Ok so do yall think in botl in the end when everyone gets ready in camp some Apollo Kids try to PeetaMellark the Situation and just Paint themslves Like the trees???
SUMMARY: you’re hanging out with your best friend, wally, and turns out, his best friend is also there! cue your mouth and your pussy being filled up in the best ways possible. (or, you, dick, and wally have a threesome)
CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ CONTENT, threesomes, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (wrap it!), oral sex (m! receiving), choking, overstimulation to the max, hair pulling, filthy talk— seriously, this is filthy, cum swallowing, praise kink, they kiss while they eiffel tower you.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: they’re so fucking hot, I just couldn’t resist. I didn’t know if this should’ve been a double penetration oneshot but that one will be soon! trust! sorry if the reader doesn’t really talk this much… when you read what happens, then you’d understand why, lmao.
you didn’t know how you ended up in this position; on your back, legs up, jaw open. but here you are, and your brain is too scattered to even think about the full timeline… but you attempt to.
very simply— wally wanted to hang out with you, “spend the night!” he says, and turns out? dick was there too, mainly because wally invited him too (you begin to think he purposely wanted both of you). you didn’t hate that you were attracted to your best friend’s best friend, it just felt weird, but god damn dick is a sexy man.
and what happens when three sexy people are in the same room together? clothes disappear and filth is muttered. and now? you’re here, on your back, brain completely mushed up by these two guys.
wally was standing by your head, dick was in between your legs. wally’s dick was longer but dick’s cock was thicker, and you could feel the difference.
“which one do you want filled first?” wally asks you, his right hand stroking his cock with a few jerks as his left hand reaches down to squeeze your left breast, dick moved your legs onto his shoulders as he lines up with your folds.
you groan, his fingers feeling so good on you as dick’s hands squeezed your thighs. having four different hands on your figure… you could feel your body temperature rise with each touch, each damn finger. “I-I don’t care… just get in me d-damn it.”
dick chuckles, squeezing your thigh a little harsher. you gasp as he squeezes your thigh but also you feel wally twist your nipple. “okay, okay, baby, no need for the attitude.” he shoots back, looking at wally as he tilts his head. “you go first, walls, shut that pretty mouth.”
“don’t tell me to shut—” you begin to say before you get cut off.
not by words, not by a squeeze. but rather by wally’s long cock pushing into your mouth. he doesn’t go all the way with his eight inches, around four inches as you gargle. drool drips down your chin as your head tilts back, looking up at the redhead as he shushes you. his hand on your breast going up to your jaw, stroking your chin.
“there you go.” he coos, pushing in the last four inches, his messy orange happy trail faintly tickling against your chin. you’re forced to breath through your nose as the bulbous tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. “christ baby, didn’t know you could fit all ‘me in your mouth.” he mutters.
dick’s grin never fades, his thumbs stroking up and down your inner thighs as he kisses your ankle. his right hand stroking your thigh as his left hand reaches up to gently caress your right breast. “got a mouth worth millions, baby.” he encourages, his left thumb rubs circles to harden your nipple.
with his left hand on your jaw, wally points to dick. “c’mon man… no fair you’re not having fun.” he somberly says, looking back down at you. “you want dick’s dick in you, baby?” he asks, tapping on the underside of your jaw to make you answer.
it takes you a few moments, swallowing your spit the best you can before you nod. “y-yes! f-fucking hell, please—!” your begs are muffled due to wally’s long cock.
but they hear it anyway.
wally looks back up at dick with a smirk. “well, you heard the lady of the hour.” he insinuated.
the birdboy grins and doesn’t take any other words or moments before he presses his tip against your sobbing pussy, pushing into you. fuck fuck fuck. he’s so thick. shit. if you thought you couldn’t breath (in the best way) because of wally’s dick in your mouth, now you couldn’t with dick’s dick in your pussy.
your eyes roll back the moment his cock begins to push into you, your toes curl as your left set of nails dug deep into whatever section of wally’s left arm your nails could find as your right hand gripped wally’s best sheets. “nghhhh.”
“holy shit, sweet girl.” dick groans, his right hand going onto your abdomen, feeling himself push into you as his left hand held onto your calf. “you feel so damn good… fuck.” he looks up at wally, who’s grinning at the sight. “dude, you gotta get some of this.” he says to him.
why is it so hot when they speak to you like this? it shouldn’t. really. but it just is.
wally shrugs, feeling your nose brush against his balls. “don’t worry, I’ll get her pussy later, this mouth feels too damn good.” he suggests. “this pretty body, my god baby.” he groans, looking at your body with lust in his eyes.
your eyes remained rolled back as your breaths through your nose blows onto the underside of wally’s cock, your pussy fluttering against dick’s as he settles his thick cock into you.
and before you knew it, you could feel both of their hips move, both pulling out of their respective places before thrusting back in, dick was harsher with his thrust— with that thrust, he pushed you upwards, making it easier for wally to push back into your mouth. “w-wally! d-dick!”
it feels so damn good, and pleasure shoots through your veins as both of them begin to move their hips at the same time. dick was a little faster than wally, groaning with each flutter of your pussy as wally caressed your jaw, pushing in and out of your warm throat.
your moans fill the room— or the best they could leave your stuffed mouth. they were high pitched, drool causing a mess as your fingers claws at both of their forearms, one above your head as the other sat on your abdomen.
“seal those lips ‘round me baby.” wally encourages, and you listen to him. it’s so slick in your mouth, your lips sealing around his cock as wally murmurs a praise, seeing you hallow out your cheeks with each time his cock hit the back of your throat.
“you’re such a good girl.” dick praises lowly, his hips rutting with each slow thrust. you love the praises, it makes you feel good inside and your brain melt a little more.
dick moved his left hand, sucking on his thumb before putting it on your clit, stroking up and down. a bigger moan leaves your mouth as your heels dig into dick’s shoulder. “does this pussy want it faster?” he asks.
when you’re so stuffed that you’re unable respond; the redhead does it for you. wally grins as he says a suggestion. “fuck her pussy deeper, I’m sure she can take it, she’s a big girl.”
dick smirks and follows wally’s words, especially after feeling your walls clench around him as he adjusts his posture, pressing both hands into the mattress on each side of you as he angles himself lower, and where he hits? fucking. delicious.
your moans vibrate wally’s cock, mentally grinning to yourself as you see how he’s affected by it. one of the best sensations he’s ever felt, feeling it from his base as he goes a little quicker but not too much, not wanting to hurt you.
the acrobat notices wally’s eyes roll back at your moans making his cock feel like heaven itself, he leans closer, sweat padding down his face. “what’s the matter, lightning bolt? I do something good for once?”
“shut it.” wally mutters, leaning close to dick as they keep eye contact with each other. “keep moaning f’us baby, keep that pretty mouth up.” he blindly praises as he taps your jaw.
you groan as he taps on your jaw, your lips sucking harder on wally’s cock, tongue sliding up and down the underside of him. it feels so good. you’ve never felt so good.
and before either of the former titans could stop, their lips press together, both of their hips going faster in you. wally’s lips are warm while dick’s lips are cold, their tongue pressing together.
wally’s left hand moves off your jaw and down to your clit and in return, dick’s right hand moves out of the sheets and wraps around your throat, feeling wally’s dick in your throat.
“christ dude.” he murmurs against wally’s lips. “knew you were long but not this fucking long. this fits in your suit?”
wally shrugs, hitting the back of your throat constantly with each push of his hips. “it helps that I’m a grower.” he chuckles as he can feel his balls tighten.
dick’s lips go to wally’s jaw, pressing sloppy kisses as he increases his thrusts within your pussy, your moans are too broken and your mouth is too stuffed. you can feel your vision whiten, it’s all so overwhelming— in the best ways you could even imagine.
“look at this pussy, taking him so well, knew this pussy was amazin’.” wally slurs, patting your clit before he rubs tight circles. your hips jerk, your pussy flutters, and you’re so close to cumming. “you close, dick? cause holy shit, ‘m not gonna last in this pretty girl’s mouth.”
dick nods, pressing his thumb into your throat. “yeah— so close… gonna cum… fuck.” he groans.
and somehow, someway, all three of you finished together, as if you all knew each other’s minds too well to argue. and nothing could compare or even warn you to the feeling you felt.
wally pushed back his cock only by a few inches, not wanting to overwhelm the back of your throat as dick thrusted in as deep as he could get, down to the base of his cock to the point his balls rubbed against your pussy. your veins overflowed with pleasure, nails dug deep to the point your hand lost color and you drew blood from both of the boys as you orgasm.
“wally, fuckkkkk—dick…!” you slur as your body strains, knees bending harshly on dick’s shoulders as you feel your body get overwhelmed with so much rapture.
for a few moments, you feel like you’re in heaven, your body feeling so damn good, mind ruined by such a explosive orgasm. you feel limp against them, you feel wally’s hand stop rubbing your clit as you cummed around dick’s cock, slobbering on wally’s cock as your vision finds itself back. “ugh… fuck…”
then, you felt it. your pussy being warmed up with dick’s cum as his semen painted your walls white. you felt sticky, his cum pushing deep within you as he stroked your throat, gently grinding against you to get his semen deeper. “fuckkkk, sweet girl, pussy feels so damn good. take my cum like this… knew you could take it.” he groans, looking at wally as wally pulls out, his cock straining.
you keep your eyes on wally as he looks at you with furrowed eyebrows and needy eyes. “open. open your mouth baby.”
and the damn second you opened your mouth, before your tongue could fully extend, his cum landed in your mouth, eventually spreading onto your tongue. not only your pussy felt warm and sticky, but now your mouth.
wally cums a lot more than dick, because dick finishes harder than wally. ropes and ropes of cum shoots out as you took every single inch, dick’s pupils blown as he watches the sight in front of him, his hand keeping your mouth open.
moments after; you swallow all of wally’s cum, you feel it stick to the back of your throat as dick lets down your legs off his shoulders, your hands leaving their forearms as they fall to the bed.
wally moves his cock once his balls feel empty, his breaths heavy. “and you were hiding your mouth this entire time, baby?”
with your mouth empty, you’re able to respond as you lean up, legs spread as dick’s semen dripped out of your folds. “well you two hid your dicks from me so…”
dick grins and wally smirks and you knew you weren’t getting any sleep that night. not like you wanted any sleep with these guys next to you.
this idea has been gnawing at my mind for a while and finally decided to write it. I love them both so much, they’d be so good in bed, I need them both!
Summary: You have been sent by the Temple of Solis to guard an ancient artifact while it sits on display inside the Metropolis Museum of Natural History. When Clark Kent shows up to write an article about the new exhibit, you realize you've never seen anyone more loved by your Sun Goddess. Clark is intrigued when he notices pieces of the sun within you, as well. While the two of you explore a budding romance, the artifact comes under threat, and you're faced with a choice that risks your own life in order to save Superman's.
Word Count: 14,956 (I know, I'm super normal about this)
Author's Note: The Sun Goddess, Temple, and holy language used in this are all made up. Literally made up a whole ass religion just to bang Superman. 🤣
Warnings: 18+, Explicit Sexual Content, porn with major plot, unprotected sex (not advisable, kids), oral (female receiving), fingering, canon typical violence, female reader, reader is mentioned having hair long enough to pin up, religious undertones (but it's a made-up religion with a female deity), no use of Y/N
Please enjoy this feature-length-film of a one-shot that was originally intended to be porn with plot, but then became plot with porn 🤷♀️
Since the beginning of life on this planet, there have always been followers of the Sun Goddess. The plants and trees have been her longest-standing devotees, building the foundations of their very existence around her divine light. When humans came, they proved the depths of their devotion by building shrines in her image. They gathered in temples to worship her directly. They wrote ballads, carved sculptures, and painted masterpieces, all in an effort to capture even the barest essence of her beauty.
You have served at the Temple of Solis for longer than you can remember. Guided by her light and warmth, and motivated by her flaming fury. When you are given your assignment to leave the Temple and travel to Metropolis, of all places, you don't fully understand why. But who were you to question the wisdom of your superiors, who have a much stronger connection to the Divine Goddess than yourself?
A new exhibit is opening at the Metropolis Museum of Natural History on ancient deities, and the Temple is allowing them to borrow some holy artifacts for one of the displays. You've been tasked with facilitating their transfer to the museum, as well as with guarding them for the duration of their stay within the museum's walls. Though many believe these artifacts to be just some ancient relics from a forgotten time, the power housed within them is far too great to be left unattended.
With credentials given to you by the Temple, you are able to get on staff with the museum as an expert on ancient religions, which allows you to stay close to the new exhibit and the artifacts.
It's a few weeks before the official grand opening, when you are informed that you will be speaking on the museum's behalf to one of the local newspapers for their article regarding the new exhibit. You're given a date and a time on when you can expect the journalist's arrival and a sample of a few questions they'll likely ask. You plan your responses and work on a quick guided tour of the exhibit hall.
Fifteen minutes after the expected time, one extremely flustered Clark Kent comes stumbling through the museum doors, glasses skewed, shoulder bag swinging precariously from his arm, and smelling like sun-kissed open skies. You take one look at the man and you know exactly who he is. Hypno-glasses have no effect on a priestess of light. Even without them, there's no concealing the way sunlight seems to bend and stretch its golden fingers toward his direction. You've never seen your Goddess' light react to someone in that manner. Like She mourns his loss when he moves into the shade. He then steps under one of the skylights in the main hall, and suddenly the room feels brighter, solely because he's back within Her reach.
His eyes lock on yours, and you're instantly reminded of the summer skies at the Temple when you and the other priestesses in training would sneak out to cool off by the river. You never expected to find a piece of your home anywhere in this city of steel and concrete. Yet alone someone who seems to have been directly touched by the Goddess you've dedicated your entire being to. You have to clear your throat before introducing yourself, just to keep your voice steady.
He smiles, and his dimples are so adorable, you feel your knees weaken. He shakes your hand, his grip so gentle, he may as well be holding onto a feather. You briefly wonder if he does that to conceal his true strength or because of his true strength. "Sorry, I'm late," he apologizes while fixing his glasses. "Seems like there's always some sort of catastrophe blocking traffic in this city."
The corner of your mouth lifts in amusement as you read between the lines of his comment. "Yes, I have quickly learned that flying appears to be the most reliable form of transportation in Metropolis."
His head tilts, lips parting as he flounders for a response. "I-um... I'm not sure I know what you mean."
You laugh innocently. "Just that Superman seems to be the only one who has the ability to show up on time, while the rest of us have to either walk or sit in traffic."
"Oh," he breathes in relief, shoulders loosening while he chuckles lightly. "Right, of course."
"Well, then," you hide your grin by gesturing further into the museum. "Shall we begin your tour, Mr. Kent? Or did you already have some questions for me?"
"Just Clark, is fine." He sends you a shy smile, his ears turning pink. "I'm not that formal." He then fumbles with his bag, pulling out a notebook and a recording device. "And I most definitely have questions. Do you mind if I record this? Only as source material for the article, I won't post the tour transcripts online or anything. Oh, and what about pictures?"
You want to laugh. He's so endearing that you could probably watch him all day long and never grow bored. "Yes, you can record this for reference, and pictures are fine, just keep the flash off."
"Perfect." He turns on the voice recorder and slips it into his shirt pocket.
You begin leading him toward the new exhibit hall, which is still curtained off from the general public. "Here at the Metropolis Natural History Museum, we believe that education and understanding of the past helps to shape and influence our progression toward our future. And though modern science may have ways of explaining the impossible, there's still a significant gap between explainable forces of nature, versus our understanding of miracles from the Divine. This exhibit has been designed to convey the transformation of human belief in the Divine across time, as our fundamental understanding of the world has also changed. Starting with ancient deities, all the way to our modern perception of God."
You walk Clark through the exhibit, showing him the various artifacts, artworks, and historical relics that the museum has carefully curated for their displays. He asks several insightful questions, which have you stretching your knowledge on the items within the exhibit, especially since this job is just your cover for staying close to the Solis artifacts, rather than your true passion. You're immensely grateful for the several days you spent studying for this interview prior to his arrival.
"Wow, that's gorgeous." Clark's eyes are immediately drawn to the golden display at the back wall of the final room to the exhibit.
You smile to yourself and allow him a moment to take in the display before he snaps a few pictures. "Solis is the oldest God of record to still have a following even in modern times," you explain, a hint of pride sweetening your tone. "What you're seeing here is an ancient headdress for the high priestess of the Temple of Solis, The Sun's Halo."
Stationed behind 2 inches of bulletproof glass is your very reason for being here. The gilded halo crown is so intricately carved, it shimmers like the sun over rippling water, even from the dim fluorescent lights of the museum. It's the most treasured possession of your temple. So much so that you've never even seen it worn. You can hardly believe that they allowed it to be taken from the vault, where it's been held for thousands of years.
"Legend has it that in times of crisis, the high priestess can use the crown to commune with the Goddess herself."
Clark hums thoughtfully, eyes still locked onto it. "A direct link to a God? It's a wonder why no one's already using this. Seems like there's a crisis every day on this planet."
You laugh ruefully. "Well, the legend also states that if one who is unworthy deigns to wear the crown, the wrath of Solis will smite them with a radiant flame so powerful, it will be the last deed they'll suffer on this earth."
Clark blinks heavily and finally rips his gaze away from the relic to give you a look of surprise. "Right. Don't touch the crown." He jots a quick note into his notebook, which makes you laugh.
"The Mother Sun can be quite ruthless if you spark her ire."
He eyes you curiously, "You sound like you're talking from experience."
You shoot him a conspiratorial smile. "I did my dissertation on Solis, and instead of finishing my first draft, I took the day off to go to the beach with some friends. Worst sunburn I've ever had in my life."
Clark chuckles in amusement. "Do you think that could have been avoided by a little sunblock?"
You shrug, still smiling in jest. "Normally, when I'm not incurring the Goddess's wrath, I don't need any."
"So, what exactly does one have to do to stay in her favor?" There's still a teasing lilt to his tone, but you also catch the flash of genuine curiosity in his eyes.
Your skin warms under the gentle intensity of his gaze. "Well, the easiest ways to win her favor are to appreciate her presence. Even the smallest of gestures have a way of adding up. Saying hello to the sunrise when you wake up in the morning. Taking a moment to truly feel the breeze on a sunny day. Giving thanks for the food on your plate that was grown under the grace of her light. Even grander gestures are also a surefire way to earn her blessing. Kindness, generosity, hope."
"Hope?" he repeats.
You're not surprised that the word caught his attention. "Well, what greater meaning could you possibly derive from the first rays of the sun after a seemingly endless night?"
He takes in your words with a soft nod of understanding. "You seem to know a lot about Solis. Are you with the Temple?"
You blink and rip your gaze from his, realizing you've been letting your passion leak through too much, and you may have just blown your cover. You quickly scramble for an acceptable response. "While conducting research for my dissertation, I fell in love with her teachings. I apologize if I came off a little preachy."
"No, you were perfect," Clark insists while shaking his head. His next words come out quickly, like he can hardly even contain them within his body. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"
You stare in surprise, head slowly tilting to the side. "Is this on or off the record?"
"Oh, Golly," he hastily reaches for the recorder in his pocket and turns it off. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually so unprofessional. It's just, you're so pretty—I mean, you seem pretty intelligent, and I like hearing you talk—Uh, talk about Solis. I find it incredibly fascinating and would love to hear more."
He's like a golden retriever puppy; tail wagging in excitement, but tripping over his own paws. It's incredibly charming without feeling excessive. You couldn't fight the grin tilting your lips even if you wanted to. "I get off work at 6 on Friday." Your eyes sparkle coquettishly. "And I've heard that Helios Steakhouse has good reviews."
He raises a brow over the rim of his glasses. "Wouldn't a place like that be considered sacrilege for someone trying to keep from Solis' wrath?"
Your grin is cheeky and mischievous. "Luckily, my Goddess also has a sense of humor." Your heels click on the hardwood floor as you start walking backward toward the exit. "Well, Clark, I believe that concludes our interview. Did you have any further questions for me?"
His eyes flash with heat at the sultry lilt of his name on your lips. "I think I've got everything I need for the article, but just in case, maybe I should grab your number?"
Smooth, Kent. Real smooth.
You make your way back over to him, maintaining eye contact as you reach for the pen and notebook in his hand. At the bottom of the page, under his hastily scribbled notes, you jot down your number, followed by a quick doodle of a sun. “That’s my personal number, so you can reach me, even after hours.” You hand the notebook and pen back to Clark with a saucy wink.
His cheeks flush, instantly ruining the stoic and composed look he was going for. “Thanks,” he smiles shyly.
You escort him back to the main hall, slipping back into your professional persona now that other guests and museum staff are around. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Kent. I look forward to reading your article.”
“You, too,” he says, shaking your hand again, his hold a little firmer this time around. “The new exhibit seems like a real show stopper. It’s both informative and visually appealing. I’m sure it will be quite successful.”
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to extend your praise to the team.”
“Please do.” He releases your hand, and your fingers flinch at the loss of contact.
You’ve only just met the man, but as you watch him walk out the doors to the museum, you can’t help but notice that it feels like he’s taken a part of you with him.
Friday evening doesn’t come fast enough. You spend the remainder of the week finalizing preparations for the exhibit’s grand opening. There’s going to be an unveiling ceremony for the museum’s donors the night before it opens to the public. You’re in constant communication with the caterers and wine suppliers to make sure everything goes off without a hitch. Then the graphic artist sent over the PDF file for the updated Museum map, but there were several egregious spelling errors, and they had mixed up the placement of the bathrooms with the emergency fire exits. On top of all of that, you get called out to the main floor to give VIP tours at least three times a day.
You’re definitely missing life at the Temple while you’re heading out the employee exit of the museum, but then your eyes land on the broad shoulders of one Clark Kent, and all your worries seem to wash away. He turns at the sound of your heels clicking softly on the pavement and smiles as soon as those cerulean orbs have you in their focus. “Hi,” he grins boyishly, meeting you halfway.
You find yourself matching his grin with one of your own. “Hey there.” As soon as he’s within reach, you lean closer and place a kiss of greeting to his cheek. “From ancient deities to modern Gods, the hands of the Divine have shaped mankind’s perceptions of the world both as it is and how it could be.”
Clark bashfully drops his gaze to his shoes. “You read the article.”
You giggle at his pinkening ears. “I told you I would.” You hook your arm through his and begin walking in the direction of the restaurant.
He falls into step with you, a little too aware of how nicely you fit against him. “Did you like it?” He feels pathetic for asking, like a puppy seeking approval from its new owner, but he can’t help himself.
“It was a glowing review of the exhibit. Of course, I liked it.” You smile like a cat that’s just caught a mouse. “Although, did I detect a hint of bias?”
Clark clears his throat and averts his gaze. “Maybe you’re just really good at giving tours.”
You laugh, but before you can tease him further, there’s a distant boom followed by a smoke cloud from what looks like Downtown Metropolis. Your smile quickly turns into a frown of concern. “That doesn’t look good…”
Clark stiffens next to you. “Um, I just realized my wallet is missing. I think I dropped it in the subway. Why don’t you head for the restaurant, and I’ll catch up with you in a minute?”
You look up into his anxious gaze. “Oh, okay.” He’s a terrible liar, but you don’t tell him that. You unlink your arm from his and give him an encouraging smile. “Be careful.”
He smiles like he’s got a secret, but he appreciates the sentiment. “I will.” He rushes off. Not even in the direction of the nearest subway. You smile to yourself and shake your head, wondering how no one else has found him out yet, or if they're all pretending to be oblivious, like you.
Fifteen minutes later, you make it to the restaurant. Thirty minutes after that, Clark comes running around the corner, his tie missing, hair ruffled, and a streak of ash on his cheek. You’re still waiting outside the restaurant, but you now have a bag of takeout in one hand and some plastic cutlery in the other. “The restaurant’s pretty crowded. I thought it might be nicer to find a bench by the water and watch the sunset while we eat,” you explain when Clark gives you a curious look over.
His eyes soften. “That sounds great.” He takes the bag from you, ever the gentleman. You thread your freed-up fingers through his, feeling the warmth of his palm against yours.
“Did you find your wallet?”
“Huh?” He looks confused until he remembers the excuse he gave you earlier. “Oh, yeah! It was in the lost and found. Took them a while to find it, since it hadn’t been officially logged yet.”
“You’re lucky no one stole it.”
He chuckles good-naturedly, “Well, this isn’t Gotham.”
You hum in agreement.
There’s a free bench by the waterfront that you both settle into, shoulders and thighs brushing as you eat from the takeout boxes in your lap and talk. Clark tells you about growing up in Kansas and how different everything seemed to be out here when he came to Metropolis for school. You tell him that you’re also still growing used to Big-City-Life.
“So, what drew you to Solis? If you don’t mind me asking.” Clark’s eyes are full of curiosity.
You smile fondly toward the pink and orange hues painting the horizon. “I’ve always loved the sun. On nice days, it was practically impossible to keep me cooped up indoors. My parents used to call me Sun Beam, because I was happiest when I was out playing in the sun.”
Clark's eyes are as soft as a spring morning, his smile like the first rays of the sun after the rain. “Sun Beam… It suits you.”
Your cheeks warm, whether in embarrassment or from the intensity of his gaze, you’re not sure. “When I found out there was a practicing faith dedicated to the sun, I was beyond excited. And then the first time I visited the Temple of Solis… it felt like coming home.”
The two of you sit in companionable silence as the sun dips below the horizon. You mutter a short prayer under your breath, more out of habit than anything else.
“What was that?” Clark questions.
Your gaze swings back to his, having forgotten that he has super hearing. “Sorry. That was a short prayer to Solis in the language of the sun. It roughly translates to By the Grace of Her Light. You’re supposed to say it in moments you’re feeling grateful or as a thank you to Solis at the end of a day. It’s like saying thank you for the light that she provides the Earth.”
“Can you teach it to me?” Clark asks, eyes not just inquisitive, but wanting. Like he’s genuinely interested in learning about your faith.
Oh Goddess, is this man easy to fall in love with...
A few minutes later, and there’s a stitch in your side from how hard you’re laughing while this poor Kansas farm boy tries and fails to speak the language of the sun. “You need to roll the R, Clark! Rrrrr… Gratiserrrrraa,” you say it slow and drawn out. “Per gratisera,” you say the beginning of the phrase again at normal speed.
“Great-E-Syrup. That’s the best I’ve got.” He shakes his head while laughing with you. “I don’t think my mouth was designed to make those sounds.”
Amusement lights up your features in the dimming daylight. “All right, hotshot. What is your mouth made for, then?” You don’t realize the implication behind your teasing jab until it’s already slipped past your lips.
Clark goes still, eyes flickering down to your smile. “...I’d say it can do this pretty well.” You barely have the chance to take in a breath before you feel the brush of his lips against yours. He cups the side of your face, head tilting a little as he deepens the kiss. You moan into his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt where your hand rests against his chest. You feel the brush of his tongue against the seam of your lips and are utterly helpless as they part and invite him in like a long-lost friend. Now Clark is the one moaning, because the moment your taste reaches him, he’s hooked. You’re like liquid sunlight, vibrant and golden, and seeping into him like you have more light inside of you than you know what to do with.
“Wowza…” He pulls back, looking at you like he’s never been kissed like that before. “You taste like sunshine.”
You giggle at his words. “Does sunshine taste good?”
He grins and leans back in. “Let me have another taste to make sure.”
Your fingers dive into the curls at the nape of his neck as you sigh against him. His tongue finds yours once more, and just like before, he feels a steady stream of energy flowing into him. It’s not nearly as potent as when he’s being healed at the Fortress, but the sensation is unmistakable. “Is this what taking a shot of espresso feels like?” he mumbles against you.
You laugh while pulling back and look at him dubiously, not entirely understanding his reaction. “You’ve never had a shot of espresso?”
He flounders for a response. “Um, I have, but caffeine doesn’t really affect me.”
You hum, tightening your hold around his neck. “Well, then I guess that just means you’ll need to come find me when you’re in need of a pick-me-up.”
He grins, letting you pull him back in. “Guess so…”
The sun has long since set by the time the two of you are leaving the bench and heading back home. Clark’s suit jacket is draped over your shoulders to protect you from the barely chilled evening breeze. Summer nights in Metropolis are fairly warm, but you’re not going to reject his act of chivalry.
He walks you to your apartment building and even follows you up to your door, just so he can be sure you’ve gotten home safe.
“Do you want to come inside?” you offer, fiddling with your keys instead of opening to door.
He looks down at your kiss-swollen lips, and you see the temptation in his eyes, but after a second, he shakes his head and shifts back half a step. “I shouldn’t. I’m not normally even a kiss-on-the-first-date kind of guy.”
“I can respect that.” You smile up at him so sweetly, it makes him want to take back his words even more.
“When can I see you again?” Does he sound desperate? Does he care if he does? The answer to the first is yes, the answer to the second is no.
You either don’t notice or don’t mind that he’s practically whining for the scraps of your attention. “I’ve got an empty +1 slot for the Donor’s Gala, the night before we open the exhibit. Would you be interested?”
“I would,” he responds immediately. Good gosh, was he always this pathetic?
Your smile is pure radiance. “Okay. I’ll text you the details. It’s a black-tie event. I hope you’ve got a tux.”
“I do,” he confirms.
You finally turn and push the key into your door. “Have a good night, Clark.”
“Good night.” He has to physically curl his hands into fists to restrain himself from chasing after you for one more of your sunshine kisses. Your door clicks shut and he doesn’t have the strength to stop himself from activating his x-ray vision. You’re leaning with your back against the door and have your fingers pressed to your lips. Clark feels a jolt of victorious satisfaction running through him. He smiles to himself and it takes extra effort to keep his feet on the ground as he walks away.
Three weeks and two weekend coffee dates later, it’s Donor’s Night at the museum. You asked Clark to meet you there, since you were going to have to work all day for the last-minute preparations. Sweetheart that he is, he showed up an hour early bearing a fresh cup of coffee and a box of cookies. You could have kissed him on the spot. In fact, you did. He smiled all giddy and asked if there was anything he could do to help.
“Catering table three in the Dinosaur Hall keeps losing power, and I haven’t had the chance to get over there to see what’s going on. Can you take a look?”
“Sure thing.”
Twenty minutes later, he finds you organizing pamphlets at the guest services counter.
“They were running two different power strips into a third one, and it kept tripping the surge protector. I got them all sorted and politely scolded them for nearly burning this whole place down.”
You smile gratefully. “A verbal lashing from Clark Kent? Sorry, I missed it.”
He averts his gaze, cheeks dusting a light pink. “I wasn’t mean about it.”
You laugh and make your way out from behind the desk. You lean close and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. You’re the best.” He wants to lean in for a proper kiss, but you’re already stepping away. “I need to get changed before the first of the guests start arriving.” You walk a few more steps before glancing over your shoulder with a raised brow. “Are you coming?”
Clark blinks in surprise, “Oh!” He quickly trails after you, following you through the Employees Only door and to the back offices.
There’s a garment bag hanging off the wall sconce near your desk. You grab it on your way to the employee bathroom. You reemerge a few minutes later, draped in pale yellow silk, clenching bobby pins between your teeth while you attempt to tame your hair into an acceptable updo for the company you’re about to keep. “Can you get my zipper?” you ask Clark, flashing him with your bare back.
He gulps and feels the temperature of the room rise significantly. You’ve got too much on your mind to really notice the way Clark’s knuckles brush against your skin as he drags the zipper up your back, but he’s in pure agony. One wrong move and he could all too easily tear the fabric. He has to hold his breath too, because you’ve sprayed just a hint of some type of floral perfume that smells so good, it’s making him dizzy. When the zipper reaches the end of its track, you flash Clark a smile over your shoulder, completely unaware of the torture you’re putting him through. You walk around him to swap out your work heels for a dressier pair and then touch up your makeup in a compact mirror.
“Okay,” you breathe, running through your mental checklist. When you’re certain that you’re as prepared as you can possibly be, you turn back to Clark. “All right, Kent, which smile says thank you for the donations without also looking like I want to throw up on everything you did to amass such wealth; this one or this one?” You show him two different types of practiced smiles.
He chuckles, “Definitely number two. I can feel the hostility in your eyes with number one.”
“Good to know.” You link your hand with his and tug him back out to the main hall. As guests start showing up, you force yourself away from the relative safety of his presence in order to mingle and network with the donors. An hour later, and you realize Clark might be doing some networking of his own, because you’re pretty sure you caught him chatting with Bruce Wayne next to the display of Panathenaic amphorae. You’re beginning to lose track of time the more your feet start to hurt in these stilettos. Designer does not equal comfort.
You feel a familiar warmth at your side moments before Clark’s hand rests against your back. “Careful, you’re starting to give your number one smile,” he warns in a low tone.
You moan in discomfort and lean more against him. “Goddess, smite me here and now. I don’t have the strength for smile number 2.”
Clark laughs quietly, arm tightening around your waist. “I don’t want your goddess to smite you. Here or anywhere.”
“Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent… Shouldn’t you be out chasing after Superman?”
Smile number one makes its way back onto your face as you both turn toward Lex Luthor’s approaching figure.
“I report on other things,” Clark responds, a hard edge to his tone you’ve never heard him use with anyone else before.
Lex smirks dryly, “Yes, like the heavy-handed drivel you spewed about this sorry excuse of a collection. Clearly, you had someone you were trying to impress.” His eyes switch to you, making you feel unclean as he rakes his gaze over your form. “I’ll give you some points, Kent. She may very well be the most interesting thing in this room. Her, and the object she was sent here to protect.”
Your entire body stiffens before you can tell yourself not to react, because he knows. You don’t know how, but the glint of interest in his eyes is unmistakable. It’s not the same kind of interest that Clark looks at you with. It’s pure greed. A hunger for power he has no right to covet. Power he doesn’t even understand.
You feel Clark’s hand tighten against your waist and it’s the only thing stopping you from dashing forward and clawing that smug grin off Lex Luthor’s face. He takes a sip from his glass of wine and continues to smile knowingly before he moves on and blends into the crowd.
“That man is the worst,” Clark mutters, watching him leave before he looks down at you and realizes how shaken up you are. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I need to make a phone call.”
You rush back through the Employees Only door, Clark hot on your heels. “What’s going on?” he asks, noticing how your hands shake as you reach for your cellphone that sits on your desk and activate a number you have on speed dial.
You’re talking as soon as the line picks up, and Clark quickly realizes that he doesn’t understand a single word you’re saying, but he doesn’t need to know the foreign language in order to grasp the severity of the situation. He hears you say Solis several times, and then recognizes the cadence of your words from the prayer you’d tried to teach him on your first date. What did you call it? The language of the sun. That’s what you’re speaking right now. While you pace and speak urgently into the phone, Clark is starting to connect the dots. Clearly, you’re much more involved with the Temple of Solis than some Grad Student’s fleeting interest. He’d already had his suspicions on that, but now they were confirmed. And Lex mentioned that you were sent here to protect something. It’s not difficult to piece out what.
Your tone changes to desperate pleading as you argue with the person on the other side before they hang up. You gape at the phone, barely even able to comprehend what they told you.
“Lex Luthor is going to try to steal the crown, isn’t he?” Clark asks, drawing your attention back to him.
The despair on your face makes his stomach clench. “Yes,” you whisper, like saying it too loud will bring it into existence this very moment.
Clark’s brows pinch together. “Lex Luthor can buy just about anything. He’s not a jewel thief. Why would he even want it?”
You release a long sigh while tossing your phone back onto the desk and rub at your temples with your other hand. “Because the legends about it are true,” you finally confess. Your hand drops from your face, and then you cross your arms over your chest like it’s the only thing keeping you in one piece. You lift your eyes back to Clark’s. “Whoever wears the crown… wields the Sun.”
He blanches as your words fully sink in. “Golly…” He runs his fingers through his unruly curls. “Well, what did the temple say? Are they sending more people to help you protect it?”
You scoff and look to the ceiling, willing the tears stinging the back of your eyes not to fall. “They said that Solis is testing me and I’m supposed to handle this on my own.”
“What?” he stares at you incredulously. “A holy relic powerful enough to control the sun, and they’re leaving one person to protect it against a man with his own private army?”
Your voice wavers from the stress bleeding into your veins like poison. “Oh, I am abundantly aware of the situation, Clark! Thank you very much.”
He grimaces and rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry, that wasn’t very helpful.” He steps closer and gently grasps your shoulders. “Even without the Temple, you’re not alone. I’m here. I’ll help you keep the crown safe.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. “I don’t know what to do.”
Clark pulls your body into his chest, arms wrapping securely around you while he tucks your head under his chin. “We’ll figure it out together.” His grip tightens when he feels you shudder against him.
After you’ve had a minute to calm down, the two of you make your way back out to the gala. Things are already starting to wind down, and Lex Luthor is nowhere in sight. You make your way to the back of the new exhibit, and are only able to take in a full breath once your eyes land on The Sun’s Halo and you confirm it’s still safe. Once the last of the guests have left, you kick off your heels and quickly collapse into a chair at one of the dining tables. The caterers are packing up, and the cleaning crew will be here soon, but you’re too exhausted to care.
Clark kneels on the ground in front of you and gives you a worried look. “You’ve had a long day. Why don’t you head home and get some rest? I’ll watch over the crown tonight.”
Your hand reaches out, brushing the curls off his forehead. “If I go home, I won’t be able to sleep.”
The concern in his eyes only grows. “Honey, you’re gonna have to sleep eventually.”
It takes you a second to remember that there are foldout beds in the supply closet. “There’s a cot here that I can use. We host slumber parties for the summer camp kids. I just need to pull something out of storage.”
Clark helps you carry the cot and a vacuum-sealed bag with blankets and sheets out of the storage room and sets it up in the employee lounge while you change out of your dress and back into your work attire. It’s not as good as pajamas, but better than the constricting dress. By the time you’re coming out of the bathroom, Clark has rolled your desk chair over to the cot and is making himself comfortable in it. He’s removed the top half of his tuxedo, leaving him in his white undershirt and slacks.
“Are you sure you don’t want to set up another bed?” you ask, standing between his legs.
He smiles and shakes his head, hands resting gently on your hips as he looks up at you. “I’ll be okay. I don’t need much sleep to function.”
You run your fingers through his hair and watch how his eyes fall shut at the sensation of your nails against his scalp. “Thank you for coming tonight, Clark,” you tell him with weight behind your words. “For being here now.”
He blinks his eyes back open, sky-blue pools full of sincerity and significance. “You’re not alone in this.”
Your palms cup either side of his face as you lean down to kiss him. It’s raw and heavy. Not suffocating, just meaningful. It’s less teasing and more substance as you convey your emotions through action rather than words. When you pull back, even Clark is a little breathless. You rest your forehead against his, your eyes still closed. “Thank you,” you whisper once more, breath tickling his lips like a summer breeze.
“Get some sleep, Sun Beam.” Despite the situation, the fear and uncertainty, hearing that nickname from him manages to pull a small smile out of you.
Shifting away, you half walk, half stumble into the cot. You lie on your side, facing Clark as he rolls the chair closer to you. His hand wraps around yours, where it rests on the mattress. Your blinks become slower as your exhaustion settles in. Fighting the urge to sleep is a losing battle and it’s not much longer before you’re out.
Morning comes without any sort of break-in attempt, but this does nothing to ease your frazzled nerves. Clark runs home after you’re awake to change out of his tux, then comes back with coffee, pastries, and a change of clothes for you. It’s the first day of the new exhibit now being open to the public. You’re not sure if that means Luthor will be more, or less likely to strike. On one hand, it’s a lot of witnesses, but on the other, large crowds make blending in easier.
All your panic and planning are for naught, because it ends up being a completely normal day at the museum. The worst part had been when some guests ignored the Emergency Exit signs all over a set of doors and tripped the fire alarm. You were certain that it was Lex Luthor’s doing, and it took Clark nearly an hour to get you to calm down.
The next few days seem to follow a similar pattern. Normal inconveniences that come with the territory of running a public attraction that used to just have you rolling your eyes, instead are sending you into borderline panic attacks. It’s made worse when Clark needs to start going back to the Daily Planet. You know you can’t keep him away from his day job, and if anything were to actually happen, he could be here faster than anyone else, but not having him close by makes you feel like you’re spiraling.
Three months pass without even a whisper of action from Lex. At this point, you’re starting to gaslight yourself into thinking you blew his words way out of proportion. Maybe it was just an eccentric billionaire’s way of making a bad joke?
You’re going through some feedback emails and are compiling a report to give to the board of directors regarding the success of the new exhibit when you hear a familiar gate walking toward your desk. Clark smiles when you look up and spot him. He waves in greeting to some of your coworkers, who all know him by name at this point, because he’s here so often. He’s holding a wicker basket and has a checkered blanket tucked under his arm.
“I thought we could have lunch out on the grass,” he explains once he’s reached your desk.
You glance at the clock on your computer screen and realize that it is indeed time for your lunch break. “Perfect timing.” You save your files, then push out your chair and stand to give Clark a kiss on the cheek. You thread your fingers through his free hand and pull him out the back door to the small grassy park behind the museum. You pick a spot in the sun and Clark spreads out the blanket while you’re kicking off your heels and diving into the picnic basket. Lunch is simple: handmade sandwiches with potato chips and fresh lemonade, but the bread is nice and fluffy, and the chips have the perfect amount of salt, especially when chased down with a refreshing sip of lemonade.
Clark asks you how work is going, and you try to play off your response as nonchalant, but he sees right through you.
“You look tired.” He doesn’t say it to be mean. He’s concerned about you.
You scoff, and your smile is self-deprecating, “Well, I’m still not sleeping well, so that tracks.” You take another sip of lemonade to avoid his gaze.
“You know, I’ve been told my lap can be a pretty comfy spot for a quick nap,” he offers while patting the top of his thigh.
This time, your laugh is more genuine. “By who?”
He grins back. “By the farm cat we had growing up, mostly.”
Your amusement is plain to see as you move your plate and lemonade to the side before lying down with your head on his leg. “Did this cat tell you other things?” you ask teasingly, shifting into a more comfortable position and closing your eyes.
Clark chuckles softly and starts running his fingers from the top of your temple down the side of your face. “My parents kept him around to catch mice in the barn, but he was mostly feral. Hissed and spat at anyone who got too close. I’ve never seen an angrier ball of fluff. I used to sit with it in the barn, after all my homework and chores were done. I don’t really know why. I guess I didn’t want him to feel lonely. In the beginning, if I sat down too close, he’d get up in a huff and move somewhere else, but after a while, he started letting me get just a little bit closer. Then one day, I was sitting cross-legged, watching the sunset from the loft, when I felt the tiniest amount of weight settling into my lap, and there he was. He didn’t purr and he didn’t fuss, just curled up and went right to sleep. I spent the whole night trying not to breathe too hard, and by sunrise, I could no longer feel my legs, but he stayed with me the whole time.”
There’s a serene smile on your lips as you listen to the story. “That’s so sweet.”
Clark’s fingers come to a stop as he debates whether or not he wants to ask the question that’s been eating away at him for the last several weeks. He’s scared that asking it might put things in motion, but not having the answer to it is slowly killing him. “Why haven’t you taken the Halo back to the Temple?” he finally asks.
Your eyes snap open, the smile sliding off your face as you tilt your head to look up at him. “You want me to leave?”
“No! Of course not,” he insists. “But if you’re so worried about the Halo’s safety that you can’t get a proper night’s sleep… wouldn’t it be better to take it back to where you know it will be safe?” He feels like there are rocks in his throat when he speaks. He doesn’t want to have to say goodbye to you, but he’s also worried about your health. He can see how much all this uncertainty is affecting you.
You’re silent for a long moment, eyes looking up at him like you’re searching his soul for the answer to his question. “Solis sent me here for a reason… and I can’t leave until I find out why.”
“Well then—” Clark’s response is cut off by the sound of distant screaming.
You sit up quickly and scan your surroundings with him, trying to figure out what’s going on. “Oh Goddess…” you breathe, when you notice the gigantic wave of black cresting over the edge city. You turn and see another wave towering over the buildings on that side, too. You’re completely surrounded. As the waves spread higher and higher, they seem to be coming together into some sort of focal point in the middle. Not waves… “It’s a dome,” you mumble, still hardly believing what you’re seeing with your own eyes. The blackness suddenly becomes high enough that it blocks out the sun, immediately covering you in shadow. As soon as the black waves have hit the peak of the dome, the entire city is completely shrouded in black.
“What in the world?” Clark questions, looking just as confused as you feel.
Your eyes are still adjusting to the sudden darkness as the streetlamps start turning on, one by one.
Clark’s gaze drops from the dome back to you, a sense of urgency in his eyes. “Get to the Halo.”
Your breath stutters in your chest when you realize that this dome definitely has Lex Luthor written all over it. He’s finally making his move. “Okay,” you nod, grabbing your heels. “Are you coming with me?” you ask when you notice he’s not moving to pack up his things.
“I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
You pause, reading the severity of his expression. “Be careful, Clark.”
He nods once. “You too.” He watches you run for the building and waits until you’re safely inside before he takes off, shooting into the sky to investigate this strange black dome that’s enshrouding the entire city.
You open the bottom drawer of your desk, pulling out the combat boots and tactical gear you’ve been keeping here for this exact situation. The guests and museum staff have already evacuated and abandoned the building by the time you’re settling yourself in front of the crown’s display case. You input your access code to the case next to the crown’s and pull out the twin gilded blades. Weapons used by the Guardians of Solis. You feel their familiar weight in your grip and give them a few test swings, hearing the metallic twang of the blades slicing through the air.
It doesn’t take long before Luthor’s squad of Raptors arrives. They’ve split into two teams and immediately flank you by coming in through the main entrance and the back exit at the same time. You pounce before either team gets a chance to take action, slicing through their specialized armor and weapons with ruthless intensity. You have the upper hand in the first few heartbeats of battle, but there are so many of them, it doesn’t take long for them to turn the tide and back you into a corner.
A startled scream rips out of your throat when the ceiling suddenly collapses above you. Dust and falling debris have you coughing as you jump out of the way. Crushed under a large wooden support beam and broken pieces of plaster is a familiar figure in blue. A different Raptor, even bigger than the ones you’d been fighting, is standing over him with a heavy metal boot on his back. Even more of them swarm into the room from the new entrance that’s been blasted into the ceiling.
“Superman!” You try to get to him, but the army of Raptors quickly overpowers you. They force you to your knees and twist your arms until you drop your blades.
Your cries of pain cause a visceral reaction in Superman. He tries to push himself up, but between the support beam and the Raptor’s boot, he stays pinned to the ground. He coughs and a spray of blood splatters on the floor in front of him. “Let her go, Luthor. She’s innocent.” He tries to sound strong, but his voice wavers.
The Raptor above him kneels down and grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back before slamming it into the floor.
“Stop it!” you scream, struggling against your own captors.
Luthor’s voice comes out of a drone that’s sitting back and observing the situation. “Innocent? Hardly. She’s the one who brought a weapon of mass destruction to the heart of Metropolis. I’d say I’m doing the world a favor by taking it off her hands.” His maniacal laughter makes you feel sick. “Also, she’s been shaking up with your favorite journalist. That puts her just one degree separated from you. Too close for my taste. Take the crown, then do whatever you want with the girl. The more she screams, the better.”
“No!” Your eyes meet Superman’s for a split second and the utter devastation on his face makes your heart twist.
Your vision of him gets blocked by the Raptor standing in front of you. You stare defiantly into the soulless lenses of their suit’s mask, and you see your reflection in the glass. Their hand moves faster than you can react, pain exploding against your cheek as your head whips to the side. A trail of blood leaks out of the corner of your mouth as metal coats your tongue.
The gigantic Raptor finally steps off Superman’s back and makes his way to the crown’s display case. He rears his arm back and slams it into the glass. It cracks from the powerful blow, but the integrity of the case holds. He pulls back again and again, each hit causing the cracks to spiderweb and grow, until finally, it shatters completely.
You watch in horror as he reaches through and pulls The Sun’s Halo from its pedestal. The desolation of your failure hits you all at once. You’ve failed the Temple. You’ve failed your Goddess. You’ve failed Clark. And now the worst possible person in the world is going to have unlimited power.
Before you can fall completely into despondency, something strange begins to happen. The Raptor holding the Halo starts to scream. White light glows from his clenched fist. No. Not light. White fire. It starts at his hand but quickly licks up his entire arm. In just a few seconds, his entire body is engulfed in flame. His screams are the sound of nightmares as the Divine flame purges him from the inside out.
It doesn’t stop there. Even after the flame has turned his vocal cords to ash, it continues to spread, pooling out from his feet and spreading across the room. The Raptors that hesitate are instantly consumed by the flames. The ones that don’t, take off through the hole in the ceiling or run away in panic. The ones holding you down are part of the group that runs. Some of them aren’t fast enough.
As soon as you’re free, you’re scrambling across the room and throw yourself over Superman’s body in an effort to protect him from the flames. You curl in tight around him and squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the pain, waiting for the heat to reach you, too. It never does.
Several agonizing seconds later and the screaming has finally stopped. You blink your eyes open and cautiously look over your shoulder. The white flames are going out and the Halo stops glowing moments before it clatters to the floor with a soft clank. There are charred shadows on the ground where the flame meted out its divine retribution, but other than that, there’s nothing left of those that faced judgment.
You look back down and find that Superman has lost consciousness under you. “Superman!” you call, shaking his shoulder. “Clark!” you cry desperately. That causes his eyes to snap open. He groans in pain, and when he tries to breathe, he instead coughs up more blood. “Hang on, Clark. Stay with me!”
His unfocused gaze finally snaps to you. “You’re not supposed to know it’s me…”
In any other situation, you would have laughed; instead, all you can do is sob. “I know. I’ve always known.”
“That… makes a lot of sense, actually.” He tries to shift and grimaces against the pain. “You accepted every excuse I gave you and never got mad when I showed up late. Thought you were just really trusting…”
You choke on an attempted laugh. “I’m not. I just trust you.” You brush his sweaty, matted curls off his forehead. “Clark, we need to get you out from under this rubble. Luthor will send more men.”
“I can’t,” he huffs, the pain making his head swim. “It’s the dome. Without access to the sun, I can’t heal, and I lose my strength. I’m practically human.”
Your mind scrambles for ideas; leaving him here is not an option. “Then what if I brought the sun to you?”
“What?” he feels dread pool in his gut when he follows your gaze. “No!” he urges, grabbing your wrist in his weakened grasp. “You saw what it just did to those soldiers!”
You turn back to Clark and smile like you’ve already accepted your fate. “It’ll be okay. This is why She sent me here.”
“What if it isn’t? What if you—” he can’t bear to say it. “I can’t lose you!”
“Clark… You’re Superman. You take the gift of Solis’ light, and you do amazing things with it. You fight for everything that She stands for. You’re Her number one champion. I realize now that She sent me here for you. For this exact moment. She sent me here because She loves you. And I stayed because I love you.” His breath catches at your confession. “I love you, Clark. And while you’re out there protecting the world… I’m going to be protecting you.”
You brush your fingers over his face one more time before gently extracting your wrist from his grasp. “Wait,” he urges, but you’re already walking toward the crown.
You start speaking in the language of the sun, uttering the oath you gave on the day you were knighted as a Guardian of the Sun. You pledge your loyalty to Solis and promise to uphold her principles and values against all odds. To reach for the light beyond the darkness. To dedicate yourself to a cause greater than yourself. Per Gratisera Lumira Solana. By the Grace of Her Light.
You pick up the halo and place it on your head.
You’re instantly covered in that same white flame, but there’s no pain, no heat. Only gentle warmth and soft light. You feel your feet leave the ground as overwhelming power floods your veins. Heat builds in the center of your chest, like your very own tiny sun is being born inside of you. A jolt runs down your back, still not quite painful, but intense as the Mark of Solis is branded in gold to your skin, finalizing your link to the Halo.
You’re slowly lowered back to the ground, but you’re no longer wearing what you were before. Instead, you’re draped in gilded armor and white silk, looking the picture of a Sun Goddess in human form.
Your body feels lighter than air, like gravity no longer has any sort of hold over you. When you move to go back to Clark, it only takes one step to cross the distance. Then you reach for the large wooden beam, and it’s so light, it may as well be hollow. You toss it aside and finish pulling him out of the rest of the rubble.
“Oh Goddess…” Your breath stutters when you see that his entire uniform is soaked in blood from his torso down to his legs. “Clark, stay with me!” He tries to respond, but all he does is cough up more blood. If you don’t do something soon, you’re going to lose him. “Goddess, what do I do?” It doesn’t matter if you have all the power in the universe when you don’t know how to use it.
In a moment of clarity, you remember something Clark said to you once. He said your kisses tasted like sunshine. Without further delay, you cup the sides of his face and slant your mouth over his. Clark grunts as your power surges into him. Pure, unrefined sunlight fills his body, traveling down his veins, filling his lungs, correcting any breaks or injuries it comes across along the way. It’s potent, maybe even more so than the machinery at the Fortress. He groans when a fracture in his femur resets, but his hand reaches up to cup the back of your neck and keep you against him when you try to pull back. His tongue licks into your mouth, seeking your familiar taste, which now has an entirely new spark of flavor layered in with the old. You don’t just taste like sunshine; you taste like every version of the sun. You taste like sunrise. You taste like sunset. You taste like summer skies and autumn mornings. You taste like every memory Clark has of tilting his face up to that golden light in the sky and feeling the way it caresses his skin.
By the time you pull back, you’re both a panting mess, lips swollen, pupils blown. You look over his face, noticing the flush to his cheeks. “How do you feel?”
He looks back like he’s awestruck. “I feel like I didn’t know I could love you any more than I already do.”
You huff out a laugh, smiling at your ridiculous boyfriend. “I meant your injuries, Clark. Does anything still hurt?”
He runs a quick mental assessment. “I’m fit as a fiddle,” he assures you. His hand braces against the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. “You’re gorgeous…” His eyes take you in like he’s seeing you for the first time again.
“And you’re a flirt,” you grin teasingly while nuzzling into his palm.
His eyes soften, filled to the brim with tender love and affection. “I never thought I’d need someone else’s protection, but I’m glad it’s you.”
He pulls you back against him, lips seeking another taste of your light. You hum into his mouth but force yourself to pull back. “Slow down there, Romeo. We’ve still got a dome to crack.”
“I know,” he looks at you like he wishes he were just a little more selfish. Like he’d choose kissing you over cleaning up yet another mess started by someone else. But he won’t. He blinks and forces himself to avert his gaze; it’s even more difficult to do now that you’re actually glowing. He looks up to the hole in the museum’s ceiling. “The second wave of infantry is inbound. They’ll be here soon.” He pushes himself up to standing and offers you his hand, which you really don’t need, considering you just saved his life, but you take it all the same and allow him to pull you up. “Ready to kick some behind?” he asks with a toothy grin.
You wave your hands out in front of you, and the discarded twin blades vanish in a flash of golden light, only to reappear in each of your hands. “They’ll learn to fear the sun’s wrath.” Your eyes burn with feral rage, scorning those who dare covet the power of your Goddess. Clark doesn’t think he should find that look so attractive. But he does.
You take to the open air like you were born to fly. You hover hundreds of feet above the museum, and there’s not even a flicker of doubt in your abilities. Clark hovers next to you, the both of you staring up at the dome. “It appears to be made from pure kinetic energy. Everything I hit it with was only absorbed and seemed to reinforce it even more,” Clark explains. “Lex counted on me exhausting my powers by trying to take it down. I flew right into his trap.”
Your gaze drops, noticing the flying legion of soldiers heading your way. “You handle the Raptors. I’ll handle the dome. If it thrives on kinetic energy, then we just need to give it more than it can handle.” You take off like a shot. A golden arrow arcing up to the top of the dome. Your twin blades glow with the energy of the sun as you sink them into the inky blackness and begin channeling pure sunlight into the forcefield.
You hear Clark engaging in battle below you as he single-handedly fights against the horde of soldiers, but you continue to focus on your task, trusting him to have your back. Trusting him to protect you, just as you’ll protect him. You force every drop of liquid sun out of your veins and into your blades, feeding the seemingly insatiable hunger of the dome. It takes everything from you, like a black hole. The one thing that can easily devour a sun. But just when you begin to feel a flicker of doubt, you see a crack. One tiny hairline fracture where your left blade has pierced the darkness. You force even more energy out of you, and the crack grows, fingers of golden light piercing through from the other side.
Clark looks up when he hears your scream. It’s not a scream of pain, but of someone pushing themselves past their limit. You’re going to burn yourself out. A sun just barely formed and already swallowed by the emptiness of the universe. There’s a sudden burst of light, and for one heartbeat, it looks like you have giant golden wings of sunlight sprouting from your back. And then the dome bursts.
A wave of pure energy comes raining down, frying the circuitry of the Raptor suits, and they start dropping like flies. Clark barely pays them any mind because now you’re falling, too. He swoops in and catches your limp form, fearing the worst. You’re unconscious, but still breathing. He sighs in relief, cradling you close as he flies you to the safest place he knows.
"Gary, power up the chair," Clark calls as soon as he's past the Fortress entrance.
"Your vitals are showing no injuries," Gary calls back from deeper within the fortress.
"It's not for me." He steps into the medical wing and lays your body on the medical chair. "Power it up."
"Are you certain this is wise? Concentrated solar radiation is highly toxic to normal humans," the robot questions dubiously.
"She's not normal, she's extraordinary." He runs his fingers down the side of your face, like he can’t bear to stop touching you entirely.
"If you say so..." The robot mutters doubtfully.
The crystals in the ceiling shift, allowing the Antarctic Sun to shine into the room and through a series of magnifying lenses. The concentrated beam of sunlight hits you directly in your chest. Your back arches off the table, eyes flying open as you gasp for breath. You feel like you've just taken a shot of adrenaline at a dose intended for an elephant.
"Okay, that's enough!" Clark orders, helping you sit up as the machine powers down. "You okay?"
You attempt to cough your breathing back into a normal rhythm. "Ugh, I think that gave me heartburn." You press your fingers to your sternum and rub in small circles.
"Sorry," Clark grimaces. "I may have panicked a little. Thought you were going to burn out."
You blink up at him and then notice the illuminated crystals in the wall behind him. "Uh, Clark... Where are we?" you ask, looking around a room you couldn't have even imagined until this moment.
The robot next to him speaks before he gets the chance to respond. "Kal-El, it would appear this human is aware of your alternate identity. Shall I eliminate the threat?"
"Excuse me?" You narrow your eyes defensively at the robot.
"That's not necessary, Gary!" Clark quickly jumps between you two, holding his arms out in a subduing motion. "She's not a threat, she's my girlfriend."
"Ah." The robot backs down. "Analysis indicates multiple translations for girlfriend. Does the use of this term indicate that she is a female acquaintance? Or is this relationship more carnal in nature?"
Clark immediately starts choking on his own saliva.
Your grin widens the redder his face gets. "Yes, Kal-El. What exactly is the nature of our relationship?" You throw your legs over the edge of the medical table and cross one knee over the other while holding your chin in your palm and look at him inquisitively.
"Stop that," he berates you over his shoulder, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. He then turns back to Gary. "She's my significant other. Please treat her with all the luxuries you would afford me."
"How nice to finally have a guest that does not immediately destroy the place upon arrival." You're pretty sure you sense an undertone of sarcasm in the robot's voice before he turns and walks away.
"He's funny," you giggle at Clark's expense as he turns back to you with a sigh.
"I take it you're feeling better?" he questions, holding a hand out to help you out of the medical chair.
You take his proffered hand and hop down. You expect your legs to quiver under your weight, but you actually feel fine. "Surprisingly, yes. Although I think I saw Solis while I was passed out."
You feel Clark stiffen next to you. "Saw as in, you nearly died and she sent you back or..."
"No," you squeeze his hand in assurance. "She wanted to talk. She told me how proud she was of me for accepting the Halo, and she also..." Your voice drops off as embarrassment floods your veins. You clear your throat and try again. "She also mentioned that she blesses our union."
"Oh..." Clark's eyes widen, and he looks like he doesn't really know how to interpret that information.
"I'm sorry. Is that weird?" You panic at the expression on his face. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"No, it's okay." He quickly steps closer and holds your face in his hands. "She sent you to me, and I'm going to be grateful for that for the rest of my life. I've been doing this on my own for so long, I could never have even imagined that I'd meet my perfect match in you. I love you beyond words. Beyond comprehension, even."
You look up at him, smiling so wide, you’re beaming. "I love you, too, Clark."
He leans close and slants his lips over yours. You sigh against his mouth and wrap your arms around his neck. He kisses you long and slow, like he has all the time in the world to learn this new version of you and how you feel against him.
"I have a question," he pulls back while grinning boyishly. "It's regarding pillow logistics."
Your eyes shine with humor as your head tilts. "Pillow logistics?"
He huffs an amused laugh. "If we were to... hypothetically, sleep in the same bed, how concerned do I need to be about accidentally poking an eye out?" His eyes flicker up to your halo and all its pointed spires. "Like, is this a permanently attached situation, or can you take it off?"
"It's kind of both?" Your eyes briefly flash the color of the sun as the crown on your head fades into gold dust particles that are then absorbed into the tattoo on your back. "The Halo and I are one, but I can seal it within the Mark of Solis." While you're at it, you also seal away your gilded armor, leaving you in just your thin silken tunic.
"You're incredible," Clark looks at you like he can still hardly believe you're real. He leans in close, nose tilting your chin up as he trails feather-like kisses down your neck. His touch is so light, it may as well be the brush of butterfly wings.
"You don't have to be so gentle," you tease.
His response feels a little pre-programmed as he mumbles against your skin. "Don't want to accidentally hurt you."
All at once, you realize he's never been with someone who could fully handle him. He's had to be so careful with every single person he's ever met for nearly his entire life. Honestly, he's even had to be careful with you until just a few hours ago. Even the smallest accident on his part could break human bone. Things people took for granted every day could have deadly consequences when coming from him. People who brushed against his shoulder on the street would feel like they'd hit a brick wall if he didn't twist around them. The drawer full of smartphones with cracked screens, all because he pressed just a little too hard. The entire door frame that had to be replaced in his childhood bedroom after he'd slammed the door too hard in a fit of teenage angst.
"Clark..." There's an edge to your tone, somewhere between temptation and danger, that has him lifting his gaze back to yours. He feels a pulse of energy, and in the next moment, he's flat on his back, pinned with enough force to crack the stone beneath him. He blinks up at your Cheshire cat grin, mind still catching up with the situation. "You don't need to be careful with me."
You see the moment it clicks for him. Surprise gives way to knowing, which then melts into desire. His pupils expand, inky black swallowing steel blue. His tongue slides out and licks over his lower lip. You feel a twitch beneath where you're straddling his hips. He attempts to move his wrists from where you have them pinned above his head, and his breath hitches when he realizes he can't. Not easily, at least.
Your laugh is low and sultry as you rock against the rapidly hardening erection under you. "Does getting pinned to the floor turn you on, Superman?"
His abs clench under his suit. "Only when it's you."
"Perhaps I was mistaken in my comment about destroying the place..."
The two of you turn to the side to see Gary standing there, looking down at the new cracks in the floor. You release Clark's wrists and allow him to sit up while he grins sheepishly at the robot. "Sorry, Gary..." He pulls you both up to standing and starts moving you down one of the hallways. "We'll be more careful!"
The two of you laugh like giddy teenagers and stumble into his bedroom. Clark has you pinned to the wall before the door is fully shut. Now he kisses you like he’ll never get enough of your taste. Like he wants to devour you whole. His tongue slips into your mouth, no longer exploring, but claiming. His hand grips the meat of your thigh where it’s pinned to his hip, his hold tight enough to dent steel, but with you, it will barely leave a bruise.
His other hand reaches for the elastic of your panties, but the fabric dissolves into gold dust under his touch. "That's very handy," his laugh brushes against your lips.
You can't respond because his fingers are now on you, and the ability to form words has left you entirely. He collects your slick on the pads of his fingers and drags them up to your needy clit, rubbing in small circles. Your breath catches in your throat, nails digging into the fabric of his suit where you're clutching his shoulders.
"You're already so wet," he groans, dropping his forehead to yours.
You whine low in the back of your throat, hips grinding into his touch. "This is so much better than I imagined."
His dimples show as his smile widens. "You imagined Superman's hands up your skirt?" he teases.
Your breathing stutters when his fingers press into your clit once more. "No," it's one syllable, yet still manages to sound so wrecked. "I imagined Clark Kent's hands up my skirt," you explain between uneven breaths. "Whenever I thought of Superman, I was usually sitting on his face."
He huffs in amusement, head rocking against yours when he shakes his head. "Well, that can certainly be arranged." His face pulls away from yours at the same time you feel his hand leave your soaked folds and move to grip the outside of your other thigh.
Before you get the chance to comprehend his meaning, Clark is hoisting your body higher up the wall. You yelp, more from surprise than fear, as you're lifted high enough to sit on his shoulders. You pull the hem of your tunic up to your hips, revealing his smug grin, perfectly bracketed between your thighs. "This? Is not what I had in mind!"
His smile only gets bigger. "You comfortable?" he asks, hands shifting slightly to grip the globes of your ass from underneath.
"You're not serious—" your voice turns into a gasp when he dives in and begins to feast on your dripping cunt. "Clark!" Your hands scramble to find something to hold onto, but your options are extremely limited. That’s how you end up with one hand plastered to the wall above your head while the other sinks into his thick, curly hair. “Oh!” Your head thunks back against the stone wall.
He explores your folds with all the enthusiasm of a person trying to lap up the last drops of ice cream at the deepest part of the cone. Your slick coats his tongue, unequivocal evidence that you’re enjoying this just as much as he is. He drags the flat of his tongue up your dripping center and over that tight bundle of nerves. He swirls and flickers over your clit in short, quick movements that have your core tightening. Your thighs are already shaking, and he’s just barely started.
He keeps one hand firmly holding the weight of your ass as the other drifts back to your leaking entrance. While his tongue continues to have its wicked way with your clit, he coats his fingers in your abundant slick and slips one inside of you. Your pussy pulses eagerly around the thick digit, and after a few shallow thrusts, he stuffs you with a second one. He pushes in deep, all the way to the last knuckle, and curls them into your upper wall. Your entire body shudders.
“Oh my—Clark!” His name comes out a broken sob as he pushes into your pleasure center with relentless intensity. His fingers scissor out, working you open enough for him to push in a third. You already feel so full, stretched out around the largest hands you’ve ever seen on a man. His tongue flits over your clit to a beat rivaling hummingbird wings, further proving how no other man on earth will ever be able to compare to him. He’s ruining you in the best way possible.
“Goddess, please!” Your voice breaks down into incomprehensible chanting. It might be a prayer to your deity, or it could just be unintelligible sounds from a mind so clouded with pleasure that higher functioning thought becomes nonexistent.
Clark curls his fingers into your G-spot at the same time he suctions against your clit, and you’re done for. Both of your hands fist into his hair as your back arches off the wall and your hips buck feverishly against his face. His hand flexes over your ass as he keeps you balanced up on his shoulders. He doesn’t stop, even as your shaking thighs squeeze his ears. He hums his satisfaction as you soak his fingers and tongue with your release, the pleasure making you taste sweeter than ambrosia.
“Clark…” you sound completely wrecked, tightening your hold in his hair while trying to force his head back.
He resists at first, leaving one last sloppy kiss over your buzzing clit before pulling back enough to reveal slick-coated cheeks and gluttonous blue eyes.
Your breath is still heavy as you laugh incredulously down at him. “If Clark Kent ever needs to write an article about Superman’s phenomenal head, I will happily give a statement.”
His dimples are back, and they’re even more devastating with your essence painted over them. “Duly noted.” His fingers slip out from between your legs, and your arousal smears against your skin where he grips your leg to carefully slide you back down the wall.
“I need you out of this suit and on the bed,” you urge as soon as you’re touching solid ground again.
A trail of discarded boots, a tangled cape, and wrinkled super suit follows the two of you as you push him back onto the mattress. You flick the silk tunic off your shoulders, but before it falls past your thighs, it’s already vanished into gold dust. The icy air causes your nipples to pebble, but you hardly feel the chill with the sun heating you from the inside out. You crawl over the royal blue duvet and settle over Clark’s lap. His heavy cock rests against the top of his thigh, impossibly thick and leaking at the tip.
“Oh… Solis has indeed blessed every aspect of you, hasn’t she?” Your fingers trace his pulsing veins from base to tip.
He groans from the back of his throat, jaw going slack when your fingertip spreads his precum over the sensitive head. “You don’t need to force yourself to take all of me,” he huffs, your touch is both pure bliss and utter agony. “I know it’s not small.”
Not small might be the understatement of the century, but you just smile as you close your fist around him and start stroking up and down his full length. “Are you underestimating me again, Clark?”
He grunts low, hips stuttering against your touch. “No, never!”
You lift up onto your knees and drag the head of his cock through your wet folds, then use your fingers to smooth your slick down his considerable length. His hands clench into fists against the sheets from the effort it takes to resist rutting up into you. A few more strokes up and down, then you have him notched against your entrance and begin to sink down.
“Oh, fu—Ha…” He was so close to letting that one slip out. You’re just, “So tight!”
You mewl weakly at the way your body stretches to accommodate him. “Clark!”
One hand leaves the blankets and clamps around your hip. “Don’t!” He pleads, but sounds just as wrecked as you do. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“’M not,” you promise, sinking down another inch. “T’s so good!”
You stop about halfway, needing to catch your breath. Your hips swirl experimentally, and Clark swears his soul is seconds away from leaving his body. His hand flexes against your hip, every muscle in his torso pulled taut with barely contained restraint. “So perfect,” he looks up at you like he’s never seen a more beautiful sight. “So wet. So hot. Squeezing me so good. My very own Sun Beam.”
You drop another inch. “Ngh, Clark!” Your nails rake down the curve of his shoulder, hard enough to leave angry red marks on his normally impervious skin.
He hisses through his teeth, hips jolting up against his will and forcing even more of himself into you. “Shoot! Sorry,” he apologizes immediately. “I’m so sorry! Didn’t mean—"
“Shut up.” You bend down, teeth sinking into his opposite shoulder, right as you make the final push and shove yourself fully down to the hilt. The two of you groan in unison, yours muffled by the meat of his shoulder, while Clark throws his head back. He’s not used to the feeling of pleasure mixing with pain. So few people are even capable of causing him pain, and no one’s ever had him feeling this much euphoria. He’s fully encased inside your walls, every pulse and twitch sending tremors through his cock and straight to that hungry thing deep inside his core. It’s the part of him that he fights against every single day. The part that thrives on greed and pleasure.
“You’re so deep,” you moan after releasing his shoulder from your mouth.
“Believe me, I know,” he huffs back, cock twitching inside of you.
You roll your hips in small circles. “So big, so thick, so full…” You’re practically delirious from how stuffed you are. Stuffed full of cock. Stuffed full of him.
“Jeez Louise…” he rocks against you because he can’t help it, but he forces himself to move slow. Careful.
You’re having none of that.
Your hands settling over his shoulders is the only warning he gets before you start bouncing on his cock. He makes a choked sound, hands flying to your waist as you slam down on him over and over again. This is nothing like the slow, tender lovemaking he’s used to. Clark Kent has never fucked anyone in his life. It’s a risk he was never willing to take. Yet here you are, not only taking him deeper than any of his previous partners, but also ruthlessly pummeling your own pussy on his cock while screaming to the heavens over how good it is.
He feels the flip of the switch inside him. One second, he’s sweet, kind, innocent Clark Kent, and the next… he’s something else.
Within the blink of an eye, the world tilts, and he now has you pinned beneath him, cock still buried impossibly deep inside your body. His eyes flash with something primal when he meets your startled gaze. “Still think you can handle all of me?” He questions, eyes locked on yours to catch every flicker of reaction.
“Yes,” you respond without hesitation. “I do, Clark. Please, I need you!”
The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes the entire room shake. By the third, your eyes are rolling back while your nails rake lines down either side of his spine. He fucks you like a man who’s been released from lead shackles after a lifetime of holding himself back. The normally careful consideration in his eyes has been replaced with sheer determination and raw desire.
His massive body keeps you pinned down to the mattress, despite his thrusts having enough power to launch you into orbit. Your legs squeeze around his hips, feet crossed over the curve of his ass, pulling him even deeper into you. The wet sounds of raw sex mix with your panting breaths. Both of your skins become slick with sweat. Two bodies that already naturally run hot only stand to generate even more heat when moving at a pace that could break the sound barrier.
The level of pleasure you’ve achieved is higher than you ever thought was possible. Clark is pushing all the right buttons to get you primed and ready for takeoff. He keeps his upper body weight propped up on one arm while the other slides to where you’re both connected. He thumbs over your clit in sure strokes, making your pleasure soar. You’re so overstimulated. From his touch. From his relentless pounding. From the breathy, pleasured grunts that leak out of him like a porno played back on vinyl.
You’ve reached your limit. Too much pleasure. Too much heat. Too much cock. You burst like a sun flare, coming hard enough that you see the entire galaxy behind your eyelids. You call out his name, because it’s the only word you know, as you arch up against him and shudder through your release. You feel a splash of heat deep in your core and know that he’s coming with you. His hips jerk with every jolting spurt as he paints your insides white. He groans against your neck, rutting into you until the overwhelming sensations come to a stop. Even then, he pushes as deep as he can before collapsing onto his forearms.
For a while, all you can hear is rushing blood and your own pounding heart, but then you start to come down enough to hear Clark’s panting breaths. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him out of breath. “Did you mean to do that?” he eventually asks, still pressed heavily against you.
You throw a weak arm over your eyes. “Do what?” you question, just as breathless. “I was kind of in the middle of a mind-blowing orgasm…”
Clark shifts, and all at once, you feel the thick weight of him, still hard, inside you. “Yeah, well, when you were in the middle of that, you also pulsed more solar energy into me…”
You lift your arm off your face and look at him incredulously. Sure enough, all of your scratch and bite marks have vanished from his skin, along with his refractory period, apparently… “Oh Goddess…” You might faint, but then a flicker of movement behind him pulls your focus. “Uh, Clark?”
He turns and looks up to where you’re pointing. “Wowza…”
Shimmering, swirling lights dance along the vaulted ceiling in varying shades of greens and purples.
Clark blinks at the stunning sight, then turns back to you with all the wonder of a child seeing Santa Claus for the first time. “Did I make you come so hard you… Aurora Borealis-ed?”
You stare back at him, at a complete loss. “It would seem so…”
After a short break, entirely for your own benefit rather than his, Clark has you pinned under him once again. This time, you’re on your stomach, hips propped up on a pillow as he thrusts into you from behind. He still snaps forward with enough force to cripple a small nation, but now he’s taking things slow. His hands trace the golden patterns marked into your skin, then he traces them again with his lips, and finally with his tongue. You’re completely pliant beneath him, muscles lax except for the occasional shudder when he hits you extra deep.
When your third orgasm of the evening sends, yet another burst of solar energy through Clark, you have to beg him to let you sleep. He chuckles and kisses your temple before rolling you both onto your sides and bundling you up in his arms. The crystal lights all around the room automatically dim to a faint glow. After all the events of the day, it doesn’t take you long to fall into a deep and dreamless slumber.
You're not even sure what time it is when you're suddenly jolted awake by a loud crash, quickly followed by the entire fortress shuddering around you. The two of you bolt upright, sharing a brief look before scrambling out of bed. Your tunic materializes around your body with a mere thought, while Clark swipes his boxers off the floor and struggles to pull them up his legs as quickly as possible, nearly falling over in his haste.
"That's entirely unfair," he huffs, chasing after your laughter as you dash out of the bedroom.
The two of you hurry down the hall toward the source of the blast. You've just barely stepped into the main room when a blur of red and white comes flying out of the rubble from the broken wall. Your reflexes have you dodging out of the way before you even place the incoming projectile, but poor Clark isn't so lucky.
"Ow! Krypto!" He yells out after getting body slammed into the floor. "Dude! Stop!" He writhes on the ground and uses his forearms to shield his face from what you now realize is a dog. An incredibly animated, aggressively playful, super-powered dog... It jumps on his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs, and you're not sure if it's trying to lick his face or bite it.
"Hey, I'm gonna leave my dog here again!" You turn back around to find a person now stumbling out of the rubble. "Also, you moved the entrance, again? What the hell?"
"It's always been in the same spot! And we put in a side door where you busted in last time!" Clark cries in exasperation. "Ow!" With one final hop to his stomach, Krypto takes off down the hall, probably in search of something else to destroy. Clark groans in pain, clenching a hand to his abused torso as he sits up. "When are you going to start training that dog?"
Kara blatantly ignores him and scrunches her face in disgust. "Ew, why aren't you wearing more clothes?"
Clark looks down at his bare chest and swipes some errant dog fur off his abs. "It's 6:30 in the morning, I was sleeping," he argues while pushing himself up to standing.
She hums like that barely counts as an answer, then nods her head in your direction. “Who’s the hottie?”
“My girlfriend.” He tilts his head toward her with a be nice expression in his eyes.
“Double ew.” Her eyes flicker up and down your form with an assessing brow raised. “What exactly do you see in my dork of a cousin anyway?” she finally asks you directly.
You pretend to be inspecting your cuticles when you respond in a casual tone, “He’s got a big dick.”
“Good gosh, you did not just say that…” Clark covers his face in mortification.
Meanwhile, Kara is making gagging sounds. “I did not need to know that… but mad respect.” She regains her composure and starts heading back for the hole she created in the wall. “If you let anything happen to my dog, I’ll kill you,” she calls with finality back to her cousin. “See you later, loser!”
As soon as she’s gone, Clark pins you with a disapproving stare.
“What? It got her to leave, didn’t it?” You grin teasingly while stepping past him. “I’m heading back to bed, you coming?” You glance back over your shoulder, your tunic dissolving into gold dust.
Eyes, the color of midday skies, rake over your naked body. “As many times as you’ll let me.”
Summary: Dick, who was once banned from engaging with Ivy as a kid because he kept poking her carnivorous plants, still manages to get himself in trouble, even as an adult. One overdose of sex pollen has the two of you scrambling to reach a safehouse before the effects set in.
Word Count: 7K
Content Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, porn with very little plot, sex pollen, dubious consent (because of the pollen), established relationship, sex marathon, oral (female receiving), rimming, p in v sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, squirting, mating press, praise kink, explicit language, no use of Y/N
A/N: I'm sure this has already been done before, but when I read the episode of Wayne Family Adventures where Dick explains to Damian why he got banned from Poison Ivy cases for a while, I couldn't help but think it was the perfect lead-up for a sex pollen fic 😅 Holy shit, this is FILTHY AF
ALSO even though this is getting posted around Xmas, it has nothing to do with Xmas, and I DO NOT RECOMMEND that you read it around your family!
"Are you going to behave yourself?" you ask, pointedly glaring at Nightwing as you both approach the giant greenhouse at the back of the Gotham Botanical Gardens.
"Why, I have no idea what you could possibly mean," he responds with a cheesy grin.
Your gaze narrows even further. "If you get eaten by a giant carnivorous plant again, I'm not coming after you."
"I can't help it if I'm irresistibly tasty." He presses a hand to his chest, his tone heavy, like it's such a burden to bear.
"Oh, brother..." You roll your eyes.
"Babe, you know exactly how tasty I am," he leans in and whispers into your ear.
You push his face away with a gloved hand and refuse to acknowledge the heat beneath your own domino mask. "Way to keep it professional, Nightwing."
His husky chuckle sends a shiver down your spine. "You're not denying it."
"And you still haven't answered my question. Do I need to make you wait out here?" You cross your arms, coming to a stop in front of the main doors, barring his entry.
"Come on, that was a long time ago!" He holds his hands out like he's trying to prove his case. "I was 8!"
"Yes, because you've done so much maturing since then," you mumble sarcastically with your hands on your hips and staring pointedly.
He pouts, and you can fully imagine the big blue puppy eyes he's giving you beneath the whites of his mask. "I'll be good," he promises, drawing an X over his heart. He drops the act and adopts a more serious tone. "I'm not letting you go in there alone. We all know how volatile Ivy can be."
You stare him down for a beat, gauging the honesty of his pledge, before stepping aside with a sigh. "She's mellowed out a bunch after she started dating Harley."
"She's still dangerous."
"I know," you agree, moving to pull open the large glass door. "Just keep your hands to yourself."
He's back to smirking cheekily. "That's not what you said last night."
You have to refrain from smacking him.
It's hot and humid inside the monumental glass building. All types of exotic plants fill the space from floor to ceiling, along with buzzing and fluttering insects in various colorful forms. You begin sweating under your suit almost immediately.
"Let's make this quick," you announce, stepping deeper into the greenhouse. You cut him off as soon as he opens his mouth. "If you make one more comment about last night, I swear to god..."
He laughs, holding his hands up innocently.
You both follow the path deeper into the building. It feels like you're getting swallowed up by the rainforest all around you. It's not like walking into a lion's den; the threat here is subtle, older, thousands of years of slow growth and adaptation. You tread carefully, making sure to avoid any wayward sprouts or vines along the path. Don't want to piss off your host by accident.
"To what do I owe this unexpected intrusion?" Ivy's voice carries to you before you've even laid eyes on her.
Several jungle ferns shift their fronds, opening a previously hidden path. You and Nightwind share a look before stepping through and entering what appears to be a chemist's laboratory. There are tables full of glassware, vials, and beakers filled with colorful liquids, Bunsen burners, measuring scales, and the like.
Ivy is standing behind the table, wearing safety goggles, and swirling a bright green concoction inside a triangular beaker.
You step closer, but still maintain a healthy distance from her and the lab equipment. "Batman said you've had a breakthrough on the water quality project."
She sets down the beaker and steps out from behind the table. "Yes, follow me."
You both follow her to a different section of the greenhouse.
"When Batman first came to me with the idea to use plants to filter out all the pollution, fear toxin, and Joker venom poisoning the Gotham river, I told him it couldn't be done. Humans are destroying this planet at a rate too quick for my beloved plants to adapt. I had lost too many of my babies to these vile contaminants already; I didn't want to contribute to the loss of even more while studying a fool's errand."
The sound of running water hits your ears moments before you step to the edge of an indoor pond. Gorgeous, vibrant blooms of water lilies, water hyacinths, and watercress plants float across the top, while cattails line the sides. The water within the pond is clear enough to see a few fish and turtles swimming beneath the surface.
"Batman's plan of enhanced evolution and genetic modification of these specific species has indeed borne fruit." Ivy comes to a stop near the pond's edge. "The water of this pond is being directly supplied by the river."
"Wow..." you mutter quietly. The Gotham River water you know is mucky and disgusting. It's hard to believe just a few plants can accomplish so much. "Can I take a sample?"
"Be my guest," she gestures toward the water's edge.
You hesitate just for a moment, assessing the situation. You don't sense any hostility from her, but still want to make sure you're not about to get eaten by a plant sea monster hidden within the depths of the pond. You deem it safe when she looks away with disinterest. You pull a vial from your utility belt and dip it below the surface of the water. You release a subtle sigh of relief when nothing jumps out at you, and you're able to cork the vial and drop it back into your belt.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
You look up in alarm, but find that Ivy's attention has been drawn elsewhere. You follow her gaze to Nightwing, whose face is far too close to a bulbous, orchid-looking plant, in a striking magenta color.
"Why does this one smell so..." Dick almost sounds dazed as he stares at the flower.
All too suddenly, the center bulb bursts open, and a cloud of pink powder shoots directly into his face.
"Nightwing!" You cry out, startled.
He coughs and stumbles back. "What the hell?"
"Oh, here we go..." Ivy rolls her eyes and reaches a hand up to massage her temples.
"Oh, shit. Please tell me that's just normal plant pollen." You look from Nightwing back to her.
She gives you a flat look. "Would I be keeping it all the way in the back of the greenhouse if it were?" She asks with a raised brow.
"Fuck. Do you have an antidote?" You reach out to steady him when he stumbles again, like a baby deer taking their first steps.
"Relax, it's non-lethal." She waves away your distress. "He'll burn it out of his system within twelve hours. Faster if he engages in physical activity."
"What?" You look at her with confusion and then stiffen when Nightwing presses his face to your neck and breathes deeply.
"Baby, you smell so good," he practically moans into your skin.
Your knees nearly buckle when he suddenly drops his entire weight onto you, like the world's neediest weighted blanket. "N-Nightwing... get ahold of yourself!" You hiss through clenched teeth, embarrassment and concern battling within you.
"At the dose he just took, it's going to set in fast. You may want to get him to a safe house sooner rather than later."
"Ivy, what exactly was in that pollen?" You're almost scared to ask.
"A hormonal stimulant. It was originally designed to enhance subservience, but there were unintended side effects, so I stopped the project and relocated the plant somewhere it wouldn't come in contact with others."
"A hormonal stimulant..." You repeat, trying to process what exactly that means. "Ivy, is this fucking sex pollen?!"
She smirks and waves you away. "Have fun with your new pet."
The plants in the greenhouse shift again, blocking her from view and opening a new path straight toward the exit. You struggle under Dick's weight, especially when he seems more keen on snuggling closer to you, rather than walking by himself, but you manage to get him back to the Batcycle. He presses in close, arms wrapping tight around your middle, hips grinding his bulging erection against your ass.
You nearly whimper, hands tightening around the handlebars. "Babe, you need to let me drive."
You're not sure if he's ignoring your words or incapable of following them, when all he does is moan and grind even faster.
Through sheer luck and determination, you manage to get yourselves to the nearest safehouse without crashing, even with your boyfriend dry humping you the entire time. You stumble up two flights of stairs and practically fall through the door of the empty apartment. He clings to you like a barnacle the whole time, hands rubbing over your torso, gripping your hips, squeezing your breasts, even dipping down to cup your sex through your uniform.
"I'm gonna make you feel so good, Baby," he declares, his voice a low, sultry thing that sends tingles down your spine.
"Dick, stop," you insist, forcing his hands to release you enough that you can turn in his hold to face him. You rip both of your masks off, tossing them to the side, before cupping his face between your palms. "Look at me." His pupils are fully dilated, his gaze laser-focused on your lips, sweat slicking his brow. He licks his mouth and tries to lean in to kiss you, but you hold him back. "Dick, Honey, we can't do this right now."
He blinks slowly, your words taking longer than normal to register. "Why not?" he asks, head tilting in confusion.
You stare at him flatly. "Because you're high on fucking sex drugs!"
"Pshhhhh... I'm fine." He waves his hand and tries to take a step to prove his point, and nearly collides with the wall. "Whoops!" He giggles like a drunken sorority girl.
You sigh and run your hands down your face, looking up toward the ceiling, at a loss for what to do. "Dick, you are not fine."
He giggles again, like you've just said the most hilarious joke. "You keep saying dick. Does that mean you wanna see mine?" He reaches to remove his utility belt and lets it fall to the floor at his feet.
You dart forward and grab his hands before he can remove anything else. "It's literally your name, Richard!"
"Oooooohh! You called me Richard. Does that mean I'm in trouble? Are you gonna spank me?" He grins goofily, turning around and wiggling his butt in your face.
"Oh my god, you're fucking ridiculous."
"Come on, baby. Smack my ass." He grins over his shoulder, slapping an open palm down over one perky globe. "You know you want to."
"Good grief..." You grip his shoulders and get him down the hall and into the single bedroom of the safehouse. You make him sit on the edge of the bed and then step back. "I'm going to leave you in here until whatever this is wears off. Feel free to jerk off or whatever you need to do to burn through it faster."
"No!" He grabs your wrist before you can get far enough, and he tugs you straight into his lap. His arms circle your waist, locking your body against his. "No, baby, don't go! I'm gonna make you feel so good. I need it. Need to feel you come on my tongue, and around my fingers, and on my cock. Please, baby." His tongue darts out, licking up the side of your neck and making your eyes roll back and your breath shudder.
"Babe, I'm not taking advantage of you when you've been compromised." You struggle against his hold and your own budding desire.
He nips and sucks on your pulse point, refusing to let you go. "We already talked about this. Remember?"
You stop your struggles for a moment, trying to figure out what he could be alluding to, when it finally hits you. A silly conversation you both had months ago. It was just pillow talk, running through hypothetical situations when the postcoital buzz was running too high to fall asleep, despite the late hour. Dick had asked if you'd still have sex with him if he was dosed with something that made him desperate for sex. You'd firmly denied, stating it would be morally wrong, even with the two of you dating.
"But what if I gave you permission ahead of time?" he countered.
"What, like before the drug or whatever set in?"
He shook his head. "No, like right now. If I ever get drugged and become out-of-my-mind horny for you sometime in the future, you have my explicit permission to fuck my brains out until I calm down."
You scoffed and rolled your eyes. "Dick, that's not how consent works."
"Sure it is," he grinned, tugging your knee higher on his hip, where you had it dangling over his side. "24/7, any time, anywhere... I'm always DTF."
You snorted at that. "Okay, now I know you're bullshitting. You would not be down to fuck anywhere."
His lips pursed into a pout. "What do you mean?"
You raised a brow. "You're telling me you'd be DTF inside the batcave?" He stays quiet. "In the batmobile? In the manor's kitchen?"
"Hey now! The kitchen is a sacred place. You don't mess with Alfred's domain!"
You blink at Dick as the memory fades away. "That was purely hypothetical; you were never supposed to actually get dosed with sex pollen!"
"I still gave you blanket permission for this exact situation." He's back to kissing and nipping at your neck, slowly chipping away at your resolve.
"Dick, you are literally incapable of saying no to sex, right now. That's not true consent."
"I'm incapable of saying no to sex even without any pollen. I want you every second of every day. Why do you think I make so many sexual innuendos?"
"God, you're hornier than a teenager at prom." You thread your fingers into his hair and yank his face away from your neck.
He releases a lewd moan, rocking his hip up into you. "Yeah, baby. Pull my hair like that again."
"Damnit..." You huff, mind racing as you try to figure out what to do. He's not going to let you leave the room. You could try to fight him. There's a chance the pollen will make his reaction time slower, but he's a force to be reckoned with when he's determined. He won't let you win easily, and you'll probably just end up in a compromising position, anyway. "Okay, fine," you relent. "We can have sex. The sooner I get you back to normal, the better. But I'm giving you hell after this."
If he were a puppy, he'd be wagging his tail and perking up his ears right now. "I promise I'll be so good to you. Gonna make you feel amazing."
"Yeah, babe, you've said that already." You give him a strange look. You thought sex pollen was supposed to make people desperate for their own release, but he seems entirely obsessed with yours. "Dick, Honey, why don't you let me suck you off. I'm sure that'll help make you feel better," you suggest while also testing a theory.
His protest is immediate, arms tightening like vices around your waist to keep you exactly where you are. "No, baby. I'm supposed to be making you feel good. That's the only way I'll feel better."
Your brows arch in surprise when your suspicions are confirmed, but then you remember what Ivy said about the pollen. It was originally intended for subservience, to get people to bend to her will. This pollen doesn't activate a person's need for pleasure; it amplifies their need to please others.
You've only just come to this conclusion when gravity suddenly shifts, and your back is pressed to the mattress while Dick cages your body beneath his. "I was put on this earth for you. You're so fucking pretty, I could just stare at you all day." He hands touch you with reverence, removing pieces of your supersuit as they go. Your gloves, your belt, the thigh holster for your grapple gun, boots, all removed with complete and utter devotion and care. "Sometimes I get jealous of how pretty you are."
You blink up at him, his admission catching you off guard. "Dick, you've been voted Sexiest Man in Gotham six years in a row by the Gazette. Bruce has been making second place since you were 19."
"I'll still never be pretty enough for you." He sighs like he's already accepted his place beneath you, which makes zero sense to you. He's the actual prettiest person you've ever met. "Which is why I make up for my shortcomings with this." His fingers unzip your tactical pants and yank them down your legs, your undies following almost immediately after. His wide shoulders spread your thighs, mouth hovering over your mound. He hums a low, satisfied sound, "I've always loved how wet you get for me."
"Fuck, Dick!" Your hips jolt against the slow drag of his tongue up your slit. He targets your clit like he's on a mission to get you off as quickly as possible. Normally, he enjoys taking his time and teasing you with slow, sensual strokes, but that doesn't seem to be the case tonight. He rubs the full length of his tongue up and down the bundled nerve, sending spikes of pleasure straight to your core. Your whole body is already shuddering from the sensations. Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp when he sucks your clit deep into the cavern of his mouth and assaults it with quick flicks from the tip of his tongue.
"Ohmygod!" Your back arches, vision going white as your climax blasts through you like a popping champagne bottle. You've never cum so fast before, it's jarring. You whimper when he doesn't let up, continuing to suck and lick your exposed nerve well past the point of overstimulation. You have to reach down and yank him by the hair again, just to get a moment to catch your breath.
His eyes are wild, lips smeared with your slick and parted with his panting breaths. "I'm not nearly done with you," he vows, voice a near growl.
The butterflies in your stomach take flight when you realize you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into. You turn on your stomach and try to crawl up the bed on shaking limbs. You don't get far before his arm hooks around your hips and raises you onto your knees with your ass in the air. "Dick, please. I just came! Don't—" Your voice cuts off in a gasp as he pierces your folds with his tongue. He laps at your insides like he's trying to reach the melted ice cream at the bottom of the waffle cone. "O-Oh!" Your hands fist around the rumpled bedsheets, your head falling between them. You're not sure when he removed his gloves, but you feel his bare hands spreading your ass cheeks so he can push in even closer
The sounds of his tongue fucking you from behind are so lewd, your entire body burns with embarrassed arousal. It's wet, and loud, and you're both moaning like you're getting equal pleasure from this carnal act. You bite the sheets, hoping to muffle at least some of the embarrassing sounds coming out of you, only to release them with a sharp gasp at the slap of his fingers against your aching clit.
"None of that," he chides, rubbing the sting away with slow circles over the smarting flesh. "Wanna hear everything coming outta you, baby."
"Dick!" You say it more as a curse than as his name.
Based on his responding chuckle, you know he understood your meaning. His fingers leave your clit, gliding through slick folds and then spreading them wide, so he can see the way your needy hole clenches eagerly, begging to be filled. "Such a pretty pussy," he praises as he sinks his middle and ring fingers inside your heat. He knows it drives you wild when he uses those fingers; catches the way you stare at them when your eyes trace the blue stripes of his uniform. He pushes them in as deep as they'll go, curling them right up against that spongy spot on your upper wall that makes your eyes roll back.
"Fuuuck..." You sigh heavily, cheek pressed to the sheets, back arching as far as it'll go, a tremor running through your thighs.
The hand not buried between your legs squeezes the thick, meaty globe of your ass, molding the flesh in his strong grip. He watches the way your body greedily sucks on his fingers, slick practically running down your thighs from how wet you've become. He curls them hard into your G-spot and tugs while simultaneously squeezing your ass cheek, delighting in the way you shudder and moan. His attention soon gets diverted elsewhere when the clench and release of your pussy causes something else to do the same.
He releases a low, wicked laugh that cuts through the hazy pleasure fogging your mind like a sharpened blade through wet paper. "You know," he starts, still playing with your insides like an expert puppeteer. "You haven't let me play with this yet." His warm breath on the back of your thighs is the only warning you get before his hot, wet tongue presses to your puckered back door.
"Ungh!" Your breath punches out of you on a strangled moan, hands clawing at the sheets. No one has ever touched you there before. Sure, you and Dick had talked about it, and you'd expressed some interest, but you hadn't expected today would be the day you'd start that particular adventure. "Dick! Oh, fuck." You squeal, body tensing and jerking against his ministrations.
His fingers continue to plunge into your soaked core while his tongue laves against your virgin rosebud. His amused laugh skitters across your bare skin. "You like this, baby? I feel the way you squeeze my fingers when I lick your tight ring. You gonna cum again? Gonna squirt all over my hand while you've got my tongue shoved deep in your ass, Dirty Girl?"
There are no words that can describe what you're feeling right now. You should feel humiliated by how turned on you are. You're not even the one on sex pollen, but it feels so damn good that you don't even care. You want him to ruin you in the best ways. Embarrassment has been entirely replaced with shameless, wanton desire. "Please, Dick," you beg openly. "Fuck my ass with your tongue!"
You feel the grin split his mouth where it's pressed to your skin. "As you wish."
He increases the pressure, pressing his tongue harder against your virgin hole before the muscle finally gives. Your mouth parts on a loud sob, a thin stream of drool dribbling out the corner and soaking into the sheets. He stretches your cunt with three of his fingers now, tongue buried deep in your ass. You can't take it for long; it's too much. So fucking good, and hot, and dirty. Your body was already so close to the edge. It never really even left after that first orgasm. His fingers, long, slender, so annoyingly perfect, punch into your G-spot right as he shoves his tongue as deep as it can possibly go into your ass.
You shatter like an exploding star. Your hips push back, grinding against his face and fingers as your second orgasm ruthlessly rips through you. "OhfuckOhfuckOhfuck!" You moan deliriously into the sheets. Your ass clenches tight around his tongue at the same time your pussy absolutely drenches his fingers. Your body is shaking all over, muscles tensing and contracting in quick succession. After a few seconds, your strength abandons you, forcing you to collapse onto the bed. His tongue slips out of your ass with a parting flick, causing you to twitch in response. He continues to rub your G-spot from the inside, keeping you stimulated and on that edge, until you weakly grab his wrist. "Dick, please," you beg, trying to get him to pull his hand away. "I can't."
"Baby, I'm not done yet," he insists. "Gonna keep making you feel good."
Your breath stutters in your chest when you recognize the gravity of his tone. He's not messing around. He's going to keep giving you orgasm after orgasm until that pollen's fully run its course, or until you've passed out from the pleasure. Your eyes widen in aroused horror when you recall that Ivy mentioned the effect of the pollen could last up to twelve hours. How many orgasms would he be able to wring out of you in that amount of time? How long before your mind and body broke from the overstimulation?
You force yourself to get up despite your shaking limbs and turn to sit on your knees, facing him. "Dick," you reach out and place your hands on his chest. Looking down, you notice the thick, heavy bulge under his suit that he seems to be completely ignoring. "Why don't you let me make you feel good this time?" You try again. Maybe he'll start burning through the pollen faster if you can get him to climax as well.
He shakes his head. "My pleasure isn't important, right now. You are the only one that matters."
You feel a little lightheaded. Isn't this sort of every woman's darkest fantasy? Having someone be completely and unequivocally dedicated to pursuing her pleasure rather than their own? You just weren't prepared to endure twelve hours of this.
You shift closer, moving your hands up to cup his cheeks. You try to change tactics as you lean close and kiss the edge of his mouth. "Then how about you make me cum around your cock next? Wanna feel you deep inside me, stretched so good." Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, still hypersensitive from that last release, but if you can get him naked and inside you, then you think you can tolerate at least one more orgasm while you try to help him achieve his own.
His head tilts, lips pressing harder against yours. "As you wish," he complies.
He finishes removing the top half of your suit and your sports bra before moving to shed his own gear. You crawl into his lap, hands running over familiar planes of corded muscle and warm skin. Dick Grayson has the kind of body you only ever see in museums, bodies carved into marble. A masterpiece of athletic prowess and grand design. Even his penis is a fucking work of art. Long, just the right amount of thick, pulsing veins, leaking tip. It would be annoying how absolutely perfect he was if you weren't benefitting from every solid inch of him. And there were a lot of inches.
You raise up onto your knees, tilting his head back to slant your lips over his. He reaches between your bodies, fisting his cock and guiding his tip to your hovering entrance. His other hand grips your hip, holding you in place until he gets the angle right, then he encourages you to sink down on him. You moan into his mouth, reveling in the stretch of your muscles as your body makes room for him. The slick slide of your bodies joining as one has you keening every time.
You're fully seated in his lap, cock pressed in to the hilt, and your thighs are already shaking. "Oh, Dick..." You sigh, rolling your hips and feeling him sink even deeper.
"That feel good, baby?" He asks you, not even winded, when normally he'd be going out of his mind trying to maintain steady control and not rut wildly up into you. His cock throbs deep inside your core, so you know he's feeling something, but this pollen really has forced him to put his own pleasure on the back burner.
You're beginning to see the flaws in your plan, but it's too late to back track at this point. All you can do now is try to make him feel good while he's inside you, and hopefully it'll be enough to push him over the edge. You start bouncing on his cock, swirling your hips, and clenching in that particular way that normally drives him insane. He barely reacts, rocking against you with a rhythm so steady, he's practically a metronome.
His mouth attaches to the side of your neck, nipping and sucking on your fluttering pulse point. You moan weakly, already realizing you're losing this battle of wills. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging at the thick strands and making him moan back, but it's not enough to get him anywhere near where you need him to be. He's still firmly in the seat of control, with no sign of struggle.
One of his hands is splayed against the base of your spine, keeping you close and encouraging the slight arch of your back as his head drops to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. You release a broken sound of pleasure, head falling back, arching even more. He sucks the tender flesh, tongue flicking over the pebbled nub. His other hand glides up the side of your ribcage and molds your neglected breast, pinching the hardened bud between his thumb and forefinger.
You can't stave off your building orgasm. Not with the way he's targeting your every erogenous zone like he's strategically planning your erotic demise. "Dick! Oh my fuckk!" You cling to him like he's an anchor in a storm, all while you're slamming yourself down on his cock like you're trying to ride him into the sunset. He encourages your movements, that hand at your back dipping down to grip your ass cheek for leverage as he fucks up into the spot deep in your cunt that makes you a little stupid.
Your lips part on a strangled cry, tension coiling in your gut once again, before you start spasming and feel that familiar spark of pleasure crackle across your nerve endings. "Oh shit! Dick, I'm—" There's a kaleidoscope of colors behind your fluttering lashes, and something inside you breaks loose. You feel an unfamiliar pulse deep in your core. It's hot and intense, and you don't know what it means until the dam bursts and your cunt is squirting all over his cock and abdomen. It sprays out of you in an arcing fan, completely uncontrolled, and entirely unexpected. Your eyes roll back as pleasure at a magnitude you've never felt before sets your nerves aflame.
Dick feels every twitch and tremor and clench where he's buried inside you, still hard as stone. He stares down at the mess splashed across his skin with a sort of bewildered fascination until you slump forward against his chest, blocking the view from sight. You pant and shudder against him, eyes unfocused, mind melted. He cups the side of your face, "So fucking beautiful."
Your gaze blinks back into focus, meeting the glimmering sapphire blue of his own. Your breath catches in your throat; there's an animalistic hunger in his eyes. A craving so raw and potent, you feel like sweet, innocent prey quivering in front of a salivating beast. Your muscles are too weak to resist as he guides you onto your back and folds your knees against your chest. He stares down at the place where you're still joined, where the mess of your slick has begun drying on your bodies. You feel the piercing heat of his gaze as it drags back up the length of your torso, over your shuddering breasts, and locks back onto your eyes.
"Let's do that again."
You don't get a chance to respond before he's slamming into the mating press. He keeps you folded in half and open, bending forward until his shoulders meet the backs of your knees, as he fucks deep into your quivering pussy. You can't do much other than take his ruthless thrusts and scream out his name over and over again.
"Come on, baby," he grunts into your ear. "I know you can squirt f'me, again."
You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. "I can't!"
"Sure ya can." He rolls his hips and punches into you at a different angle.
Your eyes snap back open, lips parting on a choked breath.
"That's it, baby. Don't think. Just let go. Make this messy pussy squirt all over my cock."
You don't even know where any more liquid could be stored inside of your body after that last round, but it's like he's opened a locked door that can never be shut again, as another flood of hot, filthy wetness soaks you both. Your nails rake down his back, screaming your pleasure so loud, you're pretty sure you've compromised the integrity of this safehouse. He fucks you through it the whole time, even as your squirt splashes across his stomach and drips down his balls. He doesn't stop until he feels your shaking hands pushing weakly at his chest.
"Dick, please... No more. I can't." Tears from overstimulation have collected on your lashes.
"Hey, shhhh," he hushes you gently. "What's the matter, pretty girl?" He stills within you, but you can feel that he's just as hard as when this all started, maybe even more so.
Your breath catches on a hiccup, a single tear leaking out of the corner of your eye. "Wanted to make you feel good, too. But 's too much, baby. I can't—"
"No, sweet girl," he coos, bending down to kiss your tears away. "You did so good," he praises.
You reach up and cup his cheek with the palm of your hand, thumb rubbing gently across his cheekbone. "What about you?"
His eyes slip blissfully shut as he nuzzles against your palm. "Don't you worry about me, baby girl." He relishes in your touch for a moment before sitting back on his heels and carefully pulling out of your puffy, abused cunt. He stares down at your gaping hole and has to fight himself to not bend down and fill you with his tongue all over again. His cock throbs painfully, balls heavy with pent-up release, and it momentarily cuts through the haze of the pollen to stop him from doing just that.
He breathes in a sharp, steadying breath, which doesn't actually help, because the room reeks of sex, and that just sends him spiraling again. He wants to fuck you until your voice is raw from screaming his name. He wants to make you squirt again. He wants to make you feel pleasure so unimaginable that there aren't even words to describe it. He is merely a tool for stimulation. A vessel to transport you to the highest level of being. He is your humble servant, and you are his goddess in mortal form.
He squeezes his eyes shut and uses a meditation technique Bruce taught him to fight against fear toxin. It doesn't completely pull him out from the influence of the pollen, but he at least feels in control enough that he won't jump you despite your protests.
"Come on, Beautiful. Let's roll you onto your stomach so I can massage those aching muscles. Hmm?" The driving need to make you feel good is still the main focus of his motivation, but he can ignore the sexual aspect of that motivation for now.
You moan long and slow when his thumbs dig circles against the base of your spine and smooth their way up. He works the knots out of your back and shoulders, feeling how you relax beneath him. Your eyes fluttering behind closed lashes, a low, contented sound rumbling out of you when he works out a particularly stubborn knot.
His cock leaks like a broken faucet, a steady dribble of pre-cum collecting on the thoroughly soiled sheets, and occasionally smearing the back of your thighs when his tip accidentally brushes up against them. His balls hang low, so fucking full and heavy that he can barely see straight. He may have been denying his own pleasure this whole time, but he's felt fucking everything. Every twitch, every clench, how sopping wet you were when you exploded with arousal.
He continues to ignore the desperate ache in his loins, smoothing his hands down your legs to massage the back of your calves.
"Dick..." you call, voice almost sleepy.
"Hmm?" he questions, thumbs digging into the meat of your calf and smoothing the ache away.
"C'mere..." You bend the knee of the leg he's not working on out to the side, spreading yourself open once more, and giving him an unobstructed view of your drooling cunt.
His hands stop their gentle ministration as he stares. A better man would say no. Maybe even he, himself, would say no if it weren't for the pollen. But the best he can utter is a quiet, "You sure?" while actively crawling back up the length of your body.
"Mhmm," you sigh, feeling his warmth settle back over you.
His hips drop to the curve of your ass, the head of his cock smearing his dribbling need across your soaked folds. He reaches a hand down to align himself properly and sinks back into your silken heat. You both groan in unison, each of your bodies hypersensitive for polar opposite reasons.
"Tha'sa good girl," he praises. "Takin' my cock nice and deep inside this needy, wet cunt."
His hands glide over the backs of yours, threading his fingers in the space between yours, and pinning them down to the bed while he rocks into you from behind. The wet fwap of his balls slapping against your clit steadily grows faster as he builds momentum.
"God, I love this fucking pussy. Don't care if you call me pussy whipped. I'll worship her with everything I have." He fucks you like the world is ending, pinned to the sheets beneath the weight of his chest. "I love how wet she gets, the way she milks me dry, clenching like she's never gonna let me go."
"Dick! Ung, ung, unghh!!!" Your jaw goes slack when he jackhammers straight into your G-spot.
"I love when you moan my name. Just like that, baby. Love when you laugh at my stupid jokes. Love when you get mad at my stupider jokes. I fucking love you so much! I can't—" He huffs breathlessly. "Baby, I can't stop. Gimme one more. Just one more time. Cum for me once more."
"Fuck! Dick!" Your hands clench around his fingers, squeezing them tight as you're catapulted into yet another orgasm.
"Yes! Baby." He feels every shudder and twitch with how tight he's pressed up against you. "So good for me. I love you! Fucking love you."
He thrusts once, twice, before his full body tenses all at once, and he pulls out just in time to spill his release across the back of your thighs and ass. He rubs his cock between the globes of your ass cheeks, his balls squeezing in tight and shooting spurt after spurt of thick, creamy cum against your lower back. He whimpers while he humps your ass, and feels a little guilty for the mess he's making, but he can't seem to stop. He's not sure how many orgasms the pollen denied him, but they seem to all be hitting him at the same time.
There's a shift in the air. What was once charged with heavy sexual tension has now simmered into a satisfied post-coital bliss. You both pant for breath, bodies sticky with sweat and other bodily fluids, but a sort of peace has settled over you.
When his balls have emptied, and his cock has stopped twitching, Dick rolls off to the side, landing heavy on his back, and stares up at the ceiling. "Holy shit..." you hear him huff, for the first time sounding like himself again.
"Are you back to normal?" you ask breathlessly, unable to even lift your head to check on him.
"Yeah..." He breathes. "I think so." You hear him exhale a sharp laugh. "Damn, that was wild."
"I don't think I can move." Your muscles feel like they've been well and truly liquified.
"Me neither," he agrees. "That was fucking intense. Every time you came, I felt it too, but like mentally, even if my body didn't react. It was like one of those finger trap things, where the more you struggle against it, the tighter it gets, but instead, the closer I got to my release, the farther out of reach it felt. Thought I was gonna pass out from how bad I wanted to cum but couldn't."
"I thought I was gonna pass out from how many times I did cum."
"Sorry," he laughs, barely sounding apologetic. "Once I started, I couldn't stop."
"Yeah, clearly..." You mutter sarcastically. "I think I might need physical therapy just to be able to walk again."
You can hear the self-satisfied grin in his voice. "Good thing I'm a certified personal trainer with a specialty in post-injury recovery."
You release a noncomital hum. He's the one who broke you; it should be his responsibility to put you back together again. You hear him shift across the sheets moments before his hand finds the curve of your waist and gently guides you onto your side. You groan at being forced to move when your muscles still feel like jelly, but then follow that with a sigh when he curls his body protectively around yours. He scoops you up against his chest, holding you close with the last of his strength.
"I know that was kind of a lot, but it was also pretty fucking hot. Can't believe I made you squirt twice." He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your damp hair.
"I think my life flashed before my eyes that second time."
He goes quiet for a second, playing back the last few hours in his head. "Do you think Ivy would let us have that plant?" he finally asks.
Synopsis, Spider wasn’t the first human born on Pandora, but he was the first to grow up on it. You had Neytiri’s heart long before Jake came along, and you’d have both of theirs long after. The problem is, humans weren’t meant for Pandora. Even so, Eywa saw you, and it seems like she accepted you. Maybe that's why, even after being without you for so long, they saw you again.
WC: 10.5k (oh wow)
inspired by @jsooly taken in by the sullys series!
A/N: I wrote this quite literally at 5 am, and it's drastically different from my usual writing style, but I like it! Very bittersweet! and written with the assumption that whoever is reading this knows about Sylwanin and her lore.
You were born to a soldier on Pandora, a Seargant who seemed unbothered by her pregnancy during her term. The RDA wasn’t progressive, not at all, but they weren’t so cruel (at least to their own race) that they’d force a pregnant woman into work. Your mother simply made the decision to keep working, no matter how unsafe it was.
After she gave birth to you, she seemed… inattentive at best. She took maternity leave for the required period of time and got back into the action once she was cleared, leaving you essentially alone. It wasn’t long after her redeployment that she was killed in action along with the rest of her squad. An unfortunate accident in the dangerous wilds of Pandora
So, motherless and unclaimed by a father, you were orphaned. Too young for Cryo, they let you stay. Your mother's room became yours and yours alone.
Of course, the RDA base was no place for a child. Ill-equipped and non-accommodative. The higher-ups reasoned that you’d best be left to the scientists and doctors. They’d know how to take care of a kid best, right?
Of course, no one really paid much attention to you. Giving the minimum attention necessary to keep you alive, lest they carry the guilt of neglecting an infant to death.
Grace wasn’t sure what to think of you when you were put in her care. She was a scientist, not a babysitter. Her focus was on the Na’vi, their way of life, and the organisms living on Pandora. She didn’t have time to look after a kid.
You were shucked off onto some lower-level scientists and assistants. She didn’t hear much from you other than your crying, which was always met with swift confinement to your room with your current caretaker.
Eventually, though, you became autonomous. You were quick, slippery, and curious. The ones in charge of you didn’t pay much attention, which led to you sneaking around. Once, finding your way into Grace's lab.
She found you at her desk, standing on her chair in only an ill-fitting t-shirt and diapers, leaning over and staring at the projection of various pictures she had up.
Grace wasn’t cruel; she may not have wanted to be responsible for you, but she held the same fondness for kids that most did.
Carefully, she picked you up, sitting you in her lap, and asked you what you were doing.
“Pic!” Is all you blurted out, head turned around, and staring at her with your wide and curious eyes. Grace chuckled, nodding as she hummed and affirmed your babbles.
You spent the rest of that day in her hold, watching as she scrolled through the pictures and videos she had in the database, explaining, in the most child-friendly way, the ones you were interested in.
Being just over a year old, you weren’t still in her lap. Wriggling around, grabbing at her and objects, even standing up in her lap and jumping up and down, which she swiftly stopped. Despite all this, Grace was patient with you. Perhaps it was your curiosity for Pandora that softened her, the fact that you were interested in something she’d devoted her life to researching.
A new brain to fill, maybe.
So, you made frequent trips to the lab after that. Slipped past your caretakers and crawling into Grace or Max’s laps, whoever was available, and babbling on and on. You weren’t the center of attention or a priority, but you became somewhat of a soft spot for Grace and her fellow scientists. Not as much of a burden, anymore.
It wasn’t long before you started picking up on the Na’vi phrases being used, especially once you discovered the parts of the lab dedicated more towards the avatars and culture of the Na’vi. Grace, ever the enabler of your interest in Pandora, started speaking to you in almost strictly Na’vi.
Being so young, you picked up on it incredibly quickly, nearly at the same speed as English, which you’d only really started learning a month or two prior.
It was cute to them, having a little human baby babbling in Na’vi and focusing so intently on the fauna and flora you saw in catalogs. Some even joked that your bedtime book should be the one Grace wrote.
They called you the LabRat around the base. A term of endearment, of course. Many knew about you, the loose kid on base who scurried around and spent almost as much time in the lab as the scientists. You were cute. But really, that’s all you were to them, a cute kid.
But to Grace? Somewhere along the way, she grew more fond of you than she’d expected. She ate with you at breakfast, watching you messily eat out of the corner of her eye as she held conversations with the other scientists. You stuck to her side, only ever really leaving it when you wanted to be with Max or go to sleep. Even then, she often had to carry you to your room multiple times throughout the day when you fell asleep in her lap.
You spent a lot of time with Max, too. Whenever Grace was in her Avatar, which was often, you found yourself with him. He was always a little softer with you, having been more fond and sympathetic with you earlier on.
He treated you more like a kid than most others. He didn’t really try to feed your curiosity with Pandora, instead focusing on the fact that you were a deprived orphan child. He was the most suited to take care of you, probably.
At some point, you found your way into the Avatar lab, watching through the windows. No one really saw it coming, but you escaped. With your little mask that was slightly too big for your face, you ran out the door, gunning right for Grace’s Avatar.
They didn’t really think you’d recognize her, but you did, and you wanted to see her. Of course, you were a little intimidated by her drastic change in appearance and height, but at this point, you knew about the Na’vi and Avatars, so you didn’t have much of a problem.
Grace, in her Avatar form, was perhaps even more loving towards you. Maybe it was the youth of the body, or the fact that she had her own internal favoritism for it, but she seemed happier. Something you picked up on quickly.
You loved being outside. No longer were you content being cooped up in the lab, you wanted to see the forest! Of course, they weren’t exactly ok with the idea, but your crying eventually convinced them.
Grace decided to take you to the school. She’d made excellent progress with the Omaticaya through the school, maybe it would be good to start introducing some direct human contact… through you. And she figured it could be good for your development, meeting beings that weren’t just inattentive scientists and soldiers.
With your mask on and sporting your cutest clothes, Grace took you to the school. The Na’vi kids were unsure about you at first, with their adverse feelings about Skypeople, but eventually they opened up.
You were small, so incredibly small. Even the young children had no problems holding and cradling you. You were cute in your own, human, way.
They were intrigued by the fact that your Na’vi was as good as your English. Granted, neither were particularly good, seeing as you were a toddler, but it's the fact that they were at the same level that they admired.
Sylwanin was especially interested in you, often taking you in her arms, cooing and coddling you.
“Sa’nok, she’s so small!” She’d exclaim to Grace, who’d laugh in response.
“Well, she’s human. You’re probably at least 2 feet taller than my human body, and I’m an adult.” She leaned over Sylwanin, smiling down at the scene. “She’s just a youngin’, not even 2 years old.”
From then on, you were a regular addition to Grace’s school and a personal favorite of Sylwanin and Neytiri. The two sisters absolutely adored you. Cooing over you and your babbles, sitting you in between them or on one of their laps during the lessons.
Often, they’d sit in the back with you, giggling at your tiny body and antics, brushing your hair, or watching as you fiddled with whatever toy or objects you could get your hands on.
Between your time in the lab and out at the school, you were the first human to be culturally raised Na’vi. It was fascinating to Grace.
Tsu’tey was cautious of you at first, unsure of how to handle how small and frail you were. But out of everything, you were also incredibly persistent and curious. Somehow, you found yourself worming your way into Tsu’tey’s arms, waddling up to him and demanding he pick you up through body language.
Sylwanin found this utterly adorable, how you’d stand there and “Hmf!” until he reached down and picked you up. He didn’t really know how to hold you, hands tucked under your armpits, torso and legs dangling in the air, but you crawled your way around him, finding yourself sitting on his shoulders. Well, shoulder, to be exact. You could comfortably sit on one, granted it was with one of his hands on your legs to keep your balance while you grabbed onto his braids.
“Tey-Tey” “Wanin” and “Tiri” you called them, not really able to pronounce their full names. They, of course, didn’t care, cooing at the babble of nicknames you gave them.
In turn, they started to call you “Syulì'ang”, a butterfly-like insect that was known for its characteristic claws that latched it onto whatever it landed on. A fitting nickname, they all thought.
Their sweet Syulì'ang. Tsu’tey was more or less simply amused by you once he was comfortable. He wasn't as doting as Sylwanin or Neytiri or some of the others; he liked you, but it was more or less than he was entertained by you.
Of course, that changed the more you stuck around. By the time you’d learned to walk well enough to walk to the school yourself, with Grace accompanying you, of course, he was always waiting by the doorway. He’d give a simple nod to Grace when the pair of you came into view, and he tried to remain stoic as you ran forward, your small body knocking into his tall legs and calling out his name, but Grace, and just about anyone else who really knew him, could see through it.
You spent your developmental years at the school, growing up so quickly that the Na’vi kids didn’t know what to do. When they first met you, you could barely walk, and all you could really do was babble and string together words, but years passed, and you began holding conversations and moving around fairly fluidly.
Of course, you were still small and babyish, still just a toddler, but toddlers grew and changed fast.
You were like their baby sister. Tsmuke, they called you. To them, you were really no different from another Na’vi kid. You spoke fluently, you were young and saw the world in a manner that seemed to reflect their own cultural point of view, perhaps from your exposure to it.
Grace couldn’t really place when she started to love you. Maybe it was when you first called her “Sa’nok”, copying the kids at the schoolhouse. Maybe it was when that transformed into “Sa’nu”, or when it became “mama” when back in the lab. Maybe it was that day you first caught her attention, having snuck into the lab and into her heart.
She never corrected you when you called her those things, even when she got odd stares from the others around when you did. They just didn’t get it. They were too wrapped up in their own world. And yeah, so was she, but at some point, you became a part of her world.
She didn’t really think of herself as your parent, but she didn’t mind if you thought of her as one. She wasn’t really the nicest; she was definitely more of a ‘tough love’ kind of parental figure, but that wasn’t really all that bad.
Pandora wasn’t suited for you. You weren’t supposed to be there, and it wasn’t a good place for you by any means. You weren’t given proper attention or affection, and when you were, it wasn't consistent. Grace and Max, and the Na’vi kids weren’t role model family figures, but they tried, and they loved you, no matter how… odd it was.
At some point, you’d met Mo’at and Eytukan. Likely, they’d heard of you from their daughters and Tsu’tey. It was hard to tell what they thought of you, after all, they had their own reservations about the humans, only allowing the school to function due to Sylwanin's request.
But they liked you enough. You were a kid, a toddler, innocent in what was being done to their planet. You didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of any prejudice they held towards the humans. You spoke the language and learned beside their children. You seemed to love the forest as if it were your own home.
Formally, you met Mo’at when you fell down and scraped yourself while running out of the school, being chased by Sylwanin. You cried, of course, but Sylwanin, as calm as ever, simply scooped you up and told Grace she was taking you to her mother to get fixed up, running off before she could object.
You watched the Tsahik in awe as she worked on you, rubbing a salve on your wounds, her jewelry and beadings clinking together as she did so. You watch her in silence, Sylwanin giggling at your entranced demeanor. At the end, climbing back into Sylwanin’s arms, you turned and told Mo’at she was magnificent. A big word for your age.
Mo’at had to admit, you were a charming little kid.
Neytiri was especially charmed by you, often taking you from anyone else's arms to hold you in hers. It became a running joke that she’d adopt and steal you away if she could. She never denied it.
You could always be found fiddling with her hair or necklaces, pulling at them or putting them in your mouth. Neytiri, despite not liking your actions, was patient with you, simply giggling as she pulled it from your grasp and pointed your attention elsewhere.
Some people on base started to voice complaints about you being out too much. Being gifted jewelry and pieces by Sylwanin and Neytiri, and one piece from Tsu’tey, you began dressing in them every day.
Of course, the complaints went nowhere, being no more than off-hand comments made by people who had no role or responsibility in your upbringing. As loved as you were, you were still overlooked more often than not, just an orphan kid who wandered in and out of the base. Outside of Grace, Max, and a few other scientists, no one really cared.
You had your routine. Getting up, spending time with Max before running out with Grace to the school. The school was your favorite place, you often told Neytiri and Tsu’tey in giddy whispers. You felt free and loved. It was your place.
When Sylwanin stopped showing up, you were sad. You missed her. Really, she was your favorite.
You didn’t understand why you stopped going to the school, why Grace started arguing with a bunch of the soldiers more often, and why you were no longer allowed outside of the base. You cried a lot, saying you wanted your Tsmuke’s and Tsmukan. You wanted to go to the school, you wanted to see Neytiri and Sylwanin and Tsu’tey and the others.
You cried when a scientist, tired of your whining, told you they probably didn’t want to see you.
Grace had a hard time comforting you. She didn’t know what to say, struggling with her own grief and guilt in the whole situation. All she could do was hold you and tell you that things were going to be okay.
It was a while before you stopped crying so much. You still whined about wanting to go outside, but you learned to stop when asked. You spent your nights fiddling with the gifts from Neytiri and Sylwanin, the jewelry they crafted for you, the toy Mo’at gifted you once, and the Ikran Tsu’tey carved for you out of wood. They were your most treasured pieces.
You worked on your own gifts for them, on and off, through the two years you spent without them.
You were six by the time Jake came around. You became attached to him very quickly.
He’d just made it to base and was getting filled in by Norm. His introduction to Grace wasn’t going well, bordered by her hostility towards him being there in place of his brother. Before he could say anything else, you bounded into the room.
“Sa'nu! sa'nu! 'ur 'upe oe run!” Mama! Mama! Look what I found! You yelled, stopping at her feet and shoving an insect you were cradling in your palm into her face.
She glanced at the bug and tilted her head, raising a brow at you. “ Y/n, nga kame nga're ke tung wrrpa, ‘itetsyip.” You know you’re not allowed outside, little one.
You pouted, stomping your foot. “Oe ke wrrkä! tsal pamähem ne oe.” I didn't go out! It came to me. You insisted. Grace merely rolled her eyes with a grin as she ruffled your hair.
Jake looked at Norm, confused, who translated a lazy “she’s showing her a bug.” for him.
As if you just noticed their presence, you awkwardly glanced at the two, shyly shuffling behind Grace. Jake glanced between you and Grace before leaning in.
“What’s that you got there?” He asked, smiling as he watched your facial expression change. Before he knew it, you were launched into a whole explanation about the bug. It's name, both scientific and Na’vi, and all the fun little characteristics you noticed and pointed out to him.
It was easy to tell who you’re favorite was going to be among the newest science recruits. You became quick friends with the ex-Marine, demanding his attention whenever he wasn’t busy.
You were an interesting little thing. Energetic as all could be, running around like you owned the place, switching between languages so casually as if they were one. Jake paid more attention to you in a week than most of the people on base had in your entire life.
He’d come by your room, peaking in as you played with your toys or read a book you definitely didn’t actually understand. As soon as you noticed his presence, you’d abandon whatever it was you were doing to run to him, hoisting yourself up into his lap.
“What's up, little bug?” He’d say, smiling down at you as you went on and on about whatever it is you wanted to talk about. Most of it went right over his head, but he listened nonetheless. He got the memo pretty early on that you were essentially left to your own devices, only helped with the bare minimum by people who didn’t want to be responsible for you
So, he started being more attentive towards you. Call it fatherly instincts, he calls it common empathy. You didn’t have any plans or expectations for him, you weren’t disappointed in his presence in place of his brothers, you simply looked up at him with those wide and love-filled eyes. That was all he needed to become hooked. His little bug, he liked to call you.
To Norm, Jake had adapted a fatherly role scarily quickly. Of course, Norm thought you were cute, but he wasn’t really sure what to do with you. It puzzled him how well Jake was with you, for only knowing you for a few days. How you crawled into his lab during one of the briefings, obviously tired but wanting to be involved.
The briefing was casual, so Jake wrapped his arms around you and cradled you, rocking you in his arms as he hummed a lullaby he’d grown up with on Earth.
It was the first time someone had sung you a lullaby, at least since you were a crying infant everyone was desperate to soothe. You fell asleep in his arms immediately. Grace only gave a passing glance and a chuckle, stating he was now on bedtime duty.
And that he was. You were a stubborn kid when it came to bedtime, fighting your own sleep and exhaustion because you wanted to be where the attention was. You didn’t want to miss out on any of Grace or Max’s briefings or discoveries, no matter how dull they were, or the fact that they didn’t really happen after hours. Nevertheless, you were difficult to put to sleep.
He was quickly called the Y/n Whisperer after he calmed you down from a tantrum and had you knocked out in bed within 10 minutes of you being told to go to sleep, an affair that often took at least half an hour and some strong bargaining.
Jake was still reeling from it all. For him, he was still dealing with the fact that his brother was dead and he’d taken his place on a scientific mission on Pandora, whisked away from his dystopic life on Earth and given a brand new chance. It was dizzying, and now he had a kid attached to his leg.
Call it what it was: whiplash. He doesn’t really understand why you liked him so much, why he was able to connect with you so well. Maybe it was because he was the first person to spare you a second glance in your entire life, a second glance you didn’t have to work and beg for.
If given the chance, Jake was sure you two would be absolutely inseparable.
It was during dinner that things shifted. You were there for Jake's recounting of the events that transpired after he got chansed off by a Thanator. Through it all, all you heard was that he’d met Neytiri.
Neytiri. Your Neytiri.
You missed her. You missed her so bad, and Jake got to see her. It had been two years, and you thought for sure there was no way you’d be able to see her again. But Jake saw her! He even went to the village, so he likely saw Tsu’tey, Mo’at, and Sylwanin!
Seeing them was possible. That was the conclusion you came to.
Tsu’tey was the one to find you the next day. You had snuck out, exopack secured on for the first time in nearly two years, and you set off. Your memory was hazy, and you hardly remembered your way through the forest.
Scratch that, you didn’t remember it at all. You got lost almost immediately, your excitement to see your friends slowly replaced with uncertainty and fear. You wandered through the woods, climbing across logs and rivers, becoming more and more sure that you weren’t going the right way…
Of course, you didn’t know what to do. No one could really blame you for how you started crying out, yelling for Neytiri, Tsu’tey, Sylwanin, Grace, whoever you thought could find you.
It wasn’t until you heard the growl that you regretted your decision to be so loud. Nantang. They surrounded you, stalking and getting ready to pounce. All you could do was scream.
Tsu’tey found you, following the distant yelling for familiar names and then the high-pitched screams. He shot the Nantang, scaring off the others as he rode in on his pa’li. He was ready to shoot you, the human who had trespassed onto their land, but he paused. Arrow resting between his fingers, and breath hitched.
It was you.
He was quick, dismounting his direhorse and scooping you up in his arms, doing his best to soothe you with soft words as you cried and writhed in his hold. Blood was everywhere. He was horrified.
He acted on pure impulse. Jake. Jake probably knew you. He was also human, and he was an avatar- so he probably knew Grace- he had to get you to Jake.
So he rode on his direhorse as fast as he could, holding you tightly in his arms as you bled and bled and cried. Oh, how you cried, clinging to him and whimpering, he felt so helpless. Exactly like how he’d felt that day Sylwanin died in his arms at the school house. He couldn’t have that happen again. Not with you. Not with the small girl he’d grown so fond of.
It was a blur, finding Jake and Neytiri, the morphing look of terror on their faces as they took in the sight of the girl in his arms and his disjointed explanation. It was a blur, and he was on his knees, Neytiri holding onto him as they both shook, taking in the situation as Jake ran off into the woods with you in his arms, pushing himself as fast as he could go.
Jake was scared. You were such a sweet girl, and in the days he’d known you, he was hooked. You were small, petulant, stubborn, smart; you were a good kid. You were funny and fun to be around, and he liked you. He saw why Grace had such a soft spot for you, who wouldn’t?
But now you’re in his arms, bleeding, and Grace is gonna be horrified.
He got you to the base, bursting through the doors, demanding a doctor, yelling you needed help because you were hurt and bleeding. You were small, hurt, bleeding, and it felt like you were at death's door.
You were swept out of his arms, and all you could do was whimper, reaching back out to the strong arms you felt safe in. They hooked you up to machines, tended to your wounds. They assured Jake and a just-arriving-frazzled Grace that you were gonna be fine.
But the base wasn’t a hospital. Yeah, it was a military base, and those often come with medical centers, but it wasn’t good, especially not for a child. With how advanced they were, they weren’t well equipped.
You suffered for days, writhing and screaming in pain, tears only stopping once you ran out of them.
Despite Grace and Max’s pleas and Jake's insistence towards Quaritch, you were essentially… ignored.
You were loved. But you were still just a bastard orphaned child; the RDA simply didn’t want to deal with you, especially with your seemingly growing allegiance to the Na’vi.
Of course, they did what they could to help you, but it was minimal.
You were going to die, Grace and Jake were sure of it.
So, desperate, he went to Mo’at. He pleaded for her to help you. She didn’t need much convincing.
The night before Grace planned to move the operation to the Hallelujah Mountains, they snuck you out, careful to remove all your hook-ups to the machines.
They took you to the village, breaking so many rules, desperate to help you.
You were frail, withering away in his hold. The best he could do was whisper comforts as he carried you.
Mo’at worked quickly, shooing them out of her tent as she worked on you. Salves, mixes, incense. She worked for hours. You were just a little kid; you had so much before you. She pleaded to the Great Mother to help you, even if you were a human she could barely reach.
You were getting better, but it wasn’t enough. Something was wrong, very wrong, and she didn’t know what it was or how to help.
She pulled away, examining you with a hitched breath. Just as she went to move to grab another tool, something caught her attention.
An Atokirina.
It floated in the air, pulsing until it wilted down to meet your skin.
Mo’at’s eyes widened.
“We must take her to the Tree of Souls.” She declared as she stepped out of her tent, the group that had gathered in front of it standing and moving in confusion.
They wanted to question it. Jake wanted to ask what was wrong, how you were doing, and if you’d live. All the words were on the tip of his tongue, but Grace grabbed his hand. She kept her gaze forward, at the tent, but she’d communicated enough.
Tsu’tey was the one to take you into his arms, lips pursed, and eyes gazing down at you in worry. For a moment, Jake wanted to be the one to hold you, but you curled into Tsu’teys arms so comfortably- so familiar, a moment of comfort and assurance when you were in so much pain.
Neytiri followed close behind, hand resting on your forehead as they walked, her eyes focused on your face scrunched in agony, your pinched brows and wavering lips. How she wanted to soothe you, to hold you, and kiss away the creases of pain in your face.
You’d grown so much since they’d last seen you. You were still so small, but so much more grown. They had missed you so much, their grief compelled by the loss of two sisters. They nearly begged Mo’at and Eytukan to call off the ban on humans on their land, if only to see you.
And now, you were back in their arms, but by the force of necessity and desperation. Out of the fear of death.
The clan, having roused at the commotion, made their way to the Tree of Souls with the group. They didn’t question their Tsahik’s care of the human child, many of them having heard the accounts of you and your kindred nature from the many children who’d attended the school.
Arriving at the Tree, Neytiri and Tsu’tey kept Grace and Jake at a distance, allowing Mo’at to prepare as the clan gathered around. They pulled Jake and Grace down to the ground with them, connecting their Kuru to the roots sticking up. They started to hum, moving as a group.
With everything in them, they begged Eywa to help you.
You were human, yes, but they loved you. You were their sister. You were Grace's daughter, by love if not biology. You were a sweet kid, and they wanted- needed you to stay.
“Allow this child to heal, Great Mother, allow her to heal and walk among us. To live, to feel your embrace.” Mo’at’s words echoed, her chants and pleas thrumming through the crowd.
Placed at the base of the spirit tree, you lay there, wrapped in luminescent tendrils. They wrapped around your small body, seemingly consuming you as they grew. The light of the tendrils pulsed with your every breath, echoing across the tree like a ripple in water.
You… you felt free. The tendrils were warm, encasing you in what felt like a mother's embrace. Your vision was blurred, but you saw. You saw so much, all you could do was smile. You saw Sylwanin, every time you’d seen her, every word, every movement. She wrapped around you. You saw the sea, you saw the forest and the land. It was breathtaking.
Mo’at faltered, her chants falling off the tip of her tongue as she glanced down at you. At this, the ones who’d brought you here opened their eyes.
They didn’t know what to do.
You were there, alive. More alive than you’d ever been, but they could feel that you were slipping away.
Neytiri crawled towards you, Grace scrambling up and finding herself at your side. She took your hand in hers as Neytiri caressed your hair.
They knew it was a desperate attempt, taking you here, unlikely to work, but it hurt. They weren’t ready to let go. The humans weren’t going to help you. What else were they to do?
Tears slid down Grace’s face as she watched you, your eyes glazed over as a smile crept onto your lips.
“Y/n- Syulì'ang please-” Neytiri whispered, her voice cracking. She leaned down, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Stay” she begged
“Syulì'ang,” Tsu’tey choked out, pleading, biting back his words, and tears with them. “Be strong, stay with us.”
You heard their words. You wanted to reach up, to comfort them. Grace was right in front of you, and all you wanted was to reach up and wipe the tears off her face.
Grace cried. Silent, of course. Tears slipping down her cheeks like arrows of fire burning their way through the air. They hurt like it. She wondered if they’d scar, if there would be a trail of scarred flesh down her cheeks when she was done.
You were her child, at least, the closest she had to one. You were the best thing she’d had in a long time. And now, you were slipping away. Like the school, like Sylwanin, like Neytiri and Tsu’tey and the children who’d called her Sa’nok. You called her Sa’nu.
The grief was endless. A fountain pouring from Neytiri as she wept, hands shaking as she tried to fight the urge to take you into her arms. She’d seen you grow up, your words develop from babbles to sentences, your mind expand. She wore the bracelet you’d made for her. It was ill-fitting and poorly crafted, but she weaved it into her armband, careful to preserve its shape and structure. She meant to always have you with her, even if she couldn't physically.
You were more than a child she saw as a sister; you could have been her child. A ridiculous notion, but she felt so strongly about you. She wanted to take you in, hold you close, and carry you as she did her chores and duties. She wanted to hunt and bring it home for you to eat till you were full. Perhaps, to her, you were an odd mixture of a sister and child, but that just meant she loved you all the more.
Her sweet Syulì'ang. She’d named you after the insect, a beautiful creature that fluttered around and gripped onto surfaces when it meant to. She wished and wished and wished that you'd stay, that you’d grip onto the ground and stay there with her. She did not like humans, but you? You, she loved.
So it hurt, watching as your eyes closed, feeling your pulse slow, have you die right in front of her, right in her reach.
Your eyes, heavy, rose up to the sky. “Sa’nu, Tsmuke, Tsmukan, Jake-” Your words were quiet, strained, and heavy. But you spoke anyway, a warmth passing through your body. “Eywa, she’s” It was hard to speak. “She’s like the waves-” your breath released from your lips, cutting off your words.
The tendrils around you pulsed before they dulled, the light dimming across the Tree of Souls.
Jake could only hold Neytiri as she cried, his own tears falling as he felt his entire demeanor freeze.
They left you by the tree, something Grace opposed. But Mo’at had insisted it was Eywa’s wish. Jake and Grace weren’t happy, nor were Tsu’tey and Neytiri; they wanted to give you a proper burial, but they complied with their Tsahik’s declaration.
It was mere days later that Neytiri visited again, only to be met with an empty landscape. You were nowhere in sight, only an abundance of tendrils in your place, pulsing with light as Eywa breathed below them.
Ronal, for weeks, dreamed of a face. A human one. She’d never seen the girl before, unfamiliar with the face and voice she kept meeting in her dreams. It bothered her, being met so forcefully with a demon's face, but behind it, she felt the Great Mother's words.
She couldn’t make sense of it; it drove her wild how she prayed and prayed, and all she was met with were new visions of the girl. With a newborn baby, she felt stretched thin. She confided in Tonowari about her dreams. He did what he could to comfort her, putting in effort to relieve her of as much stress as he could.
Ronal prayed, seeking answers and clarity. What did the Great Mother want?
One night, she dreamed of the spirit tree, along with the girl. She dreamt of whispers, of a new face, of a young Metkayina child she held in her arms.
She woke up in a cold sweat, right as dawn rose in the sky.
She made her way through the village, mounting her tsurak, and traveled to the cove of the ancestors. She felt a weight in her chest as she arrived. She dove under, swimming through the featherlike branches as she made her way to the center of the tree.
She reached forward, placing her palms on the branches wrapped tightly in on itself. Slowly, she unwrapped it, pulling it away from the other ‘leaves’ wrapped around. Once she got to the center, she pulled back.
An infant lay in the middle, wrapped in the leaves. Slowly, she pulled it out, taking it into her arms, she swam up. Breaching the surface, she looked down, watching as the baby breathed in the air.
The first breath.
Ronal gazed down at the baby, brows pinched together as she took her in. Confusion was the least she could describe it as.
A moment passed. Ronal mounted her tsurak, and she returned home.
Whispers surrounded her as she walked through the village, eyes following her and landing on the unknown infant in her embrace. In the mere minutes she’d had the baby, she felt an overwhelming sense of maternal instinct towards it. She reasoned she felt that way about most babies, but this was stronger.
She approached her Marui, Tonowari, meeting her at the entrance. He gazed down at her, then the baby, confusion panting his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, stuck in the flurry of words he was trying to put together.
“The Great Mother brought her to me,” Ronal spoke, calm and melodic. “To us.” Tonowari gazed up at her.
Words exchanged between them in complete silence.
He nodded, stepping aside, allowing Ronal to enter the Marui.
The two took to their daughter quickly, entranced by the baby given to them by Eywa. They were lost, confused by her appearance, but they didn’t question it. They simply placed her in the cradle with their other baby, Ao’nung, watching as they turned and curled to hold each other.
“You dreamt of her.” Tonowari’s voice broke the silence.
Ronal, attention on the baby's unwavering, nodded. “Last night, yes.”
He looked to his wife, tentative as he examined her facial expression. “And the others?” He questioned.
There was a moment of silence, Ronal’s hand coming to rest on the edge of the cradle.
“I do not care. She is my daughter. She is ours now.”
Tonowari stared at his wife before nodding, reaching down to cup his daughter's face in his hand. “And what is our daughter's name?” He spoke, already transfixed by the infant lying in the cradle he crafted by hand.
Ronal tilted her head, watching the girl. After a moment, she gazed to Tonowar, their eyes meeting as a soft smile graced her lips.
“Syuli”
After your death, Jake’s loyalty to the RDA wavered. Grace had accepted her fate as a trapped scientist long ago, but Jake refused. He bonded with Neytiri and Tsu’tey quicker, earning the faith of the clan before he finished his Iknimaya.
He saw it in black and white. The humans left you alone and to die, the Na’vi loved you as their own and wept at your death. His decision was clear-cut.
Still, his fast actions weren’t enough to prevent the events that led to Neytiri’s belief of his betrayal. Or the destruction of the home tree. Or the death of those he fought by.
By the end of the war, your death was followed by many others. Black stains on Jake’s heart. He mourned you, grieved for you. The devastation of the war was hard enough, but you? You weren’t even a casualty; you were a victim of the most unfortunate of circumstances. He replayed it in his head over and over again, each time wondering what he could have done to save you, to prevent your death.
It drove him to the worst of his depths. A side of himself he hadn’t even seen when his brother died.
The only thing keeping him afloat was Neytiri and the child that lay in her womb.
“She is with Grace now, my Jake, with the Great Mother.” Neytiri would say, burying her grief. Twice, she's lost you now. When Sylwanin died and her parents shut down their connections with the humans, she wept for not only her sister but for you. Would she never see you again? At least back then, she found comfort in the fact that you were safe and in Grace’s care.
Perhaps you still were, in her arms, just as you are in the Great Mothers. But you’re not in hers. That’s what hurt. How you’d never grow up, forever stuck as the small child she knew and loved.
Time passed, and she had Neteyam. Her sweet baby boy. She felt the cracks in her heart start to be stitched back together, only further healed when they took in Kiri.
She saw it in Jake, too, how he took to his fatherly role immediately, perhaps better prepared after his time with you. Slowly but surely, they came to be okay again.
Still, you burned in their hearts. As she wove her songcord, she pulled one of the beads from the bracelet you made her, as carefully as she could, and wove it in.
A‘eveng, Y/n, ohe oamum
Wamintxu fi oe, a syawn
a’atanur oe mameyam
meyam ohe ngenga, tsalsungay pehrr lom
A child, Y/n, i knew
showed to me, a blessing
a light I held in my arms
I hold you, even when gone
It was hard to speak about you to the kids. They didn’t want to introduce the idea of someone dying at such a young age. They also still grieved you, struggling to accept your death. It wasn’t fair. You should be with them, growing up alongside their children. You would have been such a good big sister.
This hit Jake especially hard, knowing how you’d been excited to have another kid on base; Spider. You raved to him about how you were going to bring him to the lab all the time, what toys you’d give him, and how you wanted to teach him Na’vi and have him as a little brother. At least, the closest you could have to one.
So it was hard watching Spider do all that, grow up and learn Na’vi, come into his family and be seen by his kids as a fellow sibling, knowing it was everything you wanted.
But years passed, and their family grew, and it grew strong. Their children knew of you in passing, in hushed breaths like how they spoke of Sylwanin and the others they’d loved that left them through such harsh tragedies.
Neytiri and Jake didn’t want the children to wonder what it would have been like to have you in the family. It was already too painful for them to wonder themselves.
Their children grew, their personalities developed, and they came into their own. It was hard not to see you in each of them. Tuk’s curiosity, Lo’ak’s mischief, the softness in Kiri’s eyes, and how Neteyam was so thoughtful with his words. For all its hurt, it also gave them comfort. They’d continue to see you, even when you weren’t with them.
Their grief became something mellow, something they could plant love and strength into.
But then the RDA came back. Like an old scar tearing apart, refusing to heal. Their lives turned upside down, and their healing came to a harsh halt, slowly stepping backwards against the blood and gunfire they stood in.
That eclipse, when the kids were in the hands of the recoms, Jake felt barbed wire wrapping around his throat.
He heard their whines, their yelps of pain, and he almost lost them. He refused to risk it. Not again.
“He had our children. Had them under his knife.” He was scared, begging Neytiri to leave, to find a better place for them. He hadn’t been able to find one for you. He wouldn’t let that happen again. “Look, I got nothing… I've got no plan. But I can protect this family. That I can do.”
Neytiri heard the unsaid, seeing what he saw when he spoke.
“But I do know one thing, wherever we go, this family is our fortress.” It was unintentional, his hands placed delicately on her shoulders, one slipping down, grazing the armband she’d woven with your bracelet in it.
They had to protect their children.
The Travel to the Metkayina was difficult, tiring, laborious, and met with storms that raged against them. But they pushed through. They’ve pushed through worse; they’d do this for their family.
They landed on the beach, drawing the attention of the clan, who gathered around them in confusion and awe. They were nervous, holding themselves close together as they were gawked at and picked on by oncoming clan members.
Jake felt a sense of relief when Tonowari, an honorable man and the clan's Olo’eyktan, arrived at the scene, greeting them warmly and with a smile. He felt confident, with Tonowari on their side, he believed he could get past the wall Ronal would inevitably put up.
As the crowd parted, he prepared himself, but he felt all the breath be taken out of his lungs.
Ronal stalked closer, her imposing demeanor, but that wasn’t what shocked him. Behind her, following at her heels, was a young girl. Teal skin with swirling stripes.
She resembled you.
He couldn’t place it; the girl was Metkayina, in every way. But something about her face, the way her expression was set in it, how she carried herself. The air around her, the look in her eyes. All of it set off bells in his chest, ringing and clanging against the grief that settled there. The grief for you.
She stood behind Ronal, tilting her head exactly the way you did when you were curious about something.
Neytiri had seen it hundreds of times, holding you in her lap at the schoolhouse. She let out a breath. Jake glanced at her, millions of words passing between them.
She saw it too.
Jake took a moment to collect himself, pulling back from the shock he’d experienced but couldn’t explain. He went on with his prepared speech. He was seeking Uturu; sanctuary, safety for his family.
His veins were buzzing. He didn’t want to be turned away, to force his children to retreat in defeat, praying they’d find another clan willing to listen and take them in. He felt helpless.
Ronal, skeptical, circled the family. She pulled at their tails, remarking how inefficient they’d be in the water, in their way of life.
She approached Kiri, taking her hands in hers. A scowl crossed her face. Four fingers. Kiri held her breath, self-conscious of her extra finger, a tell-tale sign of their human descent. Demon descent.
Ronal gazed down, tilting her head.
She looked up to her daughter, the one who’d arrived with her. She watched her for a moment, the dreams she saw all those years ago flooding her mind. Something she’d never speak aloud.
She dropped Kiri’s hands, walking past the children and Jake Sully. “You are ill fit to live here.”
“We can adapt. We can learn.” He pleaded, desperate to convince them to let his family stay. Desperate to appease the leaders of the clan.
“I’m done with war.” He spoke to Tonowari, quiet and between them. “I just want to keep my family safe.”
Ronal watched him, not convinced by his words. Behind her, her daughter stepped forward, placing her hand on her mother's shoulder.
“Sa’nu.” The words escaped her lips, and Jake breathed in. He saw you, sitting in Grace’s lap in the lab, running up to her excitedly, lying at the spirit tree, dying.
Ronal looked at her daughter, words exchanged between their gazes, she turned to her mate, being met with the same sentiment. A moment passed, and she nodded.
“Jake Sully and his family will stay with us.” Tonowari announced, explaining to the clan their duty to teach them their ways of life.
Jake sighed in relief, bringing forth a ‘thank you’ from his family.
“Our children, Syuli, Ao’nung, and Tsireya, will show your children what to do.”
Ao’nung stepped forth, displeased by his father's decision, but silenced.
“Come, we will show you our village!” Tsireya stepped forward, hand in hand with her sister.
You looked to the family that had arrived at your village. You took in their faces.
They felt familiar to you. You couldn’t place it.
Tsireya tugged you along through the village, humming as you made your way across the woven walkways. Neytiri and Jake, though focused on taking in their new home, couldn’t help but watch you. The bounce in your step all too familiar.
It was eerie, and they didn’t understand their attribution of you to the little girl they’d known all those years ago.
You became a constant in their life, always around their kids, peeking into their Marui to offer fruits you’d picked with your mother. You were a sweetheart, thoughtful, and kind to their children.
Your mother stayed skeptical of her allowance of the foreigners into their clan, fueled by your growing night problems.
It had been years since she last caught you sleepwalking. It was a problem when you were a child, roaming around the village in the midst of the night. Many concerned clan members came to her with stories of how you found yourself at the edge of the walkways, staring up into the open sky with a withered look on your face.
You sleep-talked, she discovered after staying up to follow you one night. You spoke garbled sentences, strung together words that didn’t make sense. You spoke in a mix of Na’vi and English.
How you even knew the language? She couldn’t understand.
She prayed nightly, seeking for guidance on how to help her sweet baby girl. Again, she was only met with visions of that human child.
It all came to a head one night when Tsireya woke her up, lip jutting out as she whispered that you’d fallen during your walks. Ronal soothed her daughter, telling her to go back to sleep before leaving to find you.
You were on your knees, hands clasped together as you spoke in broken prayers, eyes glazed over. You were somewhere she didn’t know.
She was tired of it, worried to death, and lost. So, she did the only thing she could think of. She pulled you into the water carefully, holding you as she rode to the Cove of the Ancestors. You came out of your trance, slowly but surely, but still drowsy and out of it.
She was able to coax you to enough consciousness to get you to dive under, connecting with the spirit tree.
She doesn’t know what you saw when you did. All she knows is that you hadn’t sleep-walked, or talked since. She knew you were special. A child she would never truly understand, but she loved and cherished you with everything she had.
She saw the way the animals around you seemed to move in sync with you, how the luminescence at night pulsed with your breath. She didn’t ask for answers. She loved you and she trusted the Great Mother.
But here you were again, standing at the entrance of their Marui, eyes glazed over, staring off into the stars. Ever since they’d let the Sullys stay, you’d been walking and talking in your sleep again.
It wasn’t as intense, thankfully, but it was enough to rouse her or her children from sleep every so often.
They worried for you. They took turns staying up, watching you, easing you back to sleep, careful not to startle you from your trance. During the day, they acted as if nothing was different. They knew you were different, but they loved you nonetheless. You were their daughter, their sister.
Ao’nung picked on you, teasing you and going out of his way to bother you. It was his way of showing his love, he joked. He had his moments. Picking you up in his arms and carrying you across the village to your mother for treatment when you hurt yourself on a spear, ignoring your complaints that it was your hand that was injured, not your legs, you could still walk! He ignored you, carefully setting you down in their Marui, lurking by the door until you were bandaged up and ready to leave.
Tsireya was easier. You got along with your younger sister without any problems, aside from the occasional spat that never went anywhere. You two were two peas in a pod. Inseparable. Hands clasped together, arms wrapped around each other. You were always together. It’s how you thrived.
Ronal and Tonowari, they never gave a second thought to the fact that you weren’t theirs, because you were. From the moment they’d set you down in that cradle, you’d become theirs. Their love for you was strong and unwavering. They called your name out with affection, they weaved you jewelry and clothes with love, they never let you doubt you were loved. They held you as you slept, as you dreamt.
And you dreamt. You dreamt every night. Of faces, of voices, of people you didn’t know, but knew.
By the time you woke up, your dreams were in blurry fragments, unable to be pieced together or made sense of.
Your family didn’t voice their worries to you. They saw how you flourished when interacting with their new clan members.
You were patient with them, guiding them through your way of life like it was the easiest thing to do. You blended in with them, conversing with the children so easily, it was as if you’d been doing it your entire life.
You and your siblings, Rotxo, and the Sully kids became somewhat of a friend group. Always together, at least in fragments. You felt as if your family had expanded.
The Sully kids adored you, especially Kiri. It was something about the way the two of you seemed to understand nature that connected you. And perhaps, your mysterious origins.
You confided in Kiri, and Kiri alone, about your peculiar birth. The whole clan knew, they’d witnessed it firsthand, but the story hadn’t made its way to the Sullys. Perhaps it was because it was accepted, no one thought twice about it, you were Ronal and Tonowari's daughter. No one thought to mention that, by biological means, you weren’t.
You told her how you didn’t know your biological parents. No one did. Abandoned at the Spirit tree, you were taken in by Ronal and Tonowari, raised alongside Tsireya, and essentially as Ao’nung’s twin.
She told you about her mother, a scientist who was beloved by their clan, who died during the first war against the humans. She was born from her Avatar.
Grace.
You spoke her name before Kiri told you.
An odd look passed her face. It wasn't until it dripped from your chin that you realised a tear had slipped down your cheek.
“I-i’m sorry, I'm just-” You strung together words, embarrassed and confused by your unconscious outburst. “It’s hard to speak about my birth.” You blamed it on that. Kiri accepted your words, wrapping her arms around you in an embrace that felt warmer than anything else you’d experienced.
You grew a lot closer to the Sully kids. It was their parents who were odd to be around.
Jake and Neytiri didn’t know what to think of you. You were Ronal and Tonowari’s daughter, Na’vi, born and raised in the reef. Yet when they looked at you, heard your voice, all they could see was that little girl they’d loved.
They were going crazy. That was the only explanation. Driven mad by the destruction of their home and subsequent forced abandonment of it.
They wanted to talk to you. They ached to. But it ached just as much to do so. It wasn’t fair to you, their projections of grief onto you.
You were kind, you spoke for them when they first arrived, and you went out of your way to welcome them. You taught their children and defended them, taking them in as if they were your blood.
But every time they saw you, they were swarmed by a whirlpool of grief and relief.
“She speaks like her.” Neytiri would whisper one night, when all the children were off in the village attending a celebration, Jake lying next to her.
“Yeah.” He’d say, eyes locked on Neytiri’s face, watching as she wandered through her mind. Watching as a tear slipped down her cheek.
For weeks, they watched you, watching every movement and quirk you exhibited. How you spoke, how you moved through the walkways, your sense of humor. The way you scrunched your nose in a certain way when faced with food you didn’t like. It all pointed back.
Back to her.
That girl.
She haunted them.
A ghost following them around. One they thought they’d put to rest over a decade ago.
They had moved on. They grieved her, yes, but they had learned to live without her. Just as they did with every person they lost.
But she was back.
They thought it was in their heads at first, but the more they saw, the more they became sure.
Her body had disappeared, Neytiri recounted to him, a whisper under her breath as they watched you talk to Neteyam and Tsireya from afar. They’d left her at the tree like Mo’at demanded, abiding by Eywa's wishes. Her body was gone far too quickly to have been natural decomposition, and no creature would dare feast on a body wrapped in Eywa’s arms like she was.
They didn’t question it, too wrapped up in their grief to try and breach the topic. They simply accepted it. Eywa wanted her. She was with Grace, they believed.
But she wasn’t.
She was in the reef, living amongst the people, living.
They saw you, and they saw her. One in the same.
They’d grieved you, and now you stood right in front of them, out of their reach.
It tore them apart. They must have been going insane because you were not that girl they knew, you were not the girl they loved and doted on. But you were.
You couldn’t be.
But they watched and they watched and they saw. They saw her.
“It’s not her.” Jake’s voice was steel. Laced with a hardened grief.
“I know what I saw, you know what you see.” Neytiri defended, unsure of how to explain it.
He shook his head, pacing back and forth in the Marui, sliding a hand down his face.
“She’s a Metkayina! She’s Ronal and Tonowai’s daughter! That's it.” He spoke so certainly, as if he were trying to convince himself.
The two breathed heavily, working through their mind and hearts to get their words. Logic wasn’t making sense, but they tried to cling to it, both of them in different ways.
“Ronal didn’t give birth to her, nor did Tonowair father her.” Neytiris' words were heavy, like steel and stone. “A gift from Eywa, Ronal calls her.”
Their eyes met.
At this point, they were haunted less by you and more by the fact that you were back. It wasn’t easy mourning someone, learning to accept their death after having grown to love them so fiercely, to learn how to live without them. All of that, only for them to appear again.
All those walls they’d built, all the strength they’d planted in their grief, it was crumbling, the base of it all blowing away like sand in the wind.
It almost hurt more than the grief itself.
They simmered in it for weeks, speaking through glances and hushed whispers.
It was quiet that day. Jake was making his rounds through the village when he heard it. The humming. Not just the humming but the tune.
Slowly, he rounded the corner, peaking around the Marui, eyes landing on you sitting on the edge of the walkway, legs dangling from an opening. You sat there, beading an arm piece as you hummed.
You hummed the lullaby Jake had used to sing that girl to sleep. The lullaby from Earth.
He felt his chest crack open. He wanted to say something, to reach out and speak to you-
“Sempu!” You called out, spotting Tonowari walk up from another direction. Wordlessly, you held up your work for him, a smile spreading across your face as he approached and knelt down.
“Ah, this is great work, my little ‘itetsyip.” He leaned in, hand reaching up to pull it closer to examine it. He grinned, nodding towards you. “You are an exceptional crafter.”
Jake watched the scene, brows furrowing, a weight resting in his chest.
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, bah! You and Mother praise me far too much.”
Tonowair simply chuckled, his hand moving to cradle your cheek as you grinned at him.
“No, we simply see how great you are.”
Jake started to notice more after that. He watched not just you, but your life. How you wandered freely through the village, greeting your clan members eagerly, your cheerfulness returned. You were surrounded by kids your age, all watching you with a mix of adoration and respect. You bonded with your siblings, giggling over inside jokes and banter.
Your parents were doting. They didn’t spoil you; they made sure you were responsible and self-aware, but they loved you, and they showed it. The more he watched, the more Neytiri did too; perhaps she’d been watching the full scene the whole time.
You weren’t alone.
You smiled so widely, and you never had to beg, you never had to work for attention or affection. You were accepted wholeheartedly.
You had everything you wanted here, Neytiri and Jake realized. You had everything they wanted to give you, and you didn’t have any barriers. You weren’t human or parentless. You moved about freely. You weren’t raised to expect to come second, third, or fourth place.
Neytiri and Jake had wanted to give you that life. But they couldn’t. They never could.
The Great Mother didn’t fulfill their desires to be the one to love you; she gave you what you needed. She gave you the opportunity to live.
It was bittersweet. You had the life you wanted. You were loved.
Just not by them.
And that was ok.
They’d lived their lives, they’d found happiness, a family, and they were good.
You’d found what you needed, even if it wasn’t with them.
a/n this is a repost from my previous post/request answer bc i want people to see it and get their attention asap bc this is the longest and best fic ive ever written
trash sequel
The mist of the Hallelujah Mountains did not just cling to the rocks; it breathed. It was the living respiration of Pandora, a swirling, ethereal ocean of white that separated the grounded world from the kingdom of the clouds. For a daughter of the Kekunan, this vertiginous world was the only one that made sense. To the forest clans, the "edge" was a place of danger. To you, the edge was where life truly began.
You were born to the sky, a child of the clan that first taught the Na'vi how to touch the heavens. While the Omatikaya were rooted in the deep shadows of the jungle, your people were the bright sparks of defiance against gravity. You were clothed in the colors of the sunrise—boisterous, screaming shades of crimson, saffron, and violet that mirrored the plumage of the mountain banshees.
As the daughter of the Olo’eyktan and tsakarem, your life was a tapestry of duty. You were expected to be the swiftest, the bravest, and the most composed, embodying the legend of Taronyu, the first rider. But today, the heavy mantle of being a chieftain’s child had been set aside. Today, you were simply a creature of the wind.
You were alone with Ni’muna, your ikran. She was a magnificent beast of fire and blood-orange, her wings dappled with patterns that looked like cooling lava. You had spent the morning painting yourself to match her, dragging fingers dipped in thick orange clay across your sapphire skin, creating bold, aggressive streaks that trailed down your arms and thighs. It was a tribute to her, a sign of the tsaheylu, that she was you— and you her.
High above the tree line, where the air grew thin and cold enough to bite, you sat tall in your saddle. You wore a thin, feathered top—a vibrant, daring red that fluttered violently in the wind, the feathers plucked from the Great Leonopteryx’s smaller cousins. It offered little protection against the elements, but the Kekunan did not dress for comfort; you dressed for the dance.
“You ready, girl?” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper against the gale.
Ni’muna didn't need the words. Through the bond, you felt the thrum of her heart—a rapid, powerful rhythm that mirrored the pounding in your own chest. You felt the twitch of her wing muscles, the way she tasted the thermal drafts, and the sheer, unadulterated hunger for speed.
With a sudden, violent thrust of her wings, she tipped her nose toward the abyss.
The stomach-flipping drop was your favorite part. You leaned forward, flattening your chest against her neck, your wind-swept curls whipping behind you like a dark cloud. The air roared past your ears, a deafening whistle that drowned out the world. You were practicing a maneuver inspired by the old stories—the ones your father told about the Great War. He had spoken of a warrior, the Toruk Makto, who used the sky as a three-dimensional battlefield, twisting and diving in ways that the traditional aerial dances hadn't yet touched.
“Now!” you thought, a command sent through the braid.
Ni’muna tucked one wing and flared the other. You went into a violent, high-speed barrel roll. The world spun—sky, rock, fog, sky again—in a blur of turquoise and gray. Amidst the centrifugal force trying to tear you from the saddle, you reached back, your fingers finding the notch of your bow by muscle memory alone.
You saw the target: a small, crimson shell fruit you had balanced on a jutting branch of a solitary floating islet.
In the split second where your horizon leveled during the roll, you drew. The tension of the string was a familiar ache in your shoulder. You released.
Thwack.
The arrow pierced the fruit dead center, pinning it to the bark as you zoomed past. Ni’muna leveled out with a triumphant shriek, her own roars joining your piercing whoop. You banked a wide, graceful turn to retrieve your arrow, expecting to be alone with your victory.
Instead, as you approached the small islet, Ni’muna’s head crested with a low, wary hiss.
Unbeknownst to you, Neteyam stood on the edge of the floating rock, his breath hitching in his throat. He had been sent out on a long-range patrol, seeking the solitude of the high altitudes to clear his head from the pressures of being the "perfect son," when he had heard the scream of an ikran—not the usual cry of a hunter, but a sound of pure, reckless joy.
Then, he had seen you.
From his vantage point, you looked like a streak of falling fire. He watched, mesmerized, as you executed a barrel roll so tight it seemed to defy the physics of flight. He saw the flash of your red feathered top against the blue sky, a vibrant spark that shouldn't have been there. And then, the shot. A blind release in the middle of a terminal velocity spin.
"holy shit," he whispered to himself, stunned.
As your ikran circled back and landed, Neteyam found himself unable to move. He was a forest boy, raised among the towering trees of the Omatikaya, but he had always been a creature of the air at heart. Yet, he had never seen anyone fly like this.
He watched as the great orange beast touched down, its claws scraping the stone. Then, you dismounted.
In the eyes of Neteyam, the world seemed to slow down. You didn't just step off the ikran; you flowed. As you landed on the uneven stone, you moved with a strut that was uniquely yours—a rhythmic, predatory grace that spoke of absolute confidence. Your tail, long and twitching with the remnants of your adrenaline high, swayed behind you in a rhythmic arc that he found himself tracing with his eyes.
He took in the details of you, his heart hammering against his ribs for a reason that had nothing to do with the altitude. Your hair was a wild, beautiful mess of curls, tangled by the wind and smelling of the high atmosphere. The orange clay streaks on your skin caught the sunlight, making you look like a being carved from the mountain itself. And that red top—the way the feathers shivered with every breath you took—made you look like a bird of prey that had just taken human form.
You were analyzing him, and he knew it. Your golden eyes were sharp, scanning him from his toes to the top of his head. He felt the weight of your gaze, the way you flattened your ears slightly in a gesture of territorial suspicion.
He realized he was staring. He realized he looked like a fool. But he couldn't help it. There was a fire in you that he had never encountered in the jungle. You were daring, strong, and clearly impulsive—everything the stories said about the Kekunan, but the stories hadn't mentioned how the wind would look in your hair.
He rose his hand, his fingers trembling just a fraction, and extended them to you. “Oel ngati kameie,” he said, his voice a little rougher than usual.
Gracefully, and without breaking eye contact, you wordlessly returned his greeting. Your silence was a challenge.
“Your move just now—it was amazing!” Neteyam shouted, his smile breaking through his nervousness. It was a bright, warm smile, the kind that usually made people trust him instantly. “The way you held the line through the roll... I have never seen an ikran move that way.”
You paced a small circle around him, your tail lashing behind you. You were like a forest cat deciding whether to play with a stray pup or drive it off a cliff.
“Fyape syaw fko ngar?” you quipped. Your voice was melodic but carried the sharp edge of the high-altitude winds. Before he could even draw breath to answer, you stepped into his personal space, your chin tilting up as if you were looking down on him despite the fact that he was taller. “Nga za’u ftu peseng?”
Neteyam felt a rush of heat to his face. He quickly stood his ground, though your presence was overwhelming—the scent of ozone, damp earth, and woodsmoke clinging to you. Remembering not all na’vi speak english he corrected himself and the words began to blend back for him. He placed his hand on his chest, his posture straightening as he reclaimed his dignity.
“I am Neteyam te Suli Jake’itan,” he spoke, his voice ringing with the quiet pride of his lineage.
He watched your eyes. He saw the flicker of recognition, the way your pupils dilated slightly at the mention of his father. He waited for the awe or the bowing that usually followed. But you were Kekunan. You didn't bow to legends; you challenged them.
You looked him up and down one more time, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. Your tail gave one final, decisive swish.
“A son of the Omatikaya,” you said, your voice dropping to a purr that sent a shiver down his spine. “Tell me, Neteyam... does the forest feel very small once you’ve seen how we live up here?”
Neteyam looked out at the horizon, at the endless expanse of the Hallelujah Mountains, and then back at the girl in the red feathers who looked like she owned the sun.
“It does now,” he admitted softly.
The silence that followed was thick with the sound of the wind and the distant cry of other banshees. You studied him, seeing the way his eyes lingered on the orange paint on your shoulders. Most forest Na'vi found the Kekunan's love for bright colors to be "boisterous" or distracting, but Neteyam looked at you with something that felt like reverence.
You liked the way he didn't look away. You liked that he was a rider, too—you could tell by the calluses on his hands and his worn visor.
"You are a long way from home, son of Toruk Makto," you said, turning back toward your arrow. You pulled it from the tree with a sharp tug, the fruit sliding off and tumbling into the fog below. "The currents around these peaks are treacherous for those who do not know them. They can peel a weak rider from their saddle before they can even scream."
Neteyam followed you, his eyes fixed on the sway of your hips and the confident stride of your walk. "I am not a weak rider," he said, a hint of playful defiance entering his tone. "And I'm a fast learner."
You turned back to him, your curls obscuring half your face. You reached up, tucking a stray lock behind your ear, and saw him track the movement. A small, wicked idea began to form in your mind.
"Is that so?" you challenged. "Then perhaps you should see if you can find your way back to your clan before the sun dips. Or..." You vaulted onto Ni’muna’s back in one fluid motion, the orange and red feathers of your top flared like a warning. "You could try to keep up with me."
Neteyam didn't hesitate. He let out a sharp whistle, and his own ikran, a sleek forest-green beast, emerged from the mists below, banking hard to land beside yours.
"Lead the way, Kekunan," he said, his eyes bright with a challenge of his own.
You laughed, a wild, free sound that echoed through the canyons. “I am y/n te Kenat Okéyi’ite.” you spoke and with a sharp kick, you and Ni’muna dived back into the clouds, a streak of orange and red against the endless blue, with the boy of the Omatikaya racing to catch the fire you left behind.
The days that followed were marked by a new kind of rhythm, one that had nothing to do with the heavy drums of the Kekunan council fires or the structured patrols of the Omatikaya. It was a secret cadence, timed to the movement of the sun as it began its slow descent toward the horizon.
Every morning, you moved with a blurred efficiency that left your family blinking in surprise. You gathered the medicinal mosses from the cliff faces, assisted with the weaving of new ikran harnesses, and completed your martial drills with a fierce intensity that made your brother joke that you were preparing for a second Great War.
Your father, the Olo’eyktan, watched you with a curious tilt of his head, noticing the way his daughter seemed to be vibrating with an unseen energy, but as long as your duties were fulfilled, he granted you the freedom the sky-born so cherished.
And so, every afternoon, you would whistle for Ni’muna. The two of you became a streak of fire against the sky, heading toward that same solitary spire where the clouds parted just right.
You weren't the only one.
Neteyam, the golden son of the Omatikaya, was discovering that his "long-range patrols" were becoming increasingly focused on one specific coordinate in the Hallelujah Mountains. He pushed his ikran harder, his heart leaping every time he saw a flash of orange and crimson through the mist. He’d arrive with his lungs burning from the high-altitude air, a crooked, breathless smile on his face as he found you already there, usually performing some death-defying feat just to see if he was watching.
On this particular afternoon, the air was unusually still, heavy with the golden light of a Pandoran sunset. You had arrived early, spreading out a newly knitted cover you had spent your nights working on. It was a masterpiece of your craft—thick, durable fibers dyed in shades of neon pink, solar yellow, and deep sunset orange. It was so bright it almost seemed to emit its own light, a vibrant stain against the ancient, gray stone of the mountain peak.
You lay back on the cover, your wild, curls fanned out beneath you like a dark halo. You had reapplied your war paint today, the orange streaks across your cheekbones and collarbones glowing in the fading light. Your new feathered top ruffled slightly in the breeze, the soft down tickling your skin.
Then, you heard it. The familiar, rhythmic hiss-clap of wings beating against the thin air.
You didn't move. You didn't even open your eyes, though your ears swiveled toward the sound, twitching as the heavy thud of an ikran landing vibrated through the rock beneath you. You heard the soft thump of feet hitting the ground, followed by the familiar, steady stride of the forest boy.
“Watching the sunset?” Neteyam quipped.
His voice was closer than you expected. You opened your eyes to find him standing over you, his silhouette framed by the colossal, glowing orb of Polyphemus in the distance. He looked down at you with those curious, amber eyes—the kind of look that always made you feel like he was trying to memorize the exact pattern of your stripes. He looked tired, his own riding gear dusted with the grime of a long day’s work, but his smile was as bright as ever.
“Yes,” you spoke, your voice smooth and low, lacking the sharp defensive edge it had possessed the first day you met. “Join me. I never noticed how quickly it went by until now.”
You reached out, your hand—still stained with a bit of orange clay—patting the empty space of the vibrant cover beside you.
Neteyam hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering from your face to the empty spot, before he sank down. He leaned back on his hands at first, watching the way the sky began to bleed into deep purples and bruised oranges. Then, following your lead, he eased himself down until he was lying flat beside you.
The silence between you wasn't empty; it was full of the sound of Ni’muna and his ikran grooming each other a few yards away, and the low hum of the mountain's magnetic fields.
“My mother is starting to wonder why I come back with mountain mist in my hair every night,” Neteyam admitted softly, his head turning on the cover to look at you. From this close, he could see the way your eyelashes caught the golden light. He found himself mesmerized by the way you looked in repose—still fierce, but with the sharp edges softened by the twilight.
You turned your head to meet his gaze, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. “And what do you tell her? That you are being schooled in the art of flight by a girl who lives in the clouds?”
Neteyam chuckled, a soft sound that vibrated in the small space between you. “I tell her I am studying the terrain. It is not a lie. I have learned more about these mountains in the last seven days than I have in my entire life.”
He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the edge of your vibrant cover, before he grew bold enough to let his hand rest near yours. “The Omatikaya see the beauty in the roots and the shadows. But you... you Kekunan... you see the beauty in the heights that should be terrifying. I’m beginning to understand why.”
You watched his hand, then looked back into his eyes. For the first time, you didn't feel the need to boast or to prove your status as the Olo’eyktan’s daughter. You felt a strange, grounding warmth—a feeling that was entirely new to a girl who had spent her whole life trying to leave the ground behind.
“The sky doesn't judge you, Neteyam,” you whispered, your tail giving a soft, rhythmic flick against the fabric of the mat. “It only asks if you are brave enough to stay in it. i am starting to believe that you just might be.”
Neteyam shifted, his shoulder brushing against yours, and for a long moment, you simply watched the world turn gold, together.
Eventually the sky began to deepen into a bruised purple, the bioluminescence of the distant forest floor beginning to wake up like a thousand fallen stars.
Lying there, side by side on the vibrant orange and yellow cover, the world felt suspended. The high-altitude winds that usually whipped through the peaks had died down to a gentle sigh, as if the moon itself was holding its breath.
Neteyam shifted, turning onto his side to prop his head up on his hand. He watched the way the fading light played across the orange streaks on your skin.
He looked like he wanted to say something, his brow furrowing in that serious, thoughtful way he had—the "future leader" look that he couldn't quite shake off even when he was relaxing.
"The mountains are beautiful," he began, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone. "But they are only half of Pandora. You spend all your time looking down at the fog, waiting to dive through it. You rarely walk beneath the canopy."
You turned your head toward him, a playful, skeptical glint in your golden eyes. "And why should I? The ground is slow. It is full of shadows and tangled roots that trip you. Up here, there is nothing to stop you."
Neteyam smiled, but there was a challenge in it this time. "The shadows are where the best stories are. And the best game." He sat up slightly, gesturing toward the vast, dark expanse of the jungle far below.
"The Omatikaya have moved to High Camp now. The old hunting grounds near the ruins of the Hometree... they are quiet. The Sky People stay away from the deep bush there. We would have the area all to ourselves."
He looked back at you, his eyes locking onto yours. "Let me take you hunting. On the ground. No ikran, no diving from a thousand meters. Just the forest floor, the bow, and the heartbeat of the woods."
You let out a short, melodic laugh, sitting up and crossing your legs. Your red feathered top rustled, and you tossed your wind-swept curls back with a haughty flick of your head. "You want to teach me how to hunt, forest boy? I have been a hunter since I was small enough to climb into Ni’muna’s saddle. I can hit a fkew fruit while spinning in a terminal dive. My aim is truer than any warrior in my clan."
You gestured to the bow resting near your mat, your chin tilting up in that classic strut of confidence. "I am an excellent hunter."
Neteyam’s grin widened, becoming something a bit more mischievous. He didn't look intimidated by your boast; in fact, he looked like he had been waiting for you to say exactly that.
"Oh, I know you’re a good hunter," he said, his voice trailing off as he let out a soft snort of amusement. He leaned in a little closer, his amber eyes dancing with light. "From the back of your ikran."
He let the comment hang in the air for a second, watching your ears twitch in indignation.
"It’s easy to hit a target when you have the entire sky to maneuver in," he continued, his tone teasing. "But on the ground? In the thick brush where you cannot see ten paces ahead of you? Where you have to move without a single leaf whispering against your skin? That is a different dance. There, your ikran cannot save you if you miss your mark."
You bristled, your tail lashing behind you and striking the bright fabric of the cover with a sharp thud. "I can move silently. We are not clumsy, Neteyam."
"I didn't say you were clumsy," he replied softly, his gaze softening as he took in your fierce expression. "I’m saying you’re a daughter of the sky. I want to see if you can handle being a daughter of the earth, too."
He stood up, offering his hand to you—the same hand that had greeted you with respect on the first day. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the world in a soft, blue twilight.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Meet me at the base of the weeping spires at dawn. Leave Ni’muna at the high ledge. We walk."
You looked at his hand, then up at his face. The arrogance within you fought with a sudden, sharp curiosity. You wanted to prove him wrong—to show him that you could master his world just as easily as you mastered yours. But more than that, you realized you weren't ready for these afternoons to end.
You placed your hand in his, your orange-painted skin a sharp contrast against his deep blue palm. Your grip was firm, a silent acceptance of the wager.
"Do not cry when I outrun you through your own trees, Neteyam te Suli," you warned, though the corners of your mouth were twitching with a hidden smile.
He squeezed your hand gently before letting go. "We shall see, sky-girl. We shall see."
You didn't give him the satisfaction of a long goodbye. With a sharp whistle, you urged Ni’muna toward the ledge. But as you reached the precipice, you couldn't resist one last display. Instead of taking flight normally, you stood up in the stirrups and leaned forward, falling off the edge of the cliff into a dead-weight dive.
For a second, you were just a blur of red and blue plummeting through the dark. Then, with a roar that shook the stone, Ni’muna dived after you. She snatched you out of the air with her massive talons, tossing you upward with practiced precision. You flipped in the empty space of the abyss, the wind roaring in your ears, before slamming back down perfectly into the saddle.
You banked a hard turn, looking back over your shoulder to see Neteyam standing at the very edge of the rock, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and absolute awe. You offered him a sharp, two-fingered wave before vanishing into the mist.
Neteyam watched the spot where you had disappeared for a long time, the image of your form burned into his mind.
“Always showing off,” he murmured to the empty air, a helpless, lopsided smile playing on his lips.
He whistled for his own ikran, mounting with a far less dramatic take-off. His mind was a chaotic swirl of orange paint, red feathers, and the way your golden eyes had challenged him. By the time he reached the high-altitude forest where the Omatikaya had established High Camp, the moon was high, and his focus was entirely elsewhere.
He landed on the ikran platforms, his movements uncharacteristically sluggish as he unmade the tsaheylu. He was still picturing the way you had looked lying on that bright cover, the sunset turning your skin into glowing amber.
"Neteyam!"
The sharp bark of his father’s voice snapped him back to reality. He winced, turning to see Jake and Neytiri standing near the communal fire. His father looked weary, his arms crossed over his chest, while his mother stood with a hand on her hip, her golden eyes narrowed in a way that suggested she had been waiting for a long time.
"Sir," Neteyam said, quickly lifting his riding visor and straightening his posture.
"I asked you to watch Tuk today," Jake said, his voice flat with disappointment. "Mo'at was stuck with her all evening while she was trying to prepare the medicinal tinctures. She’s five, Neteyam. She can’t be left to wander alone."
Neteyam felt a sinkhole open in his stomach. He had completely forgotten. "I’m sorry, sir. It... it must have really slipped my mind this time. I was out on the ridge and lost track of the shadows."
Jake sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Slipped your mind? That’s the third time this week you’ve missed a rotation or a chore, boy. You're the eldest. You’re supposed to be the one I don't have to worry about."
"I know. It won't happen again," Neteyam promised, but his ears swiveled toward his mother.
Neytiri hadn't said a word, but she was watching him with a terrifyingly perceptive intensity. She stepped forward, her tail flicking with a slow, deliberate curiosity. She reached out, grabbing her son’s hand between her own, turning his palm up.
"Ma Itan... we are a little worried for you," Neytiri spoke, her voice softer than Jake's but carrying a different kind of weight. "Your head has been in the clouds. These are small mistakes, yes, but they are so unlike you. You have always been most diligent."
She ran a thumb over his palm, her eyes darting to the faint, dried smudge of orange clay near his thumb—a color that didn't belong to the forest or the Omatikaya.
"And this especially is not the time," Jake added, pacing a short line. "With the Sky People coming after us as aggressively as they are now, we need every scout focused. We need you here, Neteyam. Not drifting off into the mountains for hours on end."
Neteyam stood there, his tail twitching rhythmically behind him—a tell-tale sign of his inner agitation. He thought of the way you laughed, the way you moved with that predatory strut, and the challenge for tomorrow's hunt. He felt like he was living in two worlds at once, and the one with you was becoming much brighter than the one under the canopy.
He gently patted his mother’s hand before she dropped his. He couldn't meet her eyes for a second, fearing she’d see your name written in his pupils.
"I am very sorry," he said, his voice regaining some of its formal steadiness. "I am not sure what has gotten into me lately. The altitude, perhaps. I will do better. I'll check in with Mo'at and Tuk now."
"See that you do," Jake said, turning back toward the command center.
Neytiri, however, lingered. She watched her son walk away, noticing the way his step was a little lighter than it should be for someone who had just been scolded. She looked down at her own hand, sensing the faint trace of that strange, mountain-clay scent.
A small, knowing smile touched her lips, though it was tinged with the protective shadow of a mother’s intuition. She knew that look. It was the look of someone who had found something more captivating than duty.
"The clouds," she whispered to herself, glancing up toward the darkened peaks of the Hallelujah Mountains. "Or someone who lives among them."
The morning mist was a thick, silver curtain that clung to the damp bark of the Weeping Spires. Down here, the air was heavy with the scent of wet earth, blooming night-flowers, and the low, hummed vibrations of the forest floor. It was a world of muffled sounds—a sharp contrast to the whistling gales and screaming banshees of your home.
You had arrived early, grounding Ni’muna on a high, moss-covered shelf several hundred meters up. You’d patted her snout, whispering for her to stay hidden, before beginning the long, athletic descent on foot.
To meet Neteyam on his own turf, you had stripped away the boisterous identity of the Kekunan girl. Gone were the screaming oranges and the vibrant reds. Instead, you had dressed in muted tones—a wrap of deep forest green and a loincloth of slate blue that helped you blend into the shadows of the massive ferns.
More notably, your skin was clean. You had scrubbed away the aggressive orange clay streaks, leaving your sapphire skin bare. For the first time, the natural bioluminescent patterns of your body were fully visible—intricate, shimmering dots that traced the elegant curve of your spine and the slope of your shoulders like a map of the stars.
Even your hair was different. Your riding visor had been tossed aside in favor of a simple woven headband that kept your curls pulled back from your face, exposing the sharp, inquisitive line of your jaw.
You heard him before you saw him. The soft, rhythmic thud-thud of a runner who knew how to distribute his weight. You perched yourself on a low-hanging branch of a giant root, your tail coiled tightly around the wood for balance.
Neteyam rounded the bend of a massive tree trunk, moving with a fluid, easy pace. He slowed as he reached the clearing, his eyes scanning the greenery. He looked focused, his bow held loosely in one hand, but the second his gaze landed on you, he stopped dead.
He didn’t speak for a long moment. His amber eyes traveled over you, taking in the transformation. Without the bright paint and the visor, you looked less like a beautiful mountain spirit and more like... a beautiful girl. He noticed the way your natural markings glowed faintly in the dim forest light, and how the headband made your eyes seem even larger, more piercing.
"You look..." He started, then cleared his throat, a rare blush creeping up his neck. "You look like you belong down here."
You dropped from the branch, landing silently on the balls of your feet. Even in the shadows, you kept that strut—hips swaying, shoulders back, a natural predator’s grace. "Do not get used to it, forest boy. I only wore these colors so I wouldn't have to hear you complain that my bright feathers were scaring away your prey."
Neteyam stepped closer, his gaze still lingering on the patterns on your shoulders. He seemed momentarily mesmerized by the sight of you without your "warrior's mask" of paint. "It’s not just the colors," he murmured, his voice softening. "I can finally see your face."
You felt a prickle of heat at the back of your neck. To hide it, you reached back and checked the tension of your bowstring. "Less talking, more hunting. The sun is climbing, and you promised to show me what makes a 'daughter of the earth' so special."
Neteyam’s lopsided smile returned, though it felt more intimate this time. "Right. Follow me. And try to keep your feet light—the ground has ears."
As he turned to lead the way into the deep brush, he couldn't help but glance back over his shoulder. He had spent all night being scolded for having his head in the clouds, but standing here in the quiet heart of the forest, watching the way your tail flicked with anticipation, he realized the danger wasn't in the clouds at all.
The danger was right here, walking beside him.
The forest was a cathedral of filtered light and heavy silence. To you, it felt claustrophobic; the air didn't move the way it did at the peaks, and every step felt like an intrusion on the earth. Neteyam moved like a ghost, his deep blue skin blending into the shadows of the massive ferns.
He kept glancing back, not to check if you were keeping up—you were a good hunter, your athleticism was never in question—but to watch the way you navigated this new terrain.
Without your visor and bright paint, you felt exposed, but there was a strange freedom in it. The headband kept your curls from your eyes, allowing you to see the intricate textures of the moss and the way the light caught the bioluminescent veins of the leaves.
"There," Neteyam whispered, his hand going flat in the air to signal a stop.
Through a gap in the oversized fan-foliage, a hexapede was grazing. It was a beautiful creature, its fan-like ears twitching as it dipped its head to feed. It was calm, unaware of the two predators watching from the brush.
Neteyam looked at you, a challenge in his eyes. He gestured to your bow, stepping back to give you the shot. He wanted to see the sky-girl handle the ground.
You notched an arrow, your muscles coiling. Your heart hammered—not with fear, but with the frustration of the stillness. Usually, when you hunted, you were screaming through the air at eighty kilometers an hour, accounting for wind resistance, Ni’muna’s wing-beat, and the frantic escape of your prey. Here, everything was too quiet. Too steady.
You drew the string back, your eyes locked on the hexapede’s vital spot behind the shoulder. You released.
The arrow whistled through the air, but just as it flew, your body instinctively twitched as if to compensate for a sudden updraft that wasn't there. The shaft struck the hexapede’s flank—a solid hit, but not a kill shot. The creature let out a pained cry and bolted.
"shit!" you hissed, reaching for another arrow, but Neteyam was already a blur of motion.
He didn't leap or shout. He simply flowed forward, his bow rising in one fluid movement. He tracked the animal through the dense brush with a terrifyingly calm precision.
He released. His arrow found the mark, piercing the hexapede’s heart and dropping it instantly. It was the "clean kill" of a forest hunter.
You reached the animal first, looking down at your misplaced arrow and then at his. You felt the hot sting of pride in your cheeks. "The ground moved," you muttered, though you knew it hadn't.
Neteyam knelt beside the animal, offering a prayer to Eywa for its spirit. When he finished, he looked up at you, his expression soft rather than mocking. "You accounted for the wind, didn't you? You hunted like you were still on Ni’muna."
"It is how I have always hunted," you snapped, but your tail gave a frustrated flick.
He stood up, stepping into your space. "It was a good shot for a rider. But here..." he stepped even closer, his hand reaching out to steady your shoulder. "Here, you only have to trust your own feet."
Despite your miss, the excitement of the chase took over. You let out a small, sharp whoop of victory—the high-pitched cry of the Kekunan—and began to laugh at the sheer absurdity of your error. "I suppose I am a little out of my element."
Neteyam laughed with you, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the side of your neck. The humor faded, replaced by an intensity that made the forest around you vanish. "I don't think you're out of your element anywhere," he whispered.
Not far away, hidden behind a curtain of weeping vines, Neytiri froze. She had been collecting rare medicinal fungi for Mo’at, her basket half-full. The high-pitched, melodic whoop had startled her—it wasn't an Omatikaya cry.
She moved with the silence of a shadow, parting the leaves just enough to peek into the clearing.
Her breath caught. She saw her son, his back to her, standing dangerously close to a girl she didn't recognize. This wasn't the girl from his childhood. This girl had the lean, long-limbed build of the mountain clans, her skin bare of paint, her natural star-map patterns glowing softly in the shade.
Neytiri watched as Neteyam leaned in. He spoke words that were lost to the rustle of the leaves, but the intent was clear. He reached out, his fingers tangling slightly in your dark curls, and gently pulled your head toward his.
You stiffened at first. Your ears flickered back in surprise, and your tail went rigid behind you, the tip twitching with a sudden spike of nerves. But as his forehead touched yours—a connection of a deep, personal confession—you melted. Your eyes fluttered shut, your hands finding the steady muscles of his chest, and you leaned into him, accepting the silent vow he was making.
Neytiri stayed perfectly still. She saw the way your tails began to entwine instinctively, the way her son’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in weeks. She saw the children of two different worlds finding a middle ground that her husband had once found with her.
She didn't interfere. She didn't let them know she was there. A small, bittersweet smile touched her lips. She understood now why the "mist was in his hair" and why his head was in the clouds.
She slowly backed away, disappearing into the greenery as silently as she had come, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet heart of the world.
The moons of Pandora turned, and the secret path between the High Camp and the floating spires became a well-worn trail for two pairs of feet. What started as a daring wager had shifted into something deeper—a bridge between the canopy and the clouds.
It happened on a day when the mist was thick enough to hide a leonopteryx. Neteyam had led you to a secluded ledge just below the Omatikaya’s main camp. He looked more nervous than he had been when facing down the hexapede.
"Just... be patient with them," he whispered, adjusted his loincloth.
"I am a tsakarem, Neteyam. I know how to handle children," you teased, though your tail gave a nervous flick.
When the siblings emerged from the brush, the reaction was instantaneous. Tuk, a blur of blue energy, let out a gasp so loud it echoed. "She’s so bright!" she squealed, running up to you. She didn't hesitate, her small hands reaching out to touch the vibrant purple weaving of your new top. "And your hair is so curly! Is it because of the wind?"
Kiri followed at a more measured pace, her eyes wide and luminous. She didn't look at your clothes; she looked at the way you stood, sensing the rhythm of the mountain air still clinging to your skin. "You smell like the high places," she said softly, a smile of genuine wonder spreading across her face. "Like ozone and cold stone."
Lo’ak, however, stayed back, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at Neteyam, then at you, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. "So... this is where you’ve been," he drawled, his voice dripping with playful malice. "And here I thought you were actually becoming a better scout. Turns out you were just chasing a bird-girl."
"Lo’ak, shut up," Neteyam muttered, his ears burning a deep violet, but he couldn't hide the pride in his eyes as Tuk began to climb your leg like a small prolemuris.
"Higher! Higher, Ni’muna!" Tuk’s voice was a high-pitched gale of laughter.
You had strapped the youngest Suli into a modified tandem harness. For a child of the forest, the heights should have been terrifying, but Tuk had her father’s blood. You took her on a tour—not the steady, horizontal flight of the Omatikaya, but the vertical, spiraling dance of your people.
You banked Ni’muna hard, skimming the underside of a floating island where the glowing moss hung like chandeliers.
"Look down, Tuk!" you shouted over the wind.
The little girl leaned over the edge of the saddle, her eyes reflecting the vast, green world below. She wasn't screaming in fear; she was reaching out as if she could catch the clouds in her palms. You felt a surge of affection for the girl. She had a strong spirit —fearless and full of wonder. When you finally landed, her hair was a wild nest and her eyes were glowing. She hugged your waist so hard you nearly lost your breath. "I want to live in the sky forever," she whispered.
Later that evening, while the boys were off competing in a target-shooting contest, you sat with Kiri on a flat rock overlooking the valley. You were showing her how to repair a frayed strand of an ikran harness.
"Is it true?" Kiri asked, her voice hushed. "That your clan is born from the first rider?"
"Taronyu," you confirmed, your fingers moving with practiced grace. "In our clan, the bond with our ikran isn't just for hunting or war. It is a conversation that never ends. When I sleep, I sometimes feel Ni’muna’s dreams—the sensation of falling, the taste of raw meat, the itch of a new feather. We are taught to listen to their heartbeat before we even learn to track a hexapede."
Kiri touched the leather harness, her expression distant. "I feel the forest like that," she whispered. "Like it’s a heartbeat under my feet."
"Then you are far more touched by eywa than you know," you said, pressing your shoulder against hers. "she’s blessed us with the ability hear the heartbeat of the wind."
The peace was shattered a week later. You and Neteyam were sitting at the edge of the "meeting ledge," sharing a piece of fruit, when the air suddenly grew heavy.
Ni’muna let out a sharp, warning squawk. You stood up, reaching for your bow, but relaxed when a tall, muscular Na’vi stepped out of the fog. He wore the boisterous, sun-bright yellows of your clan, his skin painted with aggressive black stripes.
It was your elder brother, Ka’ru.
"So," Ka’ru boomed, his voice echoing off the rocks. "little sister has a shadow."
Neteyam stood up quickly, his hand moving toward his knife before he realized who it was. He straightened his shoulders, meeting your brother’s intimidating gaze with the steady composure he was known for.
"Ka’ru, stop it," you hissed, stepping between them.
"I have been following you for three days," Ka’ru ignored you, stepping into Neteyam’s personal space. He was a head taller and much broader. He looked the Omatikaya heir up and down, evaluating every muscle. "You are the son of the Toruk Makto. I see the resemblance. But can you fly, or do you just fall gracefully?"
"I hold my own," Neteyam replied, his voice calm but firm.
Ka’ru let out a short, barking laugh. He didn't offer a hand. Instead, he lunged forward—not to strike, but to grab. He seized Neteyam’s right forearm in a crushing grip.
Neteyam didn't flinch. Understanding the gesture instantly, he reached out and clamped his own hand around Ka’ru’s forearm, the two of them locked in the traditional Kekunan greeting—a test of strength and a sign of mutual respect. They stood there for a long beat, muscles tensed, eyes locked.
Ka’ru gave a single, sharp nod, his grip tightening once more before he let go.
"He has a good grip, sister," Ka’ru said, turning to you with a wicked grin. "His bones aren't made of hollow bird-feathers after all." He turned back to Neteyam, his expression turning serious. "Keep her safe, forest boy. Or I will find you, and there is nowhere in the sky you can hide from me."
Neteyam didn't back down. He inclined his head, a respectful but undaunted smile on his face. "I think she’s the one keeping me safe, but I hear you."
As Ka’ru whistled for his ikran and dived back into the mist, Neteyam let out a long, shaky breath, rubbing his sore forearm. "Your family is... intense."
"We are known for our boldness," you laughed, pulling him back down toward the mat. "Did you expect anything less?"
The evening air at High Camp was heavy with the scent of roasted meat and the sweet, fermented nectar the Omatikaya gathered from the deep-forest blossoms. The Suli family sat gathered around their central hearth, the fire casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls of the cavern. It was a rare moment of peace in a time of growing shadows, but for Neteyam, the silence felt heavy.
His mind was leagues away, floating among the mist-shrouded peaks where a girl with wild curls and orange-streaked skin was likely preparing for the night. He was physically there, his fingers absentmindedly tearing at a piece of fruit, but his spirit was soaring somewhere near the Hallelujah Mountains.
Neytiri leaned forward, her golden eyes reflecting the hearth-fire. She watched her eldest son with a mother’s quiet, predatory scrutiny. She had seen the change in him—the way his gaze drifted toward the horizon even during tactical briefings, the way he moved with a new, restless energy that seemed to vibrate beneath his skin.
"Neteyam," she began, her voice melodic but carrying the weight of tradition. "You have been a hunter of the people for many moons now. You have walked the path of the Iknimaya. You have proven your heart to the forest and your loyalty to your people."
Neteyam snapped back to the present, his ears twitching forward. "Yes, Sa'nok?"
"It is time you think of the future of our clan," Neytiri continued, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She wasn't blind; she had seen the mountain clay on his skin, but as a mother and a leader, she had to test the waters. "A leader must have a mate to ground him. To share his burden when the sky grows dark. There are many fine daughters in the Omatikaya who look at you with eyes of hope."
Jake looked up from the spear-tip he was sharpening, nodding in agreement. "She’s right, son. You’re the future Olo’eyktan. You need someone strong by your side. What about Sa'eyla? Her father is one of our best warriors. She’s quick, she’s smart, and she’s made it pretty clear she’s interested in you. I saw her trying to help you with your harness yesterday— she’d also make a fine tsahìk."
Neteyam felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The thought of Sa'eyla—or any forest-born girl—felt like a tether pulling him away from the sky. Sa'eyla was kind, yes, but she didn't smell of ozone and mountain mist. She didn't have a laugh that sounded like a challenge to the wind.
Before he could find the words to deflect, Kiri spoke up. She was lounging against a mossy rock, her eyes half-closed as she tuned into the vibrations of the earth. "What about Y/N te kenat?"
The name hung in the air like a lightning strike.
Jake paused, his bow-stringer stilled in his hands. He furrowed his brow, looking at his daughter. "The Tsakarem of the Kekunan? The Olo’eyktan’s daughter?" He let out a low whistle, a mix of respect and concern. "She’s a hell of a rider, that’s for sure. I remember her father from th War. But babygirl, she’s from a different world. The Kekunan are... impulsive. They don't take to the forest life easily."
Jake looked back at Neteyam, his expression turning serious. "And besides... I’ve heard talk from the scouts who trade near the northern cliffs. They say she’s already being courted back at her own camp. A young hunter named Tswaya. Apparently, he’s been bringing her the best kills for weeks. Her father favors him. He’s a 'sky-born' through and through."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Neteyam’s ears flattened instantly against his skull. His tail, usually a rhythmic pendulum of calm, went deathly rigid behind him. The image of another man—a Kekunan who flew like you, who shared your air, who spoke your dialect without an accent—seared through his mind like dragon-fire.
"Tswaya?" Neteyam’s voice was low, vibrating with a sudden, sharp edge that made Lo'ak look up in surprise.
"Yeah, that’s the name," Jake said, oblivious to the storm brewing in his son. "He’s a strong candidate for their next lead hunter. It makes sense for their clan to keep the lineage strong. Strategic, you know?"
Neteyam stood up so abruptly his stool nearly toppled over. The silence that followed was deafening. Even Tuk stopped chewing, her large eyes darting between her brother and her parents.
"I... I am not hungry," Neteyam spoke, the words forced through a tight jaw. "Excuse me. I need to check on my ikran."
"Neteyam, wait—" Neytiri started, but he was already gone, a shadow disappearing into the moonlit woods with a speed that bordered on reckless.
He didn't just fly; he pushed his ikran to the point of exhaustion. The wind roared past him, but it couldn't drown out the roar in his blood. Every beat of his ikran's wings felt like his own heart hammering against his ribs. Tswaya. The name tasted like ash.
By the time he reached your usual meeting spot—a secluded, flat-topped peak hidden by a permanent veil of mist—his lungs were burning from the thin, cold air.
You were there, sitting on your vibrant, neon-colored cover. You had been mending a leather strap by the light of a small bioluminescent lantern, the soft blue glow reflecting off your bare, star-mapped skin and the beaded halter top that left almost nothing covered didn’t go unnoticed. You looked up as he landed, a smile of greeting starting to form on your lips, but it died the moment you saw his face.
Neteyam didn't wait for a greeting. He dismounted before his ikran had even fully settled, his stride predatory and heavy as he marched toward you. the slinging of his beaded braids adding to it.
"Who is Tswaya?" he demanded, his voice echoing off the stone pillars.
You blinked, startled by the sheer heat radiating from him. You stood up, the leather strap falling from your lap. "What? Tswaya is... he is a hunter of my clan. Why are you—"
"My father says he is courting you," Neteyam interrupted, stepping into your space. He was so close you could feel the heat coming off his body, see the way his pupils were dilated with possessive rage. "He says he brings you kills. He says your father favors him. You told me he wasn't a threat. You told me there was no one else."
The jealousy in him was a living thing, raw and jagged. It was the first time you had seen the future olo’eyktan,the calm warrior, truly lose his composure. It was a side of him that was all Jake Suli—the human-born fire—mixed with the fierce territoriality of the Na'vi.
"Neteyam, listen to me," you said, reaching out to touch his arm.
He flinched back at first, his eyes searching yours for a lie, but you stepped closer, refusing to let him retreat. "Tswaya is a fool who chases my tail. Yes, he brings meat to my father's hearth. Yes, my father thinks he is a strong rider because he is loud and boastful. But I have never accepted a single gift from him. Every piece of meat he brings, I give to the elders. I have never shared those feelings. To me, he is nothing but a brother of the clan. He is a child playing at being a man."
You took another step, placing your hands flat against his chest. You could feel his heart thudding like a trapped bird. "He is not you, Neteyam. He does not know the way I breathe. He does not know the way the wind feels at the edge of the world. Only you and I know that."
Neteyam’s breathing began to slow, the rigid line of his shoulders softening just a fraction. He looked at you—truly looked at you—in the soft blue light. He saw the bare skin of your shoulders, the intricate star-patterns of your markings, and the way your eyes held nothing but a fierce, unwavering truth.
"I cannot lose you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I spent all dinner hearing about forest girls and 'proper matches.' My father talked about strategy and lineage. But none of them are you. I don't want to just meet you in the mist anymore. I don't want to worry about who is bringing meat to your father's fire."
He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to an intimate, gravelly depth. He reached out, his fingers tangling in your curls, pulling you slightly closer until your foreheads were almost touching.
"I want to be closer to you," he said. "As close as two souls can be. I want the clans to know you are mine, and I am yours. No more secrets. No more 'courting' from others."
He looked deep into your eyes, his gaze searching for any hint of hesitation. "Are you ready? To mate with me? To choose me before Eywa and leave the world of 'what ifs' behind?"
The breath left your lungs. In the almost every na’vi culture, mating was a sacred, permanent bond—a promise that outlasted the wind and the stone. To choose a forest-born boy was to bridge two worlds forever, to potentially face the judgment of your clan. But as you looked at Neteyam—the boy who had learned to dance in the sky just to see you, who had challenged your arrogance and earned your heart—there was no doubt.
"I have been ready since the day I saw you standing on my mountain," you whispered. "I choose you, Neteyam te Suli."
The Tree of Voices in the Hallelujah Mountains was a place of ancient, terrifying power. Unlike the grand, sprawling trees of the forest floor, this one was a marvel of vertical life. It clung to the side of a massive floating spire, its glowing white tendrils cascading down like a waterfall of starlight into the bottomless fog below.
You and Neteyam arrived as the moons reached their zenith, the light of Polyphemus casting a giant, ghostly shadow across the peaks. The silence here was holy. The only sound was the faint, melodic chiming of the tree’s glowing fibers as they brushed against one another in the mountain breeze.
Neteyam led you to the very center of the glow, where the roots of the tree drank from the moisture of the clouds. He turned to face you, his expression one of profound, hushed reverence. He reached back, uncoiling his long, dark braid, the neural tendrils at the end glowing with a faint, expectant light. You did the same, your wild curls falling free over your shoulders.
"Under the eyes of the ancestors," Neteyam murmured, his voice a part of the wind.
You reached out, taking the end of his neural queue in your hand, while he took yours. The air seemed to vibrate with anticipation, the very atoms of the mountain hummed.
"I see you, Neteyam," you whispered.
"I see you, Y/N." The tickles of wood sprites began, Eywa herself blessing the union. As the neural tendrils connected, the world didn't just change—it disappeared.
The tsahaeylu was an explosion of light and feeling. It wasn't just a physical sensation; it was an inundation of the soul. You were suddenly inside his mind, feeling the weight of the forest floor, the smell of rain on hot leaves, and the crushing pressure of being the eldest son of a legend. You felt his love for Tuk, his protective frustration with Lo'ak, and the moment he first saw you—the way his heart had skipped a beat when you dived off that cliff.
And he was inside you. He felt the cold, sharp bite of the high-altitude air. He felt the exhilaration of the first time you bonded with Ni’muna. He felt the pride you took in your bright colors and the loneliness of being the chieftain's daughter who never quite felt like she fit the mold.
The link deepened, binding your nervous systems until your heartbeats synchronized into a single, thudding rhythm. The bioluminescent dots on your skin flared in unison with his, a pulsing, rhythmic glow that lit up the white tendrils of the tree around you.
In that moment, there was no Omatikaya and no Kekunan. There was only the link. You felt his vow—not spoken in words, but in the raw data of his soul. A promise to protect you, to fly with you, to bridge the gap between the trees and the stars. You mirrored it back, your spirits intertwining as tightly as your braids.
As you leaned in, your foreheads pressing together in the final, sacred seal of the bond, the whispers of the tree seemed to swell into a song of approval. The ancestors were watching, their voices a soft, shimmering static in the back of your shared consciousness.
You were no longer just two people. You were a single entity, a union of earth and sky.
When you finally pulled apart, hours later—or perhaps only seconds, as time had no meaning in the link—the world looked different. The mist was brighter, the stars were sharper, and the tether between you was a living, breathing thing you could feel in the center of your chest.
Neteyam pulled you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "You are mine," he whispered, the possessiveness from before now replaced by a deep, unshakable peace.
"And you are mine," you replied, looking out over the mountains that were now your shared kingdom. "Let Tswaya bring his meat to my father’s hearth. He will find only a cold fire and a daughter who has already flown away."
Neteyam laughed, a sound of pure, unburdened joy that echoed off the cliffs, and as the first light of dawn began to touch the peaks, the two of you sat together— you leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss.
The return to the ground felt different this time. For the first time in your life, the descent from the Hallelujah Mountains didn't feel like a loss of freedom; it felt like a journey toward a new kind of gravity. The bond was a hum in your marrow, a constant, glowing presence that made the air in your lungs feel sweeter.
Neteyam flew beside you, his green ikran banking in perfect synchronization with Ni’muna. He kept glancing over, his eyes bright with a mixture of terror and triumph. He had won the heart of the sky, but now he had to defend that victory before the two most formidable leaders on Pandora: his father and yours.
The landing at High Camp was silent. The usual bustle of the morning—hunters prepping gear, children playing—seemed to still as the two of you walked into the center of the common area. You still wore your muted forest tones, but you hadn't put back on the headband. Your wild curls were free, and your star-patterned markings were still glowing with the residual energy of the tsahaeylu.
Jake Suli was standing by a tactical map, Neytiri at his side. They looked up as you approached, and the air immediately grew heavy. They didn't need to ask. They saw the way you walked—not as a guest, but as someone who had anchored their soul to their son. They saw the way Neteyam stood slightly in front of you, his hand habitually finding yours, his eyes steady and defiant.
"Neteyam," Jake said, his voice a low rumble. He looked at your joined hands, then at the marks of the bond on your necks. "What have you done?"
"I have chosen, sir," Neteyam said, his voice ringing with a maturity that silenced the murmurs of the gathering crowd. "I have mated with Y/N of the Kekunan. She is my heart. My life is hers."
Neytiri stepped forward, her eyes searching yours. She didn't look angry; she looked like she was seeing a prophecy fulfilled. She remembered the orange clay on his hand, the mystery in his eyes. She looked at you—bare, honest, and fierce—and she saw the strength that her son had seen.
"You are a daughter of the sky," Neytiri said, her voice echoing. "To mate with our son is to take on the burden of our war. We are a people hunted. To be Omatikaya is to live in the shadows. Can you give up the sun for him?"
You stepped forward, matching Neytiri’s gaze. "I do not give up the sun, Sa'nok. I bring it with me. The Kekunan do not fear the shadows; we just fly above them. I will fight for your people as if they were my own, because they are my own now."
Jake let out a long, slow breath. He looked at Neteyam—the son he had tried so hard to mold into a perfect soldier—and realized that the boy had found his own way to lead. "You're a lot like your mother," Jake muttered, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Headstrong. Reckless." He stepped forward and placed a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, then looked at you. "Welcome to the family, Y/N. I hope you're ready for a lot of noise."
If the Omatikaya was a test of heart, the Kekunan camp was a test of fire.
As you and Neteyam landed on the main communal ledge of the Kekunan cliffs, the reaction was explosive. Your people didn't do quiet disapproval. Within seconds, you were surrounded by a sea of bright yellows and screaming reds. Your brother, Ka’ru, was the first to push through the crowd, his eyes landing on Neteyam with a look of pure shock.
"Sister," Ka’ru barked. "What is this? Why is the forest boy wearing the mark of the bond?"
Your father, the Olo’eyktan, emerged from his dwelling. He was draped in a cloak of leonopteryx feathers, his presence as vast and intimidating as the mountains themselves. He looked at Neteyam, then at the way you stood beside him, your chin tilted high, your hand locked in his.
Behind your father stood Tswaya. The young hunter looked like he had been struck. He held a freshly killed mountain bird in his hand—a courting gift that now looked pathetic and small.
"Father," you said, your voice carrying over the whistling wind. "I have made my choice. We are mated before eywa." A roar went up from the clan—some in shock, some in outrage. Tswaya stepped forward, his face flushed. "He is a forest-walker! He does not know our ways! He cannot even fly with the grace of a fledgling!"
Neteyam stepped forward. He didn't reach for his bow. He didn't shout. He simply looked at Tswaya, then at your father. "I may be a forest-walker," Neteyam said, his voice calm amidst the storm. "But I have seen the world from your daughter's eyes. I have flown through your mists and stood at your Tree of Voices. I do not ask for your lands or your titles. I only ask to stand by her side."
Your father walked a slow circle around Neteyam. He looked at the boy's posture, the steadiness of his gaze, and the way he didn't flinch even as the Kekunan hunters hissed and brandished their spears. Here and now neteyam realized where you got your strut and intensity from.
"The Toruk Makto came to us in a time of great need," your father said, his voice deep and gravelly. "He showed us that the sky belongs to those brave enough to claim it. His son seems to have inherited that courage."
He turned to Tswaya, who was still fuming. "Tswaya, take your kill to the elders. Your courting is over. My daughter has chosen."
Your father then turned back to you, placing a heavy, warm hand on your shoulder. "You were always of the wind, Y/N. I knew the cliffs could not hold you forever. If this boy is the one you choose to fly with, then he is a brother of the Kekunan."
Ka’ru let out a loud, boisterous laugh, stepping forward to clap Neteyam on the back so hard the boy stumbled. "I told you he had a good grip! Welcome to the family, forest boy. Now, let’s see if you can eat like a Kekunan without choking!"
The tension broke. The clan began to cheer, the bright colors of their garments swirling in a celebratory dance— their screeching ikrans just as happy. You looked at Neteyam, who looked like a weight had been lifted from his chest. He pulled you close, his forehead resting against yours once more, oblivious to the chaos around you.
"We did it," he whispered.
"We haven't even started yet," you replied, your tail entwining with his. "Now you have to survive the bonding feast."
Neteyam smiled, the brightest you had ever seen. "As long as I'm with you, I can survive anything."
Summary: Dating Harry Potter, Seeker of your rival team, was your PR team’s worst nightmare.
A/N: I got inspired by all the Heater Rivalry tiktoks on my fyp. Full disclosure I haven't watched the show yet
Montrose Magpies’ newest Seeker!
(Y/N) (L/N) joins the Montrose Magpies, squashing any rumors of joining the Holyhead Harpies. Although this sparks speculation among those claiming she wouldn’t join due to a long-standing feud with existing players. Anyone see a catfight in the future? Will they be able to keep it reigned on the field?
The Evening Prophet never did subtle.
The paper landed on your kitchen table with a soft thump, its edges still warm from the owl’s flight. The headline bled ink and implication, and the photograph beneath it was—without exaggeration—the most horrendous one they could have chosen.
A picture from the very beginning of your career, baby-faced. You looked like a girl, not the woman you had grown into—the implication was obvious. Too frail, too gentle, too “female” to be part of the Magpies. They were saying you didn’t belong, subtly suggesting that the professional leagues were too rough for someone like you.
You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. You had expected this the moment you’d signed the contract, when you’d shaken hands with Montrose and smiled for the official photos. The Harpies had been the expected choice—the safe choice for any female player. Known for protecting their own, for ruthlessly managing media narratives, for keeping their players in line. And their players? The best women in the industry. But that was precisely the problem. Best women didn’t mean best players.
You folded the paper once. Then again. Set it aside. There would be a new headline tomorrow, another distraction.
"You can continue now." You murmured, looking at the makeup artist, who simply nodded and continued her work.
“Low-key.” Your manager had said with a straight face.
Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a well-known wizarding venue, floating candles bearing the Magpies’ colors, and just enough press allowed in to make the event look organic.
After all, a party that looked cheap would signal lack of faith in their newest Seeker. A gaudy one? That would make you appear wasteful, frivolous—a woman squandering attention. You had dressed carefully, a tailored suit: masculine, yet subtle enough that you looked like a woman in a suit, not a woman wearing a man’s suit.
When you arrived, the cameras were already waiting.
Flashes erupted the moment you stepped inside, and you smiled easily, instinctively. You posed where they wanted you to pose, angled yourself to catch the light, offered them exactly what they needed and nothing more.
Your teammates greeted you warmly—handshakes, pats on the back, murmured congratulations. Careful warmth. Aware. Everyone knew tonight was as much about optics as it was about celebration.
Guests began filtering in. Players from other teams. Some friends, some acquaintances. Then, finally, the people you’d been waiting for: the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny Weasley, unmistakable with her sharp eyes and fiery hair, swept in with her teammates. A few extras in tow, including Dean Thomas, and—of course—Harry Potter, officially invited as a member of Puddlemere United, but arriving clearly as Ginny’s guest.
The room shifted when he entered. Always did. He carried that aura—legendary, watchful, infuriating. You didn’t hesitate.
“Ginny.” You said brightly, arms opening.
Her smile flickered for a fraction of a second before settling into something genuine, “Congrats, (L/N).”
You hugged her—firm, visible, lingering just long enough to be photographed. Your smile never faltered. The cameras loved it.
Two women. Two teams. No claws, no feud. Just sportsmanship.
Exactly the image you wanted.
Ginny leaned closer, voice low, “It’s not too late, (L/N). The Harpies would be happy to have you any day of the week.”
You giggled, chin up, keeping the moment public and polished, “I appreciate that, Gin. But the Magpies are my team.”
You kept the conversation flowing, angling your body just enough so the photographers could capture you with the Harpies, smiles broad and seemingly effortless. Every click of the camera was accounted for. Every shot controlled. While Ginny played along, there was one person whose gaze never wavered.
Harry.
He watched you. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing as you moved through the room—never rushed, never uncertain. Always aware of where the light fell, where the cameras were angled, how the audience would see you. The way you seemed to anticipate every lens, every whisper, rather than flinching from them.
It made his skin crawl.
You caught his gaze briefly, offering him the same polite smile you gave everyone else. Neutral. Controlled. Public.
Harry looked away first.
And for the rest of the evening, he watched with growing unease. You weren't just putting on an amiable image. You were performing. Playing the game on a level he had never learned to respect—and that he couldn’t quite forgive.
Somewhere in the orchestrated smiles and flashing lights, a silent rivalry began to stir. Not just on the pitch. Not just with your teammates. But between you and him.
The sky over the Quidditch pitch was perfect, sharp blue—crisp enough that sunlight glittered on the polished metal of the hoops and the crowd’s banners. Half the stadium was devoted to Montrose Magpies fans, their colors fluttering along every railing, chants of early-season optimism bouncing off the stands. On the other side, the Chudley Cannons supporters waved their banners with equal fervor.
The Cannons were a decent team, but they were known for being… well, bad.
Which, in theory, should have made you relieved. After all, for your first official match as part of the Magpies, you were going up against a team with a long streak of losing to Montrose. Yet, instead of comfort, a coil of nerves wound in your stomach. If the streak ended, you would be the one blamed. The newcomer. The reason the long-standing record finally broke.
“Stay sharp,” Your coach murmured, hand brushing your shoulder as you lined up, “Eyes on the Snitch. Don’t let anything distract you.”
You gripped your broom tightly, chin up, shoulders squared. The whistle blew, and you shot into the air.
From above, the world simplified: hoops, players, and the golden Snitch darting like a gleaming star. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. You could do this. You had always done this.
A Cannons Seeker swept low, aiming to cut you off, but your reflexes were sharp. You twisted, dipped, and soared past him, eyes locked on the glinting golden blur of the Snitch.
Halfway through the first quarter, you’d already intercepted two goal opportunities from the Cannons’ beaters. Every move was precise, deliberate—a dance of skill honed over years. Yet the mental weight of scrutiny settled on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.
From the opposite stands, your eye caught movement. Harry Potter. Standing with a few members of Puddlemere United. You shouldn’t have been surprised—plenty of other teams were attending, scouting the match. After all, it was the beginning of qualifiers for the Quidditch National Championship, which would determine bracket placement. Yet, for some reason, his presence threw you off.
The game was tight. Cannons played aggressively, but you were sharper. With a sudden twist, you swooped low, snatching the Snitch just above the stadium’s center field. The familiar, fierce thrill of victory hit as the crowd erupted around you.
And then you saw it: the flash of cameras, the collective gasp, reporters scribbling furiously. Perfect. Another headline would spin by tomorrow: “Montrose’s Seeker Steals Show—and Snitch—from Cannons.”
The crowd was still roaring as you dismounted from your broom, wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the Cannons’ fans grumbling, the Magpies’ section cheering louder, but all of it blurred together into the background noise of success. You’d caught the Snitch, and yet the real battle was only beginning.
Cameras swiveled toward you immediately, flashes popping like fireworks. You adjusted your helmet, brushing a loose strand of hair back, and gave them the exact smile they wanted: confident, poised, untouchable. Every movement was deliberate. Every gesture calculated to convey competence without arrogance. You had learned long ago that appearances mattered as much as skill.
Reporters swarmed as you made your way down the steps, pens scribbling, quills racing, magical cameras clicking from every angle.
“(Y/N)! How does it feel to take the season opener in such a dramatic fashion?” One shouted.
You tilted your head, the practiced ease in your posture easing the tension in your shoulders, “It feels amazing to contribute to the team’s win. Everyone worked incredibly hard out there, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”
Another reporter pressed, a mischievous edge in his tone, "Did you notice that Harry Potter was attending the match? He did attend your congratulatory party, did he not?"
Your manager gave you a subtle nudge, “Keep it clean. They’re circling.”
Your lips curved into a polite, neutral smile, “I appreciate the support of fans and colleagues alike. It’s always great to know people are watching closely—it pushes me to perform better.”
From across the pitch, you caught him again. Harry. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like that answer, didn’t like that smile, didn’t like that you were controlling the optics while he could only watch. He let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.
The press room smelled of stale parchment and ink, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and excitement from the day’s matches. You stepped in first, posture impeccable, smile poised, eyes bright but controlled. Cameras pivoted immediately, reporters scribbling as you approached the table.
It was almost pathetic that, since starting professionally with the team, the most challenging thing you had to deal with wasn’t the pace of the game, or rival players trying to cut you off—it was the bright flashes of the cameras and the struggle not to squint.
Your teammates were the first to face the questions: strategy, teamwork, opinions on the opponents, rest, recovery, training. You watched, calm, waiting. And then the reporters finally turned to you.
“(Y/N), congratulations on your season opener! Do you worry that, as the only woman on the team, you might… distract your teammates?”
For a moment, you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Sexist questions weren’t new—you’d been trained for them, coached on responses, given bullet points and possible scenarios. You had practiced keeping your smile even under provocation. But this was so blatantly ignorant it made you blink in surprise.
Then, with controlled composure, you forced out a laugh, “Haha, honestly, we see each other as siblings more than anything else. I’d rather chew a jean jacket than date any of them.”
A ripple of laughter went through the audience, easing the tension. You continued, voice calm, polished, “When we’re training together, we work as parts of a whole—organs of a single body. A family. I hope that answers your question.”
The reporter nodded, thanked you briefly, and moved on to your teammate.
You weren't asked to speak again for the rest of the night.
The press room felt different when Harry entered. He didn’t bother with practiced smiles or careful posture. Cameras swung toward him, flashes strobing, but he ignored them, shoulders slouched, expression flat and slightly irritated.
Questions came quickly, reporters eager to provoke a statement from the Quidditch hero.
“Harry, your thoughts on today’s match? Was it harder than you expected?”
He exhaled, “Fortunately, our training came in handy. The Wasps were formidable opponents.”
Another reporter leaned forward, “And what about the Magpies’ new female Seeker? She’s drawing a lot of attention—as a Seeker yourself, do you think she’ll be a serious competitor this season?”
“I consider all members of all teams serious competitors,” Harry said, jaw tight, “It would be extremely arrogant to assume otherwise just because she’s a woman. And honestly, that question was pathetic—you should be better at your job, considering you’re a man.”
A pause. Then a bold reporter pushed further, “It’s interesting you only speak up when we speak about her. We saw you at the Magpies’ welcome party. And today, you were watching them play. Are you… paying special attention to (Y/N)?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the question tasted sour, “I went because I was invited. That’s it. I watch the game. Not her. She’s my opponent. I couldn’t care less about the rest.”
“But you were there… twice, and you seem awfully troubled about talking about her,” The reporter pressed, “Seems like a lot of attention for someone who ‘couldn’t care less.’”
“Right,” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just love coming in for my job and having to talk about someone I’ve never even met while you leeches try to squeeze a gossip story out of it.” He threw his hands up, exasperated, muttering under his breath, “Bloody ridiculous.”
Reporters scribbled furiously. Every word, every tone would be dissected and spun into a headline tomorrow. And yet, Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t pretend to.
He looked back toward you once, lips tightening. Not with admiration. Not with anything that could be publicly named. But with irritation, disbelief that you could navigate the media so effortlessly, that you could perform control and poise while he struggled to breathe through his own disdain.
A final question landed: “Do you respect her as a player?”
Harry scowled, voice low and sharp, “I’m not answering any more questions relating to this circus. If you have questions about my job, go ahead. If not… might I suggest a career with Witch Weekly or Entertainment Tonight, not Quidditch Times?”
The sun was still warm, softened by the slow tilt of afternoon, when you arrived at the hospital wing’s special courtyard. Banners in assorted Quidditch colors fluttered overhead, charmed to sway even without wind, while the low hum of excited chatter filled the air. Children and parents gathered in small clusters, laughter ringing out in bursts, anticipation crackling beneath it all.
You hadn’t been thrilled about taking a day off from your rigorously structured training schedule. Your body ran on routine, on repetition and discipline. Still, a small, quieter part of you had looked forward to this.
You loved kids.
What soured it—just a little—was the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of your mind: you weren’t here because you were the most available Magpie, or the most senior, or even the most decorated.
You were here because you were a woman.
As if two of your teammates weren’t fathers. As if compassion was something assigned by gender.
You smoothed your jacket, rolled your shoulders back, and stepped into the courtyard.
You weren’t surprised to find Harry Potter already there, crouched slightly to be on eye level with a small group of kids, laughing easily as one of them animatedly described a goal that was clearly exaggerated by at least thirty feet. It was common knowledge—almost a brand at this point—that he was good with children. Always gifting his Snitch from a winning match to some wide-eyed kid in the stands.
“(Y/N),” He said when he noticed you, straightening. His voice was low, polite. Neutral, “You’re here too.”
“I am,” You replied smoothly, forcing your tone into something equally civil, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Potter.”
You extended your hand, fingers relaxed, posture impeccable. You knew the cameras were on you—you could feel them the way you felt weather changes in your joints. This was choreography. This was professionalism.
Harry looked down at your hand.
Then back up at your face.
One eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed.
The moment stretched—thin, awkward, almost sharp.
And then—
“IT’S (Y/N) (L/N)!”
The shout was so sudden and so joyful that it cut clean through the tension.
You turned, instinctively, and whatever irritation you’d been carrying dissolved on impact.
A little girl sat in a wheelchair a few feet away, her face lit up like she’d just spotted the Snitch itself. She wore a black-and-green jersey, clearly homemade, your name stitched boldly across the back. Not your number.
Your birthday.
Your breath caught.
“Oh,” You said softly, already moving toward her, “Hi.”
Her parents hovered just behind her, smiling with the kind of fond exhaustion that came from loving fiercely and constantly. The girl bounced in her seat, hands gripping the wheels.
“I’m your biggest fan,” She announced, as if this were an established fact, “I watch all your matches. Even the replays.”
You crouched in front of her without thinking, the world narrowing down to the space between you, “Is that so? I love your outfit today.”
She lit up like a summers day.
“We had to get it custom made,” Her mum added, laughing a little, “They didn’t have any official ones yet.”
Your heart twisted.
“Well,” You said, eyes bright, voice warm, “that simply won’t do now, will it? I’ll send you a proper Magpies jersey. Official. With the right number.”
Her mouth dropped open, “Really?”
“Really,” You promised, “And maybe a spare. Just in case."
She laughed, high and delighted, and launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of your last match—where you’d cut left instead of right, how fast you’d dropped, how she knew you’d seen the Snitch before anyone else.
You listened. Truly listened.
“I want to be a Quidditch player too one day!” She exclaimed, beaming—then her smile faltered, just a little. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her wheelchair, “But… I don’t think I can.”
Her parents started to speak at the same time, instinctive reassurance ready on their tongues, but you were already speaking up before they had the chance.
“I think you can, love.”
She blinked up at you, surprised, “Really?”
“Of course,” You said without hesitation, “We’re all magic, aren’t we? Maybe they’ll invent a broom one day that makes it possible for you. Or a position. Or a whole new way to play.” You smiled at her, warm and certain, “And with someone like you—who loves the game this much—it’s hard not to believe you’ll have a stellar career in it.”
You glanced over your shoulder, searching.
“Isn’t that right, Potter?”
Harry hadn’t realized how intently he’d been watching you.
He stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, expression unguarded in a way it almost never was. Thoughtful. Softened. Like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was—forgotten cameras, expectations, even himself.
At the sound of his name, he straightened abruptly, caught out.
“Yeah,” He said after a beat, clearing his throat. He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was eye level with the girl, “She’s right. Quidditch changes all the time. It didn’t look like this when I was a kid. No reason it won’t change again.”
The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of you, shining, “So… I could really do it?”
Harry smiled, the first sincere smile you had ever seen on him, the sight of it sending a little jolt through your stomach, “I think the world would be stupid to count you out.”
Her grin returned full force, brighter than before, and she laughed, the sound carrying through the courtyard.
You met Harry’s gaze briefly.
He gave you the smallest smile he could muster and you chuckled, turning back to the rest of the kids.
As the afternoon wound down, the courtyard slowly began to empty. Children were guided back inside, parents offered heartfelt thanks, and the banners overhead dimmed as their enchantments softened with the fading light. The buzz of excitement settled into that gentle, satisfied tiredness that followed a good day.
You stood near the edge of the courtyard, speaking quietly with your assistant as she scribbled notes onto a charmed clipboard.
“Please make sure a few official jerseys get sent over,” You said, your tone firm but warm, “Different sizes. And some merch too—scarves, pins, whatever we can spare. For the hospital wing. Especially for that girl.”
Your assistant nodded immediately, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” You added softly, “I don’t want it announced. Just… send it.”
“Got it.”
She hesitated, then glanced past you, her expression shifting to mild surprise. She tipped her chin subtly in that direction.
You turned with a polite smile already in place, expecting to see the girl’s mother again—who had been thanking you profusely all evening.
Instead, you found Harry Potter standing a few steps behind you.
“Potter.” You greeted, neutral and composed.
“Harry.” He corrected automatically. Then he paused, as if reconsidering, before holding out his hand.
This time there was no performance to it. No awareness of angles or cameras. Just a simple, offered gesture.
You looked at his hand for a moment before taking it.
“Listen,” He said, his grip firm but brief, “I wanted to apologize if I was acting like a dick earlier.”
Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across your face—followed by something closer to amusement.
“Honestly?” You said, “I was actually going to thank you.”
His expression shifted, “For what?”
“For sticking up for me in the press room,” You replied evenly, “You didn’t have to do that. Setting the record straight.”
Harry shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with the praise, “I don’t really care for the whole… song and dance. Interviews, speculation. All of it. I’m more focused on the game.”
A corner of your mouth curved upward, “I agree. I think it should be about the game.”
For a moment, you stood there in shared silence—not awkward, not tense. Just two players, worn down in the same way, quietly aligned on something that actually mattered.
“Well,” Harry said eventually, shifting his weight, “Good luck this season.”
“Same to you,” You replied, “But don’t expect me to take it easy on you just because I’m indebted to you, Pot—Harry.”
He huffed out a laugh, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back once. Not lingering. Not searching.
Just acknowledging you.
And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning of something.
You should’ve known the bigger teams weren’t going to take the qualifiers too seriously. Point accumulation mattered—of course it did—but everyone knew notoriety carried weight. Legacy teams always landed softer brackets. Always got the benefit of the doubt.
That didn’t make the pitch any quieter.
The stands roared long before the whistle blew, restless and hungry as Montrose and Puddlemere United lined up opposite one another. Two historic teams. Two fanbases that adored their own and despised everyone else.
And standing across from you, adjusting his gloves with deliberate calm, was Harry Potter.
“Shake hands!”
You stepped forward without hesitation, clasping his open palm in a firm, efficient shake before pulling away just as quickly.
“Good luck.” He said.
The words barely registered.
Once you were in the zone, language stopped meaning anything. Your ears tuned only to wind and motion, to the faint metallic zip of something fast and golden somewhere above. You gave him a brief nod and swung onto your broom.
The whistle shrieked.
You launched.
The sky shattered into movement—players streaking past, Bludgers roaring like cannon fire, the Quaffle flashing between hands. Somewhere above it all, the Snitch glimmered, teasing and elusive.
Puddlemere played aggressively.
Too aggressively.
A Bludger clipped past your shoulder—too close—forcing you to veer sharply. Another followed almost immediately, angled to catch your side if you hadn’t twisted away in time. You clenched your jaw and adjusted your flight, refusing to look rattled.
They want a reaction, you told yourself. Don’t give them one.
But it didn’t stop.
Every time you gained altitude, a Bludger chased you off. Every time you dipped toward a flash of gold, one screamed past your ribs.
From the corner of your vision, you saw Harry notice.
His head snapped toward his Beaters, jaw tightening.
The third Bludger passed close enough to rattle your teeth.
Something in him broke.
“Oi!” Harry shouted mid-air, breaking formation, “What the hell are you doing?”
The match stuttered—just a fraction—but it was enough.
One of the Beaters scoffed, affronted, “I was preventing her from getting the Snitch—”
“—and screwing up my chances as well,” Harry snapped, “Knock it off.”
The referee’s whistle sliced through the air, sharp and furious. One of the coaches called a timeout.
The crowd erupted.
You landed hard, boots skidding slightly as you marched straight toward Harry.
“What the hell was that?” You demanded, “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
He frowned, “They were doing that on purpose.”
“Oh, and because I’m a woman, I need Saint Potter to speak up for me?” You shot back.
“They were hazing you,” He said, frustration bleeding through his voice, “Taking the mickey when they should’ve been focused on the Chasers. I wasn’t just going to—”
“I don’t need you to speak up for me, Potter,” You snapped, fury sharp and unfiltered, “I have my own team for that.”
You jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t interfere again.”
He stared at you, stunned—truly stunned.
You turned sharply, stalking past him, glare cutting straight through your own beaters, “Do your job.”
The whistle blew again.
You kicked off and flew—heart hammering, anger burning clean and bright—leaving Harry behind.
The women’s locker room was nearly empty by the time you finished changing.
Most of the team had already left—some to celebrate, some to cool off, some simply exhausted. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and cleaning charms, the echoes of laughter long faded. Your kit sat folded in your bag as you toed off your boots, movements slow and deliberate.
Only when the door shut behind you did the adrenaline finally drain.
You stepped into the corridor, shoulders aching, mind still buzzing with the match—and nearly collided with a solid wall of a person.
Harry.
He stood just outside the locker room, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels like he’d been pacing. His head snapped up when he saw you.
“Oh,” You said flatly, “Here to walk the poor damsel in distress back to her hotel room, are you, Saint Potter?”
“Why are you being such a prat?” He shot back.
You laughed—sharp, humorless, “I’m being the prat? You’re the one who screwed everything up.”
“I was only trying to help,” He said, frustration rising, “They were targeting you. You could’ve been hurt.”
“Help who?” You asked.
He hesitated, “What?”
“You said you were trying to help,” You repeated, your voice dangerously calm, “So tell me—help who? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”
You stopped walking, “You know what you did out there? You made it look like I couldn’t handle my own match. We beat you today, but tomorrow the tabloids will say Puddlemere took it easy on us because Montrose has a girl instead of actually acknowledging how we played.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” You cut in, “What matters is how it looks.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing.” He said, quieter now.
“I know,” You replied, “And that’s what makes it worse.”
You stepped back, the exhaustion finally settling into your bones.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” You said, “I need you to respect me.”
For a moment, it looked like he might argue—justify, push back, say something that would only dig the hole deeper.
Instead, he exhaled.
“…Right.”
You nodded once, “Good.”
And then you walked past him, leaving Harry Potter alone in the corridor.
The flowers arrived the next morning.
You almost missed them—set neatly on the rolling cart you’d ordered room service on. For a moment, you assumed they were part of the hotel décor until your eyes caught the small card propped carefully between the stems. Your name was written clearly across it.
A simple bouquet. Wildflowers, wrapped in plain brown parchment, tied with twine. Nothing flashy. Nothing designed for cameras.
You picked up the card, sliding it from its perch between the flowers. The handwriting was unmistakable.
I’m sorry for overstepping yesterday. Congratulations on the win. You deserve it.
— Harry
You bit your lip, tracing the letters of his name with the tip of your finger. It was brief, quiet, unassuming—and entirely Harry. No flourish, no dramatics, no unnecessary charmwork. Just accountability. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you glanced back at the flowers.
Carefully, you placed the card on the coffee table along with your breakfast, pushing aside today’s edition of the Daily Prophet.
“Did Puddlemere Take It Easy on (L/N)? Montrose Seeker’s Victory Under Scrutiny.”
You returned to the hospital a few days later without cameras. You’d been thinking about that sweet little girl ever since—wondering if she liked the presents, if the jerseys fit, if she’d watched the match highlights like she’d promised. Maybe you’d even invite her and her parents to a game, once things settled.
You weren’t entirely sure why she’d stayed on your mind so stubbornly.
Maybe it was because she wanted to be like you before you’d even properly made a name for yourself. Maybe because she looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and you felt an unexpected, aching need to live up to that version of yourself.
So you came back.
Just you, a paper bag of Honeydukes sweets tucked under your arm, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t be intruding.
The courtyard was brighter than you remembered—sunlight spilling over warm stone, laughter echoing softly. You spotted her immediately.
She sat in her wheelchair, completely absorbed in a game with another child. A boy—about her age, maybe a little younger—hovered a few inches off the ground on a toy broom, kicking his feet lazily as he floated. His hair was a brilliant, unmistakable shade of blue.
You smiled before you even realized you were doing it.
“Hey,” You said gently as you approached, “Looks like I’m interrupting something very important.”
She looked up, eyes widening, “(Y/N)!”
You hurried to her side before she could try to move, crouching down to pull her into a careful hug. “It’s so nice to see you again, love,” You said softly, “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Teddy.”
The boy turned toward you, chin lifting immediately, eyes sharp with the absolute confidence only children possessed.
“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy.”
“(Y/N) is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.” She announced proudly.
“I’m better.” He added instantly.
“Are you?” You asked, playing along.
It was hard not to laugh at the sight of his puffed chest and ruddy cheeks, but you bit your lip instead and offered him a Chocolate Frog. His face lit up immediately as he tore it open, holding up the card—Viktor Krum.
“Yeah. My uncle says so,” He said, “I’m going to win the Quidditch World Cup. I already know how to do dives.”
“Do you now?” You asked. “What kind?”
“All of them.” He said confidently—when he had realized too late he couldn’t name a single one. Chocolate smeared across his mouth, he shrugged.
You spared a glance at the girl beside you and felt your chest tighten. She hadn’t noticed his hesitation at all—she was staring at him with complete awe.
You bit your lip.
You loved children.
The three of you talked for a while—about Quidditch teams, favorite plays, how fast a broom really had to go to count as impressive. Teddy was charming in that slightly arrogant, wildly earnest way, interrupting constantly, correcting you once (incorrectly), and declaring—more than once—that he would absolutely beat you one day.
“Of course you would,” You told him solemnly, “After all, your uncle said so.”
He beamed.
You were mid-story—something exaggerated about nearly crashing into a commentator’s box—when a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard.
“Teddy.”
You looked up.
Harry stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets. When his gaze landed on you, he froze—genuinely startled.
Teddy brightened immediately, “Uncle Harry! (Y/N), look—this is my uncle! He’s the second best Quidditch player!”
You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time. Harry looked absolutely mortified.
He crossed the grass toward you, gaze flicking briefly over the kids before settling back on you, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” You replied honestly, “This one’s unofficial.” Then, glancing at Teddy, you added lightly, “Your nephew’s very confident.”
Harry snorted, “Godson. And yes—that’s one word for it.”
You laughed—soft, genuine—and something in Harry’s expression shifted. Not tension. Not irritation.
Something warmer.
The kids quickly fell back into their own conversation, far more interested in arguing about broom speeds than involving either of you. You didn’t feel awkward this time. You didn’t feel watched.
You looked at Harry through your lashes. “I got the flowers,” You said quietly, “Thank you.”
A faint red crept up his cheeks—whether from the cold or not, you couldn’t say, “You deserved them.”
A little while later, Teddy was swept away by his other uncle—grumbling loudly about how unfair it was that he had to leave when you were clearly in the middle of an important Quidditch discussion. You laughed, waved him off, promised him a rematch someday.
Only then did you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed toward the main exit.
And froze.
Through the tall glass doors, you could see them.
Cameras. Long lenses. A cluster of figures lingering far too deliberately near the hospital gates, pretending—badly—to be minding their own business.
Your stomach dropped.
What the hell?
Your first thought was fury. Your second was panic. Who had tipped them off? A healer? A parent? Someone who’d recognized you? It didn’t matter. If they caught you walking out—if they caught you walking out with Harry Potter—
No. Absolutely not.
You stepped back instinctively, heart hammering, your mind already scrambling for an exit strategy.
“Everything okay?”
You startled.
Harry stood just behind you, brow furrowed. You opened your mouth, closed it, then exhaled sharply.
“There are paparazzi outside,” You said under your breath, “If they see us leave, it’ll be a mess.”
His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors, instantly understanding.
You rubbed a hand over your face, frustration bleeding into your voice, “How likely do you think they’ll spin this into some sort of story? It’d be stupid of them to try and wrench a scandal out of this—we were visiting sick children.”
He studied you for a beat while you kept talking, words tumbling over each other. Then his expression shifted—decisive.
Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a familiar, silvery fabric.
Your breath caught.
Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached out, fingers brushing the cloth. It was softer than you expected, almost like velvet. “Wow,” You murmured, “I’ve never seen one in person.”
When you looked up, Harry was a hair’s breadth away.
You startled, nearly stepping back—until his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. Not tight. Just enough to keep you close.
“We’ll go together,” He said quietly, “They won’t see us.”
“That’s—are you sure?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his voice.
He lifted the cloak and gestured you forward, “Come here.”
You stepped into his space, the distance between you disappearing far too quickly. The cloak settled over both of you, the world vanishing in a blink—your body swallowed by invisibility, the air suddenly warmer.
A suffocating heat crept up Harry’s neck. The last time he’d had someone under the cloak, he’d been twelve. Even then, he and Ron had constantly bumped into each other. It was foolish to assume two fully grown adults wouldn’t end up pressed together.
Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand hovered at your back for a second—uncertain—before resting there. Light. Respectful. But you felt like his fingerprints were being seared into your skin.
“Okay?” He whispered.
You nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see it, “Okay.”
You moved together carefully, steps slow and synchronized. You could feel his breathing—steady, controlled—while yours felt far too loud. Every small movement was magnified: the brush of fabric, the faint heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed slightly against your spine when you stumbled over a loose stone.
“Stay close.” He murmured.
“Frankly,” You whispered back, “I don’t think I could get any closer.”
His quiet huff of laughter brushed your ear—and then he froze, realizing just how near your mouth was to his.
The air shifted.
You both went still, bodies aligned almost instinctively, every movement careful. The sounds around you faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the cloak and the thud of your own heartbeat.
You stepped when he did. Slow. Silent.
As you passed through the doors, voices drifted through the air.
“…swear I saw someone go in earlier—”
“Potter’s been spotted around here lately—”
You sucked in a sharp breath you didn’t release until you were a full block away.
Only then did Harry stop.
“I think we’re clear.” He whispered.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You were still under the cloak. Still close. Still wrapped in secrecy and shared adrenaline.
You looked up at him, barely visible in the dim light, and realized your hand was still gripping his sleeve. Hidden beneath the cloak, you couldn’t quite make out his expression—but you caught the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.
You knew yours did the same.
His hand was still at your back.
And neither of you pulled away.
The silence stretched—heavy, expectant—until it felt like it might snap. You became acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way the cloak muffled the world, the fact that your faces were already so close that pulling away would take more effort than staying.
Harry swallowed.
“This is probably—” He began, voice low.
You didn’t let him finish.
You weren’t even sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual. Maybe it was inevitable. All you knew was that the space between you disappeared in a quiet, decisive moment.
His lips met yours.
Your hand loosened on his sleeve, fingers sliding up instead, resting lightly against his chest. He inhaled sharply, and the sound alone sent a shiver through you. His hand at your back pressed in just a fraction more, grounding, steady.
There was something about knowing you were hidden from the rest of the world that made everything else fall away. The city noise dulled. Time blurred. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, and the world felt impossibly far.
No fans. No cameras. No expectations.
Just the two of you.
Your arms slipped around his neck, and he responded instantly, hands settling at your waist, pulling you closer like it was instinct. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the brick wall, not trapping—just there. Present. His other hand came up, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.
“Harry.” You breathed against his mouth.
The sound he made was quiet and wrecked—half frustration, half relief—and the kiss turned deeper, more urgent. Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, tangling, tugging just enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.
And then—just as suddenly as it began—he stopped.
Not pulling away completely. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard as reality crept back in around the edges.
“We—” He exhaled, clearly struggling, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “Do you want to go back to my place? I think at this rate we’re going to suffocate under here.”
You laughed softly, breathless, heart still racing, “Yeah.”
Still, neither of you moved.
After a beat, he pressed one last kiss to your lips—slower now, softer, reverent—like a promise rather than a question.
“Then,” He murmured, hand squeezing yours beneath the cloak, “Let’s go.”
You woke slowly, drifting up from sleep on a lazy breath, only to realize what had pulled you from it.
Harry’s fingers.
They traced idle patterns up and down your bare waist, slow and absentminded, like he was half-awake himself—muscle memory more than intention. Wherever he touched, goosebumps followed, your skin prickling in protest against the cool morning air.
You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and shifted closer, attempting to burrow back into the mattress. If you could just disappear under the duvet—become part of the sheets—surely no one could make you leave.
“Love,” Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep but fond all the same, “Wake up. You’ve got practice this morning.”
You responded with a whine, the sound muffled as you pressed yourself against him, tucking your face into the warm curve of his neck. His skin was warm, familiar, smelling faintly of sleep and him, and it made the idea of leaving bed feel almost cruel.
“I don’t want to go,” You complained softly, “It’s freezing outside. It’s warm under the covers.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against your cheek, and an arm came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“Well,” He said mildly, “It wouldn’t be so cold if you’d worn clothes last night like I suggested.”
You huffed, pushing yourself upright just enough to glare down at him—though with sleep still clinging to you, it came out more like a squint. You gathered the duvet tightly around your shoulders, affronted.
“Fine,” You declared, voice hoarse, “I’m wearing clothes around you from now on. Never again will you catch me without.”
His lips twitched. Then curved fully into a grin.
Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the threat. “Now, now,” He said, amusement dancing in his voice as he tugged you back down into his arms, “Let’s not make decisions we’ll both regret.”
You sighed as you settled against his chest again, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dangerously lulling. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, affectionate in that easy way that had become second nature over the past month.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
This—slow mornings, shared warmth, teasing complaints—had slipped so seamlessly into your lives that it felt strange to remember there had been a time before it.
You almost drifted off again.
Almost.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your breathing evened out. Harry felt it immediately.
“Oh no you don’t,” He murmured, amused, giving you a gentle squeeze, “You fall back asleep and I’m getting blamed for it like last time.”
You groaned, dragging yourself upright again with visible effort, "Well I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't worn me out so badly last night."
He laughed softly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit your skin, "I didn't exactly hear you complaining."
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jumper from the chair and tugging it on.
He watched you for a moment—hair messy, movements uncoordinated, very clearly not a morning person—and his expression softened in that way it always did when he thought you weren’t looking.
You glanced back at him—hair a mess, glasses crooked on the bedside table, looking far too comfortable in your shared space—and felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.
"I'll see you later." You said softly, reaching back to steal a quick kiss before standing.
And even as you shivered at the cold air and went in search of clothes, you knew you’d be counting the hours until you were back under the covers with him again.
A couple more weeks passed during the gap between the qualifiers and the tournament, and somewhere in between packed schedules and stolen moments, the two of you settled into something easy.
Mornings together when schedules allowed—sleepy murmurs, tangled limbs, Harry always insisting on making tea even when he was running late. Evenings spent sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, feet inevitably finding each other, half-watching whatever was on while you talked about everything and nothing. Matches, practice drills, gossip from the league, the weird dream he’d had the night before. Comfortable silences that didn’t need filling.
Harry had taken to keeping one of your hair ties tucked beneath the cuff of his glove.
A good luck charm, he’d proclaimed solemnly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
You’d teased him mercilessly for it—told him he was so deep in the honeymoon phase that he wanted something belonging to his biggest opponent physically on his person. He’d only shrugged, grinning, utterly unbothered.
“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?”
And slowly, almost without you noticing, whatever had once crackled between you—sharp, electric, all tension and stolen glances—began to soften. It didn’t fade. It deepened. Settled into something steady. Safe.
It felt… solid.
Comfortable.
Real.
So when you unlocked your flat one evening after a brutal day—training unforgiving, muscles aching, head pounding—the faint light spilling from the living room was what first caught your attention.
Had you left a lamp on?
You took another step inside.
No. This wasn’t overhead light.
This was softer. Warmer. Flickering.
You froze just inside the doorway.
The living room glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, scattered carefully across shelves, the table, even the windowsill. Curtains drawn. Fairy lights twined lazily along the edges like someone had taken their time with it all. The table was set. Properly set. Plates, cutlery, napkins folded with suspicious effort.
And there—standing awkwardly beside it all, hands hovering like he didn’t quite know where to put them—
Harry.
He looked up the moment you stepped in, bracing himself.
“Hi.” He said, sheepish and hopeful all at once.
You just stared, a giant smile spreading across your face as the exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly.
“…Harry.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, “You mentioned the other day that you hadn’t had a proper night off in ages. And I know I’m not… exactly known for big gestures, but—”
He gestured vaguely to the room, candles flickering obediently.
“I thought I’d try.”
Something warm and tight bloomed in your chest, that familiar feeling he’d started giving you more often than not.
Instead of answering, you crossed the room in three quick steps and launched yourself into his arms with a delighted squeal. He barely had time to react before you were peppering kisses all over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair so you could properly smother him.
He laughed, startled and breathless, “Hey—!”
“This is such a fire hazard,” You laughed between kisses, “but it’s perfect. I love it.”
His arms came around you automatically, steadying you, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned in and kissed him properly then—slow, lingering, full of quiet appreciation. He melted into it without hesitation, hands finding your waist like they always did, grounding and familiar.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.
“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “It’s all takeaway. I didn’t cook.”
You laughed, bumping your nose against his.
“Oh thank Godric.”
He grinned, proud and relieved all at once, and as he led you toward the table, fingers laced with yours, you had the distinct, grounding thought that this—this warmth, this ease—was exactly where you were meant to be.
Soft light filtered in through the curtains, the city muted and slow below. You lingered in that half-awake haze longer than usual, wrapped in warmth that was—unfortunately—just the duvet.
Frowning, you shifted, reaching out instinctively… and found the space beside you empty.
Confused, you pushed yourself upright, hair a mess, blinking the sleep from your eyes. After tugging on one of Harry’s jumpers—far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands—you padded through the flat in search of him.
You found him on the balcony.
The doors were cracked open, letting in a bite of morning air. Harry stood barefoot against the railing, a mug warming his hands, the city stretching out behind him. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened instantly.
That smile.
The quiet one. The private one. The one that had nothing to do with the outside world—and everything to do with you.
“Morning.” He said.
“Morning.” You replied, stepping closer, rising onto your toes to press a brief kiss to his mouth.
Brief didn’t last.
It never did.
The kiss slowed naturally, deepened without urgency. Familiar. Easy. His free hand found your waist, thumb brushing lazy, absent-minded circles against your hip as if it belonged there—like it always had.
You laughed softly about something inconsequential, something that wouldn’t matter in five minutes, and he leaned down to kiss your temple, lips lingering just a second too long.
Neither of you noticed the movement across the street.
The long lens.
The quiet click.
By the time you pulled back, foreheads resting together, there was already someone lowering their camera from behind a van parked far enough away to feel safe. Far enough that details blurred. That faces softened into silhouettes.
All they caught was the shape of him—messy hair and glasses unmistakable even at a distance—and you, half-hidden in an oversized jumper, face turned away, framed by pale morning light. His hand at your waist. Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed you.
Intimate.
Suggestive.
Just unclear enough.
Later that day, the photos would surface quietly at first. Cropped. Zoomed. Grainy.
Harry Potter spotted outside private residence.
Mystery woman seen sharing intimate moment.
Is the mystery woman Montrose Magpies’ new Seeker?
Moments when Harry Potter and (Y/N) (L/N) were seen together.
Fans would argue. Commentators would speculate. Your name would be tossed around in maybes and italics—but never confirmed. The angle too distant. Your face never fully visible. No clear proof.
Back in the flat, blissfully unaware, Harry pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back.
“You should get inside,” He said lightly, “It’s cold.”
You smiled, leaning into him anyway, “I’m happy where I am.”
And somewhere across the street, the paparazzi smiled too—already knowing they had exactly enough.
The flat felt smaller than it ever had.
Not claustrophobic—just tight. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.
You paced the length of the dining area, bare feet skimming the floor as your eyes skimmed the chaos spread across the table. Newspapers layered atop one another in uneven stacks—The Daily Prophet, The Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, Wizarding World News, The Godric Gazette. Big outlets. Small ones. Tabloids pretending to be respectable and respectable papers pretending they weren’t salivating.
Every headline said the same thing in a different font.
You reread them anyway.
Sources suggest.
Industry insiders hint.
Mystery woman.
Rising star.
Harry Potter spotted.
They were everywhere now—camped outside team practices, waiting near your agency, lingering outside cafés you used to feel safe in. You’d dodged cameras twice already today, hood up, head down, heart racing like you’d done something wrong just by existing.
You didn’t hear the door open.
You felt it.
The air shifted—subtle but unmistakable—and then the sound of the door closing, deliberate and sharp. An invisible presence crossed the room before resolving into Harry, the cloak pulled off his shoulders and tossed aside like it had offended him.
His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, jacket thrown on like he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to dry properly. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and stormy.
“We need to talk.” He said.
You stepped aside silently, giving him room.
The flat felt smaller with him in it. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, begging to be broken.
“They showed up at Teddy’s school today,” He said, anger barely contained, “Reporters. Cameras. Asking questions.”
Your head snapped up, “What?”
“They were trying to get something out of me,” He continued, pacing once before turning back toward you, “Trying to bait me. They crossed a line.”
Your chest tightened. You’d known the press was relentless—but Teddy had always been off-limits. Harry had guarded that fiercely. Before meeting him, you hadn’t even known his godson’s name.
“I want to go public,” Harry said immediately, “Tonight, if possible.”
Your heart dropped straight through the floor.
“No.”
He blinked, genuinely taken aback, “No?”
“No,” You repeated, firmer now, “Absolutely not.”
He stared at you like you’d switched languages mid-sentence, “Why?”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Why? Harry, are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” He snapped, “They already have photos. They’re already speculating. This half-in, half-out thing just gives them more room to dig. They’re not going to stop—they’re going to push harder. This is the better option.”
“For you.” You shot back.
His brows furrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” You said, voice rising despite yourself, “that I have worked too hard to be where I am right now. I’ve spent years clawing my way here, and I am not letting it get reduced to being Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”
His jaw tightened, “You’re acting like being seen with me is some kind of liability.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re willing to keep hiding,” He cut in, frustration spilling over, “to keep dodging cameras, letting paparazzi invade our lives like parasites, all for what? Your image? A couple of brand deals?”
You stared at him, stunned, “Do you even understand what something like this could cost me?”
“So I’m supposed to stand on the sidelines,” He shot back, “While you decide when I’m worth the risk?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
The words hung there, heavy and cruel.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment. Instead, you turned, grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from where it lay slung over the couch, and held it out to him.
"Here. Take it."
Something in his expression fractured—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.
“I need space,” You said quietly, “I can’t do this right now.”
He looked down at the cloak in his hands, then back at you. A sharp scoff escaped him.
“Fine,” He said, too quickly, already turning toward the door, “Take all the space you want.”
The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.
And suddenly, the flat felt bigger than ever—wide open, hollow, and unbearably quiet.
The press conference room was a cage. Bright lights, microphones angled at you, cameras flashing like impatient lightning. You were sitting behind the table, Harry only a couple feet away—but he felt like miles. You hadn’t spoken to him since the fight, letting your managers handle all communication. Not that he had made an attempt either.
You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and forced the practiced calm onto your face. Your hands rested lightly on the podium, and you focused on the questions rather than the relentless scrutiny behind them.
“(Y/N), are you going to officially confirm the rumors about your relationship with Harry Potter?” A reporter asked, sharp and insistent, cutting straight to the point.
You inhaled, steadying yourself. Every cell in your body wanted to flinch, wanted to vanish, but you didn’t. You had to do this.
“No,” You said, voice measured but firm, “We are not in a relationship. I’m sorry if any speculation has misled anyone. That is not the case.”
Flashes went off as your words echoed across the room. You could almost hear the spin already forming, the tabloid imaginations firing. You forced a polite nod at the next reporter, who immediately jumped in.
“So, there’s nothing at all happening between you two?”
“Nothing.” You confirmed again, repeating the word with quiet conviction. You felt a hollow ache in your chest, a faint but persistent echo of what had been. There was no turning back now.
“And Mr. Potter? Who was that woman at your house then? Is there truly nothing going on between the two of you?”
Harry took a small breath, leaning toward the mic. His voice was clipped, careful, deliberately cold.
“The woman in the picture has requested that her identity not be revealed. As for Seeker (L/N), there is nothing going on between the two of us. We are not—and will never be—anything beyond professional colleagues.”
The words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Sharp. Bitter. Final.
You realized, in that instant, that the relationship was over. Not just in the public eye. Not just to the fans, the reporters, or the endless speculation. But in the quiet, in the private spaces you had shared, in the stolen moments and whispered touches. Over.
You stared at the table, pupils shaking, jaw clenched as tightly as you could to keep the cameras from capturing the quiver in your lips.
The press room hummed with murmurs, questions bouncing back and forth like ricocheting Bludgers—but you didn’t hear them anymore. You were acutely aware of the absence beside you, of the warmth that was no longer there.
You straightened once more, forced a polite smile, and answered the next question.
The press conference room emptied with a steady hum of footsteps, clicking heels, and rolling chairs. Reporters muttered to one another, editors scrambled for quotes, and the flashes of cameras finally faded as the last staffers packed up. The microphones were lowered, the bright lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and stale coffee.
You lingered just outside for a moment. Everyone had already gone home; the building was empty now. You were certain Harry had left—most of the reporters had followed him outside, hungry for one more quote, one more headline—while you had hidden in the bathroom, palms braced against the sink, willing your reflection to look composed.
Finally, you stepped back inside.
The room was quiet now, eerily so, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Chairs were pushed neatly under tables, cables coiled away, the podium standing empty and impartial. Your fingers grazed the chair where he’d been sitting, and the memory hit you all at once—the hurt, stunned look on his face in your flat that night, followed by the careful indifference he’d worn the next time you’d seen him.
That was when you noticed it.
A single hair tie, lying forgotten on the table.
Your chest constricted, a sharp, breath-stealing pang of everything you had lost—of everything you’d never really been allowed to keep.
You knelt, fingers trembling as you picked it up. The room seemed impossibly vast and unbearably empty all at once. You sat on the edge of the chair, tracing the familiar stretch of the band between your fingers, memories flooding in uninvited: candlelit dinners, whispered jokes in hotel rooms, quiet mornings on the balcony, the way he’d pulled you close beneath the invisibility cloak. The laughter. The warmth. The softness of it all.
And then, as if the silence itself were cruel, the sound of your own breathing filled the space.
You swallowed hard, forcing your chest to steady—but when your gaze drifted back to the seat Harry had occupied only hours earlier, the emptiness of it finally broke you. A sob tore free before you could stop it, sharp and aching, born from the foolish, lingering hope that he might still be there.
You slipped the hair tie around your wrist, the tightness biting into your skin until it felt like your blood might stop flowing—though maybe that was just the numbness of heartbreak settling in.
Rising to your feet, you wiped the last of the tears from your face.
You had your life. Your team. Your game.
And maybe, one day, he would understand.
The hospital courtyard was quiet in the late morning sun, a soft warmth spilling over the stone pathways and flower beds. You carried a small bag of Honeydukes sweets and a few little gifts for the girl in the wheelchair who had captured your heart months ago. You couldn’t stop thinking about her lately.
She spotted you immediately, eyes lighting up and hands gripping her wheelchair as she wheeled herself closer. “(Y/N)!” She called, spinning a little in delight.
“Hey, love,” You said softly, crouching beside her so she didn’t have to reach, “It’s so good to see you again. How are you today?”
Her face was radiant as she grinned at the little bag of sweets, “I’m great! Teddy says he’s teaching me new moves.”
You glanced at the boy hovering nearby, perched on a tiny toy broom with his brilliant blue hair catching the sun. He puffed out his chest, chin high, that infuriatingly confident way children have when they’re convinced the world revolves around them.
“And… is your godfather with you today?” You asked carefully, hope flickering behind your question.
Teddy’s grin faltered just a little, and he shook his head, “Nope. I’m with Uncle Draco today.”
You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Inside, your thoughts churned. Probably for the best, you told yourself. You weren’t sure what you’d even say if Harry were here. Apologize? Explain? Try to make him hear your side? You knew it wouldn’t be simple, and neither of you would walk away unscathed. The problem wouldn’t vanish with a few words.
Your gaze swept over the courtyard. The sunlight glinted off the broomsticks and the small makeshift goalposts. For now, this simple scene—the girl laughing, Teddy puffing his chest out like a tiny champion—was enough. It reminded you of why you had stayed grounded, why the world of headlines and rumors had to stay at arm’s length.
“Uncle Draco says he’s sick,” Teddy added suddenly, leaning a little closer as if sharing a confidential secret, “But I heard him tell Granny Cissa that he broke his heart. I didn't know you could break that."
The words landed heavily in your chest. You froze, gripping the bag of sweets a little tighter. A pang of guilt—sharp and relentless—stole the breath from your lungs. He’s hurting because of me, you thought. And I can’t just fix it. Not now. Not like this.
You crouched fully to Teddy’s height, reaching out to ruffle his blue hair, a grounding gesture for both of you. “I see,” You said softly, forcing yourself to smile, “Well… I’m glad he has a little godson who cares about him."
You shifted your attention back to the girl, kneeling beside her wheelchair to pull out a few small gifts from your bag. The two of them erupted with excitement, inspecting the sweets and little trinkets as if they were treasures from the wizarding vaults themselves. Teddy immediately stuffed a chocolate frog in his pocket, nodding proudly, and the girl squealed with delight at a tiny Montrose Magpies pennant.
“Do you want me to show you a new move I learned?” Teddy asked suddenly, hopping slightly on his toy broom.
You laughed, leaning back slightly to give him room to strut, “Oh? You think you can show me something I haven’t seen before?”
“Of course I can!” He said, puffing up his chest even more.
“You’ll have to show me,” You replied, laughing, “I might need to take notes so I can stay ahead of you.”
The three of you played for a while, small competitions on balance, little flying maneuvers, and “strategic” sweeps across the courtyard. Teddy’s confident chatter, the girl’s laughter, and the tiny bumps of their brooms were a welcome distraction from the pounding of your heart. And yet… even in this light, you felt the emptiness where Harry’s presence should have been.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what you would be giving up if you went public. And it’s not fair to him. Or to you.
You took a deep breath, straightened, and whispered to yourself, “It’s probably for the best.”
The flat felt emptier than ever. The quiet pressed against your chest like a living thing, refusing to let go. Harry had barely slept, barely eaten. He hadn’t gone out beyond practice and the occasional walk home, claiming he needed to keep his mind clear. That had been his rhythm through the entire National World Cup, and now, with the final match between Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United looming tomorrow, he insisted he needed to go to bed early to rest. But Hermione, Ron, and Ginny knew better.
They arrived as soon as the workday ended, bustling around his kitchen like he wasn’t even there. Dinner was soon laid out, wine poured, the aromas of roast and fresh bread filling the flat. Harry’s glass was shallower than theirs, a small, quiet reminder that he had barely touched anything all day. Finally, they turned toward him.
“You’ve been hiding for days. We know (Y/N) isn’t here. What’s going on, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but firm.
He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the floor, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down, “We… we broke up.”
Ginny froze, mouth opening in disbelief, “Why? I thought everything was going great between you two?”
Ron leaned forward, concern creasing his brow, “I thought the press conference was just a ruse. You’re saying there was nothing going on between you both?”
Harry shook his head slowly, “No. Not anymore. She… she wanted it to stay private. And I… I said I wanted to go public. She… couldn’t risk it. So… it’s over.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed, eyes sharp, “Wait a second. She wanted to keep the relationship hidden, and you wanted to go public… and so you both broke up? Am I hearing this right?”
“I didn’t want it to be hidden like I was some kind of shameful secret.” Harry muttered defensively.
Ginny didn’t even bother softening her tone, “Harry, open your eyes! Do you even understand what she deals with every single day? She’s worked so hard to make the media somewhat neutral about her, to be on the same playing field as any other male player. And you—what? Expected her to throw all that away for… your magical dick?”
Harry flinched under her intensity, “I—I didn’t—”
“You were being selfish!” Ginny snapped, “Being a female Quidditch player is brutal! I have my teammates to fall back on. But do you even understand how alone she must feel? Always trying to make a name for herself among men? Carrying everything on her shoulders? Did you even think about the consequences for her?”
Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady but cutting, “Ginny’s right, Harry. This would have blown over for you in a couple of months because you have the privilege of being a man. But for her? It could have destroyed her entire career. Every match against your team would be scrutinized. If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back. Any question from the press would be about you—your plans, your private life—not about her career, her skill, her dedication. Did you even think about that?”
Harry’s face went pale as the weight of their words sank in. He sank heavily onto the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly, shoulders hunched, “I… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought if we were open, it would make things easier. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize she had to deal with all of that.”
Ginny exhaled, frustration softening into empathy, “It’s not just her, Harry. Every time I make a public appearance with another man, there are stories about me cheating on Dean. Reporters ask what kind of bra and knickers I wear during games, how I deal with my period—more than about my actual training regimen. Being a female athlete in the public eye… it’s relentless.”
“Like it doesn’t suck for the rest of us.” Hermione murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.
Harry’s hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His eyes, usually so guarded, filled with raw emotion—a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dawning understanding. “Fuck… I owe her an apology. I… I need to go see her…” His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, pacing toward the door, hand already reaching for his coat.
Ginny stepped in front of him, arms crossed but her tone gentler now, “Harry, hold up. Maybe do it after the match tomorrow. The last thing she needs is to be distracted before the most important game of the season.”
Harry froze, coat in hand, eyes flicking to her in frustration, “I can’t just… wait. I need her to know—"
Hermione leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “I know how badly you feel, Harry. But trust me, if she screws up tomorrow because you threw her off her game, she will always resent you. Be patient."
Harry exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders just slightly. He took a slow, grounding breath, hands unclenching. “After the match.” He murmured, almost to himself, nodding.
And for the first time in days, he felt a spark of peace. Not complete, not even close—but enough to know he wasn’t going to give up.
The stadium was a storm of rain and roaring fans, the sky an unbroken sheet of gray as the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United prepared for the National World Cup final. Water slicked the pitch, and the smell of wet wood and earth mingled with the metallic tang.
The crowd was relentless, voices rising and falling like waves against the storm, but all of it faded into the background of your focus. Around you, teammates were adjusting, stretching, preparing—but your focus was singular: Catch the snitch.
As the captains called for the customary handshakes, the line of players stepped forward. Harry’s hand extended, and yours met his.
It lingered.
Longer than necessary. A moment suspended in the downpour. His fingers pressed just slightly into yours, grounding you, connecting you in a way that the rain could not wash away.
“Good luck.” He murmured, just enough for you to hear. You nodded, letting your shoulder brush against his briefly, pretending not to notice the warmth, the familiarity, the ache of it all.
You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Game face was on. Tunnel vision engaged. Your shoulders squared, jaw tight, heart hammering—not for him, but for the game.
The whistle shrieked.
Brooms launched, tearing through the rain-slicked air. Bludgers whistled past, the Quaffle flashed, Chasers darted and blocked with precision. Flying in a storm was entirely different from normal play. Your broom swayed with every gust of wind, raindrops stinging your eyes and streaming down your face, making it that much harder to spot a snitch.
Then, chaos.
One of Puddlemere’s Beaters swung wide, a Bludger spinning with lethal intent—but it wasn’t you they were aiming for. Your peripheral caught the sharp green of Harry’s uniform just in time. The Bludger struck him square in the side, sending him sprawling, his broom shuddering violently before splintering mid-air.
Your stomach dropped, a lead weight sinking to your knees.
“Harry!”
You didn’t hesitate. Launching yourself forward, you leaned into your broom with everything you had, wind and rain lashing at your face, rain blurring your vision.
The fall was slower in your mind than in reality. You chased him through the sheets of rain, heart clenching as he tumbled, arms flailing.
You reached out, managing to catch him, slow down his velocity—but the broom shattered completely. Harry fell.
Hard.
The sound of impact made your chest seize. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Rain blurred everything into a chaotic smear, but you could see him lying there on the slick grass, unmoving.
“Harry!” you screamed, voice cracking, the sound barely audible above the roar of the storm and the stadium. Your broom skidded to a halt as you slammed it down, sliding across the grass as you dropped to your knees beside him.
Your gloves slipped, fingers trembling as you pressed against his shoulder, his jaw, shaking him gently. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood beginning to gush from a cut at his temple.
“Harry! Harry, stay with me!” You screamed, voice cracking as panic clawed through you.
Tears ran freely now, mixing with the rain, soaking your hair and face. You pressed your cheek to his damp uniform, trying to hear if he was breathing, feeling his throat to check his pulse. Your chest heaved with sobs, arms trembling as you shook him again, desperate for any sign of movement.
Medical staff swarmed in a flurry of motion, wands raised, charms muttered, blankets thrown over him to shield from the rain. You were pushed back slightly, every muscle coiled, trembling with sobs as the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain assaulted your senses. You tried to step back, tried to let them work—but every fiber of your being screamed to stay close, to hold him, to make him open his eyes.
Your knees shook and you almost collapsed right then on the wet pitch, rain plastering your hair, drenched to the bone, shaking uncontrollably. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart hammering, tears blinding your vision.
The whistle blew again, but it sounded hollow to you, lost beneath the roar of your own panic. The roar of the crowd was a ghost compared to the storm inside your chest as you stared at the pool of blood staining the grass.
The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the soft beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. You’d been waiting here for hours—or maybe it felt like days—every second stretching painfully as you sat just out of reach, unable to do anything but pray and pace.
Then, finally, a flicker of movement.
“Harry?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened, focusing hazily on you. Relief, overwhelming and immediate, ripped through you. Without thinking, you rushed to his side, gripping his hand in both of yours, tears spilling freely.
“You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake!” You breathed, half sobbing, half laughing in disbelief.
Harry’s lips curved into a weak, teasing smile, “See… see what happened the second I took off my good-luck charm?”
You blinked through the tears, letting out a strangled laugh that was more sob than sound. “You absolute idiot,” You whispered, shaking your head, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”
He coughed softly, then his voice softened, sincerity threading through the teasing. “I… I’m sorry,” He murmured, “For everything. For the fight, for how I acted before… I was selfish. If you want to keep this—us—private, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you want.”
Your chest tightened, lips pursed, voice trembling as you spoke, “Harry… they know. The tabloids… they’ve been talking about me being camped here for like four days. After crying over your unconscious body like some war widow. There’s no way we can really go back from this.”
Despite the weight of your words, a small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You gently ran the tip of your thumb along the peaks of his cheekbones, tracing the lines you knew so well.
His eyes softened, guilt and love mingling in their depths. “I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice low, almost breaking.
You swallowed, leaning closer, brushing your lips against his cheek in a gentle, grounding kiss. “Harry,” You whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I don’t regret any of it. None of this. I’d rather this than you be hurt even worse. It’s a no-brainer.”
He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath escaping him, and shifted slightly so you could crawl into the bed beside him. You rested your head near his shoulder, your hand still entwined with his. His arm found its place naturally, draping across your back, pulling you close, grounding you both in the quiet aftermath.
“We’ll figure this out.” He whispered, the words rough but steady.
You nodded against his chest, pressing another kiss to the side of his head—half against his temple, half tangled in his hair. “We will.” You breathed, letting the tension drain from your shoulders.
For the first time since the accident, and perhaps since the fight that had almost torn you apart, you let yourself truly exhale.
The Daily Prophet – Lifestyle & Sports Section
“Finally Official: Potter and (Y/N) Spotted on Vacation Together”
After weeks of rampant speculation, the long-rumored relationship between Puddlemere United star Harry Potter and Montrose Magpies’ Seeker (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been confirmed.
Sources report the couple was recently spotted enjoying a private vacation in the Scottish Highlands, strolling along the cliffs and clearly taking time to enjoy the off-season following Montrose Magpies’ hard-fought victory in the National Quidditch Cup. Some question the validity of the win, given that Puddlemere’s star Seeker was incapacitated during the match.
This revelation comes months after the infamous press conference in which both Potter and (Y/N) publicly denied any romantic involvement. At the time, the denials left fans and journalists skeptical, fueling whispers of a secret relationship. Now, with these vacation sightings, the truth has finally emerged: the two are very much together, and clearly enjoying their first proper break as a couple.
bonus:
The sun was bright over Hogwarts, catching the gleam of the Quidditch pitch and bouncing off the stands where students were already settling in. You and Harry had retired years ago—both of you having given your all to Quidditch, to each other, and now to your family—but some things never changed. Some things were impossible to leave behind.
And today, it was all about James. Your firstborn was making his debut for the Gryffindor team, and you and Harry were losing it before the match had even started.
Years ago, you never thought this would be possible. During the height of your career, you were adamant against having children, determined that putting your body through a pregnancy in your prime would be a huge mistake. Harry, your loving husband after three years of dating, had agreed. But once the second World Cup was behind you, and you had handed in your retirement papers, satisfied with the progress you’d made in your career… well, life had a funny way of surprising you. That very night, after the announcement, you had climbed Harry like a tree.
And now, you were standing in the stands with your two other children, Albus and Lily, as well as Teddy, all five of you screaming yourselves hoarse for your little boy.
“YOU CAN DO THIS, JAMES!” You shouted, bouncing slightly in your seats, oversized Gryffindor scarves wrapped around your necks, water bottles and snacks forgotten.
Harry’s glasses fogged from his own excitement, fists clenched with barely contained enthusiasm. “GET ‘EM, JAMES!” He roared back, throwing his arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you off the bench, “SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’VE GOT!”
The whistle blew. Brooms launched, slicing through the rain-slicked air, and James was immediately in motion, diving and dodging with the same brilliance he’d inherited from his parents. You were practically on your feet, half-screaming, half-laughing, hands flailing as if your cheers could somehow reach him mid-flight.
You watched as he soared forward, scoring a goal almost instantly. Your voice rang out over the chaos of the crowd, “THAT’S MY BOY!”
The match continued in a blur of speed and skill. Every pass James made, every dodge of the Bludgers, had you and Harry holding your breaths, screaming, cheering, clapping, and at one point, nearly toppling out of the stands.
Then it happened—the winning goal. James threw with precision, and the Quaffle soared into the hoops. Your seats erupted—not with the students’ collective gasp or applause, but with your combined, thunderous, uncontainable cheering. Harry jumped up, spinning in the stands, and you found yourself clapping so hard your hands stung.
“I’m so proud of him,” Harry said, eyes shining, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “Proud of us too. We have the next legendary Quidditch player on our hands.”
You laughed through tears of joy, wrapping your arms around him. “We did good,” You murmured, pressing your head against his shoulder, “We did really, really good.”
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Look, you didn't ask for a best friend whose dad is the god of the sea. You just wanted someone to share blue Jolly Ranchers with during Algebra II.
But here you are.
Being friends with Percy Jackson comes with a lot of hazards. Exploding toilets? Check. Gym teachers turning into monsters you cannot see? Standard Tuesday. But the biggest hazard, the one nobody warned you, is the summer.
Specifically, the part where he vanishes to Camp Half-Blood, and you stay in the mortal world.
For Percy, camp is supposed to be a safe haven. But this summer, the monsters aren't outside the borders; they’re in his head. Every time he tries to sleep in Cabin Three, listening to the fountain drip, his ADHD brain doesn't focus on quests or prophecies.
It hyper-fixates on you.
And more specifically, on the guys who get to sit next to you in the cafeteria while he’s off fighting harpies.
He tries to Iris Message you, but the connection is always misty. Once, he saw a guy’s arm draped over the back of your chair. Just a friendly gesture, right? Not to Percy.
To Percy, that arm looked like a hydra head that needed lopping off. He spent the rest of the summer slicing training dummies in half with a little too much enthusiasm, imagining they were wearing varsity jackets.
By the time August rolls around and he comes back to the city, the jealousy has crusted over his heart like barnacles on a hull.
The reunion is supposed to be sweet. You guys plan a trip to the beach, Montauk, obviously. It's his turf.
He wants to show off a little, maybe walk on water, maybe just hold your hand without worrying about a hellhound jumping him.
Then you invite Kyle.
Kyle is perfectly nice. He’s in your biology class. He has floppy hair and a laugh that sounds like a seal barking, and he brought a Frisbee. He is entirely, tragically mortal.
"I didn't know we were bringing guests," Percy says when he sees him.
His voice is casual, that easy-going tone he uses when he’s bluffing a god, but his eyes are stormy. Sea-green, darkening to a violent, deep-ocean gray.
"Kyle just wanted to tag along," you say, smiling, oblivious to the fact that the air pressure around you just dropped ten degrees. "Is that cool?"
Percy forces a crooked grin. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Totally cool."
The drive is excruciating. Kyle talks about lacrosse. Kyle talks about his dad’s boat. Percy grips the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks, listening to the way you laugh at Kyle’s terrible jokes. In Percy's mind, he's connecting dots that don't exist.
She likes him. She forgot about me. I saved Olympus, and I'm losing her to a guy who wears Axe body spray.
When you get to the beach, the ocean greets Percy like an old friend. The waves get choppy, slamming against the sand with a rhythm that matches his heartbeat.
"Let's get in!" Kyle yells, peeling off his shirt and sprinting for the surf.
You follow him, wading in up to your waist.
The water is cold, waking you up, salty and sharp. Percy stands back for a second, watching. He watches Kyle splash you. As he watches you shriek and splash back. He watches Kyle’s hand linger on your shoulder to steady himself against a wave.
That's the line.
Percy walks into the water. He doesn't shiver. The ocean doesn't make him cold; it energizes him. He feels the currents tugging at his ankles, waiting for a command. Being the Son of Poseidon isn't just about talking to horses or breathing underwater.
It's about control.
And right now, he feels like he’s losing control of everything, except the sea.
"Hey, Jackson!" Kyle calls out, treading water out past the break. "Bet you can't swim out this far!"
Percy smirks. It’s a dark, sad little look. "You would be surprised what I can do."
He dives.
Under the surface, it’s silent. Percy opens his eyes. The salt doesn't sting. He looks at Kyle’s legs kicking aimlessly above him. He feels a pang of guilt a small, mortal part of him that says this is wrong.
But then he remembers the way Kyle looked at you, and remembers the long, lonely nights at camp wondering if you were moving on.
The jealousy roars louder than his conscience.
Percy clenches his fist.
The water obeys instantly. It doesn't look like magic from the surface. It just looks like a freak current. A riptide.
Around Kyle, the water hardens. It shifts from fluid to a vice. You’re only ten feet away, laughing as you wipe water from your eyes, waiting for Percy to pop up. You don't see the way Kyle's expression shifts from joy to confusion, then to sheer panic.
He tries to swim up, but the ocean grabs his ankles. It’s not a wave crashing down; it’s the depths reaching up.
The water fills Kyle's mouth before he can scream. It drags him down, heavy and relentless.
Percy stays under, watching. He ensures the current pushes Kyle deep, tumbling him along the sandy bottom, far away from you.
Far away from anyone. The ocean is vast, and it keeps secrets better than anyone.
When Percy finally breaks the surface, he’s right next to you. His hair is wet and messy, his eyes bright and innocent.
"Where's Kyle?" you ask, looking around. The water is calm now. Suspiciously calm. "He was just here."
Percy looks around, feigning confusion perfectly. "I don't know. Maybe he went back to shore? Or maybe he swam out further?"
"Kyle!" you yell, spinning in the water. Panic starts to set in. "Kyle!"
Percy puts a hand on your arm. His grip is firm, grounding. "Hey, hey. Don't worry. I'm here."
He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you to keep you steady against the gentle bob of the waves.
You're trembling, scanning the horizon for a friend who is already miles deep and miles away, carried off by a current that answered to one master.
"I’m sure he’s fine," Percy lies, his voice smooth like velvet. He rests his chin on top of your head, looking out at the endless blue.
The sea feels satisfied.
He feels satisfied.
The competition is gone. The doubt is drowned.
"It's just you and me," he whispers into your hair, holding you tight as the tide rolls in. "Just you and me."
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Hours later, the moon is high and the house is quiet.
You are asleep inside the rented beach house, exhausted from hours of crying and talking to the Coast Guard.
While Percy is sitting on the porch railing, his legs dangling over the edge, staring at the dark horizon. He’s drinking a blue cherry Gatorade, looking for all the world like a guy who’s just bummed out about a tragic accident, not a guy who just orchestrated one.
The air smells like rain and ozone. Suddenly, the scent shifts. It smells like a sea breeze mixed with Old Spice and suntan lotion.
Percy doesn't even look up. "Hey, Dad."
Poseidon leans against the porch support beam. He’s dressed in his usual vacationing in Florida attire, khaki cargo shorts, leather sandals, and a Tommy Bahama shirt with parrots on it that seem to be actually moving. He looks relaxed, but his eyes, those same green eyes Percy has, are narrowed.
"Rough day at the beach," Poseidon says. His voice is deep, like the rumble of a wave hitting a cliff.
Percy swirls the Gatorade in the bottle. "Yeah. Current was strong. You know how it is."
"I do," Poseidon says. "I also know the difference between a natural riptide and a hydro-kinetic execution."
Percy finally looks at him. There’s no fear in his face. Usually, Percy gets nervous around the gods, worried about smiting or turning into a dolphin. But tonight, he looks hollowed out and hardened.
"He was touching her, Dad," Percy says. It’s not a whine; it’s a statement of fact. "He was loud, annoying, and he thought he had a chance."
"So you drowned him," Poseidon muses, stroking his beard. He doesn't sound angry. He sounds like he's reviewing a batting average.
"I removed an obstacle," Percy corrects. He sets the bottle down.
"I spend all year fighting giants and Titans. I hold up the sky. I save the world. I come back, and some mortal with a Frisbee thinks he can just take my place?" Percy shakes his head. "I didn't survive Tartarus to lose her to Kyle."
Percy waits for the lecture, waits for Poseidon to tell him that heroes don't kill mortals, that he's crossed a line, and that Zeus is going to have a field day with this.
Instead, Poseidon chuckles. It's a dry, salty sound.
"You really are my son," the god says, a strange sort of pride in his voice. He walks over and puts a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder. "I was worried you were taking too much after your mother. Too soft. Too forgiving."
Percy blinks, surprised. "You're... not mad?"
"Mad?" Poseidon looks out at the ocean, watching the moonlight dance on the black water. "Percy, look at me. Do you know how many sailors I have dragged to the bottom just because they didn't pour enough wine overboard? Do you know what I did to Odysseus just because he blinded my son? I made him wander for ten years."
Poseidon looks back at Percy, his eyes twinkling with ancient, chaotic energy.
"We are the sea, Percy," he says softly. "The sea is beautiful, yes. But it is also jealous. It is possessive. It takes what it wants, and it does not give it back."
He squeezes Percy’s shoulder. "You saw something that belonged to you, and you made sure it stayed yours. I can’t exactly fault you for acting according to your nature."
Percy breathes out, a tension he didn't know he was holding releasing from his chest. "So, I'm good?"
"You're fine," Poseidon assures him. "The mortals will call it a tragedy, the police will find nothing and the ocean keeps its secrets." He pauses, fading slightly into mist, ready to return to Atlantis.
"Just...maybe keep the body count low, son. It makes the paperwork annoying."
"Thanks, Dad," Percy says.
"Don't mention it," Poseidon says, his form dissolving into sea spray. "And Percy? She's a catch. Don’t let anyone else cast a line."
"I won't," Percy whispers to the empty porch. He looks back toward the window where you’re sleeping. "Never again."
Newest on the team at the Daily Planet, your co-workers set a high bar in terms in friendship.
You like Lois. Jimmy is a decent desk-mate. Cat is nice enough. You don't even want to talk about Steve.
But Clark Kent... There's something about him that irks you.
His niceness.
No-one is that nice. And honestly? You'd rather keep him at arms length, then let him worm his way into your heart — because you’ll be damned if you let that stupid thing get broken again.
(Or: Clark Kent and the string of terrible, horrible, very bad attempts to woo his co-worker. Unsuccessfully.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
[15k, coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, one-sided enemies to lovers, fem!reader, you are, lovingly, a difficult women (with some trust issues) but that is exactly what clark likes about you <3 - title from the waitress soundtrack of the same name!!!]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Click-click. You click your pen, off then on.
The screen of your monitor hums with a faint buzz, just like all the fluorescent lights in the Daily Planet do.
The office murmurs around you, slowly waking with chatter, and it's just one more thing to mentally convince yourself you can't hear. On a good day, you can ignore it.
On a bad day…
Click-click. Off and then on.
Displayed on your screen is what's been served up to your chopping block, a new piece for you to tear to shreds with edits.
You've become the unofficial office shark, a one-stop shop for ruthless edits. Nothing leaves your sight without being slashed to pieces with red pen.
Beside you, on your desk, is a copy of yesterday's print.
You're trying hard not to look at it —not the title, Superman Saves Downtown; No Casualties in Extraterrestrial Attack— and not the byline either, printing Clark Kent's name on the front page.
Stupid Clark Kent and his dumb, stupid exclusive Superman interviews.
It's actually laughable how your envy reduces you to the insults of a second-grader – which actually is probably making you dislike it all the more.
With a huff, you try to redirect to the piece you're supposed to be editing.
"You know, your screen's gonna set alight if you keep glaring that hard."
You move your glare from your screen to the speaker behind it. Daily Planet's finest photographer, your desk-mate, and occasional pain in your ass, Jimmy Olsen.
He grins, despite being at the receiving end of your pointed stare. Jimmy is one of the few lucky ones immune to it.
"Alright, Medusa. What's got your panties in a twist this early in the morning?"
"Nothing has any effect on my panties whatsoever," you mumble back, breaking your glare to look back at your screen. Dropping the pen on your desk, you shake the mouse back to life.
"Have you considered that maybe that's the problem?"
"I'm gonna file a formal complaint if you keep talking about my panties," you grouse back, to which Jimmy laughs.
It's all bark and no bite really.
Jimmy is one of the only ones who have actually figured that out about you—that you're prickly to begin with, but you never really mean it.
The shuttered swirl of the heavy revolving door announces the arrival of, none other than, the object of your morning envy — though the dropped files are a classic of the Clark Kent entrance.
Papers fly as they hit the floor, scattering in a flutter you can hear across the office. It's quickly followed by Clark's muttered shoot!
One particular piece of paper does an elegant arc, swooping high and settling close to yours and Jimmy's desk.
Out the corner of your eye, you squint at it, but it's too far to make out the words.
Clark scampers after his spilled papers, hasty apologies spilling from him like an overzealous printer stuck on reprint. "Hi–sorry. Morning, hi, sorry, lemme get that—"
He ends up beside your desk by the time he's gathered them all in his hands, straightening up to his full height.
It's just for a moment—then he's hunching back over, shoulders curling forward.
Like it does much good; he's still at least 6 feet tall.
"Morning, guys," Clark says warmly, nodding to Jimmy, then you. His retrieved papers are in an untidy pile, held against his chest precariously. "What are we talking about?"
He's probably asking to be polite. Or to distract from his fumble with the papers.
Unfortunately for him, you've decided making Clark squirm is an easy way to enact a quiet retribution.
"My panties." You say plainly.
Jimmy coughs out a laugh, even though you're technically telling the truth. Hey, he was the one who brought them up! You shoot him a wry grin – then watch Clark.
His mouth has opened, as if to give a response to that, but then he closes it, thinking the better of it.
You imagine it must be hot, blushing that fiercely. His cheeks and the tips of his ears both appear as if he’s had too much time in the sun. Farm boy red, you'd call it.
In the end, Clark only swallows. Then nods at you both, his eyes averted, and scuttles away with a mumble you can't hear.
A glimmer of enjoyment toys a smile on your mouth. You convince yourself it's from watching him squirm. For grudge-related reasons, obviously.
"Must you torture him?" Jimmy asks, the moment Clark's out of range.
"No," you answer with a shrug, turning back to your screen. "But he makes it easy."
You don't add that you're pretty sure his bashful disposition is almost surely put on. He's a grown man. No one… blushes and sputters like that actually. Certainly not at you.
Instead, you punch the keys of your keyboard a bit too rough, deleting a whole sentence from the piece on-screen.
"It's the Midwestern in him," Jimmy says, with a sympathetic sigh.
"Yeah, well, it makes you wonder how he became such a hard-hitting journalist." You snort, though you make an effort to keep your voice low.
"Seriously, how is it that he's the only one who gets the exclusives with Superman?"
Across the desk, Jimmy's eyebrows raise an inch. "Ah. So that's what the glare was for."
You don't dignify that with a response—mainly because he's hit the nail on the head. Damn you for choosing a profession where your coworkers are paid to be nosy and observant.
You shrug again and remove another sentence that has the gall to have three adjectives in a row.
Jimmy leans forward. "Y'know, maybe that's the real secret to good journalism – he's just nice. You could try it sometime?"
He's joking of course, but there is still something in you that stiffens. He's brushed an exposed nerve by accident.
You're nice. You are.
It's just… There's something about Clark Kent – something that seems to irk you specifically.
Beyond his ability to cop all the limited interviews with Metropolis' hero —which does indeed drive you up the wall— there is just something about him that gets under your skin.
He's so perfectly polite – so nice, it's almost to a fault.
You've seen him give his lunch away to someone who forgot theirs. He knows the names of the janitor's kids. He says hi to everyone in the office.
He says 'golly' for Christ's sake.
It's simply too good to be true. No one is just that good by nature — well, maybe Superman — and definitely not without something else, some other motive lurking below.
The journalist instinct in you itches. Something about him doesn't quite add up.
Besides, you've been around one of these guys before. Had the displeasure of being the idiot who fell for them and dated one. They're always a real sweetheart, convincing everyone that the sun shines out their ass.
They're the honey in a trap. They lure you in with sweetness for long enough, and you never realise it's slowly become vinegar in your mouth.
You like to think you know better now.
And on top of Clark's infuriatingly nice demeanour, and his penchant for snagging the front-page at the last second — he's knocked you to the second page of print twice now — is the fact he's, undeniably, attractive.
You have eyes. You can, begrudgingly, use them.
Even you can admit that Clark Kent is a 6 foot something, dark-haired and light-eyed, tall glass of water.
You suppose it's good thing that he doesn't strut around like he knows it. That might be the thing that tips him from a slight thorn in your side to downright unbearable.
Alright, now you're being dramatic. It's not like he's Lex Luthor or anything of that sort.
It's just that you're somehow the only one who seems to be wary of him, to notice the inconsistencies in his absences, to be distrustful of his kindness.
(You pointedly ignore the voice that tells you that says a lot more about you than it does about him).
It makes that little voice in your head, the one you spent so long working to keep quiet, wonder if you've got it all wrong. If you're losing your touch.
Because you know there is a chance that he is that nice and you're the only one too cynical, too scornful to believe it.
The cursor on the screen blinks back at you, almost mocking.
You steal a glimpse to your left, towards Clark. As if sensing the movement, he looks up from his computer. He smiles crookedly and gives a little wave.
You purse your lips and nod, acknowledging it, eyes quickly back on your own screen.
The cursor is still blinking tauntingly at you, in the same place as before.
You start typing just to get it to stop.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's usually a good day when the culinary column has leftovers for the office, you've learned.
It doesn't happen often. Today, it's a much needed pick-me-up. The November weather is gloomy. Overcast. The rain had fallen in sheets this morning, puddles pooling along the path to work.
You're trying very hard not to feel the squelch in your socks.
Impossible when you can hear it, a gross wet noise with every hurried step you take toward the break room, which is where they said the macaroons would be waiting.
Sweet, sweet sugary goodness, not far away — if you're not too late, that is.
You'd been entirely too wrapped up in your latest article, headphones in and world blocked out, that Lois had to tap you on the shoulder to get your attention.
You'd jumped, then turned with a fury in your brow at being interrupted—then clocked the treat in her hand.
"Better hurry," she had said, brows wiggling.
Springing to your feet, your thanks is nearly swallowed up by the swiftness of your stride— broken when you hastily have to backtrack to avoid having your headphones violently ripped out.
Headphones safely removed, you depart your desk at double speed.
As you walk, you roll out your sore shoulders. God, it's been a moment since you moved about.
Your neck isn't grateful for the hunched position you've kept it in either, twinging its annoyance. Still, you round the corner to the break-room with an impressive haste.
And—there.
On the table, perched in adorable ruby-coloured cupcake wrappers, are macaroons. Sage green little discs, cream sandwiched between them.
There are only two left.
Beside them, standing at the table, are Jimmy and Clark. Thankfully, both already have a wrapper in their grasp, meaning they've at least had one.
"Yo," Jimmy says, as you beeline for the table. "Just in time—"
Clark, for once, doesn't greet you with a smile. Instead, he frowns a bit, seeing your locked focus as you lead with an outstretched hand towards the plate.
"Oh, gimme," you urge.
Then, right as your fingers close around one, it's suddenly batted out of your hand.
It flies from your hand and makes not a sound as it lands on the ground, crumbling into the world's saddest pile of green crumbs.
Bewildered, you gape down at it, bottom lip unconsciously jutting out.
Your sorrow turns quickly to indignation. You look up at the culprit, eyes narrowed—but don't even get to speak before Clark's explaining himself.
"You're allergic to pistachios!" Clark stresses, sounding appalled. "What- why would you— that's why I didn't bring you one!"
Right, okay. What? Well, fine, okay, yes, pistachio would explain the green colour of the macaroons.
And yes, you are, technically, in the eyes of the law, allergic. Barely.
What's some itching in the throat?
Actually, better question: How does Clark know that?
Your brain skips a couple times, struggling to compute through both the implication that he's somehow figured out your very mild nut allergy—or that he would've brought one to your desk.
Your eye twitches. "You— how do you even know that?"
"You… You mentioned it during one of the team-bonding exercises they made us do," he says, abruptly sheepish.
He shifts on his feet. One hand scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly.
Jimmy, who usually can't take the cue to be quiet, picks now to say nothing. You decide you hate him.
"That—" You start, still reeling through Clark's answer. That exercise was months ago, when you first started at the Planet.
Born of tiredness, the weather, and the fact Clark's appalled expression is nearly, nearly cute — which is infuriating — a pettiness rises within you.
Despite being entirely correct, suddenly, you can only think, who is he to tell you what you can or can't eat?
"It's a mild allergy, Kent." You stress the word mild. "I think I'll live."
You can tell on his face that he doesn't really like that answer.
Frankly, you've decided you don't really care.
Glancing between the plate on the table and Clark, you make a split-second decision.
Your hand shoots out, but Clark is faster—and he snaps up the final macaroon before you even reach the plate.
Incredulity colours your face as you whip around, a scoff forming on your lips. Clark holds the macaroon between his fingers, his face one of tentative panic.
Then he promptly stuffs it in his mouth, whole.
"Clark!" Jimmy says, finally breaking his silence.
Clark, his cheeks now a burning red, begins to chew awkwardly through the treat in silence.
You stare at him.
What the hell? You're not sure if you're more pissed off that he stole the final macaroon from right under your nose – or that he did it to self-proclaimedly help you.
You can't quite believe the sheer audacity of the move. Or that he also, somehow, manages to look cute while he does it.
Woah. Cute? You blink hard.
The lack of sleep and excess of caffeine has to be getting to you. You do not find Clark Kent cute. Much. Not when he's just cheated you out of two macaroons now.
You open your mouth, ready to unleash a string of how dare you and just who do you think you are and what the freak, dude — and then you catch Jimmy's eye.
And you remember his stupid comment about being nice—and think about how he probably thinks Clark did something good.
Noble Clark Kent, saving the office idiot from herself. You close your mouth, say nothing.
Biting your tongue, it feels like your socks squelch extra loud in your aggravated exit.
Left behind in the break-room, Clark watches you go.
He finally manages to swallow the macaroon, which goes down lumpily. Cringing, he thinks that might be a top competitor for the driest mouthful of his life.
Never mind that. It's definitely taking out the top spot for one of his trying-to-help-turned-bad-turned-worse moments with you.
Clark has more of those than he cares to admit.
Gosh, how did he manage it? To not only fumble in the worst ways whenever it came to you, but consistently?
You might be one of the only people on the planet with a genuine reason to potentially dislike him. And it's entirely by accident.
Ironic, really, considering he feels pretty much the opposite.
Maybe that was the cause of this, his newest fail of epic proportions. The daft betrayal of his heart to go sky-rocketing at the simple sight of you. Though, Clark thinks simple is too small a word to describe you aptly.
Scintillating. Gorgeous. Otherworldly — and he actually has some idea of that. None of the words really match up to the image of you.
You've got purpose. Fire. You're a woman who knows how to do her job well—and that's exactly the kind Clark can't help being drawn to.
Too bad it's completely fruitless.
Clark stares at the doorway you've just disappeared through and positively wilts.
"So." Jimmy says, a thousand words stuffed behind the single syllable. Clark turns with a soft sigh to find Jimmy grinning like he's definitely enjoying this.
"How's that wooing going for ya?"
Clark sighs again, more weary this time, his cheeks no less hot.
He's beginning to regret telling Jimmy of his feelings for you—despite the fact it's good to have someone to lament to about your constant rejection.
Though, it's not as though he really handed that information over willingly. Jimmy had wormed it out of him after catching one too many lovesick glances across the office. Clark had vehemently denied it, but to no avail. He's pretty sure Lois has also caught on.
"You know, I think this was easier when you didn't know."
"Sorry, man," Jimmy grimaces, though he's really not radiating apologies. "Hey, I'd take it back if I could."
Clark delivers him a look that tells him exactly how much he believes that—not at all.
Jimmy laughs. "Yeah, okay, I'm lying. It's fascinating, watching you crash and burn every time."
He makes an airplane noise, a little neeeow, swooping his hand through the air before miming an explosion. Really helpful stuff.
It just makes Clark slump over even more than usual. His shoulders droop so much he's almost in danger of dragging his knuckles on the ground.
His eyes roam over the remains of the first macaroon you'd attempted to eat on the ground. Staring at it, Clark can admit it wasn't his finest move— and his only defense was that he'd acted in surprise.
Batting it out of your hand, though? Jeez, you probably think he kicks puppies in his spare time too.
It's just a touch humiliating that the situation he is so desperate to succeed in, is in the most hopeless.
Sure, he can save the world, but a regular interaction with his co-worker whom he happens to be crushing on? No dice.
His cheeks flare hot again. In an attempt to preserve some of his dignity, he buries his face in his hands.
"I don't know how you think this is helpful," Clark says, words muffled behind his hands.
"Okay, I'm sorry," Jimmy relents genuinely, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll be helpful. What about… Have you thought about doing, I don't know, a romantic gesture? Getting her flowers?"
Clark drags his hands off his face, knocking his glasses as he does. A fingerprint smudges on one of the panes. He fixes them, straightening up at the seriousness in Jimmy's tone.
"You think?" He asks earnestly. "Wha— but I'm not even sure I know which kind she likes the most."
Jimmy does that half-hearted eye roll he always does when Clark's being infuriatingly earnest. He shrugs, slowly backing toward the exit. "You're a journalist, Clark. Figure it out."
Just before he disappears through the door, Jimmy pauses.
Mouth twisting to hide another smile, he points down to the crush of green macaroon that's slowly sinking into the carpet.
"Better clean that up before Perry sees it — otherwise we'll never get culinary treats again."
Then he leaves Clark alone in the break-room - with nothing but the remaining evidence of his latest fumble and a plan.
Half a plan.
The beginnings of one.
It's something at least, Clark thinks wistfully.
The siren of an ambulance whirs by on the street down below. Someone three floors up coughs. One of the interns peeks around the doorway, her face hopeful.
Clearly, word of macaroons passed round quickly.
Her face droops at the sight of the empty plate on the table. Well, Clark hopes it's because of that – and not the sight of him. She moves on without a word.
With a final sigh, Clark pushes back his sleeves and crouches down beside the green mess. As he picks, he ponders.
Flowers. Sure. Yeah, he could do flowers.
How on earth could he possibly fumble that?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There's a bouquet of flowers on your desk.
It's Monday morning, 8.45am, and you already have a plan of exactly how this day will unfold.
It's going to go swimmingly. You'll tackle the brute of that interview you'd gotten from Todd Inc. Industries yesterday; you'll treat yourself to a sandwich from Benny's for lunch; and you'll have no interactions with Clark Kent, if you can help it.
You've forgiven him for the macaroon incident — solely on the fact that he had somehow been a little bit right.
Not that you went home, bought yourself your own damn pistachio macaroons, and had to wheezily jab your EpiPen in your own thigh.
Of course not. You would never do such a thing. (Nor admit that to Clark).
So, begrudgingly, you've decided he's forgiven. The incident is not quite forgotten though.
All of this is to say—nowhere in your plan is a bouquet of flowers.
Treading a little slower, you approach your desk like it holds a ticking time-bomb and not an array of freshly cut greenery.
Your skeptical gaze darts over them, narrowed, looking for… something.
But they're just flowers.
Displayed in a pale blue vase, wrapped in coloured cellophane, bright marigolds and deep blush-coloured posies peep over the side.
You step closer, tentative. Your nose twitches. God, you can smell them sweetening the air. Which means they're probably expensive.
Which means your first thought is that this must be some kind of mistake — you are not the person who just gets flowers.
Stepping closer yet, you eye the bouquet as if it's going to grow teeth and bite you, dropping your bag into your seat.
Your face pinches together in thought, then quickly glance around the office, hunting for someone who's missing flowers.
Clearly, they've been put in the wrong place.
No obvious flower-shaped indent glows back at you, indicating their true place. You huff a sigh and look back at the flowers.
They are… lovely, you'll admit. Automatically, you check the office, making sure no-one's observing you.
Then, gently, you reach out and brush your thumb pad over one of the posy petals. It's fleshy, soft. Unbidden, a soft noise of longing escapes your throat.
When was the last time you got flowers?
The thought stains as it hits, and you remember exactly what the last occasion was. You snap your hand back.
Then squint at the flowers as if they might give you the answer. Would he…?
No. No, you hadn't heard anything since the break-up and that had been- been like a year ago.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't. You had been very clear.
You give a forceful shake of your head to clear the thought.
If it's not him, you're still not going to be foolish enough to entertain the thought they're meant for you.
Wrangling your bag to the ground, you slump down into your chair. The elevator chimes, people still trickling in. The clock reads closer to 8.50am now. You glance past your monitor.
The absence of your desk-mate is actually somewhat of a relief. Even though you have nothing to do with this, Jimmy is precisely the guy who will rib you for days for this mix-up.
You can already hear him now: Any flowers this morning, milady? Any callers to court you today? Shall we be expecting a marriage proposition any day now?
"Good morning."
Speak of the devil — you've spoke a smidgen too soon.
You turn, eyes already narrowed at Jimmy returning from the printers. He spots the flowers, face contorting into surprise, and really hams it up — which means he's definitely already seen them. Fantastic.
"Ooh, lucky lady." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Flowers, huh?"
You're not sure why you feel so defensive. "They're not for me."
"Aren't they? They're on your desk."
You cut him a look. You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from commending his incredible observational skills.
But then, Jimmy leans forward, plucking a delivery card you hadn't spotted from the bouquet.
He turns it in his hand—and your name is printed on the other side in swoopy, curled letters.
Huh. You blink at it. They are for you.
After a moment, your brows knit together. That… might not be a good thing.
Did you piss off another band of lawyers, are getting sued to hell, and this is to soften the blow?
Are you being pranked right now?
Maybe you're getting fired. A moment later and you laugh at yourself at that thought. Yeah, that and Perry has grown a sudden unexpected soft spot for you overnight, enough to send you off with a fresh bouquet. Unlikely.
Jimmy offers out the card, and you take it, bringing it closer, as though the letters might change form if you look closer.
They don't. It's your name, for sure. Your desk number and everything.
You turn the card over in your hand. There's something written on the back.
I hope you can forgive me.
Blinking hard, you read the words again.
What day is it today? Your eyes glance to your desk, at the small flip calendar you have, and familiarity flashes from the date.
You read the card again.
Then once more, just to be sure—eyes darting between it and the date.
"Everything okay?" Jimmy's voice filters in, muted in your ears.
You make some noise in response, but it's far away from you. A sinking feeling begins to bury itself in your stomach. You really didn't want to be right, but you are. You must be.
Marigolds and posies. On the 16th day of November. I hope you can forgive me.
The sinking feeling transforms into a sharp sort of anger.
This Monday is really not going the way you planned. No way you're getting goddamn stalked.
Brashly, you stuff the card back into the bouquet, uncaring of the way they crush under your harsh movements.
"Woah, okay, what—?"
You ignore Jimmy and his surprise – you'll explain it later, or maybe never – and scoop up the flowers from the vase.
Water trickles out, leaving a scatter of fat droplets across your desk. You'll be pissed about it later, undoubtedly, but right now, you need these flowers out of your sight. Shredded. Do flowers burn well?
Goddamn, you thought this was done.
You thought he was out of your life for good—and that he could be remembered as a shitty ex, your worst mistake, and nothing more.
But, no. Of course, he's the type to love-bomb.
To think he can swoop back in, a year later, and pretend that nothing even happened. Your boots click loudly as you head for the trash at the front of the bullpen.
Which is, of course, when Clark makes his arrival.
You spot him coming around the corner and can already sense his unfathomably polite greeting. He sees you and smiles, giving an awkward wave that he plays off as adjusting his glasses. "Oh, hey—"
He appears to just now notice the flowers in your hands.
"Oh! Um, flowers-! Wow, those sure are nice—"
"I don't have time for you this morning, Kent." You say, for once not meaning to snip at him in particular. He's just in the crossfire of your very, very bad morning.
“You don’t…?”
Clark’s sentence trails off as you don’t even pause, breezing right past him.
The flowers crumple beneath your fingers further as your grip tightens without even meaning to, mind blazing with a well-rooted anger. You come to a stop before the trash.
With a resounding flourish, you dump the flowers.
They hit with enough force to flutter your hair back and send a loose sticky-note afloat for a second.
You huff, a little more settled at the sight of your ex's unanticipated attempt at a re-entry into your life exactly where it should be: going out with the garbage.
"Wow." A voice snaps you from your focused stupor.
You glance up, relieved to find Lois—even if she is glimpsing at the ruined flowers amongst the junk of the office with an amused look.
She asks, "What'd they do to you?"
You huff again, your shoulders sinking down as you do. "Let's just call them an unwanted advance."
Lois' dark brows raise, her lips pressed together as if holding back her next comment. She eyes the greenery in the trash once again, then her eyes travel over your shoulder. She focuses back on you.
"Well," she says evenly, her smile polite. "I'm sorry it feels that way."
Her eyes dart over your shoulder again, just momentarily.
You almost want to peer over your shoulder to see what had drawn her gaze. But the string twined around the flowers snapped, the cellophane around the flowers unwrapping in a loud, dramatic crinkle.
You eye the marigolds with a barely contained contempt.
The thought of who gifted them to you—of him tracking you down, finding your work, figuring out your very desk number—is nearly enough to make your lip curl.
A droplet of water slips down your forearm. You look down, spying the dew on your arms.
Abruptly, you're aware of just how you'd stormed across your workplace with all the grace of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. All to trash some flowers.
You blink, then press your hands to your jeans, half to wipe them, half to calm yourself.
Right. You were fine. This was fine.
Just because— you weren't— just because he used to call you crazy didn't mean it was even remotely true. Even if you crashed out over a bouquet of flowers sent on your old anniversary.
You screw your eyes up and take a breather. This is why you kept your distance from him. He toyed with you. He liked seeing you rattled.
Feeling less ruffled, you wipe your hands again and trek back to your desk.
You pass Clark's desk, footsteps slowing. He sat now, his head bowed.
Despite all your usual prickliness, his averted eyes and the memory of your snappish tone brings a lump to your throat. An apology lodges it in.
Even your worst envy and disgruntlement hadn't had you being quite this rude before.
You open your mouth — then close it.
How does that apology even go?
So sorry Clark, my ex-boyfriend— who I nearly considered getting a restraining order against —sent me a bouquet of flowers, the same kind he always used to, specifically on our old anniversary as a pathetic bid to see if any chance with me — or maybe just to fuck with me — which isn't your fault, so I really shouldn't have snapped at you and your handsome, likeable face.
Bit of a mouthful, really.
You decide, maybe a bit cowardly, you'd rather swallow the regret instead. Continuing forward, you collapse into your seat opposite Jimmy.
For only a moment can you pretend to not notice his gaze.
Clearing your throat awkwardly, shuffling your papers, your eyes flick up. Your desk-mate stares across at you for a long moment, his eyes a little wider than usual.
Slowly, one eyebrow floats up.
He doesn't even have to voice his question aloud for you to know what it is. You can feel it.
What the fuck, man?
"Sorry," You exhale tiredly, too tired to explain for the same reason you didn't apologise to Clark.
It's barely a sentence. Even as his eyebrow joins its others' raised position, Jimmy is kind enough not to comment.
He only narrows his eyes into a bewildered squint. It doesn't match the polite, absentminded smile on his face.
Which you suppose is fair, considering the sentence you just said makes you sound like a six-year-old being asked her opinion on boys.
Shuffling your papers again for something to do, you sink down further in your seat. Embarrassment slights you.
God. How the hell did your morning get so bent out of shape?
The baby blue vase is still intruding on your desk space, so you nudge it to the side. The water within sloshes.
You sigh. "I'll explain later, okay?" you say, and you leave it at that.
Jimmy takes the cue from you and dutifully begins actually doing his work, as opposed to simply pretending to.
It takes another half hour to stop glancing over at the place you know the crushed flowers lie. It crosses your mind an infuriating amount of time, the niggling worry that they— that you might be wrong.
But you steel yourself. Marigolds and posies and on today, of all days. It has to be him.
You're too good a journalist to ignore the coincidence. Occam's Razor agrees with you too.
Besides, who else would be getting you flowers?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Okay, I do think maybe the universe is working against you," Jimmy says, his chair gliding across the tiles of the Daily Planet.
He's got a cup of coffee in his hand, and the motion of his roller-chair nearly spills it, a wave of amber liquid sloshing up the side of the ceramic.
Clark watches it worriedly — it's a bit too late for coffee, but Jimmy never seems to let that stop him. It doesn't spill somehow. Jimmy comes to a halt next to his desk, thinking face on.
"That or she hates you." He offers, far too blasé about that potential for Clark's liking.
He's rolled over because you've taken a break from your desk to head to the restroom. It's the first time you've left your desk since The Incident. The blossom blunder. The flower fiasco.
Gosh darn writer's brain, Clark thinks, wishing he could turn it off for a moment.
He's grateful for Jimmy, but he's not sure he really wants to talk about it so soon after.
"Please don't say that," Clark says with a sigh, then drops his head forward into his hand. It's an all too familiar motion now. "I think I need to- or I don't think- I—"
He cuts himself off with another sigh, unburying his face from his hands.
He'd told Jimmy, yes, because the other man had all but squeezed the information out of him, but mainly because he needed help.
It had become evident that, despite all his best attempts, no wooing that Clark Kent can offer can seem to capture your attention. Now he can see it a bit more clearly.
You're inscrutable.
Or completely uninterested — in him.
"I think I need to leave it." Clark says with finality. He glances at the door that leads to the restrooms, checking you haven't returned. "I'm clearly bothering her."
"Mm, no." Jimmy says immediately. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "There's something else there. I can, like, sense it."
"Sense it?" Clark echoes, almost too eagerly. He feels himself flush.
"Yeah, sense it." Jimmy shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Call it my journalistic instinct. It… It doesn't make sense. It's gotta be something else."
Clark opens his mouth to defend you, to say that actually, you not being interested in him is something that may make perfect sense — but Jimmy beats him to the punch.
"How'd you pick the flowers?"
Clark blinks. He checks the door again. "Um. Social media."
"Social media? Which one?"
"The- the pictures one?" If Clark's being honest, there are far too many sites, and he's on none of them. "I just typed her name in, and a bunch of photos came up."
"In where?" Jimmy presses, eyes a little narrowed.
"The search bar…?"
Jimmy's face twitches, as though Clark's given a severely wrong answer, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he pushes back to his desk — coffee floundering again — and returns with his laptop in one hand.
"Okay," he starts, finally placing his hazardous coffee down, both hands rested and ready to type. "What and where exactly did you—"
In a manner much unlike himself, Jimmy abruptly shuts his mouth.
He presses his feet against the tiled floor and sails back to his desk smooth - just in time for Clark to catch a glimpse of you heading back for your desk.
Clark straightens up instinctively — then hunches back over. For once, he's not trying to catch your eye, not trying to sweeten your day with a smile.
It feels wrong to ignore you. But, well, whatever Jimmy says, whatever sense he says he has, Clark thinks you've made yourself perfectly clear.
You are not interested in him in the slightest. Not even as friends.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
For the remaining Monday, a day that feels like it's dragging its heels just to spite you, you do what you do best.
You ignore the flowers, the office, and dive headfirst into your work.
You're half an editor for the office – hence the office shark title – but half trying to shed the title. The big goal has always been to commit fully to your writing. It's… a steady work in progress.
Perry likes what you show him, enough that he keeps giving you assignments, but you're far from being relieved of editing duty.
Today, you're happy to have it. Tearing through first drafts and all but rewriting entire sections is much easier than doing any writing yourself.
The day goes slow, feeling as though time barely trickles by.
But no day can exceed its 24 hours. Five o'clock drags around, eventually, and frees you from the shift.
You have a date with your bed, hidden beneath the covers, and a re-watch of Dirty Dancing. Maybe some wine – though it is Monday.
It's as you're packing up with haste, eager to be out through the revolving door and away from work, that your gaze sweeps across the office. The realisation comes gently. Despite being in his usual place, you haven't seen Clark all day.
Huh.
And it continues that way.
Not that you're noticing, no. Of course not.
You actually normally make an effort not to notice Clark. He makes it difficult, what with his height and Midwestern manners that make him the nicest guy in the office.
But, somehow, when you make an effort not to notice someone, it can somehow have the opposite effect.
Like the task suddenly becoming suspiciously easy.
You make it all the way through Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before you slip up.
Because, really, you should know better than to invite Lois Lane into your business. Doing so is basically giving her a pass to snoop into your feelings. And snoop she will, when given the chance.
Still, the question has been bugging you since the beginning of the week.
So much so that you can allow some snooping if it gives you some answers.
"Is Clark avoiding me?"
You're stopped at Lois' desk.
She's here early, like you are, and there's no Jimmy, no Clark, no Steve, no Cat, or much of anyone else to eavesdrop on your conversation.
"Mmmm," Lois barely manages to drag her eyes away from her screen to focus on you. The question you've asked sinks in a second later. "Avoiding you? Doesn't sound like Clark. Why don't you ask him?"
"You know, the funny thing about avoidance is…" You say dryly.
Lois' gaze is already back on her article. She shrugs, voice distracted. "Maybe the flower thing."
That has your eyebrows raising.
A glum guilt forms a stone in your throat that you have to swallow back. What, because you had a bit of a meltdown, he suddenly can't stand the sight of you?
You feel ticked off. Then realise you're feeling ticked off that Clark Kent, who usually irks you, is ignoring you. What has the world come to?
"The flower thing?" You start, already a bit ready for a tiff. "That's not—"
"Look," Lois interrupts you, a quiet desperation in her tone. "Can we please pin this? I'm in the middle of something here, and I really need to get this done before 1pm."
Your annoyance washes away in a moment, face pulling a sympathetic scrunch. "Yikes, a Perry-special deadline?"
Lois nods, an exasperated sigh blowing out of her mouth. "The very one." She pulls a thankful smile at your understanding.
"Need more coffee?" You offer.
"Oh, so much." She groans, moving to grab her cup. You take it from her, well aware of the pressure of a Perry-special deadline, and more than happy to help.
You grab yourself a cup while you're there and decide to brew a fresh pot for the office too, because it gives you more time to think.
Because, really, if you think about it, you shouldn't have noticed.
Since starting at the Daily Planet a couple months ago, a transplant from Metropolis Star, from day one has Clark Kent's seemingly innate niceness been there.
And since day one, you've been suspicious of it.
You maintain: no-one is that nice.
And not to you, least of all.
You're, for lack of a better word, abrasive. You know you can be… harsh.
According to your ex-boyfriend, you're seven kinds of crazy and a bitch too. A rude woman who's never going to find someone else who will love you like he does. (In your books, that's a relief).
You try not to take that to heart, because he certainly is an ex for a good reason—but, you also know that there is some degree of truth to his words.
You're… unpalatable to some.
You'd knocked heads with Lois for a while before eventually, shakily finding your footing in that friendship.
Jimmy and you had taken at least a month to move out of the frosty zone and start talking beyond glib comments.
You still can't stand talking to Steve.
But Clark? He'd been nice to you from day one.
There has to be a catch. The other shoe must be dangling, invisible and overhead, waiting to drop.
Because if there is, the grudge is easy.
Clark Kent stays at a distance, with you holding a ten-foot pole made up of unresolved issues.
You don't have to worry about what it does to your heart that he's still kind to you, even when he's seeing the worst parts of you. Let's you excuse the moments you've been storing to the side, harbouring, fueling something.
The grudge means you don't have to worry about what it means if he sees you.
It keeps you safe from the part of you that wants him to see you.
When the coffee smells like it's nearly burning, you're shaken from your thoughts, with a suspiciously yearning-shaped lodge in your throat.
You take the coffee off just in time to rescue it. It's a tad overdone, but you don't think Lois will be complaining. You hope.
You pour a cup for her, then half the sugar jar in too.
As you pour one for yourself, you resolve that you're… just not going to think about it.
Grudges, Clark Kent, feeling safe? Sounds like a problem for Future-You.
Probably to be dealt with in a healthy way, never.
You tell yourself it's a good thing that he seems to be avoiding you, because you can get more work done.
Then you nod to yourself as if that can make it true, and set off to deliver Lois' coffee.
Time dwindles by.
Jimmy makes a remark about the burnt coffee when he makes it to his desk, to which you glower in response.
Perry chews out some intern in the back for a serious misprint in yesterday's paper.
Keyboards clatter, and the soulless blink of the cursor taunts you all day.
You're ready for home by 5 o'clock, but — "You coming tonight?"
You look over your desk and blink at Jimmy before frowning. "Tonight? What's tonight?"
"Drinks." Jimmy reminds you, eyebrows raised. "Remember? For Cat's birthday?"
Right. As he says it, the memory does tickle at your mind.
The plan that Cat had made cute, personalised invitations for: black card, cat-themed, very fitting.
You quite liked Cat, even if you didn't know her too well.
Truthfully, going to a bar sounds like the last thing you want to do right now.
You've had a date with a big bottle of red wine booked and waiting since Monday—since the very moment those flowers graced your desk—and the last thing you want to do is try to socialise.
"Yeah," you say eventually, though it comes out a bit weary. "Yeah, I'm coming."
Jimmy grins. "Great. We're all thinking of walking together."
Your eyes travel up past him to the little group that's congregating close to the door, waiting for the stragglers to finish packing up.
Clark, Lois, Steve, a couple girls from other departments you don't know the names of.
Great. Cool. That won't be an awkward walk at all.
Though, you guess Clark isn't avoiding you anymore.
The revolving door has dragged a bit of snow in, the tiled ground wet with its melt. Stepping out into the chilly November night, you shiver instinctively.
Snow has been falling all day, a little softer now, little flurries that pass by and stick to your hair. The streetlights glow amber. The city is quieter under the muffle of fresh snow.
You keep your hands buried deep in your pockets. You end up at the back of the group.
It's a short walk to Crowley's, the dive bar Cat's chosen, so you don't mind too much. You're still the newest addition to the work group so you know how this goes.
Though, there had been some half-baked plan to stick by Jimmy's side. That idea clearly had been shared. The two girls whose names you don't know walk on either side, giggling easily.
Right. Because, somehow, Jimmy is the ladykiller of the office.
That had been surprising to find out — because if you had to pick anyone at a glance, you'd have put money on Clark.
Not that you would admit that. Aloud.
As you round the last block, you slide a little on an icy patch, stomach swooping. You curse under your breath, righting yourself a moment later.
Silently, and watching your feet more closely, you huff a sigh of relief, because wiping out with co-workers you're still getting to know ranks up there in terms of embarrassing.
You look back up, making sure you're still with the group — and lock eyes with Clark momentarily. He's looked back to check on you.
But then he's tugged back into conversation with Cat.
His head turns, showing an aggravatingly attractive side profile. You watch as his dimples appear with an easy smile, then subsequently curse yourself for finding them so endearing.
The chill has nearly made its way through your coat, so it's a relief to get down the stairs into Crowley's.
Inside, it's warm, crawling with heat that brings a flush to most everyone's faces.
A crowd of bodies fill the space, packed loosely. It's pretty busy for a Friday night.
Thankfully, Cat has had the forethought to book out one of the booths. You follow the single file of your group, filtering through the crowd one by one til you reach the back of the bar.
The booth fills up quickly, and in a matter of moments you realise there's only one seat left— the one next to Clark.
He looks at you still standing and blinks before giving you a hesitant, crooked smile.
You feel your treacherous heart give a lurch and damn it to hell. Then damn Clark for being as attractive and nice as he is.
You look at the seat again, considering.
Think of the flowers from Monday and his avoidance all week; think of the mess of your heart that only threatened to worsen when you got closer to Clark.
Yeah, you're gonna need a drink before that happens.
The wooden bar is sticky from spilled drinks— a fact you find out after placing your hand on it.
You pull it back with a frown, shaking your hand out with a quiet bleh! You make sure not to lean on it as you survey the scene before you.
Behind the bar, the bartenders look flustered. There's three of them, each moving with a pace that is both not fast enough and entirely unsustainable - making you extra thankful your retail days are behind you.
The wait gives you time to think. Gives you time to decide on exactly what you want to do tonight.
You'd been, for lack of a better word, moping for the better part of this week.
It had been an unsettling Monday, followed by a bout of paranoia that had you checking all your accounts.
Maybe you missed one; maybe there was something you'd forgotten.
You hadn't. Your ex was blocked on every single one of them, just as you'd left them a year ago.
It should appease your anxiety. Instead, it just makes it that much worse that he'd managed to figure out your exact desk.
The only regret you'd had with dumping the flowers, the only glimmer in your angry armour, was not taking the message card, hunting down each and every shop the brand had, and confirming your suspicions.
You decide that, between the flowers and the weirdness of Clark actually avoiding you back, you deserve a drink.
And an irresponsible hook-up.
Cat would forgive you — in exchange for the gossip.
Which is all good and well, because as you're done deciding, someone sidles up beside you, pushing through the crowd.
It's a man — a decent-looking one too, from what you can see.
He's tall, not quite as tall as Clark (shut up, brain), and he's got a beard that could probably be better taken care of.
But he's got a strong jaw and a decent head of hair. You can't tell what colour his eyes are in the dimness of the bar.
Eyes which fix on you for a moment.
Then he leans two arms up on the bar. "What's your poison?" He says, in lieu of a greeting, nodding in your direction. His voice is low.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say with a smile you don't quite feel.
You're testing the waters. Sue you, you like to play with your food a bit - see if they can handle you being a little mean.
"I would," the man says, turning more to face you. His eyes flick up and down, clearly checking you out. "That's why I asked, isn't it?"
It's a good enough response for you. You eye him up and down and decide, yeah, fuck it, you deserve this.
You know exactly the kind of guy he is.
He won't call you. The sex will be good… enough. It'll scratch the itch, leave you feeling probably a little shit about yourself.
Right up your self-deprecating alley for tonight. After all, misery does love company.
"Scotch." You say, in answer to his first question.
That makes his eyebrows raise. "Really? You can handle that, huh?" His eyes glitter darkly. "Didn't peg you for that kind of girl."
"You have no idea what kind of girl I am."
It comes out a little harsher than you're going for, but you blame it on the bad week chafing.
You go for a more simpering look to make up for it — but the man's eyes aren't on you anymore.
They're over your shoulder. You become aware of a sudden warmth behind you.
"Everything okay over here?"
You don't recognise the voice at first, as it's deeper than it usually is, but you don't even have to turn the whole way to know.
Striped tie, white button-up, broad shoulders.
Your simper turns into a scowl on a dime.
"Kent," you greet, through slightly gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"
Clark looks down at you, surprise showing on his face at your expression.
His 'tough' demeanor — tough your ass, Clark Kent doesn't have a tough bone in his body — melts under your glowering gaze.
"I'm— I was checking in." He stammers. He seems to shrink down a little, realising there seems to be a misstep somewhere.
"I don't need you to—"
"This guy your boyfriend or something?" The man at the bar interjects.
You whip back around, already blinking in shock. Boyfriend? How in hell did he make that jump?
"No," you say — at the same time Clark says, "Boyfriend?"
You shoot another glare over your shoulder because he isn't helping. It's too late.
You can tell the man has decided you're not worth the fuss, his hands raising up in a defensive motion.
"Look," he says. "Whatever you've got going on, I'm not getting in the middle of it. My bad."
You watch as he slips away from the bar, disappearing through the throngs of people, with a sinking feeling in your chest.
The moment he's out of sight, you tear around to face Clark. He at least hasn't fled the scene — which is more than you can say you would've done.
Your eyes scrunch closed, your hands raised in little claws of confusion. "What… just happened?"
Clark has the decency to look sheepish when you open your eyes, his shoulders rolled in, head hung low. "I thought he was harassing you."
"Harassing me?" You repeat, in a bit of disbelief. You'd love to know what hoops he jumped through to reach that conclusion. "I was flirting with him."
"Flirting?" Clark echoes. "You sounded mad at him!" He defends himself.
"Yeah? Well, do I sound mad at you?" You drop your hands, flexing them at your side. "Because I am! I can't believe you– you- ugh, that just cost me my hookup."
"Hookup?" Clark says — and oh my god, is there an echo in this bar?
You glance up at him, still confused, and notice there's a colour to his cheeks that wasn't there a second ago. "You were gonna sleep with him?"
Your jaw drops open an inch. Okay, yeah, he's from a small town in the South, you can excuse it a little bit.
But you hadn't expected him to be so tightly strung about this—especially considering it's none of his business.
You fold your arms tight across your chest. Clark gets an expression that embodies the word apprehension.
"Okay, Smallville, I don't know if you know, but it's 2025—"
Clark cottons on to exactly what he's said wrong, and though it seems impossible, his face flushes darker.
You barrel on, "—which means I don't need to be married to—"
"No!" He interrupts desperately. "That is not what I-! I would never insinuate that— I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose. You can… do as you wish…"
It ends on a feeble, quiet note as though Clark's realised all his problems tonight stem from talking too much.
He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still flaming.
He does seem genuinely remorseful — because he's so goddamn genuine in everything he does — that it softens you a bit. You know he would have had the best of intentions stepping in.
However, good intentions only go so far to dull your sharpened tongue.
"Yeah, well, thank you so much for your permission, Kent."
Clark's eyes shutter closed, an obvious regret rolling off him in waves. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep, I— I'm just sorry."
God, how are you in this situation — where your co-worker, who you begrudgingly think is hot, but also don't like much (liar, says your brain), scares off your hookup and gets called your boyfriend in one exchange?
Deciding you'd rather apologise with a bottle of wine to Cat, you do what you should've done at the beginning. You decide to go home.
You sigh, "I think I'm just gonna head out."
"Because of me?" Clark says, sounding incredibly guilty.
It must be contagious, because you suddenly feel quite guilty too.
He rolls on, pleading in his voice, "No, please don't. I'm sorry- I'll help you find another one, another, uh," He coughs awkwardly. "Hookup."
He nods, not at all confidently.
Somehow, you doubt that would go over well.
Though, the thought does amuse you — Clark going around the bar, politely tapping different gentlemen on the shoulder, asking their availability and then talking you up.
God, you can't imagine he'd have all that much to sell them on.
His expression reminds you too much of a kicked puppy to fib to him. "No, not because of you," you say with a soft sigh. "It's just been… a week."
Somehow, it's as though your words make him look guiltier.
Blue eyes wide, he swallows thickly. "Look, I know I likely contri—"
"Kent," you cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it. I'm just," you heave another sigh. "I'm taking this all as a sign. It's not my night."
You shove your hands in your pockets, already dreading the cold that awaits you outside. "Think you can apologise on my behalf to Cat?"
Clark, looking more downtrodden than you've ever seen him, gives a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that for you."
"Thank you," you say, lips pursed tightly. You nod awkwardly, already ready to excuse yourself through the crowd. "Goodnight, Clark."
He watches you go.
The cold keeps you company the whole long, lonely walk home.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
November rolls into December and cold, snowy weather gets pulled along with it.
Despite Jimmy's protests, Clark knows he was right to stick to his instinct — that you were thoroughly uninterested in him.
He loses himself in assignments, head down, as the whole office struggles to meet deadlines in the abysmal weather driving down morale.
The only light glistening at the end of the tunnel? The Daily Planet Christmas party.
It's held at this swanky ballroom, same as every year. The fanciness of the place is balanced out with its cozy decor, dozens of couches and cushy armchairs dotted around the place.
Wreaths and garlands are strung around in all the colours of Christmas, sparkling under the fairy lights.
There's holly in every corner, tinsel around the doorframes – and Clark's sure he's seen some mistletoe under one of the doors out to the balcony.
It's Christmassy in a way that reminds him of home.
Reminds him of Smallville, plaid bedsheets, and the smell of Ma's fresh apple pie.
He's only half hoping you'll come.
A half hope because it appears that whenever he has any interaction with you, it somehow ends with him inserting his foot into his mouth.
It was becoming a concerning pattern at this point – one that he was rather desperate to break.
Yet still, some other part of him – a larger part if he was really honest with himself – still wanted to see you here tonight.
Amongst friends, even if he wasn't one of them.
And it's that part of him that sighs, a wistful romantic sigh he really should work on containing, when you wander in.
It's only been twenty minutes since the party started, so you're not exactly late.
And Clark would be lying if he said he hadn't been counting each minute of it, his eyes checking the door each time it had opened and someone new wandered in.
As subtly as he can, he takes you in with another longing sigh.
There's snow in your hair and on your coat. You look a little peaky from the cold, but Clark can already see the good the warmth of the party is doing to you. There's a bit of glitter on your eyelids, a berry-red colour on your lips.
You look captivating.
Gosh, he's in deep. Clark curses himself and his gooey heart. Despite all his fumbles, all his missteps, he can't shake the crush just yet.
He will. He will. You're perfectly within your rights to rebuff and reject him – you don't owe him a single darn thing.
But feelings are silly things. No matter how respectful he might be of your own, there's no quick fix to get his own to fade.
And with the way you look tonight, enigmatic and beautiful, all at once, Clark knows he's far from getting over it.
Tucked away in a corner, waiting for Jimmy to return with some drinks for the both of them, Clark fiddles with his tie awkwardly.
It's one Ma sent for his birthday – spotted and autumnal in colour.
He's not sure if it's in style or anything that suits him, but his Ma bought it for him, so of course, he's going to wear it.
"Yo," Jimmy announces his arrival, both hands occupied with two cups that are nearly overflowing with eggnog. "My bad I took so long. Got caught up talking to Cassidy at the punch bowl."
Jimmy hands one cup to Clark – who takes it – and then he glances over his shoulder, back at the punch bowl.
With one hand free, Jimmy sends a little wave back to the drinks table, to Cassidy. She promptly bursts into flustered giggles.
Clark takes a sip of the eggnog, though he knows it won't have an effect on him in the slightest. He gives an awkward smile at Cassidy, attention back on Jimmy when he spins back with a sudden, renewed interest.
His eyes are wide, sparkling with a devious enthusiasm, like when he's picked up a new lead in an assignment.
The moment he speaks, Clark realises why.
"I think I know why y/n trashed the flowers."
Clark holds back a little groan. It's nice that Jimmy is still rooting for him, really, it is. But there comes a time when it needs to be put to rest.
"Jimmy–"
"No, Clark," Jimmy interrupts – and he's grinning a little in a way that catches Clark's attention properly. "I was so right about my sense. It was something else altogether. I think, if you– just, wait–"
He takes a chug of his eggnog as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, eyes fixed on it as he begins to hunt through.
A few clicks and then— he's holding it out towards Clark, showing a recognisable photo.
It's you – and another man, technically. But Clark hadn't been looking at that, just at the bouquet of flowers in your hands.
Marigolds and posies. You're smiling at the camera, but, looking a little closer, he can tell it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
"The photo you found, was it this one?" Jimmy asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.
Suddenly feeling a little timid, Clark shifts on his feet. Then nods. "Uh, yeah. Why does that matter?"
"Clark," Jimmy starts, phone still held out. "That's her ex. After what happened, I looked up her name, like you did. And look, I follow her, and these photos? Nowhere on her page."
He takes another fast sip of the eggnog, talking through his mouthful. "So I followed the thread, and all of those photos are on his. He just accepted my follow, just now. Look, he has all these photos up, but she's deleted them."
Jimmy's pulled the phone back, his thumb scrolling down the page on his screen.
Photos flash by, the dates stretching back, and you're in all of them – smiling stiffly, on his arm, looking like a completely different person.
"And," Jimmy adds on, drawing his hand back. He studies his phone intently, clearly looking for something in particular. "Look. Look. The day you sent them?"
He waits until Clark's squinting at the screen – taking in the date of the post in particular.
"It was on their goddamn anniversary."
Clark blinks, taking in the information. The realisation settles over him, feeling like a burst of sunlight amongst the snowy weather.
"She didn't know it was me who sent it." He murmurs more to himself, tasting the words, the understanding, as it melts on his tongue, sweeter than anything.
You hadn't known it was him.
You'd thought it was – your words suddenly ring back through his memory. Let's call it an unwanted advance.
An ex you've all but scrubbed from your life, clear you want to be rid of—an ex that still has all your photos posted, clearly holding on.
Gosh, no wonder you'd trashed the flowers in the manner you did.
Then you'd hunted for something to soothe the sting in the bar – just for him to ruin that too.
Oh, Clark thinks he might be the unluckiest fool in all of Metropolis.
Jimmy watches all the shades of Clark's realisation, pocketing his phone and trying not to look too smug. He fails horrendously.
"See, what'd I tell you?" He sips his eggnog again, brows raised a mile high. "Sensed it."
"She didn't know." Clark repeats, unknowingly clenching his cup of eggnog a bit too tight.
Did it get warmer in here? His tie suddenly feels too tight.
He blinks and looks down at Jimmy with a seriousness usually reserved for Superman affairs. "I have to let her know."
"Yeah, you do!" Jimmy says, giving an affectionate punch to Clark's shoulder.
It bounces off easily, and Jimmy hides his wince, giving his hand a delicate shake. "Universe working against you, I called it. There's still hope, man."
"Wha– Jimmy, no." Clark pivots, realising what his friend meant. "Look, what matters most is that she knows she isn't getting– getting stalked by an overbearing ex, okay? Not my feelings."
He thinks back to the bar, the fumbling interjection, the misread situation, the frustration in your face.
No, Clark had dug himself a big enough hole. It was time to put down the shovel.
Jimmy's expression grows serious, his brows pinched together.
"Look, Clark, you haven't tried just… telling her. How you feel. You've been so focused on these hints, these gestures, and look where it's got you."
Clark winces at the reminder, and an apologetic look settles over Jimmy's face.
"Sorry, sorry. Just – maybe being forward is the best thing here?" He offers, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. "Like, as far as we know, she could have no clue what your feelings are. Don't you think you should at least let her decide before you take away the chance?"
Clark sighs, glancing up from his eggnog to look across the room.
You're easy to spot, because Clark has so much practice, his eyes drawn to you easily.
Jimmy did, despite all his smugness, have a point.
"Fine," Clark says eventually, a sigh laced through it. He's crashed and burned through several interactions with you; what's one more? "Okay. I'll tell her."
An infectious grin spread across Jimmy's face like wildfire, his cheeks rosy from the eggnog that he's probably already had too much of.
Jimmy's a small guy. Him and liquor are an interesting equation.
"Attaboy!" He crows – going to sock Clark in the shoulder again, before he thinks the better of it. "Trust me, it'll go well. I can sense it."
Clark's pretty sure Jimmy's just talking it up to make him feel better – but if Clark pretends to believe it, he can use it.
He rolls his shoulders back, ditches his half-finished eggnog on a nearby table, and swallows nervously as he adjusts his tie.
Sure, yeah, Jimmy's sense was usually right. It's just a lot to hang on a usually.
Clark tries to haphazardly fix his hair, running a few fingers through the black curls. He hopes his cologne still lingers.
As he straightens out his sleeves, he looks back to Jimmy, nerves already rearing up. "Do I look alright?"
"Buddy," Jimmy says earnestly. "You look like a million bucks. Go get her."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Christmas parties aren't usually your thing.
Work events are a strange in-between social activity, where co-workers cross lines they never would at work, and you get the pleasure of seeing your boss in a tinsel bowtie.
Christmas jingles play all night, and the drinks are either not boozy enough or far too boozy.
Taking a sip of the punch you've served yourself, you cough a little, throat burning. Definitely on the too boozy side.
You silently pray no one witnessed that, taking a quick glance around, to quickly realise that at least one person did. Lois sidles up to your side, holding back her laughter with a smile.
"Don't say a word." you say a little hoarsely, before she can speak.
That makes her break, a laugh tittering out. She hides it behind her cup of punch.
"The punch has been taken over by Cat. If you'd been here earlier, I would've made sure to give you some warning."
She gives you a delicate nudge with her elbow. She looks beautiful tonight – a darker lipstick that she normally wouldn't wear to the office. Her blue eyes are darkened with make-up, her lashes long and spidery.
She comments idly, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it."
You decide you need another sip of punch so the honesty can slip out.
"I wasn't sure if I was gonna make it either, to be honest."
You glance around the party filled with your co-workers – and wonder if you'll ever truly shake the feeling of alienation. You know half of it is in your head. Yet, you've been at the Planet for months, and you still feel so new.
"Yeah, well, given you didn't stick around at Cat's drinks…" Lois trails off, and when you turn to her, she's fixed on you. Her eyebrows raise an inch.
She wants you to explain. You suppose that's fair.
Mulling over your thoughts, you think of how best to put it, when– "Was it because of Clark?"
You blink, a little surprised at her question.
"What?" Then, a beat too late. "No. No, it wasn't because of Clark."
Lois doesn't seem convinced by your answer, tilting her head with a little hum. "Mm, I saw him go up after you to the bar. Which, shortly after, you left."
You feel exposed that she witnessed your little spat with Clark. You'd hardly call it a spat though – it was more like, well-intentioned, incredibly nice Clark Kent stepped in and you snapped in his face.
You heave a sigh, thinking back to where you should start. The flowers?
Actually, now that you think about it, Lois never did tell you why Clark was avoiding you over that.
She beats you to the punch again, this time with a question that peels back all your layers. "You don't really like him, do you?"
She's not wrong, so why does the question bite?
Maybe the sting in your chest means she and you are both wrong.
You think over how much Clark has plagued your thoughts these last few months, how he'd managed to aggravate you, managed to draw your attention seamlessly.
He just… vexed you.
He's tall and handsome and so fucking nice — and he pushes your articles to the second page, gets all the Superman interviews, and, apparently, remembers you have a nut allergy.
He's– He's Clark!
You suck in a sharp breath. "What? No."
It sounds weak, even to your ears.
For some reason, that seems to irk Lois. She takes another sip of her drink, brows still raised at you over the rim of it.
"I don't get it," she says, after she swallows. "He's so nice. Like, chronically nice. Why is it such a chore for you to admit that he's a good guy?"
Something inside you stings and recoils at being called out for being unreasonable. Your excuses start tumbling out.
"Because I can't!" You hiss quietly. "Because– because he steals my front-page spots, and he gets all the exclusive Superman interviews. He rubs it in my face!"
Lois scrunches her face up a bit. "He doesn't steal them; Perry gives them to him." She states factually.
Which, yes, you know that Lois — but isn't she supposed to be on your side?
"And he can't control who Superman decides to talk to." She continues on, her tone nonchalant, easily picking all your gripes and dissolving them to nothing. "They have a relationship that allows Clark an in. It's a source the same as any other—you can't expect him to share that."
You huff, shoulders deflating, the wind thoroughly taken out of your sails by Lois' sound logic.
Of course she's right. Of course you're the stubborn idiot who can't let it go.
"Aren't you supposed to be on my side?" You whinge.
"There are no sides." She says with a smile and an affectionate roll of her eyes.
"Seriously, I think you're getting in your own way with this one. Why is it so hard to admit that you might have no real reason to dislike him?"
"Because-" The word gets stuck on your teeth. "Because he can't just be that nice! And if he is, and if I do admit it, then I have to admit how much I actually like him."
It comes out scathing — as if that can cover up the truth of what you've just revealed.
You don't even hear it until Lois's expression settles into something far too close to a smirk.
Oh shit. What did you just say?
"Wow," Lois says, blue eyes bright. "How much you like him? Do you… Do you have feelings for Clark?"
A preposterous idea. Positively ridiculous. Nonsensical.
No, you've never thought of Clark in that way—nor how great he would likely be at being a boyfriend.
You didn't think of how different he treated you compared to your last boyfriend, how much nicer he was to you, without the two of you even being friends.
Your denial is fast.
"No!"
Lois is faster.
"So you're just pretending you don't have feelings for Clark?"
"Yes!" You sputter, then realise exactly what you've just admitted. "No, I mean, no! Fuck, stop interviewing me right now, I'm- I'm not—"
Your words trail off into a lackluster sigh. You couldn't even kid yourself now, not with Lois' interrogation tactics shoving you into a spotlight.
You swallow, feeling the uncomfortable truth go down, burning like a gulp of the too-strong punch.
Clark Kent is nice. You like that he's nice. You like him – and there was zero chance in hell that he liked you back.
And you would rather tie yourself in knots than look that truth in the face.
"Okay, you know, this actually makes a lot of sense," Lois muses, more to herself than to you. She's staring at the floor, clearly turning things over in her head.
"Yeah–and yeah, but, then," she looks up, now graciously including you in the conversation again. "Why trash the flowers?"
You sigh again, the chafe of your ex coming up yet again wearing you down. "Look, my ex–"
Someone clears their throat behind you.
You watch Lois' expression as it changes from polite surprise to something far more knowing. A smile pulls on her lips.
"Hi, Clark," She says – and you feel a jolt of anxiety run through you.
God, is this the Christmas party from hell? You've barely been here 15 minutes, had your feelings for your fellow co-worker weaseled out of you by a different co-worker, and now he's here? Behind you?
God, you can't catch a break.
"Hi, Lois," he says as you slowly spin on your feet.
You go slowly, as though it might somehow, through divine intervention, change who's standing behind you.
No dice. Clark stands before you, in one of the most hideous ties you've ever laid eyes on, his attention fixed on you.
You swallow thickly. Think about saying hello, then decide nothing but a squeak will come out if you open your mouth, and save yourself the embarrassment.
It doesn't deter Clark.
In what looks like a nervous motion, he nudges his glasses up his nose and clears his throat.
"y/n. Might I talk to you for a moment?" He glances up to Lois, then back to you. "Privately."
Another jolt of anxiety, this one straight to your system. You feel your pulse pick up a bit, wondering what wicked deity above had it out for you.
Steeling yourself, you think: fine, let's rip this bandage off.
It sounds strong in your head, but your voice comes out as a croak when you say, "Alright."
Still, Clark nods.
He turns, and you, albeit reluctantly, follow him through the crowd, making sure to keep your distance. You don't look back at Lois, already picturing the expression on her face.
Ahead of you, Clark's eyes spy over his shoulder every couple seconds, as if checking you're still there. When he reaches the edge of the room, it's apparent he hadn't thought about what private place to take you to.
"Darn," he says, more to himself. "There isn't exactly…"
He trails off, eyes locking onto something, and you follow his gaze to the balcony door. You resist the urge to snort.
It'll be private for sure — no one else is foolish enough to brave the cold outside.
Clark glances back at you, an infuriatingly endearing expression that reeks of polite guilt. Yet still, he pushes forward, sliding the door open and stepping out into the snow.
You glance at the mistletoe hung over the balcony doorway and gather yourself with a slow inhale. Then bravely follow him out.
Outside is a whole different world.
Whiter than white, flurries of snow twirl about in the soft wind. You can see the street out here, a traffic light cycling through its rainbow of greens, ambers, and reds. There are cars on the roads too, yellow taxis and blue buses braving the slippery streets.
The sound of them is muffled against the snow, so much so that all you can really hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the balcony.
It's decently tucked away from the party, wrapped around the part of the building that none of your co-workers are really inhabiting.
Private, indeed.
Your breath comes out in a cloud before you. Really, you would've grabbed your coat if you knew you'd be facing the frosty climate again so soon.
Wrapping your arms tightly around your middle, you focus on the man you'd followed out here.
Clark, irritatingly, doesn't appear cold at all. In fact, his arms remain at his side, his hands clenched into tense fists.
You eye him up and down and prepare for the worst.
Rip off the bandage, Kent, you will him mentally.
"I want to apologise."
You blink. Huh?
"W-What?" It's so unexpected that you stumble over your response.
"I'm sorry," Clark says genuinely, then keeps going like he's on a roll, and if he stops he won't be able to get the words out. "I– it was meant to be a nice gesture, but, well, the wires got a little crossed. And I can see now, that was my fault. Really, I should've signed the card but I…"
Signed the card…? You know you must be looking very confused right now.
"I," Clark clears his throat, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "I was the one who sent you the flowers."
A dim realisation goes off, like a lightbulb at the very, very back of your head.
The card he should've signed; the flowers. The flowers! The flowers!?
The very ones you had very publicly, in front of the whole office, in front of Clark, trashed.
You can feel the confusion pulling at your face, contorting it to a bewildered expression.
There are a thousand questions.
One stands out.
"Why would you get me," You jab a finger into your own chest harshly. "Flowers?"
"Well, uh, originally to apologise for the macaroon incident in the break-room. But also because…"
Clark sucks in a deep breath, then stares up at the sky, as if gathering his strength. A few snowflakes find a home on his eyelashes. God, he's so pretty (shut up, brain), it's not even funny.
"Because I like you." He says, evidently nervous. "In a romantic sense."
Maybe when you came outside, you slipped on the ice and hit your head.
That must be it – this has to be some dazed dream from a knock to your head.
Because you could've sworn Clark Kent just told you… he likes you.
Romantically. As in, with romance in mind. He's crushing on you, so to speak.
Wants to hold your hand and kiss you on the mouth.
Unwittingly, you warm a little at the thought. It's overshadowed by the much, much stronger emotion: astonishment.
"You…" You can't help how the disbelief colours your words. "Like me?"
"Well, uh," Clark clears his throat, glancing up at the sky again nervously for a moment. He nods, finds your eyes, and speaks more surely this time. "Yes. Yes, I do."
Yes, you've hit your head. You're probably in the back of an ambulance, high on pain-meds, at this current second.
That, or Cat spiked the punch with magic mushrooms and you're experiencing a very, very vivid hallucination.
It doesn't compute.
"But I'm…" You struggle to find the right words. He can't like you. It just doesn't make any sense.
The words come out a bit opposing on instinct: "But I'm rude."
"You are not," Clark defends quickly, his brow furrowed. He pulls his hands out of his pocket to wave them around. "You're spirited."
"I'm distrustful." You counter.
What are you doing!
"You're protective!" Clark claims.
"I stole an assignment from under you in my first week at the Planet!" You say with indignation.
Internally, you reel at yourself. It feels like there are a thousand little gnomes running around wildly in your brain, bashing it with hammers.
Why, why, why are you trying to convince him not to like you?
"You needed to establish yourself as a writer." Clark says easily, with a shrug of his shoulders. "And it was a beautiful article, much better than how I planned to write it."
"I threw your flowers in the bin!" You remind him, a little more desperately now, despite the fact you very much did not know they were from him until about 70 seconds ago. "In front of you. And everyone else at work."
"You thought they were from an ex," Clark says with another shrug, far too understandingly. "Who you suspected was stalking you."
"I'm…" You're running out of things to say now.
How is he not flinching in the face of all your flaws? At all your ugly parts?
How have you done all this to keep him at arm's length, and he's still decided… still says he…
"I'm mean." You say firmly.
So why does it feel like your bottom lip is about to start trembling?
That for some reason makes Clark chuckle, a smile breaking out on his gorgeous face.
He shakes his head. "Well, that one is just plain untrue."
You stare at him for a long moment. He has an answer for all of it. He means it. He likes you.
"You really believe all that about me, don't you?" You ask, and it comes out a little awed.
Like his faith in the world, in people, is something you're finally seeing the size of — and you can't see past the end of it. It goes on forever. He really does think you're wonderful.
It makes a stone form in your throat. It doesn't matter what he thinks; you know how this ends.
Good intentions only get you so far—and whilst you've somehow convinced Clark you're worth it, you can't keep that up. Something will fracture. He'll get tired of something – of you.
"It doesn't matter," you say, a little bitterly, your eyes dropping to the ground. "It's- we— I couldn't."
Clark shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet. "Well, yes, if you don't feel the same way, I–"
You don't mean to cut him off, but a laugh, a nearly delirious, scornful one, bursts out of you.
You hadn't been looking at it, but Clark's confession slides your feelings right under the microscope – magnified and impossible to ignore.
You're laughing at yourself. For letting a pretty face and some niceness win over your best attempts to deny yourself this. You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair, clearly.
This is such a bad idea. Why do you still want it anyway? You're wildly torn, head and heart tied in a vicious battle. How do you have this and keep your heart safe at the same time?
"I," you begin, stammering to a stop. "Clark, you're– you're you! Of course, even when I was trying not to, I had… I had feelings for you."
There's a long moment. You worry your words have been swallowed up in the snow. You really don't want him to make you repeat it.
But he only asks, quietly, "Had?"
You want to laugh again — because you could probably have slipped that past anyone else. Not Clark.
"Have," you say, feeling pathetically exposed.
You can't look at him. You're studying the pile of snow building up on your shoes with intense interest, wondering how the hell this doesn't end wrong.
Part of you is still reeling from his confession, still churning out new disbelief. He likes you. He likes you.
"You say you couldn't." Clark says gently, making a very important distinction. "Did you mean… you wouldn't? Why not?"
"Me." You state plainly, finally looking up at him.
You gesture to your chest - to the big, gaping hole in your heart - like it's obvious, like he should be able to see it from freaking space.
"I'm why not. I'm—"
You cut yourself off to a mutter.
"It wouldn't be good. We'd go on one date and– and it'd go bad, or I'd mess it up, and you'd realise what everyone else already knows. And then we'd have to be awkward co-workers for the rest of time. Which, if you think before was bad, let me tell you, it can get worse."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes studying the ground, and you think, with half relief and half devastation, that you've convinced him.
Oh god, please don't have convinced him.
You feel like your heart's on a string, and you keep tangling it up, then giving Clark the knot—waiting for the one he can't undo.
Waiting for the problem too difficult, the one that's finally not worth the effort.
"Maybe," Clark says eventually, with an even shrug, and your heart sinks.
Plummets. You wanted this; you wanted this – you can't be this devastated.
And then he says, "I can't promise the date will be good, but…"
Your heart soars again, tugged up your throat. You look across the balcony at him, and you can barely feel the chill of the wind anymore.
"I know that I like you enough that I'd like to try."
Your gaze shifts to stare at the ground, hard, because you don't think you can take something that genuine head-on.
God, he really gives a shit about you. Like, he really likes you, the full ten yards, and everything. How did that happen?
You can do this. Can you do this?
He wants to take you on a date. You're spirited, protective, a bit too harsh sometimes, and Clark has looked at that whole package and said, That's the one I want.
You've been helpless at denying yourself this whole time. Really, what's one more time?
Despite the part of you that screams about how it could all go wrong, you grip the hopeful part of you that sings, What if it all goes right?
Shit, is that itchiness behind your eyes? Are you about to cry?
You sniffle and give yourself away in one sound.
"I haven't been on a date in a while." You admit very quietly, letting yourself open up just a crack. "I might not be very good, uh, company."
You hear the snow crunch as he steps closer, closing the distance between you. The balcony suddenly seems so much smaller.
You force yourself to be brave, to look up — and you're instantly rewarded with a smile you've never seen before.
Clark is beautiful when he's happy—grinning with the radiance of the summer sun.
You realise you've never really had that grin directed at you. For you. Because of you.
"That's okay," Clark says, closer to a whisper. It sounds like he really means it. "We can figure out a good date together. Whatever you wanna do."
God, he looks gorgeous out in the snow. It eddies around you, carried by the wind, and even with the cold, it feels like a part of you has finally thawed out.
You might not get to have this – but you get to try. And that's enough.
Clark huffs, a happy sound, opening his mouth to speak when–
"Yo!"
A loud rapping on the glass door startles you both, whipping towards the sound in an instant.
It's goddamn Jimmy Olsen.
He's holding a cup of the eggnog, and you can spot a bit that he's spilled down his front.
His cheeks boast the warmth of indoors – or maybe it's just the booze of his drink. You and Clark both blink at him, bewildered by his interruption.
"Mistletooooooe!" He points above the balcony doorway, at the one you'd remembered seeing as you passed under it.
It stretches the rules a bit — you and Clark aren't under it — though you have a feeling Jimmy doesn't care about that in the slightest.
His voice is a bit muffled through the glass, but you can clearly make out what he says as he yells, "Them's the rules!"
You fluster a little, turning back to Clark – who, adorably, looks much the same.
"He's drunk," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And he's been listening to me try to woo you for months, so," he coughs awkwardly. "Excuse him."
Only Clark Kent would use the word woo and mean it with complete sincerity.
The other words catch up. Months. Months, he said.
How did you deserve this?
It’s a small voice in your brain you’re becoming very unfond of. Shaking off your past, you decide, at least for tonight, you're done with that question.
You step a little closer, close enough to feel the fan of Clark's breath over your skin.
He smells like bergamot, something musky, and a spiced Christmas pie.
"It's the rules, right?" You say, a little breathier than you intend.
But Clark is watching you closely, pink colouring the apples of his cheeks. His beautiful mouth is pulled into a hopelessly endeared smile, his dimples showing.
He's looking at you like you're all he wants.
"Right," Clark breathes, the word barely audible.
You can hear it just fine, because it's a murmur that passes his lips as he leans down, nearing your lips.
He hesitates. You know it's because he wants you to be sure you want this so soon. You've think you’ve wasted enough time already.
Pressing up on your toes, you grip him by his unsightly tie, and – for the first time in months – you meet him midway.
And with his lips against yours, soft, warm, entirely dedicated to kissing you breathless?
You can't even feel the cold anymore.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
ok my loves i'm posting this thang so i can get OUTTA here and start watching me show :) i hope it is enjoyed!! @citrinesparkles @sparklingsin are the two peeps i know would like to be tagged and my usual frends @spideystevie @djarinova @brettsgoldstein @strangerstilinski, i relinquish this the tumblr void & hope it doesn't flop :P
SUMMARY: Rossi has to face his own past when the new case reminds him of you - a girl whose parents' murder he had once investigated. When the unsub sets his sights on you, both you and Rossi have to accept that you've always been each other's family. That revelation puts Spencer in a tight spot. A veteran FBI profiler is hardly an agreeable father-in-law.
In short: Rossi kind of has a daughter, Spencer is kind of in love and you're kind of in trouble.
WORDCOUNT: ~ 6k (idk what happened)
Rossi can't remember the last time he felt so sick. It isn't just the twisting, piercing feeling in his stomach that brings back memories of suspicious food. As something deep inside his chest clenches painfully, the man continues to look at the pictures inside the folder. His hands tremble noticeably.
The features, the eyes, the hair - all of it seems too familiar for his liking. The victims look just like you. Not to mention, they live around the same neighbourhood in Manhattan.
He looks at his watch again. Is eighty minutes really such a long stretch of time? Every minute he spends on this god forsaken jet is another minute he’s not watching over you. Those bastards need less than a minute to grab someone and take them away. He could already be late…
Hotchner easily picks up on Rossi’s agitation.
“What’s wrong?”
Rossi tosses the file on the table and lets out a ragged sigh. His eyes flicker towards the window. Glass skyscrapers and baux-arts buildings peek from behind milky clouds. Somewhere out there is the unsub and you. Hopefully miles apart.
“Have you heard of Anthony Beauford?” Rossi asks, his gaze returning to Hotchner.
Aaron is staring back at him with a stern expression. Metaphorical cogs inside his head are turning swiftly, as he’s trying to listen to what David isn’t saying. ‘Profiler profiling a profiler’ sounds like a drama school exercise.
“Tony the Executioner,” Spencer chimes in. He was just leaving the bathroom when he heard the conversation. ”Kidnapped, tortured and killed seventeen couples in less than two years. During his interview, he claimed he was saving children from their ‘evil foremen’. His parents, James and Caroline Beauford, used to prostitute Anthony in exchange for drug money.” Only after sharing a piece of his vast knowledge does Spencer realise something. “Rossi, you worked that case, right?”
“I did.” His voice doesn’t carry pride, only shame. “Caught the bastard but I was too late.” He shakes his head, ever so slightly. Old disappointment resurfaces. “The couple was dead. They left behind a daughter.”
Hotchner glances at the macabre pictures inside the folder. The connection is obvious.
“And she looks just like the victims,” Aaron says the quiet part out loud.
“Lives in the same area, too,” Rossi adds. There’s no point in hiding the truth from his colleagues. Whether he wants to or not, they will find out anyway.
“You kept in touch with her?” Spencer asks. His question is more out of surprise, rather than uncertainty. David wouldn’t know where you live if he didn’t call you every now and then.
“She was just a kid,” Rossi explains. As though these five words could absolve him of any crime he could have accidentally committed.
“All of them were,” Hotchner argues. “Seventeen orphans but you care only about this one.”
Rossi doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the skyline of New York outside the window. The buildings grow bigger as the jet lowers its flight. You’re so close, yet so far away from him.
“She wasn’t like other kids,” he speaks up after a while. “Sure, she did cry and miss her parents but she did something no one else did.” Rossi’s gaze returns to the two men in front of him. “She said she forgives me.” Hotchner’s and Spencer’s sudden change in expression makes David think back to that conversation with you. He’s quite sure he also made an equally confused face. “That it’s okay because even Spider-Man couldn’t save Uncle Ben and I’m no superhero.” An airy chuckle brushes past his lips. “I couldn’t just move on and forget her, not after that.”
Something shifts in the way Aaron is looking at Rossi. What used to be suspicion is now a profound understanding. Fathers have a curious, innate ability to recognise other fathers through the smallest tics.
“I know you want to keep her safe, Dave.” Hotchner’s tone is surprisingly soft. “I would do the same thing for Jack.” The man exhales, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knows that Rossi won’t like what he’s about to say. “But right now, she might be our best lead to catch the unsub.”
“Hotch is right,” Spencer interjects before Rossi can dismiss the suggestion. “If he’s after similar-looking women from the same neighbourhood, she might know him already.”
David looks between Spencer and Hotchner, weighing his chances at convincing them otherwise. His shoulders fall as he sighs. As much as he doesn’t like it, Rossi knows that they are right.
“And we will ask her about that,” he says. “After we get her someplace safe.”
Hotchner nods in response. In some cases, compromise is the best you can get. One of those is children.
You’re watching the world outside the shop window with a fond smile on your face. Living in a big city can be tiring and intimidating but there’s always a silver lining: Manhattan doesn’t wait, it doesn’t crumble. If you take a day longer to respond to an email or ask for an extension on your manuscript, the Big Apple will continue as it always has. Even when you feel that the world is shattering under your feet, the rats of New York still squeak and dine in garbage cans. As long as Manhattan moves on, maybe you can too.
A ringing phone pulls you away from your thoughts and back into reality. As you look at the caller ID, you can’t help but sigh in contentment. You pick up the phone, happy to talk to him. Like you always are.
“Hey, Dave! What-”
“Where are you?”
The question stumps you. As does the demanding tone of his voice. It’s more of an order than an inquiry.
“I’m at Bread & Batter, as usual,” you answer slowly. Your eyebrows furrow. “What’s going on?”
“Can you look around the shop?” he continues. Still unsure what to make of this bizarre phone call, you lift your gaze, searching the crowd. “Is there anyone suspicious? Maybe someone you recognise? A regular, maybe?”
Trying to look candid, your eyes trace every face within your sight. Nothing in particular grabs your attention. The girl who works Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays is remaking sandwiches. The boy who usually works with her and makes obvious passes at the girl is wiping down a table. The square-jawed man with thick glasses is drinking an americano, typing on his computer and handwriting notes once in a while. There is also a woman, probably in her 40s, who always wears something red. She’s sitting at the same table she always does and nibbles away at the crepe cake she always gets. The recent addition to familiar faces is a man around your age, probably a university student. He keeps absentmindedly stirring his chai tea while reading a thick textbook. Nothing about the customers is suspicious - at least in layman’s understanding of the word.
“There are a few regulars and the staff,” you say. Most of these people you know from sight but have never learnt their names. “Everything’s normal. Why are you asking?”
“I need you to stay there, no matter what happens.” There’s a tremble to David’s voice but you assume it’s just a quirk of technology. Everyone sounds a little different over the phone. “Don’t talk to anyone,” he stresses. “Do you understand?”
You can’t help but look around you once again. Your gaze meets that of the man at his computer. He gives you a polite, though awkward, smile and nods as a way to acknowledge your familiar presence. On any other day, you would slightly raise your glass as a silent greeting. Today, however, you cower away. Your eyes flicker back to the street on the other side of the window. Suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable, you make a futile attempt at burrowing yourself further into your corner booth. In a city of millions, you find yourself too visible.
“You’re scaring me, Dave.” Your voice is quiet, fearful. Could someone be eavesdropping on your conversation? “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, kid. It’s just…” He hangs his voice. The moment of silence makes your heart race. People don’t do that when they deliver good news. No, they need a second to think about how to sugarcoat reality. “You fit the type of a bad guy we’re looking for,” Rossi says, his voice strangely flat. He means to hide his true emotions, accidentally sounding robotic. “Everything will be okay, I promise.” Words spoken in a soft tone calm you down slightly. Somehow, he could always talk you down from panicking. “Just stay put and don’t go anywhere until I get there, alright?”
“Okay,” you whisper.
“If anything happens, I’m just a phone call away.”
Nervous and confused, you fail to stop your half-hearted joke from slipping out:
“Just don’t take a coffee break on your way.”
You hear an airy chuckle on the other side of the phone. David has told you many times how strange and wonderful it is that your reaction to a crisis is cracking bad jokes. In his words, ‘crisis exhibits people’s true character’.
“I don’t like coffee breaks without you, kid,” Rossi says before the call is disconnected.
You squeeze the phone in your hand. The only thing you have to do is wait for David to show up. He is worried, so he will surely come as fast as he can. You just have to stay put. That’s easy, very doable. There’s nothing to be afraid of when you’re in a public place, waiting for someone. After all, this isn’t the first time he’s rushing to get to you. He’s yet to be too late, to leave you hanging.
Everything will be fine, like he said. You just have to wait.
Despite your relentless questions, Rossi is more than reluctant to indulge you with any specifics regarding the murders. He doesn’t see the point in letting you know what the unsub does to his victims, before and after their death. This doesn’t concern you in any way because you will never be close enough for the man to hurt you. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.
Walking through the precinct, you feel his hand against your back, nestled between your shoulder blades. Rossi is gently guiding you through the mob of policemen, family members and potential witnesses. Always a step behind you, he has the perfect view of anyone coming into your vicinity. One of the officers comes up to him but before he can say anything, David barks out a ‘not now’.
Entering the conference room, you’re met with curious eyes studying you from head to toe. Five FBI agents, suddenly frozen in time. Like a lodge of judges, they seem to be deciding your fate. Looking past their unreadable expressions, you see a large glass board. Something is scribbled in different coloured pens. The random words mean nothing to you. Your focus shifts to pictures. At first, it’s hard to discern what is shown in the photographs. There’s mostly beige, brown and red. The longer you stare at the pictures, the more you realise what you’re actually looking at - body parts.
“My God,” you whisper. “Are those-”
A woman with shoulder-length dark hair circles her arm around your shoulders and turns you around to look at Rossi and the busy policemen behind the door to the conference room.
“You don’t want to know, believe me,” she says. Seeing her hardened expression, you’re inclined to trust her words.
Rossi gives you an apologetic look. There’s almost a sense of pity in his dark eyes. He might not say it but you have a pretty good guess what he’s thinking about - he thinks it’s unfair that you have to go through this mess again. To feel like there’s a beast stalking you in the shadows. Only this time, he will make sure he has the upper hand.
“You stay here,” Dave orders, “I’ll bring you something to drink.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he answers casually, before leaving the room and disappearing among rushing policemen.
Unsure what else to do, you sit down at the table. From what you know, and that isn’t a lot, the only danger this killer poses to you is strictly theoretical. Sure, you do look like his victims and live in the same area but you would notice a maniac stalking you, right?
The tense silence continues for a minute or two. The rest of Rossi’s team doesn’t know how much he’s told you or how much he’d want you to know. They look between themselves, quietly deciding what to do now. Do they carry on as though you weren’t there? Or should they immediately start questioning you?
The short period of indecisiveness ends when Spencer shows you a photograph of a familiar face:
“Hey, do you know a guy named Mike Simmons?”
The answer is stuck in your throat as your gaze slides off the picture and focuses on Spencer. You know his name only because Rossi once mentioned that you would probably get along with him. What Dave forgot to mention, however, was that Spencer Reid is unfairly pretty. The soft brown eyes, slightly parted pink lips, and coiffure of dishevelled hair. Despite his anxious demeanour, you notice the quiet strength residing somewhere deep inside him, put to slumber until danger appears. You know that type of man: rarely defends himself but will put his life on the line for others, no hesitation or questions asked. Unfortunately for you, it’s this very kind of man that makes your knees weak. Maybe it’s good that you’re sitting.
“That’s her neighbour.” Rossi’s voice makes you tear your eyes away from Spencer and look towards the glass door. “Lives one floor below, apartment number seven,” he continues, while putting a paper cup of coffee and a chocolate bar in front of you. You’re surprised to notice that he remembers your favourite brand. “His brother, Patrick, was arrested several times for domestic violence.”
You look at Dave with squinted eyes. Rossi may be a federal agent and a fantastic profiler but he’s not an oracle.
“How do you know that?” you probe, crossing your arms on your chest. Curious glint dances in your eyes. “Dave, are you cyberstalking me?”
His eyebrow quirks as he hears the question. “I have better things to do, kid,” Rossi answers. He almost sounds believable. “I only asked our technician to make sure you live around good people.”
You nod slightly, pondering his words. If it were anyone else, you’d be calling the police. The fact that it’s Dave looking out for you, even if he doesn’t have to, makes comfortable warmth spread through your body. Maybe guardian angels do exist?
“I don’t know if that’s extremely invasive or extremely nice,” you say.
“Yeah, dads tend to be like that,” the dark-haired woman chimes in. She and two other men exchange amused looks.
“A dad would beat that guy with a baseball bat,” Rossi argues. “I didn’t.”
“But you thought about it.”
“That’s not a crime.”
Jokes and niceties end there. What follows is two hours of detailed questions, often unconnected. Someone asks about work colleagues and then another person inquires about the clothing brands you wear. It’s beyond your understanding how those pieces of information can help them catch a murderer. Even so, you brave through the almost-interrogation. Every now and again, Rossi asks if you want a break. You keep telling him you’re fine, but he seems to believe he knows better. After every thirty minutes, he makes others leave you alone for a moment. It’s in those short pauses when he lets his strong resolve slip. For just a second, you can see the sadness inside him. He doesn’t have to say anything; you know it - Rossi would do anything to have you safe and sound in your apartment, blissfully unaware of the madness surrounding you.
Little did you know, the invasive questions were only the beginning of the second-longest night in your life:
“Absolutely not!”
Rossi’s words are the first thing you hear after returning from the bathroom. You were gone for no longer than five minutes and yet the calm conference room has suddenly turned into a war zone.
“This might be our only chance to catch him,” argues the man in the suit. His unmovable stoicism is unnerving.
You feel a warm hand being gently placed on your shoulder.
“Maybe we should ask the girl in question, boys?”
Everyone’s eyes turn to look at the dark-haired woman beside you. It’s impressive how easily she can command a room full of men.
“Me?” you ask sheepishly, still confused about the topic of the conversation. Why would they be talking about you and catching someone?
“You’re a smart one, sweetheart,” begins the dark-skinned man. “I’m sure you’ve figured out that you share a lot of characteristics with the other victims. We think that this unsub is already aware of you, probably watches you and a few other girls. Our best chance to arrest this guy is to catch him red-handed. You can help us with that.”
“You don’t have to do it, kid,” Rossi chimes in. Judging by the tone of his voice, he means you can’t or shouldn’t do it. Anything that puts you in harm’s way is stepping over the line.
“I know,” you answer.
Silence fills the room again. Their eyes are fixed on you, waiting for the answer. The prospect is terrifying but you know you won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t even try to help out. Not every girl on the block has a grumpy FBI agent looking over her shoulder. A personal tragedy brought you a guardian angel with a goatee but it’s not a fair exchange. People shouldn’t go to pits of Hell just to find a sense of safety and belonging.
“Can you promise me that I’ll be fine?” you ask. “That you’ll be close by all the time?”
“Hey, kid, look at me.” The dark-skinned man gives you a soft, yet confident look. He gives the impression of someone who doesn’t back out of a fight. He may not start them but he always finishes them. “I promise that not a single hair will fall from your head.
“Alright,” you say under your breath. “I’ll do it.”
Rossi immediately starts walking in your direction. “I’ll go with you.”
“No.” The commanding voice of the suit-wearing man makes David stop in his tracks. “If you visit her regularly, the unsub definitely knows you. Reid will go.”
“M-me?” Spencer repeats, vaguely pointing his index finger at himself.
“If you let anything happen to her,” Rossi warns in a stern tone, “I’ll bring that baseball bat.”
Spencer only manages to answer ‘yes, sir’ in an absent voice. Something about the way he clenches his jaw makes you think that he knows Dave isn’t just joking. The baseball reference might be amusing but the sentiment remains unchanged: if Spencer is anything but perfect at his job tonight, he will wish it were the unsub who gets their hands on him.
Standing on the balcony, you close your eyes. Cool breeze fans against your shivering skin. Your ears are filled with music from nearby bars, laughter of drunk friends and late commuters losing their patience. There’s a distinct smell in the air, one you could never name. It’s the fragrance of millions of lives carrying on, of tears shared by strangers on the subway and of street vendors opening up their small business as the nightlife goes into full swing. Maybe the smell belongs to the very spirit of the city, the unmistakable genius loci of New York.
A smile appears on your lips as you take in a deep breath.
You open your eyes when you feel a jacket being placed around your shoulders. The soft padding tickles your exposed skin.
“You looked cold,” Spencer says in a low voice. Only now do you realise how close he is to you, as his warm breath brushes against your neck and cheeks.
“Thank you.” You can only hope that the dim twilight hides your blush from him. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
His hands remain on your shoulders. With each of his breaths, you can feel his chest against your back.
“Yeah, I guess it has… its charm.”
You look up to meet his gaze and immediately regret it. Low lights of the street glisten in his brown eyes, making them look almost gold. Cold wind tugs gently at his curls, swaying them to the ever-unchanging rhythm of the ocean. The yellow hue from your living room lamp gathers around his head, creating something resembling a halo. Is this what the artist saw before painting his first angel?
“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” You try to hide your fluster with a giggle. If Spencer is aware of your ruse, he doesn’t let on. “Look, if you lean just right over the railing-”
A strong arm wraps around your waist before your head can leave the safety of the balcony. “Maybe don’t do that.” Spencer pulls you back against him. “I’d like to avoid Rossi with a baseball bat, if it’s all the same to you.”
For a moment, you wonder if he knows how hard he’s making things for you. Can he feel your heart rapidly thrumming against your ribs? Can he hear his own name being called in the breath he so easily steals from you?
“Fine, then you lean over.” You feign indifference. Grown women shouldn’t lose their heads for some guy they’ve known for less than a day. Then again, Spencer isn’t just ‘some guy’, is he? “If your head is far out enough, you can see it.”
Spencer strategically pushes you behind him. With one hand propping him up against the railing, he cranes his neck as far as possible.
“Is that the Brooklyn Bridge?” he asks. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume the strange uptick in his voice is awe.
“One and only.”
The quiet moment doesn’t last long. Spencer seems to notice something in the street below. He gets up immediately, pushing you further into your home.
“You know, maybe we should go back inside,” he says, still staring at whatever caught his attention.
He closes the balcony door and locks it. Checks the lock twice, then pulls the curtains. Just to make sure no one can get inside this way, Spencer puts a chair against the door. The back of it prevents the handle from being pushed all the way. Turns out there’s some truth to action movies.
The two of you stand there, in the middle of your living room. Unsure what to do now. Having a cute guy all to yourself would be great in any other circumstances. The longer you stay idle, the more awkward this situation will become. Remembering that Rossi thought you’d get along with Spencer, you start looking around your apartment. What can a genius FBI agent have in common with you?
Your gaze falls on the shelves right behind Spencer. Black-and-white casings litter the wall from the floor to the ceiling. There may be a way to make this strange arrangement more comfortable and the hours of the night to pass faster.
“You wanna watch something?” you ask him. “I have an embarrassingly large collection of old movies.” Flustered, you point at the shelves behind Spencer.
Curious, he turns around only to let out a surprised gasp. He definitely saw the wall of cassette tapes when he entered but now he can really look at it.
“Kurosawa, Hitchcock, Huston, Curtiz,” he reads the labels. “Biggest names of the New Deal Era.”
“Spoken like a true connoisseur,” you nod in approval. “So, Casablanca or The Maltese Falcon?”
A half-grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. If it wasn’t for the brown doe eyes staring at you, you’d say Spencer looks cocky. “Humphrey Bogart fan?”
“I guess I like handsome men with firearms,” you tease.
The comment must strike a chord in his heart as Spencer stands still. He blinks quickly, finally realising that he does, in fact, fall into that category. He desperately wants to say something and keep up with your banter but he remains quiet. As much as he likes where your thoughts are going, he very much dislikes the idea of Rossi finding out.
Against his better judgment, Spencer sits down on the couch next to you. If only his body allowed him, he’d sit on the opposite end. His yearning heart, however, sat him right beside you, thigh brushing against thigh. The opening scene rolls when he feels your head against his shoulder. A comforting smell of lilac and vanilla takes over his senses. How weird would it be if he just stuck his nose in the crook of your neck and drowned in that fragrance?
The movie continues but Spencer can’t focus on anything happening on the screen. His mind is occupied by you. He’s all too aware of the way your body is positioned against his. Treading the waters, Spencer puts his arm around your shoulders. You respond immediately, tucking in even closer to him. Your head fits just right under his chin.
You feel a strange sensation as though someone is watching you. Maybe you’re just starting to be paranoid, or maybe there’s more to it. In any case, you lift your eyes from the screen. You’re expecting to see Spencer’s profile, his attention on the TV but the view is a lot nicer - he’s already staring down at you when your gazes meet. The tips of your noses brush ever so gently with each breath.
“Not watching the movie?” You whisper.
“Can’t focus,” he answers, voice equally low.
“What are you thinking about?”
His fingers trace faint circles on your arm. Those brown eyes stare at you with purpose, as though Spencer is attempting to read your mind. If he could, he’d probably see only himself.
“How much I want to risk getting my head bashed in with a baseball bat.”
A giggle escapes your lips. Spencer can’t help but smile at such a sweet sound.
“If it hurts, I will kiss it better,” you promise.
Spencer’s other hand trails up your thigh before its fingers find your jaw. He’s caressing you softly, still debating whether he should indulge himself. What if the baseball bat wasn’t rhetorical?
Any doubt he might have disappears when he feels your soft lips against his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. His thoughts turn fuzzy and, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t possibly string a coherent sentence.
With a firm, yet gentle hold on your jaw, Spencer presses his lips against yours. He inhales deeply, the smell of lilac and vanilla not only surrounds him, but penetrates his very spirit. Fixing the angle, he kisses you deeper. A strange hunger pulsates inside him, its greed only growing with each stolen peck. You let out a whine and Spencer takes that as the highest form of approval. He pushes his knee between your thighs, forcing you to lie on your back underneath him.
Breathless and completely smitten, you need to use all of your willpower to turn your head to the side. While you’re trying to catch your breath, Spencer isn’t so keen on taking a break just yet. His lips leave warm, wet kisses along your jaw and neck.
The sound of your giggle makes him suddenly stop, if just to look at your angelic, blissful face.
“You’re definitely getting that baseball bat,” you whisper.
Spencer laughs along with you.
“I’ll worry about that later,” he breathes out against your ear before continuing his ministrations.
Before the moment can get any more explicit, someone knocks on the front door. Heavy, angry bangs echo through the dimmed apartment. Spencer and you immediately stop your affections, exchanging worried looks.
“I’m not expecting anyone,” you say.
“Except for the unsub,” Spencer adds.
“You think it’s him?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
He gets off you and stands up from the couch. Before Spencer can take another step towards the front door, you grab him by the shirt.
“Wait.” That panicked tone of your voice makes him consider cradling you in his arms again. You will definitely be safe if the unsub has to shoot him first. “You’re not actually going to open the door for a deranged murderer?”
As gently as he can, Spencer pries away your trembling hands. He gives them a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s either that or Rossi’s baseball bat,” he attempts to joke. The humour falls flat as you notice his own anxiety.
You don’t think it’s important at the moment to tell Spencer that Dave does not, in fact, own a baseball bat. When everything is over and both you and Spencer are okay, then you’ll tell him. Surely, the two of you will laugh about it and soon forget about the joke.
The banging on the door repeats. This time, the hits are even stronger, making the pane bend under the pressure.
“I know you’re in there!” comes a scream from the other side of the door. “I just wanna talk, sweetie!”
Still sitting on the couch, you curl your body into the tiniest ball possible. Maybe if you tuck your knees a little closer to your chest, you could simply disappear. You would find yourself in some faraway place, where the man behind the door can never reach.
“Let. Me. In!” He punctuates his howls with forceful bashes against the door.
With a weapon drawn, Spencer stands in the hallway. He’s standing right in the middle of the distance between you and the unsub. Each bang on the door makes him jump slightly. Whoever is trying to get inside doesn’t sound like a man possible to kill with just one bullet. Spencer will have to take his chances.
“Hey,” he calls out. “You want to talk to that girl who lives here, right?”
The banging suddenly stops. After all this commotion, silence should be welcome but it feels rotten through and through. This is the calm before the tsunami.
“Who the Hell are you?” answers a hoarse voice behind the door.
“I’m uh…” Spencer hangs his voice. With a quick look over his shoulder, he checks up on you. Curled up on the couch, you look like a wounded animal, begging to be spared. “I’m her boyfriend.”
Silence.
Then, a crash.
The front door bursts open as a large, burly man stumbles inside. He roars in a way so inhuman, blood curdles in your veins. Whoever barged into your home is not a person - hasn’t been for a long time. Even though he looks identical to the maintenance man who always greets you and warns you when the weather gets cold.
Spencer knows that words are futile. Wasting no time, he shoots the unsub straight in the chest. The man stumbles, falls on one knee. He stares at the dark spot on his black t-shirt. Blood seeps through the material, quickly spreading. Still, he manages to get back up on his feet. Another shot is fired, this time into the intruder’s back.
The unsub falls on the ground. Any other person would surely be dead but as he’s proven already, he can take much more than an average man. The corpse, like a boutique mannequin, lies motionless. Black puddle spreads across your hallways at a terrifyingly quick pace. Screams, footsteps and sirens all merge into one uproar. A painful ringing fills your ears, accompanied by rhythmic echoes of rushing blood.
You can’t feel your hands or your feet. Everything is terribly numb. Has it always been so cold in here?
Spencer’s face appears before you. His lips are moving but you can’t hear a word he says. You see his eyebrows furrow with worry.
“I want my dad,” you choke out.
He continues to stare at you in confusion. You’re not entirely sure what he finds so hard to understand about your wish. Then, his face lights up, as though some divine force granted him the understanding of basic English.
You feel your lips moving against your will. They form the same four words over and over again but you don’t know if you’re actually saying them out loud. The ringing is deafening.
Time seems to slow down as you’re watching Rossi rushing to you. He holds you close against his chest, shielding you from the macabre scene taking place in your hallway. Your face is hot and wet. When did you start crying?
The ringing in your ears slowly subsides as you begin to make out hushed promises:
“I’ve got you, kid. I’ve got you. Everything is alright, you’re safe with me.”
Feeling circulation return to your extremities, you put your arms around Rossi’s neck. One of his hands is caressing your back in soothing motions, while the other firmly holds your head against his shoulder. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t look at the intruder’s body. Here, in this little cage of Rossi’s doing, you feel small and vulnerable. Strangely enough, it isn’t scary. It feels good to let him see you so raw and helpless.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Spencer standing behind the couch. Apologetic, glossy eyes don’t dare leave you for a second. Fearfully, he reaches out to you. His fingers brush against your shoulder blade.
Rossi looks at this little sign of affection with reasonable suspicion. He looks between Spencer and you, quickly realising just what had happened before the fatal confrontation.
“I don’t need to give you all that fatherly talk, do I?” Rossi asks, watchful eyes glued to Spencer.
“What-” Confused, Spencer gives him a doe-eyed look. “What fatherly talk?”
“The baseball bat rule,” the dark-skinned man chimes in. He doesn’t even try to hide his amusement. “You break her heart, he breaks your neck.”
Spencer’s expression falls, his already pale face turns into a shade of grey. It turns out that the rhetorical baseball wasn’t rhetorical after all.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I, uh…” Spencer trails off, trying to gather his thoughts after one of his colleagues just promised to maim him. “I think we should get her out of here.”
As much as Rossi is reluctant to have you out of his sight when you’re in such a fragile state, he knows it’s for the best. Besides, he doesn’t actually want to bash Spencer’s head in. That means he needs to delegate somebody else to take care of you. In some way, Rossi is glad that this somebody is none other than Spencer Reid. Any other man might not realise what it means to Rossi to leave you vulnerable.
“Come on, kid,” he whispers into your ear. “Go with Reid, he’ll take care of you.”
For the second time that day, Spencer answers with a ‘yes, sir’. Only this time, his voice isn’t absent. There’s a sense of awareness, a heavy weight, to his response. Neither Rossi nor Spencer means something temporary. Here, on the couch of your apartment, they make an agreement - father-in-law to son-in-law.
“I don’t want to look,” you argue in a meek voice.
“You don’t have to,” Spencer reassures you softly. “The paramedics already took him.”
Rossi watches as Spencer takes your arms and hangs them around his neck. As though you are without a will, your body follows the young man wherever he’s leading you. One of Spencer’s hands keeps your forehead glued to his shoulder, the other holds you securely around your waist. The two of you walk out of the apartment without you ever seeing the entirety of the aftermath. Perhaps it’s for the better.
As Derek, Spencer and you are gone from his sight, Hotch makes his way to Rossi. A faint smile dances along his lips. Once again, there’s that glint of profound understanding in his eyes - the look of a father recognising another father.
“You lied to me,” he says, forcing a cold tone.
Rossi looks up at him from under furrowed eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You said you don’t have children.”
David Rossi looks around the living room. His eyes wander along the titles of movies from the 1940s, self-help books and a single picture frame beside the TV. The photograph shows you and Rossi at your graduation. How come he sees the truth only now?
— Spencer fidgets; everyone in the BAU knows. While working an important case, you try four different items to stop his fidgeting. Nothing works. Until you run out of ideas and act without thinking.
— fluff, judgement and threats of fights, probably OOC characters, lots of fidgeting, banter, kidnapping case, 4+1 fic. 4.2k+ words, requested
When you first joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, you were told the team was a family. You didn’t believe it, even as the agents stood and greeted you with smiles.
Yet, you’re here now. Years later, you’ve fallen into a comfortable, trusting, and surprisingly familial routine with the people closest to you.
Hotch answers begrudgingly when you refer to him as “Pops;” Penelope drags you out on the town a few weekends a month and claims being hit on boosts your ability to read people and react to them; Derek speaks to you without actually talking and carries your bag to the plane when you leave Quantico; and Spencer… Spencer brings a unique sense of home to your life. Whether he’s bouncing his leg and rattling your desk, listening to an educational podcast through the headphones you got him two Christmases ago, or telling you about something that he somehow makes relevant to the conversation even though you’re always lost at first, being near Spencer is being somewhere safe, somewhere you’re accepted and appreciated.
As your team leaves Virginia yet again to work a kidnapping case, you smile at the familiarity of the routine. Derek carries your bag, grunting dramatically as he slides it into the bin at the back of the plane. Spencer takes the seat beside you and opens a book in his lap, the rhythm of his leg bouncing as unsurprising as the roar of the engines as the plane takes off. This is your family; the idea of doubting that now makes you laugh.
“Matthew Connors was reported missing yesterday morning by his grandparents, who are his legal guardians,” Hotch begins.
“Seventeen years old,” JJ reads from her copy of the report. “Are they sure he’s missing?”
“Friends and family support the grandparents’ position that Matthew wouldn’t run away.”
“No chance they had an idea of who would have abducted him?” you assume.
“Unfortunately, no,” Hotch answers flatly. “That part is up to us.”
“Adolescence is a time of shifting and strengthening social circles; it’s a time when self-esteem and identity are constantly affected,” Spencer offers. “Regardless of his character, a sudden change could have pushed him to act rashly.”
“But we have to assume he’s really been taken,” you interject. “So, let’s find out who abducted Matthew Connors and why they did it.” You glance at the report and narrow your eyes. “He’s a star student? Any idea if college is in his future?”
“Does it pose a difference to our case?” Hotch wonders. “Past speaking to his character and the unlikelihood of his disappearance being willful departure?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe.”
“I’ll find out then,” he offers. “Catch up on what we’ve got. Sheriff and D.A. are waiting for us when we touch down.”
“What do you think?” Spencer asks you, his hand moving against the armrest.
“That this is more than a ransom or revenge kidnapping,” you murmur. “Unless, of course, I’m wrong.”
Spencer shakes his head, then slides his headphones on and bounces his leg while he reviews the facts of the case.
Wagoner, Oklahoma. 9:15 p.m. CST.
Sighing, you underline a note before tossing your pen onto the hotel room desk. Working difficult cases is nothing new – the opposite, really; it’s the norm for the BAU – but having the Wagoner County Sheriff and D.A. watching your every move makes the already stressful case that much harder.
Immediately after he met with the Sheriff and D.A., Hotch pulled your team aside to “pass along a message directly from the D.A.’s office.” It was more or less something a kindergarten teacher or high school drama instructor would say: be on your best behavior, smile, and remember that people are watching you at all times.
After years of working at Spencer’s side, you’ve grown used to his fidgeting. When it becomes noticeable, you glance at Derek, share an amused look before he rolls his eyes, and then move on. Today, that was not the case. Spencer’s fidgeting was apparently distressing the victim’s grandmother (the D.A.’s words) and distracting the officers on the case (the Sheriff’s words). Between their direct comments and Spencer actually distracting someone or disturbing something, everyone was aware of Spencer’s energetic movements. Four hours into your first day on the case you whispered to Spencer that he was shaking the table; Hotch then snapped at him and sent him back to the hotel. You went with him, managed to make him feel a little better before Hotch knocked on the door and apologized. Yet, something nags at you, something telling you that you need to do more.
It's getting nearly impossible to focus, but you can’t sleep either. So, you text Hotch: Are you awake?
Your phone rings nearly immediately.
“Is there imminent danger or a case-solving find?” Hotch inquires when you answer.
“No,” you admit softly, leaning back in the desk chair. “I just wanted to ask if I could borrow the car.”
“To go where?”
Reaching for the pen you tossed aside, you answer, “Walmart. Or a convenience store, whatever’s open.”
“I can see both from my window. Why can’t you walk?”
“It’s 10 o’clock at night, dark, in a town I don’t know, Hotch,” you argue. Then, for good measure, you plead, “C’mon, Pops.”
He sighs before you hear keys rattling.
“What? No offer to drive me?” you question.
“The last time I offered, you handed me your license and reminded me that women no longer need escorts and can wear pants.”
You smile at the reminder, then thank Hotch. After you get the key from him, t’s a short drive to the Walmart Supercenter across the street. Entering the building, you navigate through the nearly empty store like a woman on a mission. The first thing you need is easy enough to find, and you happen across another item in the same aisle that may work. Then you cut through the home decor section to gather a few craft items. Finally, you get a few snacks and a drink, then head to the empty checkout lanes.
Tomorrow, you’ll be better prepared for Spencer’s fidgeting. The goal isn’t to change him or make him feel bad for something that’s simply part of him, but to get him through the day without another incident like today.
Mission: (Temporarily) Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting begins now. Or after you return Hotch’s keys and provide him with a few goodies as thanks.
Attempt 1 to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting
The next morning, sitting beside Spencer, it’s impossible to ignore him moving. Though his eyes are steady on the topographic map before him, his hands move restlessly along his thighs, his fingers tapping across his quad, down to his knee, and back up toward his hip. The shifting of his arms is visible to everyone in the office, so when he lifts one hand toward the desk, you decide to act.
The item you went to the store for last night is at the top of your bag, so you pull it out and slip it into Spencer’s left hand without drawing any more attention. He stops moving, frowning as he turns the item over in his hands. You sigh a breath of relief when he drops his chin and begins working on solving the Rubik’s Cube rather than fidgeting. The judgmental woman – Elise Connors, the victim’s grandmother, you remember – sitting across the room from you lifts her chin when you glance toward her. Something about Mrs. Connors has bothered you since you arrived at the station, and the way she explained-
Before you start thinking about it, Spencer returns the Rubik’s Cube. It’s been less than a minute, but he’s already solved it, matching the sides without even looking down. So, you shift the pieces and pass it back to him. Spencer seems content to solve the cube again, then passes it back to start again.
“What are your thoughts?” Hotch asks you.
The officer beside him is glaring at you without a semblance of being bothered to hide his sexist disposition, which is the only reason Hotch is asking you to present what you have on the unsub so far. When you walked in, the officer had refused to shake your hand, and when JJ slipped in a few minutes later, he rolled his eyes. If you weren’t busy thinking about Spencer, you’d take a bit more pleasure in showing him your worth.
“The victim, as you know, had strong social ties with both his family and the people he knew through work,” you say. You’re interrupted by Spencer placing the Rubik’s Cube in your hand for the third time. Twisting it as you speak, you continue, “The items we found in his room pointed toward a more independent mindset than any of the interviews or the initial report led you to believe. Considering the condition of the scene where you believe he was taken, we have reason to believe that- that-“
Your train of thought is broken as Spencer gingerly sets the cube against your thigh.
“That what?” the officer snaps.
“Give her a second,” Derek interrupts. “She’s doing your job for you.”
“Oh, yeah, because every second I spend in this office listening to her yap about feelings is another second that kid is completely fine out there! We have a job to do, and it doesn’t involve holding hands and singing about feelings.”
Derek pushes up to stand from his seat, but immediately backs down when Hotch shakes his head.
“What I was trying to say,” you sigh when Spencer abandons the cube and begins fidgeting again. “Is that our unsub is likely someone incredibly close to the victim. Someone who considered their relationship to be in danger because of his independence. Perhaps a job offer, or a conversation revealed an uneven dependency in the relationship and the other party snapped.”
“Which aligns with the evidence at the scene and in the victim’s home,” Hotch agrees. “Matthew was clearly an independent young man, whether or not he wanted people to see it. His relationships are related to this case whether you like it or not, Officer. We should interview his closest friends and relatives.”
“We already did that,” another officer interjects.
“And your cocker spaniel movements and half-cocked ideas won’t get you any further than it got us,” another mumbles.
“Don’t underestimate us,” Spencer calls as he stands, his fingers still moving against his leg.
You glare at the officers as you follow your team out of the office.
“Sorry,” Derek offers. “I know you can fight your own battles.”
“All good,” you assure him.
“Take up a new hobby?” Hotch inquires, gesturing to the Rubik’s Cube in your bag.
Spencer’s shoulders draw inward before you smile easily and say, “Gotta show something off the next time you force me to babysit Jack.”
Attempt 2 to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting
It’s your second full day in Oklahoma when your team begins interviewing the people closest to the victim. Despite what the young boy’s grandparents told the police and the media, you think the victim either ran away or, more likely, was abducted by someone close to him. There’s a scene with enough circumstantial evidence to reasonably be the location where he was abducted but – excusing the unofficial and unprovable statement – there’s something about this case that doesn’t sit well with you. Behind a diner between the Connors residence and Matthew’s school, there’s evidence of a fight, and the victim’s English textbook was located beneath a picnic table. It looks like he was taken, but with absolutely no idea of who would abduct him on his way home from school or why they would do it, it’s hard to convince the people looking for him to shift their perspective.
“What did Deputy Everett say about Matthew?” you check, tapping your pen against your opposite palm.
“That ‘the boy is bright and faithful, a good student and a better friend,’” Spencer answers.
You’ve been sitting beside him for nearly four hours, since before the sun rose over Wagoner. His fidgeting has faded into the background, simply part of the day. But when Spencer shifts his hands and begins picking at the sensitive skin around his nails, you know you have to do something. Not because he’s bothering you or being a distraction, but because he might hurt himself. You hope he knows you well enough to see that.
You abandon your desk, ignorant of Spencer’s eyes following you as you move. He turns in the chair, watching you cross the hotel room with purposeful steps. As you bend forward and dig through a plastic bag, Spencer’s movements don’t stop, but his mind refocuses. He inhales sharply when he draws blood, and your sympathetic sound works to bring him back to the present.
“Need a band-aid?” you check.
Spencer shakes his head, his hair brushing against his glasses frames. You smile, returning to his side to reach past him and open your laptop. Your shirt brushes against his arm and the lingering scent of your favorite body wash is familiar and comfortable to Spencer. Since he got to know you during your first weeks at the BAU, he’s seen you differently. When you tap his hand mid-conversation, he doesn’t immediately think about where the closest sink is to wash his hands, nor does he remember a time you made him feel like he was too much. As much as he loves Derek, there have been times where he knew he went too far. Never with you.
“Here,” you say.
Spencer blinks. There’s something in his hands, the item on the left soft while his right-hand fingers curl around a cool metal rod.
“Beginner crochet projects,” Spencer reads quietly, glancing at the video loaded on your computer. “Crochet?”
“Would you prefer to knit?” you check. “I bought the stuff for you to try both. We all need a way to unwind, and I just thought maybe… Sorry.”
“No, I-” Spencer clears his throat, then says, “Thank you.”
“Of course. I’ll be right here, but find another video, do whatever you need.”
Spencer nods and reaches toward the keyboard. He stops the moment your fingers brush his arm.
“Seriously, Spence. If you need anything, I’m here.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes bore into yours. The tutorial starts after a quiet introduction and the moment ends. While Spencer focuses on the craft in his hands, the rest of his body remains still. You struggle to focus on the case with Spencer so close to you, his sweatered arm moving in your peripheral vision and quiet hums of understanding as impactful as a lighthouse in a stormy night.
“Done,” Spencer announces as you reach for a page of Hotch’s notes.
“Done?” you repeat incredulously. “Spencer it’s been like ten minutes.”
He nods, then offers you the scarf. You chuckle and pull it around your shoulders. Within a minute he’s turned on a video claiming it can teach anyone how to knit, hunched over the knitting hooks as you find your place in the police report.
“Matthew, the missing kid, had a fight with his grandpa the day before he went missing,” you read from the transcript of the initial interviews.
“About what?” Spencer asks without looking away from the purple yarn you chose.
“College.”
“Sounds like you were right,” Spencer hums.
He finishes another scarf and ties it off. It’s a little too short and it’s crookeder than the one he crocheted, but he doesn’t seem intent on fixing it. Instead, he takes the edge of the scarf on your shoulders in his fingers and resumes his fidgeting. For some reason, it’s easier to think with his movements against you, the feeling like home.
“The grandmother is hiding something,” Spencer says.
“Any idea what?” you check. “There’s nothing especially interesting in the officers’ field notes.”
“Maybe she knew about the fight… Or she knows something else about Matthew’s independence that she doesn’t want to get out.”
You turn to Spencer, slowing when you realize how close he is.
“Like what?” you whisper in the proximity.
“Something worth getting him out of town.”
Nodding, you allow Spencer to tug the scarf and pull you closer. Before you can forget about the case and why you’re here, the door lock beeps. Jerking away from each other, you and Spencer attempt to look natural as Derek enters the room. He looks at you, and when you tear your eyes away, he smiles like he knows exactly what happened.
“Don’t,” you warn softly.
Derek shrugs and leans against the wall. He knows – somehow – yet he simply says, “Nice scarf.”
“Scarves,” Spencer points out, pointing his chin toward the knitted one on the desk.
Attempt 3 to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting
Standing between Spencer and a Sheriff’s Deputy in the observation room, you watch Hotch and Derek interview Matthew’s grandmother. When you and Spencer had presented your theory, Hotch quickly agreed that the older woman was hiding something. Derek hypothesized that Matthew had a secret relationship, which was the real reason behind the argument that preluded Matthew’s disappearance.
“Tell us more about the argument,” Hotch requests. “What was it about? What exactly was said?”
Spencer shifts on his feet, rocking back and forth from left to right, then heel to toe. His hands are clasped tightly together, but it isn’t stopping him from fidgeting.
The deputy beside you exhales noisily, his jaw tight. You run your tongue over your lip nervously, hoping that he doesn’t say anything to Spencer.
“Excuse me,” you murmur. Stepping back, you open your bag and withdraw the object you hadn’t anticipated buying for Spencer. “Here,” you whisper as you slip it into his hand.
He looks down at the plastic fidget spinner, then lifts his gaze to see you. The offended look in his eyes makes you smile, but you turn back toward the glass and Spencer stills. He flips the spinner over in his hands at his side.
“A word,” one of the men working for the Sheriff’s office interrupts, asking the deputy beside you to step out of the room.
Alone with Spencer, you extend your hand. He places the fidget spinner on your palm and watches closely as you demonstrate how to spin it. Then, he takes it back, spinning it carefully before balancing it on his thumb.
“Get anything?” Derek asks as he steps inside.
“One thing she said,” Spencer says. The fidget spinner wooshes softly against his words. “She said that they were planning to move to Georgia for school. Who’s they, besides Matthew?”
“Precisely what we’re going to ask the grandfather,” Hotch interjects. “Actually, you talk to him,” he tells you. “I think he’ll respond better to a woman.”
You agree, then leave Spencer alone in the observation room. When you return fifteen minutes later, Derek and Hotch are still there, too. There’s no sign of anyone from the Sheriff’s Department, which you’d hoped for.
“Matthew had an online girlfriend,” you announce. “One his grandparents didn’t approve of. In fact, Grandma Elise in there threatened to disown Matthew if he chose a college just for some – and I quote – ‘no good hussy he met on the internet.’”
“Which complicates things,” Derek sighs.
“How so?” Spencer wonders.
“That’s good reason for Matthew to leave,” Hotch explains. “He’s the only family they have, and she and Mr. Connors aren’t willing or able to leave Wagoner.”
“There’s more,” you add.
“Go on,” Hotch invites.
“Why did we even talk to them if you were going to get all the good stuff?” Derek jokes.
“Matthew told his grandfather that one of his classmates found his girlfriend’s phone number and started harassing her. Recently, he graduated to blackmailing Matthew or he’d expose him for abandoning his grandparents for a ‘nonexistent girl.’ I guess if you’re a good student and a good person in a small town, that’s worth responding to.”
“Motive,” Derek, Spencer, and Hotch realize.
Hotch steps out to catch everyone up on your findings. You salute Derek as he leaves, making him laugh. Alone, Spencer looks down at the table beside him, and you follow his line of sight.
“Spence,” you sigh.
He has the decency to look apologetic as he shifts one of the pieces of the deconstructed fidget spinner. “I wanted to look at the weight system,” he explains, rocking back and forth yet again.
Attempt 4 to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting
You’re out of things to distract Spencer with. While Derek and a Sheriff’s Deputy talk to the classmate who was blackmailing Matthew, you’re trapped in an awkward staring contest with a police officer who looks ready to punch Spencer for bouncing his leg and dancing his fingers across the table. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it, rambling about annual blackmail statistics in the U.S.
“… and the average American teenager encounters approximately seven occurrences of blackmail or blackmail-adjacent incidents each school year,” Spencer concludes.
With no other option, you pull your necklace off and pass it to Spencer. With something between his fingers, his other movements cease. The officer nods and asks a question, still clearly annoyed but seeming to be less aggressive than before.
“If you’re worried about blackmail, maybe you should consider the government stipend that disappears the minute that kid moves out of state,” someone says.
“Wait, stipend?” you interrupt. “Government assistance?”
“Wouldn’t that end when Matthew turns 18 regardless of where he is?” Spencer adds, twisting your necklace around his fingers.
The officer that looked so angry at Spencer’s fidgeting before leans toward you and explains, “Matthew’s grandparents get government assistance because they’re raising him. He’s graduating early, so he’s eligible for another year and three months of assistance if and only if he continues residing with the grandparents.”
“What about college?”
“That’s the thing. If he goes to a college in Oklahoma, a whole ‘nother set of benefits becomes available to him and his grandparents.”
“That’s worth keeping him here,” Spencer muses.
You stand quickly, reaching for your phone. “We have to alert our team. Thank you, Officer.”
He nods once, and then Spencer thrusts your necklace into your hand to follow you. By the time you make it to the car, you’ve determined that nothing helps Spencer stop fidgeting. It’s going to happen. Maybe it’ll be easier to tell other people to ignore it.
+1 Unforeseen Attempt to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting
“The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI executed an arrest warrant on Elise Connors early this morning,” JJ announces, looking toward the cameras on the other side of the podium.
“Spencer,” Derek hisses.
You lean forward slowly, unsurprised to see Spencer fidgeting on the other side of Hotch. The press conference started over an hour ago; you’re getting impatient, so it’s really no surprise that Spencer is moving more than usual.
“Trade seats with me?” you ask Hotch. When you bag your eyelashes, he stands and lets you slide over to sit beside Spencer. “Thanks,” you tell him.
“Make it worth it,” he responds under his breath.
You nod, then glance at Spencer. You don’t have anything with you – no Rubik’s Cube, no crochet hook, nothing to distract Spencer, nothing else for him to channel his energy to. So, you try to redirect his attention. You look at the screens on the other side of the room, feigning interest in hopes that Spencer will follow. He does for a minute or two, but as JJ offers the specifics of the arrest, Spencer shakes your seat with his movement.
Derek meets your eyes behind Spencer’s back, his brows raising as he asks Why aren’t you stopping him? You shrug, hoping to communicate that you can’t do anything. Then you remember something. Spencer would do absolutely anything to help you and deserves the same in return.
So, you shove your hand between his. Spencer freezes; his hands rest on either side of your wrist and his foot falls flat on the ground as his leg stills. Spencer hesitates briefly, then brushes his thumb over your palm.
“Elise Matthew spoke to the Wagoner County Sheriff’s Office, admitting to kidnapping her grandson Matthew to prevent him from leaving for college,” JJ concludes. “The BAU believes her motivation to act so unexpectedly and rashly was both monetary motivation and a socially-deviant response to the possibility of being separated from the only family she has left.”
Spencer sits still for the rest of the conference, something that you have never witnessed in your years with the BAU. With your hand in his, you find that you aren’t as uncomfortable or impatient as you felt before.
“Fidgeting serves as a physical outlet for innumerable cognitive responses,” Spencer muses when the cameras turn off, your hand still in his. “I know it bothers people.”
“You’re not fidgeting now, pretty boy,” Derek points out with his eyes on your joined hands.
“Whatever works,” Hotch sighs as he stands. “Sorry again for yelling at you, Reid.”
“It’s okay,” he assures.
“No,” you sigh. “I think we all need ice cream to make up for it, Pops.”
Hotch sighs, but nods as if he’s agreeing. You stand with Spencer, his body language calm as you walk with your fingers linked through his. When Penelope finds outs about this, she’ll have more to say than “you’re not fidgeting now.”
Two hours later on the plane, your hand is in Spencer’s, his scarf around your neck. “Thanks,” he whispers.
“Anytime,” you promise. Then, you murmur, “Pretty boy.”
“Hey!” Derek yells. “Get your own nickname! And don’t let those hands wander!”
Summary: After your boyfriend cheats with your best friend, you enlist Theodore Nott in a fake relationship to get revenge
A/N: I fear this was better in my head
credits to @cafekitsune for the divider!
There comes a moment in every girl’s life that cements itself into her mind. It takes up a corner of her brain and becomes the foundation for every action she takes thereafter. It rewires her chemistry, ensuring that, years later, it will resurface unbidden, vivid and relentless.
She remembers it as though it’s happening right then. Every detail is etched onto the canvas of her mind with the precision of a master painter. She recalls every word, every inflection, every syllable. She feels again the rush of emotions, as if the pit of her stomach were reliving the moment in real time.
That was how it felt when your eyes landed on your boyfriend making out with your best friend, the girl who had been by your side since first year, the one you trusted implicitly. You stepped into the Hog’s Head that night, and your vision tunneled the second you saw them in the booth, lips locked.
The clinking of glasses around the pub sparkled mockingly in the dim light, a cruel contrast to the way your heart sank, your body shutting down as ice ran through your veins.
First came confusion. Perhaps you’d seen wrong, perhaps your mind was playing tricks. But as the seconds passed, certainty settled in, burning the image into your brain.
What do I do?
In any instance where you had been betrayed like this, your first instinct would have been to go to your best friend—the girl who had stuck with you since your first year when you were placed as dormmates.
Stuck in your place, your brain was short-circuiting, trying to, but in the end unable to do anything else but stare at them.
For fuck’s sake—are they scuba divers? Are they ever going to come up for air?
It seemed like they heard you, finally parting, and it seemed that your boyfriend—or rather, ex-boyfriend, and if he’s so lucky, not late-boyfriend—spotted you first, his face going pale the second he saw you.
You scoffed.
They were doing this in a public place, and he had the gall to look surprised when you managed to spot them?
And then you felt it—the emotion that managed to crush through all of the others like a tidal wave, filling your body and clouding your thoughts. Rage. Fury.
You spun on your heel, barreling through the crowd toward the door.
“(Y/N)!” Your boyfriend called behind you, but you ignored him, sidestepping another patron as you charged and left him in your dust. It seemed like your anger had managed to blur the edges of your vision, and you collided with another student.
“Watch it—!”
Theodore Nott stood at six feet tall, towering over you more than your boyfriend ever had, jawline so sharp it could cut you—if not for that, his words certainly would. He glared down at you with stormy eyes that you couldn’t quite call blue but couldn’t call green.
You heard your boyfriend call your name once more as he approached you, and it seemed the desperation on your face was apparent to someone as apathetic as Theodore, who only raised a brow at you.
And in that instant, you made one of the most reckless decisions of your life.
Your hands curled around the lapels of his jacket before you could even command your body to do otherwise, yanking Theodore toward you and leaning up on your tiptoes to close the gap, pressing your lips to his.
A split second passed, and your head was spinning, body coming back to life.
Have I lost my mind? I’ve just been utterly humiliated by my boyfriend and my best friend. Now I’ve kissed one of the notorious snakes—without consent, no less—which makes me literal scum. He’s going to push me away any second, probably hex me, and make this humiliation ten times worse.
All those self-deprecating thoughts came to a silent standstill the second his arm looped around your waist, another hand cupping your cheek as you tilted his head to deepen the kiss.
The moment stretched, every second dragging out as if the world itself had decided to pause and watch. His lips moved against yours with a deliberate, almost teasing patience that sent a shiver down your spine, making your knees threaten to buckle. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle press of his chest against yours, grounding you even as your mind screamed in disbelief.
Your hands tightened on his jacket, nails digging in slightly as if anchoring yourself to reality. Your mind screamed in protest, reminding you of every reason this was reckless—this was Theodore Nott, the last person you should be doing this with, and yet… you couldn’t stop.
The kiss was urgent, hungry, but also careful, as though he could sense the storm raging inside you and wanted to meet it without drowning you completely.
Finally, reality slammed back into you. You broke the kiss with a gasp, eyes still closed, trying to catch your breath after being so violently knocked out of orbit by a kiss you could only describe as divine.
When your eyes met his again, you were rendered speechless.
Oh, you better admit yourself into St. Mungo's tonight, you imbecile.
“Oh my—uh… I—I shouldn’t have—I'm sorry—” You stammered, tearing your hands from his jacket and stepping back. Embarrassment burned hotter than your anger had moments ago.
You swallowed, shamefully looking down as you moved toward the exit once again, "I'm gonna go—"
Your voice trailed off, choked by a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. You wanted to disappear, to vanish from the pub before anyone could process what had just happened. Before he could.
You pivoted toward the door, picturing yourself in the cool night air where your face might finally stop burning.
But before you could take another step, a firm hand caught your wrist. You froze, the warmth of his grip rooting you in place.
“If you leave first,” He said, his voice low and smooth, carrying that unmistakable edge of challenge, “you lose."
You didn't even know if your ex-boyfriend was still there, you had lost any awareness of your surroundings the second your lips met his.
Your eyes widened, and you stammered, “I… I’m not… I don’t—”
The corner of his lips twitched as though he was fighting a smile at your pathetic state, a teasing glint in those stormy eyes that made your knees threaten to give out again. “Why don’t you… join me and my friends?”
You swallowed, heart hammering, and glanced back at your ex. He was still standing there, awkward, flustered, clearly humiliated. It was… satisfying, in a small, dark way.
If you left now, before they did, it would look like you had something to be ashamed of. You didn’t deserve that.
They didn’t deserve to enjoy the rest of their night undisturbed. They deserved to squirm in their seats, to feel the weight of your stare drilling holes into them. They deserved their night ruined. Their lives ruined.
“…Fine,” you whispered, almost against your will. Your voice trembled with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to thrill. “But only for a little while.”
Theo’s grin widened, that teasing glint in his eyes sharpening. “Oh… I don’t know,” he said, placing his hand on the curve of your waist, leading you to the table that had been taken by the other Slytherins, "We can be quite a fun bunch."
Theodore guided you through the Hog’s Head, arm casually looped through yours, like you’d belonged there all along. You couldn’t help but notice the way the pub-goers glanced at you, whispers flickering through the crowd. Your stomach fluttered with a mix of nerves, shame, and something you didn’t dare name.
When you reached the table, his friend's eyes immediately lit up. They were lounging casually, drinks in hand, and the smirk on Blaise’s face made it clear that they had clearly witnessed your make out session.
"Well, well, well, looks like someone’s been busy." Mattheo drawled, his wicked grin hidden half behind his glass as Theodore pulled out a chair for you and then slid his own closer.
It took everything in you to not look so startled when he wrapped his hand around your shoulder, trying to hide your incredulousness at how seamless this act managed to come to Theo.
You lowered your gaze from Mattheo's who was set on staring at you with an ear-to-ear grin like an imp, only to catch Theo’s eye—he seemed to read your thoughts instantly and, without missing a beat, chucked a fry at his best mate, "Stop ogling my girl, you prat."
“Ohhh,” Mattheo drawled, leaning back in his chair, "She's your girl now? That's the first I've heard of this."
Draco snorted, smirking at Theo, “Yeah, Theo, since when? You never mentioned a girlfriend before.”
Before you could even sputter, Theo’s calm, controlled voice cut through the teasing. “Yeah,” He said effortlessly, as if stating the weather, “We’re dating.”
You froze. What?! You were still reeling from the kiss, and now he was lying with such ease that it made your brain stutter. You were so caught off-guard, so out of your comfort zone that you couldn't even say anything.
He didn’t even flinch, "And we're not first-year girls that I should tell you everything."
Enzo let out a low whistle. “Wow… Theo, good for you, man."
You felt like your chest had been sucker-punched. How could he lie so effortlessly? So convincingly? You were still fumbling over your own thoughts, heart racing from the kiss, and he was… untouchable.
Theodore leaned slightly closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Relax. Just play along. Trust me.”
Trust him? You barely knew him. And the two people you’d trusted most in the world had just ripped you to shreds.
This was a bad idea.
But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because Theodore was right—if you left, your ex would see it, and you’d lose.
So you stayed. You plastered a grin on your face and let Theodore enjoy himself with his friends. You tried your best not to glance at the betrayers—refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing they occupied even a single neuron in your brain.
When tears threatened to prick your eyes, you bit the inside of your cheek hard and reached for Theo’s drink, taking a slow sip to ease the tightness in your throat.
Thankfully, it seemed they weren’t as shameless as you’d feared. They looked too uncomfortable to enjoy themselves, shifting in their seats, eyes flicking toward you before darting away. The sight of them leaving some time later brought you a sliver of satisfaction. However, that was made very bitter at the realization that they were leaving together.
You held out for another twenty minutes before finally turning to Theodore with a tired smile. “Walk me back?”
He didn’t hesitate. He stood immediately, earning a chorus of jeers from his friends about being a “simp” who couldn’t let his girl walk alone. Theodore just flipped them off before guiding you out with a warm hand at the small of your back.
The walk was quiet. Snowflakes gathered in your hair and clung to your coat, the world muted by the thick white dusting over Hogsmeade. Then, halfway down the path, you stopped abruptly.
Theodore turned to you, “What’s wrong?”
You stared down at the snow-covered road, tears burning at the edges of your vision, “She’s back at my dorm.”
You pressed the heel of your gloved palms into your eyes, your chest trembling with the sobs you’d been holding in all night, “And if she’s not… then I’ll be left wondering if she's with him for the rest of the night.”
Theodore sighed, steering you toward a small alcove behind the pub. It overlooked the rest of Hogsmeade, quiet and dim under the glow of lanterns. You sank down against the fence, not caring about the wet snow soaking through your clothes, hiding your face in your knees as the dam finally broke.
The image of them at the pub replayed relentlessly behind your closed eyelids, no matter how much you willed it away.
They’d done it so unabashedly, so arrogantly—her practically in his lap. Comfortable enough to humiliate you like that in public meant it couldn’t have been the first time.
Your mind reeled back to every time they’d both been absent, every “we just ran into each other in the hallway” excuse, every occasion they’d been “too busy” to join you in Hogsmeade.
They’d done this where other students could see. Had no one thought to tell you? Did your other friends just… choose to stay silent? Were they ever really your friends at all?
Theodore didn’t say a word. He just stood beside you in silence—until the soft clink of his lighter broke through your thoughts. You looked up, face blotchy and eyes raw, just in time to see him take a long drag from a cigarette, the smoke stark against the winter air.
“Can I have one?” You asked.
"No," He glanced down at you, “Take it from me, sweetheart—once you start, it’s very hard to stop.”
You exhaled sharply, lowering your forehead back to your knees. You tried to breathe deep, to steady yourself, to make sense of any of it, “What good even are you?”
There was another beat of silence.
“I’m sorry,” He said, and you looked up again, “I sprang that whole thing on you. If you don’t want to, I’ll take it back. Make it seem like I was the one mistaken. You don’t need to worry.”
“Why did you do it?” You asked quietly, “You could’ve easily pushed me away. I mean, I was the one at fault there.”
“Because,” He said, taking another slow drag, “you looked desperate.”
You huffed a humorless laugh, “I’m swooning.”
Theo’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “Besides,” He added, tilting his head so the dim light from the pub hit the sharp cut of his jaw, “I wasn’t about to let them see you run off like you’d done something wrong.”
You blinked at him, caught between wanting to roll your eyes and wanting to thank him, “So you just… decided to announce to half the school that we’re dating?”
“It’s better this way,” He said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Rumors spread fast. By Monday, everyone will think you’ve moved on—and not just moved on, but traded up.” His gaze flicked to you, calm but deliberate, “Let them choke on it.”
Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t from wanting to cry.
"And what do you get out of this arrangement?"
Theodore glanced at you through the thin curl of smoke leaving his lips. His expression didn’t flicker, but there was a spark of something behind his eyes—mischief, maybe, or calculation.
“Let’s just say…” He exhaled slowly, the smoke catching in the cold air like ghostly ribbons, “…I have my reasons.”
You swallowed and then sighed, watching as your breath became visible in the cold air, tears now dry on your cheeks, “I want them to pay for it.”
Theodore smirked, the corner of his mouth curling like he’d just been waiting to hear those words, "And so they shall."
You pushed open the door to your dorm, ready to collapse onto your bed and pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened. After talking with Theodore for a while, you’d waited until well past curfew to sneak back into Hogwarts, hoping your ex-boyfriend and ex–best friend had either gone to sleep separately or she was holed up in his dorm.
Honestly, at this point, you didn’t care where they were or what they were doing. They’d been dead to you long before you saw them at the pub tonight.
All you wanted was a bed. Sleep. Silence.
Theodore had still given you the option to change your mind about him — told you he’d take the blame if you wanted to pretend you didn’t know each other. But you were too wrung out from crying, too hollow to think. Your body was ready to collapse the second your face hit the pillow.
Except the moment you stepped inside, sleep vanished.
She was there.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, biting her thumbnail — that nervous habit of hers you hated that you knew.
Your mind started firing questions faster than you could breathe. Was she nervous? Guilty? Regretful? Did she feel anything at all?
Her head snapped up.
“Hey,” She said softly, eyes wide with something dangerously close to guilt, “Can we talk?”
You froze. Part of you wanted to say yes. She’d been your best friend, the person you’d cared about more than anything. You didn’t want to lose her.
Your heart almost opened the door.
Your mind slammed it shut.
“No.”
She blinked, flinching like you’d slapped her, “Please, just—”
“I said no.” You moved past her toward your bed, shrugging off your coat, “Whatever you think you need to say, save it. I don’t care.”
“(Y/N), please! I didn’t mean for it to happen—”
You laughed—sharp, humorless, “You didn’t mean to kiss my boyfriend? How exactly does that work? You trip and fall face-first onto his mouth?”
Her jaw twitched. Then she scoffed, “Fine. If you’re gonna act like you’re so perfect, maybe remember you’re not exactly a saint either.”
Your head snapped up, “Excuse me?”
She crossed her arms, chin tilting higher, “We all saw your little show with Nott earlier. Don’t think you can sit there acting holier-than-thou when you cheated too.”
Heat surged under your skin.
“What I was doing with Nott is none of your business. But don’t you dare pretend that makes you right. You are the lowest, ugliest, skankiest slag I’ve ever met in my life.”
“That’s rich,” She spat, “Coming from the slag who spread her legs for the first guy she saw. Nott probably thought you were easy, didn’t he?”
You took a step forward. Then another. She backed up.
“Theodore has nothing to do with this, and neither does anyone else. The person I’m pissed at is you.” Your voice shook now, not from fear, but fury, “You were supposed to be my best friend! How could you betray me like this? Humiliate me in front of everybody? Go behind my back? I would never have done this to you. I wouldn’t have even thought about it!”
With each sentence, you jabbed a finger into her chest, until you finally shoved her, the force surprising even you.
She didn’t back down.
“You deserved it, didn’t you? Acting all high and mighty — then turning around and doing the same thing.”
Something in your chest cracked. You looked at her, really looked, and realized you didn’t recognize her anymore.
You laughed, breathless and disbelieving, “The only difference between us is I didn’t throw away seven years of friendship for some asshole who can only think with his dick. You think he won’t turn around and do the same thing to you that he did to me? You’re deluded.”
One more shove.
Then you straightened, voice quiet but lethal.
“If you ever approach me again, I’ll kill you. Until then?” You took a step back, smirking like she was something you’d scrape off your shoe, “Have fun with my sloppy seconds, slut.”
The next morning, the corridors were alive with the usual rush of students heading to the Great Hall, but your thoughts were still tangled in last night’s chaos. You tightened your coat around you, trying to focus on anything but the memory of their faces, when a familiar voice cut through the din.
“(Y/N)!” Your ex-boyfriend called, catching up just as you reached the entrance to the Great Hall. His face was flushed, a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and confusion, “What the hell was that yesterday?”
You froze for a heartbeat, then let a sardonic smile creep across your face, “Oh, that? I thought your tongue down my best friend’s throat was a pretty clear indication that we were both seeing other people.”
His face burned red, guilt and humiliation flickering across his features. You barely felt any satisfaction—what you felt yesterday had been raw, scorching, and unshakable. This was just a pale echo.
“Look, I—” He began, his voice tight, “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“Didn’t mean to cheat on me with my best friend? Or didn’t mean for me to find out?” You let each word land like a slap.
His jaw clenched, his gaze hard, “You’re one to talk, acting like you didn’t leave with Theodore Nott of all people yesterday.”
You tilted your head, cool and deliberate, “I did. So? That doesn’t give you the moral high ground to lecture me. If you think you’re the victim here… think again.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous murmur, “Wait—are you serious? Are you actually—”
And then you saw him. Theodore Nott, leaning against the wall with that impossibly calm expression, arms crossed, watching like the world had paused for his amusement.
Your chest tightened, but you squared your shoulders. “Yes,” You said clearly, deliberately loud enough for both of them to hear, “I am dating Theodore Nott.”
The color drained from his face, the clever retorts dying on his tongue. You didn’t give him a chance to recover.
Theo’s smirk sharpened, eyes flicking between you and him, silently daring him to challenge your words, to give him a reason to rearrange his sorry mug this fine morning.
You started walking, leaving your ex behind, and Theodore fell naturally into step beside you. His presence was calm, confident, infuriatingly infuriating—and comforting at the same time.
“You promised, Nott,” You murmured, your voice low and dangerous, “We’re going to make them pay.”
Theo’s grin widened, the corner of his mouth lifting into that familiar, teasing arc. “Oh, don’t worry, mia cara,” He said smoothly, eyes glinting with mischief and you felt your ears get hot, “We're gonna make them regret ever messing with you.”
Side by side, you stepped into the Great Hall. Whispers began immediately, flickering through the crowd like wildfire. And as the students’ eyes turned toward you, you realized—the game had officially begun.
The chatter of students filled the Charms classroom as you stepped inside, your nerves buzzing the way they always did when eyes might follow you. You hesitated in the doorway for a fraction too long, scanning the rows of desks. Usually, your spot was second row, left side—the place you always shared with your best friend. But now? The thought of sitting there made your stomach twist. Should you take it anyway, claim your ground, and glare if she had the audacity to join you?
Before you could decide, a warm hand brushed against the small of your back.
“Over here.” Theodore murmured, voice low but commanding. He didn’t give you room to argue, guiding you through the rows with a confidence that ignored every curious glance that followed. You ended up in the second-to-last row, his chosen territory.
You dropped your bag to the floor and slid into the seat he indicated, shooting him a quick, reluctant smile. Almost instantly, you became acutely aware of the heat of his knee brushing yours beneath the desk.
Theodore leaned back in his chair with practiced ease, stretching his arm just far enough to rest casually along the back of yours. “That’s better,” He said, deliberately louder now, his voice carrying through the classroom. His smirk deepened, “Need my girl next to me.”
The effect was immediate. The two Hufflepuff girls in front of you whipped their heads around under the pretense of adjusting their books. They tried to be subtle, glancing sideways from the corners of their eyes, but the way their shoulders pressed together and their whispers turned sharp made it obvious who they were talking about.
Theo noticed too. His smirk widened, one eyebrow arching as if to say exactly as planned.
You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs, ducking your head instead as heat crept up your neck. Subtle was not in Theodore Nott’s vocabulary, apparently.
Your heart jumped when the door opened again and she walked in—your ex–best friend, sliding into the classroom like nothing had happened. She looked tired, as she always did on mornings like this; Charms was the earliest class on your schedule, and she never managed breakfast before dragging herself out of bed. No, instead she always smuggled in a handful of Honeydukes’ cockroach clusters, nibbling on them through class.
And sure enough, there they were, sitting in a paper bag on her desk.
Your lips curled into a knowing smirk.
How could she be so careless? She knew you better than anyone—had known every one of your tricks, your habits, your moods. She should have known you wouldn’t leave her unpunished.
You waited until Professor Flitwick had begun explaining wand movement on the board, until the room was full of the faint swish of quills and the scratching of parchment. Then, when her hand dipped into the bag, you flicked your wand under the table. A silent transfiguration. Smooth, clean, precise.
She popped the cluster into her mouth. Chewed once.
And then froze.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, and then she gagged, clapping a hand over her lips. You bit down on your own smile as, with a sharp cough, she spat onto her desk—not a melted chocolate, but a fat, wriggling cockroach that skittered across the wood.
The room erupted.
Screams, laughter, the scrape of chairs as people leapt away. Someone shouted, “Bloody hell, they’re moving!” as two more clusters in the bag twitched and burst into chittering, crawling life. Your ex-best friend shoved her desk back in panic, her face pale as the cockroaches spilled out in a wave across the floor.
You didn’t react like the rest of them, watching as chaos struck and she turned green in the face, barely able to breathe. You lifted your feet and bag from the ground, careful to avoid all the cockroaches that seemed to multiply from her bag—the replenishing charm you cast on the bag doing wonders.
Theodore didn’t even glance at the teacher; instead, his attention was entirely on you, on the way your chest rose and fell, eyes still sharp, just barely contained.
With a single fluid motion, he pulled your chair a little closer, resting your legs in his lap. You froze, breath hitching, heat crawling up your spine—but there was no time for that. The room still hummed with whispers and laughter, and you could feel every pair of eyes glancing back at the scene.
“Elegant work, sweetheart.” He murmured low, the words meant only for you. His fingers brushed lightly along your ankle, light enough to be intimate, heavy enough to claim attention.
You suddenly understood why in the olden days showing ankle was considered scandalous, judging by the set of shivers Theodore's thumb against your ankle had sent up your spine.
“Detention! For eating in class and causing this disruption! Minus ten points!” Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice rang across the room.
You fought the grin tugging at your lips, eyes sliding back to your former best friend, who sat frozen, cheeks burning with humiliation.
Oh, poor girl.
That pitiful, shocked face only made you hate her more.
The library was quiet, the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scratch of quills filling the otherwise hushed room. You were bent over a stack of textbooks, notes scattered across the polished wooden table, eyes straining to keep focus as the afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows.
You were so absorbed in your work that you didn’t notice the shadow falling across your page. A soft, familiar warmth pressed against the back of your chair, and a low chuckle reached your ears.
“Can’t study forever, you know.” A deep voice murmured.
Before you could turn around, a pair of lips pressed gently against the top of your head. A small, contented sigh followed as Theodore rested his chin lightly on your shoulder.
“Missed you, sweetheart.” He said softly, his words meant only for you, though the air between you carried them enough for nearby students to murmur.
You froze for a heartbeat, pencil hovering mid-note, then tilted your head slightly, allowing him the small indulgence. His hand slid to rest on yours, fingers brushing against your notes, grounding you in the moment.
A few whispers floated through the library, subtle but unmistakable: “Is that…?” “Theodore Nott and—” “Wow.”
The heat rose in your cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment—it was the thrill of being seen with him, the quiet intimacy, the silent power you both held over anyone watching.
Especially the power it held over you.
You didn't know how he was able to touch you so intimately, pretend like you had a long history, hold you close and fake that look in his eye that made you feel like you were the center of his universe.
It was baffling.
Theodore rested his head for a moment longer before leaning back just enough to peer at your notes, “Though… you’re really focused, aren’t you? I’d almost feel guilty interrupting.”
You gave a small smile, eyes still on your parchment, “You could say that, yeah.”
He chuckled, nudging your shoulder gently with his own, “Then I’ll just keep you company… silently.”
And with that, he settled next to you, close enough that his warmth was constant, silent enough that you could still work—but every so often, he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple or brushing a strand of hair from your face.
Then you sensed movement behind you. Glancing up, you caught sight of your ex and your former best friend sneaking into the room, eyes immediately locking on you and Theodore.
They didn’t just glance—they stiffened, shoulders squared, and suddenly it was like a performance. She leaned close to him, laughing a little too loudly, brushing against him in a way that screamed look at us, we’re happy, look at what you’re missing. Your ex mirrored her, puffing out his chest and whispering something that made her giggle.
It was painfully obvious—they wanted you to see them, to feel jealous, to react.
You didn’t.
Instead, you reached up, grabbed Theodore by the collar, and pulled him down into a deliberate, teasing kiss, letting them watch the undeniable spark between you. He responded immediately, moving his hand to your waist, deepening the kiss and cupping your cheek.
But of course, they weren’t going to give up that easily. Determined to “out-do” you, they moved to the far side of the library, your ex hugging her from behind and peppering kisses to her neck as she giggled. They ducked into the alcove at the back that was notorious for students fooling around.
Theodore raised a brow, lips curling into that maddeningly flirtatious smirk, leaning to press his lips to your ear, “What do you say, love? Feel like beating them at their own game? I’m sure we’d have a better time anyway.”
You chuckled, shaking your head, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck.
With a subtle glance toward the librarian’s desk, you caught Madam Pince’s attention. Quietly, you waved her over, corners of your mouth tugging into a grin.
“Oh, you love it.” You murmured, still holding his hand. You pointed to the bookshelf where they were hiding, leaning back with a sly grin.
What happened next was beautiful chaos.
A shriek echoed through the library—sharp, furious, unmistakably theirs. Madam Pince’s voice rang out, shrill and indignant: “What on earth are you two doing in here?!”
You and Theodore exchanged a glance and stifled laughter as you heard her yelling, her wand flashing to confiscate their belongings, and chasing them down the aisles, half-dressed and completely humiliated.
The whispers and stares of the other students only added to the spectacle. You suppressed another laugh as you watched points being deducted from their house records, their humiliation complete.
For now.
The stands were packed, the cold wind whipping your hair around your face as you and Theo leaned against the railing, watching the match unfold below. You watched as your ex’s team began collecting points, you and Mattheo booing their every move at the top of your lungs.
“YOU CALL THAT FLYING?!” Mattheo yelled, and you cupped your hands around your mouth, “MY GRANDMA CAN FLY BETTER THAN THAT!”
You coughed—cold air and screaming taking their toll—before a scarf was gently draped around your neck. You turned in surprise to see Theodore, not even looking at you, more intent on wrapping it carefully so it covered your ears and nose without smothering your mouth. When it proved impossible, he conceded and settled for placing a warming charm on you.
You smiled bashfully, hiding your pink cheeks in the scarf, “Thank you.”
“Anytime, bella.”
“Disgusting behavior in public.” Mattheo muttered under his breath, earning a soft chuckle from you.
Everything seemed normal—until the golden blur began acting strangely.
Even for a snitch, its movements were erratic. But this was worse than usual. It seemed to purposefully avoid the opposing team, darting exclusively toward your ex’s side. The match ground to a halt as the players floated to a stop, confusion spreading across the pitch. Madam Hooch called everyone together, frowning as she tried to assess the situation.
When the groundskeepers and referees inspected the field, the truth became clear: the snitch in play wasn’t real. Someone had swapped it.
Confusion rippled through the stands as whispers grew louder.
“Where’s the real Snitch?” The head referee demanded, scanning the players.
A quick locating spell revealed it immediately—tucked neatly in your ex’s bag, as if he had accidentally carried it with him. The real snitch sat there, innocently gleaming in the sunlight, waiting to be discovered.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Every eye in the stadium turned to him.
Your ex’s face drained of color, hands fumbling over the bag in shock. “I—I didn’t—!” He stammered.
But the damage was already done. The spectators murmured furiously, teammates muttering accusations, and whispers of “he cheated” began circulating instantly.
Theo leaned back against the railing, smirk spreading across his face, and whispered in your ear, “Are you enjoying the show, my love?”
You bit your lip and nodded, trying not to laugh aloud, and reached for his hand under the railing, giving it a subtle squeeze. No words were needed—the humiliation was working exactly as planned.
“Due to tampering with the snitch, it’s an automatic loss for Ravenclaw—Hufflepuff wins!” Madam Hooch announced, confirming the disaster.
“Another impeccable plan. I’m impressed,” Theo murmured in your ear, voice teasing, “You make it look easy.”
The crisp Hogsmeade air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped off the train, Theodore’s hand sliding easily into yours. The village was bustling with students, their laughter echoing over the cobblestone streets, but all you could feel was the warmth of his grip and the soft pull of his presence beside you.
Theodore was actually the one to suggest that you guys spend the day together. At first, you were going to opt out, feeling bad that the last couple weeks had been revolving around you and wanting him to get some time with his friends but he insisted, saying that you couldn't spend your Hogsmeade apart or people would talk.
You couldn't argue with that.
But even then you found yourself looking forward to it.
Despite this being only a temporary arrangement with no feelings behind it, Theodore was actually great company. He was thoughtful and considerate, he liked hearing you talk and a quality people didn't really appreciate a lot was that he was hilarious.
You couldn't go five minutes without him prompting a belly laugh from you.
You paused in front of a small shop, your eyes catching a delicate necklace in the display window. A thin chain with a tiny, intricate charm glinting in the sunlight—it was beautiful. Your breath caught.
“Oh… that’s gorgeous.” You murmured, pressing your palm lightly against the glass.
Theodore leaned over, following your gaze. His eyes softened when he saw the necklace, “You like it?”
“I do… but…” Your voice trailed off as you peeked at the price tag. Your eyes widened, “but I do not love the price tag.”
The bell above the shop door jingled as you both entered. You wandered near the counter, trying to convince yourself it was just a dream. Theodore approached the shopkeeper, exchanged a few words, and before you could even process what was happening, the necklace was being handed to you in a small, neatly wrapped box.
You stared at it, then at him, “No… no, you can’t. This is way too expensive. I can’t—”
“It’s only ten Galleons.” He said, clearly perplexed by your reaction.
“Only… ten Galleons?” You repeated, your voice rising slightly in surprise, “That’s… that’s like… my entire pocket money for the next two months!”
Theodore smirked, as if your shock were the most amusing thing he’d seen all day, “Yes, and? You’re my girl. You like it, you get it. What’s the problem?”
The problem was you weren't really his girl.
So, why was he going out of his way to behave like you were? This was a question that had stayed in your head since that first night in Hogsmeade. What was he getting out of this? Why would he be so readily enthusiastic in your plan when it was clear you were the only one truly benefitting from this?
When you met his eyes again, stormy blue that looked green in some lights, the questioned died on your tongue.
Because whatever the reason, you weren't sure you wanted him to stop.
You stared at him, half in disbelief, half in awe, “You—really? You’re just… giving it to me?”
You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief as you let him fasten the necklace around your neck. The charm glinted against your chest, and the warmth of the gesture left you grinning.
When you turned to meet his eyes again, you smiled bashfully up at him before leaning in to press a soft kiss against his cheek.
Theo froze in surprise the second your lips touched his cold skin, and the sight of his startled expression made something warm bloom in your stomach.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t done more than that—in fact, in your persistence to prove to your exes that you were well past moved on, you’d taken to making out with Theo in nearly every public space Hogwarts had to offer. And if it wasn’t that, it was the way he always had an arm around you, casual and possessive, no matter where you went.
So the fact that something as small as a cheek kiss could knock him off guard made you smile. Made you feel like all the intimacy you shared wasn’t just a front. Wasn’t all fake.
“Thank you.” You whispered.
You settled cross-legged on the soft carpet of the Slytherin common room, leaning back against Theodore’s legs as he sat comfortably on the couch. His hands were busy in your hair, while his scarf lay draped across your lap. Carefully, you threaded the fringe at the end of the scarf, showing him how to braid it so he could mimic the motion on your hair.
“So then you take this left strand and bring it over—it becomes the new center strand—and then you bring the new right strand and bring it over.” You explained, feeling the occasional tug on your hair. You immediately noticed the braid slipping.
“It keeps slipping… your hair is too greasy.” He muttered, brow furrowed.
You scoffed, feigning offense, “I think you mean… smooth and silky.”
“This isn’t working.” He grumbled, letting go of your hair and starting over, separating it into three neat parts.
“Baby, this is the easiest braid ever. You’re going to faint when I teach you about a Dutch braid.” You teased, tugging gently on a strand to demonstrate.
Before he could respond, the door creaked open and Mattheo sauntered in, smirk plastered across his face. “Ohhh, what do we have here?” He drawled, “(Y/N) (L/N), Hogwarts’ first houseless student considering we never see her in her own common room, and Theodore Nott, her loyal… dog.”
He then grimaced at the sight of the two of you, “Can y’all not do this in a public space? Some of us think the sight of happy couples is enough to induce projectile vomiting.”
Theo didn’t flinch, though the corner of his mouth tugged into a small smirk. You felt a small thrill as his thumb grazed the space under your ear, leading to your neck, grounding you in the moment.
You raised a brow, voice dripping with mock menace, “You really wanna piss me off when I’m at prime height to punch you in the balls?”
Mattheo rolled his eyes and collapsed onto the couch, still grinning, “You’re coming to Theo’s birthday next Friday, right? Considering you practically live here.”
You hesitated, unsure, “I… I don’t know. I mean—”
Theo leaned over you, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “You'll be there right?” He murmured, voice low and coaxing, the simple gesture making your chest tighten, "Please?"
You bit back a smile, looking up at him, and realized there was no way you could say no—not when he asked like that.
You stepped into the Slytherin common room, barely able to hear your own thoughts over the bass that rattled the walls. It thudded deep in your chest, vibrating through your bones as you descended the staircase to the dungeons.
The room was packed, bodies moving together in a blur beneath the strobing lights, faces indistinguishable in the chaos. But your eyes found Theo instantly. He was surrounded by his friends, laughing at something Mattheo said, until his gaze landed on you.
His entire expression shifted—lit up like you were the only thing in the room. Without a second thought, he left them behind and crossed the room to meet you at the base of the stairs.
His eyes swept over your little black dress, the necklace he gifted you resting prettily on your collarbones, and his hands found their way to your waist—low, possessive, warm against the thin fabric,
"Che bella, carissima."
"Happy birthday, Theo." You murmured, your palms resting lightly against his chest.
"Grazie, dolcezza." He replied, voice low and smooth as he leaned in. His mouth met yours without hesitation, your fingers sliding into his hair. Lip gloss smudged against his skin, and the artificial taste of lollipop lippie flooded both your mouths.
If you hadn’t been so caught up in the kiss, maybe you would’ve questioned it. Why you were kissing Theo when neither your boyfriend nor your best friend was anywhere in sight. Why you were feeding into the rumor mill in the shadowy corner of the common room instead of center stage where everyone could see.
Maybe you would’ve wondered why you shaved your legs, wore the dress that made your breasts look perfect, took extra time curling your hair, and reached for the expensive perfume you saved for special occasions.
But with Theo’s fingers brushing bare skin along your spine—thanks to the low back of your dress—those thoughts didn’t stand a chance.
You pulled away, laughing softly at the sight of glittery gloss smeared across his lips. You tried to wipe it away with your thumbs, but that proved nearly impossible when he kept catching your fingers in quick kisses.
"I have a present for you." You whispered, revealing the small gift bag you’d kept tucked behind your back. Theo pressed a kiss to your temple before taking it, digging through the tissue paper until he pulled out a steel flask—cool, heavy, and etched with intricate designs like something stolen from an ancient temple.
When he felt the liquid slosh inside, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip, brows lifting in surprise when the familiar taste hit his tongue.
"I cast a replenishing spell on it," You explained, "When it runs out, it’ll refill on its own."
His lips curved in a slow smile, still holding your gaze.
"I was just thinking about that day you said you’d miss my cocoa," You added, "So…I thought you’d appreciate it."
Theo chuckled quietly, looking down at the flask with an expression you couldn’t quite read—something deeper than amusement.
"Do you…not like it?" You asked after a beat.
He shook his head immediately, "I adore it, pretty girl."
Before you could respond, Mattheo’s voice cut through the music.
"If you guys are done ASSAULTING OUR EYEBALLS—" You both rolled your eyes in perfect unison, "—IT’S TIME FOR CAKE!"
You followed the crowd toward the long table where the cake waited, candles flickering under the dim lights. You expected to melt into the group somewhere between Enzo and Blaise, but before you could even drift in that direction, Theo’s hand shot out, curling firmly around your wrist.
“Where do you think you’re going, Dolcezza?” He murmured, tugging you to stand at his side—his spot—right in front of the cake.
“Theo,” You hissed under your breath, “it’s your birthday, I should be—”
“You're exactly where you should be.” He cut you off smoothly, eyes glinting in the candlelight. His hand didn't lift from your waist, keeping you pinned to his side, the faint smell of smoke and cocoa clinging to him like a second skin.
You didn’t have time to argue before Blaise slid over, holding out a small slip of parchment and a quill, “Here you go, mate."
Your brows furrowed, “What’s this?”
Theo took the quill without hesitation, his head bending low as he scribbled something on the paper in quick, sure strokes.
“It’s an old Nott thing,” Mattheo explained, “Birthday boy writes down a wish, folds it, and keeps it with him until it comes true. You’re not supposed to tell anyone what it is.”
Theo didn’t even glance up, just folded the parchment neatly, tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket with deliberate care.
“And you keep it on you?” You asked, curiosity getting the better of you.
“Always,” Theo said simply. His gaze met yours, sharp enough to make your stomach twist, “A wish doesn’t work if you let it out too soon.”
You should’ve looked away, but there was something about the weight of his stare—like whatever he’d written down was more dangerous than anyone else in the room realized.
“Now,” Mattheo groaned, breaking the tension, “can we please sing so I can eat some damn cake?"
You laughed, but your mind was already racing, replaying the way Theo’s lips had curved just slightly when he’d sealed the parchment away.
And for the first time, you wondered if that wish had anything to do with you.
The common room was a haze of dancing bodies, flashing lights, and the faint tang of cider and punch. You’d just come back from the corridor with Theo, the warmth of his hand still lingering on your waist, when Mattheo leaned over with a mischievous grin.
“You need to try this,” He said, holding out a tall glass filled with a neon-colored drink. At the bottom, a small, bright candy rested like a hidden treasure, “It’s our latest cocktail—sweet and sour. The sweetness of the drink with the sour candy at the bottom is fucking good.”
You raised an eyebrow, examining the glass that looked radioactive, "This looks cursed."
"It's good, baby," Theo said smoothly, eyes sparkling as he handed you the glass, “You should give it a try.”
With a shrug and a laugh, you took a sip. At first, it was sweet, almost pleasant. Then your tongue hit the candy, and your eyes widened in shock. Your face scrunched up immediately.
“Oh—oh my god,” You choked out, spitting it back a little, "This is awful! I feel like I'm sucking on a lemon!"
Theo chuckled low, leaning closer, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for the glass. “Give it here.” He murmured, voice teasing.
You held the candy between your teeth, letting him tilt your head and take it into his mouth. The kiss that followed was slow, teasing, and intimate, the world around you fading as he skillfully removed the candy without breaking the connection between your lips. Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling naturally like it does whenever you kiss.
When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, his eyes shone with playful delight, "You're crazy," He said, swishing the candy around in his mouth, "This is delicious."
"You two are disgusting." Mattheo muttered again, shaking his head.
You’d slipped out into the quieter corridor for a moment’s reprieve. The cool dungeon air was a relief after the heat of the crowd.
You were seated on one of the stairs, catching your breath, when footsteps echoed down the hall. You didn’t turn, but the scent of Theo hit your senses the moment he draped his jacket around your shoulders and settled beside you.
“Hi.” You murmured, leaning your head down to rest on your knees, offering a small, tired smile.
“Hi. You alright?”
You nodded, “Just a little tipsy. I needed some air.”
“Oh, I know just what to do about that.” He teased, reaching into his jacket and pulling out the flask you had gifted him. You chuckled as he opened it, handing it to you, steam curling into the cold air. You took a few sips, letting the warmth spread through you.
“When I said I was going to miss your cocoa,” He began, a hint of mischief in his voice, “I didn’t mean you should give me a lifetime supply.”
Your brows furrowed, a pang of worry settling in your chest. Did he not like the present?
"I don’t want the flask if it means you won’t be around to share it with me,” He said softly, leaning closer so only you could hear, “I’ve always just wanted you."
You took a sharp inhale, your heart beginning to pound against your ribcage.
"Are—Are you being serious?"
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket and held something out between two fingers—a folded slip of parchment, worn at the edges, looking as though it might crumble if handled too roughly.
You frowned, “What’s this?”
“My birthday wish from last year.” He said simply.
You blinked, “Won’t giving it to me mean it won’t come true?”
His lips curved into that maddening, calm smile, “Take a look.”
You hesitated, then unfolded the paper. The ink was slightly smudged, but the words were unmistakable:
I wish for (Y/N) to notice me.
Your stomach flipped in disbelief, “Theo…”
“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”
The air seemed to thin around you, your pulse loud in your ears, “You… you’re serious?”
He nodded, “I’ve felt this way for a long time. I thought last year would finally be the year I made my move, but then you started dating him, and I thought I lost my chance.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You whispered.
“I was ecstatic when you finally turned your attention to me that night. Not the way I wanted at first, maybe, but I was never going to let that chance get away from me.”
You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tightening with a mix of disbelief and relief. Theo’s eyes were locked on yours, calm and steady, but filled with something so raw it made your heart thrum.
Your hands trembled slightly as you reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his face, fingers lingering at his jaw. “So… all of this—” you gestured between the two of you, “—the fake dating, the kissing, the… everything… it wasn’t just to get back at them?”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head, “No. That part was fun, I’ll admit. But it wasn’t the real reason I wanted to be close to you.” His hand slid over yours, palm warm against yours, grounding you, “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for longer than you can imagine.”
Your heart lurched, a mixture of relief and longing flooding through you, “Theo…”
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, voice just above a whisper, “So, what do you say? No more pretending. No more games. Just… us.”
Something inside you broke—years of tension, uncertainty, and longing unraveling in a single heartbeat. You cupped his face in your hands, leaning into him fully, “Okay,” You breathed, “Just us.”
His grin widened, a triumphant glint in his stormy eyes, and he kissed you—slow, deep, and deliberate, every touch and press of his lips sealing the promise between you. No pretense, no lies. Just the two of you, finally, fully together.
The two of you stayed there for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the distant thrum of the party fading into nothing. The world had narrowed to just you, just him, and the long-awaited start of something neither of you wanted to hide ever again.
Bonus:
Breakfast in the Great Hall felt different that morning.
You’d think that after months of this routine with Theo, another morning spent at his side wouldn’t feel so significant. But it did. Everything felt sharper, warmer. You didn’t feel like you had to prove anything anymore. You didn’t feel like you had to put on a show. The hand holding yours was hidden beneath the table, but you didn’t care if anyone saw—or if they didn’t. It didn’t matter anymore.
And yet, despite everything shifting, you and Theo were still the same—falling into that easy rhythm, voices low as you traded quiet jokes. Only now, you noticed the way it felt different. How intimate it was when Theo’s gaze lingered not just on your eyes but flickered, unconsciously, down to your lips. How he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, even in the middle of the bustling Hall.
How had you missed all the signs before?
Theo was brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb when the bliss cracked.
“Everyone!”
The word boomed too loud, slicing through the clatter of cutlery and low chatter. Your entire body stiffened before you even turned around. Of course. Him.
Your ex stood in the aisle, puffed up with self-importance, chest thrown back like he’d just mounted a stage. He had that smug gleam in his eyes, the kind that screamed he’d practiced this speech in the mirror ten times over.
“I think it’s time you all knew the truth about Theodore Nott and (Y/N) (L/N).” He announced, every syllable dripping with fake triumph. He cut a sharp look at you, then Theo, then back to the sea of students now staring.
The Hall quieted, curiosity winning out. Even the Gryffindors craned their necks, waiting for drama.
“They’ve only been pretending to date,” He declared, letting the word hang in the air, “To make me jealous.”
His voice swelled with self-satisfaction, like he’d just solved some grand mystery.
Your hand tightened around Theo's.
“You don’t have to keep pretending just to get back at me. I get it. I was angry too when we ended, but—” He paused, putting on his most magnanimous smile, “I’ll forgive you. I’ll take you back.”
The silence that followed was… brutal. Half a beat too long.
Slowly, you let your gaze drift—not at him, but across the Hall, to where his so-called new love sat, her expression crumbling as her boyfriend publicly begged for you.
A smirk ghosted across your lips, satisfaction unfurling in your chest. I warned her, you thought. You told her he’d betray her the same way he’d betrayed you. You’d just assumed he’d run to someone new. But no—he’d come crawling right back. Pathetic. Maybe you really were just too good to forget.
A ripple of laughter broke out along the Gryffindor table. Somewhere down the line, a Ravenclaw girl snorted so hard pumpkin juice sprayed out of her nose. Even some of the Slytherins traded incredulous looks, smirks curling as if to say, is he serious?
"He has officially lost the plot." Someone muttered loud enough for half the Hall to hear. Someone else chortled in response.
Your ex’s confident smile faltered.
Blaise Zabini leaned lazily on his elbows, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the hush. “Pretending?” He gestured toward you and Theo with a casual flick of his hand. “Mate, the whole castle’s been gagging on their PDA for months.”
Someone else piped up, "Yeah. If that’s pretend, then they deserve Oscars. The way he looks at her—like she’s the only thing in the world—you’d have to be blind to miss it.”
You chuckled, dropping your gaze from the pathetic sight in front of you and turned back to your current boyfriend, who only smirked at you, though you could see the tenderness that lay underneath, "See? Everyone else could see I was gone for you before you did."
Bonus bonus: (Ten years later)
The day you first kissed Theodore Nott was arguably one of the worst days of your life, despite all the good that eventually came from it. The betrayal of seeing the person you loved cheat on you with your best friend was a wound so deep it had reshaped you.
Theo had always claimed he was glad he’d never experienced anything like it. Until the same thing happened to him.
“This is killing me,” He muttered, pacing the length of your shared bedroom like a man awaiting his execution. His hands dragged through his hair, his voice raw, “I hope you know that.”
Your throat tightened, but you forced an eyeroll, masking your sympathy with irritation, “Theo, it’s not that big of a deal. Will you stop getting your knickers twisted?”
He whirled on you, eyes blazing. “Not a big deal? Not a big—” He broke off, laughing bitterly, “You were so betrayed when this happened to you that you practically tore their lives apart. And now you expect me to just—what? Pretend I’m fine?”
You scoffed, folding your arms, “We are not comparing the biggest betrayal of my life with your daughter having a crush on Mattheo.”
The air went still.
Theo staggered back a step, like you’d struck him. His face twisted in horror as his hand clutched his chest. “Don’t say it out loud.” He croaked, his voice breaking.
He looked genuinely wounded, muttering under his breath as though mourning a death, “I raised her better than this…She used to want to marry me!”
Before you could roll your eyes again, the shrill ding-dong of the doorbell cut through the tension.
Theo froze mid-step, every muscle in his body going taut. Slowly, his head turned toward the door like a man staring down a firing squad.
And then—
“HE’S HERE!”
Your three-year-old's shriek echoed down the hall, followed by the thunder of little feet pounding against the floorboards. She practically skidded into the foyer, hair wild, socks sliding on the wood as she lunged for the door.
“Bianca, you know you're not allowed to open the door without us!” Theo barked, but it was too late.
The door swung wide.
Mattheo Riddle stood there, casual, self-assured, hands shoved in his pockets. A faint, rakish smirk tugged at his lips. With the leather jacket and helmet under his arm, it was easy to see why your daughter was utterly smitten. Had you not known the fool he was during school, you might have been just as captivated.
“Hi.” He drawled, eyes immediately landing on his god-daughter.
“UNCLE MATTHEO!” Bianca squealed, launching herself into his arms without hesitation. He caught her with practiced ease, lifting and spinning her once before settling her on his hip.
Mattheo shifted her higher onto his hip, grinning like he owned the place, “And who’s my favorite girl?”
“Me!” She squealed, giggling as she buried her face into his shoulder.
Theo’s jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard it crack. His knuckles whitened at his sides, and he took one menacing step forward like he was about to snatch his daughter back by force.
Mattheo, utterly unbothered, tilted his head, smirk widening. “I see someone’s cranky.” He teased lightly, holding Bianca closer with a teasing flourish.
"(Y/N) did not go through 14 hours of aggravating labour for this horrendous display."
“Now you know how I felt all those years back at Hogwarts, watching you two glued to each other’s lips like a bad romance novel.”
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
where does the wind go (female reader, friends to lovers, make out, not smut but it has grinding)
BatFam:
My Heart
(platonic yandere batfam x neglected!batsis!reader — conner kent x reader): Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine.
Kent!Batmom!Reader
↪ asks:
the kids cursing
damian's birth and conception — 2 — 3
damian tormenting reader — damian after tormenting reader
bruce around animals
batmom!kent!reader and clark growing up together
family dynamic if babybat was born
wayne's secretary ( part one : 2002 )
the sunshine gentleman ( part two : 2002 )
the perks of time ( part three : 2003 )
the night we met ( part four : 2004 )
a son's love ( part five : 2004 )
a ceo, a wedding . . . a robin? ( part six : 2006 )
jon's aunt — dick's mom ( part seven : 2008 )
auntie . . . again? ( part eight : 2010 )
a second arrive ( part nine : 2012 )
planning things — surprising you with others ( part ten : 2012 )
a robin leaves the nest — another is born ( part eleven : 2013—2014 )
looks like the joker did a number on you ( part twelve : 2015 )
grow wings . . . or whiskers ( part thirteen : 2015)
a restless boy or a silent girl ( part fourteen : 2015-2016 )
a masked roof, a biological appearance ( part fifteen : 2018 )
the side of everything ( part sixteen : 2018)
little blurb with ivy & harley
i'm so hungry i could eat . . .
how you get the girl ( headcanon )
how kent!reader became “mom” ( headcanon )
you can get the girl out of smallville . . . ( headcanon )
a wife's desire — a husband's insecurity ( one shot )
alternative universe
a place where you aren't you ( not connected to the series but kent!batmom!reader ) — part 2 and final : a heart torn apart (could've had it all)
↪ headcanons
↪ asks:
au!clark and his spider!sister
spider!reader as a mom — 2
alt!bruce meeting batmom!reader — og!bruce meeting spider!reader
a teen . . . mom!? ( not connected to the series but kent!batmom!reader )
Webs of Pain
platonic batfam x spider!batsis!reader. roy harper x reader
Chapter One — Chapter Two — Chapter Three — Chapter Four —
Clark Kent:
a resounding heart attack (clark kent x flirty!wayne!coworker!reader)
seven minutes in heaven (clark kent x female!coworker!reader)
summary: james and sirius have shared everything - detention slips, cigarettes, secrets - but there’s one thing sirius hasn’t shared… until now. with you in the picture, maybe it’s finally time he shares you with james.
word count: 8k (and yes, all of it is smut)
warnings: threesome (m/m/f), oral sex (male and female receiving), spit play, cum play, choking, light gagging, praise kink, degradation kink, hair pulling, cream pie, blindfold, bondage. fingering, jealousy as foreplay, corruption, humiliation, possessive behavior, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, anal sex, cunnilingus, squirting, james is in love w reader, overstimulation, double penetration, reader being very into it, they fuck on a piano (?), consensual from all sides, some messy emotions between the smut.
This is a dream. This must be a dream. Otherwise, how could you explain it?
There’s no other way to explain it—how else could you make sense of being pressed between two boys whose names alone make people turn their heads, whose reputations precede them in every hallway at Hogwarts?
Sirius Black is on your left—your boyfriend, your beautiful, reckless mistake of a love—and James Potter is on your right, with those golden brown eyes and that effortless grin that always lingers a moment too long.
They’re dressed for the party, both of them in open-collared dress shirts, ties loosened, cloaks discarded somewhere on a dusty sofa in the abandoned Astronomy classroom Sirius had dragged you into after the Gryffindor common room had become too loud.
You’d barely had time to ask what he was doing before he kissed you, hard and fast, only to pull away and glance behind you.
That’s when you saw James, closing the door with one hand, his mouth parted in disbelief.
Now, you’re caught between them in the dim candlelight. Sirius’s lips claim yours, hungry and territorial, while James trails soft, burning kisses down your neck, right where your pulse betrays you.
The thudding in your chest is deafening. The cool air of the castle seeps through the cracked window nearby, but your skin is flushed, feverish from the heat of their bodies.
Sirius still wears his signet ring, the same one he twisted nervously the first time he asked you out under the Quidditch stands. His all-black attire makes him look like sin wrapped in velvet.
James is the opposite—white button-down, sleeves rolled up, maroon tie hanging loose around his neck. He smells like firewhisky and something sweet, like the fruit punch he swears he didn’t spike.
You remember the party. You remember laughing with Lily, music pulsing through the common room, someone shouting about a drinking game.
But you don’t remember how you got here—back pressed to cold stone, breath stolen by Sirius’s kiss, hands fisting into James’s shirt as he groans softly against your collarbone.
Are you drunk?
You don’t feel drunk. You feel alive, aching, suspended in something you don’t quite understand. Your body moves like it remembers something your mind hasn’t caught up with yet—how it feels to be desired by both of them at once. How easy it is to let go of reason when Sirius is biting down on your lip and James is whispering something sinful against your ear.
You’re the center of their attention. Of their hunger. Of their want.
Their beauty is almost unearthly, and some part of you—hazy and overwhelmed—thinks maybe they don’t belong to this world. Maybe they’re not boys at all, but something else entirely. Maybe they fell for you like stars crash through the sky—bright, brief, and destined to burn.
And now they’re burning you from the inside out.
Wicked, beautiful, untouchable. Except you’re the one they’re touching now. The one they want. The one Sirius called mine before he looked James in the eye and whispered, only if you’re gentle.
And Merlin help you, James said yes.
“Keep your voice down,” your boyfriend warns in his gentle, seductive husky voice. “You can do that for us, can’t you, love?” His teeth grind against the skin of your neck, tasting the scent of your perfume with his tongue while his best friend goes down to his knees before you.
A pair of warm hazel eyes, flecked with gold and honey, look up at you through a tousled mess of dark curls.
James, cheeks tinged with rose like the first bloom of spring, gazes up at you with a longing so deep it steals the breath from your lungs—years of affection, buried and burning, now surfacing all at once.
His fingertips trace your thigh with a reverence that borders on worship, each touch sparking heat beneath your skin.
“Sweetheart…” he murmurs, voice thick with awe, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh as he wraps one arm around your leg, grounding himself in the moment.
“My beautiful, beautiful girl…”
The words fall from him like prayer—soft, aching, and meant only for you.
You chew on your lip to refrain yourself from making sound, giving your boyfriend two tiny nods to his earlier question.
Sirius chuckles, his hand sliding down to cup one of your breasts over the fabric. Though your dress spills down to the floor in elegant waves, the high slit running along your thigh offers James easy access to you—something he takes full advantage of.
He kneels before you, eyes gleaming behind his glasses, and presses a trail of feather-light kisses along the length of your exposed leg.
“Merlin,” he breathes against your skin, voice low and reverent, “you’re so soft…”
His hand glides slowly up your thigh, fingers splayed, teasing, as if he's memorizing the feel of you—every inch, every breathless shiver under his touch.
before he settles his head between your thighs. “Your body is a dream. So beautiful…” His breath fans your skin, elevating the tiny hairs on your nape.
“You’re like an angel.” The pet name and the praises he gives you feel just as foreign as the way he touches you, but James is only eager to make you feel at home.
“An angel?” Sirius snickers, his lips grazing your earlobe, his fingers curling around your throat. “What kind of an angel, are you, Sweetheart? Wanting another man’s face between your legs when you already have your boyfriend satisfying you all night. What, one cock isn’t enough for you, baby? Want my best friend to fuck you too, is that it?”
You can’t answer, your thighs quivering when you feel James kissing you over your underwear.
You’re much more sensitive as you never fantasized to be in such a position with the boy you shared hours of conversations with about your favorite books and he spilled his Quidditch strategies to you.
James has always been attractive. You noticed that from the start—he was all charm and careless smiles, with eyes that lingered a little too long when he looked at you. It wasn’t exactly a secret, either.
Everyone knew he had it bad for you, and James was never subtle about it. But you never paid it much attention. Not because you didn’t see it, but because Sirius knew—and didn’t care. If anything, he liked it.
There was something twistedly satisfying to him about watching his best friend want the one thing only he could have.
You never thought of James that way before. He was always sweet, almost boyish—blushing at the idea of holding your hand. Innocent, in his own eager, golden-hearted way.
And yet now… now he’s on his knees in front of you, hands reverent, eyes dark with want. And there’s nothing innocent about him anymore.
“I’m gonna make you feel good, okay?” James says, professing the words like it’s a form of reassurance.
Your high heel slides down the floor when he separates his lips and presses his mouth hotly against the lace of your panties. You would’ve lost your balance if your boyfriend wasn’t there to catch you.
“Sensitive, are we?” Sirius croons, purring delightfully next to your ear as he moves to stand behind you.
“What is it, honey? Does it feel good?” You weakly nod, biting the corner of your lip to contain your whimper.
Sirius’s eyes glaze, his voice drops a pitch lower as he takes in your expression, loathing the fact that another man can make your face contort in pleasure. “He hasn’t even started yet.” He holds you close, his face hovering past your shoulder to lock gaze with the shorter male.
“Isn’t that right, James?”
James, keeping his eyes on you, hugs your legs close and does a little mm-hmm as he mouths against your clothed heat. You softly whine, leaning your weight on your boyfriend’s chest.
It’s funny how responsive you are right now, acting like this is the first time someone has performed oral sex on you when your boyfriend has done that almost every day since you started dating.
“Sirius…” you moan, your body flinching when you can feel the shape of James’s tongue gliding over the cloth. “What are we—What is happening?”
“We’re making your dreams come true,” he answers, his arm shifting down to grapple your leg. Lifting it high enough for your dress to slide to the side, Sirius exposes your thigh and your center at once.
“Show him, baby,” Sirius tells you. “Show him how fucking wet that pussy is.”
Your heart is hitched in your throat but you follow nonetheless. Reaching down, you push your panties to the side.
“Good,” your boyfriend says. “Now, spread them apart.” With your cheeks burning brightly, you bring your other hand down, spreading your lower lips apart until James can see your dripping cunt, your entrance twitching in anticipation.
“Take a good look, James,” Sirius utters, his tone conceited and cold. “This is what you want. Been thinking about fucking my girl behind my back for a while, haven’t you, Prongs?”
James has the hardest time tearing his gaze away from you, but he manages. Exchanging stares with your boyfriend, he solemnly utters, “I wouldn’t have done this if you didn’t give me permission to touch her.”
“That’s right,” he smiles pompously, shooting one hand down to join your fingers, putting you on display.
“This pretty cunt here belongs to me. You don’t get to taste it. You don’t get to fuck it unless I let you to. You’re only here because of me.” He dips his index finger deep inside your hole before he retrieves it and plunges it into your mouth.
You whimper around his finger, tasting your own slick. “You better take good care of her. Better make her cum and lick her clean. Do that, and maybe I’ll forgive you for this. After all…” Sirius turns his face to the side, the tip of his nose nudging against your cheek.
“I’m just here to please my girl. If she wants to be a fucking slut and have her holes stuffed with our cocks at the same time then I would gladly do it.”
Your boyfriend spreads your legs as wide as possible with one hand circling your waist protectively to keep you standing on your feet. “Go on,” Sirius urges, eyes gleaming dangerously as he peers down at the other man.
“You want to fuck my girl’s cunt with your tongue, don’t you? Do it before I change my mind.”
James breathes out heavily. His fear, desire, and overwhelming thrill add pretty colors to his pale face. Sirius tells you to keep your hands where they are.
James tentatively darts out his tongue, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit, his nose bumping against your finger. He removes your hand, placing them on his head so you could guide him.
His moan reverberates to your skin when he feels you tightening your hold around his curly strands, leaving his hair all disheveled. Now that he has more room to reach, James eagerly latches his mouth against your folds, tongue flicking obscenely before his lips close around your clit.
Your body jerks. “Ah—mmph!”
Sirius slaps one hand over your mouth, stopping your voice from thundering down the hallway. “Shhh,” he titters, stuffing two of his fingers inside and pressing them flat against your tongue.
“You want people to catch us like this? I won’t mind if you ask me. I would love to fuck my girlfriend in front of everyone. Want them to see how good I am at making you cry out my name like a fucking little bitch you are.”
Moments like this make you realize that your boyfriend was never an angel. He’s been the devil, Lucifer himself, from day one.
James’s little grunts are muffled against your skin, his cerulean eyes turning hazy as he watches your expression twist in pleasure.
He sneaks one hand behind your leg, palm splayed against your calf before he guides you to rest your thigh on his shoulder.
You’re now lifted off the ground, trusting your bodyweight entirely on the two males to fight against gravity. “sweetheart…” He bestows a gentle kiss on your clit, pulling away slightly just to replace his mouth with two of his fingers.
Gliding them down over your folds, there’s a hint of curiosity and nervousness as he speaks his sentence. “Do I make you feel good?”
You’re not sure what to say. No, you’re not sure if you should speak at all as your boyfriend is right behind you. But Sirius removes his fingers from your mouth, your saliva dribbling down your chin as he frames your face and forces you to look down at James.
“He asked you a question.” Sirius’s voice is just as melodious as it is perilous. You sink your teeth on your bottom lip, too afraid to be honest. “It’s only polite to reply.”
“B-but–”
“Answer him.”
“Yes,” you vocalize in a tattered breath. “Yes, it feels good.”
You expect your boyfriend to be upset, maybe curling his fingers around your throat a little harder to remind you who owns you but Sirius chuckles, saying, “That’s my good girl,” as he grants you a soft kiss on your shoulder. “Now, relax, love. I want you to enjoy everything while it lasts.”
James, encouraged by your answer, dives down to taste you again, this time focusing more on abusing your already swollen clit. Your hand tugs harder against his roots as your hips start to move on your own.
“Aah, look at you,” Sirius says, drawing your earlobe between his teeth. “Riding his face like that… Just how much you’ve been thinking about this, hmm?” His hand slips under the garment of your dress, taking possession of your breast and squeezing it until your whole body jolts.
“Filthy whore,” he growls, teeth-gritting as he says it.
He’s angry. Even if he pretends he isn’t, there’s no denying it. He’s swallowed by the rage of seeing another man pleasuring his girlfriend right before his eyes but he doesn’t do anything to stop it.
He keeps holding one of your legs in the air, commanding him, “Fuck her with your tongue. If you can’t make her squirt, I won’t let you fuck her.”
James groans, the dazed look on his face morphs slightly into a glare, vexed by his words. He retracts his fingers, stretching your pussy’s lips as wide apart as possible, tongue darting out to tease your entrance before he plunges it inside your hole.
Your body lurches forward, eyebrows stitched together in pleasure. You have one hand clawing against your boyfriend’s shirt, your reaction fueling the jealousy raging in his chest but Sirius simply tilts up his chin, an arrogant smile breaking upon his lips.
“That’s the spirit, James,” he says, a moment before he sinks his teeth against the spot that connects your neck to your shoulder, rewarding you with the pain while James tortures you with pleasure. “Keep it up. I want to see her cum all over your face.”
James doesn’t have Sirius’s practiced touch—the kind born of years of experience and confidence—but what he lacks in finesse, he more than makes up for in sheer, devoted eagerness. There’s something dangerous in that kind of want. Desperate to please, desperate to unravel you.
And when he slides two fingers inside you, thrusting with an intensity that betrays how badly he’s imagined this, how long he’s wanted it—it takes no time at all before your body begins to tremble.
“Ah—Sirius…” you gasp, voice catching as your knees buckle beneath the weight of pleasure. Your hand shoots out blindly, grasping at Sirius’s arm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.
“I’m—I’m about to cum—James—“
Sirius grabs your face, smashing your mouths together and kissing you harder than he’s ever been before you can finish pronouncing the word.
“Don’t say his name,” he growls, squeezing your cheeks together with one hand as the knots inside your belly grow taut. “You either scream my name or nothing at all. Understand?” The sudden drop in his pitch makes your skin crawl in both fear and excitement.
You’re breathing hard, fogs clouding your thoughts as James drives you closer to the brink. “I—Sirius—”
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” you sob out. “Yes. Only you, Sirius.”
Satisfied, he kisses you again, whispering between the collision of your mouths, “Good. Now, cum, baby. Give him what he wants.”
Not two seconds later, you reach your high, your scream strangled in your throat as you give in to the blind pleasure. Your orgasm hits you so hard that you end up squirting.
James’s eyes shut close in reflex when your cum stains his face, a little bit of your juice dripping to the floor before he catches the rest of your essence in his mouth, lapping you clean and swallowing everything you give him as promised.
Sirius sneers, the tip of his nose brushes against your ear. “Squirting on another man’s face,” he titters mockingly, “I can’t believe it.”
James returns to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His chin still glistens with your slick, your taste sitting thickly on his tongue.
He offers you his usual angelic smile, the adoration he holds for you never falter even if you’re his best friend's girl. “Let’s move somewhere else,” he says, his thumb sliding across your lips as he holds back the temptation to kiss you. “The party will be over soon. I don’t want anyone to see us like this.”
Sirius untangles his arm from your leg, letting you stand on your own. Your knees still wobble from the aftershock of your orgasm, leaving you with no choice but to have your body pressed flat against his chest.
Despite the terms he used to degrade you a moment ago, your boyfriend soothes you down with a little kiss on the side of your temple, his arm holding you still by your waist.
“You okay?” He asks, genuinely concerned.
Turning bashful, you respond with a timid smile and a weak, “Yeah, umm… I think I just pulled a muscle from the way you were holding me.”
Sirius laughs, landing a playful peck on your cheek. “Not as flexible as you were before, huh, grandma?”
“S-shut up.”
James watches with his jaw clenched, jealousy starting to gnaw at him just as much as the one that was blazing inside Sirius’s chest. “Come,” he says, pivoting on his heels and leading you down the hallway. “I know a place we can use.”
***
You’ve been in this room before.
It’s tucked away in one of Hogwarts’ forgotten towers—a space James had claimed long ago as his own. He called it his sanctuary. With its high, arched windows and shelves crammed with weathered spellbooks and Muggle novels alike, the room feels more like a secret study than a part of the castle.
The stone walls are softened by old rugs and scattered cushions, a few armchairs charmed to stay warm no matter the season.
At the center sits a white grand piano, slightly out of place in the magical chaos—its ivory surface gleaming in the candlelight, its lid closed, waiting.
You remember the last time you were here. It was his birthday. He’d snuck you away from the party in the common room, tugging you by the hand through secret passageways only he seemed to know.
You’d sat beside him on the piano bench, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and listened as his fingers danced across the keys. That was the night James declared his love for you, but you could’nt seem to be able to return it.
Because even then, with all that tenderness spilling from him, you couldn’t give it back. Your heart already belonged to someone else. And he knew it.
But that was then.
Right now, you’re lying down on the same piano, your dress thrown away haphazardly on the floor, your chest exposed and your legs opened wide with no fabric covering your skin.
It’s been an hour since you started this. You’re in a haze, your body enervated after your boyfriend gave you your second orgasm that day only by using his fingers.
The two handsome men now stand tall before you, their eyes still fixated on the way your bare chest is heaving up and down as you try to catch your breath.
Sirius had shed his formal robes long ago, trading them for something far more him—a loose black button-down, completely undone and hanging open over his bare chest, the fabric slipping off one shoulder like it had given up trying to contain him.
His white undershirt is nowhere to be seen, tossed somewhere across the room, and his sleeves are rolled carelessly to his elbows.
He smirks, eyes dark and wild as ever. “I hope you’re not tired yet, love. We’re just getting started.”
James, dressed in nothing left but a shirt and slacks, unfastens the three top buttons of his shirt with a little tremble in his fingertips. He’s visibly nervous at what your boyfriend has planned for the rest of the evening but he doesn’t file a word of protest.
The curly-haired boy still feels jittery even after he was holding you close from behind as your boyfriend fingered you until you drenched his fist with your juices. Sirius tells him to take off his robe and he follows, sliding it away from his collar.
“Let’s play a little game,” Sirius announces with mischief in his tone, walking to the other side of the piano where you have your head resting a few inches away from the edge.
His sensual, devilish smirk is the last thing you see before your boyfriend covers your eyes with his tie. He lifts your head, knotting the tie securely behind your skull.
“Sirius—”
He lowers his head to close the gap and kisses you upside down, silencing you at once. “Relax, love,” he coos, the shape of his smirk pressing against your lips.
“I’m gonna take care of you real nice, okay?”
Now that you’ve lost your vision, you rely heavily on your ears to figure out what’s going on. You can hear James’s footsteps closing in at the same time you feel Sirius moving away from you.
“Lift your hands, sweetheart,” his honeyed voice echoes near, a lot gentler than how your boyfriend spoke to you. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”
Trying not to tense so much, you raise your hands in the air. James wraps his tie around your wrist, careful not to hurt you, unlike your boyfriend who always loves to tie it hard enough so it will leave angry marks on your skin for him to marvel in the morning.
Once the fabric wraps around your wrists, binding you gently, James guides your arms down to rest across your stomach. His touch is patient, reverent—like he’s memorizing every inch of you with his hands alone.
He leans forward, fingers tilting your chin toward him, and kisses you upside down—mirroring the way Sirius had kissed you just moments earlier.
But James kisses differently. He kisses like you’re fragile, like pressing too hard might break you. There’s something achingly soft in the way his lips move against yours, careful and searching. You exhale quietly through your nose, letting yourself fall into the simplicity of it—just breath and warmth and the subtle hum of magic in the air.
Then you feel it—his tongue, timid and slow, tracing along the seam of your lips as if asking permission, tasting you like you’re something sacred. Your heart stutters in your chest, racing in time with his, even though the kiss is barely there.
Time feels suspended—like the world has curled in on itself, quiet and dreamlike—until—
“James.”
The boy stiffens, breaking off the kiss at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice rumbling through the air.
He raises his face, a muscle in his jaw twitches as he sees Sirius’s eyes turn dark and piercing. Both males are jealous of one another.
James wants you for himself, while Sirius, despite giving him his permission, grows even more resentful in sharing you with another man. The tension between the two is enough to smother you but fortunately, you’re too distraught by your own thoughts to notice.
What are they planning to do to me?
You take a deep breath, trying to unwind your muscles as best as you can as you wait. You can hear footsteps again, Sirius and James circling your body before they stop.
There’s a silence where you can hear nothing but your thundering heartbeats in your ears.
There’s a sound of belts being pulled away from their loops, zippers being tugged down. None of the men make a sound. When two pairs of lips begin their journeys from your ankles to your thighs, you realize one thing.
It’s a guessing game.
Sirius doesn’t have to tell you the rules for you to know how to play, or maybe this isn’t a game at all.
Maybe he just wants to fuck with your mind, injecting more thrill into your veins at the thought of being embraced by two males without knowing who’s doing what to you. But if this is a game, then you know how to win.
You’ve been dating your boyfriend for years. You know how rough he is–you love how rough he is–how sinful and obscene his touches are, how he clamps his mouth against your own or your clit—you’ve memorized everything.
Plus, Sirius and James are two different species. While Sirius is the fire that burns you with his passion, James is the salve that soothes you down. The devil and the angel are not the same. It’s easy to differentiate the two, even if you can see or hear a thing.
The two males have their heads settled between your legs, fighting for space and a chance to please you.
Each man is pinning one of your thighs on the piano, wanting to spread you apart as much as possible so they can taste how sweet you are.
You can tell almost immediately that it’s your boyfriend who is now latching his mouth on your clit, sucking hard enough until your hips buck forward.
The other man—James—takes his time kissing the sensitive skin on the inner part of your thigh, his hand stroking and kneading soothingly.
“Ah, Sirius—” You squirm, hands going down to his head, tugging on his bun.
Your boyfriend laughs, his voice dulled by your sensitive parts. “How can you tell it’s me?”
You always do that, doing as you please, overstimulating me. But you don’t voice your thoughts out loud. No, you can’t, as you feel James joining in, their tongues dart out eagerly to lap at your wetness at the same time.
You’re being pulled to the edge of the piano to make it easier for them to share space.
“Oh—” Your whole world shakes. The mental image of two pairs of eyes looking up at you with their desire blazing inside, hungry and lustful, occupies every part of your mind.
It’s too much. The sensation is too much.
“Relax, sweetheart,” James says, circling his tongue around your nub as your boyfriend lowers himself enough to plunge his slick muscle into your hole.
“Please, I’m—” You whine, your nails digging into your palms, “I’m about to cum—“
“Again?” Sirius jeers as his sinful smirk resurfaces. “Well, then, allow me.” Pushing James to the side, he pushes two of his fingers inside his mouth, making them wet before he drives them inside you at the same time. “You know what to do, baby,” he coos.
He wants you to squirt just like before and with the way he works his fingers, thrusting them in and out of you in a come-hither motion, he’s leaving you with no other choice.
As embarrassing as it is, you find your body doing exactly what he wants, cumming hard with a silent cry until the trickle of your juices drenches his hand all the way to his wrist.
Sirius retracts his fingers, licking each digit clean while his eyes traverse down your body. “That’s fucking hot,” he says, while James dives down to lick your pussy’s lips clean from every bit of your cum.
“You taste amazing,” James breathes out in bliss, kissing your clit and slowly eating you out to soothe you down from your crashing orgasm.
You’re all spent, eyes turning vacant as they’re transfixed on the ceiling but they don’t stop. One of them walks away to the other side of the piano, stopping once they stand on the other side of your head.
He hovers above your face, refraining himself from leaning in for another inverted kiss, afraid that the sweet taste of his mouth would reveal his identity too soon.
Instead, he frames your face, angling your head to the side so he can latch his mouth against the side of your neck. He uses his teeth almost instantly, suckling hard on your skin, marking angry bruises for everyone to see.
“Siri—”
He clasps his palm against your mouth before you can finish pronouncing his name, knowing that the game would be over once you guess it correctly.
He then slides two of his fingers inside, forcing you to part your lips wide so he can see the shape of your tongue as he presses his digits flat against your slick muscle.
Sirius thrusts his fingers inside and you know what he wants you to do. You suck on them, in the most obscene way possible as if you were treating them as something else.
Your boyfriend always loves to do this. Loves enjoying the look on your face when you hollow your cheeks around his fingers, giving him a vivid image of how pretty your lips are going to look when you wrap them around his cock later on.
You flinch when you feel the other man leaning half of his body forward over the piano, peppering soothing kisses on the inner part of your thighs just in the way James did a few moments ago.
His soft lips, the way he’s still a bit awkward and shy as he tries to please you, send goosebumps breaking all over your skin.
James can’t seem to get enough of your taste. Knowing that this could be his only chance at having you in such a position, he places his mouth on your center again, kissing you down there so languidly as if he had eternity to please you.
He hugs you close by your thighs, his nose pressing against your pelvis. You can’t hear his soft groan but you can feel its vibration directly on your clit.
You moan between sharp gasps when the man—Sirius—who’s standing over your head starts to clamp his hot mouth around your breast, rolling your nipple between his teeth before he sucks hard.
He grabs a hold of your mound, squeezing it hard enough to make you squirm then he flicks his tongue around the bud. The material of his shirt grazes your face when he pulls back, pushing down his pants to break himself free.
You’re being tugged forward, your head falling over the edge of the piano with the head of his cock pressing against your lips.
Your boyfriend doesn’t do anything. He wants you to do all the work. With your hands tied, you reach up and circle your fingers around his cock, kissing the head and tasting the salt of his pre-cum.
He’s hard, throbbing and twitching in your hands at the slightest touch. Exhaling sharply, you take his tip into your mouth, and Sirius, without warning, shoves everything inside at once.
You choke, groaning around his dick as he lands both palms on the piano to balance himself, trapping your body between them as he rocks his hips forward.
Your throat constricts around his length and he can see how far he goes from where he is looming tall above you.
James’s patience is starting to run thin as well. He starts using both hands, stuffing three of his fingers inside you while his other one abuses your clit with his thumb.
He pumps you hard and fast, perfectly imitating the way Sirius did to you a few minutes ago.
You mewl, moaning around Sirius’s cock, your legs sliding down until they fall onto the keys.
The sound of broken notes fills the air, startling you enough that you pull your mouth away from his cock, coughing and gasping frantically as you try to refill the air in your lungs.
James suddenly grabs you by the back of your knees, yanking you down until you’re close enough for him to seize you by the waist.
He hoists you away from the piano, forcing you to return to your feet and turning your body around. Your vision is pitch black, your hands still bound together, reaching out blindly for support until you find yourself balancing your weight on the keys.
James lowers his trousers to his mid-thighs, his cock springing free out of his briefs. Spitting onto his palm, he lathers himself quickly with his saliva before he nudges his tip against your entrance.
Despite his nervous, awkward demeanor, James is not taking it slow, propelling inside you with one hard thrust until your entire body is pushed forward, a strangled cry stuck in your throat.
He’s being uncharacteristically aggressive, stretching you out almost in the same way as your boyfriend does.
He bends himself down, wrapping his hand around the front of your throat and pulling you up until your back is plastered against his chest.
The butterflies inside you flutter their wings, a sob of pleasure threatening to break free. “James—”
“Wrong.”
Your heart plummets to your stomach, the fingers he has around your neck threaten to crush your windpipes.
“You’re breaking my heart, love,” Sirius chuckles right next to your ear. “How could you forget your boyfriend filling you up like this? I thought I’d fucked you hard enough for you to remember the shape of my cock.”
It’s Sirius? Your heart palpitates fast, panic rising to the surface. The one who was inside my mouth before was James?!
“You seem surprised,” your boyfriend laughs mockingly, ramming his hips against yours over and over again with his nails digging painfully into the flesh of your waist.
“You thought I was him, didn’t you? I treated you gently and you started thinking about another man. Can’t say I’m not hurt.”
“Ah—Siri—” You’re breathing fast, your cheek pressed against the closed lid as Sirius pinned you down to the piano by your nape.
Your stomach is bumping against the keys with each thrust, both of you making music of your own, accompanied by the sound of his pelvis slapping against your behind.
James watches you from the other side of the piano with his cock pulsating hard in his hand, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he tries not to make noise.
It feels terrible, humiliating even, to pleasure himself as he watches you being taken hard by your boyfriend but he can’t restrain himself.
At the sound of your name escaping his lips in a breathy, longing moan, Sirius’s eyes dart to his face, the corner of his mouth twitching into an impish smirk at the sight of another man masturbating to his girlfriend being fucked. “There’s room for one more if you want to join, Potter,” he arrogantly says, “That is if you can’t stop yourself from cumming within seconds.”
The thought of you being watched by your best friend caused warmth to pool in your belly.
Taking off your blindfold with one hand, Sirius grabs a fistful of your hair, hauling you up until he can hug you close as he stands. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his long fingers framing your face.
He forces you to look at the man who’s fisting his dick in one hand, while his other one grips tightly against the edge of the piano.
He’s giving himself a string of pumps that matches the way Sirius is driving himself inside you.
“Y/N…” He sighs in yearning when your eyes meet, absolutely wrecked from how much effect you have on him, turning a shade redder than he already does. “You’re beautiful…”
“Yeah,” Sirius sneers, whispering in your ear, “My beautiful, beautiful slut.”
He penetrates you with aching shallowness between your legs, teasing you, moving with a rhythm like an inevitable sea tide.
You squeeze around him, keening as your body starts to crave more. “Fuck, taking my fucking dick so good,” your boyfriend hisses, drowning in rapture.
“Sirius, please…” You glue your thighs together, clenching your walls around him.
“What, honey, do you want more?” Sirius questions melodiously, even when he knows you want him to lose control. “Want me to give it to you harder? Or do you want James too? Maybe find out if he can fuck you as good as I can.”
He must have been fucking you so good that your brain turns all mushy because right now, you want to turn his teasing words into reality.
You’re not sure how you’re able to find the bravery within you to answer but your lips form the words before your mind can finish your thought. “Yes,” you whimper, and James almost moans at the sound. “Yes, please, I want him too—”
Sirius stops. For a moment, the smirk falters from his face, before— “Is that so?”
Siriu’s thrust turns forceful within an instant, pouring all his rage and jealousy in every plunge of his cock inside you. Your jaw turns slack, mouth wide open in a silent scream with your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
He’s fucking you to prove a point, one hand rubbing furiously against your clit, slapping and abusing it until you cry out.
Sirius keeps his gaze on James, his eyes glowing menacingly as he growls out the words, “You think he can fuck you like I do?” He pulls himself out without giving you a chance to answer.
Before you can groan at the loss of the delicious frictions he gave you, your boyfriend whirls you around until you’re face-to-face.
“He can’t,” Sirius says, squeezing your face with one hand.
“No one can fuck you like I do. This fucking cunt won’t be satisfied until I fill you up.” He emphasizes by slapping a hand over your heat, making you jump and whine at the pain before your whole body shakes at the way he’s pumping his fingers into you again. “I’m the only one who can please you this way, Y/N. You got that?”
“Yes,” you reply in a faint cry, getting lightheaded as if he’s blocking oxygen to your head.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Sirius.”
“Good.” He retracts his fingers, shoving them inside your mouth so you can taste yourself as he nudges his head, telling James to come close. “Let’s move to the couch. I want to fuck her mouth.”
Sirius sweeps off your feet, carrying you in his arms before he forces you to go on all fours on the couch.
He tells James, whose shirt is sliding off his shoulders and his pants hanging low on his hips, to get into position as your boyfriend moves to stand on his knees before you.
“Show me how much you love me,” your boyfriend purrs as he unfastens the tie around your wrists.
Obediently, you curl your fingers around his shaft and start your ministrations by giving him lazy strokes. Sirius threads his fingers through your hair, pushing back your hair as he thrusts himself into your mouth.
“Pretty girl,” he praises, watching you flick your tongue over his tip. “I love you so much. Can’t go on a day without you. Need you so fucking bad.” He hypnotizes you with his words, your insides melting as they resonate through your brain.
James, settling himself on your other end, bends down to spit onto your cunt, spreading his saliva all over your lips with two of his fingers before he does the same to his cock.
He prods his tip along your folds, breathing hard in anticipation with his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.
You both groan at the sensation of his head passing your entrances just slightly the second you push your hips back. Fuck me, James can hear the unspoken words and he’s ready to oblige.
“Y/N” He paints soothing kisses along your spine, one hand splayed against your stomach. “I’m putting it in.”
Unlike Sirius, James moves slow, taking his time and waiting for you to adjust until he’s fully sheathed inside.
Though he’s an inch shorter than Sirius’s, he’s wider in girth, rubbing against your walls and stretching you out in a way that has you whimpering around your boyfriend’s cock.
You can hear James taking a sharp breath, and a low, “Fuck…” It’s the first he ever let expletives depart from his pretty mouth, his silvery voice turning guttural.
“Tight, isn’t she?” Sirius asks him, pride sitting thick on his voice.
“Y-yeah…” James rocks his hips once, feeling your walls tighten even more at the friction. “And so… hot inside too…”
You slide Sirius’s cock out of your mouth, taking a breath and a moment to relish in the sensation of having another man fucking you in front of your boyfriend but Sirius’s not having it.
He slaps his dick against the side of your face. “Who told you to stop?” He says.
“Pretty little whore wants to be filled in two holes at once, doesn’t she? Come on, baby.” You take him back—no, he shoves himself inside your mouth, making you gag around his length.
He buries himself to the hilt right at the same time James does the same. Tears start to prickle at the corner of your eyes.
“Ah,” James breathes out as he picks up his pace, giving you shallow, pointed thrusts that hit your spot just right. “Wish I could see your face… Wish I could see how pretty you look as you take me in…” He closes the spaces between his chest and your back, kissing you softly on the nape. “You feel like heaven to me.”
An idea submerges in Sirius’s mind. Telling James to pull out, Sirius flips you over to your back, his cock hovering above your face as you take him in one hand.
“There you go, Potter,” your boyfriend says.
“Now you can fuck my girl as you watch me fuck her mouth.”
James, now seeing you spread your legs for him, your pussy dripping and waiting for him to fill it up again, is on the verge of turning absolutely feral.
The juvenile, innocent side of him has disappeared — replaced by a man with his blood boiling with desire.
He pushes your legs forward, his hands gripping tight at the back of your thighs as he pushes back in — his cock standing hard enough that he can slide in without using his hands.
He folds your body in half, knocking you forward and robbing a moan from the back of your throat.
Gasping in surprise, you throw your face to the side, your filthy moans are spoken against the side of Sirius’s cock. You try your best to bring him back into your mouth, not wanting to upset him as you can see his rage flaring in his eyes.
“So good,” James grunts, his hips swaying obscenely. His shirt slides off his shoulders, stopping to pool around his elbows. “You’re perfect, so perfect, I love you—ah—”
At his confession, your walls flutter around him and you release Sirius from your mouth, shifting your gaze down to see James watching you with sentiment in his eyes, your stomach flipping in delight at the sight.
It’s true that he can’t fuck you as good as your boyfriend can, but at the moment James exudes more feelings, pulling more emotions out of you. It pleases you just the same in such a different way.
Sirius, unsettled by the chemistry between you, clamps one hand around James’s throat and yanks him forward until their lips collide above you.
Sirius kisses him forcefully, tongue thrusting inside, sloppily moving together inside James’s mouth until he has his drool dripping down his chin.
James thrusts begin to stutter as Sirius breaks his concentration, mewling helplessly against his mouth. James had never been kissed this hard, never felt like his oxygen was stolen right from his lungs.
When Sirius breaks away, a string of saliva connecting their lips, he tightens his fingers around James’s throat, making him wince from the pain.
“You get to fuck my girl,” Sirius growls. “But you don’t get to have her heart. It belongs to me. She belongs to me. Know your fucking place, Potter.”
“Sirius—” he chokes, one hand curling around Sirius’s wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip.
The brunette kisses him again, hard enough to turn James’s lips all swollen before he tells him, “Lie down.”
James, receiving a hard shove on his chest, falls on the couch, his limbs all tangled with yours as he’s pressed flat on his back.
Sirius lifts your body, grabbing you harshly by your hair as he forces you to lie down on top of James, your face hovering above his.
James gulps at the sudden proximity between you, shaky eyes peering into yours.
You look breathtaking with your lips all bruised and your lipstick smeared to your cheeks, your chin wet with saliva, and Sirius’s pre-cum.
You’re so beautiful and dirty at the same time, reek of purity and sensuality.
“Sit on his cock, baby,” Sirius says, and with wobbly legs, you position yourself on James’s length, sinking agonizingly slowly onto his dick until he’s buried deep, your clit grazing the trimmed hairs on his pelvis.
“Ah—mmm,” James turns into a moaning mess, his cock pulsating hard inside you. Your body is weak but you still find the strength to smile when he gently strokes your face.
“Feels good?” He questions which you reciprocate with a feeble nod, your eyes shifting to his lips and James gets the message.
You meet each other halfway, lips molding, slow dancing with one another. For a moment, serenity hugs you both, moaning softly against each other’s mouth with him whispering praises between kisses, “Sweet… You taste so sweet… I can kiss you for eternity and it won’t be enough…”
You’re about to move your hips when Sirius stands on his knees behind you, each hand on your ass cheeks, spreading them apart.
Your body jolts, almost accidentally biting on James’s tongue when you feel Sirius spitting harshly onto your hole.
Shock runs like electricity through your veins. “Wait—Sirius—”
“Relax, baby,” he says, closing his eyes as pushes his face forward, his tongue circling the rim of your hole, giving you the sensation you’ve never felt before in your life.
“Oh—God—” You cry out, both thrilled and a bit terrified from how strange it feels.
James, aroused by your expression, slightly bucks his hips upward, thrusting into you. “sweetheart…” he whispers, “Pay attention to me too…”
At the feeling of Sirius’s tongue probing against your hole, James’s hot, throbbing length rubbing against your walls, you can barely think about anything but you try your best to comply.
You lean down to kiss him again, your eyebrows furrowed as you feel James driving himself a little further inside you. You both muffle each other’s moans, soft lips hugging another pair in a way that can only be described as romantic.
Sirius glides one finger inside you, doing as gently as he can to not hurt you. Your body turns rigid in discomfort and your boyfriend calms you down by placing open-mouthed kisses on the skin that covers your tailbone.
“Love, relax,” he says, losing the venom that once coated his tongue. “I won’t hurt you. I promise I’ll make you feel good.”
“We’ll make you feel good,” James corrects, casting a smile too innocent to be thrown in this situation as he pushes a lock of your hair behind your ear. “We love you. All we’re trying to do is to please you.”
“That’s right,” Sirius chuckles, dipping his tongue inside your heat this time before he licks a stripe up and returns to your rear. “So be a good girl and relax for me, okay?”
You draw a deep breath. “Okay…”
James props one elbow on the couch, raising his body slightly so he can whisper in your ear, “Just focus on me. Focus on the way I’m sliding inside you. Can you feel it? Can you feel where we’re connected?”
You shakily nod, feeling his smile pressing against the contour of your jawline.
Now that you’re loose enough to take one finger inside, Sirius spits onto his hand again before he brings another one of his digits, scissoring you wide open. Every time you flinch, your boyfriend would reward you with another tender kiss on your skin. “I won’t rush,” Sirius assures you. “I’ll wait as long as you need until you’re ready.”
The sudden change of his attitude works perfectly on calming your nerves, and once your body relaxes, Sirius pushes his third fingers inside. “I think you can take me now, baby,” he says, rising tall on his knees. “I’ll take it slow, okay?”
James holds you close, shrouding you with his arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m here.” He kisses your ear, murmuring, “Just focus on me…”
Sirius pushes his length into your rear as slowly as he can, muttering a gravelly, “Fuck, you’re even tighter this way,” under his breath.
“Ah,” you whimper, fingers clenching into fists. “Sirius, I can’t… It’s too much…”
“You can, baby,” Sirius replies in a guttural moan, leaning forward to mouth his words against your nape. “Just a little bit more–ah, Christ–”
“Siri–”
“I know,” he swallows his breath. “I swear I’ll make you feel so good after this, baby.”
The friction burns to the point that you almost feel like giving up but Sirius is trying his best to be gentle. James kisses you to swallow your groan, distracting you from the pain.
It takes another few seconds before Sirius is fully enveloped by your warmth, just like James is and he chuckles, rewarding you by showering kisses down your back. “You’re doing so well, pretty girl. I’m so proud of you.”
Having two men inside you at the same time is something you wouldn’t even have the bravery to imagine and yet here you are.
“I’ll start to move, okay?” Sirius says after giving you a moment to catch your breath, and you spin your head to the side to slant your lips together with him.
“Okay…” you breathe out. Your boyfriend rewards you with a smile and one last kiss on your bare shoulder before he straightens his back, places his hands on each side of your hips, and begins to move.
“Ah—fuck—” You can feel tears stinging your eyes, from pain or pleasure, you’re not sure, probably both.
With every drive of Sirius’s hips, you’re sinking lower onto James’s cock, the three of you grinding against one another — it’s awkward for the first few seconds, each of you trying to match your rhythm but once you find it, waves of pleasure start to come crashing in.
“How do you feel?” Sirius asks, uncharacteristically solemn as he’s worried of your well-being. “Does it hurt?”
“N-no.”
“Does it feel good?” James chimes in, peering into your eyes.
“Yes,” you exhale in bliss. “I feel so… full.”
Sirius smiles, exhaling in relief. “Well then, how about we take it up a notch?” He adds more force into his thrust, sending you toppling down with your head landing on James’s chest.
James can feel it too, the snap of his hips and the way your walls are hugging him tightly. Sirius is in control, leaving both of you under his mercy.
“How is it, baby?” Your boyfriend speaks between his labored breathing. “Feels good?”
“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, clawing against James’s chest as you feel like you’re trapped between heaven and earth. James’s thick hardness opens you up while Sirius’s penetrates deep inside your body.
“Wanna fuck you harder,” your boyfriend says once he feels your muscles unwinding, your tight hole finally adjusting to his size. “Wanna fuck you so hard until I cum, baby, can I?”
“Me too.” James takes one of your breasts in his hand, tongue circling your nipple. “I want it, sweetheart.” He mouths against your skin. “Want to feel you clench harder around me.”
You bite the corner of your lip, nodding your head as your heart rate escalates fast. “Ah—mmm, yeah.”
With your permission, both men hastily pick up the pace, robbing a scream from the back of your throat when James lifts his hips at the same time Sirius pushes forward.
You feel like floating — it’s insane how your body can still handle this instead of breaking apart. Sirius penetrates deep but James grazes the spot that makes your vision turn white.
Gasping in surprise, you blurt out his name. “Ah, James—”
Sirius’s hand slithers from behind, clasping firmly against your mouth. “I’ve told you,” he snarls, “You either scream my name or nothing at all. Don’t piss me off.”
Sirius never hurts you, he would rather die than lay a finger on you but at that time, anger radiates off of him in a way that sends fear crawling on your skin. You nod your head, eyes wide open in shock, “I’m… I’m sorry.”
“Now what do you say?”
“I want you, Sirius.”
“Want me to do what?”
“Want you to fuck–ah–want you to fuck me–”
“Scream for me, baby.” Sirius turns to hard, pitiless thrusts, grabbing one of your hands and pinning it against your back.
He snaps his hips, once, twice, emphasizing his next words. “Scream. my. fucking. name.”
He’s forcing it out of you, making you cry out his name in such a pathetic way, you turn the other man jealous.
James, now wanting nothing more but to get your attention and reach his high, starts to abandon his effort in being docile. “I want you to look at me,” he begs, rutting his hips harder against yours. “I want you to look at me as I cum—”
“Cum inside her and I’ll kill you,” Sirius growls, his nails digging painfully into your hips.
“But—ah!” James throws his head back, feeling like he’s already on his limit. “I can’t—I can’t hold it—”
Sirius breaks away, wrapping an arm around your stomach and yanking you close to his chest until James has no choice but to slide out of you. “On your knees,” Sirius orders him. “You can cum in her mouth.”
It wouldn’t feel as delightful nor as satisfying compared to shooting his seeds inside your walls, but James — knowing his position — takes what he can get.
You return to your hands and knees as James stands before you, the tip of his cock, coated with your slick, hanging a few centimeters away from you.
Sirius pushes himself inside your pussy this time, sending your body forward right at the same time you’re taking James into your mouth.
He fucks you fast, knowing that he doesn’t have to be gentle this way. James winces at the vibration your mouth gives him, his hips slowly moving on their own.
He lands one hand on your hair, stroking your strands first and tugging at the roots when you moan harder around him at the feeling of Sirius pulling out only to slide his dick inside your ass.
“Goddamn, I love this,” Sirius rasps, giving one thrust inside your hole, and another one in your cunt next. “Both your ass and your pussy feel so good. So fucking tight. All for me.”
Your face is burning, your heart soaring high, and you’ve been standing on the edge for so long, your body can’t keep up with this any longer. Stroking James’s cock in one hand, you plead, “Fuck, Sirius, don’t play around—I—I need to cum.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles, still constantly changing from one hole to another. “You want it, baby? Tell James who’s making you feel good right now.”
You chew on your lip, your hazy eyes drifting up to meet his azure ones. James’s face is set in resigned sad lines, his heart breaks in his eyes when you say, “Y-you, Sirius!”
Sensing the hesitation in your voice, Sirius fills the dip of your spine with his chest, his hand sneaking to your throat before his fingers frame your jaw, forcing you to whirl your head around to face him as he hovers right above your shoulder.
“I can’t hear you,” he says, “Who fucks you the best?”
You put more pressure on your words. “You, Sirius.”
Sirius fixates his gaze on James’s face, smirking both contemptuously and arrogantly. “Louder, Sweetheart.”
“You, Sirius!”
Keeping his eyes on the other male’s face, he croons, “Well, I guess I have to live up to my name then.”
Sirius moves back and forth, burying himself so deep in your cunt that you can feel his tip kissing your cervix.
He’s urging you on to your ecstasy, giving you a glimpse of what heaven feels like, by brushing his fingers over your sensitive clit and then presses, over and over again, teasing and taking as he claims your everything.
James flinches when your grip around him gets a little too tight, your orgasm approaching fast that you forget to pay attention to the man kneeling before you.
“Fuck my mouth,” you tell him, as you have no strength to spoil him any longer. With your hands balancing yourself on the couch, you relax your jaw and let him push in as much as he wants into your mouth.
A sudden snap of Sirius’s hips makes you moan louder and James gasps, the muscles in his abs tautening as he’s drawing closer to his climax. “Ah, —I’m gonna cum—“
“What about you, love?” Sirius’s breathing turns labored. “Gonna cum too? Gonna cum hard on my cock while he cums in your mouth?” He lands his palm on your head, shoving you harder onto James’s cock.
“Do it then, you filthy whore.”
James moans loudly, his blush spreading to his ears. “G-God,” he nearly whimpers as he hits the back of your throat. “sweetheart–”
Within seconds, the waves of pleasure inside you crest higher and at last, your orgasm crashes over you, stealing your breath and sending the roar and rush of blood ringing in your ears.
You have no choice but to pull away from James and thankfully, he lets you even when he was so close to achieving his ecstasy.
“Ah, I can feel it,” Sirius chuckles, his hips moving erratically as he’s nearing his brink. “Squeezing around me like that. Been my girl for so long and you still have the best fucking cunt in the world, baby.” He keeps moving his hips, overstimulating you until you let out a spurt, drenching the leather material of the couch with your juices.
“Wait, Sirius—” You sob out, your thighs trembling. “I’m still—”
“I know, baby, just give me a few seconds more,” Sirius says, panting hard, losing his rhythm. This aural evidence of his impending orgasm triggers another for you—smaller, but no less intense.
“Gonna fucking cum—I’m gonna—ah, fuck—” You can feel it exactly the moment he hits his orgasm, giving a forceful thrust one last time before he slows down, a drawled-out moan fleeting from his lips.
He still rocks his hips, fucking his seeds back into your hole, his head thrown back as he relishes in the sensation.
Dazed and wrecked, you watch James going down to his knees before you, one hand stroking his shaft while his other one finds your face, pulling you into a kiss.
He lays his temple against yours as he closes his eyes, nibbling on his lower lip as he pumps himself faster.
Seeing how rough Sirius fucked you earlier sends his blood pumping and James needs his release. “Touch me, please…”
Sirius, hearing his words, untangles his fingers from your hair. He pushes you down by the nape until your closed lips are pressed against the head of James’s cock, his pre-cum staining your mouth.
“Take care of him, baby,” your boyfriend says and in your haze, you separate your mouth, taking him in as much as you can. James groans, your mouth feels scorching hot and wet compared to his cold hands.
“Mmh—” you moan around him, giving James the final touch that he needs to send himself to cloud nine. James ejaculates inside your mouth with his lips — his hand lands on your shoulder, conflicted between pushing you away so he won’t stain you with his essence more than he already does, or keeping you still so you can swallow everything down your throat.
None of you are given any chance, however, as your boyfriend says, “Keep it in your mouth.”
Sirius pulls you up, your back flush against his chest as his face hovers above you, staring at you upside down.
“Open up,” he commands and you do, parting your lips to let him take a glimpse of James’s thick, white semen pooling inside your mouth.
Sirius smirks. “He came a lot, didn’t he?” Before you’re given a chance to respond, your boyfriend spits into your mouth, his hand pressing against the underside of your jaw. “Now, swallow.”
James watches the scene with his jaw hanging slack, unable to believe that this is the reality he’s seeing. He watches you share another inverted kiss with your boyfriend, with Sirius moaning against your mouth as he tastes the rest of James’s cum on your tongue.
James finally snaps out of the haze—though just barely—after watching you kiss Sirius like your life depends on it. His eyes are still glazed over with lust, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. He looks like he’s forgotten where he is—forgotten everything except you.
Then Sirius leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is dark silk. “What do you say, baby? To Potter?”
You turn your head slowly, gaze locking onto James’s. There’s no teasing in his expression now—just raw want, wide and open. He’s still watching you like he can’t believe you’re real.
Your voice is soft, shaky. “Thank you, James.”
A slow, crooked smile pulls at his mouth. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
Satisfied, Sirius peels himself away from you and strides toward James, the tension between them simmering just beneath the surface. The space narrows until it vanishes altogether—Sirius grabs James by the throat, rough but controlled, and drags him forward.
It’s James who breaks first—slamming his lips into Sirius’s like he’s been waiting years for this. The kiss is wild and urgent, all teeth and tongues and barely restrained need.
You feel the heat rise again in your chest, between your legs, just watching them.
When they finally part, their lips are swollen, breaths ragged. James leans in close, voice low and reverent, and whispers against Sirius’s mouth:
“Thank you for sharing your girl, Black.”
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a/n: shit, that was filthy. also, if you know me, no you don't!
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