask, it’s barely enough.” He sighed deeply, the sound weary and hollow. “But right now, I don’t care about duty. I don’t care about what he thinks is important.”

Mo'at glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. She didn’t reply, just began carefully measuring the herbs into a small wooden bowl. A sudden rustle at the tent flap caught Neteyam’s attention, the curtain shifting slightly, as if someone had started to enter—but then, suddenly, the movement stopped. He glanced briefly toward it, brow furrowing slightly. Probably just a warrior needing something, he thought absently. Whoever it was, they must have changed their mind.

Neteyam shrugged, turning his attention back to his grandmother as she began mixing the herbs into a thick paste. Mo'at watched him silently for a moment longer, her eyes thoughtful, before she finally knelt before him, placing the bowl into his hand.

“Drink this slowly,” she instructed softly. “It will calm your mind. Give you rest.”

He stared into the mixture, eyes dark and tired. When he spoke, his voice was small—barely a whisper, rough with unspoken grief and doubt. “Do you think I’ve gone crazy too?”

Mo'at paused at that, her sharp features softening just slightly. She reached out, gently cupping her grandson’s face, thumb brushing tenderly across his cheek. Her eyes met his, steady and gentle in a way few had ever seen. “Wanting back your mate is not craziness, ma’itan,” she murmured quietly. “It is love. And love is never madness.”

Neteyam nodded slowly, her words seeping through some of the ache in his chest—but not all of it. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I feel like… I am drifting farther and farther away from my family,” he whispered. “Am I wrong, Grandmother? Wrong to love someone so different from us?”

Mo'at’s eyes softened further, deep wisdom shining quietly in them. She considered his question thoughtfully, carefully choosing her words before speaking.

“Love does not follow rules, child,” she said gently. “Eywa places it within us, and who are we to question her wisdom? Differences matter little in the eyes of the Great Mother. What matters is what you carry here—” she pressed one palm softly against his chest, directly over his heart, “—and here.” Her fingertips brushed gently over his temple. “If both your heart and your mind speak the same truth, there is no wrong.”

She paused, watching him intently, before asking simply:

“Do you truly love her, Neteyam?”

His breath stilled briefly. His gaze lifted, meeting his grandmother’s unflinching stare. And in that moment, all doubts and hesitation burned away, leaving only raw truth.

“Yes,” he said, quietly but fiercely. “More than I thought it was possible to love anyone. She is…” His voice faltered slightly, the intensity cracking his composure. “She is everything to me. Without her, I feel I am nothing. I would trade everything—my name, my position, the respect of the entire clan—just to hold her again. Just to know she’s alive and safe.” He swallowed hard as he murmured, eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. “She’s my heart, Grandmother.”

Mo'at held his gaze quietly for a long moment, seeing the fire, the unwavering truth of his words. Then she nodded once, a gentle smile finally curving her lips.

“Then you already have your answer, grandson,” she said softly, squeezing his hand firmly. “Hold tight to it. Do not let doubt cloud your spirit. Eywa never places such bonds lightly.”

He nodded slowly, closing his eyes as the warmth of her reassurance washed over him—small, quiet comfort amidst so much grief. But he knew, as sure as he drew breath, that nothing would be whole again until you were back in his arms.

Neteyam raised the bowl to his lips and drank slowly, forcing the bitter poultice down with a grimace. The taste was sharp—earthy and biting—and it made his jaw tighten reflexively. He exhaled sharply through his nose as he lowered the bowl. “Eywa…” he muttered, lips curling in distaste. “That’s awful.”

Mo’at didn’t so much as glance at him. “It’s not meant to taste sweet,” she said dryly as she began returning her herbs to their place. “It’s meant to work.”

He pulled the bowl away, swallowing hard against the aftertaste, and stared down into it. The mixture left a dark, sludgy trail inside the curve of the wood, and he just sat there for a moment, holding it in both hands like it still carried some weight, some meaning.

Then, softly—without looking up—he said, “Sa’nok found out.”

Mo’at didn’t look up right away. She continued folding dried roots with care, placing them into small leather bundles for storage. Her voice came calm, unsurprised.

“I know,” she said simply. “She came to me yesterday. Asked if I had known.”

Neteyam exhaled a quiet, tired breath and nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching into something like a smirk. Of course she did. His mother—wounded, furious, betrayed—had stormed to the one place where answers were always demanded: her own mother’s tent. Because if anyone had helped him keep this secret, it had to be Mo’at.

He turned the bowl in his hands again, watching the firelight flicker against the smooth surface. “I guess she wanted to know if the tsahìk of the clan had covered for her son’s little affair with a human.”

Mo’at didn’t respond immediately. She bundled the last of the herbs and tied them shut with nimble fingers, then finally turned her sharp gaze back to him.

“I told her I took the girl as my apprentice in the past weeks,” she said simply.

Neteyam smiled, just faintly, eyes still fixed on the bowl. A warmth fluttered beneath his ribs, small and painful.

He remembered how proud you’d been those days. How carefully you’d stepped into the tent, eyes wide with curiosity, not hesitation. How you had listened to Mo’at’s instructions with such intent focus, soaking in every word. You’d taken notes in your little battered notebook even though the rest of the clan never did. You’d asked questions with humility, with reverence. You never assumed you knew better, even though half the time, you probably did.

Mo’at watched him with a softness she rarely showed, her sharp lines relaxing, her expression unreadable but not cold.

“I suppose she was not happy to hear that,” Neteyam added, almost absently. He didn’t need to say who. His voice was dry, tired. Not mocking—just resigned.

Mo’at said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly, she answered, “No. She was not.” The silence that followed was not strained. It was heavy, but honest.

Neteyam stared at the empty bowl in his hands for a long while, his fingers curled tightly around it, as if letting go would unravel something inside him. The bitter taste of the poultice still clung to his tongue, but he barely noticed it anymore. His thoughts were elsewhere—always elsewhere these days. Drifting after you, even when his body stayed behind.

And then, the words came, quiet and uncertain. “Eywa sends me visions,” he said.

Mo’at didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask questions. She only stilled her hands and turned her full attention toward him, watching him with the solemn stillness of a true tsahìk.

He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right place to begin. His voice was softer when it returned. “Every night,” he continued slowly, almost like he was afraid speaking them aloud would make them disappear. “She wraps them in dreams, but they are more than that. They feel… real. Like memories I didn’t live. Like pieces of a path I’m meant to follow.” He trailed off for a moment, his hands tightening around the bowl until the wood creaked faintly beneath his grip.

“I never find her,” he said, voice raw. “Always too late. Always behind. Like I’m just a shadow following her path instead of walking beside her. I see her in the dreams, I chase her, but she’s always ahead of me. Always out of reach.”

Mo’at’s brow furrowed, her expression quiet but intense as she listened. Neteyam’s eyes finally lifted from the bowl, his gaze locking with hers.

She inhaled softly, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she rose and walked across the tent, kneeling slowly beside him. Her hand found his shoulder, light but grounding.

“Neteyam,” she said, her voice calm but resonant, like water trickling through stone. “The Great Mother does not speak in straight lines. She does not hand answers like fruit from a tree. She speaks in threads. In echoes. In glimpses.”

Her fingers squeezed gently. “You say you arrive late. But each vision still leads you one step further than before right? Eywa is not failing you. She is guiding you, piece by piece, so that you may see for yourself—not only where your mate has been, but what she has endured. What you must understand to bring her back whole.”

Neteyam blinked, swallowing. The words soothed something deep and raw in his chest. But the fear still remained, rooted and coiled.

His grip on the bowl tightened slightly. His next question came so quietly, it was almost lost to the tent walls.

“Would the Great Mother show me her death?”

The silence that followed was deep.

Mo’at’s hand stilled on his shoulder. She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes closed for a moment, as if listening to something beyond the wind and fire.

Then, finally, she opened them again—and her voice was soft but firm, carrying the weight of generations.

“No,” she said. “Eywa does not show death to punish. Only to prepare.”

She leaned forward slightly, brushing her fingers along his temple the way she had when he was a small child with fevers and night terrors.

“If she had passed,” Mo’at whispered, “you would not see her shadow. You would not feel her breath in the trees. Eywa does not torment her children with hope where there is none.”

Neteyam’s breath caught.

“She is not gone, Neteyam,” Mo’at said firmly now, her tone stronger, more certain. “Not yet. The Great Mother would not lead you this far only to find ashes.”

Tears stung at the edges of his eyes, but he blinked them back. He bowed his head slowly, as if the weight of that truth had finally found a place to rest.

Neteyam stood slowly, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness between him and Mo’at. The medicine was already beginning to drag on his limbs, making each movement feel a little heavier, a little slower. He reached out and gently returned the bowl to her hands, his fingers brushing briefly against hers.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” he said, voice low but sincere. “For everything.”

Mo’at gave a small nod, accepting the bowl without ceremony. Her expression was calm, composed, but in her eyes was the warmth of something deeper. Understanding. Faith.

The flap rustled as he stepped outside.

The air was cool and damp, carrying the soft scent of the forest after the rains. Night had fully claimed the sky, stars glinting through the canopy like scattered stones. His breath plumed faintly in the air, the medicine already starting to pull at his muscles, weighing them down like sand.

He barely took two steps before he saw her.

Neytiri.

She stood just outside the shadows of the tent, half-hidden behind a thick root, as if she'd been caught between staying and fleeing. Her posture was tense—shoulders high, hands slightly clenched at her sides—but her face… her face was not the sharp mask she had worn yesterday when she’d looked at him like he was someone she didn’t recognize.

It was soft. Raw. Her eyes met his, wide and uncertain.

Neteyam froze. For a breath, he thought it was the medicine—making him see things. Making him hope. But then her gaze dropped, flicked over him, the way a mother checks a child for unseen wounds. That wasn’t anger in her eyes.

It was worry. A deep, quiet worry. The kind a mother feels when she sees her child slipping beyond her reach and doesn’t know how to pull him back.

She had heard everything.

Of course she had. She must’ve been the figure at the flap earlier. Not some warrior. His own mother—lingering in the dark, listening to his heart unravel in front of Mo’at. They stood a few meters apart, neither speaking, the space between them a silent battlefield of grief and things unsaid.

Neteyam tried to keep his face blank, unreadable. He knew his mask was thin. Too thin, after everything. He didn’t want her to see what was beneath it—didn’t want to give her that piece of him again. Not after yesterday.

Neytiri took one small step toward him, her hand rising slowly, uncertain.

“Neteyam,” she said softly, her voice low, hesitant. She reached out, fingers trembling slightly as if they remembered cradling his cheek when he was still young enough to fall asleep in her arms.

But he didn’t move toward her. Didn’t speak.

He just looked at her for one breath longer—one heartbeat that stretched too far—and then turned away.

He walked without a word, his steps deliberate, quiet, heading toward the far side of the village, away from the warmth of the communal fires, away from her, away from everything.

She didn’t call after him. And he didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Not after everything she’d said. Not after the disgust in her voice when she looked at his love like it was a stain. Not after the way she had chosen tradition over his heart.

He didn’t need her words now. He needed you.

He needed sleep, just enough to carry him into the dreams again—into the shadows where you still ran ahead of him like a star half-lost in the trees.

*

Sleep took him like a slow tide, creeping over the edges of his thoughts and pulling him gently under. The medicine Mo’at had given him dulled the pain in his limbs, but it couldn’t quiet the ache in his chest. Still, his body surrendered—too worn to resist—and before long, the darkness gave way to light.

But not the harsh light of truth or grief or loss.

This dream was different. It was… peaceful.

The forest was gone.

There was no mist, no shadows, no chase through tangled roots or blood on the grass. No predators, no breathless panic clawing at his ribs. Just warmth. Quiet. Light.

Neteyam stood still. He knew it was a dream—he always knew now—but this one didn’t claw or tear or ache. It settled over him like a soft blanket. A memory, maybe. Or a promise.

You were at the outpost. Sitting at your desk, your back straight but relaxed, legs tucked under you as you typed rapidly on the worn keyboard in front of you. The hum of soft power from the solar battery buzzed low in the background. The screen glowed pale blue, casting light across your face, painting it in cool shadows and flickers of code.

Neteyam didn’t move. He just watched you.

His breath caught quietly in his throat, chest tightening—not with panic, but with longing so deep it carved a hollow inside him. You looked so alive. So you. Hair pulled messily back, strands falling forward as your fingers danced across the keys like it was second nature. You didn’t even glance at your hands. Just stared into the floating holo-screen, eyes moving quickly as you translated readings he would never understand.

Eywa, you were beautiful. You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Not in the way the songs spoke of. Not like the women of his clan with their war paint and braids, lean bodies and fierce eyes. You were quiet beauty. Earthbound and glowing.

Not in the way humans sometimes meant it—he didn’t care about symmetry or softness or whatever scientific things Norm once tried to explain. You were beautiful in the way the forest was when it breathed. In the way light scattered through the canopy after rain. You were beautiful because you existed—because he could see the fire behind your eyes, the way your face tilted when you were deep in thought, the way your mouth curled ever so slightly when you solved something no one else could.

The blue glow from the screen lit your features like starlight. And his heart ached. Truly ached.

Because this was the you he missed. Focused. Calm. Brilliant. Breathing. Unbroken.

Let him see you at your desk again. Let him walk through the outpost door and hear you scold him for tracking mud into the clean lab space. Let him sit behind you while you work, legs crossed, listening to you mutter to yourself while you pulled the world apart and stitched it back together through numbers and light.

You shifted, then turned slowly, sensing him the way you always did, as if even in dreams you could feel his eyes on you.

Your lips curved into a soft, knowing smile.

And then, without preamble, you asked: “Have you ever met a thanator?” The question struck him like a branch to the face.

He blinked. “What?”

You tilted your head slightly, still smiling, your fingers finally stilled over the keyboard. “A thanator. The big black one with the scary eyes and all the sharp teeth.” You mimed claws in the air, half-serious, half-playful.

Neteyam chuckled, a sound that felt strange on his lips. “I mean… not in the forest, no. I’ve seen the holovids showed by my father when I was a child. And the hides the clan uses for ceremonial rites. But no, I’ve never actually faced one.” He paused. “They’re dangerous.”

You hummed thoughtfully, then looked away for a moment, eyes dancing in the holo-light.

“I want to see one someday,” you said.

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “What?”

You just laughed. Not mocking—more like you expected that exact reaction. “I know, I know. It’s crazy. I’d probably die in five seconds.” You shrugged casually, still smiling. “But they’re… incredible, aren’t they? The apex predator of Pandora. So powerful, so intelligent. The way they move, the way they protect their young…” Your eyes flicked back to him. “I think there’s something beautiful in that. Even if they’re terrifying.”

“You shouldn’t want to see one,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “You really shouldn’t.”

Your smile faded slightly into something curious, head tilted as you studied him thoughtfully. "Why are there no thanators around the outpost?"

Neteyam shook his head lightly, momentarily distracted by the soft confusion in your voice. "They live further west, toward the perimeter of the clan's lands," he explained softly. "Far from here. That's where their dens are. The prey there is abundant, easier for the mothers to hunt, easier to protect their pups. They rarely stray from that area."

His voice trailed off, and suddenly he went quiet—mind spinning as something clicked sharply into place. A pulse raced through his chest, quickening like a drumbeat.

West.

Toward the perimeter of the clan’s land. Toward the mining zone. Toward the very place you had disappeared from.

He thought again of the dream—the vision—Eywa had sent. The mother palulukan, snarling in defense of her den, fiercely protective of her young. Your exomask, lying broken and bloodied at her feet. He’d seen it as a warning, a symbol of your death. But now…

He looked at you sharply, your eyes still gentle and curious, your brow furrowed slightly as you waited for him to speak. Why were you asking about palulukan now? You, of all humans, knew more about Pandora's creatures than anyone in the outpost. You were one of the most intelligent scientists he knew—so why this sudden question?

Was it you? Or was it Eywa?

Was the Great Mother guiding him, gently nudging him forward—telling him exactly where he should go next? You must have passed near the dens if you'd headed east from the mining zone toward the outpost. The sunlight would have been your guide. Eastward, homeward, through the territory the thanators fiercely protected.

His heart thudded painfully. Perhaps you had encountered one. Perhaps the mask he saw was not a symbol of death, but merely an event on your path. Not a loss, but a clue.

A sign.

His thoughts spiraled deeper, sharp and hopeful and terrified all at once. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling rapidly as the possibility unfurled before him, tangible and desperate.

Maybe you weren't gone.

Maybe you were just waiting, quietly hidden somewhere near those ancient dens. Eywa was not cruel—Mo'at's words echoed clearly now. She guided in pieces, in threads. And he had been too blinded by fear to see clearly.

Lost in thought, Neteyam hadn't even noticed you shifting closer, hadn't felt you move until your small, gentle hands slid over his own, softly curling around his much larger fingers.

He glanced down abruptly, startled, heart stumbling again. The contrast between you both was striking—the deep azure of his skin against the softness of yours, his hands engulfing yours entirely. You were so fragile, yet your touch was strong, steadying him with such gentle warmth that it felt impossibly real.

Your voice was quiet, tinged with a smile as you spoke again, breaking through his spinning thoughts. "You always have such a serious face when you're thinking."

He stared at your joined hands, throat tightening painfully. If only you knew how fiercely his thoughts had been racing, how desperately they were trying to bring you back.

If only you knew how much every moment without you was tearing him apart.

He squeezed your hands gently, crouching down, leaning in closer, letting himself savor the impossible softness of your touch, even if it was just a dream. Even if it wasn't real.

"Because my thoughts are always about you," he whispered, voice raw, eyes locked on your intertwined fingers. "Because I can't stop until I find you."

And even though he knew you were a dream, even though he knew you couldn't truly hear him—his heart whispered fiercely into the silence, promising that tomorrow he would follow this new thread Eywa had woven for him.

West. To the thanator dens. He wouldn't be late this time. He glanced down.

When he looked up again, you were smiling at him. That warm, crooked little smile that always tugged at the corners of his restraint. There was no fear in your eyes. No sadness. Just you. Present. Steady. And before he could speak, you reached up with your other hand.

Your small palm brushed gently along the edge of his jaw, cupping his face.

Your thumb moved slowly, tracing the faint line of bioluminescent freckles that shimmered along his cheekbone. You followed the curve of them like you were memorizing a constellation written just for you.

And then—without hesitation—you leaned in. His breath caught.

Your lips pressed to his—light, soft, a promise instead of a question. And in that small touch, the whole forest seemed to go still.

Neteyam’s ears flattened, a low sound catching in the back of his throat. His tail lashed behind him once, instinctive and sharp, before it curled tightly near his leg. His whole body was wound like a bowstring, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Would never.

Because this was real—even if it wasn’t.

Even if it was only a dream. His lips moved slowly against yours, reverent. Desperate. You pulled back just enough to breathe, your thumb still brushing his cheek. “I’m okay,” you whispered, like a secret only he was meant to hear.

And he believed you. But only for now. Because belief wasn’t enough. He needed to know. He needed to find you. And when he woke—he would. He had a direction now.

*

The morning came without color.

Neteyam was already awake before the first light crept over the horizon. He hadn’t slept long—just enough for Eywa’s thread to wrap around him once more and point him westward. He didn’t need more.

Before the first rays of sunlight touched the treetops, Neteyam was already gone.

The village still slept—quiet, still, unaware. And that’s how he wanted it. He didn’t wait for Lo’ak’s teasing yawn or Kiri’s questioning glance. He didn’t want their pity, not again. Not after last night. Not after what he saw. What he felt.

He couldn’t take another look that said we’re only here because we’re worried you’ll break.

Let them think he was broken. Let them think he’d lost his mind.

And maybe he had gone insane. Maybe he was mad now, chasing signs from dreams and whispers on the wind. Who walks willingly into palulukan territory with nothing but a bow and a knife?

But Neteyam didn’t care.

He would walk into the jaws of death itself if it meant a chance of finding you. So he rode alone.

The pa’li’s hooves hit the dirt path in long, quiet strides, and Neteyam’s bow swayed against his back with every movement. His knife sat at his chest. It wasn’t enough. He knew that. No one with sense walked willingly into thanator territory without a war party. And even then, not with any hope of return.

But maybe he had gone insane. Maybe the grief had finally chewed through whatever strength had been left inside him. Because he didn’t feel the fear anymore. Not really. Not the way he used to. It had been swallowed whole by something deeper. Something colder.

The thought of losing you. He rode west.

Through dense underbrush and vine-strangled paths, past forgotten trees with roots as wide as huts. He tracked the sun and the shape of the land, following instinct more than any mapped trail.

By the time the sun crested high overhead, the trees had grown quieter. The air thicker. The kind of silence that made prey freeze in place.

Their territory. The pa’li knew it too. “I know,” Neteyam whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t want to be here either.”

Shadows crept along the ground as midday passed, and finally, he saw it. Tracks. Fresh and unmistakable. Deep grooves cut into the earth, broken foliage crushed and pushed aside. Huge paw prints led toward an enormous tree surrounded by thick, dense undergrowth.

Thanator.

Neteyam halted, heart thudding painfully. He gazed ahead from the pa’li’s back, breathing shallowly. One set of prints was enormous—unmistakably a mother’s. Beside them, smaller tracks trailed after her, scattered and playful. Cubs.

The pa’li beneath him tensed, head lifting high twitching nervously. It shook its head sharply, hooves shifting uneasily. Neteyam laid a calming hand on its neck, murmuring softly, but the creature snorted in agitation. It didn't want to be here. He couldn’t blame it. Even a seasoned warrior stood little chance against a thanator mother protecting her cubs. Sky-demon weapons would barely tip the odds. And Neteyam was alone, armed only with wood and bone and desperation.

Then something caught his eye through the foliage—gleaming sharply in the sunlight. His heart slammed into his ribs.

Without thinking, he slid from the pa’li’s back, hitting the ground lightly and sprinting forward, bow forgotten on his back.

His breath caught in his throat when he reached the den’s mouth.

Three small thanator cubs tumbled playfully at the entrance, snapping and growling softly at one another. At the sound of his footsteps, they froze abruptly, amber eyes sharp and wary. They snarled quietly, retreating quickly into the shadows, vanishing deeper into the den.

But his eyes were no longer on them. They were fixed on the mask lying broken and bloodied in the dirt, glittering cruelly in the dappled sunlight.

Your mask.

Exactly as Eywa had shown him. His knees nearly gave out, a violent tremor racing through him. He staggered, then pushed himself forward anyway, stumbling closer. His heart was hammering, breath jagged as he knelt down to pick it up, turning it over in his trembling fingers.

The mask was cracked, smeared with dark, dried blood across the shattered glass panel. His vision blurred, throat closing tightly around a sudden wave of nausea.

You were here. You had to be. You wouldn't have abandoned this mask willingly. You'd never leave it behind unless—

No. He refused to accept that. And as he knelt there, desperate, eyes scanning wildly—he saw something else.

Footprints. But not yours.

These were larger. Longer. Broader. A human male's, distinct in the soft earth, leading away from the den. His mind spun rapidly.

Norm. The science team. Xenobotanists, perhaps. Maybe they'd been searching too. Maybe they'd found you, hurt and bleeding, barely alive, and had taken you back to safety—to the outpost, to Norm's med-lab.

Hope surged fiercely, blooming through his chest like sunlight, almost painful in its intensity.

But as he sprinted back toward the pa'li, heart pounding with new purpose, a cold shadow whispered suddenly in the back of his mind.

If they'd found you, if you were safe, why hadn't they told him?

He hauled himself up onto the pa'li’s back, chest heaving, mind spinning with desperate questions. Fear coiled tightly around his ribs, choking out the brief flash of hope.

What if they hadn’t told him because… because it was too late? Because you were too badly injured? Because you wouldn't survive, and they couldn't bear to deliver that news to him?

He kicked the pa’li into a swift gallop toward the outpost, barely feeling the wind rushing past him. He knew only one thing with absolute certainty:

He had to see you. Even if it broke him completely. Even if the next breath he took was the last sane breath he ever drew. He needed to know.

*

It was nearly dusk when Neteyam reached the outpost, the jungle behind him humming softly with the approach of night. The air was thick with the weight of heat and tension, the sky bleeding orange and violet as the last light dipped behind the mountains.

The pa’li beneath him was slick with sweat and trembling with exhaustion, foam gathering at its mouth. He slid off its back without a word, giving the creature a brief, grateful pat on its flank. “Go,” he murmured, voice low and firm. “You’re done.”

The pa’li didn’t hesitate—it turned and disappeared into the forest with a staggering gallop, leaving Neteyam standing alone in front of the gates of Hell itself.

Because that’s what the outpost felt like now. A place of answers he wasn’t sure he could bear.

He approached slowly, steps silent but purposeful, the scent of metal and sterilized air creeping into his nose as he drew closer to the airlock. Something was off. He could sense it instantly—movement, voices, tension in the air like an electric charge. Something was happening.

The outer doors hissed as they cycled open, and a figure stepped out.

Raj.

The man froze the moment he spotted Neteyam—like prey caught in the gaze of a predator. His hands were gripping a large crate, dragging it behind him, but he stilled instantly, body going rigid, face paling.

Neteyam’s tail lashed violently behind him. He hadn’t forgotten.

He didn’t care that Raj was just a scientist. He didn’t care that the man probably never meant harm. All he saw was the one who dared to say she’s not coming back. As if your death was an inconvenience.

Now, seeing him again—seeing him standing there, alive, breathing, dragging some goddamned crate like nothing had happened—Neteyam’s blood boiled.

Raj froze the moment he noticed Neteyam approaching. He went rigid like a cornered animal, eyes darting quickly toward the airlock as if measuring his odds of escape. The crate behind him thudded against the metal flooring as he released it, hands instinctively raising in some half-hearted placating gesture.

Neteyam’s fingers curled around the hilt of his knife before he stopped himself. Not now. Not yet. He needed answers more than he needed vengeance.

Neteyam didn’t stop. He brushed past the man without a single word, shoulders stiff, steps sharp with restrained fury.

Raj flinched as he passed.

Good. Let him be afraid.

He didn’t deserve even a sliver of grace.

Neteyam stormed through the outpost’s airlock, the door hissing open in front of him. His steps echoed through the narrow hallway, the sterile white lights above flickering slightly as the backup generator kicked on for the evening cycle.

He followed the sound of voices—heated, overlapping. The main lab. As he rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of him.

Norm stood near the center of the room, looking worn and resigned, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Max lingered nearby, expression tense. And across from them stood Kate  voice low but full of fire.

Neteyam’s heart began to hammer again. He stepped closer, trying to hear them. The hum of the base was loud—but not loud enough to drown them out completely.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Kate was saying, voice sharp, brimming with frustration.

Norm’s voice was lower, slower. “It’s been over a week. We haven’t had a signal. No sightings. No movement. She’s—”

“You don’t know that,” Kate snapped.

“You don’t know she’s alive,” Norm countered, his voice cracking slightly, weary. “We have to move forward. I had to make the call.”

Kate stared at him in disbelief. “You filed the closure?”

“I had to. Her file's been marked as ‘presumed lost.’”

Neteyam didn’t understand it at first. Closed… your file? He didn’t understand. What did that mean? Was it some human thing? Something bureaucratic? Some protocol?

But then he saw the look on Kate’s face—saw the way her anger masked grief—and something cold and sharp slipped beneath his ribs.

They were giving up. They were calling you gone.

He stood outside the glass, unmoving, silent. The words felt like wind blowing past him at first. Just air.

But then Norm kept speaking.

“We can’t leave her listed as active. Not after this long. It’s protocol, Kate. I know how much she meant to us, but—”

The words hit like a blow to the chest.

“You had no right,” she said sharply, her back to Neteyam.

“I have to,” Norm replied quietly, his voice almost hollow. “We searched the entire sector.”

“You didn’t search all of it,” Kate shot back, turning toward him with a glare. “You searched what the drones could cover. That’s not the same.”

You were still out there. He knew it. Eywa had not lied. The mask, the dream, the footprints—all of it pointed to you still fighting. Still surviving. And here they were. Closing your file like you were just another failed mission. Another line on a report.

A faint snarl escaped the back of his throat before he even realized it.

Norm’s head jerked toward the sound—and his eyes widened when he saw Neteyam through the glass.

Neteyam didn’t move. He just stared at them through the barrier, his entire body trembling—not with grief, but with fury.

Because they didn’t believe in you. But he did.

Neteyam’s heart began to thud, sharp and fast, his body suddenly too still. He stepped closer, lips parted slightly. “What does that mean?” he whispered aloud, but no one heard him.

The three scientists froze. Norm looked up, his expression tightening instantly as he saw Neteyam standing there, wide-eyed, breathing heavily, rage barely restrained beneath the surface. Norm’s voice was low. “I had to file the loss for HQ. For the database. For the funding review. It doesn’t mean I believe she’s gone— It means… we’ve listed her as MIA,” he said quietly. “Missing. Presumed dead.”

But Neteyam was already backing away, shaking his head. The words sounded like static, meaningless and hit like a blow to the chest.

Everything in Neteyam went still. The world, the lights, the sounds around him—it all blurred into a haze of white noise.

Presumed dead.

No.

No.

His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms so tightly he felt the sting of breaking skin. He felt it—but barely. Because the rage and disbelief were louder.

They’d written you off. His hands were shaking.

Kate looked at him with something close to guilt. Max looked away entirely. A voice cracked through the tension like brittle glass shattering in silence. It came from the far side of the lab—quiet, low, but raw. “I told them not to touch anything. Kate too.”

Neteyam’s head snapped toward the sound. Brian.

He stood near the back wall, half in shadow, hands braced on a stack of metallic crates that matched the one Raj had been dragging. His shoulders were slumped, his face pale, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days. His voice trembled—not from fear, but from grief.

“They’re… sending someone else,” Brian said hoarsely, eyes flicking toward the group, then down again. “Bridgehead. HQ. Protocol, you know? Can’t leave a position unfilled. Especially not one as important as hers.”

Neteyam didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

Brian swallowed hard, his throat working like it hurt to speak. “They want us to clear out her quarters. Pack up her things. Prepare for the replacement.”

The words hung in the air like ash after a fire. Final. Cold. Neteyam stared at him for a moment, his breath frozen in his chest. Then slowly—almost unwillingly—he turned his gaze to the metal containers stacked in the corner.

There were three of them. Big. Square. Gray. Labeled with her initials. They weren’t just boxes. They were you. Everything you’d touched, everything you’d loved, everything that had made your world yours—crammed into crates like you were already a memory.

Neteyam stepped forward, unable to stop himself. He moved slowly, one step at a time, like the air had thickened around him. When he reached the nearest crate, he let his hand rest on the lid. The cold of the metal seeped into his fingers. His chest tightened painfully. Inside those crates was your life. Four years of it.

Your books. Your data pads. Your field kits. Your little sketches of Pandoran flora you used to pin above your bed. The scent of your soap clinging to your spare uniform. Your coffee mug with the chipped handle. Your notes—written in that half-scientific, half-messy shorthand he could never understand. The little woven trinkets Kiri had gifted you. The tiny jar of river pearls you’d been collecting ever since he gave you the first one.

All of it. Everything that proved you had lived here. That you had loved this world. His world. And now it was being packed away like evidence. His hand curled into a fist over the crate.

He couldn’t stay here. Not now. Not when the walls were closing in and every corner of this place reeked of abandonment. His voice was low, broken.

“She’s not gone,” he said again, but this time… it wasn’t to them.

It was to himself. And to Eywa. Rage flared so sharply behind his ribs it felt like something cracked.

“She is not replaceable,” Neteyam hissed, stepping forward before anyone could stop him. His voice was low and tight and shaking. “You don’t replace her. You find her.”

Kate opened her mouth like she wanted to say something—to calm him, to offer some tired rationalization—but he wasn’t interested in calm. Or reason.

He pulled something from the strap at his waist and tossed it across the table. It landed with a clatter, spinning slightly on the smooth metal.

Your mask. Bloodied. Cracked. Real. Everyone stilled.

“I found this,” Neteyam said, voice razor-sharp. “At a thanator den. Not scavenged. Not crushed. Dragged. Someone found her. There were footprints.”

Norm and Max paled. Kate’s hand shot to her mouth. Brian just stared, his mouth slightly agape.

“And you want to sit here and close files? You want to replace her?” Neteyam growled. “Then do it. But I’m not staying. I’m not waiting. And I’m not stopping.”

His chest rose and fell with hard, furious breaths.

*

He didn’t know how he got back to the village.

It was all a blur—fragments of memory without context, without clarity. The jungle whispered around him, a backdrop of muted color and indistinct shapes. The familiar trails and trees and scents faded into a dull hum, indistinguishable from the ache in his chest.

He remembered voices—his mother’s gentle murmur in the village, the concern etched into Neytiri's golden eyes. She’d tried to speak to him, reach out to him, but he hadn’t heard the words. Couldn’t hear them over the roaring emptiness inside his heart.

Kiri and Lo’ak had been there too, faces painted with worry, with uncertainty. They had called to him, but he’d walked past them without stopping, without answering. Their voices faded behind him as he moved, his steps heavy, dragging him inevitably to the dark solitude of his kelku.

And then he was alone. Numb. Empty.

He sat on the woven mats on the floor, eyes fixed unseeing into the dim light that filtered weakly through the thatched roof. The silence pressed around him like water, thick and suffocating.

Gone. They said you were gone.

The humans at the outpost—those he’d thought friends, allies—claimed he’d lost his mind. Claimed no other human would be out here, deep in the forests of Pandora. Norm’s voice echoed again and again, words like shards of glass slicing through his thoughts:

Maybe you have to accept she’s gone. Neteyam squeezed his eyes shut, breath catching painfully. Accept it? How could he accept that? How could he let her go like she’d never existed?

You were not just someone he'd cared about. You were his mate—his very heart. You were the one thing he knew he would always want, always need, forever. How could he abandon that? How could he let the pain of your absence be reduced to something as small and sterile as a closed file, a quiet memorial in the corner of a human outpost?

His chest tightened, agony twisting through him. How could he ever be so cruel as to accept your death? It would mean killing the last shred of hope that still lingered inside him—hope that Eywa had not lied, hope that the footprints had led you to safety, hope that the dreams were guiding him, not mocking him.

His gaze drifted across the kelku, empty and silent. Cold now, where once it had felt warm, filled with your quiet laughter, your careful touches, the soft way you'd leaned against him in the darkness.

His eyes caught on something small, lying half-forgotten near the sleeping mats.

The tiny, white button. He reached for it, fingers shaking, heart pounding. It sat in his palm, small and fragile.

Just like you.

His hand moved instinctively to the songcord tied securely to his hip, the thread smooth and familiar beneath his fingertips. His fingers grazed the beads—memories etched carefully into bone, into stone, into pearl.

Every songcord had a beginning and an end. Even then if knowing you were part just a few years of his life.

The first bead was the prayer he'd whispered to Eywa beneath the Tree of Souls—asking for something real. He'd prayed, and the Great Mother had given him you. Human, strange, brilliant, perfect in your differences, made just for him. His anchor. His balance. His future.

His fingers brushed gently over the beads, feeling the shapes, the grooves of memories.

His chest squeezed painfully. Because if there was a bead marking the beginning, logic whispered cruelly in the back of his mind, there would eventually have to be an end. A final bead marking the day he lost you forever.

Maybe you weren't Na'vi. Maybe you'd never woven a songcord of your own. But Neteyam knew his would always bear your story. Your name. Your heart.

Slowly, hands shaking with quiet grief, he took the white button and carefully threaded it onto the end of his cord. His vision blurred, stinging sharply at the corners of his eyes. But he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to accept this. But if he didn't anchor himself to something—if he didn't ground himself in the cold, stark truth—he feared he'd crumble entirely. That he'd fall apart and never come back together.

He stared at the button, small and painfully white against the darker beads. Is this all that's left of you now? He wanted to scream at Eywa, to rage against the silence in his heart. How could the Great Mother give him this bond—let him taste this love—and then rip it away?

Yet even as the anger swelled within him, sharp and fierce, there was something else whispering quietly in the depths of his heart.

A tiny, treacherous voice that said: Maybe you've been lying to yourself. Maybe those dreams were never visions from Eywa. Maybe they were just desperate things your mind created. Hope that wasn't real. Threads that never truly existed.

His breath hitched, the thought aching through him like poison.

Had he gone mad, like they said at the outpost? Had he chased shadows all this time?

His shoulders slumped forward, eyes closing, breath ragged. "No," he whispered hoarsely into the empty space. "No." He couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t accept that the Great Mother would play with his heart that cruelly. She had brought you to him—he knew that. Felt it in every fiber of his being.

Eywa had chosen you. Just as surely as he had. And the Na'vi chose mates for life. He’d known from the first moment you touched his heart that you were his mate. His forever.

Eywa had seen it, accepted it, blessed it. He couldn’t betray that.

But now, sitting alone in his kelku with your button threaded onto his songcord—this tiny symbol of you that felt so painfully inadequate—he wasn't sure what he knew anymore. He felt utterly lost. He didn’t know how to live in a world without you.

His fingers tightened around the cord, pressing the button sharply against his palm until he felt the edge cut softly into his skin. He welcomed the pain. It was something. Anything. Anything but emptiness.

"Eywa," he whispered, his voice broken, desperate. "Please—if you're listening… tell me I'm not wrong. Tell me you're guiding me. Please don't let me lose this hope."

But the kelku remained silent. Only shadows answered him.

His breath shuddered out in a slow, painful exhale, shoulders trembling as he bowed his head.

Tomorrow he would search again. He had to. He couldn't give up.

But tonight… tonight he let himself crumble. Let himself grieve. He was a warrior. The eldest son. Meant to stand strong for his clan, his siblings, his family.

But right now, here alone, he wasn't strong. He was just a heartbroken soul who couldn't bear to lose you. And for tonight—just for tonight—he allowed himself to break.

*

Neteyam sat still, crouched low in the shadows of his kelku, the white button threaded onto the end of his songcord digging into his palm like a wound he couldn't stop pressing. The weight of it felt like the end of something sacred—like a thread cut before the weaving was complete.

The air was thick and unmoving, heavy with grief and the scent of forest and ash. Night hummed quietly outside, the insects murmuring low and constant.

Then—softly, barely a shift—he heard movement near the entrance.

Footsteps. Light. Too careful to be Lo’ak. Too hesitant to be a warrior. He didn’t look up.

“Go away, Kiri,” he muttered, voice raw, dull. “I’m not in the mood to be pitied.”

Silence. Then a voice—not his sister’s. It was deeper, gentler—a voice that had soothed him to sleep as a child, that had scolded him for scraped knees and praised him after his first hunt.

“My son,”

His body went stiff.

Neytiri.

He didn’t want company.

Didn’t want comfort or reason or soft words that meant nothing. He wanted to disappear into the furs and will himself to wake from this living nightmare. He wanted time to fold in on itself and give him one more hour, one more breath, one more chance to make everything right again.

She stepped slowly inside, moving quietly, as if afraid that sound itself might shatter him further. The low flames flickered across her face, casting dancing shadows that softened her usually fierce features.

“What happened?” she asked gently, crouching just beyond his reach.

Neteyam’s shoulders shook once, a sharp breath leaving him in a brittle scoff. He didn’t look at her. He just stared down at his hands, curled tightly around his songcord.

“Why do you care?” he said, voice small, bitter. His ears flattening back. “If you came here to mock me—to celebrate that even the humans have accepted her death—then please, just go away.”

Then, softly, Neytiri crouched beside him. Her hand reached out carefully, landing gentle and warm on his shoulder. He almost flinched at her touch—it was too comforting, too familiar, too maternal to fit with the mother who had spat hateful words about his love.

“Neteyam,” she murmured softly, her voice gentle enough that for a moment he thought he’d imagined it. “You really love her, don’t you?”

Something cracked in his chest. Something fragile, something that had been holding him together by a thin, worn thread.

His head turned sharply toward her, eyes wide, wary, filled with the raw ache he couldn’t hide anymore.

Neytiri’s gaze met his quietly, carefully. Her expression was softer than he’d seen it in days—maybe even longer. No anger. No disgust. Only sorrow. Only quiet understanding.

“I told you that,” he whispered hoarsely, voice shaking. “But you wouldn’t listen. You didn’t care.”

“I care,” she said quietly, voice strained with emotion. “I always cared. Maybe… too much.”

He stared at her, trying to make sense of the sudden softness in her voice. His brow furrowed, confusion twisting through the pain.

“I don’t understand,” he said softly, voice cracking at the edges.

Neytiri drew a slow, careful breath. Her hand tightened gently on his shoulder, holding him steady.

“I was scared for you, ma’itan,” she confessed quietly, her voice shaking slightly. “Not just angry. Not just disappointed. Scared. I feared… I feared what she would do to your heart. That she would hurt you simply by being what she is.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened painfully. “She would never hurt me. Not willingly. Not ever.”

Neteyam looked away, jaw clenched, but said nothing. His tail slowly swaying behind him with some loew thump-thump.

Neytiri watched her son closely, her eyes tracing every line and shadow that played across his features in the flickering firelight. There was an ache deep in her chest—a familiar yet foreign pain, something rooted far deeper than disappointment or anger. It was a mother's grief, the kind born of watching the child she loved grow into someone she barely recognized.

Slowly, carefully, Neytiri reached out, her thumb brushing gently across Neteyam's cheekbone, smoothing over the fine lines of bioluminescence that glowed faintly in the dark. Her touch was hesitant, cautious—as though she feared that he might pull away, might vanish before her eyes like a misty apparition.

"You have grown so much," she murmured softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "So quickly. Too quickly. I blink—and you are no longer the child who used to fall asleep in my lap after listening to old stories."

Neteyam didn't move. He barely even breathed, eyes lowered to his hands.

Neytiri drew a slow breath, the heaviness of it settling in her chest. "Sometimes it feels as though I have missed the moment you became a man. I look at you, and I still see the child I once knew—the child I protected. But then…" Her voice faded, eyes shadowed with sorrow. "Then you speak, and I see a man who has walked paths I cannot follow."

Neteyam finally lifted his gaze, his eyes finding hers. They were dark and raw—brimming with a grief and determination she both recognized and feared. "Then why," he asked quietly, his voice tense but even, "do you not trust in my decision?"

His question was gentle, but it struck Neytiri with the force of a blade.

Her lips parted slightly, words catching in her throat as she met his gaze. She saw the truth there—the quiet accusation, the hurt, the confusion. And beneath all of it, the burning intensity of conviction, the kind she'd once known herself, years ago, when she'd defied tradition for love.

Yet even now, she struggled to give him an answer. How could she explain the fear that had settled so deeply within her? How could she tell him about the past she couldn't forget, the loss she had buried beneath duty, beneath mothering, beneath the life she'd built from grief and ashes?

At last, her words came—softly, haltingly. "Because," she whispered, the weight of old wounds making her voice tremble, "she could never fully belong to you. She could never belong to this place—to the People. No matter how much you might wish it."

Neteyam's eyes narrowed, hurt flickering through his expression, quickly replaced by stubborn defiance. "You don’t know that," he said quietly, firmly. "Eywa—"

Neytiri shook her head, pain tightening around her heart like a vice. "Eywa might bind souls," she murmured, her voice heavy with sorrow. "But there are some things even the Great Mother cannot change. There are scars too deep. Differences too vast. She is human. She is—"

"Mine," Neteyam cut in sharply, his voice still quiet, but with an edge that cut through the air between them. He held her gaze steadily, unwavering, the words absolute. "I don't ask you to understand. Just… to trust me."

For a moment, Neytiri didn't speak. She watched her son—her eldest, her firstborn, her brave-hearted warrior—seeing clearly, perhaps for the first time, the man he truly was. Strong-willed, fiercely loyal, unyielding in the face of uncertainty.

And yet, her heart still ached. The past was still there, whispering darkly in her mind. The wounds humans had carved into her spirit could never truly heal.

Finally, slowly, she withdrew her hand, her thumb leaving a lingering warmth against his cheek. Her eyes lowered, heavy with sorrow, understanding, and the shadow of a mother's fear.

Neteyam’s face didn’t change. Not in the way someone outside would see. But she was his mother. She saw it. The way his breath hitched — the smallest shift. The shadow in his eyes that flickered, like firelight trying not to die.

Still, he said nothing. He just looked at her.

Neytiri lowered her hand from his cheek, but didn’t move away. Her voice softened again.

“Even if her heart beats like ours… even if she walks like one of us… Eywa did not shape her for this world.”

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to the songcord in his lap.

“But maybe,” she added, barely audible now, “maybe… Eywa shaped you for her.”

Neytiri’s gaze stayed fixed on his, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

She saw it now. Not just the defiance. Not just the stubbornness. But the desperation.

And the love.

It was there—unmistakable. Blazing behind his eyes like a flame refusing to die, even under the weight of grief, fear, and her disapproval. A love that had no edges, no caution, no exit plan. She recognized it—not as a mother, but as a woman who had once stood across from her own father and said, I choose him.

And just like that, the breath caught in her chest.

Because she knew her son.

Neteyam did not give half of himself to anything. Not to his training. Not to his people. Not to war. And certainly not to love.

When he gave… he gave everything.

There would be no going back.

Not for him. Not for the girl he searched for like his soul would stop beating if he didn’t find her. Neytiri had days believed there would be time to pull him back, to remind him of duty, of blood, of legacy. She saw her once strong son grow more and more abandoned and weaker day by day, as if he were just a ghost. But the look in his eyes told her the truth now.

It was already done.

This was no passing infatuation. No rebellion. No mistake.

Her son had given his heart to a sky person.

Irrevocably.

She inhaled, slow and deep, her throat tight, her fingers curling and uncurling at her sides as if holding something invisible and fragile.

And when she spoke, it was not to argue. Not to warn. Just to ask—soft, almost inaudible.

"Does she love you back?"

Neteyam blinked, startled by the question.

But he nodded. Once. Firm. Certain.

Neytiri’s eyes lingered on his face for a final breath, searching for something—doubt, perhaps. A crack. A place where she could slip through and pull him home, back to her, back to the path laid for him.

But there was none.

Only that same quiet fire. Only love.

Something in her chest gave a low, sorrowful twist. She reached out again, not to touch this time, but to steady herself as she slowly stood. Her knees felt heavier than they had in years.

Neteyam watched her, confusion flickering in his eyes. He didn’t speak—too afraid that the wrong word might shatter this fragile shift in her.

Why wasn’t she yelling?

Why wasn’t she reminding him that she had once watched her sister die at the hands of humans?

Why was she looking at him now like he’d said something simple—like he’d accepted one of the girls the Elders had picked for him, or spoken of a hunt he meant to lead?

Why did she look... calm?

Neytiri turned her eyes toward the fire. The flames crackled softly between them. Then she looked back at him one last time.

And this time, there was no anger.

Only the quiet, aching grief of a mother letting go.

She paused at the entrance of the tent, her back still to him, hand brushing lightly against the flap. She didn’t turn. Her voice, when it came, was low and worn, barely a breath in the darkness.

“If you find her… bring her home yourself.”

And then she was gone.

The flap fell shut behind her.

Leaving Neteyam alone in the firelight, clutching a human button and a threadbare cord, with nothing in his chest but the echo of her words and the thundering, defiant rhythm of his own heart.

*

The entrance swayed gently, the rustle of the kelku’s flap settling into quiet again, as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

Neteyam sat motionless, staring at the place his mother had vanished, his chest aching with a heaviness he couldn’t name. He felt suspended between two breaths, two worlds, two truths—and for a moment, wondered if he'd fallen asleep without knowing it. If the whole conversation, Neytiri’s quiet surrender, her unexpected words of acceptance—had all been some fevered, grief-born dream.

Maybe he had finally lost his mind, as some whispered at the outpost. Maybe his desperate, hopeless love for you had cracked him open, allowing madness to seep in through the cracks.

But if this was madness—if this was just another cruel illusion conjured by his breaking heart—then Eywa, please, let the next dream be of you.

Let the next vision be your path.

He wanted to see you again. Needed to see you again. He didn’t care if it hurt. He didn’t care if Eywa showed him shadows or nightmares. He needed something—anything—to show him where you had walked, where you had hidden, where you still breathed.

Because you had become the very core of him.

He knew it now, sitting in this dark kelku, his mother’s words still hanging like smoke in the air. He knew it without doubt, without fear—knew it with every breath, every beat of his heart.

He needed you like he needed air. Like the forest needed rain. Like life needed Eywa’s breath.

Everything else—the clan, his father’s pride, the title that had once weighed so heavily on him—it all faded into silence next to the need burning in his chest.

If the clan turned their backs on him, he would understand. If his father’s disappointment carved new scars across his soul, he would bear them without regret. If he lost his position as the future Olo'eyktan, he would accept it gratefully.

Because none of that mattered.

None of it meant anything if he couldn't find you again.

And if he found you—if Eywa returned you safely to his arms—then he would accept anything the world chose to throw at him.

The whispers, the shame, the judgments—he would welcome them, because you would be beside him. Holding his hand, breathing your calmness into him like the first sweet breath of air after a dive into deep water.

You made his life gentler.

His thoughts easier.

The relentless noise inside his head quieted when you touched him, when your human hands traced soft patterns along his jaw, when your quiet voice murmured his name in a way that made it sound new.

You gave him peace.

Something he'd forgotten how to feel without you.

Neteyam closed his eyes slowly, breathing in deep, reaching desperately toward the Great Mother. He let himself sink into the stillness of the kelku, into the silence pressing against his chest.

He lowered himself slowly onto the pelts, exhausted. His head rested heavily against his folded arms, eyes fluttering shut as he succumbed to the pull of sleep—no, the pull of hope.

Because he knew that you were out there. Alive. Waiting for him. Even if everyone else doubted. Even if they called him mad.

You were breathing.

And he would find you. He would hold you again. He would look into your eyes and promise you that whatever storms came, whatever trials you faced—

He would never let go.

As sleep claimed him, he clutched your button tighter, pressing it against his heart, the final thought in his mind a plea and a promise:

Just show me the way, Eywa, and I will bring her home.

*

Sleep overtook him reluctantly, claiming him slowly, carefully, like he was drifting down through layers of water. When Neteyam opened his eyes again, it wasn’t the dark of the kelku or the oppressive shadows of his nightmares.

It was sunlight.

Warm, golden sunlight streamed down through gently swaying branches overhead, dappling everything with dancing patches of brightness. A soft breeze whispered through the leaves, making them rustle like a gentle melody.

Neteyam blinked in confusion, momentarily disoriented.

He stood at the edge of a familiar clearing—before him, an open pond glittered brightly beneath the daylight, its still surface reflecting the clear, blue sky above. And sitting there, upon the thick, fallen tree trunk that stretched gently across the pond, was—

His breath caught painfully in his throat.

It was you.

You sat there, perched on the trunk with your legs dangling casually over the side, your bare toes barely brushing the cool, clear water beneath. The sunlight caught in your hair, lighting it like threads of spun gold. And when your head turned, when your eyes met his—

You smiled.

It was bright, breathtaking, radiant—like the sunrise after endless storms.

“Neteyam!” Your voice rang out in excitement, eyes glinting with pure, genuine happiness. You waved him over enthusiastically, your smile widening impossibly further. “Come sit with me! Hurry up, I've been waiting!”

He froze for just an instant, stunned and breathless, caught between disbelief and an ache so profound it almost brought him to his knees.

This couldn’t be real.

Yet, real or not, dream or memory—his body moved without hesitation. He crossed the grass and climbed onto the trunk, sitting down carefully next to you, his movements gentle as if afraid that one sudden motion might cause you to vanish.

The moment he settled beside you, your brows furrowed. You leaned closer, suddenly serious, examining him carefully.

“You look bad,” you said softly, your voice touched with worry. Your small, gentle hand rose to touch his cheek carefully, tracing the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hollow shadows of his cheeks. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Neteyam swallowed hard, feeling your touch—warm and impossibly soft—against his skin. His chest ached at the tenderness in your eyes, at the quiet worry that filled your gaze.

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t find the right words. He just stared at you silently, cross-legged on the trunk, taking in every detail of your face like he might never get the chance again. Every soft line, every freckle, every gentle curve—he burned it all into memory, his heart clenching painfully.

“Why are you here?” he finally whispered, his voice strained. “In my dream? Did…did something happen to you?” His voice cracked on the question he’d been afraid to ask. “Are you here to say goodbye?”

Your brow knitted, confusion flickering across your features clearly even under the exomask, as if the question baffled you completely. “Goodbye?” You laughed quietly, as though it was the strangest thing you'd ever heard. “Why would I be dead, Neteyam?”

He watched you carefully, heart aching at the genuine confusion in your expression, the way your eyes searched his face for answers he didn’t have.

You turned slightly, gesturing at the beautiful pond around you, eyes softening again. “It’s just another day, right? Just us, here.”

Neteyam felt something shift inside him as he studied you quietly—your peaceful demeanor, your gentle, familiar smile. Suddenly, understanding pierced him like an arrow.

This was how the ancestors behaved in Eywa’s embrace—at the Tree of Voices. They lived in memories, reliving beautiful, happy moments, unaware of their own deaths.

His stomach churned, twisting in grief.

Were you already lost? Was this just your memory—a fragment of you held by Eywa, replaying endlessly?

He lifted his gaze slowly, recognizing suddenly the place you sat together. It had been before you became mates—before you had confessed how deeply your hearts belonged to each other. You’d seen a water lily in your datapad and asked him eagerly if he knew where you could find it. Neteyam remembered clearly bringing you here, how your eyes lit up, how your smile was wider than he'd ever seen it, how you’d laughed with pure, radiant joy as you examined the delicate flower with tender awe.

That day had been perfect.

But seeing you now—trapped forever in a memory—threatened to break him completely.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to break, not to crumble in front of you. But just before he could spiral deeper into grief and confusion, your voice broke through again—soft, quiet, a whisper meant only for him.

“I’m underground.”

He stiffened, a sharp ache slicing through his chest. Underground. His breath caught sharply.

“Eywa…” he breathed, voice barely audible. “So you really—”

You continued quietly, eyes distant, looking toward the water as if it might whisper your truths to him. “I want to go home, but…”

Your voice faded, the unfinished sentence hanging heavily in the air between you.

He felt his heart fracture.

But then, slowly, you turned your gaze back to him, your eyes filled with quiet, gentle sadness and something else—hope.

“I just need more time,” you whispered softly, reaching up to gently cup his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone in a familiar caress. “Will you wait for me?”

He leaned instantly into your palm, eyes closing as he drank in your touch, your warmth, your presence. It hurt—it hurt so badly—to know this wasn’t real, that this was just a vision. Yet the simple sensation of your skin against his steadied him.

“Could you do that for me?” Your voice was soft, hopeful, pleading.

His throat tightened painfully. “I’ll wait forever,” he whispered brokenly. “Forever, ma yawne.”

You gazed at him, eyes overflowing with love, affection so deep it threatened to break him again. But then you smiled softly, playfully, your fingertip booping gently against his flat nose.

“But you need to take care of yourself,” you scolded lightly, softly chiding him. “Eat something. Rest. You look like you’re falling apart.”

And that—that simple, gentle worry—almost shattered him completely. Tears burned behind his eyes, threatening to spill over as he watched you, your gentle smile, your familiar scolding.

Because even now—even in dreams, in visions—your first worry was always him.

He reached up, gently grasping your hand, pressing it tightly against his face as if it might keep you here, as if the strength of his love alone could anchor you.

“I’ll try,” he breathed, voice cracking, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I promise.”

You smiled softly, eyes glowing with warmth and tenderness, your small palm still pressed gently against his cheek.

“Good,” you whispered, leaning your forehead gently against his. “Just wait a little longer. I’ll come home to you. I promise.”

His eyes slipped shut, chest aching, heart beating painfully fast.

His little heart, his stubborn miracle, still trying to protect him even while buried gods-know-where, bleeding and hurting and alone.

And as the dream slowly began to fade, slipping away from him like mist between his fingers, one truth remained, shining clearly even in the darkness.

You were alive.

Somewhere, beneath soil and root and stone—you were alive, and you were fighting.

And he would wait for you.

Forever, if he had to.

*

The following days melted into an endless blur of desperate searching.

Neteyam returned relentlessly to the thanator den—the same spot where your shattered mask lay in fragments, silent witness to your probably violent encounter. He crouched near the entrance, fingers tracing the half-hidden footprints embedded in the damp earth, his pulse quickening with dread and hope each time.

A human man's footprints, unmistakably dragging something—or rather, someone—away from the den. Neteyam knew in the depths of his heart it had been you, limp and defenseless, dragged through mud and leaves toward an unknown fate.

But where had you been taken?

His determination burned fiercely as he followed the trail again and again, each footstep searing a mark in his soul. He parted thick foliage, scanned each leaf and stem for signs of disturbance, his heart pounding with every lost or regained glimpse of the trail.

But the jungle was ruthless. The foliage dense, tangled—unyielding. And when the footprints vanished beneath fallen leaves or blended cruelly into dense patches of moss, Neteyam felt his heart fracture a little more each time.

Yet, he pressed forward anyway, driven by your voice in his dream, your whispered plea echoing softly in his heart.

But on the second night, a fierce storm crashed through the forest, the heavens breaking open, a torrential downpour washing the world clean. Rain sluiced across the jungle floor, carving rivers from dirt paths, mercilessly obliterating the precious footprints.

He stood there the next morning, soaked to the bone, trembling from exhaustion, rage, and grief as he stared at the newly blank jungle floor—no footprints, no hints, no path.

He was left only with the ache in his chest and the echoes of your voice.

"Will you wait for me?"

As if he could do anything else.

But he wasn’t giving up. Not ever. He would find another way—Eywa would guide him.

On a misty evening, drawn by a force deep within, Neteyam found himself kneeling beneath the magnificent branches of the Tree of Souls. The air hummed softly with Eywa’s presence, countless glowing tendrils drifting like ghostly threads of pure light around him.

He knelt reverently, eyes heavy with exhaustion, heart heavy with yearning. His breathing slowed, the deepening twilight enveloping him as he reached behind, gently grasping the delicate braid of his kuru. Carefully, reverently, he connected it with one of Eywa’s softly glowing tendrils.

At once, a deep peace settled over him, wrapping gently around his bruised soul. His eyes fluttered shut, his head lowering humbly in silent communion.

Years ago, he'd knelt at the same place seeking guidance from Eywa—his path, his purpose within the clan. And now, once again, he pleaded silently, soul bare before the Great Mother, desperately seeking your path—your location, your heart, your life.

No words crossed his lips.

Because no language—no spoken prayer—could capture the depth of what he felt for you, the aching emptiness without your presence beside him.

His silent prayer reached out, powerful in its stillness, trembling gently through every thread of Eywa’s connection.

"Bring her back to me."

"Please."

His chest rose and fell softly, the breeze gently moving the braids of his hair, swaying softly around him like living threads. He allowed himself to sink deeper into the communion, deeper into Eywa’s embrace—

And suddenly, softly, impossibly clear through the whispering hush of leaves and the murmuring heartbeat of Eywa herself, he heard his name.

"Neteyam."

His heart jolted violently, eyes flying open in instant clarity.

It was your voice.

Clear as day, as gentle and real as if you stood right behind him, close enough to touch, close enough for your breath to stir softly against his ear.

He whipped around, breath hitching, eyes wide and hopeful—

But the clearing was empty.

Only the softly glowing tendrils of Eywa surrounded him, swaying gently in the breeze, untouched by any physical presence. He was alone beneath the Great Mother’s ancient tree, utterly, painfully alone.

Yet your voice resonated clearly in his heart.

"Wait for me."

He swallowed the lump that rose painfully in his throat, heart pounding fiercely as tears blurred his vision.

Eywa had answered him in her own subtle, gentle way. Not clearly enough to show him exactly where you were, not clearly enough to reveal your captor or the path he had taken—but clearly enough to reassure him you still breathed. Clearly enough to promise you were still fighting, still hoping, still reaching for him across the abyss.

He inhaled shakily, fingers gently gripping the sacred tendril connecting him to Eywa, his voice a trembling whisper, firm and determined in the deepening darkness.

“I will wait,” he vowed quietly, reverently, beneath Eywa’s eternal watch. “As long as it takes. Until she comes home.”

He disconnected his kuru slowly, letting the glowing tendril drift gently back into place. He rose silently, the weight of grief mingled with fierce hope and unyielding determination as he gazed out into the deepening twilight.

*

The morning of the fourth day was quiet, as though the village itself held its breath, waiting for something Neteyam couldn’t yet understand. Dawn broke gently, a slow ripple of pale blue and gold across the waking sky. The clan still slept, undisturbed by nightmares, untouched by his relentless grief.

But Neteyam was already awake, preparing in silence.

He wrapped his bow carefully, secured his knife at his chest. His motions were mechanical now, almost ritualistic, each step a quiet affirmation: I will find you.

He was just about to step out, to vanish again into the restless forest, when a quiet rustle at the kelku’s entrance startled him. Neteyam turned swiftly, pulse leaping, muscles coiled tight—only to relax slightly as Kiri ducked inside, her movements slow, quiet, cautious.

Something in her demeanor made him pause, senses sharpening.

She didn’t greet him. Didn’t smile or tease or scold. He didn’t even saw the pity. Just stepped closer, eyes heavy, unreadable, the dark circles beneath them a reflection of his own exhaustion.

“Neteyam,” she began softly, hesitating briefly as if unsure how to proceed. “You need to eat.”

She held out a leaf bundle, carefully folded around roasted yovo fruit and seasoned teylu, still warm from the fires. He stared at it, confused for a heartbeat before finally taking it, holding the bundle numbly in his palm.

“Thank you,” he said carefully, quietly, though food was the last thing on his mind.

Kiri nodded, eyes scanning his face in silent worry. The usual brightness, the teasing spark in her gaze was absent—replaced by something far heavier, something deeply troubled.

He frowned, heart picking up pace.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, carefully. The air thickened, and Kiri seemed to struggle to meet his eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Kiri inhaled deeply, as if steeling herself for something difficult. Her gaze dropped momentarily to the leaf-wrapped food in his hand, then lifted again, meeting his eyes with quiet intensity.

“Don’t take the pa’li today,” she said suddenly, softly, voice barely audible in the stillness.

He stiffened instantly, pulse quickening. “What?”

She held his gaze steadily, something deep and ancient flickering in her amber eyes—something he couldn’t entirely read. “Take your ikran. Fly above. See further, faster.”

His stomach tightened uncomfortably, fingers unconsciously clenching around the food in his palm. “Kiri, why—”

“She is close,” Kiri interrupted him quietly, her voice soft yet firm, carrying the unmistakable weight of a truth she hadn’t wanted to voice. She inhaled slowly, carefully, as though each word was painful. “Mo’at feels it. I feel it. Eywa feels it.”

He stared, throat dry, breath shallow.

Close?

Close… and yet—

Something unspoken hovered heavily in her tone, hidden behind her careful words. Something darker. Something wrong.

He took a half-step closer, heart hammering unsteadily, pulse loud in his ears. “Kiri—what else? Tell me. Please.”

She hesitated, mouth opening and closing, her face taut with uncertainty. Her voice, when it finally came, was soft and troubled. “Mo’at said… something is not right. She senses a shift, a change. She doesn’t know how or why, but—”

His voice caught painfully in his chest, breath hitching. “But what? What’s changed?”

Kiri’s eyes brimmed with quiet, sorrowful compassion. “We don’t know. Just that… if you find her, Neteyam—when you find her—she might not be the same.”

Her words settled coldly in his chest, heavy as stone, suffocating in their vagueness.

Not the same.

He opened his mouth, ready to demand more—but Kiri stepped back abruptly, retreating slowly toward the entrance.

“I have to go,” she whispered, eyes never leaving his face. “Please, brother—just fly.”

Then she was gone, the flap falling shut behind her, leaving only an eerie stillness, a lingering shadow of unease that chilled him to the bone.

Neteyam stood there numbly, the food forgotten in his hand. Every quiet word she’d spoken echoed through his mind, louder with each beat of his heart.

Close. Changed. Wrong.

His heart thundered painfully in his ribs, his breaths coming shallow, quickening into panic. He barely registered the leaf-wrapped food in his palm, its gentle weight meaningless against the sudden, consuming dread that wrapped around his chest like cold vines.

He dropped it without thought, leaving the food forgotten on the kelku floor as he raced outside toward the cliffs, toward his ikran.

His heart beat violently as he climbed the cliffs, every breath tasting sharp, metallic, his chest tight and burning. He called desperately to his ikran, connecting swiftly, impatiently—desperation pounding in his blood.

They soared upward into the wide expanse of sky.

But peace eluded him.

Wind whipped fiercely across his face, tugging at his hair, harshly cold against his skin. Yet none of it reached him, none of it touched the spiraling thoughts racing violently in his mind.

Kiri’s voice echoed endlessly in his ears, her vague words cutting deeper than any blade:

“She might not be the same.”

His heart twisted brutally, mind racing. What did she mean? Was it your spirit, your heart, your soul that would return altered? Or something worse—something physical, tangible, cruelly irreversible?

Neteyam’s pulse thundered wildly, anxiety sharpening to painful clarity.

Kiri felt Eywa in ways even the tsahìks before hadn’t always understood. She touched the Great Mother’s essence with a clarity few others could fathom. If Kiri had warned him, if Mo’at herself sensed a disturbance—

A horrifying thought clawed suddenly into his mind.

Would he find your corpse?

He flinched sharply, violently shaking his head to dislodge the thought—yet it stuck like venomous sap, searing cruelly into his thoughts. A corpse. Your corpse. Broken, lifeless, empty of the bright fire that had once burned so fiercely within.

“No,” he whispered desperately, voice drowned by the roaring wind. “Please, Eywa, no.”

His ikran beneath him rumbled anxiously, sensing the violent spike of fear, anguish radiating sharply through their tsaheylu.

Neteyam fought to steady his breathing, forcefully shoving the cruel thoughts aside. He pressed one palm against his heart, feeling the delicate, hard outline of your button, the tiny proof of your strength, your resilience, your life.

“Not dead,” he breathed aloud, clinging desperately to that hope. “She’s not dead.”

He repeated the words like a lifeline, praying silently, fervently, as the ikran soared swiftly onward.

Yet still, one relentless fear tore at him relentlessly, its cruel edges biting deeper with every passing second:

Not dead, perhaps—but changed.

He tried desperately to decipher Kiri’s words. If it wasn’t death, what else was there? Different. What could it mean—injured, scarred, emotionally broken? Or something deeper, darker—something only Eywa could understand?

His breath came short, ragged, panic steadily consuming him from within. He clung desperately to hope, to faith, whispering fervently into the rushing wind:

“Please, Eywa. Let her still be herself. Let her heart still recognize mine.”

Yet even as he prayed—he couldn’t shake the lingering dread clawing viciously at the back of his mind, whispering darkly through every heartbeat, every breath.

Because deep down, Neteyam knew:

Kiri would never have warned him unless something had changed irrevocably.

And as he soared onward, searching desperately, the world around him blurred into silence, leaving only one thought, endlessly repeating in the darkest corners of his terrified mind:

What if the you he found was no longer the you he’d lost?

What if you no longer remembered how fiercely he loved you?

*

The air whipped past Neteyam's face, cool and sharp, but he barely felt it. His thoughts spun faster, a cruel whirlpool of doubt and dread pulling him deeper with each passing moment. Without thinking, without consciously choosing, his ikran  steered himself southward, guided by instinct more than reason.

Almost two weeks ago, he'd stood at the edge of a clearing with his family, watching two RDA aircraft—a Samson and an assault Dragon—resting menacingly on the ground. The memory was distant, blurred by exhaustion, yet his mind drew him there now, as though something he couldn’t quite understand whispered from that place.

The clearing came into view, empty now—the aircraft long vanished, the ground below peaceful, sunlit, devoid of the threats it once housed. The ships had left long ago, the clearing now reclaimed by nature again… but something about the place felt heavy in his bones. Important.

Neteyam’s heart ached. Why had Eywa drawn him here? Why this place, so far from your last known path? He blinked down absently, eyes skimming over grass and scattered leaves.

But then—he saw it. A small figure, unmistakably human, standing in the center of the clearing.

His breath stopped. "No…" he whispered, heart slamming painfully against his ribs. “No, no—Eywa—”

A hallucination, surely—a mirage conjured by exhaustion and desperation. Yet as he watched, the figure began to move, slow and unsteady steps carrying it towards the forest, eastward—toward the outpost, toward home.

He reacted without thought, a fierce surge of hope and disbelief flooding through him. Instantly, he angled his ikran downwards, plummeting toward the clearing with dizzying speed. The beast landed hard, talons scraping soil, wings beating to steady itself.

He leapt from Tawkami’s back, barely registering his own movement. His heart hammered as he sprinted across the clearing, powerful legs pumping desperately, eyes fixed fiercely on the distant figure vanishing slowly into the trees.

Branches whipped past him as he burst into the dense foliage, each second stretching painfully. His breath came harsh, ragged, panic and hope tangled violently in his chest.

Then—suddenly—he saw you clearly.

His knees nearly buckled beneath him.

You stood a short distance away, walking slowly through the shadows cast by towering trees. Your clothing was slightly torn, exactly what you'd worn the day you'd vanished. The sight felt surreal, impossible. A ghost he desperately hoped was real.

“Yawne!” he called, voice trembling, breaking open with emotion.

Your head whipped around immediately, eyes widening impossibly as they settled upon him. Recognition lit your features instantly, and you stared at him, mouth falling softly open in shock.

Neteyam moved toward you urgently, relief flooding him in waves so powerful they nearly brought tears. “Oh, Eywa—yawne—”

But suddenly, sharply, his steps faltered, a fresh wave of cold dread slamming through him, piercing deeply into his relief like poisoned arrows.

Your face—your beautiful, precious face—was exposed. You wore no mask. He stumbled forward frantically, panic and disbelief gripping him harshly.

“Yawne—no! No—do not breathe!” His voice cracked desperately, heart hammering violently in terror. He dropped swiftly to his knees before you, hands reaching urgently toward your face. “Your mask—where is it? Please—stop breathing, hold your breath, you cannot—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bear the thought of losing you moments after finding you again. His fingers shook desperately, helplessly, as they touched your cheeks, your jaw, eyes filled with terrified dread.

But you didn’t gasp. Didn’t choke. Didn’t fall.

You just stared down at him, eyes wide and shimmering with tears, trembling softly beneath his frantic touch. Then, suddenly, without a word—without explanation—you threw your arms fiercely around his neck, crashing into him, hugging him with a strength that stole his breath entirely.

Neteyam froze in shock, his body rigid for a heartbeat, stunned into silence—then finally, fiercely, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you impossibly close, crushing you against his chest like he would never, ever let you go again.

“Oh, Eywa,” he choked out, voice shaking uncontrollably, face pressed desperately into your neck, breathing your scent in deeply, greedily. “Oh, ma yawne, you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re—”

His voice broke into a desperate sob, relief and love flooding through him, sharp and overwhelming, shattering his composure entirely.

You clung to him, fingers gripping desperately into his hair, your smaller body trembling violently against him as a sob tore free from your throat—raw, broken, relieved.

Neteyam hugged you harder, holding you tightly as your tears began to fall in earnest against his shoulder, your body shaking harshly in quiet, desperate sobs. His tail curled protectively around your legs, anchoring you tightly against him, his lips pressing fiercely to your hair, your temple, your cheek, murmuring endlessly, breathlessly into your skin.

“You’re here—I have you—thank you Eywa, thank you—I thought I lost you—I thought—” he stammered softly, desperately, hardly breathing between his words.

You only clung harder, breath hitching violently against his shoulder, unable yet to speak, simply holding onto him like you would never let go.

Minutes passed—time lost meaning as he held you, heart slowly steadying with every breath of your scent, every quiet sob that left your lips. You felt impossibly solid, impossibly real, impossibly here. Yet confusion lingered stubbornly beneath his relief:

How? How were you breathing? How were you standing without a mask, without choking on the toxic air?

But those answers would wait.

Right now, he could think of nothing but holding you, feeling your heartbeat against his chest, knowing without a doubt that Eywa had finally, mercifully, returned you to him.

He pulled back just enough to cup your cheeks gently in his large hands, tilting your tear-streaked face upward, his gaze searching yours desperately, hungrily, as though afraid you'd vanish again if he looked away.

“You’re here,” he whispered brokenly, eyes brimming with tears he couldn’t hold back. “You’re really here.”

You nodded, tears still falling silently, pressing your cheek against his palm, eyes filled with quiet, profound relief. “Neteyam,” you finally whispered, voice raw, breaking gently over his name. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he breathed shakily and tender. “Always.”

He pulled you back into him, unable to bear even a heartbeat’s separation, holding you again, rocking gently as fresh tears spilled silently down his cheeks, joining yours in quiet relief. You were alive. You were safe. You were home—in his arms. And nothing else mattered.

In the next chapter we will get to know what Dr. Veyren did.

Part 26: (Soon)

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega @chonkybonky @bmyva1entine @6urmom @gullableh @homiesexual-or-homosexual @aoi-targaryen @bitter-semi-sweet @soflegacy @kath-666 @hiireadstuff @nyxthedeity @highhopes1008 @sineminuse @hxsxxk-180294 @hawkinsavclub1983 @buckingforbuckybarnes @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @huang-the-geek @joewhs @witchywannabe3263 @iyskgd @ironenemycollective @bumblebeebutter @sizzlingstarlightsky @buckybarnesslutshop @starstruck-cowgirl @angelicdarkn3ss @confused-simp-jpg @hufflepuffsforjoy @nicolebarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @escapismurmom @paige0103 @dollface-xoxo @read-just-cant-stop @sycamoregirl444 @raikan624 @iwritememesnotprophecies @imissbenswolo-blog @lcolumbia1988 @paintmekala @knowingnothingnoel @captain-shannon-becker @jainaeatsstars @mm4t

-------------------------------------------

Tw: cussing,

Part 14

Words of Command - Part 15

The common lounge in Stark Tower buzzed with soft noise—low music filtering through hidden speakers, the clink of glassware from the kitchen.

Outside, New York's endless glow painted shifting patterns across the sleek modern walls.

Steve stood by the window, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp blue eyes watching the scene behind him reflected in the glass.

You.

And Bucky.

Bucky was perched stiffly at the far end of the massive couch, his body coiled like a spring even though the situation was calm.

His metal hand flexed now and then against his thigh, like a soldier itching for orders that weren't coming.

You sat beside him, cheery and bright compared to his dark bulk, your presence somehow soothing the tension from the air.

Steve smiled to himself when he saw how Bucky leaned slightly toward you without realizing it. How his eyes never strayed too far from you.

“You seeing this?” Tony’s voice broke Steve's focus as Stark approached with two glasses of something expensive in his hands.

Steve accepted one without looking, his attention still locked on Bucky and you.

“Yeah," Steve murmured, voice thick with something that could have been hope. "He’s changing."

Tony gave a soft huff, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"Changing, huh? Great murder muppets got a crush" Tony muttered. "Totally harmless like a baby duck. Only this duck could break a man in half."

Steve chuckled under his breath — a rare, genuine sound.

"He was a ladies' man," he told Tony, giving a small, almost fond smile.

"In the '40s, you couldn't take Buck anywhere without him charming half the women in the room. Didn't matter if they were nurses, secretaries, or generals' daughters."

Tony arched a skeptical brow.

"Yeah, well, this version of him looks like he'd rather snap necks than steal hearts."

Steve's expression sobered slightly.

"He's still in there," he said quietly. "You can see it... when he looks at her."

Tony leaned back, swirling his drink with a lazy motion.

"Yeah, I see it, Cap. Believe me. The way he watches her? Like she's... his werid ass homing beacon"

He snorted, masking the faint thread of protectiveness in his voice.

"But if he breaks her heart, I will personally build a new arm just to rip the old one off."

Steve chuckled again, a deep rumble.

"Somehow... I think hurting her would be the last thing Bucky wants to do."

Tony lifted his glass in a mock-toast toward Steve.

"From your mouth to the universe's ears, Spangles."

Steve chuckled softly, looking back at Bucky — who was now letting you brush your fingers through his hair and tie it out of the way of his face, those sharp, haunted eyes softening for just a breath of a second under your touch.

"He wasn't cruel," Steve added seriously. "Bucky never... he never played with a girl’s heart. He was... loyal. Once he gave it, he gave it."

Tony took a long sip of his drink, watching you and Bucky with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, well," he drawled, setting his glass down with a thunk. "If Pretty Boy Barnes thinks he can go Heartbreaker 2.0 on my favorite receptionist, he’s definitely gonna find himself on the wrong end of one of my repulsors."

Steve snorted.

"I mean it," Tony said, more quietly. "She’s... too good for that."

His voice wasn't mocking now.

There was a rare seriousness there.

A protectiveness.

Steve smiled faintly.

"Don't worry," he said.

"If he falls... he’ll fall hard."

Meanwhile, across the room, you had no idea about the weighty conversation happening behind you.

You were too focused on taming Bucky’s hair.

He was different tonight.

Tense, yes—but in a different way. Not alert for danger, but... aware.

He kept glancing at you from under heavy lashes, blue eyes darting to your face, then away again.

You shifted to tuck your legs up under you on the couch, and Bucky’s metal hand twitched slightly—instinctive, almost as if he was fighting the urge to touch you.

When your hand brushed his, accidentally, you felt it the way he stilled.

Like the whole world narrowed to that point of contact.

He turned his head slightly, and for the first time that night, really looked at you.

“Thanks, Doll,” he rumbled, voice low, rough with something that sounded suspiciously like awe.

Your cheeks warmed under the tender weight of it.

"No problem, Bucky" you said giving his shoulders a squeeze to signal you where done.

Bucky's gaze softened minutely.

Tony watched with a complicated look on his face—half wary, half something almost like fond exasperation.

"Yup," Tony muttered under his breath. "Murder duckling. One hundred percent."

Steve chuckled, arms folded.

Later that evening, you found yourself walking alongside Steve through the bustling streets of New York.

The early evening air was thick with the scent of hot dog carts, car exhaust, and the faint tang of roasting peanuts from a street vendor half a block away.

The sky was painted a dusky pink and orange, city lights just beginning to blink on, casting a cozy glow over the buzzing streets.

You hugged your coat tighter around yourself, the slight chill brushing against your cheeks.

Next to you, Steve— all broad shoulders and easy, purposeful strides.

Every few steps, he slowed just a little, instinctively matching your pace without making a show of it.

"You sure you're warm enough ?" Steve asked, glancing down at you with a faint smile.

You gave a tiny, defiant huff, clutching the sleeves of your coat tighter.

"I'm fine," you said with a frown, but there was no real bite.

"You're the one that'll be carrying enough dinner to feed an army. Should I be worried about you keeling over?"

Steve laughed, deep and genuine.

"Trust me, carrying shawarma’s easier than carrying a 200-pound soldier in full gear."

You grinned, your cheeks warming a little at the easy way he teased.

The little shawarma place was tucked into a narrow alley off 44th street, the neon signs buzzing softly overhead.

It was exactly the kind of New York hole-in-the-wall Tony swore had the "best heart-attack-on-a-plate" on the East Coast.

As you both stepped inside, the warm, spicy air hit you like a wall — cumin, lamb, roasted garlic — you inhaled happily.

The counter was cluttered and chaotic, the staff moving fast behind a grease-smudged glass case.

There were a handful of people waiting ahead of you.

Most looked like exhausted office workers or NYU students.

At first, nobody paid you much mind.

But then a guy near the soda fridge did a double take.

His mouth fell open.

"Is that—?"

Two teenage girls by the window gasped, clutching each other excitedly.

"Oh my God, that's Captain America!"

Within seconds, a small ripple of recognition ran through the line.

Steve shifted awkwardly, adjusting his baseball cap, staring very intently at the laminated menu board like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

You stifled a giggle behind your hand.

Leaning closer, you whispered up to him, your voice teasing but soft.

"Careful, Steve. At this rate, someone's gonna ask you to autograph a napkin."

He gave you a long-suffering look, but his lips twitched.

"You know," you continued, voice innocent, "technically you're stealing the spotlight from the shawarma."

Steve grunted under his breath, clearly trying not to smile.

One of the workers behind the counter — a wiry man with a thick beard and thick accent — pointed at Steve excitedly.

"You Captain America, yes?!" he boomed, grinning wide.

"— you eat free tonight! Anything you want, my friend!"

Steve flushed lightly, ducking his head.

"Uh, just picking up an order," he said quickly, giving a small wave.

"For... my friends."

You nudged him lightly with your elbow.

"Very heroic," you whispered. "Saving us all... from being hangry."

Steve chuckled under his breath — that warm, real laugh you didn't hear as often as you liked.

"You're real mouthy," he muttered fondly.

"Tony doesn't let me out much, gotta get my kicks somewhere," you said with a mischievous little tilt of your head.

Bag secured and public attention mercifully shifting back to their meals, you and Steve set off down the sidewalk again, weaving easily around other pedestrians.

Halfway down the block, a colorful flyer taped to a lamppost caught your eye.

It fluttered in the breeze — bright red, white, and blue, with blocky old-fashioned lettering:

Join Us for a Night of Nostalgia!

Live Band Music!

40s Theme Night!

Friday, 8 PM — Midtown Ballroom"

You gasped softly, tugging Steve's sleeve to make him stop.

He turned, eyebrows lifting.

You pointed at the flyer, grinning wide.

"Ooooh," you said in a sing-song whisper. "Steve, it's your natural habitat."

Steve leaned over your shoulder to read, chuckling under his breath.

"I think I wore that exact uniform once," he said dryly.

You giggled. "Bet you'd still sweep the floor with all those dames."

Steve gave you a sly look — one eyebrow arched.

"You volunteering ?" he teased.

You mock-gasped, fanning yourself like a 40s starlet.

"Captain Rogers! Are you flirting with me?"

He laughed — a warm, real laugh that made a few people glance over curiously.

Then — he leaned in a fraction closer, dropping his voice so only you could hear

"Maybe I’m just keeping you in practice... for Bucky."

You froze — your face heating instantly — and Steve grinned, looking dangerously pleased with himself.

You flailed a little with the receipt in your hands, sputtering.

"I—! No! That's not—!"

He just laughed harder.

"Better start working on those dance moves, Doll," he said over his shoulder, using Bucky’s name for you deliberately as you stumbled after him, flustered.

The Towers' common room was buzzing with the low, familiar din of voices, clattering utensils, and the muted hum of evening news playing in the background.

The long kitchen island was lined with takeout boxes — piles of shawarma, naan, spiced rice, and sweet pastries.

You were carefully stacking plates, spooning out generous portions, your frame practically swallowed by Tony's 'Kiss the cook' apron you had insisted on wearing.

Soft tendrils of hair had escaped your bun, framing your cheeks. Your lips were curved into a small, content smile — utterly at peace in the domestic chaos.

Around you, the team gathered.

Clint perched casually on the counter, balancing a plate on his knee.

Nat sat on the back of the couch, looking criminally graceful even as she stabbed a piece of falafel.

Sam leaned against the fridge door, stealing bites from whatever he could reach.

Steve stood near the table, arms crossed, quietly amused.

Tony was fiddling with some holographic projection at the bar, not really paying attention, but chiming in with sarcastic quips when the mood struck.

Agent Collins — fresh from SHEILDs Psych and Neurology division, eager in that "just-happy-to-be-here" kind of way — was lingering near the island, waiting for you to pass him a plate.

He wasn't supposed to be staying for dinner, but somehow, nobody had the heart, or energy, to kick him out.

As you scooped rice onto his plate, Collins, under his breath, started singing—

"She’s got the look... She’s got the look... What in the world can make a brown-eyed girl turn blue?"

You froze for half a second — caught between surprise and laughter — before you decided 'fuck it' and playfully joined in, your voice a little quiet and fantastically off key.

"When everything I'll ever do, I'll do for you..."

Collins beamed, clearly delighted by your participation. "And I go la la la la la—"

You laughed, swaying a little to the imaginary music, plastic takeout fork as impromptu mic.

The kitchen felt light, happy, safe—

Until a sharp metallic scrape shattered it.

Everyone turned.

Bucky— seated stiffly in the farthest armchair, shadowed and half-forgotten — had kicked his chair back half an inch.

His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles jumped visibly in his cheek.

His metal hand flexed open and closed like he was fighting the urge to crush something.

His icy blue gaze was locked — locked — on Collins.

And it was murderous.

You blinked in surprise, shrinking instinctively into yourself.

Bucky shot up from the chair, stalking forward a few feet before freezing — every muscle screaming tension.

He loomed over Collins, a coiled spring.

"What the hell you think you're doin'?" Bucky bit out, voice low, rough, dripping with something far more dangerous than casual anger.

The room went dead silent.

Collins blinked, startled, looking around like he was missing some crucial memo.

"I... I was singing?" he offered cautiously.

Bucky sneered, a flicker of something old and ugly cutting across his features.

"You don't sing at her."

He didn't even seem to realize the words were spilling out — pure instinct, pure protectiveness, pure jealousy—

and he didn't recognize what it was.

Collins, to his credit, held his ground, even if he looked two seconds away from bolting.

"Why... why are you reacting like this?" he asked carefully, voice shifting into clinical curiosity. "Is this a memory trigger? A possessive response? Misplaced combat reflexes?"

It was said so academically, so innocently, that Clint outright snorted into his food.

"God, I love watching therapists get their asses handed to them in real time," he muttered gleefully.

Natasha didn’t even look up as she dryly added, "This is why Psych agents don’t usually survive field missions."

Sam chuckled, stealing another naan.

"You’re lucky he didn’t throw you through a barstall, man."

Bucky ignored all of them.

His whole focus — laser sharp — was on you.

Your wide, uncertain eyes.

The way your small hands fidgeted with the fork now.

The way you had instinctively looked to him the moment something went wrong.

He breathed your fear in.

And it cracked something inside his chest.

You stepped forward slowly, gently, like approaching a wounded animal.

"Bucky?" you said softly, your voice held uncertainty for the first time.

His eyes snapped to yours, the intensity in them softening just a fraction.

He blinked rapidly, as if coming back to himself, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"Did I scare you, Doll?" he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

His voice was rough velvet, concern threading through it as his flesh hand flexed at his side.

You hesitated "I'm okay," you said quietly, reaching out to barely brush your fingertips against his forearm. "But maybe we should...take it down a notch"

""Fascinating display of protective instinct," Collins remarked, pulling out a small notebook from his pocket. "Mr. Barnes, would you say this reaction stems from your wartime experiences or is it more related to—"

Bucky's jaw tightened, the muscle there jumping visibly. He didn't even spare Collins a glance.

"I ain't talking to you," he growled, still looking only at you, but voice only for Collins.

Nat raised an eyebrow at Agent Collins, sipping her drink.

Collins adjusted his glasses nervously. "But this is precisely the kind of behavioral pattern that—"

"You really wanna push him right now?" Sam interjected, gesturing with a piece of naan. "Man's gonna snap you in two."

Bucky's jaw tightened, but his eyes never left yours. "I'm sorry" he said quietly, his flesh hand interlacing with yours.

Clint leaned back in his chair. "And he sticks the landing! Ten points for not throwing the shrink through a wall."

Sam smacked him upside the head with the naan.

Bucky refused to sit anywhere except next to you after that.

Even though he was relaxed enough to eat — albeit mechanically — his whole attention stayed locked onto you like a radar.

Protective.

Possessive.

At one point, Sam made a joking comment about stealing your fries —

Bucky’s metal arm twitched—

and Sam immediately held both hands up, laughing nervously.

“Hey, man, it’s cool! I don’t even like fries! I’ll eat...uh... lettuce or something!"

Bucky didn’t smile.

He just watched.

When you giggled quietly and offered Sam a fry yourself, Bucky’s icy stare thawed — just a little.

Because you were making the choice.

And to him, that meant it was okay.

Agent Collins didn’t come near again.

Tony grinned wickedly across the table.

"I’m giving it two weeks before Manchurian Candidate starts fighting Capsicle for her attention."

Steve rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Sam laughed.

"My money’s on Bucky," he said.

"Cap’s too polite. Barnes fights dirty."

Natasha just sipped her wine and said calmly "She won’t need anyone to fight for her. She's already won."

You flushed, ducking your head to hide your smile.

Bucky’s flesh hand brushed your pinky finger under the table — deliberate, almost shy.

His fingers were rough, calloused.

But the touch was featherlight.

As if you were something precious he didn’t dare fully claim yet.

[lazysoulwriter]

a crown of little things - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: pure fluff, family picnic, soft Pedro

---

It’s one of those rare, perfect days — warm sun, soft breeze, clouds slow-dancing across a baby blue sky. You’re in the park with Pedro and his family, sprawled out on a blanket with half a picnic laid out and nowhere else to be.

Pedro’s got his sunglasses on, head tipped back, legs stretched out as he soaks in the sun like a lazy cat. His curls — longer and fluffier than usual — are a soft halo around his face, catching the light in the most ridiculous way.

You’re admiring him quietly, sipping your lemonade, when Lux drops onto the blanket beside you with a grin that spells trouble.

“Do you see those?” she whispers, nodding toward a small patch of wildflowers nearby. “We have to.”

You glance between her and Pedro.

The curls. The flowers. Yeah. It’s fate.

You both stand and grab a small handful each, tiny white and yellow blossoms like something out of a children’s storybook. Pedro barely lifts his head when you return — just mumbles something about “smells nice over here” before letting his eyes fall closed again.

Lux sits by his head, you by his shoulder. He doesn’t notice at first. Not until the third flower.

“Wait,” he mutters. “What’re you doing?”

You both freeze. Lux holds up a tiny daisy. “Enhancing.”

He cracks one eye open and immediately groans when he sees the handful of flowers. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” you and Lux say in unison, already reaching for the next curl.

Pedro sighs like he’s suffering the greatest injustice known to man. “I am a serious actor. I have a reputation.”

“You also have perfect hair and two women who love you very much,” you reply sweetly, tucking a tiny bloom right above his ear.

“And we’re not stopping,” Lux adds.

He gives you both a look. “Fine. But if any of these end up on Instagram, I’m unfollowing everyone.”

You both ignore him completely.

You work in a kind of rhythm — petals and giggles and fingers threading through his curls with soft care. He’s still. Peaceful. Only mildly pouty.

Soon, he’s covered. A garden blooming right on his head — messy and charming and absolutely, heartbreakingly beautiful.

You lean in, kiss his temple. “You’re the prettiest thing here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. “Just don’t forget to water me.”

Lux snorts. “You’re thriving on attention alone.”

And it’s true — he loves this. The affection. The attention. The way you both look at him like he’s the center of the universe.

Which he kind of is.

Later, he’ll pretend to hate the photos Lux takes. He’ll groan dramatically when you call him your little flower prince.

But he’ll save every picture. And he won’t take a single petal out of his hair until the sun starts to set.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom @m4yb3-k3tlyn3@umadirectioner@barnes70stark