Jiminie-08

25 <3| She/They🏳️‍🌈

[dearwalker]

mask on, fuck it, mask off | sex pollen

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader Word Count: 8.4k

Contains Brand New Day spoilers 🕸️

Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?

Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?

Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍

Masterlist

You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal. 

The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his. 

That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug. 

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Tags: @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @harryplzruinme @jellyfishjpeg @tatumrileyslover @kg0626

[jiminie-08]

Amazing amazing AMAZING 🤩 10/10 no notes *chef’s kiss* 💋💯🤌🏽💖😩🔥

[fanficwritinggirl]

𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊

Dr Jack Abbott x F!Reader

Four-Part Series | Complete

Summary: A code black leaves you trapped inside the Pitt with an unstable explosive and Jack helplessly watching from the other side of the glass. With neither of you knowing how the night will end, the feelings you have both been avoiding become impossible to ignore.

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x F!Reader

Warnings: Bomb and explosive threat, blast injuries, blood and medical gore, serious injuries, emergency medical procedures, hospital evacuation, near-death situations, panic and anxiety, emotional distress, trauma and its aftermath, protective Jack, angst and hurt/comfort.

Warnings vary between parts. Please read the individual warnings included at the beginning of each chapter.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲.

[jiminie-08]

This was a great 4-part series! So much tension and a build-up of emotions in the first two parts, then the effects in parts 3 & 4. Great fic, amazing writing! Won’t forget anytime soon 💁🏽‍♀️😍🔥😁

[sailorsoons]

Storm Breaker (l.jh)

PAIRING: Jaeger Pilot!Lee Jihoon x Jaeger Pilot! f.reader   SUMMARY: It’s a known fact Lee Jihoon is one of the best pilots the jaeger Program has. The only problem? He can’t keep a co-pilot to save his life. He thinks you’ll just be another Ranger in the rotation, but you are an unpleasant surprise.  WC: 23,373 AU: Pacific Rim AU, Forced Proximity, Annoyed to Lovers GENRE: Smut, Angst RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. WARNINGS: Jihoon is a bit of an asshole, action/fighting scenes, brief descriptions of blood, mentions of offscreen deaths, brief mentions of sick parents, brief mention of having no family, sexual tension, explicit language, A Lot of Pacific Rim Techincal Terms But They’re Explained, terrible humor, a hint of angst, brief depictions of Jihoon being insecure about his childhood, sexually explicit content including nipple play, biting, a total of one (1) spank, oral (f. receiving), the slightest hint of voyeurism mentioned, unprotected sex (don’t do this), multiple orgasms, a lot of spit and cum, cum eating, vaginal fingering, a lot of biting, Jihoon is emotionally constipated and then lets it all out lmfaoooo A/N: This is a re-upload from my old blog, since this was one of the stories that got blasted to the moon. Please enjoy PacRim Uji, who I love so dearly. A/N 2: SPECIAL THANKS TO @daechwitatamic for not only collaborating with me on our little corner of the internet, but beta reading this giant piece and constantly motivating me while writing it. I could not be anywhere without you I love u 

ALSO IN THIS UNIVERSE: Cherry Bomb by @daechwitatamic

MASTERLIST | ASK | READ NEXT: Cherry Bomb

JIHOON DOESN'T FLINCH WHEN XANDER THROWS HIS HELMET AGAINST THE WALL. The crash is loud, but the reinforced material doesn’t crack under the force of the concrete. It clatters to the floor while Jihoon tucks his helmet under his right arm. Sweat drips down the side of his neck and down his back, but he can’t get to it while in his Drivesuit. 

Just add it to his list of inconveniences.  

Everyone in the room freezes as Xander storms toward the command center and right for the Marshall in charge, his steps thunderous against the metal floor. Instead of following him, Jihoon leans against the doorframe, watching the way his co-pilot rages, imagining steam coming out of his ears. 

“I can’t fucking pilot with him,” Xander screams, stabbing an accusatory finger in Jihoon’s direction. “I refuse to do it. Reassign me.” 

Eyes drift toward Jihoon. He ignores them, watching as Xander stops at the command post where both the Marshall and the LOCCENT Mission Controller who just walked them through their kaiju fight stand. Both of them stare at Xander, who is red in the face, chest heaving. 

It’s a bit of an overreaction, especially for a team who just dispatched a Category Four kaiju. But it doesn’t matter. Xander isn’t Jihoon’s first co-pilot and he won’t be his last. They rarely last long, a cycle of Rangers who cannot stand to work with him for more than a few fights. Jihoon examines the scratches on his suit, thinking that he needs to get it buffed while the Marshall deliberates how to answer Xander’s demands. 

“Ranger-” 

Xander cuts off the Marshall. Bold, if you ask Jihoon. “I’ll leave the fucking program if that’s what I have to do. I won’t pilot with him anymore, I don’t care that we can drift. He won’t trust me, he won’t give up the reins and he refuses to let me in. He’s arrogant and pig headed!”

“Pig headed,” Jihoon mutters to himself. “That’s new.” 

The Marshall sighs heavily, eyes drifting toward Jihoon, who is still leaning against the doorframe. He lifts a single shoulder in a shrug, unsure what the Marshall expected. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Marshall asks Xander to follow him, gesturing toward the door at the back of the command center that leads into offices. 

Silence blankets the room at their departure. At least, as silent as it can get in the jaeger hub. The beeping of machinery and radar is a constant sound under the hum of machinery and the awkward cough of one of the workers in the room. Jihoon raises his brows as if to ask someone to say something. No one does and he nods, dismissing himself. 

Laughter trails up the stairs followed by loud steps. He looks down to see Chan and Wylie coming up the stairwell, cheeks flushed and hairlines sweaty from their battle with Dreadfury only minutes earlier. Their team had the assist on the kill, and though they hadn’t landed the final blow, their constant offense had given Jihoon and his partner the time they needed to figure out how to move in. 

Chan sees Jihoon and raises a questioning brow, pausing in the stairs. “Lose your co-pilot?” he asks, looking Jihoon up and down. 

“How’d you guess?” 

“Standard,” Chan and Wylie say at the same time. 

They do that a lot, so in sync that despite the fact that they’re two different people, sometimes Jihoon feels like he’s talking to one. Wylie is a little shorter than Chan, but just as furious in personality and attitude. She leans against Chan, cocking her head to the side. It’s not a conscious movement but an instinct, her body naturally attaching to her co-pilot’s. Jihoon knows that level of closeness well. 

“Think they’ll just finally get rid of you?”

“Nope.” 

“Standard,” they both say in unison again. It’s Chan who says, “Must be nice to get away with murder, Woozi.” He continues up the stairs, clapping Jihoon on the shoulder as he goes. Wylie trails behind him, shooting Jihoon a grin. “One day you’re gonna end up on your ass.” 

“That’s fine. You’ll both take me in, right?” 

Both of their voices meld as they howl in laughter, passing him and going into the command center, yelling “Nope!” 

Despite their teasing, Jihoon smiles. He’s known the pair for years and despite their ability to get under his skin, he’s fond of them. They’re good jaeger pilots, scrappy as they come and vicious in the field. Unlike Jihoon, they’ve piloted their jaeger together from the start, syncing like twin flames and sticking to one another. 

It helps that they grew up together, of course. And that they’re in a relationship, one heart, one soul. 

Sighing, Jihoon jogs down the rest of the stairs, tired and sore. He needs a shower, food and a fucking nap. He and Xander had been pulling extra shifts, the kaiju activity having increased with the bad weather. He suspects it was also in an attempt to get Jihoon to bond with Xander more and get him to open up, but that hadn’t happened.

That’s the problem with piloting with Jihoon. The more time people spend with him, the less they can stomach the way he resists them in the mental bridge that connects co-pilots. It isn’t that he’s afraid for them to see what’s in his head - they haven’t earned a right to his privacy.

Privacy is important to him. 

Murmurs ripple through the cafeteria as he enters, rolling his head to the side to try and workout the kink that is formed there. He glances around and fights the urge to roll his eyes. Word spreads fast when you’re secluded in the Shatterdome with nothing but fucking ocean and giant monsters around you. 

As usual, he ignores the stares and whispering. He catches Soonyoung’s eye from afar and shrugs when his friend gives him a questioning glance, earning an eye roll. Not for the first time, Jihoon finds himself wondering why someone like Soonyoung or Wonwoo can’t be his partner. 

Drift compatibility. 

He knows that’s the answer, but he’ll never stop wishing that pairing jaeger pilots together was a little easier. So many factors go into making people drift compatible and yet he’s yet to find a partner he can tolerate - or tolerate him in return. If it were as easy as picking his friends, he’d have settled with someone long ago. 

Brushing away the thought, he heads to his room. It doesn’t matter what he wants. If wishes were horses, everyone would be a rider. He’s pretty sure that one of his former co-pilots had said that - in regard to Jihoon being impossible to work with, of course. 

The dark and quiet of his room brings the peace Jihoon craves. He feels the tension melt from his shoulders. He suddenly realizes how tired he is, feeling like parchment stretched too thin over a rough surface. He peels himself out of his clothes methodically, welcoming the chill of the room against his sweaty skin. 

He trails to the shower, tossing his clothes in the hamper as he does. Leaving the lights on so it’s only the dull orange glow over his bed, he turns on the shower as hot as it will go. It takes a second, but soon steam is filling the room, choking him as he slides under the stream of water, sighing as the heat of it burns away any lingering frustration for the day. 

Tomorrow, he’ll have a new partner. It’s a simple fact and a routine he is familiar with. That’s fine with him - they can keep assigning people to him until they find someone competent. Jihoon isn’t going anywhere. 

He has nowhere else to go anyway. 

-

“I need you to do me a favor,” Kira says before you can finish stepping out of the jaeger. The Marshall of the Sydney Shatterdome looks deadly serious. You scoff under the helmet, reaching up to unclasp it and shuck it off. Fresh air fills your lungs. It’s hot and tastes like metal in the jaeger bay, but it’s familiar. “And I need an answer quickly.”

“Ever heard of foreplay?” you grunt, helping Maya out of the giant mech behind you. She shoots you a thankful grin, taking off her helmet. Her face is flushed pink, hairline sweaty. “You really just dive in dry, huh?” 

“You know my cousin is a Marshall of a Shatterdome overseas?” 

You pause. “Yeah.” 

“They’re asking for a skilled pilot to pair with one of their Rangers. They sent over the drift profile and you’re the only pilot we have that’s a match.” You frown and she holds out a hand to stop your protest, a crease in her mouth. “Just look over the report and the profile I sent you, alright?” 

“I mean, my answer is no. I’m fine here.”

“You are. You’re one of our best teams,” Kira says earnestly, her dark eyes flicking between you and Maya. “But respectfully, your value is needed elsewhere. There isn’t enough activity here to keep a veteran of your status on shift, Blue.”

You feel a flicker of uncertainty. Rarely does Kira use your nickname. It’s too familiar for a military commander of her status, and though you’ve considered her a friend for years, she never uses your nickname on shift. Unless she really needs something from you.  

Licking your lips, you hesitate to answer. You don’t want to say she’s right about your skillset and risk insulting your coworkers and other pilots in the jaeger Program, but it’s an accurate statement. The Shatterdome you report to is old - one of the first built in the beginning. But kaiju activity is mostly unpredictable, shifting with the tides. You barely get them once a month anymore, and there are too many pilots who need the practice.

You don’t. 

You glance at Maya and she offers a soft smile. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d be my co-pilot forever. Hoped, maybe. But I didn't expect it.”

“Oh come on, I’m with you for life, Maya.” 

“Romantic.” Maya’s gaze softens. “Marshall has a point, though. We’re a little… slow here.” 

It makes a pang go through your heart. Maya has been your co-pilot since your mother passed away, and though you didn’t go through the Ranger training program with her, she’s the perfect balance to you. You like having her around, and the thought of changing pilots just because someone wants your experience is… unideal. 

Sensing your unease, Maya reaches out and touches your forearm, squeezing over the metal of your Drivesuit. Her smile is soft. Knowing. Like she knew that being in the drift with you wasn’t forever, and she’s already saying bye. 

“Look,” Kira sighs, bringing your attention back to her. “My cousin really needs a skilled pilot and someone who is a leader and isn’t afraid of working with veteran pilots. They get more activity, and they need someone sharp. Skilled. Strong.” 

“I mean, I’ll look over the papers.” 

“Thank you.” She steps away. “I need to know by the end of the day, though.”

“Jesus Christ, Marshall. End of the day is in like two hours.”

Her smile is firm. “I know.” 

Waving her off, you leave your jaeger behind, Maya trailing after you. She peppers you with encouragement as you walk, steps heavy on the metal catwalk. You don’t respond right away, thoughts trying to catch up with being thrown an offer immediately after slamming a monster back into the depth of the ocean just minutes ago. 

You don’t have to ask why you. Drift compatibility alone is important enough to move jaeger pilots around the world from Shatterdome to Shatterdome in order to make the best pairs possible. There aren’t a ton of pilots - especially among the younger ones - at your base that are compatible with you.

Stubborn, Kira had always said. Finding an equally dominant co-pilot that meshes with you is difficult. You suspect that if you were not extremely talented at what you do and a veteran at your base, they might have moved you to an advisory position a long time ago.

Advising is not for you, though. The grind of metal and the heat of the fight is where you thrive, letting your mind go empty, entirely driven by instinct. Instinct was the reason you were so good at fighting kaiju. Your mom had always said you had the instinct of a warrior, and after putting down as many monsters to protect humanity’s coasts, you had to agree. 

Maya immediately goes to the shower once you reach your shared room. You dive onto the bottom bunk, snatching the tablet sitting on your night stand. Your eyes squint from the brightness, sensitive in the dim room. Clicking through your emails, you find the reporting and profile from Kira and open it, information unfurling before you. 

“Huh,” You muse, raising your brows as Lee Jihoon appears on your screen. “I know your name.” 

His profile is impeccable - and so is his skill. Chewing on your lip, you throw yourself onto your cot and flip through all of the materials provided on your potential co-pilot. Veteran Ranger. Highly skilled in combat. Top of his class in the academy. 

Clicking on the attachments, you watch the attached videos. There’s clips from his fights in and out of the suit. You find yourself hypnotized by his fighting style. There is a beauty to it, but it’s absolutely lethal. Efficient. There are no extra flourishes, no showmanship. Lee Jihoon fights to kill. 

“So why do you need me?” you mutter to yourself, pulling up his past partners. The list is extensive, stretching back to multiple co-pilots over weeks at a time. “Jesus christ. You do not play nice.”

He must not, at least. Half of the pilots assigned to him are only barely compatible. You know it takes more than just matching fight styles, but based on the history glowing at you from the screen, Jihoon’s Marshall was doing anything they could to keep him, even if it meant pairing him with someone who was scoring as low as 54% compatible. 

Pulling up your side-by-side analysis, you whistle. 98% was a good fucking number. You’d only ever had 90% with your mom, and she was genetically linked to you. Still, with as many partners as Jihoon has had in the past year alone, you don’t know that it’s worth it, even if his base has more kaiju activity and looks to be in need of veteran fighters.

Sighing, you close the tablet and throw it on the pillow. Resting your head against the metal wall, you close your eyes, thinking. You’re happy where you’re at. You’re a leader here, and you like Maya as your partner. She’s young and eager to learn - and you like your jaeger. Shadow Stalker is a good suit, though a little older. 

Biting your lip, you grab the tablet again, opening the jaeger details on Jihoon’s profile. Newer model. Built for endurance. Equipped with multiple blades, suited for pilots who prefer sword-style fighting. She’s painted gray-blue like the deepest part of a storm - blue like your mother’s first jaeger, which makes you grin. 

Storm Breaker. It’s a good name for a jaeger and it matches the profile. She’s built to withstand the brutal waves of the deep ocean and the onslaught of a high-category kaiju. Your interest is piqued, curious about Storm Breaker and her brutal pilot. 

Closing the tablet again, you stare into the distance, thinking. “What’s your deal, Lee Jihoon?” 

-

Jihoon hates sparring with Chan almost as much as he hates sparring with Wylie. Chan doesn’t scratch at Jihoon like a feral cat like Wylie might, but he does bite, which is exactly what he does when he can’t get out of Jihoon’s hold. 

“You fucker,” Jihoon hisses, letting him go. Chan slips out of Jihoon’s grasp and rolls to his feet a few feet away, crouched low and ready to go again. Despite years of being a jaeger pilot, Chan nor his co-pilot have fallen out of their scrapy upbringings, fighting like two street orphans. “What, are you going to bite a kaiju if you can?” 

“Of course not. I just don’t like losing to you.”

“Too bad.” Jihoon straightens and lifts his fists, planting his feet firmly. Sweat slicks the back of his neck, wispy pieces of hair escaping his hair tie and sticking to damp skin. “No more biting.” 

“No promises.” 

Somewhere behind him, Jihoon hears Minghao shriek. “She bit me!”

Scratch that. Maybe Wylie does bite. 

Chan comes at Jihoon again. He’s a good fighter and he’s ruthless. It’s one of Jihoon’s favorite things about him. But there’s always an opening, always a moment between fluid movements that reveals itself that Jihoon can take advantage of. 

He does exactly that, going on the defense, watching and waiting for the moment. When it reveals itself, Jihoon strikes lightning fast, catching Chan in the chest hard and taking him down to the ground. Jihoon feels the wind leave Chan’s lungs as he coughs hard, head smacking the mat. 

Behind them, Jihoon hears the collective wince. Chan is dazed for a second, groaning underneath Jihoon’s hand pressed to his chest. He can feel the hammering of Chan’s heart, a little faster than his own. When it’s clear Chan isn’t going to claw at him, Jihoon stands and offers him a hand.

With a heaving sigh, Chan takes it. Jihoon claps him on the back, grinning as Chan tries to catch his breath, rubbing the back of his head. “That hurt.”

“Oops.” Chan looks over Jihoon’s shoulder and grins, causing him to turn around and follow the younger’s gaze. Wylie sweeps her feet under Mingho’s, knocking him to the mat. She pounces like a creature from hell before he can react, pinning him down. “Well, at least one of us didn’t get our ass beat today.” 

“Stop biting, Dino,” Jihoon says as they trail off the mat, a warning. Chan has the decency to look chagrined, bowing slightly to his superior. Jihoon adores the kid, but he will not serve as a chew toy. 

Grabbing a water, Jihoon sits down on the floor with Seungkwan, Soonyoung and Seokmin as Junhui and Minghao trade places. Minghao is nursing a scratch on his neck from Wylie’s nails, muttering about her being a demon straight from hell as he sits. Wylie gives her new opponent a wicked grin, taking her place on the mat and beckoning Junhui toward her. Jihoon shakes his head, gulping down water and leaning back on his hands. 

“Fresh blood,” Soonyoung notes, gesturing toward the training room entrance as the Marshall leads a group of people in. “They’re holding trials for the two new mark fives tomorrow. Wanna go?” 

“No.” 

Soonyoung laughs. “Come on, they might be looking for another partner for you too.”

“Don’t care.” 

“You can’t keep going through partners, man.”

Jihoon doesn’t react, eyes scanning the group of cadets. They all look fresh-faced and in awe as they’re led around the mats, wide eyes glued to the sparring pilots as they go. His eyes settle on you, though, pausing. 

You don’t have the same awestruck wonder as the other cadets, trailing behind them as your eyes scan the structure, the fighters and the equipment around you. Calculating. Critical. You’re a little older than the other cadets too - not in looks but in aura, chin lifted, gaze sharp. Experienced. 

Soonyoung follows Jihoon’s line of sight and straightens. “Woah. Who is that?” 

“My new drift partner,” Seokmin sighs dreamily. Soonyoung and Seungkwan smack him at the same time, offended. They’re one of the few triple pilot groups, operating a massive piece of machinery made for slaughtering and hammering down on high-grade kaiju. “What? Look at her!” 

“You shouldn’t fuck your co-pilot,” Seungkwan mutters. “Look what happened to Seungcheol and Cherry. She’s still at that training facility in Alaska. Didn’t come back after their drift glitched.” 

A collective hum goes through them. All of them recall that situation, but no one says a thing. The weight of Cherry’s absence sits heavy on them - even Jihoon misses her a little. 

“I don’t know,” Soonyoung notes cryptically, eyeing Wylie. She’s managed to get Junhui off his feet, slamming him down with a rattle of mat and springs, pinning him with a savage growl. Wylie Coyote indeed, Jihoon thinks, smirking. “Seems to work for Wylie just fine. God, look at Chan, he literally has heart eyes. Disgusting.” 

It’s true. The pilot in question sits at the edge of the mat, elbows resting on top of his knees as he watches his girlfriend with his mouth open, lips upturned a little. His eyes are dazed, focused on Wylie as she holds onto a thrashing Junhui. There’s so much love in his gaze that Jihoon averts his eyes, worried he’s observing something sacred and private.  

“Not everyone is like them,” Seungkwan shoots back. “They share a brain cell.” 

“We’re literally drift partners. We basically do the same thing.” 

“And yet I don’t want to fuck you, Hoshi.” 

Soonyoung cocks his head to the side. “You know, that brings up a valid question-”

“No,” the other three say at the same time, cutting him off before he can get going. 

Still, Seungkwan’s point is valid. The drift is something that is so intimate that it isn’t uncommon for copilots to have a romance or some sort of tension. The neural handshake makes you become one, unable to hide anything. It is inviting someone else into your head to see everything you see, everything you have seen. Memories, feelings, thoughts - nothing is yours anymore. 

Jihoon hides it all from his co-pilots. He knows he’s not supposed to - openness and being honest and true with your partner makes for a better drift. But the intimacy of the connection makes him uncomfortable, and he’s not ready for anyone to see him - really see him. 

So he hides in the drift. Knows how to bring nothing to it, to give only the parts of himself he has to in order for his partner to fight alongside him. Jihoon gives nothing more. And they don’t need it, frankly. 

The Marshall leads the new recruits back out of the room. He watches you go, wondering what your deal is. As though you sense his eyes on you, your eyes flicker over to his, catching his gaze. He’s unsure why, but he pauses, the room stilling for a split second. Then you’re grinning wickedly, vanishing from the room. 

He brushes it off and turns his eyes back to his friends. 

-

Lee Jihoon is prettier in person. You don’t know why it’s the first thing you notice as you watch him walk across the training center. He’s dressed in fitted cargo pants and a racing jacket over a t-shirt, emphasizing his broad shoulders. His hair is bleached and pinned into a low bun, some of his bangs hanging in his dark eyes. He doesn't notice you watching him as he nears an empty mat, shedding the jacket. 

He’s compact. Small, but toned, muscles rippling as he begins to go through a series of stretches. You know he’s a good fighter from your observations the day before. Everything about him screams efficiency. You can’t put your thumb on it, but the way he carries himself is methodical.

Lee Jihoon is the perfect jaeger pilot on paper. 

It’s the partners that he has a problem with. He’s had eight co-pilots in the last year alone, which is more than anyone has the right to. Before that, he managed to keep someone for six months before they requested a transfer to a different location. 

You sense Jihoon’s gaze, realizing he’s picked up on your staring. His expression is as neutral as it was yesterday, as though he has zero interest in whoever you are. He must not - he turns away and gets back to what he was doing, the moment passing without fanfare. 

Everyone in the room is paired with their pilots, going through fight sequences. You watch the different pairs, noting those who exhibit high-drift compatibility and others who are still learning. You note how many talented pilots this base has, likely due to the high activity. 

As though the thought summons the very creatures from the depths of the ocean, an alarm goes off. You don’t flinch, used to the kaiju alert system. It had gone off the day before, though. You look up at the screen as it flashes the names of the pilots on duty, calling them to report to the drop bridge. 

A few shouts of good luck draw your attention to the center of the room where two of the younger pilots head out. You’d seen them sparring earlier, so in time with one another that you weren’t sure where one began and one ended. The man looks at the girl and gives her a smile so full of love that you look away, startled at its intensity. 

While romantic connections between pilots aren’t totally uncommon, you’re not used to it. Most of the Rangers at your old base were family members and childhood friends, connection deep and intimate but not like that. You wonder what it must be like, if it makes love any easier to be that deeply connected. 

“So are you my new co-pilot?” a soft voice startles you and you turn to see that Jihoon has snuck up on you. His eyes are darker in person, entirely consuming as he looks down at you with a cocked head. His blonde hair sticks to his forehead, pale skin covered in a sheen of sweat. “You must be, right?”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’re not a cadet. And you’ve been watching me for the better part of two hours.” 

You shrug. “You can learn a lot from watching veterans.” 

“You could at least offer to spar to see if we’re any good together.”

“You mean to see if I’m good enough for you.” He lifts a shoulder, not disagreeing with you. Wiping your palms on your knees, you stand up. Even though he’s small, you’re still a little shorter than him, nearly eye level. You stick your hand out, giving him your name. “But you can call me Blue.”

Instead of taking your hand, he nods and turns on his heel, striding back to the mat he occupied earlier. You stand and stare at the newly vacated spot, hand held out in the air. “Alright,” you mutter to yourself, dropping your hand and going after him. 

Eyes follow you. You can feel them as you trail after him, watching his smooth, even gait. Everything about Jihoon is refined and controlled, even down to the minute expressions as he steps onto the mat and turns to face you. Sliding your shoes off, you join him, feeling the spring beneath your step and the softness of the floor.

Jihoon heads to a rack of bo staffs, picking one up and tossing it to you. You snatch it, spinning it lightly to test the weight. The balance is near perfect, a slight weight to the left side. You adjust accordingly, grip firm. Jihoon does the same, spinning his staff and rolling his shoulders.

“Who were those pilots called to make the drop?” you ask, conversational. 

“Dino and Wylie.” 

“Good pilots?” 

He takes his stance. “Excellent. They’re terrors. It won’t be a problem for them. Are you right handed or left handed?”

“Ambidextrous.”

“Good.” 

You don’t know why, but his assessing gaze bothers you suddenly. Like you know that even though you know you’re an excellent fighter, it still won’t be enough for him. The thought that you’ve lost before you even begun pricks a nerve and you strike first. 

It’s immediately obvious why you’re compatible. Jihoon knows your next move before you know what it is. You feel him move like an instinct, imagining his attack and defense before it happens. It isn’t a fight, but a dialogue, two skilled fighters communicating in a pattern only familiar to them. 

Sweat slicks the back of your neck and back. You barely register it, losing yourself in the rhythm of Jihoon’s movements. The sound of the training gym fades to the background and you barely hear the crack of your staffs as they meet over and over again. You hardly see him, vision fading to a narrow point of instinct.

This is how you fight. Muscle memory, driven by intuition.

Your intuition tells you that you’re perfectly matched, fighting style so similar that it’s hard to get a hit in - you won’t get a hit in, too in sync with him to out maneuver him. 

So you deviate. 

Instead of dodging a smack to the ribs, you let him hit you. His surprise is so apparent that he breaks his concentration and you strike, foot sweeping behind his ankle and pulling, knocking him from his feet. Jihoon goes down hard, breath leaving his lungs as you pounce, pinning him.

For a second, it’s just the two of you. His heart pounds, chest heaving in time with yours. Even your breaths are evenly matched, a tempo that is deeper than most human understanding. Drift compatible. You feel it the same way you feel the spark of his skin even through the fabric of his shirt. You’re so aware of it that you don’t hear what he says at first, his mouth moving but no sounds coming out.

“What?” 

“That doesn’t count,” he asserts. “I hit you first. The fight is over after that.”

You frown. “The fight doesn’t end until there’s a killing blow. A swipe to the ribs wouldn’t do it.”

“That isn’t how that works.” 

“There are no rules of engagement in the ocean.” 

He scowls. “There are basic principles to fighting. You lose when you get hit first.”

“Do you lose when a kaiju hits you first? Or do you keep fighting?” 

Jihoon huffs underneath you, shaking his head. You’ve still got him pinned, your palm pressed to his chest and your knee planted in his stomach. He glances away from you and you become aware that everyone has stopped to watch the two of you spar.

And you’re still on top of him. 

Clearing your throat, you climb off of him smoothly. You offer a hand to help him up but he doesn’t take it, getting up on his own. He’s flushed, cheeks tinged peak and mouth twisted in frustration. You watch him as he gives the room around you a cutting glance, making everyone immediately turn back to what they were doing. 

Jihoon puts his staff back and you watch him. He looks minorly irritated on the surface, but you can see it rippling deeper than that. He’s unsettled and it makes you grin. 

“This won’t work,” Jihoon says as he turns back to you, crossing his arms over his chest. You ignore the way his biceps flex and blink at him in confusion. “You can’t be my partner.”

“What? We’re compatible. That was one of the best fighting flows I’ve ever had.”

“We’re too different in principle.” 

That gets a frown from you. “I don’t think so at all. You let your instinct guide you. So do I.” 

“You deviate.” 

“I let the natural dialogue of the fight lead me.”

You let silence fall between you. You can see why so many other pilots had issues with him. Jihoon approaches every statement as though it is the absolute truth, a fact that cannot be disproven. He speaks with the authority of someone who knows he’s right often, and frequently goes unchallenged.

Instead of letting him get a rise out of you, you switch topics. “Are you hungry?”

He pauses. “What?” 

“What part of the question didn’t you understand? Are you hungry?”

Jihoon is perplexed. You’re sure that by now, mostly people have visibly grown upset with the combative dialogue. You don’t mind much, watching as he thinks on your question. You take the opportunity to appreciate the gentle slope of his nose up close, the delicate curve of his mouth, the contrast of feminine and masculine features that make an exquisite face. 

Then Jihoon unfolds his arms and walks past you. You turn to follow him but he says over his shoulder, “I don’t want to have lunch with you. We’re not friends.” 

There’s no room for argument in the way that he says it. You watch him as he leaves, never once turning back. 

-

You are vexing. 

There isn’t another word to describe you. Jihoon hasn’t the slightest idea how you’ve managed to so thoroughly irritate him at your first encounter, but he can’t stop thinking about how frustrated he is when he slams his tray down on the table. 

It’s a little early for lunch, mostly engineers and staff going on shift soon filling the room to eat quickly. The giant clock above the entryway to the cafeteria resets and Jihoon relaxes a little, confirming that Chan and Wylie are fine. He knew they would be - a Category Two kaiju is nothing for a pair like them.

Jihoon finds himself thinking of you. Of what you must be able to do in a jaeger.

Curious, Jihoon looks up your name. It rings a bell - you were pretty renowned at your homebase. Clicking through videos, he sets his phone on the table as he eats, eyes glued to the screen. Your drops are easily accessible to him, clicking through them as he eats. 

There is something hypnotizing the way you and your old co-pilot Maya Veliz fight. You’re efficient and without flashy moves, which he can appreciate. But there’s a speed at which you make decisions and take risks that has him shaking his head. 

Yet, there is something vaguely familiar. He pauses his meal to watch closer, realizing what it is. There is a brutality to your fighting that he recognizes in himself, a need to kill. You fight to win, willing to take a little damage if it means you can deal the final blow.

The thought unsettles him. Your fighting style is so similar to his that he would be lying if he tried to say otherwise. There is logic and calculation to your moves, but then there’s always that deviation. That random blip in your pattern that is unexpected and dangerous. 

“Will watching my drop footage make you like me more?”

Your voice startles him. He drops his fork and it clatters against the table, loud in the soft din of the cafeteria. You’re leaning over him, a smirk on your face and a devilish glint dancing in your eyes as you look at his phone screen where you successfully put down a kaiju. 

“Deathclaw wasn’t very impressive. It was pretty small. My mom and I took out Umbraxis my first year, though.”

Jihoon snatches his phone and locks the screen, putting it face down. He scowls down, feeling his heart flip a little. Your scent drifts over to him at your proximity, a mix of amber and jasmine. It’s already familiar to him, having caught the scent when you pinned him down earlier, hand pressed to his heart-

You sit across from him and he looks up at you. His mind goes blank, staring as you unwrap your silverware picking up a fork to stab a piece of chicken and pop it into your mouth. You hum happily, totally unaware - or maybe unbothered - at his increasing irritation. 

“Tell me about your jaeger,” you demand - not ask. Your eyes find his, two pools of curiosity that have his tongue heavy, words sticky. “I want to know all about her.”

“You’re not going to make the drop with me.”

The curve of your mouth is wicked. “Tell me anyway.”

For a few minutes, Jihoon doesn’t answer. He waits to see if the silence will push you away or make you anxious. It doesn’t seem to. You keep eating without saying anything else, occasionally glancing at him with a cocked brow as if to suggest you have all the time in the world. 

“She was re-outfitted two years ago,” Jihoon says slowly. He doesn’t know why he’s answering you at all, but he continues, “Mark-5 now with the new outfitted tech - she’s still nuclear-driven to avoid any EMP attacks. Outfitted with GD6 steel-obsidian chain swords on each arm, but there are also smaller, detachable blades for hand-to-hand fighting, along with some projectiles. She’s also got a lightning strike powered by the nuclear-core but it can only be used once, and only as a last resort. It obliterates local wildlife in the water.”

“What’s the suspension look like?”

“Gyro-stabilizers to stay fluid when fighting and L-10 locks on all of the joints to strap in and withstand damage. She’s built to take a lot of blunt-force and melee attacks, but she’s top heavy if she loses footing.”

“Have you only been in Storm Breaker?”

He nods. “Since my first drop.”

“She’s beautifully built.” 

Jihoon doesn’t respond. It does bring him a small sense of pride to know that you admire the jaeger he fights in, but he doesn’t thank you. He suspects you notice but doesn't say anything, which surprises him. You seem like the stubborn type who doesn't like to back down from a fight, and yet multiple times this morning you’ve conceded to him, refusing to get upset. 

It bothers him. He can’t tell if it’s because you’re a people pleaser or if you think you're gentle-parenting him, and he doesn’t like it either way. 

So he doesn’t talk to you. He lets the conversation die there, despite sensing your amusement from across the table. He feels the grip on his fork increase, metal biting into his palms as he tries to ignore you. He can smell the jasmine and amber of your perfume, which makes him feel more insane, and he can’t help but steal glances at you and dart his eyes away.

You’re pretty. He’s had attractive co-pilots before. That’s not new, nor has it ever bothered him. Something about you draws the eye, though. He thinks it’s the aura of confidence you give off, effortlessly comfortable in your skin and your situation, despite Jihoon not making it any easier on you.

“Hi,” The raspy voice interrupts Jihoon’s thoughts and he looks up as Wylie slams her tray down on the table. She’s sweaty, freshly peeled from her Drivesuite and offering a hand to you as she gives her full name. “You can call me Wylie, though. Everyone does. Are you Woozi’s new co-pilot?”

“Yes,” you answer at the same time Jihoon says no. “Though I didn’t know that was the name he preferred.” 

Wylie shoots him a sly grin and sits down next to him. He curses and scoots over, the younger girl nearly on top of him as she leans her elbows on the table. “He doesn’t prefer it, which is why it stuck. He's a very cranky cat, but he’s nice once you get to know him.” 

Jihoon scowls, turning to her. “Did I invite you to sit down with us?”

“No.” 

That’s it. That’s the end of her statement. Jihoon watches as she settles happily, opening chocolate milk and chugging it back like it’s water. Jihoon cringes and readies to lob an insult her way when he’s interrupted again, another tray slamming down next to hers. 

Closing his eyes, Jihoon summons all the gods he doesn’t believe in to give him the god damn patience. Chan is wearing a shit-eating grin as he leans across the table, offering his hand in the same, chipper manner his partner had moments before. 

“I’m Chan. But you can call me Dino.”

“Why Dino?” 

“I step on everyone.” 

You raise your brows, amused, eyes flickering to Wylie. Sensing your question, Wylie says around a mouthful of mac and cheese, “Like Wylie Coyote because I’m a menace who doesn’t stop attacking.” 

“How was your drop?” 

“Easy,” they say in unison. 

Jihoon focuses on his plate, feeling grouchy. They start to talk like he’s not even there, and though that is typically how conversations go around him, he’s suddenly bothered by it. Especially when you seem so smug that at least someone likes you. 

He wants to tell you they don’t count. Chan is one of the nicest people in the Shatterdome and will talk to anyone, if they give him the time of day. Wylie isn’t exactly nice but she’s in love with Chan and is happy to be nice to anyone who is being nice to him. The pair are relatively easy to win over. 

It only gets worse for him when Soonyoung and the others start sitting down. Everyone seems eager to ask you questions, a new shiny toy for his friends to play with. He chews on the corner of his lip, feeling stormy in the corner of the table as Seokmin peppers you with questions and exclamations at your answers. 

A shift in tension makes Jihoon look up. Seungcheol sits down at the table slowly, as though trying not to be a distraction or catch any attention. He’s three seats away from Wylie and out of her eyeshot, but Wylie is a born predator, sensing him like a hunter. Her eyes cut over to Seungcheol and she bristles, shooting up to her feet to grab her tray and storm off. 

Chan sighs, muttering a brief apology before grabbing his things and going after her. Jihoon glances at Seungcheol, watching the way his jaw ticks at the interaction. Surprisingly, you don’t ask any questions. You lean over to Soonyoung and ask him about some of their earlier fights, shifting the energy at the table from tense to light in a second.

Seungcheol relaxes, and though he doesn’t introduce himself, he’s not unkind to you. Jihoon feels a pang for the pilot, knowing that the last year has been difficult for him. Cherry left Seungcheol adrift without a partner, and he’s been unable to find someone to replace her. 

He thinks about offering you to Seungcheol as an alternative. 

Jihoon does learn a little bit about you while listening to everyone talk, though. You've only had two co-pilots in your life where Jihoon has lost count. He wonders what growing up piloting with a parent feels like, and though you smile as you talk about growing up working with your mom, there’s a tightness to your mouth, a look in your eye that he can’t place.

Feeling his gaze, your eyes shift to him. Jihoon realizes he’s been staring at you. He stands and leaves the table abruptly, Seokmin’s voice apologizing on his behalf drifting after him. 

Thankfully, you don’t follow him. He dumps his tray and leaves it in the discarded pile for the cafeteria staff and immediately begins the climb to the command bridge where the Marshall’s office is. His thoughts race but go nowhere at the same time, an echochamber that he can’t untangle. 

Before Jihoon can knock on the entrance to the Marshall’s office, the military commander looks up and waves Jihoon in. “I was about to call for you. Shut the door, please.”

Jihoon does so without comment and sits down. He glances around the office, distracting himself as the Marshall finishes what he was working on. The office is orderly and tidy, every ounce the professional and uptight officer that sits in front of Jihoon, leaning back in the seat to sigh heavily and level Jihoon with a stare. 

Before Jihoon can open his mouth to list all of the reasons you shouldn’t be his pilot, the Marshall speaks. “You’re on probation.” 

“I - what?” 

“For the next three months, if you lose your co-pilot, you will be reassigned to administrative work or to a new Shatterdome.”

Jihoon opens his mouth. Closes it. The weight of the Marshall’s words don’t quite sink in, though Jihoon can tell they’re heavy. Real. “We’ve given you plenty of chances to effectively remain a pilot for Storm Breaker, but the board feels as though the trade off has become an issue.”

“The trade off?”

“You’re costing us money. And cadets. People want to train where they can potentially see themselves become a pilot. When we have open spots and jaegers coming up on retirement, it bolsters recruitment.” The Marshall levels him with a tired stare. “But when we have a pilot who no one can partner with, it puts us in a bind to send cadets where they will fit elsewhere.” 

“Look - “

“No you look, Lee. You’ve been a pilot here for six years. That’s considered a veteran in this field. But the higher ups grow tired of even veterans when they’ve been unmanageable for the last two of those six years.”

Heat flashes up the side of Jihoon’s neck, equal parts embarrassed and angry. He’d been the first in his class to suit up, selected as Haneul’s co-pilot to fill in for their partner that had retired. Jihoon remembers how proud - and nervous - he was and how easy it had been to partner with Haneul.

He didn’t have that anymore, the safety net of the only parental figure he’d ever known gone. 

“The pilots you’ve paired me with have no business being in a jaeger,” Jihoon says matter of factly. “I don’t respect them.”

“Well good thing we’ve given you someone to respect.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “I can’t fight with her.”

“You can and you will. Your drift compatibility is 98% and you have similar fighting style and come from similar machines. You’ll start Conn-pod training tomorrow.”

“Don’t make me partner with her. I don’t like her.”

The Marshall stands. “One day you might learn that if you give people a chance, you’d like what you find.” 

“Marshall-” 

“That’s all, Ranger.” 

The air feels heavy as Jihoon leaves the Marshall’s office. He stops on the command deck, his eyes flickering over to the windows. The glass is floor to ceiling all the way around, giving the tower a 360-degree view of the pacific ocean. Blue stretches out as far as the eye can see, backdropped by the shining silver of the city. 

Boats bob on the water, shifting back and forth on the dark surface. Air teams go back and forth, working in the aftermath of Chan and Wylie’s successful kaiju destruction. Jihoon can see the toxicity on the surface of the water, an oil slick that he knows the exact pungent smell of. 

Trailing to an observation window, he stares with unseeing eyes. How many times had he stood up here and provided commentary to his friends during a fight? He didn’t frequent the command deck, but sometimes it gave him perspective. Or he was a little worried about his friends, especially when they were taking on higher category kaiju. 

Jihoon chews on the side of his lip. He’s talked Wylie and Chan through plenty of bouts before. He remembers sharply the terror of the fight that had changed all of their lives over a year ago, watching as the hull of Fang Striker was breached, the screams of terror as Wylie took a talon to the stomach, nearly killing her. The aftermath of Chan’s grief.

A chill breaks out over his arms. Jihoon knows he isn’t cut out to sit through something like that again, to try and get a panicking pilot to focus and get to safety. He’s not made for an advisory role. Not built to watch pilots come and go, completely operating out of his control. 

Death is easier to process in the heat of battle. It gives him an excuse to be distracted, to hide from the immediate pain of losing a pilot during a fight because he’s too busy protecting himself, protecting the city. He’s not made to watch it from afar and take the full weight of it.

Turning away from the window, Jihoon descends back down to the ground floor. 

Probation period. Three months of having to stomach you or he’s out. Flexing his fingers, he heads to his room, needing the silence. If Jihoon is going to do this, he knows he needs to keep himself in line. Can’t push you away like he has the others. 

And he hates you for it.

-

Music bleeds through the metal door out into the hall. You wonder how any of the neighboring rooms let him get away with it. Then again, Lee Jihoon seems like someone most jaeger pilots don’t go toe-to-toe with often, if they can help it. At least it’s classical music, the swelling sound of Mozart sweeping into the hallway as you open the door, propping it with your hip to haul the box in your arms through. 

Jihoon’s eyes snap open immediately. He’s lounging on the bottom bunk of the bed in the far corner of the room, face lit by the glow of the muted screen in the corner showing the rain and ocean spray beating against the Shatterdome. Nothing disturbs the seas at the moment, though you wonder in a hotspot like this how long that will last. 

A scowl twists his mouth. You let the door shut behind you, setting the box down on the media table by the doorway. “Mozart?” you ask, arching a brow. He glares at you, sitting up from where he had been lounging with his hands tucked behind his head. “A bit cliche, don’t you think?” 

“What do you know about music?”

“Enough to know that someone with balanced compositions that orchestrate total control and logic in its make is… not surprising for you.” He blinks in surprise. “I like Tchaikovsky. There’s something more mercurial to his compositions.” 

“Tchaikovsky was inspired by Mozart.”

“I didn’t say one was better than the other.” You smirk. “You don’t like differences of opinion, do you?”

“I always value opinions. Some more than others.”

“Mhmm. Where can I put my things?”

Jihoon closes his eyes and lays back on the bed. His blonde hair is undone, fanning around him in a silvery-white halo. “The trash chute, preferably.” 

“Wherever I want, got it.” 

He ignores you. You suppress a laugh and move into the room proper. It’s small, filled with only the essentials to house two people to eat, sleep, and shower. A small kitchenette sits to your left, hidden in darkness with all of the lights off. You spot a shelf filled with dry goods - mostly protein bars - and coffee. There is a sad excuse for a sitting area with a tiny table and two chairs next to the TV screen, a bunk bed with a wardrobe next to it, and a tiny bathroom.

Cozy. 

Pulling open the wardrobe, you see that there’s room for your things. You shoot Jihoon a sidelong glance. He certainly hadn’t moved his things over to take over the full wardrobe after his last pilot left. You wonder if he’s just used to being unable to use the full space or if he had made room for you.

You doubt it’s the latter. 

Ave Verum Corpus plays in the background as you unpack the tiny box that is your life. You hum along, shutting the wardrobe and padding over to the bathroom. Jihoon could be asleep for all you know, but you suspect he’s not. When you glance over at him after shutting the medicine cabinet, you see his foot tapping to the beat of the music.

“What other kind of music do you like?” His foot stops tapping at your question.

Turning off the bathroom light, you move to the door to break down the cardboard box you brought your things in. Jihoon doesn’t answer at first, his frame rigid with tension, as though he had forgotten you were there until you spoke. You suppose that’s entirely possible, if not a little unlikely. 

Just when you think he’s not going to answer, he mutters, “I like ballads.”

“Romantic.” He frowns but doesn’t say anything further. “What’s your favorite one? Or artist?”

“Go play twenty questions with someone else. I’m not interested.”

“I’m going to find out anyway.” He opens his eyes then. They’re dark, pupils blown as his face twitches in an almost snarl. “It is an inevitable fact that we will have to drift. I recommend making peace with that now.” 

“I’m going to bed,” he announces, flopping over on his side and crossing his arms.

You let Jihoon be mean. It does you no good to fight with him when you eventually need him on your side, and you can sympathize with him to a degree. He didn’t choose you as his pilot and he’s backed into a corner, a do or die situation that he can’t back out of. The only way is forward and it’s against his will. 

As he pretends to sleep, you occupy yourself on the top bunk with your tablet, sliding headphones over your ears so he doesn’t bitch you out. Flicking through online channels, you familiarize yourself with your fellow jaeger pilots at the Shatterdome, watching fight footage and interviews. 

You come across a set of popular pilots, only one of them familiar to you. You recognize the man from dinner earlier - he had sat down and the tension around the table had increased tenfold. Wylie had immediately clocked his presence and stormed off, Chan trailing behind her with an apologetic look.

Tapping on their information, you hum in interest to yourself. Seungcheol. You recognize the name, vaguely. He piloted Duellona Fury with his copilot, a woman you don’t recognize but that has a bright smile. They make a good team, totally in sync and feeding off each other’s energy. You wonder where she is now, assuming she’s the source of the tension between Wylie and Seungcheol.

You wonder what you and Jihoon will be like as drift partners. So far he seems to hate you, but he does tolerate you. It’s a start, if not ideal. You won’t start drifting right away - not for real anyway. Practicing combat drills and learning more about one another is the first step to any partnership, followed by practice drifts.

In the drift, there’s no room for hatred or enmity. Trust is paramount, but almost as important is respect. Respect for what you see in the thoughts and feelings of your partner, respect that they’re good at what they do and that they’re the best person for the job, respect that they are your equal. Too many partners get lost in trying to save the other, losing sight of being equally capable or feeling like they know better. 

Jihoon doesn’t seem capable of that. Not right now, anyway. It doesn’t matter, though. You’re his only option to stay in the jaeger program, and though he hasn’t said anything about it, you’re pretty sure he knows. 

“Can you shut the tablet off?” Jihoon grunts from below. You sigh heavily, tucking it to your chest. “The glow is fucking bright.”

“The TV is also glowing, Jihoon.” 

“Yeah, so your tablet adds to the general light in the room.”

“Close your eyes.”

“It isn’t helping. Go under your covers.”

Closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in, you lock the tablet and shove it under your pillow. “Better?”

“Yes.”

Weather the storm, you think to yourself. Jihoon is angry and capricious, but it’s more to do with his situation than it is to do with you. And despite his snappy nature, there are flashes of him willing to work with you by answering questions, albeit with attitude. 

You can do this. You can make Lee Jihoon like you. Maybe even respect you.

-

You are not a morning person. Lee Jihoon, however, is a morning person. Which is why it takes everything inside of you not to launch your pillow at him when you hear the classical music wake you from sleep in the morning, making you lift your heavy head to look around the room, vision blurry.

Heat from a fresh shower drifts from the bathroom only a short distance away. You stare in confusion, blinking rapidly as Jihoon walks out of the bathroom. He’s brushing his teeth furiously with one hand, looking at his phone with the other, blue light making him look like a phantom in the dim light. 

And he’s dressed in nothing but a towel slung low on his waist, making you nearly go catatonic. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen a body before - it’s just a body, and soon enough, you’ll be in his head. It’s important to get any weirdness out of the way because in the drift, you’ll bare everything. But for some reason the image of his small, compact body scrambles your brain this early in the morning.

Jihoon is built like a weapon, all sleek lines and hard muscles. He stands in the kitchen, setting down his phone as he opens cabinets and starts to make coffee, toothbrush still in his mouth. The muscles in his back flex as he moves, skin pale and smooth as the moon. 

“Are you a coffee person?” he asks, because he knows you’re awake. Of course he does. You don’t answer for a moment, stuck between eyeing the narrow taper of his hips and the question that implies he’s willing to make you coffee. He turns, arching a brow at you. “Now you shut up?” 

That brings a scowl to your face. “Yes, I drink coffee.” 

“Great.” 

He goes back to what he was doing, ignoring you entirely. Dragging your eyes away from him, feeling flushed and overwarm, you throw the covers back, scrambling from the top bunk. You land with a soft huff, feeling the chill of the concrete floor as you dart to the wardrobe to pull out clothes. 

“What time is it?”

“You have eyes, look at the TV.”

Got it, you think. He’ll make coffee for you but not do something as simple as answer what time it is. You do look at the TV, seeing the darkened feed of the churning ocean breaking against the walls of the Shatterdome. There are multiple camera angles, weather radar and Dome messages that break up the screen into sections. The time is in the top corner, flashing 5:13 am. 

“Ji, it is five in the morning.”

“Five-thirteen. And don’t call me Ji. I’m not your buddy.” 

Taking a deep breath, you mutter curses under your breath. “I’m going to shower.”

As expected, you get no response. 

The great thing about living in a billion dollar buildinding with hundreds of people is that there’s no shortage of hot water. You’re grateful as the steam fills the room, hot water making your coiled muscles melt the second you step under the shower. You let the frustration from the morning fade away, the rush of the water and the feel of it sluicing down your back-

A loud knock on the door breaks your reverie. You hear it open. Jihoon grunts, “I wasn’t done brushing my teeth. I need the sink.”

“Then use the sink.”

Jihoon shuffles into the bathroom. You hear the faucet turn on and you go back to tilting your head backward under the stream of water, ignoring the sound of him going about his morning routine. In a way, it’s sort of peaceful, the sounds of him softly opening and closing cabinets and the clinking of jars against the counter soft in the background. 

He’s back in the kitchen by the time you’re out of the shower and wrapped in a towel. You venture out into the main room in kind, deciding that if he is going to walk around in nothing but a towel, so will you. He barely gives you a glance from his bottom bunk, lounging around in low-slung sweats with no shirt, blonde hair splayed on his pillow. You ignore him in favor of the lone mug of coffee sitting in the kitchen steaming.

Gripping it and bringing it up, you let the ceramic warm you from your palms upward, inhaling before taking a tentative sip. It’s bitter but it helps you wake up. You glance at Jihoon from over the lip of the cup. He scrolls on a tablet mindlessly, as though he’s forgotten you’re there.

Neither one of you speaks as you finish your coffee. Turning to the sink, you start washing the cup out. You notice his used mug sitting in the bottom of the sink and pick it up, wash it and put it in the drying rack next to yours without thinking about it before returning to the bathroom to dress fully.

Once dressed and out of the bathroom, it’s almost six. Jihoon is bent over by the door, his boot on the coffee table as he laces it. Now fully dressed, his long hair is pulled back in a bun, a few silver whisps escaping and falling across his face. Again, you’re struck by how beautiful he is for a moment. 

He straightens and looks at you, raising his brows. Instead of answering him, you hurry to the wardrobe, pulling out your boots to slide them on and head to breakfast. You half expect him to leave you behind, but to your surprise, he lingers with the door open, dark eyes clocking your every movement. As soon as you’re done tying laces, he’s out the door and charging again, leaving you to scramble behind him.

Silence follows you into the cafeteria, which has the quiet atmosphere of an early morning. Workers and pilots ending their shifts sit at the table, scarfing down breakfast for dinner. Early shift workers hurry to grab a bite before heading off to the different parts of the Shatterdome. It’s not nearly as loud as lunch or dinner, but the soft din is inviting as you go through the line, following your new co-pilot wordlessly. 

None of the friendly faces from yesterday are in the cafeteria, so the two of you sit alone. Jihoon is methodical as he sets up his breakfast, each move calculated and precise. He eats the same way, finishing something entirely before moving on to the next time. 

His obsession with organization and control is almost fascinating, if not a little worrying. Instead of asking about it, you eat in silence, humming delightedly at the cheesy hashbrowns made available that morning. He casts you a single annoyed glance when he notices you enjoying your meal. 

Breakfast goes without a fight, though. Glancing at the large clock above the entrance to the cafeteria, you realize you only have a few minutes left before your day of training starts. Jihoon seems to be on the same wavelength, pulling out his phone to scroll through your schedule. 

“Meditation first,” he murmurs. He shoves his phone in his pocket and stands without preamble. “Do you think you can manage meditation?”

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we haven’t spoken for over an hour.”

Confusion crosses his face, quickly followed by astonishment. He hadn’t realized that most of your morning has been spent in silence. His brows pull together, mouth turning slightly as he works over your words. It seems to make him unhappy. He narrows his eyes and his mouth twists before he turns and marches away from the table, leaving you behind. 

Mouth quirking, you follow quickly, not wanting to lose your way to wherever it is you’re supposed to report to. He walks faster this time, determined to keep you moving and on your toes. Wherever the studio designated to you for the morning feels like it’s halfway around the world. Jihoon leads you down a series of halls and stairs, never slowing his pace once.

By the time you get to a small, soundproof room, your calves are burning. 

“You need conditioning,” he mutters, noticing the way you’re a little out of breath.

“You basically just took me on a light jog,” you protest. “I think it’s fair to be a little winded this early in the morning.”

“It doesn’t matter what time it is. What will you do if we make the drop at four in the morning?” 

Jihoon doesn’t wait for you to answer. Instead, he goes to the middle of the room and sits down on the floor, and crosses his legs. Instead of taking his bait and picking a fight with him, you sigh and stride into the room. He positions himself, ready for you to sit in front of him. Instead, you circle around him, sitting down behind him. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, twisting toward you.

“Meditating. Turn back around so we can be back-to-back.”

“What? Why?”

“Just trust me.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, try. It’s easier to feel your breaths and your heartbeat this way. Plus, there's less pressure if you don’t have to look directly at me.”

“Thank god for that,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes at the barb but grin when Jihoon listens, twisting back around to face the front. He lets you settle against him, the warmth from his back melting into yours. He is rigid, his spine solid as it digs into yours for a second. You lick your lips, feeling electricity shiver down you at the contact, like there’s a spark. 

The hum of the air condition is the only sound in the room. You close your eyes, leaning into Jihoon so that you fit flush together. You match your breaths with his, feeling your breathing slow down. Your heart slows to, like it’s trying to let him catch up, both of you melting into the same rhythm. 

Behind you, Jihoon relaxes. The back of his head rests against yours, both of you leaning into the touch, becoming the equal opposing force holding the other up. 

Balance is imperative in co-pilots. Jihoon needed to bring to the fight what you lacked and vice versa, the two of you making something whole, something complete. It’s a balance that’s not easily achieved, and though you’d always been a good pair with your mother and then maya, you know instinctively that it’s nothing compared to Jihoon’s counterbalance. 

A timer goes off in the room, startling you with how quickly time has passed. You blink your eyes rapidly, letting the room swim back into focus. For a second, neither one of you moves, content to lean against the other until Jihoon seems to realize he’s still pressed against you. He scrambles to his feet unexpectedly and you fall backward, losing his counterweight immediately. 

Thunking against the floor, you glare up at him. He smirks, looking down at you as he wipes dust from the back of his pants. “You should never let a co-pilot fall,” you huff, hauling yourself to your feet. 

“Good thing we’re not really co-pilots.”

“Yet,” you supply. You get up, stretching and feeling your joints pop. “Even you can’t deny that it was a great first meditation session.”

“Let’s go. We have sparring.” 

-

Jihoon doesn’t like you. 

He doesn’t like you, but he has to admit you are a perfect fit for him. You are loud where he is quiet, you make light when he remains serious, and you deviate when he’s planned. Yet somehow, you manage to mesh with him in your training, the perfect opposite force to him.

For the most part, you leave him alone. He can tell you’ve figured out when to bite back and when to eat your words. It’s become a game to him, throwing insults your way to watch whether you’ll riposte back or swallow your pride. 

The amount of times you swallow your pride impresses him, unfortunately. His original assessment that you are unpredictable and uncontrolled was wrong. He can see the way you actively meet his cold winter with warm summer, trying to melt him. 

He doesn't like giving you credit for your control, but he does so begrudgingly. 

Worst of all, he realizes that it’s not you he dislikes. It’s his situation, it’s knowing that you’re his lifeline and he has to accept you, and it’s knowing that despite his initial dislike, you’re a mirror that he can’t look away from. It doesn’t help that you live two feet away from him at all times, occupying every moment of his life just a reach-of-a-hand away. 

Training is tiring. It feels like he’s a rookie all over again, going through the exercises as the two of you learn to fight together, moving through meditation sessions, sparring, talking sessions - which don't really involve a lot of talking on his part as much as yours - and drop simulations. 

Drop simulations are the most exhausting for him. You bring everything to the drift. It’s nearly overwhelming at first how much you’re willing to show him. From the moment the mental bridge connects the two of you through the simulation software, Jihoon is shocked at the way you lay yourself bare. You hide nothing from him, letting him roam around your thoughts at his leisure. 

He feels everything you’ve ever felt. Elation when you make your first real drop with your first co-pilot, your mom. Sore ribs after a particularly difficult sparring match when you were a teeager in the training program. Pride when you finish the top of your training program. Terror when a fight goes awry and your mother overwhelms you in the drift, taking the full neural load of the jaeger to protect you. Rage at her doing so. 

“What happened here?” he finds himself asking, sticking near the memory. 

He thinks you won’t answer him, but of course you do. Unlike him, you’re open for the taking. “The hull was breached in my first year of fighting. My mother panicked because it was on my side of the jaeger and she tried to take on the neural load.” 

Jihoon says nothing. Piloting a jaeger alone overwhelms the nervous system and the brain, which is why each jaeger has two pilots in the first place. It can be done, but the risk for damage is always present. He senses where your conversation is going.

“We only piloted together for three more years after that. She was starting to struggle to make the drift, so we paused to get her examined. They discovered lesions on her brain and linked it to the damage from that day she tried to pilot alone.”

“She wanted to protect you.”

“She did, but it doesn’t make up for what she did. I was her equal, not someone she was supposed to protect.” You look at him and he looks at you, surrounded by your memories in the drift. “I am deserving of treated like an equal.” 

He understands what you’re really saying, that he should treat you like an equal too. Instead of responding, he busies himself with studying other parts of you that you let him have. 

There is a melody to your mind that he enjoys, though he’ll never tell you so. The more you drift together, the more Jihoon realizes that you are exactly like a Tchaikovsky piece. There is an organized chaos to you, a mathematical formula that is logical and measurable, but that deviates from the norm once in a while. 

Every drift, you remain open to him, your thoughts for the taking. You don’t even hide the moments you’ve thought of him - both in occasional attraction and irritation. Irritation at him bringing nothing to drift, opening no part of himself to you. Irritation when he’s mean to you. Hesitant fondness when he does something nice. Confused attraction when he walks around in just a towel. 

Water sluices down his back. Jihoon’s thoughts are still foggy from three weeks of nothing but practice and drills. He also finds it harder to sleep sometimes in the room, his dreams filled with the scent of your amber and jasmine and the lively sound of Tchaikovsky acting as the soundtrack to his dreams.

You’re still asleep when he exits the bathroom. He’s made sure to turn the light off before opening the door, steam billowing out after him. He scoops headphones from the nightstand as he heads to the kitchen, towel snug around his waist. He pops the earbuds in, the sound of Mozart starting his morning as he begins to make coffee. 

Jihoon has quickly learned that the longer he lets you sleep in the morning, the less whiny you are when you wake up. Instead of playing his music out loud, he lets you sleep until he’s made two cups of coffee, adding a spoonful of brown sugar and milk to yours. He sets it on the table and walks back to the bathroom, one of the requiem pieces carrying him through his routine. 

On the way to the bathroom, he stops by your bunk. He hesitates for a second, drinking you in as you sleep. Nestled in that top bunk is the only place you’re as peaceful as you are in the drift. Your features are smoothed out as you slumber, mouth open a little, drool sticky on the corner of your mouth. Jihoon’s lips twitch a little and he shakes his head before reaching out to tap the ankle hanging off your bed. You mumble in response. 

“Get up,” he says gruffly. “You’ve slept long enough.”

He returns to the bathroom and shuts the door to get fully dressed. He knows you’ll be standing in the kitchen looking dazed and confused sipping coffee until he comes out and frees the bathroom for you to shower. 

The alarm for a kaiju alert goes off. He hears it blaring over his music and he pulls the earbuds out, opening the door half dressed in just pants as he looks at the screen flashing red. A Category Four kaiju has been sighted in the bay. His heart skips, knowing that Cat-4 kaiju are dangerous even for the most skilled pilots at the Dome. 

Assignments flash across the screen. Solar Saber and Fang Striker have been summoned to drop. Nervousness flutters in Jihoon’s stomach. He snatches a shirt and yanks it over his head, moving quickly around the room to grab boots. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, leaning off the counter. 

“Heading to the command deck. Come or don’t.”

“I’ll come.” 

You dump your coffee in the sink, jumping to action as you peel off your pajama pants, searching for cargos. Jihoon hardly realizes you’re changing in front of him - he’s seen it all in your head anyway - as he laces his boots. He doesn’t know why, but he starts to explain himself, “Dino and Wylie have a… history with Cat-4 kaiju.” 

“You want to be an extra set of eyes and ears.” He nods at the accurate assessment. “Got it. Run me through Solar Saber drop stats if you know them.”

Jihoon does. He fires off what he knows about the team. Their stats are fine, but a Category Four kaiju is new for them. They have a good jaeger. It’s on the newer side, nuclear powered with plasma cannons and a massive plasma sword that burns brighter than the sun, earning the machine its name. It’s piloted by a set of twins, which produce some of the best drifts in the jaeger program.

But there’s a nervousness in Jihoon’s stomach that he can’t place. Everytime his friends drop, he knows they’ll be okay - but he also knows the level of danger. Perhaps it’s because of Chan and Wylie’s accident last year or because they’re dropping with a team Jihoon doesn’t trust, but he suddenly wants to tell the Marshall to let Storm Breaker do the drop.

A hand brings him out of his thoughts. Your gaze is as calm as the surface of a lake, piercing. “We’re ready, if we need to be.” 

Of course you know what he’s thinking. Despite his best efforts, you seem particularly good at stitching the tiny threads that escape through Jihoon’s wall of ice.  

You drop your hand and grab the room keys, heading toward the door with top speed. His arm is warm where your fingers were a moment ago, burning like a brand. He shakes it off as he follows you out, both of you jogging up to the top level of the Shatterdome to observe. 

Crew races around the dome. Jihoon sees Seungkwan and Vernon rushing up the stairs to the command deck. He follows suit, you quick on his heels. People fill the room, talking over one another as they shout into headsets and screens flash different camera angles. 

The Marshall stands in the center of it all behind the LOCCENT Mission Controller who will walk the pilots through the fight. Jihoon doesn’t recognize the man giving them instructions, but he joins the wall of people standing behind him to observe the screens, taking a place next to Vernon and Seungkwan. 

You glance at Vernon and back to Jihoon, a question in your gaze. “This is Vernon,” Jihoon says in response. “He’s currently a jumphawk pilot. Could be a jaeger pilot if he could figure out the drift but he’s too screwy up top.” 

“Thanks, man.”

“You can call me Blue,” you offer. Your eyes drift to the screens. “Friends of the pilots out there?”

“Wylie is one of my best friends.” 

Instead of telling him something like they’ll be alright or offering words of comfort, all you do is nod. Jihoon respects that. Anything comforting would be a potential lie and useless in a world of blood and metal, salt and fire. 

The entire room falls into a steady cadence. Jihoon crosses his arms as he focuses on the screen. He’s mutely aware that you’re standing so close to him he can feel the heat of your arm, hands shoved in your pockets as you watch the screens, brows furrowed in concentration. 

On screen, Solar Saber churns the water toward a towering kaiju in the bay. The creature is straight out of a nightmare, a barbed tail whipping across the surface of the ocean, misting water as it does. From what Jihoon can tell, it’s got four legs, each equipped with long talons. Rows and rows of teeth reveal itself as the kaiju opens its mouth and roars, the vibration from the sound so deep that it vibrates underneath his feet. 

“I don’t like that tail,” Vernon mutters next to Jihoon. 

“It’s like a manticore.” Jihoon glances at you. You’re not looking at them, but your head is tilted in curiosity as you point to the screen. “Four legs, a curved tail with a barb. The webbing around its neck suggests it might have a frill.”

“Strike teams, confirm positions,” the LOCCENT controller says into the mic. 

“Fang Striker in position two miles north of kaiju and Solar Saber.” It’s Wylie’s raspy voice that crackles over the shared radiowave with the jaeger teams. “Perimeter is set.”

“Solar Saber ready to engage,” a female voice comes over the speaker. Jihoon recognizes it as one of the twin co-pilots, Jezzi. 

“Permission to engage.” 

As Solar Saber engages with the kaiju, the command deck goes quiet. People guiding the helicopters and ground teams speak softly into their mics, a level of tense calm washing over as everyone watches the fight ensue.

Solar Saber is beautiful to watch fight. The armor is painted radiant gold and the glow of the sword is magnificent against the stormy waters as it slashes at the kaiju. Jezzi and her sister Yaz are calm throughout their bout, their voices clear and communicative as the kaiju batters them. 

“Cut off the tail,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s going to-”

Jihoon sees what you do as soon as you say it. While trying to kill the kaiju with a direct blow, Solar Saber has forgotten about the tail. The tip of the tail shivers, reminding Jihoon of a cat ready to strike, and it does. One moment, Solar Saber and the kaiju are locked in a wrestling match. Next, the tail is hammering the hull of the jaeger, striking over and over again like a scorpion.

Chaos explodes on the screens. Jihoon holds his breath as red flashes across the screens as the tail breaches the hull of Solar Saber. A tingle settles over him, the buzz of nerves as he watches Solar Saber take a knee, ocean water surging around the jaeger as the kaiju’s tail continues to hammer the jaeger’s head open. 

Jihoon grabs the LOCCENT Controller’s chair and yanks him backward out of the way, jamming his finger against the button to speak. “Don’t let it force you under the waterline,” he barks. “Cut off that tail, Solar Saber. If it forces you down, you’re going to take on water and drown.” 

“The right panel is damaged from acid from the tail,” Jezzi yells over the comes. “Sword arm cannot engage.” 

“Then disengage, Solar Saber. Do not let it force you down another knee.” 

Yaz screams back something incomprehensible over the comms. The left arm of Solar Saber lurches, reaching for the kaiju’s tail. It catches, yanking at the appendage hard. The kaiju screams as the tail breaks where Solar Saber has it gripped. The kaiju frenzies, screaming wildly as frills - just like you’d predicted - shake to life by its head, vibrating back and forth in a threat display as its dismembered tail whips back and forth, spraying ichor. 

“Fang Striker engaging,” Chan’s voice comes over the comms.

It’s the Marshall who answers. “Fang Striker, hold the perimeter.” 

“Fuck the peremiter,” Wylie seethes. 

The Marshall turns to you and Jihoon. “We’re ready,” Jihoon says at the same time as you.

A string of curses leaves Marshall’s mouth. “Fang Striker, assist Solar Saber with the intent to disengage. Storm Breaker dropping in ten.” 

Heart hammering, Jihoon turns to follow you out of the command center, footsteps like thunder as you sprint to the jaeger bay. He doesn’t even think twice about dropping with you, any reservations about you vanishing as the fighting instinct takes over. 

You’re an entirely different person when you step onto the catwalk, your team already scrambling with pieces of your Drivesuit. There is an eerie calm about you. You meet his gaze head on as your team fits armored pieces of Drivesuit onto your arms. Jihoon sees himself reflected so clearly that he’s startled. 

“What?” you ask, sensing the bewilderment. 

“Show me what you’re made of,” he says simply. 

Your mouth curves in a wicked grin and you nod once, understanding. 

Storm Breaker is beautiful. The fondness for her sweeps over him as he steps into the cockpit. The screens come to life, casting blue and red glow all over as he steps into the Conn-pod. He sheds any reservations he has as the team helps him connect. You’re only a few feet away, stepping into the left side of the Conn-pod. 

Jihoon’s world shifts to screens and canned voices in his headset as the shield of his helmet closes. It’s Seungkwan he hears over comms saying, “Engaging pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence.” 

“Do the pilots always take over the LOCCENT Controller’s here?” you muse, just to Jihoon. 

His lips twitch. “What can I say? Seungkwan knows I’m a control freak.” 

“Engaging neural handshake in three… two… one…” 

The world around him goes mute for a moment. Jihoon’s vision flashes white for a second. He feels you then, your thoughts and feelings becoming his. They’re not overwhelming though. He feels focus and determination from you with an undercurrent of ferocity. All of your memories and other feelings are there too, but they exist in the background. You’re a seasoned pilot, Jihoon doesn’t have to worry about you chasing the rabbit and falling down a hole of memories. 

“Neural handshake holding and strong,” Seungkwan calls. “Initiating drop in three… two… one…”

Jihoon’s stomach flies into his throat as he falls away from the world. The world is nothing but freefall for a few seconds. He feels the thrill that shoots through you and smiles - he can’t help it. Bending at the knee, he braces for impact. You do the same, and the cockpit lands on the jaeger’s mainframe with a metallic clang.

“Calibrating right hemisphere,” Jihoon announces, feeling the machine start to power to life. “Calibrated.” 

You repeat on the left side, the full machine powered on and ready with both hemispheres locked in.

“Storm Breaker ready to pursue,” Jihoon says. He looks up at the screen where Fang Striker is engaging the kaiju. Outside of Storm Breaker, he might feel his heart race with panic. Solar Saber is overturned and he has no idea if the pilots are inside of it as it takes on water. “Two miles out from contact.” 

“Pursue.” 

Your first step as a team is perfect. Fluid. Jihoon knew it would be. He hates to admit that he was wrong, but he knows it is. There is a thread of satisfaction bleeding over from you as Storm Breaker charges into the ocean, water rising rapidly around the waist. 

Ocean water slams against Storm Breaker’s chest as you charge toward the fighting. Fang Striker’s comms are patched in, but Wylie and Chan are silent as they rip at the kaiju, pulling at one of its wings that it unfolded from its back. Fang Striker looks tiny against the hulking mass of the monster, but its team is doing what it does best, savaging the creature a little at a time.

“Storm Breaker half a mile out,” you announce, voice like steel. “Ready to engage.” 

“Engage at your discretion.”

“Storm Breaker,” Chan says over comms. “Try and restrain this motherfucker. We’ve got a loose plate in its armor to exploit but it keeps shaking us off.”

“Heard.” 

As if hearing Chan, the kaiju flings Fang Striker off. Fang Striker’s red body crashes into the ocean, Wylie cursing the kaiju straight to hell and about fifty other foul places. 

Storm Breaker engages, both you and Jihoon plunging into the fight. The kaiju swipes at you but you both duck together, dodging the swing as you punch hard from the left in tandem. You knock it hard, it’s head snapping to the side. As a team, you use the opening to wrap the right arm around the kaiju’s neck, squeezing it toward Storm Breaker’s chest in a headlock. 

Stabilizers and locks click into place. He grits his teeth, as though feeling the actual strength it takes as the kaiju roars and claws at Storm Breaker, trying to free itself from the headlock. Together, you put the left arm around it, adding to the force to keep the kaiju from slipping from your grip. 

Clawed blows hammer down on Storm Breaker. Neither of you gives way, tightening your grip on the creature and ignoring the way the talons scratch against the hull. Storm Breaker is built to withstand, and neither one of you flinches as furious blows rain down on you, fists hammering. 

“It looks like that kaiju is playing you like a bongo,” Wylie’s voice comes over comms. “Hey Woozi, do you feel like it’s composing one of those songs you like?”

“Oh sure,” he shoots back. “Take your time, Wylie. It’s not like it’s trying to crack us like an egg.” 

“Ugh,” you sigh. “Don’t talk about food. I didn’t eat breakfast. Hey Seungkwan, can you ask Joshua to save me some hash browns? He’s always at the cafeteria first.” 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “You’re all insane. Any day now, Fang Striker.” 

Fang Striker appears from the sky like a creature from hell, a red streak of death as it falls. They land on the kaiju’s back, the force of the landing vibrating through Storm Breaker’s frame. The kaiju tries to twist in Storm Breaker’s arms, but you and Jihoon tighten even further. Fang Striker’s sword glints in the sunlight as it unsheathes. 

“Don’t stab us,” you say at the same exact time that Jihoon has the thought.

They almost do. Fang Striker buries the sword through the back of the kaiju, the tip of the blade peaking through its chest, almost scraping against Storm Breaker’s stomach. The monster thrashes wildly for a few minutes, clawing at Storm Breaker’s hull. Fang Striker hits the release on their sword, leaving it embedded in the kaiju’s back to stand and fire into the kaiju with plasma cannons. 

Jihoon feels the tremor of the shots land. There’s a final kick from the kaiju before it slumps, putting all of its deadweight on Storm Breaker. In unison, you and Jihoon throw the creature off of you. It lands with a crash, water surging around the creature as its weight drags it down before buoyancy pulls it back up.

Storm Breaker straightens, standing in the open water with a battered Fang Striker a couple of yards away. Panting, Jihoon looks across the Conn-pod where you’re already looking at him, shield on your helmet up as you grin at him. There is unguarded happiness there, nearly as bright as the sun that glints off Storm Breaker’s helm. 

“So,” you ask the group. “Can we get hashbrowns now?”

Jihoon realizes at that moment he doesn’t dislike you at all. 

-

“Would you slow down?” Jihoon asks, setting his tray down next to you roughly. He plops in the seat next to you, giving you a severe side eye. “You’re going to throw up the second you hit the treadmill eating that fast.”

“I want to get more bacon before they run out,” you whine. “They won’t make more once it’s gone.”

Uncovering the top of his tray, Jihoon reveals a heap of bacon slices. You oggle as he sets it between the two of you, shaking his head and scoffing. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I know. I brought more, so slow down.”

Affection for your co-pilot warms you. The affection is certainly one-sided, but you don’t mind. In the four months you’ve been co-piloting with Jihoon, he still hasn’t opened up to you.

Despite having made the drop five times together, Jihoon still brings almost nothing to the drift. You catch pieces of him, tiny snippets of memories or emotions or thoughts as you become one. You slowly use them to fit together the pieces of the Jihoon puzzle you’ve been working on every day. 

It helps that you live in such close proximity, too. Jihoon’s habits speak far more for them than his words ever could. Like the way he wakes up at the same exact time every day and tries to be asleep at the same time every night, or the way he meticulously cleans your shared living space every Sunday, or the way he starts every sparring session with the same eight-stretch sequence.

He still doesn’t talk about him in your time slotted for getting to know one another. It’s not therapy exactly, but every pilot team has designated time daily to talk things out. To work through things that are bothering them, or to talk about themselves. The more pilots know one another, the better they fight.

You know virtually nothing about Jihoon. He doesn’t talk about himself during sessions, so you talk for him. You tell him about your childhood, about piloting with your mom, about how much you miss Maya. He eventually starts asking questions. Provides responses.

“We’re on the drop schedule tomorrow,” Jihoon notes, flicking through his tablet on the table next to him. “It’s graveyard shift. Do you want me to ask Mingyu and Wonwoo to switch to the day shift?” 

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

He gives you a critical look. “You’re awful in the mornings.” 

“Not when I’m fighting.” You snatch more bacon. “Would you rather me or Mingyu in a jaeger at two in the morning?”

“Point taken.” Both of you know the only person more miserable than you in the morning is Kim Mingyu. Jihoon nudges you with your elbow and gestures to the bacon. “Finish up. We have to workout soon.” 

“Ugh.”

He smirks. “Cardio day.”

“Ji, no.”

He ignores the nickname. “So much running.”

Now you know he’s doing it on purpose. There are few things in your training schedule that bring Jihoon joy like torturing you during scheduled workouts. He had started slating them each day, determined to harden your conditioning despite the fact that you’re already in decent shape.

Decent is a word in his vocabulary. He only expects perfection and even then, you’re pretty sure it’s unattainable. Still, you finish your breakfast and let him lead you to the gym, peppering him with whining and protests the entire way. He ignores them with a placid smile, hands linked behind his back as he walks. 

When you get to the gym, there are other pilots and workers using their free time to exercise. There’s only a single treadmill open, which Jihoon gets on easily. You start to edge your way toward yoga mats with the intention of not working out at all when he leans over to look at the time on the treadmill next to him. 

“You’ve been on it for an hour,” he grunts at some boy who looks like a cadet. “Off you go.”

The cadet scrambles off, almost forgetting to turn the treadmill off before he does. He bows in respect before shooting off like a frightened school of fish. Jihoon turns to you, grinning as he pats the machine. “For you.” 

“Thanks,” you deadpan. “Just what I’ve always wanted.” 

Jihoon’s grin only grows when you step onto the treadmill as he leans over the rail and turns it on, pressing the incline and speed buttons until you’re walking at a warm up pace. Which, for Jihoon, is a solid jog. 

As you jog, you fish out headphones from your pocket. You pop them in your ears, careful not to trip as the sound of classical fills your ears. You’ve taken to using Jihoon’s playlists, despite originally making fun of him for it. You find that it distracts you more than you thought it would, and it helps that you feel like a character in a fantasy movie running to an epic soundtrack.

You’ve adopted a lot of things that Jihoon does. It happens naturally, especially the more you drift. You find yourself putting on Mozart instead of Tchaikovsky or taking your coffee black on accident or scolding others in the training room for not being precise and perfect. 

Ghost Drifting is what some call it. You don’t think you’re quite there yet, being that Jihoon still hides half of himself away. But sometimes, even outside of the drift, you feel him in your mind like a phantom presence. 

After your workout, you go through the same day you have everyday: meditate back to back, sparring, and your talking session, which mostly consists of you both sitting next to one another looking over your drop footage and noting areas for improvement. 

Jihoon’s shoulder is pressed against yours, his eyes focused on the tablet in your hands, tracking the slowed down movement of the video. He taps the screen, pointing to the right side of the jaeger that he pilots. “I was a bit slow here.” 

“It’s not your reaction time, you’d never punch that slow. That’s the arm that took damage two fights ago against Razorbill. Let’s talk to the J-Tech team and see if there’s a delay in the receptor. It might be a split second off.” He snorts and you glance sidelong at him. “What?”

“You don’t think I’d punch slow?”

“No.” 

Jihoon raises his brows. You can feel his surprise at your seriousness to his question. He obviously expected you to turn it into a harmless jab, but you mean it when you say, “Your reaction time has been perfect for the last sixteen drops you’ve made. If there’s a delay, it’s the machinery. Not you.”

He looks away from you, nodding once. The tips of his ears are red and he mutters, “Thanks.” 

Instead of pressing the matter like you want to, you smile and hit play again, both of you focusing on the screen once more to talk through the remainder of your allotted bonding time. 

In your room, Jihoon turns on the speakers, the sound of Pas de Deux from the Nutcracker floods the room. You pause by the wardrobe where you’re shucking your boots off, gazing at Jihoon as he moves into the kitchen silently, taking out two mugs, a box of peppermint tea and a kettle. 

He doesn’t feel your eyes on him, going about making tea for the both of you. He hums along to the song - you don’t know when he became so familiar with it, his movements comfortable. Practiced. Relaxed. A swell of affection overtakes you, realizing you don’t know when he started making you tea. Or putting on Tchaikovsky for you. Or not biting at you every two seconds. 

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you over his shoulder. You turn away from him, busying yourself with your boots to spare him from making an excuse as to why he’s making you tea. Because you’ll know he’ll give one, provide you with some sort of excuse that it isn’t a favor or because you’re friends, but rather something like the tea bags are too large for one or I have to boil the water anyway. 

When you’re done changing for bed, he’s standing next to you, mug extended. He doesn’t look at you, instead finding interest in the cameras outside the Shatterdome. You take the mug from him and say nothing, knowing he’d rather you not thank him. 

Mug in hand, you climb carefully into the top bunk, crossing your legs as you nestle the mug next to you, pulling out your tablet to read. He gets into bed without a word, both of you existing in comfortable silence, just like Jihoon prefers. 

-

Alarms wrench you from sleep. You’re thrown forward in your bed, red flashing on the TV as the kaiju alert system wails. You wipe sleep from your face as you haul yourself over the edge of the bunk, landing next to Jihoon who is pulling off his sweats in favor of cargo pants as quickly as he can. You feel dizzy and off balance as you do the same, shoving one foot in your pants and hopping on one leg as your foot catches while trying to shove in the other.

Jihoon grabs you by the elbow, holding you steady as you shove your foot through the leg of your pants and shoot him a grateful look. He nods, letting you go to finish zipping his pants and digging around for a shirt. He can’t seem to find one, cursing under his breath as he roots around. You toss him one of yours instead, grabbing a pair of socks and throwing yourself onto his bunk to yank them on, quickly followed by shoes. 

“Fuck,” Jihoon mutters as he looks up at the screen, the red painting him in hellish light. “We’ve got a Cat-4. They’re dropping Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker with us.” 

“Dino and Wylie weren’t even on rotation.” 

“They’re not making the same mistake they did with Solar Saber.” He pulls out a tablet, squinting against the glow. “We're the last line of defense. Hao and Jun will take point with Fang Striker.” 

“Got it. Let’s go.”

You take off at a jog, easily keeping pace with one another as you go. There are jaeger teams moving about the building getting ready, the alarms still sounding as you navigate to the jaeger bay. Your team is already there and ready to fit you into Drivesuits, sliding each piece of armor on with practiced care. 

Jihoon catches your eyes from where he stands across from you, letting a team member slide his hand into a metal glove. His eyes are dark as the stormy sea outside, a bottomless well that you can’t seem to dive down into, but want to. His lips twitch a little and he gives you a nod, which you’ve come to understand is Jihoon for I trust you. 

Screens blink to life as you enter the Conn-Pod. Closing the front shield of your helmet, you immediately turn on open comms, listening as the Marshall and LOCCENT Controller on duty - you think it’s Nainsi - talking Minghao and Junhui through their neural handshake. 

The spine of your Drivesuit connects to the Conn-pod, your heads up display coming to life. You feel the metal whirring and clicking into place, rotating your shoulders and flexing your fingers as your jaeger team finishes connecting Jihoon to the Conn-pod before exciting and shutting the door firmly.

“Storm Breaker ready to drop,” Jihoon announces. 

“Engaging pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence,” Nainsi answers. “Engaging neural handshake in three… two… one…”

It’s like jumping off a cliff into freezing cold water. You feel the flash of cold, vision going white for a split second before you feel Jihoon’s calm flow through you. He’s steady like an icy river, his thoughts, feelings and emotions hidden down in their dark depth where they can’t bother either of you.

You’re like rapids, rushing thoughts and feelings, pouring everything through the drift at him. He takes it in stride, used to the white-capped rush of information he gets from you each time you connect. Jihoon adjusts easily, already hitting buttons on his screen as images from your day flash through your mind - including you watching him make you tea in the kitchen.

Jihoon says nothing about that. He says nothing about the gentle wave of your embarrassment either as Nainsi says, “Neural handshake strong and holding.”

Chan’s voice crackles through comms. “Fang Striker on standby for neural handshake.”

“Copy. Storm Breaker prepare for drop in three… two… one.”

Dropping feels like falling through the core of the earth. For a few moments, it’s a flightless feeling as you fall through the Shatterdome. Then you land, knees absorbing impact as the head of the jaeger falls into the neck socket, locking in.

“Calibrating right side,” Jihoon announces. “Calibrated.”

“Calibrating left side. Calibrated. Ready to engage.” 

Nainsi confirms calibration and directs, “Storm Breaker, take north point defense two miles from the shoreline. Hold that line. Fang Striker, engaging in pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence in three… two… one.” 

You tune out the rest of Fang Striker’s drop as you and Jihoon behind to charge into the bay. The windshield in front of you immediately froths with sea salt and wind, battering down on the jaeger as the night sea surges against Storm Breaker’s legs. You cut through the water like a knife, carving your way toward the defense line as the jumphawk team flies into place. 

“Five minutes until surface breach.” 

“Oh! Hi, Vernon,” you chirp. 

“Sup?”

“Would kill for a coffee right now. And like, a bagel. Or hashbrowns?” 

Vernon groans. “Mood.” 

Jihoon snorts but says nothing. Minghao’s voice comes over the comms, soft and cool. “Blue, everytime I drop with you you’re talking about food.” 

“Have you considered that Ji doesn't feed me?” 

“So it’s Ji now, huh?”

“Don’t get her started,” Jihoon grunts at Minghao’s teasing. “One mile out from the line of defense.”

Chan joins the conversation, voice chipper. “Fang Striker ready to pursue. Also, good morning everyone!” 

Everyone groans in misery collectively instead of greeting him back. Wylie’s voice cracks like a whip as she spits out, “Be nice to him.” 

Everyone greets Chan after that. Jihoon shakes his head, amused. “Fang Striker, escort Emperor’s Mandate to engage. Four minutes until surface breach.” 

Black ocean ripples outward in front of Storm Breaker as you move. You near the defense line, the city lights like a sea of stars at Storm Breaker’s back. Air support circles overhead, monitoring kaiju activity and helping with positioning. You see the spotlights glinting on the surface, waiting for a kaiju to surface. 

To the east of your position, Fang Striker and Emperor’s Mandate cut through the water. Fang Striker’s red paint is violent against the night, but her build is small next to the towering white fury of Minghao and Junhui’s jaeger. 

“Storm Breaker in position,” Jihoon calls. You both stop moving, your jaeger coming to a standstill as the water sloshes around your waist. 

“Standby, Storm Breaker. Kaiju breach in one minute.” 

“Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker in position. Ready to engage.” 

“Engage at your discretion.” 

Comms go silent as the strike team waits for the kaiju to appear. It’s the calm before the storm, the silence pregnant with tension. You feel a tentative brush of Jihoon’s thoughts against you. You turn and glance at him, surprised. 

Jihoon is watching you with a stormy expression, thoughtful. “You thinking about letting me in that big ass head of yours?” You tease, just in your personal comms. 

He smirks and shakes his head, breaking eye contact to look out the front of Storm Breakers cockpit. “Not a chance.” 

It’s a lie. You know it's a lie because you feel it is as sure as you feel your own glittering satisfaction that he’s thinking about it. That Jihoon is considering opening the door for you, even a fraction. 

Your satisfaction only lasts a second as the kaiju breaches the surface in front of Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker. You watch in strained silence as the jumphawk team begins reporting what they can about the makeup of the kaiju.

Emperor’s Mandate engages immediately, their metal saber chain shooting from the right arm and punching through the shoulder of the kaiju. An electromagnetic pulse goes down the chain and it goes taught like a sword as Junhui slices upward, attempting to sever the kaiju’s arm. 

The kaiju lands a hard punch to Emperor’s Mandate in the middle, sending them backward into the ocean as the chain-turned-sword pulls out as they fall. Fang Striker is there before the kaiju can attack again, charging and tackling the kaiju at the waist. She’s not built for heavy fighting, but Chan and Wylie are vicious, clawing at the kaiju with their metal claws. 

“Fang Striker, roll!” Minghao orders. Fang Stricker does, using the kaiju as weight to rock themselves over and under the creature, vanishing beneath the water’s surface as Emperor’s Mandate lands a punch to the kaiju’s back with a plasmacaster, turning the night blue as the sparks flare. “Push and we’ll pull.”

Salt spray mists the windshield as you and Jihoon watch in silence. The kaiju is a massive, hulking beast with spikes down its spine and a nasty club tail that catches Fang Striker in the knees, taking her down. The two jaeger teams work in flawless tandem, punching when the other ducks, tackling with the other falls. 

In a way, it’s beautiful to watch the fury of what a jaeger can do. Your lips twitch upward as the fight starts to go their way, Emperor’s Mandate severing the leg of the monster as Fang Striker pounces on it, sinking both clawed hands into its shoulder blades and tearing through its hide. 

“Storm Breaker-” Vernon’s panicked voice gets cut off as your world turns upside down. 

You feel yourself slam against the restraints of the Conn-pod connecting you to the jaeger. A surprised shriek escapes you as you flip head-over-feet in Storm Breaker, crashing into the ocean with a violent slam. A kaiju raises itself from the water, rearing its head like a cobra as it shrieks, the sound shaking the entire hull. 

“What the fuck?” Jihoon screams over comms. Storm Breaker rolls as the kaiju strikes like a snake, barely missing you as it hits empty water. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“There was no reading!” Vernon yells back. “The signature appeared a half second before it attacked like it had some sort of stealth mode!” 

“Kaiju don’t have fucking stealth mode, Vernon!”

“Maybe it got an iOS update man, I don’t know!” 

There’s no time to care about why or how a kaiju isn’t appearing on the reporting team’s screen. Whatever level it is, it’s fast. You and Jihoon get to your feet just as it strikes again, fangs striking at the windshield. It doesn’t crack, but the sound of kaiju bone against the glass isn’t promising.

Storm Breaker stumbles back a few steps before regaining footing. You both strike with your right fist, slamming into the neck area of the beast as it winds up to strike again. It looks like a massive cobra, coils and coils of kaiju body gathering each time it tries. 

A shudder vibrates through the jaeger as the punch lands, sending the kaiju back several hundred yards. You don’t give it a moment to recover, both of you charging as you equip short swords perfect for close-combat fighting and slicing. 

“I think it’s too fast to pick up a reading,” you shout over comms. “It moves so quickly!”

Fighting is a careful rhythm. You and Jihoon find it immediately, tuning out the sound of the other fight as you zero in on your target. It doesn’t matter that the kaiju took you by surprise, it doesn’t matter that Jihoon still hasn’t let you in, it doesn’t matter that somewhere, you have other friends in just as much danger.

What matters is this. The feeling of rage that flows from Jihoon - or maybe it’s you - as you both savagely plunge a sword in the serpent body of your enemy. What matters is the way you and Jihoon flow, two rivers with the same curves and dips, sliding around the kaiju as you strike again, spraying ichor into the sea. 

Storm Breaker’s sword extends from the right arm, reflecting the city lights briefly before you cut sideways. The blade slides clean through like a knife through paper. You and Jihoon both scream savagely in unison as the head flies separate from the body, sailing in the air for a moment before crashing into the surface as blood spurts from the main body. 

It flails for a moment longer before crashing under ocean froth and water. Victory surges through you and you look across the Conn-pod where Jihoon is grinning at you, stars in his eyes. You feel a moment of elation, laughter bubbling to your lips as Nainsi recalls you to the Dome, Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker standing victorious.

“That’s kill number six?” Jihoon asks, voice delighted. “We’re on a fucking roll.” 

“I guess I’m not so bad a co-pilot after all, right?” He rolls his eyes but you get the feeling the tips of his ears have turned red. “Come on, Ji. Tell me I’m a good co-pilot.”

“No way.”

“Come onnnn.”

He levels a look at you, dark eyes churning. He licks his lips, opening and closing his mouth before he finally murmurs, “Can I show you instead?” 

The left foot of Storm Breaker is yanked from under you. You go down screaming, feeling the impact of the seafloor as you go down in the shallows hard. Pain shoots up your left arm as you slam against the restraints keeping you attached to the Conn-pod. Lights flash in your heads up display and a sensor starts going off, the left arm of the jaeger going dead as it loses connection. 

Jihoon is screaming your name over comms as you grit your teeth, and gather your bearings. You suck in a sharp breath as you both scramble to get Storm Breaker on her feet. “Left arms gone cold,” Jihoon yells over comms. You manage to get Storm Breaker to her feet as you both throw out your right arm, bracing for impact as the kaiju’s head strikes again. “It grew back two fucking heads!” 

“Fang Striker pursuing!” It’s Chan voice over the comms. “Three miles out from contact.” 

One of the heads strikes at the helm again, knocking into Storm Breaker hard. Your world rocks as you shove with the full force of the right side of the jaeger, thrusters turning on as you launch the kaiju and its twin heads backward. 

“How the fuck do we kill this thing?” you screech, charging toward the creature as it slides through the water, coiling to strike again. “If we cut off its head again, it’s just going to grow another.”

“Stab it through the head? I don’t fucking know!”

Snatches of panic and anger and concern seize you for a split second, it feels like your own but you realize it’s not, Jihoon’s feelings bleeding into you like a fresh wound as you strike at the kaiju again. Its tail loops around the left leg again and Jihoon’s worry spikes, so raw and unfamiliar that when he lifts his foot, you don’t lift yours. 

Storm Breaker stalls, filled with mechanic screeching as the two of you clash in the drift in a moment of indecision. A storm of emotions batters down on you. Your lungs squeeze as you feel yourself torn away from the fight and into Jihoon’s memories, each one flitting by so fast you can barely resonate with them. 

A little boy bullied by bigger kids. A woman being torn out of a home screaming in the hand of a kaiju. The sound of Mozart drowning out the screams of destruction. Young Jihoon crying in his room alone, nursing bruised ribs and knees. Teenage Jihoon fighting back. A man named Haneul that has seen all of Jihoon’s scars. 

“... out of alignment!” 

Words crash through you as you feel a tremor go through Storm Breaker. Jihoon’s thoughts are like a hurricane tearing at your foundation. 

Hatred when he meets you for the first time. Pride when he makes his first successful drop. Grief when Haneul retired. Resentment when he’s reassigned to a new pilot. 

Jihoon screams your name but you are drowning in him. Jihoon’s emotional dam has broken and years worth of who he is comes out in a torrent.

Jihoon joins the pilot program because he wants to get away from the home. The smell of books and oil lanterns. Greasy fingers and fumes. A blue mat rushing up to meet him as he falls. 

“Emperor’s Mandate two miles out. Preparing to engage!” 

Bitter coffee. Celebrating Haneul’s birthday. The sting of Chan biting him mid spar. Pretending he didn’t hate his childhood. Hiding the scared little boy behind a controlled exterior. 

“She’s chasing the rabbit!” 

Chasing the rabbit. You hear the word and vaguely realize you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of Jihoon’s memories and emotions, completely unused to them in a space where you’re connected intimately. You try to gather your bearings, shutting down the images flashing across your mind that don’t belong to you as Storm Breaker gets rocked again. 

“Shit,” Jihoon swears. “Blue, come on. Come back to me. I’m sorry. Don’t chase my memories!”

A kite against a blue sky. Two paper boats on a lake. Your smile as you hang upside down off the bunk bed. Soonyoung giving Jihoon a birthday cake. Wylie in a hospital bed. Jeonghan and Joshua accepting pilots of the year. 

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon whispers, both in your mind and outloud. “Come back.”

You can do this. You can withstand the storm of Jihoon’s consciousness. You shake him out of your head, sorting out your thoughts and his. It’s nearly impossible to understand where you end and he begins, but you manage to hold back the wake of his uncontrolled consciousness.

Blinking, you come back to the present. There are lights and warnings going off as Storm Breaker takes another strike from the kaiju. Fang Striker is taking on its other head, the kaiju splitting focus between two jaeger teams as it tries to split open the top of your jaeger. Wylie and Chan are yelling in comms and Emperor’s Mandate is in pursuit to help you disengage. 

The left arm of your jaeger is still cold, totally disconnected from the rest of the machinery. You run through a list of fighting options with one arm down. The right side of the jaeger is fitted with a sword, explosive and a plasma caster in the first of the hand. But the jaeger overall- 

“Light it up,” you tell Jihoon. His relief crashing into you like a tidal wave. He understands what you want to do immediately. You feel his agreement rather than see it as you both start to tap controls on your control panels. “Fang Striker, prepare for lighting strike!” 

“Fry this motherfucker!” Wylie screams. “I fucking hate snakes!”

The nuclear reactor at the core of your jaeger starts to charge. From the top down, your jaeger begins to power down, lights flickering out and screens going dead. Your heart hammers as the kaiju slams into the head of the jaeger over and over again, trying to crack the helm wide open. Storm Breaker takes the savage blows as all but the nuclear core shuts off.

A low hum begins to sound at the heart of the machine. You feel the vibration tingle in your spine as all of the energy flow focuses in the center of the jaeger, slowly charging and pulling electricity from everywhere else. It’s a slow process, the kaiju beating down on you as the core winds up. 

“Fuck,” Jihoon swears at a particularly harsh strike. “This fucking bitch!”

“We’ve got it,” you tell him. You look across the Conn-pod at him, his face pale behind the shield of his helmet. “She’s not going to break, Ji.” 

You feel your words resonate in him. His affection is startling. He hides nothing from you now, every thought he’s ever had of you, every moment his eyes lingered on you too, every second he realized he didn’t dislike you at all - it’s all there for you to see. His soul laid bare. 

“She’s ready!” Your smile is like the sun. “Light her up!” 

Jihoon hits a button on his panel and the air turns to static. A ripple of energy passes through you, only lasting a split second before a bolt of white lightning explodes from the center of the jaeger. The world turns white, forcing you to shield your eyes as you hear the crack of deafening thunder. 

Ears ringing, you lower your hand as the light fades, blue sparks of electricity zapping across the ocean in a mile-wide radius. Smoking, the kaiju falls backwards, ocean spraying up on either side as it hits the surface of the sea. You can barely hear Fang Striker over the sound of the high-pitched whine in your ears.

You wait, but the kaiju doesn’t rise again. The jumphawk team circles above, waiting for another kaiju signature, but none comes. 

Sagging in your Conn-pod, you glance over at Jihoon. “Does that count as one or two kills? I’m so fucking over monster fighting today. I want a goddamn grilled cheese.”

-

Jihoon is a wreck. Not only does he visibly hover near your medical bed as the attending medic tends to your arm, ensuring it’s not broken, but you can still feel him like he’s attached to you in the drift. His concern is touching, but there’s also anger there. Not at you but at himself, boiling under the surface of his newfound worry. 

“So she’ll be okay?” he clarifies again, looking at the doctor with a hard stare. The man tending to your arm looks nervous under the sharp gaze of a jaeger pilot. “You’re sure it’s not broken? It better not be broken.”

“Jihoon,” you say gently. He crosses his arms over his chest, not taking his eyes off the doctor as he stares him down. “I’m fine. It’s just some bruising.”

“Just some bruising. Your arm practically fell off.”

“It did not. Let the doctor finish, Ji.”

He softens, turning to sit on an empty cot as he sulks. You watch him with muted amusement. His bottom lip juts out slightly, put out by you not letting him baby you. Cute, you think. 

Thankfully, the arm isn’t damaged. You’d bruised it pretty severely when Storm Breaker went down and you slammed against your restraints, but otherwise you’re unharmed. Some pain meds, ice and rest should do the trick, so you and Jihoon leave the medical bay with the doctor’s advice in hand and Jihoon muttering under his breath.

Back in your room, Jihoon sits you on his bottom bunk to examine the arm himself, holding you carefully as though he can break you at any moment. You let him have this, watching as his eyebrows crease and mouth twists while he rotates your arm delicately.

He has pretty hands. You’ve always thought so, but now you watch his slender fingers brush over your sore arm with care, feeling a shiver threaten the base of your spine. 

“You should ask for a reassignment.” Jihoon’s words land like a brick. You look up at him, eyes flashing with confusion. “I nearly killed you today. It was unprofessional and shameful as your co-pilot to knock you out of alignment like that. You don’t deserve that.”

“It happens, Jihoon. Fighting in a jaeger isn’t always perfect.”

“Well I am. And today I wasn’t. Request a new pilot, the Marshall will understand. People don’t last with me, it’ll be no risk to you.”

“I’m not requesting a new pilot. You’re who I want to drift with.”

He starts to pace. “Why? I’m obviously still that scared little boy who used to hide in his room alone.” 

Even without having felt his emotions in the drift, Jihoon makes so much more sense to you now. You reach out to him, taking him by the arms to stop his pacing. He won’t look at you, averting his eyes elsewhere. Your heart squeezes knowing that the reason Jihoon kept you out is because he didn’t want you to see who he was before he was the controlled, perfect jaeger pilot. 

“You’re not, Jihoon.” You squeeze his arm to emphasize your words. “But even if you were, I trust that little boy too. He was empathetic and kind.” Jihoon glances at you, unsure. “Don’t run away from me now that you’ve let me in. I’ve seen you and I still want you. Unless you don’t want me.”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s hard to tell with you, you know?”

His gaze drops down to your mouth. “I’ll show you, then.” 

Without another word, Jihoon grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him fully. Your arms slip around his neck, holding onto him for balance as he crashes his mouth to yours. His lips are warm and soft in contrast to the ferocity he kisses you with, fingers digging into your hips, mouth hungry. 

You meet him with equal fervor, fingers tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He grunts when your nails scratch against his scalp, biting into your lower lip. He presses his tongue to the seam of your mouth and you let him in, sighing as his tongue brushes against yours, eager to taste you.

Kissing Jihoon is like standing in the eye of a storm. He’s brutal and calm, sharp and soft. His heart beats against yours, his chest heaving when he pulls away from your mouth to press wet kisses to the shape of your jaw and down your throat.

One of Jihoon’s hands slides up your back, fingers dancing along your spine until he reaches the base of your neck. He grabs you firmly, pulling your head back to give him better access to the softness of your throat. You let out a breathy sound and he groans low in his throat. 

“Don’t make that sound,” he whispers, biting your neck gently and chasing the sting with his tongue. “I’ll fucking crumble.” 

“So crumble.” 

“Fuck.”

Jihoon starts pushing you backward, your steps a tangle of feet. It might be the most uncoordinated the two of you have ever been, caught up in the heat of each other’s mouths as he kisses you feverishly again. It’s messy and spit-slicked, making you light headed. Your knees hit his bottom bunk and you crash backward, Jihoon on top of you. 

Your hands seek the warmth of his skin, sliding under the hem of his shirt over his flexing stomach to his firm chest. He lets you rake your nails across him as he settles on top of you, his hands planted on either side of your head and a knee slotted between your legs. 

Having him this close is everything. Months of not being able to have him entirely or the way you want has made you ravenous for him. You pull at his shirt, nipping at his lip and whining. He laughs darkly, leaning up from you to grab the back of his shirt and pull it up over his head. 

He lets you do what you want, content to let you run your fingers over the ridges of his stomach, the narrow shape of his waist, the firmness of his chest. He dives back down to attach his mouth to your collarbone, pulling the neckline of your shirt out of the way for access.

“Just take it off,” you complain, shivering as he continues his assault.

“Mmmf - difficult.”

This is not the composed Jihoon you’re used to. This is the raw, unedited version of him you’ve been begging to see. This is the storm letting loose because he knows you can take it - want to take it.

Jihoon does get tired of your shirt, growling as he grabs it firmly and tears it up and over your head. You laugh as he does, loving the way he scowls and presses you back down, biting your jaw as he does. He palms your tits over your bra, pinching your nipples through the fabric. You squeal and arch into him, head pressing into the mattress.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he huffs, mouth trailing butterfly-soft kisses toward your chest. 

“Sensitive?” you jest, dropping a hand between your bodies to press against the front of his pants. He hisses, hips twitching as you press against his cock. You grin wickedly as he pants raggedly against your skin, letting you squeeze him. “Yeah, you are.” 

Jihoon drags his knee up the bed, pressing between your legs. A bolt of pleasure surges through you and you whimper, making him smirk against your chest. “What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

He drops a hand down to your waist, squeezing. “Didn’t sound like nothing. Come on,” he urges. “You know you want to.” 

So you do. You roll your hips forward, pressing your clothed cunt against his thigh. The layers of clothes block too much of the sensation and you press harder, desperate for stimulation. A whine drips from your mouth as you grow frustrated. You feel the curve of Jihoon’s smile against the curve of your left breast as he places a wet kiss there. 

“Having a hard time?”

“Jihoon.”

One hand stays fixed on your hips, urging you to continue to grind into him despite it not being enough. The other slides up your front, his fingers light as feathers. He hooks a finger in the cup of your bra and pulls downward. He drags his mouth downward, giving your nipple a playful flick with his tongue. 

“Jihoon.” 

He hums thoughtfully, circling your pert bud with his tongue. A tremor goes through you and you squeeze your eyes shut. He closes his mouth on you and sucks gently, making you gasp. You continue to roll your hips into him as he scrapes his teeth against you gently. 

Cool air hits your spit-slicked chest as he kisses sloppily over to your other breast, repeating his ministrations. It feels so good you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. His skin is hot against yours and you’re desperate to feel more of him, hands pulling at his shoulders as he sucks wet marks into your chest. 

“More,” you whisper. “God, please more.” 

He knows what you mean when you say more because of course he does. He rids you of your bra entirely, throwing it somewhere else in the room. He works the buttons on your pants next, deft fingers moving quickly before tugging them down your thighs. He lets you pull his cargos down and throw them, but it’s as far as you get before he’s lavishing attention to your tits again. 

“Try now,” he pants. 

His knee is pressed right against the apex of your thighs. You don’t care that he can feel the damp cloth against his skin. You slow grind on his knee, feeling the pressure infinitely better with just a thin layer of underwear between you. A sigh of relief escapes you and he grunts, pleased as you keep going, thighs shaking. 

You could drown in him and not care. He smells like spearmint and soap, his hair soft as silk as it slides between your fingers. He gives a sound of approval everytime you card your hands through his hair, especially when he gives you a sharp bite and you tug. 

A tingle settles in the depth of your stomach. You feel like you could almost come this way, getting off with just his leg between your thighs and his mouth sucking greedily at your tits. You feel yourself tighten, hips pressing further but it’s not quite enough.

He reads you like a book. Jihoon slides his knee back and replaces it with his hand, fingers delicately pressing against your clit. It makes you see stars, going rigid in his grasp as he gently circles it a few times before dragging his fingers back down to press at your core through your underwear. 

“So god damn wet,” he lets go of your nipple with a pop. He hooks a finger through your underwear and pulls them to the side, his knuckles brushing your sticky folds. “So pretty for me.” 

His compliment makes you shy. You hide your face behind your hands and he laughs darkly, letting you. He’s already seen all of you in the drift, but this is different. More personal. Real. 

The press of a finger into your cunt is slow and maddening. You immediately want more, desperate for it. He doesn’t give it to you right away, taking his time as he busies his mouth with your chest and neck, content to finger fuck you at a leisurely pace. 

When he hooks his finger and presses right into that soft spot, you seize up. He grins, finding exactly what he was looking for. His mouth catches yours again, a tangle of tongue and teeth as he presses another finger in. You squirm against the mattresses, pinned under his weight. The heel of his hand presses into your clit, adding pressure as he strokes your front walls rhythmically. 

You’re greedy for him. You suck his tongue into your mouth and he moans, letting you do what you want. The wet squelch of his hand between your legs only spurs you on, his name dripping from your lips in a whine as you cling to him, feeling the start of your orgasm.

Jihoon knows it’s coming. His pace is more intent and he shuffles up the bed to get a better angle. Your toes curl and you writhe against the sheets, feeling the way they stick to your balmy skin as he works you closer and closer to an orgasm. 

He presses a soft kiss under your ear, chaste compared to the mess he makes of your cunt. “Come on,” his voice is husky and gentle. “Let go for me.”

It’s his for me that sends you over the edge. Your legs squeeze around his hand but he keeps at it, pressing tender kisses to your collarbones as you twitch under his touch. Your orgasm starts to wane and turn into overstimulation, your panting turning into whimpering, nails digging into the back of his neck, unsure if you’re trying to push him away or keep him there.

Jihoon retracts his hand slowly. You feel the way you drip down the curve of your ass as you pant, staring up at the bottom of your bunk trying to gulp down air. He nudges his nose against your jaw, bringing your attention back to the present as his dark eyes look up at you.

Your voice comes out rough from use. “Want you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts and he nods, lifting himself off you to let you peel your underwear the rest of the way down as he works his briefs down his thighs. You let out a squeak when you look up to see him using the cum on his fingers to stroke himself, head tilted back a little, eyes heavy. 

“What?” he murmurs, dropping his gaze down to you. His eyes are fucked out just from getting you off and it drives you insane, this visual of him blotchy with warmth, hair sticking to his forehead.

“You’re so hot,” you blurt and he pauses, raising a brow at you. “Don’t stop.” 

“You like when I touch myself in front of you?” You nod, chewing on your lip as you stare. He grins and starts stroking himself slowly again, squeezing his flushed tip as he does, beads of precum dripping over the edge. “I’ll give you a show later. If I don’t fuck you in the next five minutes I will nut in my hand.” 

“I mean, I wouldn’t hate it.” 

“Oh? You want me to cum in my hand instead of that pretty pussy?” You purse your lips, staring back at him with a pout. “Didn’t think so.” He laughs and shuffles on his knees toward you, shaking his head and groaning when your legs fall open automatically for him, revealing the mess he’s made. “Can’t believe I made myself wait for this.” 

“How stupid of you.”

Your stomach flutters when Jihoon lowers himself, cockhead pressing at your entrance. You ache for him - in more ways than one. Jihoon feels it too, hanging his head and letting his hair cascade around his face like a silvery halo as he slowly presses in. 

His name falls from your mouth as you gasp, feeling the pressure of him as he sinks into your cunt slowly. You feel full and overwhelmed and perfect all at once, a myriad of feelings peppering your senses until he’s fully sheathed to the hilt. 

Jihoon’s breathing is ragged for a moment as you clench around him, throbbing. He sucks in air sharply between his teeth, one hand going to your hip to press you into the mattress while the other lands next to your head, bearing his weight. 

“Thank you for waiting for me.” You almost don’t hear him when he says it, his voice so soft. “When you didn’t have to.”

Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him closer. His nose brushes against yours and you feel your adoration for him grow. “Of course I did. You were meant for me.” 

Prompted by your words, he nods and pulls his hips back slowly. The glide is easy with how wet you are. He thrusts back in with a hard snap, stealing your breath. The ability to string together coherent words vanishes as Jihoon sets a punctuated space. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. 

Fuck is right. Jihoon angles his hips perfectly, kissing your spot with each thrust with a deadly precision you’ve only seen in battle. Of course he fucks like he fights with absolute accuracy, driving you right toward an orgasm within a few minutes. Your fingers tangle in your hair, mouth pressed against his forehead where it rests against you. 

His hand slides from your hips to your thigh, slipping under it and hiking it upward. It deepens the angle and you let out a loud sound, unable to catch your breath as sparks fly behind your eyelids.

“Holy shit, like that.” You’re a mess under him and he knows it, driving his hips faster as you continue to fall apart. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

“Yeah?” he asks, almost taunting. “Gonna come like this?”

“Yes, please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He keeps going, driving you to the edge until you’re coming around him with enough force to knock heads with him. He mumbles something that sound like ouch but you’re too far gone, squeezing the fucking life out of him as you come before going boneless. 

Jihoon pulls out and flips you, your world spinning as you land face first in his pillows. They smell like him and you love it, sliding your hands up to grip at the pillows as he drags your knees up, ass toward him. Sweat slicks your back and you try to take in a few ragged breaths, turning your head to the side to watch him sidelong. 

His dark eyes dip to your ass and he curses, shifting backward so that he can lean down, hands prying your thighs apart to make way for his tongue as it slides up your pussy. 

“Oh shit,” you wheeze. 

He practically purrs against you, tongue licking slowly back and forth. The grip on his pillows tightens, one of your hands shooting back to grab his hair, holding him to you. He laughs, the vibration going straight through you as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking over it. 

“I love when you pull my hair,” he admits, panting as he takes a breath. 

His tongue dives back in, pressing against your clenching hole. It is maddening the way he works you with his mouth. You feel like you’re coasting to another high. He knows exactly what to do, knows when to slow down, knows when to speed up. Jihoon has had access to you for months and it shows, navigating your body like it’s second nature to him.

“I’m gonna come again.” It comes out as a whine, fingers twisting in his locks. “Shit.”

“So come again.” 

You do. It’s not as hard as the first one but it’s just as good, your orgasm shivering through you. Warmth floods you and you bite into his pillow, muting the loud sound that spills from your lips. 

Jihoon doesn’t give you a second to recover before he’s up on his knees and pushing back into you. His hand cracks across your ass and you let out a startled yelp, earning laughter from both of you. Spent and delirious, your hand finds purchase on his wrist, holding on to him as he fucks you fast and hard. 

He lets go of where he holds your hip to lace your fingers instead, pressing your linked fingers against the curve of your ass as he drills his hips forward. Somehow the hand holding is more intimate, your throat screwing shut as Jihoon chases after his own high.

With a muted murmur of your name, he comes. His thrusts turn messy, each press of his hips against your ass met with a wet sound. You don’t even care about the slick running down your legs, absolutely spent and sweaty and tired and a little in love with the man behind you.

Slowly, he lets go of your hand. You drop your arm to the mattress, suddenly aware of the ache in your shoulder at the angle. Instead of pulling out, Jihoon leans forward, pressing his sweaty chest to your back, mouth brushing softly against your shoulders. 

“Thank you.” 

You’re so close to sleep that you barely register what he’s saying. “For what?”

“Withstanding the storm,” he laughs. “Withstanding me and waiting me out.”

“You’re worth it.”

“I hope so. I want to be.” 

With care, he detangles himself from you. You make a pitiful sound and he tuts at you, rolling you over on your back so that he can see your face. His eyes swim with more affection than you’ve ever seen, kick starting your heart. You lift a hand and tuck his bangs behind his ear, fingers lingering to brush across his cheek.

“So I’m kind of like your Storm Breaker, right?” 

He groans. “Don’t start.”

“What? You literally just said I withstood the storm or whatever.” 

“Come on, we’re showering.” 

“No way, I am not moving right now.”

“You are not sleeping covered in cum.”

“Ji,” you whine. 

He grins and kisses your head, getting out of bed. “Come on then, storm breaker. Withstand me a little more.” 

[jiminie-08]

Amazing fic!! Always love a Pacific Rim fic 💁🏽‍♀️💖😍😁

[hunnybabydoll]

reading smut or any fanfiction in public

[jiminie-08]

So funny 🤣

[bekkarific]

Did I drop a devastating What If and disappear for a week? - Yes

Did I write three yearning and somewhat smutty stories to make it up to you all? - Also Yes

Spinster Series His POV - Lyonel Part One

Spinster Series Masterlist

Maekar

Baelor

Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) wanking, father is his own warning, drowning, smut - Under 18’s DNI

Storm’s End had seen its share of noble visitors. This family was no different.

Lyonel had been told enough before their arrival to know what was expected of him, a good match and a future heir.

He was told by his lords that the family was in good standing from a great house, and that the daughter would be a suitable match. The younger daughter, in particular.

He had expected beauty, softness, something easy like most ladies in the realm. She was exactly as expected. She was pretty in the way spring was pretty. Bright, warm, eager to please. She smiled often, laughed quickly, and watched him like he was already something to admire.

Her father did most of the talking, guiding her forward with careful pride, laying out her virtues as though presenting a well-bred horse.

The elder daughter stood beside them. Lyonel noticed her only in passing, she did not seem to like him, her eyes sweeping over him in disapproval, but brief enough that he might have imagined it. He did not linger on her, there was no reason to, especially when he was led off with the father and younger daughter alone.

Lyonel listened, nodded where appropriate, offered a charm here, a smile there. It came easily to him, it always had. She responded just as easily.

He walked the grounds with them. Spoke of Storm’s End, of hunts, of weather and ships and small, inconsequential things. The younger girl delighted in all of it. She asked questions that were easy to answer, laughed at the right moments, looked at him like he was already something fixed in her future.

Lyonel played his part well. He smiled, he entertained, he let her orbit him as though it were natural.

It was not unpleasant. It was familiar, comfortable and required nothing of him, but also did not make him feel anything either. He was not disappointed per ser, it was only that nothing about it surprised him. A bit dull if he were honest.

Lyonel had decided that the match would suit. The girl would be happy and seemed content enough with match. Whilst was nothing in it to challenge him, but there was nothing to object to either.It was enough.

Or so he thought.

——————————-

The card game had been meant to pass the time.

Something light, something easy, whilst the your sister tried to get to know Lyonel more. He settled into it without thought, one arm slung easily over the back of the chair, his attention divided between the game and your sister at his side.

She leaned toward him, bright and eager, laughing softly at his remarks, not really playing attention to her own hand of cards. Lyonel had played his part easily. Charm, wit, just enough attention to keep her glowing beneath it.

However, he looked at his hand and decided to be dishonest enough to keep himself entertained. The card slipped easily up his sleeve, a small indulgence, something to amuse himself more than anything else. No one ever noticed.

Until someone did.

“You moved that card”

At first he did not recognise the voice, his head turning to find the eldest daughter, you, staring daggers at the card peeking out of his sleeve.

He did not look at the card, he looked at you. Truly looked at you for the first time since you had arrived, as though someone had dragged you out of the background and set you directly before him.

You were looking at him like you had already judged him and found him lacking. He should have been annoyed at your directness, Instead, he felt something dangerously close to delight

“I did not” he replied easily slipping into a grin, because he wanted to see what you would do.

“You absolutely did” you say. There was no hesitation in it, no simpering, no attempt to make the accusation easier for him to swallow. It only made him more interested.

You leaned forward boldly, reaching for his wrist, your fingers brushing his warm skin and Lyonel felt it like a spark struck too close to dry kindling. It was certain, as though you had every right to take hold of him.

You tugged the hidden card free from his sleeve, ignoring everything but your purpose and held it up to him defiantly “What is this then?”

He should have looked at the card, but he did not. He looked at you.

Really looked, as though he had been halfblind before and only now understood it. The fire in your eyes, bright and sharp and entirely unimpressed. The set of your shoulders, steady and unyielding. The hard line of your mouth. Gods, he had not noticed your mouth before. He noticed it now, he shape of it, the way it pressed into that disapproving line, the way it drew his eye without permission.

He barked out a laugh, real and unrestrained, because the alternative was to sit there and stare at you like a man who had just been struck “Ah that card! I simply misplaced it” he said, still smiling, taking clear enjoyment in your disapproval.

“Misplaced a winning hand up your sleeve?” you said, keeping his gaze. That sent a rush of heat through him, sharp and immediate, settling low in his chest.

“Exactly” he replied, though he had already forgotten the game entirely, his attention fixed wholly on you.

“Your definition of misplaced is most creative, my lord” you said, spinning the card in your fingers.

“And yours is most severe, my lady” he countered smoothly, though his gaze remained fixed on you now, drinking in every detail he had so carelessly overlooked before “No one has ever accused me of cheating” he admitted, tilting his head slightly, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous “Not to my face at least”

“Then I am pleased to be of service” you replied coolly “You are a lord, after all. It would be remiss of your guests not to correct you when you stray”

“Stray?” he echoed, his brows lifting slightly as his fingers came up to take the card from your grasp, his fingers brushing yours, he did not expect to like the warmth of your skin so much.

“From honor” you said. He was not entirely certain whether it was the words themselves or simply the fact that you had said them, but it felt like the most arousing thing he had ever heard.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

For a brief moment, you both held it, a silent, stubborn contest neither of you seemed willing to concede. He was acutely aware of you, of the warmth of your fingers against his, the way you held your ground and the fact that you had not looked away once.

No one spoke to him like this, no one challenged him like this. No one touched him without invitation and then held their ground as though daring him to object.

Yet you did, and gods help him, he wanted to see how far you would go.

Your sister cleared her throat loudly, the sound sharp in the silence, and you withdrew your hand at once, folding it neatly in your lap as though nothing had happened.

He noticed that too. The control of it, the way you could step back so cleanly while he was still very much in it. He found it all the more compelling.

“If we are to continue” you said briskly, though there was a faint quickening beneath your composure that he would not have noticed before, but did now “perhaps we might attempt to do so honestly”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes, the movement instinctive, unthinking, but he found the sight to be one that made his heart race.

“And if I prefer a challenge?” he asked, his voice lower now, roughened by something he did not bother to hide.

“You have one” you replied without hesitation.

His grin returned, but it was not the same grin he had worn when the game began. This one was slower, hungrier, delighted “Then I shall endeavor to be honourable. I would hate to disappoint you” he replied slipping into easy flirting.

When he dealt the next hand, he did not cheat. Not because of honour, he could care less about honour in a game of cards. No it was because you were watching and he wanted to see what you would do next. He wanted to push you, just enough, just carefully, and see how far that fire in your eyes would go before it burned.

He had only just noticed you and already, he found himself cursing it, because how many things had he missed. How many moments had you stood just out of his notice while he wasted his attention elsewhere.

For the first time since your arrival, Lyonel Baratheon was no longer bored.

He was interested.

—————————————————————

Lyonel was not a man given to quiet curiosity. When something interested him, he pursued it. He leaned back in his chair, cards forgotten entirely in his hand, his sister’s voice drifting past him without meaning.

Why had he not noticed you before? The question lingered.

It did not take long for him to find an answer. Storm’s End was not a place where anything remained unknown for long, and Lyonel was its lord. A quiet word to a servant, another to the steward, and soon enough the pieces fell into place.

The eldest daughter, unmarried, of an age where she should have been settled long ago.

“She has remained with her father, my lord” the steward had said carefully “to manage his household after her lady mother passed”

Lyonel had frowned slightly at that “And no match?” he pressed.

“A few offers in her younger years, I believe” the man said, hesitating just enough for Lyonel to notice “but none accepted. It is said” he trailed off.

Lyonel’s gaze sharpened “Say it”

The steward shifted faintly “It is said she is difficult, my lord”

Lyonel almost smiled at that, of course you were “And now?”

The steward hesitated again, then said it quietly “She is considered a spinster, my lord”

The word sat poorly in Lyonel’s mind. It did not fit, not with the woman who had looked at him like she might very well dismantle him piece by piece if he gave her reason.

“Spinster” he repeated, the word tasting wrong. It sounded like something dull, overlooked, forgotten.

You were none of those things.

He dismissed the steward without another word, but the irritation lingered.

A spinster, what fools.

——————————————————

The first time he found you again, you were in the solar.

Afternoon light spilled through the windows, soft and golden, catching on the edge of the book in your hands. You sat alone, one leg tucked neatly beneath you, entirely absorbed, as though the world beyond the page held no interest.

You did not notice him at first. Lyonel paused in the doorway, watching.

You looked different when you were not watching him. Softer, perhaps, but no less composed. There was something in the way you held yourself, something deliberate, simply existing as though you required nothing from anyone.

It pulled at him in a way he did not immediately understand.

“Does Storm’s End not require governing?” Your voice cut cleanly through his thoughts. You had not looked up, but you had known he was there.

A slow grin spread across his face “It does” he replied easily.

“And yet here you are” you said with almost a sigh, it only made him grin wider.

“And yet here I am” he agreed, pushing himself off the doorframe and crossing the room without invitation, dropping into the seat beside you, as though he had every right to be there.

You did not look pleased. Good, he found he preferred it that way.

You did not ask him why he had come, you did not welcome him, you simply turned a page.

Lyonel leaned back slightly, watching you, utterly unbothered by your silence. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, on the way your sleeve had slipped back from your wrist.

It was ridiculous, and yet he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that he would very much like to see how far that composure of yours could be undone.

Gods, this was better than any hunt, you made him work for it. The thought sent a sharp thrill through him

It irritated him, more than he liked, that you had been here all along. Walking his hall, sitting in his rooms, existing just out of his notice while he wasted his time on something easier.

His gaze lingered, taking in details he should have seen days ago. The way you held yourself, the quiet confidence in it, the complete lack of performance.

You were not trying to be seen. That only made him want to look harder

——————————————

After that, he stopped pretending meeting you was coincidence.

He found you on the battlements first. The wind was sharp that day, tugging at cloaks and hair alike, the sea below restless and loud against the rocks. You stood near the edge, though not too near, your hands clasped loosely before you as you looked out across the water.

You did not turn when he approached “You favour high places” he observed, falling into step beside you as though he had been invited.

“I favour quiet” you replied.

He huffed a faint laugh at that, glancing out at the sea before letting his gaze drift back to you instead “You could find that anywhere” he said lightly.

“Not here” you returned, your tone mild, though your meaning was not. You did not even try to soften it.

His mouth twitched “Am I disturbing you?” he asked, though there was no real intent to leave.

“Yes” You said it without hesitation.

His grin widened, slow and deliberate, something pleased settling into his chest.

There it was, not politeness or tolerance. Resistance. He had spent his life surrounded by people who yielded to him without being asked.

This was going to be fun.

⸻———————————————————

The next time, it was the gallery.

You were walking slowly along the long stretch of windows, your fingers brushing lightly against the stone between them as you read something in your hand.

He did not announce himself, he simply fell into step beside you.

You did not startle, of course you did not “Do you follow all your guests so diligently” you asked without looking up “or am I afforded special attention, my lord?”

“Only the interesting ones” he replied.

That earned him a glance, albeit a brief one, but it felt like a a victory all the same “You find me interesting?” you asked, quite disbelieving.

“I find you difficult, my lady” he said honestly grinning like it was the greatest compliment he could bestow, because to him it was.

Your brow lifted slightly “And that holds your interest?”

“It does” he said, far too easily.

You made a soft, noncommittal sound and continued walking.

He matched your pace without thought.

⸻——————————————

The solar became a habit.

He would find you there more often than not, seated with a book or a ledger, entirely absorbed in whatever occupied your attention, as though the rest of the castle simply ceased to exist.

The first few times, you ignored him. He would enter, sit, speak, and you would not so much as look at him unless he forced the matter.

No one had ever ignored him so completely, he found it endlessly entertaining “You could at least pretend I am not a nuisance” he said one afternoon, leaning back in his chair as you turned another page without acknowledging him.

“I am not pretending” you replied calmly.

He let out a quiet laugh “You wound me” clutching his chest in faux hurt

“I doubt that” you said lips twitching ever so slightly, his eyes dropping to them immediately. It should not have pleased him as much as it did.

⸻———————————————————-

He began to seek you out more deliberately after that, part of him needing to see you each day, despite the fact the he was still courting your sister.

If you walked the gardens, he appeared.

If you spoke with the maester, he lingered nearby, listening with that infuriating patience of his.

If you tried to slip away unnoticed, he would somehow already be there.

First it had been curiosity, then amusement, Now it was something else entirely.

He did not stumble across you anymore. He looked for you, he measured his day around where you might be, how long it had been since he had last seen you, whether you would look at him the same way you had the first time.

It was not subtle and he did not care to make it so.

⸻————————————-

He realised, at some point, that he was no longer looking for reasons.

No longer justifying it to himself as curiosity or courtesy. He simply wanted to see you, hear you speak, provoke that look in your eyes again and feel that spark when you turned your attention fully on him.

It settled into him, quiet and certain and gods help anyone who thought that meant he would give up easily.

————————————————————-

The walk had been meant for your sister. That, at least, was how it began.

The sky had finally cleared, the sea restless below the cliffs, the wind sharp enough to keep the air bracing rather than cold. Your sister had insisted upon it, bright and eager, slipping easily into step beside him as he led the way along the path.

You followed behind. A few paces back, Lyonel was aware of you anyway. He was always aware of you now.

“I tell you” he said, gesturing broadly as he walked beside your sister “The boar was monstrous! Tusks like swords! It charged straight for me”

Your sister’s eyes widened, just as he knew they would “And you did not run?”

“Run?” he scoffed lightly “I stood my ground”

He heard it then, The words carried on the wind, quiet, but not quiet enough to escape him “Of course you did”

His mouth curved immediately. There you are.

“I beg your pardon?” he called back over his shoulder, already slowing his steps.

“I said” you replied sweetly, though there was nothing sweet in the look you gave him when he turned “that the beast was fortunate to encounter such bravery, my lord”

He slowed just enough that you were forced to draw nearer “It was bravery” he insisted, his eyes meeting yours, holding them.

“I do not doubt that you believe it so” you replied, your head tilting just slightly.

Your sister laughed nervously between you, sensing something she did not understand.

Lyonel did not look at her, his gaze, as always, fixed on you. “And what would you call it?” he asked.

“Overconfidence” you answered without hesitation, stepping ahead.

He followed immediately “And if I told you it charged from the brush without warning?” he pressed, falling into step beside you now, leaving your sister to trail behind for once.

“I would suggest you were making too much noise” you returned.

His jaw ticked, but there was that spark again, sharper now, brighter “And if I told you” he said slowly, leaning just slightly closer as though sharing something meant only for you “that I wrestled it to the ground with nothing but strength and will?”

You came to a stop. So did he. You folded your hands neatly before you, looking at him with that same infuriating composure “I would ask whether the boar consented to such theatrics”

Your sister gasped, Lyonel stared at you laughed, it was not the same careless sound he gave the rest of the world. This one was sharper, pulled from somewhere deeper, because you had met him, matched him, and then twisted it just enough to make it something entirely your own and it delighted him endlessly.

“The truth then” he said, still watching you, still caught in it “the boar charged. I slipped on mud. It ran headfirst into a tree” He held your gaze as he said it. He watched your face for it, for the moment it landed.

There it was, the break in that perfect controlled composure of yours. You searched his face for mockery and found none. And then, you laughed. It burst from you, bright and unguarded, carried by the wind, entirely unladylike and entirely real.

It ruined him. Lyonel did not move, he could not. He watched you, utterly transfixed, as your composure slipped, as your cheeks flushed, as that sharp, cutting woman from moments before simply vanished into something warm and alive and devastating.

Gods, he had never heard anything like it. Never wanted anything like it.

The sound of it hit him low and deep, something instinctive and immediate, something that settled into his bones before he could even begin to make sense of it ‘I want that. I want her’ The thought came without restraint.

You cleared your throat quickly, gathering yourself, your hands moving to smooth your hair back into place “It was the mud then” you said, a hint of laughter still clinging to your voice “a most fearsome opponent”

He did not answer. He was still looking at you, restraining his body from lunging forward and kissing you right there and then “You laugh as though you are surprised” he said at last, his voice lower now, rough.

“I am” you admitted, a small smile lingering despite yourself “I did not expect such honesty”

“You prefer it?” he asked, his gaze dropping briefly, traitorously, to your lips.

“I prefer accuracy” you said, though your eyes dropped from his now, something in you shifting as well trying to hide yourself from him again.

“And did I improve my standing?” he asked, trying keep you with him.

“In what regard?” You ask

“As a storyteller” he smiled.

You blinked “Oh. Marginally”

He huffed a quiet laugh, though his attention had already moved beyond the question.

“I am difficult to mislead” you added.

“Yes” he murmured, almost to himself. He had already learned that.

Your sister hurried to rejoin you then, bright and delighted, filling the space between you once more “That was dreadful” she said fondly “You in the mud!”

Lyonel glanced at her and gave her a polite smile Then his gaze returned to you. Always to you.

You turned away first, unaware of the way his eyes followed you. Unaware that something had shifted so completely in him that there would be no returning from it.

Your laughter still echoing faintly in his mind, Lyonel realised something with a clarity that struck harder than any blow.

He had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted that sound again.

And he would have it.

——————————————

That night, Lyonel couldn't shake the image of you from his mind. Now, alone with his thoughts, he stripped off his tunic and breeches, his cock already half hard from the memory of your lips curving in that smile.

He settled onto the edge of his bed, the blanket scratching against his bare thighs. His hand wrapped around his thickening shaft, fingers gripping firmly as he gave it a slow, deliberate stroke.

A low groan escaped his lips as he pictured you, your body close to his, the way your breasts had strained against the fabric of your gown.

He imagined pinning you against the cold stone of the castle wall, your defiance melting into gasps as he hiked up your skirts. He thought of your mouth, those lips parting in surprise, as he thrust into you.

“Fuck” he muttered, his free hand clenching the bedsheet. In his mind, you arched against him, your pussy clenching around his cock, wet and hot, your nails digging into his shoulders as you begged for more, begged for him only him.

His breaths came ragged, hips bucking into his hand. He envisioned your arse in his grasp, spreading you wide as he drove deeper, the slap of skin on skin drowning out everything else.

His release built at the base of his spine, tension coiling tight. With a guttural curse, he came, ropes of hot seed spilling over his knuckles, his body shuddering as your imagined moans pushed him over the edge.

Even as the pleasure ebbed, leaving, the desire for the real you lingered.

—————————————————-

The storm had been coming in for hours. Lyonel had felt it before he saw it, in the way the wind shifted along the walls, in the restless pull of the sea below the cliffs. Storm’s End always warned you, if you knew how to listen.

He had not meant to go looking for you. That was what he told himself, at least. He was already halfway along the battlements when he saw you. Walking alone, of course you were.

You walked near the curve of the wall, the wind tugging at your skirts, your hair already loosening from whatever careful arrangement you had attempted earlier. You looked like something that belonged to the storm.

His jaw tightened faintly “You have a remarkable habit of placing yourself where you should not be, my lady”

You turned at once “Lord Baratheon” you replied calmly but he could see that delightful irritation bubbling below the surface.

He approached “You should be inside when weather likes this rolls in” he said, stopping close enough to feel the edge of the wind as it moved around you.

“And yet” you replied “you are our here”

His mouth twitched despite himself “I came to fetch you”

You gave a soft, unimpressed sound “How dutiful”

He grinned “I have my moments”

The rain began then, sudden and sharp, striking stone, catching in your hair, soaking quickly through the light fabric at your shoulders “I am not in need of rescuing” you argue despite slowly becoming drenched.

He watched the rain gather against your skin “That remains to be seen” he replied and before you could argue, he pulled his cloak from his shoulders and set it around you.

You stilled “I did not ask for”

“You were not going to” he cut in, fastening it at your throat before you could shrug it off. His hands lingered, long enough to feel the warmth of you beneath the damp fabric, long enough to register the way your breath shifted, barely, but enough that he noticed. That was becoming a habit.

“I am quite capable of walking in the rain” you said.

“I am quite aware” he replied “I simply chose not to watch freeze to death” he smiled, liking how the irritation brought a beautiful flush to your cheeks.

You turned away from him then. Not toward the castle, instead continuing along the wall.

He almost laughed “You misunderstand” he said, falling into step beside you “That was not permission to continue”

“I did not realise I required permission” you argue

The rain thickened, heavier now, driven by wind that pressed it sideways against stone and skin alike. You pulled the cloak tighter around yourself.

He saw it and felt something sharp and satisfied settled low in his chest at the sight.

“I will return it” you said.

“I did not ask you to” he replied his voice slightly rougher as the image of you wearing his cloak burned into his memory. Something possessive clawing inside him.

“I am not in the habit of keeping things that do not belong to me” you argue

His gaze slid over you, slower now “You may make an exception”

You shook your head faintly “I think not”

He huffed a quiet breath, something dangerously close to a laugh “You are very determined not to be obliged to me”

“I prefer not to be obliged to anyone” you say, despite pulling the cloak tighter.

He did not answer. The doors came into view ahead, servants already moving to open them as the storm worsened.

You stepped inside first, Lyonel close behind you. Warmth hit immediately, firelight and dry stone replacing the cold rush of wind.

You removed the cloak at once and held it out to him “Thank you, my lord”

His gaze dropped to the cloak, then back to you “You will keep it” he said

“I will not” you say adamant.

“You will” he repeated, stepping closer, lowering his voice just enough that it did not carry “If only so I have cause to come looking for you again”

There, that shift again, small and quick, but he saw it. The way your breath caught, the way your composure faltered for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place.

“I am certain” you said, too smoothly “you could find an excuse without such effort”

“I could” he smiled stepping closer

“Then I see no reason to assist you” you challenged, you voice breather than before.

Something in him tightened at that “Take it” he said once more, his voice lower.

You hesitated for a moment. Then you turned, folding the cloak over your arm instead of placing it back in his hands “Very well” you said with a gulp, he would be a liar if he said his gaze didn’t follow that action down your neck to the curve of your breast.

Then you walked away. He watched you go instead, his gaze following the line of your back, the way the cloak hung from your arm, the way you did not look back.

—————————————————-

He noticed it the moment he entered his chambers, the dark lump folded on his bed

Already knowing what it was. His jaw tightened as he picked it up, the first thing that hit him was the scent. It clung to the fabric, unmistakable.

You.

Lyonel stilled, the cloak still in his hands. For a long moment, he did nothing. Then, slowly, he lifted it and breathed in once.

Something low and possessive settled into his chest, heavy and certain.

Because it was his and now, whether you intended it or not, it carried you with it.

————————————————————

The feast had been arranged for your sister, an opportunity to announce the betrothal.

The hall was full, bright with candlelight and music, voices rising and falling in easy celebration as wine and ale flowed freely and the household gathered in anticipation of the announcement to come.

Lyonel should have been pleased. The match was suitable, the family respectable, the evening proceeding exactly as it should.

And yet he found himself searching the room. Not for the girl at the centre of it all. For you.

He spotted you at the edge of the hall. Of course you were there. Removed from the centre, from the light, from the attention that your sister wore so easily. You stood where you could observe without being observed.

His gaze caught. The colour struck him first, deep and rich beneath the candlelight, clinging to you in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere else once he had noticed.

It was not the dress, It was you in it.

The bodice fitted close, drawn tight at your waist, shaping you in a way that made something low in his chest pull hard and sudden.

He found himself thinking, with a flicker of irritation that had no clear target, that you should not be standing at the edge of the room at all.

You should be at the centre of it, with him.

———————————————————————

You startled when he approached. His mouth twitched, he liked that he could still do that “My lady”

You turned, and there it was again, that look, that sharp, assessing awareness that settled over him like a challenge issued without words “You seem determined to hide” he observed lightly, unable to stop his gazed flicking over you.

“I am not hiding” you replied, not quite meeting his eye “I am simply observing”

He stepped closer, the scent of your perfume surrounding him, sending heat through him “You have observed enough” he said, extending his hand without hesitation “Dance with me”

You blinked. For the first time since he had known you, you looked uncertain.

“Surely my sister would be a better partner” you said, hesitating.

His jaw tightened, just slightly “She is otherwise occupied” he said smoothly, not giving you time to refuse as he took your hand.

Your hand in his felt different than your sisters, like it belonged. That made his grip tighten instinctively as he led you into the centre of the hall.

He was aware of the attention immediately, the watching eyes. None of it mattered, only the way your hand rested in his mattered, the way your other hand came to his shoulder. His hand settled at your waist and for the first time since he had known you, you did not pull away. You fit there perfectly.

That alone was enough to make his grip tighten.

You were warm beneath his hand, real in a way that struck harder than anything he had imagined in the quiet of his chambers, your body moving with his as the dance carried you both through the hall. He had held women before, none of them had felt like this. None of them had made him aware of every inch of contact as though it mattered

“You are quiet” he murmured, his voice lowering without thought as the dance began.

“I am focused on not tripping” you replied, your gaze fixed somewhere near his shoulder.

A faint smile touched his mouth, but his hand flexed slightly at your waist all the same “I would not let you fall”

“You are very confident” you muttered.

Gods, if only you knew “You think me arrogant” he said.

“I think you certain of yourself” you replied, finally looking at him.

That was a mistake. For him. Because now he had your full attention again, and it did something to him, something immediate and consuming. He noticed everything at once, the colour in your cheeks, the way your lashes lowered just slightly, the softness that lingered at the edges of that sharp composure when you were this close.

“And you are not?” he challenged, resisting every instinct in his body that told him to pull you closer and not let go.

“I am not” you said, with a twitch of your distracting lips.

His grip tightened, just slightly. The dance turned you, drawing you closer. Close enough that your bodies brushed. Close enough that the tight line of your bodice left no space between you, your chest pressing against his for a fleeting moment that lingered far longer than it should have.

His breath caught, you shifted with the movement of the dance and it only made it worse, the contact repeating, softer this time, but no less devastating. He became acutely aware of everything. The warmth of you, the shape of you. The way you fit against him as though there had never been meant to be distance at all.

“You must be glad” you said after a moment.

The words dragged him back to reality distracted by the scent and feel of you in his arms “Glad?”

“That tomorrow everything will be settled” you continued, your tone light, polite “When my sister becomes your betrothed”

Something in him went still.

“When we return home after the wedding” you added, your smile practiced, distant “You will have peace again. No more interfering sisters”

Return home. The words struck harder than they should have “You mean to leave Storm’s End” he said, the question sharper than he intended.

“Of course” you replied, brows drawing together faintly.

The thought hit him like a blow, and that same reckless instinct rose again, sharper this time, more insistent. For one reckless, unguarded moment, he thought of it, his chambers, the door closed, you beneath him, moaning his name whilst he made you his, consequences be damned. You would not leave. He could not, would not, simply watch you walk out of his life as though you meant nothing.

As though you could simply walk out of Storm’s End and take that fire with you like it did not belong here now. Like it did not belong to him

“And then?” he pressed.

You blinked, confused “And then nothing” you said simply.

Nothing. You said it so easily, like life here without you in it would be just as easily endured.

“I shall manage the household as I always have. There is no shortage of work for an unmarried daughter past her prime” you added lightly.

His jaw tightened. There it was again, that dismissal of yourself “You are not past—” he started, sharper now.

“It is hardly a tragedy” you interrupted gently. “Not everyone is meant for grand romance”

The music shifted, drawing you closer again.

“You speak as though it is decided” he said, his voice rougher now

“It is decided” you replied “My sister is the beauty. It was always my duty to see her settled”

“And you?” he asked again.

“I am content”

He did not believe you. Not for a single second. Something in him rejected it entirely.

You would not leave, you were his as he was yours.

The thought came too fast, too certain, and he did not stop it.

The music came to its final note. You stepped back immediately, slipping from his hold before he could stop you.

He felt the loss of you immediately.

You dipped into a quick curtsey and withdrew before he could say anything further.

Before he could stop you, before he could act on the impulse still lingering, dangerous and insistent, at the back of his mind. He stood there, the space where you had been suddenly, painfully empty. ‘Return home’ the thought swirled in his mind. This was your home, with him.

He turned sharply, his gaze already searching for you and then he saw your sister leave and watched you follow. He did not hesitate. Because whatever this had become, whatever you had become to him. He knew one thing with absolute clarity.

You were not leaving him.

Not without a fight.

—————————————————-

He saw it happen.

Your sister too close to the edge. Your stride, sharp and immediate, already moving to get her down. The slick stone beneath your feet, the way the wind pulled at your skirts.

Your hand caught her wrist, the force of it nearly dragging you over with her, your body straining, your feet scrambling for purchase on stone that offered none.

The knight seized her, pulled her back and the force of it took you instead.

He saw it. Saw the moment your footing gave way. Saw the way your body tilted, the sharp, sickening slide as you toppled.

“No!!!” The word tore from him, but you were already gone.

Over the edge, vanished into the dark.

There was no thought, no pause, he just ran at battlements at full speed and did not slow, did not look, did not measure the distance.

He jumped.

⸻————————————-

The cold hit like a blow.

It stole breath, stole sense, stole everything but the single, driving instinct burning through him ‘Find her’

He forced his eyes open against the sting of salt, scanning the dark water, the violent churn of the sea. There a pale shape beneath the surface, sinking.

His heart slammed hard enough to hurt. He drove himself downward, cutting through the water in powerful strokes, reaching out. Your dress billowed around you like something ghostly, dragging you down, your body already too still, your movements slowing.

His hand closed around you, one arm hooking tight around your waist, pulling you against him as he turned and kicked for the surface with everything he had.

He broke through with a violent gasp, dragging in air, your body heavy in his arms, unresponsive, your head lolling against him.

“Stay with me” He did not even realise he had spoken.

He shifted his grip immediately, one arm under your thighs, hauling you higher against his chest, keeping your face above the water as he fought the current.

Above, voices. Your sister’s sobs. All of it meaningless. He saw only you, cared for only you.

He forced himself toward the rock face, toward the narrow outcrop he knew was there, boots scraping stone as he found purchase and dragged both of you from the water.

You did not move “Breathe” He dropped to his knees beside you, hauling you onto the stone, his hands already on you, already searching, already trying to force life back into you by sheer will alone.

“Breathe” he ordered again, voice breaking. Your gown clung to you, soaked, your bodice tight, restricting your breath.

He did not think. His dagger was in his hand in an instant, slicing through the laces with one sharp motion, fabric parting beneath the blade as he tore it open.

“Breathe!” The word ripped from him now, no longer command but plea.

You coughed, water spilling from your lips as your body jerked in his arms.

He froze. For one impossible second, he could not move, could not breathe, could not even understand what had just happened.

A sound tore from him, something broken and relieved all at once, almost a laugh, almost a sob as he pulled you tighter against him, holding you upright, his hand pressing firm against your back as though you might slip away again if he loosened his grip even slightly.

“Easy” he murmured, though his voice still shook, his forehead pressing briefly against your temple, his breath unsteady against your skin “I have you. I have you”

He had you and he was never letting you go again.

———————————————-

He did not wait, he did not call for servants nor trust anyone else to carry you.

You were in his arms before the world had even fully come back into focus, your body still trembling faintly from the cold, your breath uneven against his throat as he hauled himself up from the rocks and onto the path.

His grip tightened instinctively, one arm braced beneath your legs, the other locked around your back, holding you flush against him as though the space between you might somehow steal the breath from your lungs again.

He had lost you, twice, in one night. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Not again. Never again.

“Move” he barked as he reached the castle doors, his voice carrying through stone and air alike, sharp enough to cut through the chaos that followed behind him.

Servants scattered instantly. Doors opened before he reached them.

You shifted faintly in his arms, a weak sound catching in your throat, your fingers curling against his tunic as though searching for something solid.

“I have you” he said immediately, the words low and fierce, more vow than reassurance as he adjusted his hold, bringing you closer still “You are not going anywhere”

If your breath stilled again, he would tear this castle down, stone by stone.

⸻——————————————-

He did not take you to the guest chambers. He took you to his.

The door slammed open beneath his shoulder, echoing through the room as he crossed to the bed and laid you down with a care that did not match the violence of everything else about him.

“Maester!” someone shouted.

Voices moved around him. He barely heard them, his attention was fixed entirely on you. Your skin pale beneath the remnants of your soaked gown, your bodice cut open, your chest rising unevenly as you fought for breath.

His hand came to your face without thought, too firm at first before softening, his thumb brushing water from your cheek as though he could erase the memory of it entirely.

You stirred. Relief hit him like a second wave, just as violent as the first.

Behind him, your sister burst into the room, her voice breaking with sobs, words tumbling over one another “I did not mean— I never meant—”

He did not look at her, she did not exist. Not when you lay before him like this.

The maester arrived in a rush of robes and orders, ushering hands away, directing movement, calling for warmth, for cloth, for space.

Lyonel did not move, nor would he leave. He stood there, close enough to touch you, close enough to see every breath, every flicker of life as it returned.

The your father arrived “What has happened?”

Your sister tried to speak, the words breaking apart under her own guilt “She slipped— I went to the battlements— she followed— she saved me—”

Lyonel spoke over her “She went over the edge” he said, his gaze not leaving you “I pulled her from the water”

Your father’s eyes sharpened, flicking over you, taking in the state of your gown, the cut laces, the bed you now lay upon “I had intended” he said slowly “to announce my younger daughter’s betrothal this evening”

Lyonel’s jaw tightened. He knew what was coming, he did not care.

“But instead” your father continued, voice hardening, “my eldest is now compromised”

The word landed like a strike. Compromised, as though that was what mattered. As though the fact that you still breathed beneath his roof was not the only thing that should matter at all.

Lyonel’s gaze flicked from you then “If there is any question of your daughter’s honour” he said, his voice low, steady, leaving no room for interpretation “it rests with me”

Your father held his gaze “And how do you propose to answer it?”

There was no hesitation. The decision had already been made the moment you caught him cheating at cards “She will be my wife” The words cut clean through the room.

Lyonel did not look at either of them. He looked at you.

“I was to wed her sister” your father said.

“I was” Lyonel agreed, the past tense deliberate, unyielding. Because that had already changed, everything had already changed.

Your father exhaled slowly “Then we will correct the announcement”

Lyonel did not respond. He did not need to. His attention had already returned to you, to the faint rise and fall of your chest, to the proof that you were still here. As he stood there, watching you breathe, something settled into him with a certainty he had never known before.

He had almost lost you. Twice. He would not survive a third.

And so he did the only thing a man like Lyonel Baratheon knew how to do when something mattered beyond reason. He claimed it. You were not leaving him. You were not returning to nothing. You were not fading back into a life that did not see you.

You were his.

And he would burn the world down before he let you slip through his hands again.

[jiminie-08]

“You would not leave, you were his as he was yours” AHHHH I loved this sooo much😍💖 I just love the yearning, the desperation, the devotion he has for her…. 10/10 no notes 💯 hands down one of the best fics I’ve read this year!!🥹💁🏽‍♀️

[scarletmika]

Fly Me To The Moon : ̗̀➛ Ryland Grace x Reader

Pairing: Teacher!Ryland Grace x Teacher!Reader

Summary: The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.

Warnings: pre-Project Hail Mary and should not include spoilers but caution anyways just in case, pre-movie storyline, tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance, friends to lovers, slightly suggestive-ish comments but no smut, female reader but no characteristics described, definitely some incorrect science information but I am not a scientist so apologies, I am also not a teacher so I am sorry for any inaccuracies there lol, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 14,596 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“Can anyone tell me why it was that Penelope asked her suitors to string Odysseus’s bow?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your eyes shut for half a second, a tiny sigh escaping through your lips. Reopening your eyes, not a single one of your students had dared to raise their hands. No one except for Olivia, your star student, who waved her hand repeatedly in the air from the back of the classroom. A single glance to the clock told you all you needed to know.

11:55. These kids were already in lunch mode, and there was zero way you were getting them to listen to you.

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.

“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”

“Why does she always know everything?”

Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.

“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”

There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.

“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”

“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”

“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”

There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.

Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.

“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”

They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.

Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.

Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.

Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.

Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.

He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”

“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”

“Because I know they’re your favorite,”

The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.

Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.

“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”

“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”

“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”

“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”

There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”

He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.

“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”

The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.

“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”

Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.

There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.

“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”

The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.

“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”

“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”

“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”

If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.

“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”

With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”

“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”

Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.

“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”

“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.

“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”

“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”

“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”

“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”

Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.

“...oh,”

“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”

“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”

“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”

Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.

“...does anyone not die in these old books?”

The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.

“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”

What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.

❤︎

“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”

“Evelyn!”

Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.

She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.

“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”

“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”

It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.

“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”

“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.

“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”

“It’s usually just something random-”

“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”

Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.

Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.

“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”

You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.

“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”

“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”

Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.

All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.

“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”

Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.

“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.

“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”

Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.

The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.

“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.

“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.

“How could she possibly think that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”

“Jesus, that many?”

“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”

Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.

Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.

“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”

“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.

“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”

“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”

There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.

“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”

Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.

“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”

A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.

“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”

Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.

Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.

Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.

It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.

And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.

❤︎

“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”

Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.

“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”

“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”

Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.

When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.

The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.

“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”

“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.

“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”

“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”

Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.

“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”

Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.

“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”

You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”

“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”

“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”

Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.

“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”

Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.

“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”

The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.

“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”

Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.

“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”

You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.

It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.

“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”

Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.

By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.

“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”

“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”

You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.

“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”

A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.

“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”

Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.

“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”

“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”

Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.

“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”

Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.

“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”

The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.

“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”

“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”

“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”

Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.

“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”

Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.

“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”

There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.

“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”

“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”

Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.

Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.

“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”

You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.

“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.

❤︎

Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.

Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.

Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.

Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.

And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent. 

Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.

“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”

Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.

“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”

He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”

Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.

“I can’t let you-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”

There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.

Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.

“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”

“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.

“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”

“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”

Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.

Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.

None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.

He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.

The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.

Then the laughter resumed.

He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.

“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”

Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.

Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.

There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.

“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”

“You calling me old, Ryland?”

“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”

“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”

Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.

“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”

Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.

“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”

If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work. 

Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.

“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.

You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.

The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.

He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.

Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.

Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.

“I should probably get home-”

“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”

You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.

“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”

He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.

“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”

Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.

Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.

“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.

The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.

It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.

“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”

He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.

His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.

Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.

“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”

You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.

“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”

“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”

If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.

He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.

Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.

“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”

Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.

From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.

He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.

It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.

Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-

Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.

“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”

He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.

Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.

“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”

His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.

“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”

The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.

“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”

“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”

Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.

“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”

“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”

Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.

Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.

Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-

Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.

“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”

“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”

Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.

He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.

Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.

Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.

His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.

“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”

The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you. 

The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.

Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.

Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.

The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.

“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”

Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.

“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”

“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”

Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.

“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”

He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.

“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”

Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.

Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.

“For you? Totally,”

Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.

And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.

❤︎

The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.

As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.

“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”

“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”

The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.

“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”

“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”

If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.

Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.

Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-

The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.

He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.

Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.

For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.

Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.

You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.

Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.

Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.

You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.

“I need your help,”

The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.

“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.

“I…I like Olivia,”

Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.

“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”

“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”

“I do,”

You held your hand out toward him with a smile.

“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”

With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.

“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”

The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.

“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”

“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”

“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”

That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.

“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”

“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.

“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”

“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”

“You could’ve,”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”

You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.

“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”

Ryland laughed beside you.

“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”

You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.

Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.

“Stay here,”

There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.

“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”

As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”

Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.

It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.

Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.

In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.

"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"

"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"

"No, really, you look-"

"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"

He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.

"...like the sun,"

You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.

Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?

"Ryland-"

"I wasn't lying,"

You cocked your head.

"...about what?"

"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"

That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.

"Right, you were just distracted,"

"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"

In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.

You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.

“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”

The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.

Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.

“Come with me,”

“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”

“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”

“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.

Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.

“Worth it,”

Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.

The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.

The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.

“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.

“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“Then stop thinking,”

No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.

Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.

Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.

The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.

His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.

The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.

“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”

You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.

“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”

The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.

The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.

The Sun needed the Earth too.

[jiminie-08]

I LOVED THIS!! 😍 love a yearning hopeless devoted man😩😜 10/10 no notes 🔥💯

[neteyamthinker]

i’m here to stay

pairings aged-up neteyam x mom!na’vi reader

notes reader is neteyam’s wife, workaholic neteyam, temporary separation, their son is the cutest toddler on pandora, groveling (if you squint), smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving)

synopsis a year ago, you made the painful choice to walk away from neteyam after he proved time and again that his duties to the war party came before you and his son. you knew he was only trying to be the dutiful soldier everyone expected him to be, and that he would have kept going that way... until your son unwittingly reminded his father of everything he was throwing away for the sake of duty and war.

word count 16.8k

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Your hand on your mount’s reins tightened as the sight of the clouded Hallelujah Mountains loomed closer and closer with each beat of your ikran’s wings. The flight from your home clan to the Omatikaya was over an hour long, but you were glad that the weather was nice enough for you to travel. Your other arm renewed its hold on the woven wrap strapped securely to your body, holding your son, his small hands gripping at your woven knife sheath, his large amber eyes wide with excitement.

He was two years old today. Two years since he came into the world, his cries echoing in the vast canopy of a home that no longer existed. His birth was closely followed by the return of the sky people who tore the sky open, burned your forests, forced the people to face a seemingly endless war, and took your husband from you.

“Mama! Look! Look!” Nevan chirped, his tail whipping excitedly against your hip inside the wrap. He pointed a chubby finger at the swarm of flying fkios. “Fkios flying so fast! Like me!”

You smiled, “Yes, sweet boy,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “They are going home, I suppose, just like us.”

He giggled when you tickled his ear with your nose. “Visit Papa?” he asked.

You clamped your mouth shut, pulling his body closer as if he wasn’t literally tied to you at the moment. “Ah, yes... Visiting Papa,” you murmured, but his attention was already back on the flying fkios, his dangling feet wiggling excitedly.

When your ikran glided down onto the landing ledges of the High Camp, the crisp smell of distant rain from high above yielded to the smell of heavy mountain air and some smoke from the resistance’s machinery. You dislodged your kuru from your ikran’s, trying not to look at the man standing at the edge of the platform.

He wasn’t wearing his warrior gear for once, only his chest knife sheath, but he still looked every bit the commander he had become since the sky people’s return. The role he allowed to step over his roles as a husband and a father, you thought cynically, but you immediately tried to quell it. What’s the use of thinking of it when it has already happened before your very eyes and it already ruined everything?

He was standing tall, almost like the pillar that he is to the clan, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his rigid posture faltered, but you tore your eyes off him when your son wriggled furiously in the wrap.

“Alright, alright, sweet boy,” you chuckled, dismounting your ikran and carefully unbuckling the woven wrap.

From your peripheral vision, you could see Neteyam walking toward you two, but as soon as you’d freed him, Nevan immediately scrambled down, his little feet pattering furiously across the ground as he ran toward his father. Neteyam dropped to his knees, his massive arms catching the boy, lifting him high into the air, making Nevan let out a high-pitched, joyful screech.

You watched Neteyam press his forehead against his son’s, closing his eyes as a fierce, protective rumble vibrated in his chest. But even as he held the boy, his eyes flew up, looking past Nevan’s shoulder, his gaze locking onto yours with a look that is so heavy, suffocatingly dense with a longing so profound it felt like a physical weight in the air between you. It was the look of a starving man staring at a feast he wasn't allowed to touch.

His eyes traced the curve of your jaw and the softness of your features, desperate to find even just a sliver of hint that you’re feeling what he’s feeling. But you didn't give him one. Carefully, you looked away, focusing instead on your son’s little kicking legs and on the way Neteyam’s large hands held him safely. You chose to see him only as a father, completely shutting out the man who used to hold you the exact same way.

It hadn't always been like this. That was the cruelest part.

Your marriage hadn't been a political arrangement or a hasty union, it had been a lifetime in the making. Your parents were part of Jake and Neytiri’s inner circle since before the first war against the sky people. Through the many times your parents would bring you to visit the Omatikaya, you had witnessed Neteyam grow from a lanky boy into the man he is now.

And he had known you were for him since you were children. Neteyam was never one to waste time or play games, so he had always stake a claim on you, and the moment you both came of age, he courted you with a fierce, unwavering devotion that made even your parents sigh. You were sweethearts as teenagers, inseparable and fiercely protective of one another. When he mated with you before his and your people, his eyes had held nothing but a future filled with you.

And, your pregnancy had been a dream. Neteyam was a doting, almost ridiculously attentive husband. He would spend hours rubbing soothing oils on your aching back, pressing his ear to your growing belly to whisper stories of the forest and your childhood escapades to his unborn child. He never left your side. You had no doubt, not a single one, that you were the center of his universe.

Then, the sky people returned.

And the man you loved was swallowed whole by the war. Suddenly, he wasn't just Neteyam. He was the firstborn of the resistance leaders, the commander, and one of the unyielding pillars that kept the people from being completely overcome by the RDA. He began leaving before the first light of dawn and returning long after you and the baby had fallen asleep.

For over a year, you lived as a ghost in your own home. You sat alone in the dark, rocking a crying infant, praying to the Great Mother that the next body brought back on a stretcher wouldn’t be his. You begged him, you cried, you pleaded for just one evening. “Just for a day, Neteyam. Stay. Be with me, be with our son...”

But his face would harden, that stubborn, unyielding Jake-Sully look taking over. “I am doing this for our future, my love. If I do not fight, our children will have no world to inherit.”

And then it all just crumbled on your son’s first birthday.

It was a simple thing, really. You had spent days gathering sweet fruits, weaving small toys, hoping against hope that Neteyam would remember. You waited until midnight. When he finally walked into the kelku, covered in war paint and soot, he didn't even look at the small, untouched feast on the woven mat. He just muttered about a successful raid on an RDA supply train and collapsed into sleep.

He had completely forgotten.

And you were hit with the realization that the man you loved was dead, replaced by a warrior who had no room left in his heart for anything but strategy and casualties. You had cried all your tears by then. The well was dry. You were just so profoundly, deeply tired. So, you talked to him about going back home, citing the safety your clan’s territory could provide for you and Nevan to make him agree.

“Baby, this is your home now...” he had told you then, his arms tight around you as he fit his head in the crook of your neck.

“I know, Neteyam. But the explosion was too close yesterday. I am afraid for Nevan. This is not a place where he can safely run around and... be a child. I do not want to lose him, too...”

“Too?” he had asked, his hands maneuvering you so you’d face him but you didn’t budge. “Baby, you didn’t lose me—”

“All evidence to the contrary, Neteyam. I haven’t shared a meal with you in so long, you weren’t there when Nevan first laughed or when Nevan first uttered the word Papa, you weren’t there when he took his first steps. I am a ghost in this home. It would make no difference if we are away, because you had been acting like you had no family to come home to.”

His arms tightened around you, his nose burying in your neck. “It would make all the difference. I am coming home to my wife and child safe and sound, and that was my solace—”

You struggled to remove his arms around you, but his arms were iron tight. Your heart throbbed with pain but you couldn’t even cry. “So, then let me go home. Nevan and I will be completely safe there, if that’s what you truly care about.”

“I can’t be away from you, yawne, you’re practically asking me to stop breathing. I cannot not see you and Nevan—”

“When was the last time you’d seen your son, Neteyam? You leave before he wakes up and comes back long after he’d fallen asleep. I think you can, Neteyam, you can stand not seeing us. As I said, it would make no difference if we were here, or we were back home.”

That was that beginning of you leaving him to his war. He hadn’t known it would be a full-blown separation... But he had long before set that distance between himself and you. You’d just gotten the memo late.

“Watch, Mama! My big splash!”

Nevan’s high-pitched voice snapped you back to the present. You sat on a smooth, sun-warmed rock by the riverbank, your hand propped on the soft woven mat laid beautifully on the grass. Around you were various food, pies, and fruits Neteyam had prepared. You could barely eat it without your throat closing at the grief of this not being a permanent thing.

You’d told him Nevan wanted to celebrate his birthday here, that he misses Jake and Neytiri, and he promised you it would be different this time. You told him not to promise you anything, and just show it to his son. So far, he had kept his promise. He had cleared his entire day, which is probably an unthinkable feat for the commander of the resistance. He had brought a mountain of gifts for his boy. Beautifully carved wooden toys that he probably spent the past moons making, a small bow, and a woven arm band.

Now, he was knee-deep in the crystal-clear water, his loincloth soaked, laughing as Nevan furiously slapped the water, sending a pathetic little wave toward his father’s shins. Neteyam exaggerated his reaction, falling backward into the water with a loud splash, making Nevan howl with glee.

For a moment, the illusion was perfect. You looked like a little family. Neteyam would look up at you from the water, a soft, hopeful smile playing on his lips, trying to pull you into the warmth of the moment. You would smile back politely, a distant curve of your lips that never reached your eyes. You were here for Nevan. Only Nevan.

Nevan waddled out of the water, dripping wet, and proudly held up a crudely constructed object from the pack you brought from home. It was a woven sheath of colorful leaves, bound tightly with vines, holding a cluster of bright purple orchids. You shook your head with a smile as you fixed the pack, wiping the puddle of water he left behind.

“Look, Papa!” Nevan beamed, shoving the wet flowers directly into Neteyam’s face. “A flower sheath! Uncle Maytel taught me how... how to twist the vines. They don't break!”

You searched for a dry towel in your pack, smiling as you watched your son speak, his little body trembling in excitement.

“Uncle... Maytel?” Neteyam echoed. The playful, warm tone in his voice vanished instantly, replaced by a low, measured cadence.

You blinked, your eyes snapping to him. Suddenly, you had become aware of how ugly that sounded in the ears of people who didn’t know. You froze for a moment, the air in your lungs suddenly feeling like liquid lead as you watched Neteyam momentarily narrow his eyes, the look of a formidable hunter spotting a prey. Or a predator sensing blood might be the better description.

“Yes!” Nevan replied excitedly, entirely oblivious to the sudden, deadly shift in the atmosphere. He had just opened a cage containing a predator, and he thought he was playing with a puppy. “Uncle Maytel... He makes the best ones! He is Mama’s friend... They talk all the time. See... This is pretty. Right, Papa? Look at Mama's hair. See? I can make that, too, Papa. I will teach you!”

Nevan pointed a chubby finger at you. You had indeed used a beautiful hair decoration to pin back your hair in a half ponytail, letting the rest of your wavy locks flow loose behind you, having no idea at all how the sight of you earlier today literally stole the breath from Neteyam’s lungs. You are so beautiful, always have been, but it hits him particularly hard now that he doesn't see you as often.

He has never been used to being away from you for so long. This is probably the longest he has gone without you, such that every time he sees you now, his heart starts doing the thing it did when he first realized he loved you: flipping inside his chest and then melting into a puddle.

You kept your face as blank as stone, waiting for Neteyam to look at youjust as his son instructed. Neteyam was standing up now, but he wasn't looking at the decorations on your hair. He was staring directly at you, and the look he gave you almost choked the air right out of your throat. He didn’t look mad, it also wasn’t the detached look of a commander. It was that intensely familiar, deeply possessive, primal look he used to give you when another hunter talked to you for a second too long during his youth. His eyes darkened, his lips tightening into a straight line as his gaze finally dropped to the decorations in your hair before snapping back to your eyes immediately.

“Is that so, my boy?” Neteyam said softly, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Yes! He says Mama is... is very beautiful!” Nevan cheered, completely ruining any chance of a graceful exit.

So for the rest of the afternoon, you made it your absolute mission in life to never, ever be left alone with Neteyam.

When you returned to the camp, you practically shadowed Jake and Neytiri. When Neytiri pulled Nevan onto her lap to feed him sweet fruit, you sat right beside her, suddenly intensely interested in what she has to say. When Jake took Nevan to show him the ikran roost, you walked right behind them, using your son as a shield as Neteyam followed like a shadow.

He stayed a respectful distance though, answering his son's hundred questions about the beasts, even the imaginary ones, coming up with the perfect answers for it. For a moment, you were back to being a teenager, annoying the golden heir of Toruk Makto with your silly questions and having him answer you with complete seriousness, as though he really thought about your silly questions like they were points for further research.

His eyes were a constant, burning pressure on your skin the entire time, and every time you glanced up with a neutral expression, he was watching you. Eventually, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purple. Neytiri, seeing how exhausted the toddler was, scooped Nevan up.

“He will sleep with us tonight,” Neytiri said softly, giving you a knowing, gentle look that made your stomach twist. She thought she was doing you a favor, giving you and Neteyam a night of privacy. “Go. Rest.”

“Oh, I can take him—” you started quickly, reaching for your son.

“No, no,” Jake chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on Neteyam’s shoulder. “Let his grandparents spoil him for one night. Go on.”

You stood there, watching Neytiri walked away, your son already fast asleep against her shoulder. Oh, boy. You watched the rest of the camp clear out as the rest of the people retreated to their homes. You didn’t turn to Neteyam, turning instead toward the guest tents, your pace brisk, but you didn't even make it halfway before a large hand gently but firmly gripped your forearm.

It wasn’t a harsh pull,  but his grip was unyielding. “Our home’s here,” he reminded you.

You glared at him through your lashes. “I haven’t forgotten,” you said in a clipped tone, walking straight into the shadows of your old home, and seeing that nothing much had changed, only that he’d put up photos on the wall.

And from where you were standing, you’ve seen one from his unilatron many years ago. With him painted in swirling marks of white and you, standing beside him with a huge smile. Another, at your mating ceremony, and another, a photo of you heavily pregnant. The last one was a photo of the three of you, with Nevan as a newborn, cradled in your arm, both of your faces adorned with brilliant smiles.

Grief seized your heart and you had to physical turn away from it, your hands balling into fist.

“You've been avoiding me all day,” Neteyam stated, standing between you and the flap entrance, his large frame casting a long shadow over you.

“I was spending time with our son's grandparents, Neteyam. It's his birthday,” you replied, keeping your voice entirely light and normal. You walked over to the sleeping mats, untying your travel pack and organizing your things with practiced nonchalance.

“Who is Maytel?”

The question was sharp and direct, like always. Neteyam had never liked beating around the bush. You took a deep breath, turning around with a calm, casual smile. “A childhood friend from my clan,” you said.

“A childhood friend,” Neteyam repeated, his voice low, a dangerous rumble vibrating in his throat. He took a slow step toward you, his tail twitching rhythmically behind him. “Never heard of him before.”

“I have many friends back home, Neteyam,” you said. “There was no reason to bring him up. He's just a friend. He helps at home, and he’s good with Nevan. My friends have all been a huge help to me since I moved back.”

Neteyam stopped just inches from you. He was so close you could smell the familiar mint-y scent of him. All your senses were melting. It knew the smell so well, had even associated it with home and safety, and it tore at your chest, a cruel reminder of the husband you had lost. He leaned down slightly, and though he didn’t touch you, you were forced to look into his heavy, shadowed eyes. The possessive fire in them hadn't died down, if anything, it was burning hotter, fueled by the agonizing restraint he was forcing upon himself.

“He makes ornaments for your hair,” Neteyam murmured, his eyes dropping to the flowers on your soft hair. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and rip it from your hair, but he kept his fist clenched at his side. “He talks to you all the time—”

“To help. All my friends help me, Neteyam, you’ve seen Laika and Nira helping me last time," you countered smoothly, your eyes locking onto his, refusing to back down. “I am a single mother raising a little boy. I needed all the help I can get. Nothing more.”

His head reared back a little as if you’d hit him. The words single mother hit him squarely like a slap and you saw the visible flinch in his jaw, the way his chest heaved as he swallowed the bitter taste of his own failures.

He stared at you for a long, suffocating moment. He knew you were telling the truth about Maytel being just a friend. He knows you, he knows the woman he married, he knows that you would never violate the bonds of marriage, even a broken one. But that didn't stop the sickening, agonizing jealousy from clawing at his throat. Another man was filling his space. Another man was teaching his son how to weave. Another man was making his wife smile.

“You are not single. I am still very much here,” he said.

“I don’t want to argue about what here actually means,” you replied, tearing your eyes away and removing the decorations on your hair to free it from its bounds.

He watched you, choosing not to press further, but as he stepped back, his eyes remained devastatingly heavy on you. “He is a friend,” he whispered, his voice thick with an unspoken, desperate plea. “But he is not my son’s father. And he is not your husband.”

As he uttered those words, the reality of his hypocrisy came crashing back down on him. Maytel, indeed, was not Nevan’s father, nor was he your husband... But could he honestly say he was both of those things to you and Nevan? He visited the two of you as much as he was capable, but that didn’t mean anything. He was an absent father, and an even more absent husband, and he wondered completely how his son still held excitement and affection for him instead of distance.

And how the boy knew everything he was doing for the people. He knew that, even in your current indifference, you had thoroughly made the boy understand that his father had sacrifices to make for the benefit of Eywa’eveng. He watched you lay down on the sleeping mat, pulling a woven blanket up to your shoulders and turning your back to him. He sat down on the opposite side of the yurt.

He wouldn’t lie down, and you had noticed he never did once the two of you were alone in a space. Whenever he visited back home, he would do the same thing, sitting down far away from you, his heavy, burning gaze fixed on your back, mourning a home he had lost to a war he was still fighting.

The morning arrived with a crisp chill you hadn't felt in so long. The altitude of the floating mountain made the sun feel unreal. You shared a meal with Neytiri and Jake. Your son, having already bathed, wore a new loincloth with fine weaving, and you put a hand over your mouth as you laughing at him proudly showing it to everyone.

“Grandma made this, Mama!” he told you, munching on a sweet fruit as his little body leaned into Neteyam.

Neteyam held his wrist gently, kissing the side of his head. “No sweet fruit yet without a real meal, little boy...” Neteyam mumbled, replacing the fruit with a bite-sized piece of meat.

“Okay, Papa... But Grandpa said I can eat? I don’t eat this at home... Right, Mama?“ Your son turned to you, now munching on the meat Neteyam had given him.

You smiled softly. “I try not to let him eat too many sweets unless necessary to regulate his body,” you explained. “But Papa is right, Nevan. You must eat your food first before the sweet fruit.”

Neteyam glanced at you, his soft eyes smiling even as he tried to look serious for Nevan who nodded without a fight, even picking some vegetables off his leaf and eating happily.

Neytiri smiled at you. “He is a good child, Y/N. You are doing such a great job with him,“ she said, her eyes a little misty.

You smiled, caressing your son’s head. “Neteyam is, too, Mother. Despite the grueling demands of the war, he makes sure to find time for Nevan,” you said. You couldn't possibly leave him out, not when you knew he was trying his best.

After the meal, the peace you were feeling had dissolved and was replaced by the reality that you had a hazardous flight ahead of you. Outside the yurt, the camp was already buzzing with the low, mechanical drone of the resistance. You stood beside your ikran, adjusting the heavy leather straps of the riding harness, checking every buckle with meticulous care. Nevan was already strapped securely to your body in his woven wrap. He was heavy, but his warmth was comforting, his little hands clutching a newly carved wooden ikran that Neteyam had given him.

A shadow fell over you and you didn't need to look up to know it was Neteyam. He double-checked your ikran’s saddle, his movements deliberate and sharp, before he checked the saddle of his own mount, preparing to take flight alongside you. You stopped tightening the cinch of your saddle, your hand resting flat against the leather. You swallowed the dryness in your throat and turned your head toward him.

“Neteyam,” you called out, your voice quiet but steady. He paused instantly, his ears twitching forward as he turned his head to look at you, his golden eyes wide and alert, catching every syllable. “I think... It wouldn’t be safe if you come with us.”

A subtle, pained stillness took over his features. His chest expanded with a sharp breath, his fingers tightening against his mount's reins. “The skies are not safe, yawne. The gunships have shifted their patrol grids closer to the western border. I am accompanying you home.”

“Neteyam, I would like that, too.” you said, stepping closer so your voice wouldn't carry to where Jake and Neytiri were standing a few paces away. You gestured faintly to the sky, then down to the boy against your chest. “But the tension with the sky people is worse this moon. They know your ikran, Neteyam. They know you. You are the commander of the vanguard; your presence draws the kind of attention I cannot risk when I have our son with me.“

The words seemed to render him weak. Neteyam looked at you with eyes so deeply pained, so utterly crushed, it felt like a blow to the chest. He looked down at his own hands, then at his son's chubby legs dangling from the wrap, as if he couldn't fully comprehend the reality that his very existence, the fierce, formidable identity he had built to protect his people, was now a liability to the safety of his own family.

Nevan, completely unaware of the reason of the heavy silence, looked up at his father with wide eyes. He held up his wooden toy, making a little whistling sound through his teeth. “He’ll fly with us, Papa!”

Neteyam’s heart tightened so visibly you could see the muscle in his jaw clench as he forced a small, strained smile for the boy. He reached out, his large thumb gently tracing Nevan’s round cheek, but his eyes kept flickering back to you, searching your expression for any sign of hesitation. There was none.

Behind him, Jake and Neytiri exchanged a quiet, heavy look. Jake stepped forward, his hand coming down firmly on his eldest son's shoulder.

“She’s right, son,” Jake said softly. “The RDA has scout ships tracking your specific signature. If they spot you flying with your wife and child, we don’t know what they could do.”

Neteyam’s shoulders sank, the breath leaving him in a low, defeated hiss. He knew the logic was flawless. He knew it was the right tactical decision. But the soldier in him was currently losing a brutal war against the husband and father who desperately wanted to prolong his hold on both of you.

“I will send two warriors,” Neteyam muttered, his voice thick as he stepped back from his mount. "They will fly low behind you, out of sight. They will ensure you reach home safely.”

You nodded. “Thank you,” you said softly, genuinely relieved.

Neteyam stepped closer to the side of your ikran, his large body aching to simply reach out, to wrap his iron-strong arms around both of you and never let go. He leaned in, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the top of Nevan’s head, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of his son one last time.

As he began to pull away, Nevan’s small fingers suddenly shot out, grabbing Neteyam’s long braids with a stubborn, toddler grip. He yanked, preventing his father from moving back.

“Papa kiss Mama!” Nevan ordered with a bright, demanding grin, his tail swishing behind him in a mischievous flick. “Good bye!”

Neteyam froze, his head tilted downward by the boy's grip. Slowly, his eyes lifted from Nevan’s face to yours. They were completely stripped of the commander's armor, now earnest, dark, and filled with a raw longing that made your breath hitch in your throat. He waited, silently asking for permission.

You looked at his lips, then at the desperate hope in his eyes, and felt the old, stubborn walls in your chest crack just a fraction. Slowly, you tilted your chin up, offering your lips to him.

The tension in Neteyam’s shoulders died instantly. A soft, ragged sigh escaped his nose just before his large, warm hand came up to cup your neck, his thumb on your jaw. He leaned down and closed the distance. You were expecting a brief, polite kiss of departure, but you should have known by the way he held you that it wouldn’t be like that.

The moment his lips touched yours, he held you there with the fierce, unyielding eagerness of a man who had been starving for a year. His lips were warm, firm, and thoroughly possessive, parting slightly as he kissed you, reminding your body of exactly who he was to you. A sudden, stupid heat flared in your stomach, your pulse spiking as your lips instinctively softened against his, responding to the familiar, intoxicating rhythm of his kiss.

He groaned softly against your mouth, his thumb caressing your jaw, pulling you just a fraction closer, trying to collapse the entire year of separation into a breathless second. But a sharp, high-pitched giggle broke the air. Nevan was squirming between you, his small hands clapping.

The sound snapped you back to reality. You pulled away, your breath coming a little faster, your cheeks flushed dark with a sudden surge of heat. Neteyam’s hand lingered on your jaw for a second too long, a low, deep rumble of impatience vibrating in his chest at the interruption, his eyes dark and heavy as he stared at your parted lips.

“Fly safely, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough.

You couldn't even form words. You simply nodded, mounted your ikran, and took to the sky, your mind in an absolute daze as the wind rushed past your face.

The flight back home felt like a blur. Even after you had safely landed on the soft, mossy platforms of your home clan and unbuckled an exhausted Nevan from the wrap, your lips still felt strangely warm, tingling with the ghost of Neteyam's mouth.

“My bestest friend in the world! You are back!”

The cheerful voice of Maytel broke your reverie as he walked down the wooden ramp, followed closely by Laika and Nira. The three of them had been your lifeline this past moons, always ready to help with the daily chores and Nevan.

Maytel practically bounded over to you, his face painted with a mischievous, gossiping energy. He didn't even wait for you to greet them before he leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me everything! How was the High Camp? My weekend went just as good! Do you remember that hunter from the clan nearby that I was eyeing? The one with the long arms? I swear, yesterday, we were together—”

“Maytel!” you hissed, your eyes widening significantly as you pointed them sharply down at your son who was rubbing his eyes but listening intently.

Nevan was an incredibly smart boy and his ears picked up on village gossip faster than a direhorse on the run.

Maytel immediately clamped his hands over his mouth, grinning apologetically. “Oh! Right. Hello there, little Neteyam. How was your visit to your Papa?”

Nevan’s ears instantly perked up, his fatigue temporarily forgotten as his eyes lit up with excitement. “We played a lot!” he chirped before holding his small arms out as wide as they could go. “Papa made big splash in the river! And gave me many toys! You’ll see, Uncle!”

Nevan eagerly held up the wooden ikran, bouncing on his heels as he babbled to Nira and Laika about the sweet fruits, the big mountain camp, and how his Grandpa let him touch a real ikran's snout. The three of them doted on him, laughing at his wild gestures until the boy's eyelids grew too heavy to fight.

You carried him down on his soft, woven cot, watching him with a doting smile as his tail curled peacefully. Even in sleep, his small forehead furrowed slightly in a way that looked identical to his father. It was a constant wonder to you how your boy could look so much like Neteyam, even with his soft baby features.

When you walked back out to the main platform, Maytel was sitting on a woven mat, repairing a fishing net. He looked up, a theatrical sigh escaping his lips.

“Now,” Maytel smirked, leaning forward on his elbows. “What happened with the dear husband?”

You rolled your eyes, sitting down across from him and pulling a basket of fibers towards you to clean. “Nothing.”

Maytel groaned loudly, tossing a piece of twine into the air. “I do not know how you could do it, syulang! How you can resist all of... that! The last time he came to visit you here, oh, I couldn't even come near the house even if I tried. The air was so heavy! He is so large... taller than all the men in our village! And so handsome, too... Ah, those thighs... One could only imagine the beast he has inside that loincloth—”

“Maytel!” you shouted, your face burning as a sudden, vivid image of Neteyam’s muscular frame hovering over you flashed unbidden into your mind. Your stomach did a treacherous little flip. Oh, indeed, it was a beast. You cleared your throat quickly, trying to suppress the heat in your neck. “Perhaps you should have visited when he was here. Just yesterday by the river, Nevan mentioned your name to him, and it sounded so terrible. Neteyam thought you were my boytoy.”

Maytel’s eyes widened to the size of stones, his hands dropping the net completely. “What?!”

You rolled your eyes at his dramatic reaction. “Yeah. I should introduce you sometime, just so he stops looking like he wants to hunt something down.”

A slow, terribly mischievous smile spread across Maytel’s face. His amber eyes danced with glee. “Was he jealous, syulang?”

You shrugged, trying to appear completely indifferent. “Neteyam has always been very possessive. It is just his nature.”

“Of course he is!” Maytel grinned, leaning in close, his voice dripping with dramatic flair. “The way that man looks at you... Oh, he looks like a predator completely ready to pounce! Only that you’ve put him inside a cage.” He shivered, rubbing his arms. “We should rattle the cage, syulang.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly into a dangerous glare. “What are you talking about?”

He smirked, waving a hand dismissively. “I mean, let’s see what happens if he keeps thinking I actually want you. You know? A little competition...'”

“No,” you said firmly, your voice dropping into a serious, unyielding tone that left no room for argument. “We will not play with my husband like that. He is currently in the vanguard, fighting a war for all of us. He has enough weight on his shoulders without us playing petty games with his mind.”

Maytel pouted, rolling his eyes as he picked his fishing net back up. “You are such a killjoy!”

When night finally came, the village fell into a quiet rhythm, the bioluminescent flora providing light in brilliant shades of cyan and deep magenta.

Inside your quiet hut, the small tablet you used for long-range communication emitted a low chime. Neteyam called almost every day when he wasn't able to visit, a routine he had stubbornly kept since the day you left.

You picked up the device, pressing the connect button and Neteyam’s face appeared on the small screen, the blue light of the monitor reflecting his sharp features, sitting in the dark of your yurt, looking exhausted.

“Papa!” Nevan’s voice cut through the quiet as the boy scrambled from his cot, his small hands immediately snatching the tablet from you.

You let him take it, stepping back. The memory of the kiss from this morning was still burning in your chest, and the ridiculous things Maytel had said earlier kept echoing in your mind. Hearing the deep, gravelly texture of Neteyam’s voice through the speaker seemed to tickle something deep within you, sending a slow, persistent heat crawling up your neck.

You watched from a distance as Nevan babbled to the screen, showing his father the toy again, telling him about the fish he saw in the river. Neteyam listened with an intensity that made your heart ache, his expression soft and full of a quiet, reverence for the boy.

“Go to sleep now, son,” Neteyam’s voice softened as Nevan yawned heavily, his little eyes fluttering shut as he rested his head against the mat, the tablet propped up beside him. “Good night, Nevan.”

“Night, Papa...” the boy murmured, completely out.

The screen shifted slightly as Neteyam adjusted his hold on his end. He knew you were still in the room. Even though he couldn't see you in the dim light of the hut, his voice dropped into a low, intimate frequency that felt like a warm hand sliding up your spine.

“Good night, my love,” he whispered into the quiet. “I love you so much.”

The line went dead with a soft beep.

You stood there in the dark for a long time, the silence of the room suddenly feeling incredibly loud. Your skin felt hypersensitive, your heart drumming a strange rhythm against your ribs as you carried the tablet back to the shelf and finally lay down on your own sleeping mat beside your son.

When sleep finally took you, it didn't bring the peaceful, dreamless rest.

It was a dream that seemed familiar to you. It was real... More like a memory haunting you. You were under a canopy in a forest that was so green and vibrantly alive. Your vision focused and you saw Neteyam in fromt of you. He looked so young, entirely devoid of the rigid exhaustion the war brought. He was grinning, a look that made your heart jump.

He had you pinned against the smooth bark of a giant root, his large hands mapping the curves of your body with a desperate fervor. You were both shivering, caught in the reckless, consuming heat of youthful desire. His fingers were knuckles-deep inside you, the slick, wet heat of you coating him as he moved frantically in and out, stretching you beyond relief. It was a tight, intense friction, but even in the haze of the dream, you found yourself thinking that it was a far gentler stretch than the thick, heavy length of his cock, which your hands were currently fisted around. You pumped him in tandem with his rhythm, his weight leaning heavily into you as a ragged groan escaped his throat.

“I missed you, my baby...” he mumbled against your skin, his lips trailing a path of burning kisses from your collarbone up to your jaw before crashing onto your mouth, tasting of pure adoration. His fingers moved faster, driving you closer and closer to a cliff you wanted to fall off of.

You let out a soft, breathless chuckle against his lips, your fingers tightening around his length. “Missed me? We are always together, ‘teyam...”

But the moment the words left your mouth, you watched his face fall, a profound sadness washing over his golden eyes. “Not really, no...” he whispered, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that made your chest ache. “You are so far away from me right now...”

Panic seized your heart, sharp and sudden like an arrow to the ribs. “What...?” you gasped, reaching for his face, but his image was already dissolving like smoke in the wind. “Neteyam—”

You woke up with a violent gasp, your eyes flying open to the quiet, dark interior of your hut.

Your heart was hammering a frantic, echoing rhythm against your ribs, and your breath came in ragged bursts. The cool night air swept over your bare skin. Between your thighs, the phantom ache of his fingers was still vividly there, a throbbing warmth that slowly turned cold as the reality settled in. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to force the image of his younger, unburdened smile back into the dark.

You missed him so much.

This wasn't the first time. You had dreamed of him many times in the past moons. But they were never dreams that hasn’t happened, they were always memories, beautifully cruel and vibrant, haunting you even in your sleep. Your dreams weren’t showing you what could be, it was torturing you with what used to be, a reminder that while you had successfully run away from the war, you had never truly managed to run away from him.

The lingering mix of heat and longing from the dream stayed with you for days, but lately, only the heat seemed to have stuck. And it’s annoying. You were glad you didn’t have to see him for the time being, because it often happens every time you see him. Fortunately, you somehow at least manage to overcome the trials and tribulations of being a woman who chose to separate from the man she loves so much.

By midday, you were sitting on the main platform of your hut, the basket of fibers in your lap serving as a distraction while Maytel sat cross-legged opposite you. He was at it again, his fingers weaving river-grass and glossy feather-like fibers into an intricate hair crown. It wasn't for you this time, because Maytel has always been the unofficial beautifier of the clan's young women, and right now, he was carefully crafting a piece for a girl from the lower terraces.

“I am telling you, syulang, he nearly fell out of his hammock when I walked past,” Maytel was wheezing, his tail thrashing with dramatic delight as he recounted his latest encounter with his long-armed hunter. “He tried to act so smooth, but the poor thing was blushing so hard his stripes almost turned purple!”

You let out a loud, genuine laugh, shaking your head as you tossed a cleaned fiber at him. “You are terrible, Maytel. Leave the poor man alone before you break his spirit entirely.”

“Never! A little torment keeps the blood pumping,” he grinned, his fingers flying through the weaving.

“Mama! Mama!”

Nevan’s high-pitched voice shattered the lighthearted bubble. You blinked, looking toward the main walkway, expecting to see Nira or Laika chasing after your hyperactive son.

Instead, your breath caught squarely in your throat.

Walking just a step behind Nevan, his massive frame practically shadowing over your son, was Neteyam.

He was in his full warrior gear, wearing his cummerbund, his chest knife sheat, and his heavy longbow strapped to his back, looking thoroughly prepared in case he gets attacked on his way here. He looked terrifyingly formidable, and a little out of place, too. Everyone in your clan knows of his reputation as a warrior leading the resistance with his parents, and they have always treated that as something to celebrate.

Your eyes snapped straight to his face after a quick sweep of his gear, your heart jumping to your throat at the sight of his eyes narrowed into slits. To anyone else, he just looked like the stoic, fierce commander of the Omatikaya, carrying himself with his usual rigid authority. But you? You had known him since you were children. You had held him in the dark. You knew every subtle twitch of his ears, every micro-expression of his jaw.

There's your angry man.

He was staring directly at Maytel, his eyes tracking the way Maytel was sitting so comfortably close to you, sizing up his competition with a cold, calculating precision.

“Oh, Great Mother,” Maytel muttered through entirely gritted teeth, his smile freezing in place as he deliberately kept his lips from moving. “Is this your view every day? If yes, how dare you leave him, syulang? If I had one of that at home, I would never think of this clan again.”

You threw Maytel a furious, warning glare. Those seem like the perfect digs, because this isn’t your view at all, you barely even see him. You also didn’t have one of that at home... Literally, because the man was rarely home. You stood up, looking at Neteyam with look of genuine confusion. Before Maytel could even speak again, Nevan reached the steps leading to the platform, throwing his little body against your legs before turning around and pointing proudly at his father.

“Papa surprised me at the ledge, Mama!”

Neteyam stepped onto the platform, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. Without a word, he bent down and effortlessly scooped Nevan up into one massive arm, propping the boy against his hip. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek as he looked down at you.

“Neteyam,” you said, your voice tilting up. “You... you weren't due to visit until next week. The patrol schedules on the tablet said you were in the western valleys... You should have sent word, I haven’t prepared anything.”

His brows raised slightly, his tail twitching in an agitated flick behind him. He adjusted his grip on Nevan, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly tone. “A word to visit my wife and my son? Do I need that now, my love?”

You blinked, completely caught off guard by the sheer pettiness dripping from the commander of the Omatikaya vanguard. A tiny, involuntary rise twitched on your brows. “N...no, of course you don’t,” you stammered slightly, trying very hard to keep your face neutral. “But what brought you here? Are the people alright?”

“The people are perfectly fine,” he answered, his eyes darting back to Maytel who was currently staring up at him with wide, completely unbothered eyes. In fact, Maytel looked like he was watching a theatrical performance, his gaze tracking Neteyam’s shoulders and the broad sweep of his chest with shameless appreciation.

You pursed yourself to stop a chuckle from escaping you at the realization that Neteyam had absolutely no idea what Maytel's true self was. To Neteyam, this was simply the man who was staying way too long talking to you, helping you, and weaving flowers into your hair.

“Neteyam,” you cleared your throat, stepping between them to cut off Neteyam's death stare before he accidentally declared a one-man war on your village. “This is Maytel. The one Nevan was telling you about.”

Neteyam shifted Nevan to his other hip, his posture locking into an intensely rigid, formal stance. He looked down at Maytel as if he were interrogating a prisoner of war. “I see,” Neteyam rumbled, his voice dripping with an absurd amount of authority. “I hear you have been a great assistance to my family, Maytel. I couldn’t thank you enough.”

Maytel blinked, a slow, highly amused smirk tugging at his lips. He stood a full head shorter than Neteyam, but showing absolutely zero fear. Instead, he let his eyes lazily trail down Neteyam's torso, before going back up to his face.

“It is no trouble at all,” Maytel purred, his voice smooth. “Your wife is my absolute favorite person to spend my days with and little Nevan here is just a joy to watch grow. You can’t take your eyes off of kids these days, they grow up so fast!”

You gritted your teeth, widening your eyes at Maytel, and having him glance at you with that confident I-can-handle-this look.

Neteyam’s ears threatened to flatten against his head. His nostrils flared as he looked at Maytel, his jaw locking hard as he absorbed the thinly veiled barb about being an absent husband and father, but the aggressive tension in his shoulder dissolved as quickly as it came. In its place emerged the smooth grin of a boy you had grown up with. Neteyam has never been one to take a slight seriously.

“Is that right?” Neteyam asked, his grin widening into something effortlessly dangerous. He patted Nevan’s back, his tail flicking behind him in slow, rhythmic moves. “Well, I can’t blame you. My wife is an excellent company, and my boy is easily the best part of anyone's day. I appreciate you keeping them entertained while I was away.”

Your lips twisted at how easily Neteyam was able to ride over that wave. Meanwhile, Maytel glanced like you, his eyes communicating ooh, the man can bite and you rolled your eyes. Neteyam caught the way Maytel glanced at you and your dear friend immediately tore his eyes off.

His plan to rattle the cage? Forget that. Neteyam looked physically capable of tossing him off the platform like a sack of dried grass, and as much as he would love to support you to the ends of the world, with the way your husband was sizing him up like a tactical competition, he decided he valued his life. It was time for a very graceful, very immediate exit.

“Oh, don't mention it. Taking care of Y/N and Nevan is the least I can do to contribute to the war efforts... Since you are too busy in it," Maytel said. You closed your eyes, shaking your head with how that once again landed like another dig!

Fortunately, a voice called out to Maytel several yards away and you saw how relieved he looked to have an excuse to get out of here. Your ears perked up, too, ready to send him away so you can finally deal with your husband.

“Oh, as much as I would like to stay...” Maytel sighed, “I think I shall leave you three to your... family time.”

“Right. Thanks, Maytel...” You said, widening your eyes at him when he sneaked in another once-over on your husband’s body.

With a theatrical swish of his tail, Maytel sauntered down the wooden ramp. Neteyam didn’t break his stare from the walkway until Maytel’s silhouette vanished into the lower terraces, but the moment he was gone, Neteyam’s golden eyes snapped down to the corner of the platform. His gaze locked onto a bundle of fibers that Maytel had carelessly left behind, a habit born from being used to coming here whenever he pleased.

“He leaves his things here,” Neteyam muttered, his tone dropping into a low growl. “Like he knows he can just walk back here anytime he pleases.”

“Maytel is harmless, Neteyam... if you’d only open your eyes to see,” you told him.You couldn’t possibly tell him what Maytel really was for that wasn't your secret to share, so you felt conflicted. You didn’t want Neteyam to think you were just allowing random men into your home.

“He is my friend. He can come back. He helps here, so he’s here almost every day.”

You saw Neteyam’s jaw tighten at the words every day and you almost groaned out loud at how you seemed to be cursed with the exact same syndrome Maytel just had: pissing off Neteyam with your choice of words.

“But that is not the point,” you quickly followed, cutting off his impending tirade before he could even start. You stepped closer, looking at the sheer exhaustion hidden beneath his rigid posture. “What’s the reason for this sudden visit?”

Neteyam looked down at Nevan, who was currently occupied with chewing on one of his father’s arm bands. Slowly, deliberately, Neteyam set the boy down on the woven mat. “Will you go inside and play for a while, son? Papa needs to speak with Mama.”

“Okay!” Nevan chirped, completely oblivious to the tension between his parents.

Once the boy was out of sight, Neteyam turned to you. The rigid, unyielding commander of the Omatikaya resistance seemed to slowly fracture, his shoulders dropping. He didn't look like he was preparing to leave. In fact, he had unbuckled his heavy longbow, setting it carefully against the weapon rack by the door, a gesture of permanence that made your heart skip a beat.

“It’s not a visit,”  Neteyam said softly, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “I am staying.”

You blinked, a sudden wave of confusion washing over you. “What do you mean, you are staying? For how long? A week? Neteyam, the raids in the west—”

“I have handed the command of the western vanguard over to Lo'ak and Rey’to,” he interrupted, his voice steady. He took a step toward you, his large hand reaching out as if to touch you, before he caught himself and let it drop to his side. “I am staying here. With you. With our son. For as long as you are here. Even if it takes years.”

Your breath hitched. You stared at him, your mind frantically trying to process the words. The golden heir of Toruk Makto, the boy who had been groomed since birth to carry the weight of his people, the commander who had chosen the war over his own family... had walked away from the vanguard.

“What... What about the resistance?” you whispered.

“I left it,” he whispered, his eyes heavy on you, but for the first time in years, he looked so unburdened. “I don’t expect a pie for it, baby. I know I have a lot of things to make up for. To you, to Nevan, and to our family. There is nothing more important to me in this world but you—”

“Neteyam, y-you cannot do that. Your father, the people, they... need you. You are one of the pillars keeping the people from falling to the demons—”

“And who is keeping us from falling?” he uttered, his voice filled of a raw, desperate emotion breaking through his warrior’s facade. He stepped closer, completely invading your space, his familiar scent clouding your senses. “I spent the entire flight here realizing the hypocrisy of my own words. I told you that Maytel was not Nevan's father, and that he was not your husband... but Eywa help me, I haven't been either of those things to you in years.”

He looked at you with eyes so heavy with longing it made your throat close up with grief.

“My father told me that a leader makes sacrifices for the future,” Neteyam murmured, his hand finally defying the distance, his long, warm fingers gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw. “But if the future means I have to stand in an empty home, realizing that the woman I love, have loved my whole life, looks at me like a stranger... then the war has already taken everything worth fighting for. I am choosing you, and I didn’t think it could be that easy. Baby, I cannot lose you...”

You held his eyes as his words hung in the air, your throat working silently as your eyes mapped the familiar contours of his face. The rigid, hyper-vigilant set of his shoulders was still there, and perhaps it always will be there, but the desperate, raw vulnerability in his eyes sent an ache in your chest. The thumb on your jaw trembled just slightly, a rare display of fear from the Omatikaya’s most formidable young commander.

He was giving you everything you had spent a year aching for. He was giving up the vanguard. He was setting down his bow. He was choosing to be a husband and a father over being a war legend.

Yet, as you looked at the set of his jaw and the sharp knife strapped to his chest, a sudden grounded clarity washed over you. You couldn't help but peek past his shoulder toward the lower terraces where Maytel had just vanished. Your eyes narrowed as you stifled a knowing smile, cutting through the heavy emotional fog.

“You are a very foolish man, Neteyam,” you whispered, your voice dropping into a soft cadence that made his ears twitch in surprise. “You fly all the way across the forest, hand over your lifelong duty to your brother, and declare an end to your warrior days... and a significant part of it is because your son said something about some guy making hair decorations for me.”

Neteyam’s posture stiffened instantly. His nostrils flared, a faint, dark flush creeping beneath his cheeks. He tried to maintain his solemn, deeply romantic expression, but the telltale twitch of his ears betrayed him.

“That’s not—I did not leave the vanguard because of that,” he muttered with a defensive, stubborn scowl that reminded you of your son, melting away at your icy defenses.

“No?” You tilted your chin up, your eyes dancing with a quiet, knowing light. “You didn't look at Maytel like you wanted to feed him to your ikran? This wasn’t prompted by the thought that someone else was here, helping me with everything and teaching your son stuff while you were away in the trenches?”

Neteyam closed his eyes for a brief second, letting out a long, defeated hiss through his teeth. When he opened them again, the fierce commander was entirely gone, replaced by the intensely possessive, fiercely protective man you know very well.

He sighed. “I hate imagining and seeing him here... seeing another man's things in our space, knowing he gets to hear our son’s first morning words while I am decoding scout reports... I hate it, yawne. It made me realize that while I have been busy holding up the sky for everyone else, my own world was moving on without me. I am a warrior, yes. But I am your man long before I became one. I am Nevan's father. If I have to crawl to get your forgiveness, I will. Please, just do not tell me to leave.”

The sheer honesty of his words struck deep within your chest, like a lightning bolt cracking at the frost that had settled over your heart during the year of separation. You love him very much, and you knew he could easily get you back if he showed you how regretful he was, but you didn’t want to make it completely effortless for him.

You tilted your head before slowly moving away to let his hand drop from you. Neteyam’s fingers flexed against the empty air, a pained, searching look crossing his features as he watched you move a pace away.

“You can stay, Neteyam,” you said softly, your expression turning serious. “You can stay and be a father to our son. You have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Neteyam’s chest expanded with a deep, profound breath of relief. You didn’t mention anything about how your relationship will go from here, but that only made a determined, unyielding fire lit up in his eyes. He will work hard to earn you, to replace the time he wasted letting you carry the burden of his absence alone with the reminder that he is still very much here, and that he will never leave again.

“I will earn it back,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “Every single day.”

And surprisingly, Neteyam kept his word with a relentless, quiet devotion that left no room for doubt.

For the first few weeks, you remained intentionally wary. You kept your distance. You expected the long-range communication tablet on the shelf to chime at any moment, expecting Jake’s stern voice or Neytiri’s desperate call to summon him back to the battlefield. You expected Neteyam to pace the platforms at night, staring longingly toward the mountains like a caged predator.

But the summons never came, and Neteyam never looked back.

While he still kept a strict routine of waking up before dawn to check his longbow and spending an hour on his tablet giving quiet, tactical advice to Lo'ak or coordinate defensive tactics with his father, the moment the sun broke over the mountains, he belonged entirely to his family.

Nevan, unlike you, required absolutely zero groveling. To your son, having his father home every day was a miracle straight from Eywa. The little boy practically attached himself to Neteyam’s hip from the moment he opened his eyes.

“Look, Mama! Papa taught me how to make the ikran call!” Nevan chirped one bright morning, running into the hut with his arms spread wide, letting out a surprisingly accurate, high-pitched screech that made you laugh.

Neteyam walked in right behind him, carrying a massive basket of freshly gathered jungle fruits and roots for pie. He had stripped off his heavy war gear weeks ago, now wearing only his daily clothes. His long braids were freely dancing, and his skin lacked the harsh black soot of the vanguard. He looked exactly like the boy from your dreams... unburdened and happy.

“He is an apt hunter, yawne,” Neteyam smiled, setting the heavy basket down near your cooking hearth. He paused, his golden eyes locking onto yours, admiring the way you look in the morning with that steady, intense warmth that always made your pulse quicken. “Though he still needs to work on his stealth. He gasps too much when he spots a prey.”

“I don’t, Papa!” Nevan protested, throwing his little body against Neteyam’s sturdy thigh. “I am silent like the wind! Right, Mama?”

You couldn't help the soft, genuine laugh that bubbled up from your throat. “I supposed you are, my little breeze. Now go wash your hands before breakfast.”

As Nevan scrambled toward the water basin, Neteyam stepped closer to you. He was never an impatient lover. Even when you two were younger, he had always made sure you were comfortable with the pace he was taking. It was actually you who was impatient, pushing him to his limits and challenging the rules he set for himself.

Now, he didn't exactly invade your space aggressively, but he came close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He reached into the basket and pulled out a single, perfectly bloomed night-glory flower, its petals glowing a vibrant, brilliant shade of blue. Without a word, he gently tucked the stem behind your ear, his knuckles brushing against your cheek just a second longer than necessary.

“Your son said this matches the pattern of your stripes,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, meant only for your ears. “He seems to have memorized your patterns like I have when I was a boy... I think every part of me loves you, baby. That includes Nevan, because he’s a part of me.”

Your face burned a sudden, dark shade of violet. You batted his hand away with a playful, frustrated sigh, though your fingers instinctively came up to touch the cool petals. “Neteyam... You are supposed to be helping with breakfast, not picking flowers and uttering pick up lines like a flustered young hunter trying to win his intended mate.”

Neteyam’s lips curved into a slow, utterly devastating grin, the exact same cocky, confident smile that had stolen your heart when you were teenagers. “Who says I am not? I am courting you, yawne. I told you I would earn my way back.”

“You are ridiculous,” you muttered, turning back to the hearth to hide the massive smile breaking across your face.

As the moons bled into one another, Neteyam’s quiet crusade to win back your heart took on a life of its own. He stayed and showed no interest in going back at all, integrating himself so deeply into your daily life that the memories of your lonely year apart began to fade like mist under the scorching sun.

Every single day seemed like an adventure with Neteyam and Nevan always making sure you were at the center of it, but today, your son had miraculously stayed behind when Neteyam went out to hunt. Both of you shared a laugh at the fact that the boy was obviously having a lazy day.

Nevan was sitting cross-legged in front of you, his tiny tail curling in a calm concentration. You had a shallow clay bowl filled with crushed, vibrant purple berries between your knees, using the thick juice as a makeshift paint.

“Like this,” you murmured softly, dipping the tip of your finger into the dark juice. You gently pulled his small hand into yours, guiding his index finger into the bowl. “Gently, my boy. We do not want to drown the wood.”

Nevan let out a soft, eager chirp, his ears pinning back in focus as you helped him press his finger onto a flat piece of smooth wood. Together, you dragged his finger down, leaving a thick streak that was meant to represent the neck of a direhorse. The moment you lifted his hand, Nevan gasped, his golden eyes going wide as a bright, toothy smile split his face.

“Pretty, Mama! Look!" he squealed, his little tail swishing frantically against your thigh.

You couldn't help the soft chuckle that escaped your lips, leaning forward to press a sweet, lingering kiss right to the tip of his nose. “Aren’t you just Mama’s little artist?”

Nevan giggled, squirming happily against your legs before leaning his small head completely against your chest. He was getting bigger every day, but in moments like this, when he curled up against you and let out those tiny purring sounds, he was still just your little baby. You wrapped your arms securely around his small frame, resting your chin on the top of his head, gently rocking him side to side as you hummed a soft, ancient lullaby, your hands continuously working on the paint.

Unbeknownst to you, Neteyam was standing completely still in the threshold. He had just returned from his hunt, his muscles aching and his heart still filled with the adrenaline of it. He had been prepared to strip off his boundary gear and weapons, but the moment he stepped onto the platform and saw the two of you, the breath completely caught in his throat.

He couldn’t move, he couldn't possibly break the absolute sanctity of the scene before him. His eyes, usually so sharp and vigilant on the battlefield, softened until they were thick with a profound reverence. He watched the way your long hair fell over your shoulder, framing the gentle, fierce love on your face as you cradled his son. He watched how comfortably Nevan fit against your chest, completely protected from the harsh, violent world outside these walls.

He thought about all the days he missed, the quiet days you and Nevan spent together just like this, and a wave of emotion hit him squarely in the chest, so overwhelming and pure it made his throat tighten. Suddenly, his whole world shrank down to just this sight of you humming in the golden light, with his son safe in your arms, and a fierce, blinding clarity washed over him.

Nevan shifted, his little ear twitching as he caught the faint rustle of Neteyam’s movements. The boy's head snapped toward the entrance, his eyes lighting up. “Papa!”

You blinked, breaking out of your peaceful daze, and turned your head to see him just standing there.

Neteyam offered you a soft, utterly devastating smile, the last remnants of his exhaustion melting completely off his features. He stepped into the alcove, immediately welcomed by Nevan’s insistent chirping.

“Papa! Papa, look!” Nevan babbled, squirming in your grip so he could proudly point his purple-stained finger at the piece of wood. “Mama and me made... a pa'li! A big, big one! See the long neck? Like a real one? It eats through the big trees!”

Neteyam let out a low, rumbling chuckle before leaning back to press a kiss on Nevan’s head before his large hand came down to cup it, his thumb gently smoothing back the boy's twitching ear. “Wow, doesn’t this look fiercer than Agre, Mama? Papa has an own pa’li back in the forest... Mama and I loved going for a ride. One day soon, we’ll go see him,” he told Nevan, the little boy’s eyes perpetually twinkling. “Tell me more about this masterpiece.” Neteyam comfortably sat down near you.

“I— I... I didn't drown the wood!” Nevan continued eagerly, his hands gesturing wildly, completely unbothered by the purple juice drying on his skin. “Mama said do it gently. Like a hunter when you hunt the big yerik, Papa!”

As Nevan kept rambling, acting out the hunt with tiny, dramatic lunges of his hands, Neteyam’s gaze slowly drifted up from your son to meet yours. His hand slid from Nevan's head to rest against your jaw, his thumb caressing your cheekbone with a tender, heavy pressure. He was looking at you as if you had personally handed him the stars and the silence between you filled with a shared devotion for the beautiful, bubbly life you had created together.

You leaned into his palm, tilting your head up to press a soft kiss into the center of his hand. Neteyam’s smile widened, his heart hammering a heavy rhythm against his chest. You are his whole world. The little hands holding his braids right now holds his entire world. And he couldn’t believe he lost sight of that.

                                                         ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“Please come! The river is very big today, Mama!” Nevan pleaded one afternoon, tugging furiously at your hand while Neteyam stood by the doorway, holding a woven utility basket.

“I have to finish mending these, Nevan,” you replied gently, gesturing to the tangled fibers in your lap.

Before you could even protest further, Neteyam walked over and effortlessly scooped you up from the floor, basket and all, setting you firmly on your feet. He took the fibers from your hands and tossed it onto the shelf.

“These can wait,” Neteyam said, his golden eyes dancing with a mischievous spark. “The commander orders a family excursion to the falls. No exceptions.”

Your lips parted for a moment, curling into a smile of disbelief. “You cannot use your commander voice on me, Neteyam te Suli. I do not report to your vanguard.”

“No,” he whispered, leaning down so his warm breath brushed against the shell of your ear, sending a sudden, electric shiver straight down your spine. “You are the only one I report to.”

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you let your shrieking son drag you out of the hut, but your eyes lingered on Neteyam as you walked past, glinting with a mischievous light he hasn’t seen in over a year, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared that he decided he had just conjured it.

At the river, you waded in the shallow waters, watching Neteyam teach Nevan how to float on his back, the air cool and misted with the spray of the waterfalls cascading down the upper terraces. Your son splashed his little feet wildly, creating cute splashes that made Neteyam chuckle.

“You need to calm down, son. Make your body light... Think you can remain unmoving for a few seconds?” Neteyam asked, and you watched your son look up at his father with twinkling eyes.

“I can! Watch, Mama!” Nevan said proudly.

Neteyam slipped his large hands under Nevan’s small back, gently lifting him until the boy lay flat on the water's surface. “Relax your shoulders, Nevan. Look up at the sky, not at your feet,” Neteyam instructed, his voice low and soothing.

Nevan stiffened at first, his tail twitching underwater, causing him to sink immediately with a loud gasp and a splash. Neteyam caught him instantly, pulling him up with a warm laugh.

“Again, son. You must trust the water... and Papa. I won’t let you go.”

It took a few more tries. On the second attempt, Nevan held his breath too hard and tipped sideways. On the third, a stray splash hit his nose, making him sneeze and sink. But by the fourth try, you saw a quiet determination take over your son’s eyes, much like the one you often see in Neteyam’s eyes, as he took a deep breath and relaxed his tiny frame, letting the river hold him. Neteyam slowly lowered his hands away. Nevan was floating all on his own, his ears twitching in delight.

“I'm doing it? Mama, look!” Nevan squealed, the sudden movement breaking his balance and sending him plunging back into the water.

Your eyes widened, but he surfaced sputtering and giggling, and you couldn't help but laugh, too. Neteyam caught him, knowing he couldn’t really swim on his own yet. You waded closer to them and Nevan reached for you, his little arms wrapping around your neck. Neteyam grinned at you, his large hand cradling his son’s head.

“Let’s see you do it again, boy,” you grinned at him and Nevan splashed his hand in the water excitedly. You laughed, peering up at Neteyam, “He’s like one of those Terran toys Norm used to show us before.”

He tilted his head, “Robots?”

You chuckled, “No? Those stuff with a string you pull... And then it does something,” you said, helping your son lay flat on the water.

“Pull string toy? That one that talks?” he asked, already laughing.

You nodded, laughing with him as you turned to your son who is now relaxing his little body and letting the water carry him. You slowly let go of him, allowing him to float on his on.

“Calm down, Nevan... Mama will do it, too,” you mumbled, slowly letting yourself fall backward into the cool water, perfectly buoyant.

Neteyam grinned, dropping down right beside Nevan, his long limbs stretching out effortlessly. The three of you drifted together in the shallow waters, staring up at the canopy. Nevan let out a bright, bubbling laugh at the ticklish sensation of the water rushing past his ears, and the sound was so infectious that you and Neteyam burst out laughing too, your voices echoing alongside the waterfalls

The river soon became the site for your family’s almost daily bondings.

Nevan learned to swim in no time, but you still cautioned him against going to the river to swim on his own. Your son might be bigger than average kids his age, but he was still only two, and you worried he would run off to the river unsupervised.

Nevan splashed wildly in the shallow pools divided by smooth stones from the body of the river, chasing after the tiny, bioluminescent fish that darted beneath the surface. You sat on a smooth rock at the edge, watching him with a soft, content smile as you prepared the food for lunch. Nearby, Neteyam moved through the water with a fluid grace that vividly reminded you of his younger self, when he worked so hard to master his stealth as a hunter.

He was a good hunter, and an even better warrior.

He had been so skilled back then that he was grouped with older, more experienced warriors because he always seemed to know what to do. His parents took pride in how he outdid Jake in everything at an even younger age; there was no doubt at all that he would make a great Olo’eyktan. He was the golden heir who had bent his back to the crushing weight of his people’s expectations, carrying it all without a word of complaint.

And he had exceeded all of it, right up until the day he decided to leave everything behind to show you that he’s choosing you.

The thought settled heavily in your chest. You love him so much. Not once, even during the bitterest moons of your separation when you felt hollowed out by his neglect, had you stopped loving him. You had loved him as a wide-eyed child visiting Hometree and chasing him through the roots, you had loved him as a fiercely protective teenager, and you loved him now, as a woman who had given him a son.

But as you watched him move with a breeze of a warrior he will always be, a sudden, sharp ache of guilt pierced your heart.

You had taken him away from what he spent his whole life preparing for.

You were supposed to love every piece of him, just as he loved everything about you. Yet, when the war demanded too much of the man you loved your whole life, you had given up on the warrior entirely. You had forced him into an ultimatum between his duty to the people and his duty to his heart.

This realization plagued your mind for the days that followed. You watched him closely, searching for any flicker of resentment, any lingering gaze toward the horizon where the sky people’s metal birds still flew. But you found nothing. He looked entirely settled, his focus anchored completely on you, on Nevan, and within the confines of your family's hut.

In fact, the only thing that seemed to break his hard-earned peace was the occasional appearance of Maytel.

By midday, you were back on the platform, organizing a fresh basket of weaving fibers. Nevan and Neteyam had just climbed the ramp, returning from a short trek to gather wild spices for your recipe.

Neteyam had barely stepped onto the wood before his golden eyes laser-focused on Maytel, who was currently standing across from you, chatting about the latest village gossip. Under normal circumstances, the sheer intensity of Neteyam’s possessive glare would have made you stifle a laugh. But because you’ve spent days with the weight of your thoughts about him made the humor fade.

Maytel giggled at you, “You never did tell me anything, syulang! It’s been moons! With the way your husband looks at you, I was thinking you’d be round with child but now, but, oh well! You’re too slow,” he rolled his eyes, handing you the small, securely wrapped clay dish.

“Shut up,” you whispered, watching Neteyam and Nevan approach.

“Uncle Maytel!” Nevan excitedly greeted, waving a hand and skipping excitedly.

“I brought over some berry pie I baked this morning. I know how much you like this, little boy.”

Nevan peered up at him happily, his eyes twinkling as his hands clasped. “Thank you, Uncle!”

“Thank you again, Maytel,”  you said smoothly.

Maytel straightened himsef up himself gracefully, his eyes darting toward Neteyam’s rigid frame. “Well, I must be off. I have a date with a certain long-armed hunter down by the shallow banks, and if I keep him waiting, he might snap another bow string out of pure despair.”

He gave you a dramatic wink, but Neteyam’s expression remained entirely hard, calculating, and intensely territorial. He stood frozen until Maytel’s silhouette finally disappeared down the main walkway.

“Mama! Look at the big leaf I found!” Nevan babbled, showing it to you.

You examined it with great curiosity, admiring its beautiful patterns. “The patterns looks like the canopy at Hometree, son,” you smiled at him.

“Wow...” Nevan looked down at his leaf with wonder before scrambling past his father’s legs and running into the hut to add the leaf among his toys.

With the platform suddenly empty, you stood up and crossed the small distance between you and your husband. For the first time since he had arrived moons ago, you stepped directly into his space, your hands coming to rest flat against the warm skin of his chest where you immediately felt the heavy thudding of his heart beneath your palms.

Before he could speak, you slid your hands up to his shoulders, tilted your chin up, and pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss.

Neteyam froze, his breath catching sharply in his throat. He looked utterly stunned, his ears twitching back in absolute surprise before the instinctual hunger took over. His large hands came up to grip your waist, anchoring you against him as he kissed you back with a sudden, dark intensity that sent a wave of heat straight to your core.

When you finally pulled away, your lips were tingling, and his golden eyes had darkened with something different.

You let out a dramatic, teasing sigh, a faint smile breaking through the serious fog of your mind. “They always told me my husband possessed the keen eyes of a viperwolf... but it has been moons, my love, and you still haven't caught on.”

Neteyam blinked, his forehead furrowing in confusion. “What?”

You let out a soft giggle, your fingers tracing the strong line of his collarbone. “Maytel just said he has a date with his hunter, Neteyam. He is trying to get on with a man, not with your wife.”

A sudden, staggering silence fell over him, his mouth opening slightly, his ears lifting as the pieces finally clicked together. You chuckled as you watched the fearsome commander of the resistance suddenly looked incredibly flustered, a violet flush creeping along his neck.

“He... with a hunter?” Neteyam muttered, clearing his throat roughly.

“Yes,” you laughed softly, leaning your head against his chest. "There was never any reason for you to be jealous, ‘teyam. I never looked at another while I was away from you. How can I possibly ever replace you? Even when I was trying my hardest to act like I didn't care, I would never betray you like that.”

Neteyam’s gaze softened, his large hands smoothing down your back, pressing you closer to his warmth. “I know that, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Not once did I ever doubt your faithfulness to me. It was... the men I did not trust. But... I suppose I should thank Maytel. Not just for watching over you and Nevan when I was too blind to be here, but because the mere threat of him made me straighten myself up.”

You smiled, looking at the scars on his chest. “Well... about that. Maytel was never a threat, you see. It is just... you left the vanguard for this. You left everything you worked hard for—”

“No,” Neteyam interrupted firmly, his forehead furrowing as he caught your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Do not think that. I did not leave the vanguard simply because I was jealous, I left because I was terrified of losing you completely. I have missed so much of our son’s life, yawne. I didn't even know how to make up for all the time I lost. I will carry the regret of that lost time for a very long time...”

A wave of emotion rose in your throat, making your lower lip tremble a little. “I was so hurt during those moons, Neteyam... but I wallowed so deeply in my own pain that I failed to see how hard you were struggling, too. You were keeping up with the two lives you were living, carrying the future of this world on your shoulders, and instead of being there to be the support you needed... I walked away. I left you alone, Neteyam—”

“Don't,” Neteyam commanded softly, his thumb sweeping across your cheek to cut off your words. “Don't you ever blame yourself, or think your choices were wrong. Baby, I wasn't keeping up with my lives. I was living fully as a warrior, entirely forgetting that I had a wife and a child who needed me to be a man, not just a leader. I was a terrible husband. I was a failure of a father. Do not deny that.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath shaky.

“Your decision to walk away did me a favor, baby. I was too blinded by my duty. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't put me in my place early on, if I had kept believing that everything was perfect while you were breaking in the dark?”

You stared at him, your throat tight, unable to find an argument. Slowly, you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Then let us settle it,” you murmured. “We both made mistakes. I should have spoken to you clearly instead of expecting you to know exactly what you were doing wrong... And you should have remembered that the war isn't the only thing worth fighting for.”

He breathed a huff of relief. “I am so scared, baby... I cannot lose you. You are half of me,” he whispered.

“I forgive you, Neteyam...” you mumbled, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

He was quick to shake his head, looking almost angered. “I don’t want you to forgive me. I will not accept that. I want to remember this moment in our lives when I have let you and our son down. I would sacrifice and leave behind everything just to make sure this won’t happen again.”

You smiled. “Then I supposed I shouldn’t ask for forgiveness, too, for my selfishness—”

“You are not selfish and I have nothing to forgive,” he countered fiercely. “You only wanted what’s good for you and for our son, I’m glad you made that your priority. Can you imagine what younger me would have thought of me now? He would beat me up, baby, I’m willing to bet...” he pressed his forehead against yours.

Both your hands came up to hold his jaw. “We are allowed to make mistakes, my love... Both of us are still learning. What’s important is that even with what was happening between us, we were still good parents to Nevan.”

He smiled, his eyes lighting up at the mention of his son. “He’s a very resilient boy, my love... It makes me even more guilty that he just... loves me very much despite my absence.”

Your brows furrowed a little even as you smiled softly. “I guess Nevan is just a reflection of my heart. He’s a part of me, too, and every part of me loves you very much,” you caressed his jaw, pressing a soft kiss in his lips.

“I love you more. I love you so much,” he whispered against your lips, before he delivered a harder, more desperate kiss. It was a release of all the months of unspoken grief, longing, and the lingering heat that had built up between you. Neteyam groaned deep in his throat, his grip on your waist tightening until your breaths mixed into one frantic rhythm.

“Oh, Great Mother!”

The loud, dramatic gasp broke the air, making you pull away from Neteyam in an instant, breathless and flushed, only to see Maytel standing at the edge of the platform, his eyes wide with a look of pure, devious glee. He had caught you both completely red-handed, and you could practically see the chaotic, mischievous gears turning in his head.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt this moment, syulang, Neteyam... Well, I forgot my weaving shuttle... Just coming back for it...” he carefully tiptoed before getting what he came here for. “Got it!”

Maytel sneaked a smirk at you, his tail swishing with absolute triumph. Before you could hiss at him, Nevan bounded out of the hut, his little ears perking up at the sound of Maytel's voice. “Uncle Maytel! You came back?”

“I did, little star,” Maytel grinned, kneeling down to Nevan’s level while deliberately keeping his eyes locked on your flustered expression. “In fact, I am on my way up to the upper terraces to visit your grandparents. Would you like to come with me and help me pick some wild ferns?”

“Yes!” Nevan answered way too quickly. “Mama, Papa, can I go?” Nevan squealed, bouncing on his heels as he looked up at you and Neteyam.

Neteyam, still entirely dazed by the intensity of the kiss and thoroughly eager to get you back into the privacy of the hut, patted his son's head, nodded wordlessly.

Maytel giggled. “And I guess you will stay there until tomorrow, little boy...” he threw you an incredibly wicked wink. You're welcome, his eyes screamed.

“Bye, Mama! Bye, Papa!” Nevan cheered, snatching Maytel’s hand and dragging him down the ramp.

You stood on the platform, your face burning a violent shade of purple, completely aware of the heavy, dark promise in Neteyam’s gaze as he slowly turned his massive body back toward you. The platform was entirely quiet, your son was snatched away by Maytel, and the commander seemed very ready to claim a year-worth of action from you.

You bit your lip as you sensed his body turn toward you, making the air feel heavier with the thick tension you know will have you inevitably under him before the day ends. You finally turned to him when he stepped forward, his shadow falling over you, his broad chest rising and falling in deep breaths, his eyes dark as he tracked the soft features of your face, the flush your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and the curves of your waist down to your shapely thighs.

“See you inside?” you said in a small, seductive voice, stepping backward with your eyes locked onto his while you were retreating into the hut. Neteyam followed you like a predator stalking a familiar territory. He stopped at the edge of your sleeping alcove, his tall frame blocking out the fire from the hanging firepot, casting you entirely in his shadow.

With a slow, challenging smile, your hands came up to the knot of your top, holding his unblinking gaze as your fingers untied the cords, letting the feather-like fibers slip until it pooled at your feet.

You followed it by untying your loincloth behind you, shedding it off until you stood before him entirely bare, the soft dim light catching the gentle curves of your body. You knew exactly what you looked like to him. Completely vulnerable, yet entirely in control of his sanity.

Neteyam let out a low, ragged growl through his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the wooden partition. His chest expanded, his nostrils flaring as he took in the sight of you. You looked so innocent standing in the quiet of your home, yet the mischievous, heavy heat in your eyes was pure sin.

“Do you mean to torture me, baby?“ he rasped, his voice deep and rough as his hand grabbed his crotch to give his aching hard on a squeeze.

“Torture?” you echoed innocently. “Who says you can’t touch, warrior?”

He blinked, as if it took time before he realized what you said. He stepped into the alcove, his eyes never leaving you, his hand aggressively shedding his loincloth off, as he walked toward you. You opened your mouth to tease him, but before you could do that, his large hands were already on you, his grip firm as he lifted you effortlessly and pressed you back onto the soft furs of the sleeping mat.

You reached for your kuru behind you, biting your lip when his calloused hands parted your thighs with an authoritative, heavy pressure to fit himself between them. You relished the familiar weight of him on you, the warmth and heaviness of his cock grazing your thigh. “Hello,” you mumbled, smiling as you caught his kuru that he let fall over his shoulder.

He watched you darkly, his hand prompting your hands to connect your kurus together. You gasped as the burning intensity of his emotions that surged through you, enveloping your soul with a familiar warmth you’ve never felt in almost a year. You breathlessly pulled him down for a kiss and his mouth enveloped yours right away, swallowing your breaths, kissing you hard and desperately. His arm wrapped around your frame to pull you against him until your soft mounds were squished against his chest, his large hand cupping your jaw.

You kissed and kissed, and you were reminded with just how much you loved kissing him. When you two were younger, making out with each other had been your favorite thing to do. Every lovemaking starts with what seemed like hours of making out sessions, and this moment brought you back. You licked at his lower lip and kissed him with more ferocity than you had earlier, moaning against his lips as your hands roamed the hard planes of his body.

When you pulled away to breathe, his lips found your jaw, leaving burning kisses until he reached your neck. He licked and nipped at your skin, his hand now coming down to your breast to knead and fondle, before his lips followed, filling his mouth with your flesh as he suckled on your pebbled tip.

“Oh, baby...” you cradled his head, your hand grabbing a fistful of his hair.

His kisses slid down your body, his lips kissing every inch of your skin reverently until his face reach between your leg, his hot breath brushing your slick center. You bit your lip as he kissed the soft flesh of your inner thighs, his lips wet as it sucked a bit of your flesh into his mouth before it trailed down to bury his face between your thighs. Your breath hitched in your throat when his tongue swiped upward in one long stroke.

He suckled on your sensitive nub and you shrieked when he playfully nipped down on it, your hands instantly flying into his thick braids as your hips bucked violently off the mat. The sharp, electric heat hit your sensitive nub, and Neteyam hummed a low, vibrating sound of pure satisfaction against your skin as he felt you tremble. He used his tongue relentlessly, sucking and lapping at you until your breath came in ragged, broken sobs.

Desperate for the weight of him, you tilted your pelvis upward, grinding against his mouth, begging for more. Normally, he’d insert his tongue in you, and you can’t understand why he’s being greedy with his tongue now. He paused, lifting his head just enough to look up your body, his lips glistening in the dim light. He let out a low chuckle, kissing the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

“Baby, I know you love it... but I won't put my tongue in, hm? My cock will be jealous. Your best friend hasn’t been in you for a year... you see, he hadn’t known a life like that since I was seventeen.”

You groaned loudly, throwing your head back against the furs as the teasing drove you mad. You kicked his chest lightly with your heel, though it lacked any real force. “Then fuck me already! What are you waiting for?”

Neteyam caught your ankle instantly, his grip tightening as he pulled your leg over his broad shoulder. He nipped fiercely at the tender skin near your knee, making you gasp. “So bossy,” he drawled, a wicked spark returning to his eyes. “Just for that, I’d add another thirty minutes to this...”

“Neteyam, please...” you whined.

“Give me one more, baby... I am so parched,” he said dramatically, his handsome face pulling into a mock pout before his mouth came down onto your pussy again.

He didn't give you a chance to protest. He lifted your hips high off the mat, wrapping his powerful arms beneath your thighs, draping your legs completely over his broad shoulders, before burying his face deep between your legs, using the rumbling vibrations of his voice and the flat of his tongue to drive you over the edge. The pressure on your swollen, sensitive flesh was too much, that within seconds, a violent wave tore through you, making you scream his name into the empty hut as your muscles clamped tightly around his mouth.

He held you through the tremors, lapping at your release until you were thoroughly cleaned. He eased you back onto the furs, your eyes closed, completely whited out by the intensity of your recent climax. Your skin was slick with sweat, your long hair sticking to your neck, but Neteyam only seemed to burn hotter at the sight.

You felt the heavy weight of his body settle over yours, his warm mouth moving down to claim your breast, his large hand firmly pressing your knees wider.

“Eyes,” he commanded, his voice dropping into that soft, unyielding tone he only ever used on you.

“I'm so spent...” you breathed, your eyelids fluttering as you weakly pressed a hand against his muscular chest, trying to find your breath.

Neteyam chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated straight into your bones. He kissed the tight line of your jaw before capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss. “You practically kept me in a cage, woman...” he drawled against your lips, his hard length pressing demandingly against your aching center. “And now, you’ve let me loose...”

Your eyes flickered completely open, staring up into the golden fire of his gaze. You pushed your lips forward, leaning into him, and you watched him hold his breath as he realized you were completely his.

“Fuck, I missed you so much, baby...” he whispered, his thumb caressing your slippery folds before he gathered your wetness.

You watched him lather your wetness on his throbbing length as its wide tip nudged your entrance, and with one heavy, agonizingly slow thrust, he slid inside you. Neteyam let out a ragged, guttural groan deep in his throat, his arm snaking behind your waist to pull you up as he buried himself to the hilt, earning a pleasured cry from you.

He froze for a second, his head burying into the crook of your neck as his entire body shuddered, absorbing the intense, tight heat of your walls clamping around him. “Fuck, you're so tight, baby...” he choked out, his breath scalding against your skin.

Before you could fully catch your breath, he lifted himself back up on his hands, his golden eyes finding yours again, refusing to let you look away. Slowly, he began to move. He pulled nearly all the way out, letting you feel every ridges of his length, before driving back in forcefully, making you whimper. Your head rolled back against the furs as your back arched.

His hand instantly came up to cup your jaw, his fingers firm but gentle as he guided your face back to his. “No, look at me,” he commanded, his breath hitching as he started moving.

You bit your lip, but your pleasured whimpers find their way out of your mouth as his large hand caged your jaw to make sure you won’t look away from him as his pace picked up. Your moans grew louder when his thrusts turned deeper and harder, striking the very center of your pleasure. Your breaths came in jagged huffs, mixing alongside your cries and his deep groans.

“Fuck, baby...” he moaned, his eyes closing for a moment.

You pressed a palm against his chest. “Open your eyes,” you commanded, pushing him back a little. “Watch yourself take me.”

He groaned, a huff of weakened and humored laugh escaping through his nose as he lifted himself on his hands, looking down at you with eyes filled of unadulterated hunger. His humor died in his throat the moment he saw the look in your eyes. He was the commander, yes, but right here, pinned beneath the weight of your gaze, he was entirely at your mercy.

“You like to play the general now, do you?” he rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous register that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.

His large hand slid from your jaw, his fingers tangling tightly into the hair at the back of your head, anchoring you firmly to the furs. With his other hand bracing his massive weight over you, he delivered a frantic, brutal, and deep pace into you. You stared up at him, your chest heaving as your breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps. You watched the way the veins in his neck strained, the way his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped, and the sheer worship bleeding from his eyes.

He was completely undone, sweating and growling like a wild creature, stripped of all his rigid discipline until there was nothing left but his love for you.

The friction was driving you insane that you were literally reduced to a moaning, crying mess under him as your hips began to meet his every thrust instinctively, the coil of heat in your lower stomach tightening to a breaking point.

“I love you so much...” he moaned.

“Oh, baby... ‘teyam, I am so close, I can't—” you wept, your hips twitching away from his relentless thrusts but you only seemed to burn even more when his hand grabbed your waist to keep you in place.

“No, stay with me,” he rasped, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to keep you grounded. He picked up the speed, his movements becoming a blur of friction as he drove himself into you so hard that the entire world shrank down to your pussy. “Look at me when you break, baby. Give it to me.”

You couldn't hold it anymore. With one final deep plunge, the dam broke in a violent, white-hot explosion of pleasure rippling through your core, your walls seizing and pulsing around his girth. You cried his name, your eyes squeezing closed as your climax tore through you. Meanwhile, the tight clench you’re holding him with was the final blow to his restraint.

Neteyam let out a low groan as he threw his head back, burying himself to the absolute hilt, pouring his heat deep inside you while his body shuddered violently against yours. He collapsed over you a moment later, his frame curling a little so he could fit himself in your smaller frame, his face buried in the valley between your breasts.

His breath scalded your skin before his mouth moved to kiss your skin. He stayed buried deep inside you, his long arms wrapping securely around your waist, holding you so close it felt like he wanted to press his very soul into yours. You cradled his head, your other hand squeezing his shoulder when he sucked on your pebbled tip hard.

You groaned, “What about rest?” you mumbled.

He lifted his head. “Rest?” he raised a brow as if that was a foreign word.

You pushed your lips forward. “See, I was... undisturbed for moons, Neteyam. I think my stamina needed practicing,” you mumbled.

He smirked. “Now might be the best time for practice.”

You bit your lip, your hand cupping his nape to kiss him. “On the side note... You’re right,” you squeezed around him. “I miss you very much.”

He smiled, his lips coming down on yours. The hours dissolved into the shadows of the hut. The clan had grown quiet as the night went on, but neither of you noticed as though the world outside your hut didn't exist. There was only the rhythmic, heavy slap of skin against skin, his low, breathless groans, and your desperate cries of his name echoing in the quiet room.

By the time the bioluminescence outside began to glow with the midnight moons, the frantic heat had finally settled into a soft, exhausted warmth. You lay on top of him, your chin sitting on his chest as his arms wrapped securely around your waist. You were tracing the smooth, familiar lines of his chest, your breathing finally matching his steady rhythm.

Suddenly, a loud, deep rumble echoed through the quiet space.

You blinked, a bit dazed and Neteyam let out a low, amused chuckle. You pouted, pushing yourself up a little, his large hand slid down to caress the soft, slightly damp skin of your flat belly.

“Fuck, I forgot dinner,” he said, his eyes widening a little.

You blinked, lazy, satisfied smile spreading across your face. “Huh... I strangely feel full.”

Neteyam’s hand paused on your stomach, his fingers rubbing a warm, slow circle over your skin as a knowing, utterly devastating chuckle escaped him. He leaned over, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips.

“I sure hope so,” he grinned, his golden eyes flashing with a playful, wicked heat. “But let’s feed you first, my love. I’m not done with you yet.” He reluctantly sit up, lifting you up a little by your waist and gently plopping you down the furs with a hard kiss on your lips. “Don’t get up.”

He came back with the dinner you had prepared earlier and Maytel’s berry pie, both of which you devoured, occasionally feeding each other small bites while sitting cross-legged on the floor, unashamed of your nakedness. The moment the last of the food was cleared, Neteyam didn't give you a chance to think about cleaning up.

He moved to clean it all away quickly. True to his word, he wasn't done with you. The lovemaking that followed was slower and sweeter, full of whispers and quiet giggling. By the time you two settled back into a soft, exhausted warmth, you lay tucked against his side, your cheek pressed flat against his muscled chest, listening to the steady thudding of his heart while his long arm wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

You stared into the soft darkness, tracing a light circle over his chest. “What do you think about going back to High Camp?” you asked softly.

Neteyam stiffened instantly beside you, his breath hitching before his eyes snapped down to look at you, wide and suddenly laced with absolute horror. “Baby, surely you are not kicking me back to High Camp?” he asked, his voice rough and panicked. “We have just reconciled. I want to stay. I am staying. I will never leave again. Besides... what if you get pregnant and I am not here?”

The sheer dread in his tone made you stifle a smile, but a soft chuckle eventually escaped you. You shifted, resting your chin on his chest so you could look at him properly. “I will be with you. Me and Nevan... we will all go back to High Camp together. What do you think of that?”

Neteyam blinked, entirely caught off guard, his ears twitching in confusion. “I... I don't know,” he murmured softly, his hand coming up to gently smooth down your hair. “You are safer here, baby. You and Nevan. And I don’t want to be away from you ever again...”

A sudden wave of warmth made your eyes tear up. “That is why we are coming,“ you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You will never be apart from me again. From us. But... that doesn't mean you have to stop doing what you worked your entire life to prepare for,” you stared at him, “I fell in love with a warrior, Neteyam. I mated with a warrior. You are a leader to the people, and I shouldn't have made you choose between your duty to them and your duty to your heart. I meant what I said earlier, baby. We are all learning. I will always be here to support you now, and I will never leave your side. So... I think we should go back. But only if you want it.”

Neteyam stared at you, his own eyes growing misty in the dark. The crushing weight he had carried seemed to fully lift, replaced by a profound peace. Without a word, he pulled you up by your waist, bringing your lips down to his in a deep kiss that tasted of absolute gratitude and a love that grew even deeper and larger.

The next say, Maytel returned your son the moment the morning sun broke over the terraces. His teasing, knowing eyes were incredibly annoying as he took in your flushed skin and Neteyam’s completely relaxed posture, but you chose to ignore his smirks, focusing instead on your son who was as bubbly as ever, practically throwing his little body into your arms, eager to tell you everything about sleeping at his grandparents’ as if it was a vacation.

While you held Nevan, Neteyam stepped forward, his expression serious but entirely respectful. “Maytel,” he said, his voice deep. “Can we talk for a moment?”

Surprised, Maytel’s smirk faltered, his eyes darting quickly to you. You offered him a warm, reassuring nod and a smile, letting him know it was for something good. The two stepped outside onto the platform, and though you couldn't hear the words, you watched as Neteyam clasped Maytel's shoulder in a gesture of gratitude.

Once the air was fully cleared, Maytel left with a promise of more pie for your son, who had just discovered that his parents completely finished off the pie Maytel brought yesterday.

“What would you like for breakfast, my little sun?” Neteyam asked, playfully tickling Nevan’s belly.

Nevan giggled, patting it as his chest puffed proudly. “I ate many smoked fish and... and kelp soup!”

You watched Neteyam chuckle, feigning surprise for his son’s entertainment. “Oh! You already ate, huh? No wonder your belly’s so rooound.” Neteyam bent down a little to blow air into Nevan’s belly, sending your son into a fit of giggles as he threw his head back in laughter.

You leaned your cheek against your son’s small arm, looking at Neteyam as you sat down on the mats of your receiving area. “Nevan,” you smiled, smoothing his little ear back. “How would you like to go on an adventure? We are flying back to Grandma and Grandpa.”

Nevan’s eyes went completely wide, his little tail swishing frantically against your leg. “To see the big ikrans? With Papa?” he squealed, jumping straight into Neteyam’s arms and hugging his neck tightly.

Neteyam melted against his son, his eyes crinkling with absolute adoration that made your smile grow wider. Later that night, you trekked up to your parents’ hut to bring a pie you made and to discuss with them your plans to go back to High Camp. Neteyam took his time sincerely apologizing to your parents who kindly dismissed his apology, gently reminding him that your forgiveness was the only kind that mattered and it clearly seemed like you had given it.

The flight back to High Camp was long and carefully calculated. Neteyam took no chances with your and Nevan’s safety, choosing to fly his ikran yards ahead of yours, scouting the valleys first, taking a much longer, winding route to completely avoid the coordinates he knew were patrolled by the RDA.

When your ikrans finally landed on the rocky ledges of High Camp where you were welcomed back with a small, joyous celebration. Jake and Neytiri were the first to embrace you, their eyes shining with relief to see their eldest son whole again, while the council looked on with relief to have Neteyam back into the fold.

But the moons he spent just learning the rhythm of the world with you and Nevan seemed to have ingrained themselves deeper than his warrior routines. Now, he couldn’t leave the hut without sharing breakfast with you, his large hands gently guiding his son’s tiny fingers over his food to teach him how to eat on his own before heading out to the scouting decks.

Then, he would return at midday to spend the eclipse with you, helping put Nevan down for a nap before heading back out to coordinate the perimeters. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, he was home for the night, stripping off his weapons and warrior gear to belong entirely to you.

He still couldn’t believe how stupid he had been. Even though you had forgiven him, insisting that you both made mistakes because you were still just learning, he believed he should have known better. Now that he was able to manage both of his lives so seamlessly, he couldn't understand how he had let the war consume him so completely before, letting years pass making you feel neglected and thinking he had chosen his duty over you, his heart.

There are nights though, where the weight of his duty still clawed at his shoulders. After an armed encounter with the RDA during his patrols, he still tried to come home as early as possible, his body rigid and vibrating with tension. You had already blew the firelight dimmed by the time he arrived from the council, his movements hurried and when he saw that Nevan was already asleep in his hammock, you saw his shoulders slumped, his face crumpling in controlled distress.

You stood up, welcoming him to help bim remove his cummerbund and weapons, hanging them on a rack. “Has he been asleep long?”

“Only because he played too much with the other kids earlier,” you told him, chuckling as your hands caressed his shoulders. “He could barely eat his dinner, his eyelids were already drooping.”

He looked down at his son, his large caressing the boy’s head. “I’m sorry, I came home late...” he mumbled.

You bit your lip. “Neteyam...” you hugged him from the side, kissing his shoulder, feeling the tension in them soften a bit. “I heard of the encounter. Tell me what happened...”

Your hands gently worked through the knots in his shoulders as he spoke, his voice dropping into that low, tense cadence. “The skirmishes have escalated, baby,” Neteyam muttered, his jaw tightening as he stared blankly at his hands. “It’s only been three moons since we came back, and the RDA patrols are pushing further into the southern valley. Earlier, they nearly pinned my scouts against the ridge. I almost called in a full air strike, but the canopy was too thick. I had to pull them back. Lo’ak thinks we should ambush their next supply line there, but... the risk is too high.”

You stopped massaging his shoulders and shifted, angling your head so he had to look at you. “You did the right thing by pulling back,” you said softly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from you in all the years I’ve known you is that you are not impulsive. You are not a warrior who wants only victory. I think... they are baiting you and they are expecting an ambush on their supply line. Eywa has given us enough to fight the demons, ‘teyam. Perhaps you could change your flight paths, lead them toward the weeping bogs where their heavy metal suits can't tread. Let the forest do the fighting for you.”

Neteyam blinked, a sudden, quiet clarity washing over his stressed features. He let out a long breath through his nose, his lips parting as a humored, thoroughly impressed smile broke through his tension. “See, this is why I’m not performing well in the moons you were not with me...” he pulled you for a kiss.

You smiled, “And that’s completely my fault, I think,” you whispered. “Mind if I make up for it?”

His eyes narrowed a little as you slowly sank to your knees in front of him. His breath hitched in his throat, his hands coming down to rest heavily on your shoulders as your hand moved to his loincloth to palm his hard on, biting your lips when you found him already hard, responding to your show in an instant. You stroke it for a moment before moving the fabric aside to let the thick, throbbing length spring free.

You wrapped your hand around the base of his girth, sliding your palm up to feel the heavy ridges snaking along his length, looking straight up into his eyes, you leaned forward and opened your mouth, sliding your lips over the wide head of his cock. Neteyam let out a low, ragged groan, his knuckles turning white as he gripped on the nearest rack.

You kept an unbroken, intense eye contact as you took him deeper, your throat stretching to accommodate his impressive length, pumping your hand at the base while your mouth worked relentlessly, sucking the sensitive head before sliding all the way down until your nose pressed into his pelvic, the heat of his cock filling your mouth.

“Fuck, baby...” he choked out, his head tossing back for a second before your firm gaze anchored him right back to you.

His large hand came down, caging your jaw to keep your face tilted up toward his. His eyes darkened as he began to move his hips, delivering restrained thrusts straight down your throat. You took every inch of him, your eyes watering slightly from the depth, but you never broke your stare. You sucked harder, swirling your tongue around the ridges, driving him absolutely mad with the tight, wet friction of your mouth.

His breathing turned into frantic, ragged huffs as his thrusts became faster, deeper, completely losing his hard-earned discipline warmth of your mouth. “Fuck, you're so good to me...”

The veins in his neck strained, his jaw clenching as he reached his limit. He delivered three deep plunges into your mouth before his whole body stiffened, his thick, hot release pulsing down your throat. You swallowed every drop of his heavy warmth, your throat moving refusing to pull away even as he pulled you back.

When you slowly slid your mouth off his length with a squelching sound, he shivered, thinking it was over but when you dragged your tongue up to lick him entirely clean from base to tip, your eyes still locked onto his blown-out gaze, his knees buckled.

Neteyam looked entirely undone, his chest heaving as he stared down at you in pure, reverent worship. You licked your lips, smiling at him, while his hands lifted you up effortlessly. His arm wrapped around you, his lips crashing down on your lips at the same time your body landed on the hard planes of his. He groaning as silently against your mouth, his large hand groping your chest down to your waist and hips until it wrapped around the back of your thighs.

He lifted it up and knowing what he wanted, you hooked your arms around his shoulders before wrapping your other leg around him. His hard length was already hardening again against your thigh, and with a swift wipe aside of your loincloth, he drove into you, fucking you with a ferocity that made you feel exactly the tension that was engulfing him the whole day.

You pursed your lips to and buried your face face against the crook of his neck to muffle your pleasured sounds as his fingers dug into your hips, relentlessly moving your over his cock.

“I love you,” he groaned, way louder than he should.

“Neteyam!” you whisper-shouted, your fingers on his scratching.

He chuckled, his head angling to press his lips against your cheek, groaning as muffled as possible, but still letting you know how good he's feeling as your warmth enveloped him tightly. You let out a pleasured huff when he shivered against you, spilling his warm seed inside you, and triggering your own release.

He groaned again, but as silent as he could now, his hand working on the ties of your loincloth behind you, shedding it off you without removing himself from you. He lowered you down on the soft furs, his cock slipping out a little when he removed his own loincloth. He spread your legs wider to slip it back in though, lowering himself to kiss you softly.

Hours later, the frantic heat had settled into a soft, exhausted warmth. You lay tangled together on the messy furs, your head resting on his chest while his arm was around your waist.

“Thank you, my love,” Neteyam murmured into the dark, his fingers gently tracing patterns along your arm.

You let out a soft, sleepy giggle, pressing a light kiss against his bare chest, listening to the steady, peaceful rhythm of his heart. “Someone has to keep the commander grounded.”

The peace in the weeks that followed was a precious, yet stolen gift, because with the encounters along the borders growing increasingly volatile, you knew it would soon reach a tipping point. What began as scattered, desperate shootouts quickly spiraled out of control, and Jake found it better to lead an offensive attack before the demons pushed deeper and harder against the resistance.

So, when Toruk Makto took to the sky once more, High Camp emptied. Neteyam kissed your lips until they were bruised and held Nevan so tightly the boy let out a confused whimper, before taking to the sky on his ikran, his jaw set with the determination of a man fighting to make sure that his children would never know the shadow of a gunship.

While the sky in the distant horizons burned with the smoke of explosions, you remained in the deep caverns of High Camp, sitting among the circle of women, your fingers tightly interwoven with Kiri’s, while Mo’at led the low, rhythmic chanting, praying to the Great Mother for the battle’s success.

Every breath you took felt heavy, not just from the fear for your husband, but from the secret you had yet to tell him. You had known for a few weeks now. You were pregnant.

You chose not to tell him at the height of the planning the offense, wanting him focused entirely on staying alive, but Nevan had practically been manifesting it. Ever since one of his playmates’ mothers had given birth to a tiny, squirming infant, your son had been absolutely obsessed with the concept.

Just days before the warriors marched, Nevan had sat on the mats, badgering you both with endless demands. “Want one of those at home, Mama! To play with!”

Neteyam had just laughed, sweeping the boy up into his powerful arms to cradling him against his broad chest like an infant to distract him. “But you are still our baby, my boy,” Neteyam had teased, his voice thick with affection as he brushed the tip of his nose against Nevan's. “You are always Mama and Papa’s baby.” Nevan had thrown his head back, giggling frantically, completely forgetting about the talk.

Now, clutching your flat stomach in the dim light, you whispered a prayer to Great Mother Eywa to bring that doting their father back to you. Whole and safe. You didn’t realize how much of a pressure it would be to be his wife during a major battle. Even in your distress, you needed to put on a calm facade and show the other women the tranquility that should belong to a wife of a warrior.

Fortunately, even before night fell, Eywa answered your prayers in the thunderous, victorious roars of ikrans echoing through the mountains.

The people had won. The clans Toruk Makto had united once again cleansed Eywa’eveng of the evil the sky people brought upon your world. Tuk roamed around chirping about reports on how the war party blew up Bridgehead, crushing the RDA’s main stronghold and ensuring they won’t bounce back as quickly as they usually should, with Jake leading the talks to force them back to the sky.

High Camp exploded into a frenzy of celebratory flutes and drums as the warriors touched down, their wives and children welcoming them with tears. Through the crowd, you spotted him. Neteyam leaped off his ikran, covered in soot and paint, his braids wild. The moment his eyes found yours through the throng, his fearsome warrior mask completely shattered, walking faster to get to you.

“Papa!” Nevan sprinted toward him and Neteyam caught the boy in his arms, before colliding into you with a force that lifted you off your feet, his massive arms wrapped around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he breathed in your scent, desperate to replace the stench of burning metal.

“I'm back, baby,” he choked out, his voice rough against your skin.

You held his face, tears streaming down your cheeks as you kissed him desperately. Nevan was already pulling at his father's braids, forcing him away from you, making both of you laugh. Neteyam pressed fierce kisses all over the boy’s face, and you did the same, making Nevan giggle, his neck scrunching in ticklishness.

The celebration for the victory began as night fell, all the torches and firepots were lit, glowing brighter than it ever had before. Even the moons cast down a glow different than the ones you’ve had in the past years, as if they were breathing more peacefully, too.

As the drums beat steadily in the background, Neteyam sat with you at the edge of the gathering, his arm anchoring you to his side while a thoroughly exhausted Nevan curled up asleep against his thigh. Neteyam looked down at his son, a soft, content smile resting on his lips, before his eyes drifted back to you, brimming with an unburdened, quiet adoration.

“We can build anything now,” Neteyam whispered, his large hand lifting to cup your nape, massaging a little. “A real future. Just you, me, and our boy.”

You smiled, your heart hammering a joyful rhythm against your ribs. You took his large hand, slowly guiding it away from yours and placing his wide palm flat against your lower stomach.

Neteyam blinked, looking down at his hand on your belly, then back up at your face. He froze, his ears twitching as he caught the blooming, emotional heat in your eyes.

“Baby...?"” he breathed, his voice suddenly trembling, the fierce commander completely replaced by the image of a stunned, hopeful boy you had grown up with.

“I can’t believe you’re surprised,“ you playfully widened your eyes at him.

He chuckled, and even through that, you saw a tear slipped down his cheek. “Right. Like I wasn’t actively aiming for that.”

You huffed a chuckle through your nose. “Nevan is going to get his wish,” you whispered, “You are going to have to practice cradling another baby very soon, Neteyam.”

A breathless, ecstatic laugh erupted from his chest. He didn't care who was watching; he leaned forward and captured your mouth in a deep, bruising kiss, his large hand trembling where it rested over the new life you were carrying.

“I will be here now. Always. To hear her first laughs, first words, and to watch her first steps...” he mumbled against your lips.

You smiled, your eyes locking onto his. “Her?”

His smile grew. “I just had little you in mind.”

[jiminie-08]

Such a great fic!! The angst is absolutely DIVINE🤌🏽🔥 such great writing, and the smut just added to it all💖😍😩

[neteyamthinker]

hopelessly devoted

pairings neteyam x omatikaya!female reader

notes friends to lovers, slow burn, heavy pining, down horrendous neteyam, inexperienced neteyam and reader, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), dry humping

synopsis for twenty-two generations, your father’s family has guarded a sacred legacy: one woman will choose a life of solitude and remain unmated for life for the service of the great mother and the people. you decided it will be you now... except for one problem. neteyam. the boy who has looked at you with quiet and unwavering devotion since you were children.

word count 19.2k

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You sat perfectly upright in the healing pavilion, your fingers meticulously sorting herbs as Kiri hummed softly beside you, a little unfocused as she sorted her own set of herbs. She has always been a little too connected to the forest and all its creatures. Once, when you were children, she’s told you about how she can feel Eywa in every plant, and every animal that crawls and walks.

You believed her without thinking twice. You wished you could connect to Eywa the same way she does, because it is your greatest dream to follow the path of your great aunt, Äye. You could see her now in your mind’s eye, her skin mapped with the lines of nearly eighty years of wisdom. She has been serving Eywa and the people since the Tsahik that Mo’at succeeded, so her counsel is sought on all matters of faith and ritual, even by Mo’at.

For the past twenty-two generations, a woman in your father’s family chooses the same path. They are women who belonged to no man, but to the Great Mother and the people. You aspire to be just like all of them. Your great aunt is the blueprint of your soul, so at twelve years old, you had already decided to tuck away your heart, to pay attention to no boy in the clan, preparing your life for one of worship.

“He didn't even look back once,” Yaremu’s voice pulled you away from your thoughts, her chin now rested in her hands as she neglected the poultice she was supposed to be thickening. “Neteyam, I mean. He’s so focused... Remember what the elder hunters said about the sturmbeest hunt? My uncle said it was the cleanest kill he’s seen from a boy of thirteen years. Not a single wasted movement.”

“And those eyes...” Another girl, Tasi, gushed, her tail twitching with excitement. “He’s going to be such a strong Olo’eyktan one day. Imagine being the one who gets to stand beside him.”

You kept your head down, making their chatter a background sound to your more interesting work of grinding your herbs on a mortar.

“Kiri,” Tasi whispered, leaning in closer. “Since you’re the sister. Is he always like that? And what about Lo'ak? Just the other day, he teased me about my braids and I know I ought to hate it, but he’s so cute I forgot to be annoyed!”

Kiri, who was lazily braiding a length of vine, gave a lopsided grin. “Lo’ak is… well, Lo’ak. He’s a total boy. He spends half his time trying to prove he’s a man and the other half being rowdy and disobedient. He doesn't know when to be quiet.“ She rolled her eyes.

You nodded in agreement while the girls giggled.

Yaremu pressed on, “And Neteyam?”

“Neteyam is alright,” Kiri said, shrugging. “He’s the eldest, after all, so he has a lot to do. He takes care of us when Mom and Dad are not around, and since he’s a hunter now, he’s mostly out.”

“He's so handsome,” Yaremu breathed, nudging you. “Don't you think so, too? He’s always in front of you when we study. Surely you’ve noticed how good he looks when the sun hits his shoulders?”

You paused your grinding, your brows already furrowed. You did not notice that at all. You felt the weight of their gaze, three pairs of eyes curiously waiting for what you have to say. “I notice that his grinding technique is sloppy,” you said, your voice flat. “And that he distracts the circle with their nonsense. If he is to be a leader, he should learn that a healing pavilion is a place of silence, not a stage for his friends to sneaker and fool around.”

The girls exchanged looks, suppressing smiles and rolling their eyes playfully. Tasi bumped her shoulder against yours. “You’re always too serious, sister! You can always study really hard and still have eyes in your head. Everyone should appreciate a beautiful hunter.”

A sudden, raucous burst of laughter was heard from outside the pavilion, making Yaremu and Tasi sit up straighter, going back to their works in an instant. It was a sound you knew very well and it always seemed to follow a particular group. Your cheeks burned, feeling like you’d been caught talking about him even though you were just answering questions! You sat properly, your jaw tightening a little as the voices grew louder, nearing the pavilion.

“Neteyam, you almost dropped it!” a voice boomed, followed by a chorus of snorts.

“I did not! It was Lo’ak, he bumped me!” Neteyam’s voice, already deepening, carried a playful defiance.

A small, knowing sigh escaped your lips. These interruptions are now a constant backdrop to your studies, and you hated it. They weren't even supposed to be here, especially Neteyam, who had just successfully passed his iknimaya and gone through his uniltaron, yet here they were, led by him, no less. You can’t even complain because even though they are rowdy, they are not only eager to learn, this is also beneficial to them as future warriors and hunters of the clan.

Neteyam himself proved to be an exceptional student in the art of healing, which you think is simply natural for him for he excels in everything anyway. He has earned so much praise from Mo’at’s assistant healers that they are now discussing a new initiative with the senior warriors: making first-aid training a requirement for every young warrior and hunter.

The bead curtain at the entrance of the pavilion clattered as the boys spilled inside. You saw Neteyam leading the way, his stride possessing a new, grounded grace since he became a full-fledged warrior of the clan following his iknimaya last season. Close behind were Lo’ak, who was busy trying to trip Atan, while Kipey struggled to carry a bundle of practice splints. Suddenly, the pavilion felt small and their boundless energy made you dizzy. The serene atmosphere you and the girls have earlier is now all but a thing of the past.

Healers Sayka and Jahi entered the pavilion not long after, and because you were looking at them, your eyes caught Neteyam’s and saw him already looking at you. You felt the fine hair on your nape standing up, a bizarre feeling that made you smoothly roll your eyes away, greeting the healers the same time they did.

“Find your places, quickly now,” called out Sayka, the senior assistant healer, as she walked down the aisle followed by Jahi. “The Great Mother does not wait for boys to finish their jests.”

The boys scrambled to sit. Naturally, Neteyam chose the spot directly across from you and your eyes met his again which you quickly averted by looking down on your pestle and mortar. He sat straighter and every time you reached for a new herb or adjusted your posture, you could feel his gaze, not heavy or lecherous, but steady nonetheless, as if he's focusing on a single star in the night sky to properly navigate in the air.

“We heard of the incident during the hunt three days ago,” Sayka began, her eyes landing on Neteyam. “One of the hunters took a horn to the thigh. Messy business,” all of you gasped. “Neteyam took care of the first aid. Didn’t you, Neteyam?”

Your eyes drifted to him and you saw him glanced at you before he turned to Sayka to silently nod at her.

“Tell the circle what the wound look like and what you did before the hunter was brought to the Tsahik.”

Neteyam shifted his focus to Sayka, though you felt the ghost of his attention still lingering on you. “It was a jagged gash,” he said, his voice grounded. “The horn had hooked the flesh, so it wasn't a clean line. There was a lot of blood...”

You watched for any fear or anxiety on his face, but there was none, only certainty and confidence that shouldn't belong on the face of a fourteen-year-old.

“And how did you respond?” Sayka pressed.

“I used a cloth tie as a tourniquet above the wound to slow the flow,” Neteyam explained. "Then I used river water to flush out the dirt. I didn't have any paste, so I just held a soft fortune leaf over it with steady pressure until we brought him to Tsahik.”

“Good. Simple and fast,” Sayka nodded and swept around with her gaze. “A jagged wound is not like a clean wound brought by the slice of a knife. If you have observed a clean slice, it most often closes on its own, but a jagged wound is an angry one. It stays open. Neteyam did well to flush it because with a jagged wound, the first thing to do is to clean it. Dirt hides in the flaps of the skin, so you must use cool, flowing water to wash away the debris. If anything is still inside, you leave it for the Tsahik, but if there’s none, you must clean it thoroughly.”

You nodded eagerly. You haven’t dealt with wounds like that before. Mostly, it was just scraped or small cuts. You wondered what a jagged wound actually looked like and debated whether to ask Neteyam for further details after the class is over. You took a thick and waxy dapophet leaf from the bundle Jahi was distributing. As the leaves were distributed, the quiet was immediately punctured by Lo’ak’s muffled snickering. He was leaning over to Kipey, whispering something about how Neteyam sounded like a “grumpy old grandmother” when he talked about bandages.

You felt a familiar spark of irritation, looking up to to fix the boys with a reprimanding glare, but your eyes didn't even make it to Lo’ak. They crashed into Neteyam’s instead and saw him already looking. The dappled sunlight filtered through the woven roof, casting golden patterns on him and for a moment, you understood what Yaremu was talking about. He is handsome, especially when bathed in sunlight.

You felt something in you flutter. Somewhere in your belly and it tickles. You parted your lips to let out an indignant huff, snapping your gaze away to fix it on Jahi when she spoke. The girls have instilled such ridiculous notions in your head and now, this is what happens!

“The leaves in your hands have a tough outer layer, but inside it is filled with fluid. Now, each of your leaves have a jagged cut you must stitch close,” Jahi explained and you smiled excitedly, looking down at your leaf and the stitching materials being distributed. “Remember not to pierce it too deeply or pull the edges too hard, because the juice might run out. This is similar to a wounded person, you wouldn’t want to pierce them too deeply or pull their skin too hard, would you? You must be mindful to the weight of your own hands.”

You concentrated on your work, carefully stitching the leaf back together. The girls are also silent, which is something you love about them, because nothing could take away their concentration from studying, not even the boy they’ve been mooning over minutes earlier. What annoys you, though, is that you are the one distracted. You could feel his constant glances on you and you decided you’re done with it.

You lifted your head to meet his eyes and you found him with his eyes already on you, as if waiting for the contact. It was infuriating. “Is there something wrong with my stitching, Neteyam?” you asked suddenly, your voice cutting through the silence.

The boys froze. Atan and Kipey exchanged wide-eyed looks.

Neteyam blinked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “No,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’re perfect. I mean, I mean your technique... It’s perfect. I was just looking to see... If I’m doing it right.”

Lo’ak cleared his throat and pretended to cover his face to cough, but his shoulders were shaking, and his face and neck darkened to purple. He was laughing. What’s so funny? You tilted your head and look at Neteyam’s leaf. He was doing it right. Your own face burned in embarrassment. Perhaps, he was truly just trying to look at yours to see if he’s doing his stitching right!

“I think yours is good. It looks like a clean stitch,” you said, returning to your leaf without waiting for a response.

“Thanks...“ he said, his voice still soft.

You heard the boys snicker and from your peripheral gaze, you can see them tease Neteyam with silent nudges. You looked at them and narrowed your eyes. The healers only left for a few moments and they are so rowdy again!

Neteyam, who had been grinning at something Lo’ak said, felt the weight of your gaze. You saw him turn, his golden eyes meeting yours, and his smile died instantly. The bravado drained out of his shoulders. He sat up straighter, his ears pinning back for a second before he composed himself into a mask of sudden, intense seriousness. Lo’ak started to let out another muffled laugh, but Neteyam’s elbow caught him sharply in the ribs.

“Shut up,” Neteyam whispered at his brother before clearing his throat and looking down at his own leaf with the intensity of a scholar.

The rowdiness of the boys died down into a strained, respectful silence, all because you had looked at Neteyam. Kiri turned to you with a knowing, almost mischievous glint in her golden eyes. You fixed her with a confused look and she shook her head, softly chuckling to herself.

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You stood in a drawn circle at the training ground with your bowstring drawn back against your cheek. Tasi and Yareumu had already abandoned their targets, preferring to sit in the shade and braid flowers into each other's hair, giggling as they watched the young warriors spar in the ring. All four of you decided to train in archery just last season, but the two of them, including Kiri last week, already gave up on their trainings, citing its futility in the path they are choosing.

Two years had passed and the soft roundness of your childhood had now sharpened into lean, graceful lines of a young lady. At fourteen, the weight of the path you’re forging for yourself is no longer just a dream, but more and more like a shape forming true. You wanted to be of full service to the people, not just as a healer, but as a protector as well, even though you will not be Tsahik. So now, you’re planning to tame an ikran just like Kiri had the year before.

“It’s too much work for my arms,” Tasi sighed, waving a dismissive hand at her discarded bow. “Besides, why do I need to be an archer if I am to be a healer?“

“Because a healer must sometimes be the one to keep the patient alive before the wound is attended to,” you replied without looking back, releasing the arrow. It thudded into the center of the mossy target with a satisfying thwack.

“You are always so serious,” Yaremu teased. “Look, even the boys have stopped their sparring to watch you. Jeto looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.”

You didn't spare them a glance. You think boys are stupid... Some of them have already wasted half an hour watching and hooting at your every move. The same bunch even tried to invent “accidents” in the past moons just so you would look at them. If Neteyam hadn’t scolded them, they would have continued distracting you in your trainings. Fortunately, they’ve stopped now... But the annoyance of their constant attention has not ceased.

Neteyam stood with Kiri far behind you, supposedly discussing your plan to go up the Hallelujah Mountains soon to tame an ikran for yourself, but he couldn’t help but watch you, his ears tuning out everything Kiri was saying.

You seemed so uncaring of the boys’ antics, your chin tilted high, your air always radiating that quiet, indifferent coldness that made you seem miles above the dirt of the training ground.

“She’s such a snob,” he heard one of the boys mutter behind a rack of spears.

“As if it’s your first time. Keep doing nonsense and she’ll keep ignoring you!” Another replied, followed by a chorus of laughter.

Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, a familiar surge of irritation rising in him. Of course. Other boys saw in you what he saw, but he couldn't pretend you were exclusively his to appreciate. Everyone admired you, from their parents to the children, the girls and the boys. And he couldn’t claim to be so different from them...

He had known for a long time exactly what you were to him.

“Neteyam? Are you even listening?” Kiri’s voice poked through his trance. She was leaning against a wooden rack, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as if she knows a secret he doesn’t. “I said the wind currents near the mountains are shifting. If she’s going up in three days, we need to leave earlier."

Neteyam cleared his throat, adjusting the strap of his knife sheath to hide his flustered state. “I heard you. The eastern peaks. I’ll make sure the gear is ready.”

He stepped forward, his shadow touching the edge of your circle. He didn't hover or said anything stupid like the other boys. He’s a boy of sixteen years now, much more matured than the boy he used to be, and somehow, you’ve separated him entirely from the others. You respect Neteyam. He is the future of the clan after all, the next in line to the Omatikaya leadership, and nothing about his presence demanded anything from you.

He waited for you to release your final arrow before he spoke. “Your draw is getting faster,” he noted, his voice an octave lower, and Kiri couldn’t help but snicker at her brother’s attempt to make his voice sound manlier in your ears.

“I have been practicing,” you said, lowering your bow, turning to face him. Your expression was the same mask of cool indifference you wore for everyone, but your eyes lingered on him a fraction longer than they did on the others and sometimes... When it lingered too long, you can feel your belly do the thing. The crazy thing.

He tilted his head and your eyes fluttered, not knowing what to track. Dappled sunlight was on him again and his braids were longer. It annoyed you to think that no boy in the clan is as handsome as him... And perhaps your friends are right. Eywa gave the people a vision to appreciate beauty.

“I can tell,” he said, his voice soft as though he wanted only you to hear what he's saying. “But you’re gripping the bow too tightly. Your hand will cramp and it won’t be good for our climb in two days.”

“I will adjust it,” you said, tearing your gaze off of him.

“You should,” he replied, stepping a bit closer, effectively blocking the view of the snickering boys behind him. “If you’re going to tame an ikran, you can't afford a cramped hand.”

You nodded once, adjusting your hand on the bow. Neteyam watched you adjust your grip, his eyes tracing the line of your knuckles until they softened. He felt a fierce, silent satisfaction in the way his body acted as a shield between you and the persistent stares of the other boys. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way about his possessiveness... The first thing an eldest brother like him ever learned was to share... And yet.

Two days later, you found yourself climbing what seemed like a never-ending vine path upwards. You see nothing below you but mist and hear not but the splash of a distant waterfalls and heavy breathing from the three of you. From his position just behind you on the vine paths, Neteyam found it difficult to focus on the climb.

His eyes were constantly drawn upward to the way you moved. You climbed with a desperate kind of grace, your fingers gripping the ancient roots with a strength that made his chest ache. He saw the sweat beads glistening on your temple and the way your jaw remained set in that stubborn resolve.

Every time you reached a treacherous gap, he felt his own breath hitch. He wanted to reach out, to catch you or guide you, but he knew better. He knew you wouldn’t like being treated more than a casual peer, so he was careful with everything he did, determined not to be shut out like the other boys.

When you all finally reached the summit, he handed you a waterskin and a woven cloth to wipe your sweat with before he even thought of his own thirst and sweat. Though you had your own supplies, you accepted them, only realizing later as you drank the cool water that he’d given you his. He was already focused on watching the ikran, calmly assessing them without bothering to wipe his sweat.

“Hoo! That was one hell of a climb,” Kiri said, drinking from her skin. “You ready?”

You nodded, untying your own waterskin and stepping closer to Neteyam to hand it to him. “You gave me yours,” you said, your eyes sharp and reprimanding, assuming he was too tired to remember you had your own. He accepted it, but you pulled back and opened the lid for him. As your attention shifted to the shrieking, flapping ikran, you missed the way his eyes flared with surprise and intense attraction. Kiri saw it, though, and chuckled to herself. You turned to Neteyam again.

Before he could even get another sip, you huffed, your eyes eyeing the beads of sweat rolling down his temple that was, frankly, getting on your nerves. You grabbed your own woven cloth, your hand wrapping around his forearm. “Hold still,” you muttered, stepping into his personal space.

You didn't dab at him gently. Instead, you used firm strokes, wiping his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Your brow furrowed in a small scowl as you moved to his neck. He was standing perfectly still, his breath hitching as he looked down at you. He didn't care that you were practically buffing his skin raw, because to him, the rough friction felt like a brand. He wasn’t asking for reward, but don’t mind if he greedily enjoys this. He leaned into it a fraction, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm that had nothing to do with the climb you all had just finished.

“There,” you said, finally satisfied. You shoved the cloth into his hand and his fingers touched yours. “Now drink. We don't have all day.”

You turned back to the ikran, missing the dazed, lopsided grin he directed at the back of your head. Kiri, standing a few feet away, just shook her head and gagged quietly. Could there be a worse nightmare for a 15-year-old girl than watching a romance unfold between her older brother and her best friend?

“I’m ready now,” you spoke, doing small jumps on the balls of your feet.

“Good luck,” Neteyam said in a hoarse voice, staying back with Kiri.

His heart hammered against his ribs like an forest ikran trapped in a vine as he watched you step onto the rocky arena, a lone figure among the beasts.

“Choose her,” he whispered under his breath, his fingernails digging into his palms. “See her as I see her.”

He watched a forest-green ikran lunge at you, its beak snapping with lethal intent. Most would have flinched, but you didn't. Neteyam’s breath caught in his throat, he practically stopped breathing as he watched you circle the beast, a blur of blue and shadow, as you dodge each of the beast’s attempt to strike.

When you finally leaped, clambering onto the beast’s neck and wrestling it toward the precipice, Neteyam took an involuntary step forward. His stomach dropping as he watched you both tumble over the edge, a chaotic mess of wings and limbs disappearing into the white abyss of the clouds. Your name tore at his throat, a shout full of fear. He was reminded of the many Omatikaya who died trying the same thing, and for a moment he felt his heart stop beating.

Silence stretched for eternity, both he and Kiri couldn’t talk, and then, a piercing shriek broke through the mist. Neteyam’s heart soared as you flew in the air, banked in a sharp, elegant curve. A lopsided grin broke through his mouth. You are now a rider. The way you sat atop the beast, your braids streaming behind you, and your face etched with a look of pure, wild triumph, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He didn't waste a second. He whistled for his own ikran that was flying aimlessly around the mountains. He mounted in one fluid motion and pushed his mount hard, diving into the sky to join you. As he pulled up alongside you, the wind roaring in his ears, he saw you look over.

The cold indifference was gone, burned away by the adrenaline of the bond. You laughed, a sound he had heard so rarely it felt like a gift, and for a second, his golden eyes locked onto yours.

I see you. I see you. I see you.

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You gripped the pestle as you grinded the dried roots on the mortar. This is one those days when your friends are not with you, leaving you alone in the quiet of the Tsahik’s tent. You’re not quite sure which version you enjoy better, and you were just deciding that you actually like the peace and quiet when the flap burst open. Kiri stumbled in, her hair a mess and her expression frantic. In her arms, a very energetic and chunky Tuk was squirming, trying to catch a glowing fly.

“Oh, thank the Great Mother, you’re here,” she gasped, nearly dumping Tuk onto your worktable. “Grandmother just sent word. She wanted me to assist her in sister Tayke’s birth, apparently it’s complicated. Mom and Dad won't be back until eclipse. I have to go.”

You looked up from the tray of dapophet leaves you were sorting, blinking in surprise. "Kiri, I have three tinctures to finish before—”

“Please!” Kiri pleaded. “Neteyam is on patrol, Lo’ak is busy training the young ones, and Tuk is… Well, I can’t bring her with me. You’re the only one I trust not to let her eat a poisonous berry or wander off and fall to her death.”

You looked down at Tuk, who was now pulling at your medicine pouch with a wide, toothy grin. You felt warmth in your chest and your eyes soften, Kiri knew you were sold. “Fine,” you sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You’re a life-saver! Literally!” Kiri shouted over her shoulder as she vanished back out of the tent.

For the first hour, it was chaos. Tuk treated the healing tent like a playground, toddling around and stacking your mortar bowls into towers and trying to “heal” her woven doll with the rarest medicinal pastes. But as the sun began to dip, her energy flickered out. The excitement turned into a sudden realization that she was tired and her mother wasn't there. Her small lips began to tremble, then came the first sob.

“I want Mama,” she said in a small voice, sending a pang to your chest.

“Oh, Tuk-tuk, no, don't cry,” you murmured, quickly moving to her. You scooped her up, tucking her small, heavy body against your chest.

You began to pace the length of the tent, swaying slowly which you had seen the mothers do a thosuand times. You hummed a low melody that seemed to soothe the child. Slowly, the wails turned into soft hiccups, and then into the deep breathing of sleep. You stayed there, standing in the center of the tent, swaying gently and feeling a strange, quiet peace settle over you.

Until the silence was broken by the soft thuds of footsteps outside. Neteyam moved the flap open, his large frame nearly filling the entrance. He had a large, bundled wrap of fortune leaves, the ones you had mentioned needing a few days ago. He had gone straight from his shift to the high ridges just to find them for you.

He stopped mid-stride, his breath catching in his throat at the sight.

He had expected to find you hunched over your work, with your brow furrowed in concentration. This was the last thing he would have expected seeing. The low glow of the hanging firepot illuminated the side of your face and the soft curve of your arms as you cradled his sister. You looked radiant, your face devoid of the mask of cold indifference you wear like an armor. From his current view, you are something warm, something attainable, something his.

Neteyam felt a surge of heat in his chest that made his pulse thrum in his ears. He noticed, with a sudden and sharp clarity, how the last few years had finished their work on you. The slight softness of the girl he used to trail behind had vanished, replaced by the striking, lithe form of a woman. Your beauty, the confidence in the way you stood, and the depth in your gaze all felt like a challenge to everything he knew about your vows. He knew of your great aunt Äye, he knew the weight your family’s traditions. But seeing you there, swaying his sister to sleep, made his heart ache with a hunger that no amount of prayer could suppress.

You turned your head slowly, your eyes widening as you saw him. “Neteyam,” you breathed, your lips curving into a soft, genuine smile.

It didn't help with the delusions he was currently having.

For you, the sight of him was no less of a shock. You were no longer the twelve-year-old girl who was simply annoyed by a rowdy boy. Now, those “stupid” teenage flutters in your belly had evolved into something more. Looking at him now, you felt a creeping heat settle on your nape and spread down your spine.

He had grown so much. He was so much taller and broader, his skin mapped with faint scars, and his golden eyes carry a depth that made you feel exposed. You hated how handsome he had become and how his presence seemed to command the very air in the tent. You looked at the heavy muscles of his arms, then back to his face, and felt a wave of shame.

These are bad thoughts, you scolded yourself, even as your heart hammered a rhythm of betrayal against your ribs. Your skin was tingling and you were practically fighting not to hug Tuk against you harder in your attempt to quell it. A woman on your path should not hunger for the touch of a man! But as your eyes met his in the dimmed light, the ’path’ you had walked so carefully for years suddenly felt terrifyingly narrow.

“You're back,” you whispered. “Kiri said you were on patrol.”

“I was,” he managed to say. He didn't move to put the leaves down. He didn't want to break the tether of this moment. “I found what you needed. Kiri said you were planning to go and get them yourself. Don’t want you going to the ridges on your own.” His head tilted, a brow rising in challenge.

“I’m perfectly capable of navigating the ridge, you mighty warrior. Thank you very much,” you countered, though the bite in your voice was softened by the warmth in your eyes as you swayed Tuk. “I’ve had my ikran for years now. Or did you forget who beat you in that race to the mountains last moon?”

Neteyam let out a short, huffed laugh, finally moving into the tent. “I didn't forget. I merely allowed the lady a moment of glory. It’s called being a gentleman.”

“It’s called being slow,” you shot back, a genuine smirk breaking through your face.

He reached out then, his large hands moving toward the sleeping toddler in your arms. “Here, give her to me. You looked like you’ve stood here for an hour already, I’m sure your arms are ready to fall off.”

As he leaned in to take her, Tuk stirred. Instead of reaching for her brother, she let out a tiny, sleepy whimper and buried her face deeper into the crook of your neck, her small fingers clutching your necklace.

“Oh,” you both whispered at the same time.

“Aww,” you cooed softly, your heart vibrating in your chest, making you almost shiver.

Neteyam echoed the sound with a look of such raw tenderness crossing his face that you had to look away. He didn't pull back; instead, he leaned down and pressed a lingering, gentle kiss onto Tuk’s forehead. His face was inches from yours, the scent of mint and the heat of his skin registering to your senses. You felt like a puddle of candle wax. Soft, melting, and utterly ruined.

“I guess I’m stuck,” you whispered, your voice slightly breathless.

His eyes lifted to meet yours, flashing a smile that made your belly go crazy. “Then let me be of use,” he said, turning to your workbench. “Since your hands are full, tell me what to do. I’m at your command.” He raised a brow playfully.

You didn't hesitate. You needed your tasks done and if he wanted to stay, you’re done fighting the pull. For tonight. “Fine. Those fortune leaves you brought needed to be stripped and ground. Gently, Neteyam,“ you said in a stern voice.

“Oh, I know gentle,“ he quickly remarked, looking down at his leaves just as quick as if he didn’t want to see how you’ll react.

You felt your face heat up at his remark. It could be innocent, you know, but because your mind has thought of many bad things when it came to him, you can’t react properly anymore! Your eyes narrowed. “Just get to work. Don't use your warrior strength on them, or you’ll bruise it.”

He sat down, hunched over the mortar and pestle. The sight was so domestic and it felt dangerously right. You rubbed the soft skin on Tuk's back when she nestled to you. Neteyam looked up and you raised a brow. “How was the western perimeter?” you asked instead. "Kiri mentioned the trackers saw fresh signs of a palulukan near the falls."

Neteyam’s ears flicked. “They did. A big one, too,” he paused to wipe a stray bit of leaf from his thumb. “Apparently, it crossed their path the other day. They had to stay up in the trees for an hour just to let it pass.”

The conversation drifted into something comfortable and domestic. You asked about the next sturmbeest hunt, and he asked about the last herbs he’s given you that you turned into cooling salves. It was so easy, so natural, that you feel nothing but comfort and warmth.

“Is this enough?” he asked, holding up the mortar. The leaves had been transformed into a perfect, dark-green paste, the scent of crushed mint rising from the bowl.

“It’s perfect,” you said, stepping closer to inspect his work. “You’ve missed your calling, warrior. You’d make a fine assistant to Mo’at.”

“I think I’ll stick to my bow,” he teased, his voice dropping into that lower, private register. “Stirring pots is much more dangerous work. I might get ordered around too much.”

“You say that as if you don't enjoy it," you countered, meeting his eyes.

He wasn’t only enjoying it. He was happy. He was more than happy. Every time he glanced up and saw you cradling Tuk, a small child who share the same features he got from his mother, his mind went to places that felt both beautiful and forbidden. He dared to imagine a life where this wasn't a temporary favor for Kiri, but a permanent reality.

The teasing died away when you heard the horn for the evening meal echoed. You walked together toward the communal clearing, the weight of the sleeping child in your arms and Neteyam’s steady presence at your side giving you a sense of belonging that terrified you.

“Your parents aren’t back yet,” you noticed, glancing at the empty dais.

Tuk stirred in your arms, slowly waking up from her slumber. Her eyes drifted to Neteyam, dazed at first but when it registered that her older brother is in front of her, her eyes widened. “Neteyam!” her tiny voice a shrill.

You chuckled, handing her over when she wriggled in your arms, her own tiny arms reaching for Neteyam who readily accepted her with a huff. “Ow. So heavy,” Neteyam playfully said, blowing a kiss on Tuk’s chubby cheek before looking at you. “You carried this boulder for hours?” His free hand shot down to hold one of your arm, instantly massaging.

You chuckled, pinching Tuk’s cheek. “It's alright,” you said, noticing the inquisitive looks some people are giving the two of you. Your cheeks burned, quickly sitting down. Neteyam immediately followed, settling Tuk on his lap. He sat close, close enough that your thighs where brushing, and as the food was passed around, you naturally began to tear off small pieces of roasted fish to feed Tuk.

Across the fire, Lo’ak was huddled with Atan and Kipey. The three of them were barely eating, their heads bowed together as they whispered and pointed.

“Look at them,” Atan snickered, nudging Lo’ak. “If I didn't know better, I’d say the Tsahik’s seat was already filled.”

“Total parents,” Kipey whispered, grinning. “Neteyam looks like he’s ready for a family at nineteen.”

Lo’ak snorted, watching you reach over to wipe a smudge of juice from a stomping Tuk’s chin while Neteyam watched you with a look of such longing and admiration it was almost embarrassing to witness. “He’s gone,” Lo’ak muttered, shaking his head. “He’s been gone for years. He’s practically just waiting for her to melt up.”

“Nom nom!” Tuk said eagerly while a piece of the meat she was holding fell on your thigh.

Neteyam’s hand shot out to pick it up, quickly popping it into his mouth. You looked at him in disbelief. “That just fell,” you pointed out as you watched him chew.

“Not on the ground, but on your skin. That makes it a blessing,” he countered, his voice hummed with a playful vibration.

A blessing? You rolled your eyes away, focusing your attention on Tuk’s messy face to hide the flush creeping up your face. “You are disgusting,” you muttered, though there was no real heat in it.

“I’m efficient,” he corrected, leaning in closer so his shoulder brushed yours. “And hungry. Patrolling is exhausting work, especially when you’re looking for fortune leaves on the side.”

Tuk giggled, sensing the shift in energy, decided to pat Neteyam’s cheek with a sticky hand. “Neteyam silly!”

“See? Even the little one knows,” you teased, finally regaining your composure. You reached for a damp cloth to clean Tuk’s hand, but Neteyam beat you to it. His large fingers gently wrapped around his sister’s small wrist, wiping her palm with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

As you basked in the laughter of the people surrounding you, the thought of the solitary path you were always so sure of your entire life suddenly feel like a cold, lonely place that you didn’t notice you were already leaning closer to the warmth of Neteyam’s arm against yours. In that moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The sounds of voices and of hunters sparring in the training grounds grew louder as you hurried past, your arms filled with fresh bundles of sterilization moss and clean cloths. Mo’at had sent word about the labor of one of the pregnant women in the clan. You were in a hurry, your pace swift yet your spine remained straight, your chin tilted high, as per usual.

A hunter called your name from the weapon racks. “Careful there, the ground is uneven! Do you need strong hunter to clear the path for you?“

“She won't answer you, skxawng,“ another laughed. “Perhaps if you bring her herbs, or better yet, if you were a better warrior than Neteyam!”

“Just ask me to be the next Toruk Makto, why don’t you?” The former remarked sarcastically.

Neteyam watched from the sidelines, a senior warrior was talking to him but his gaze was busy tracking you, watching how you didn't even break your stride or tilt your head. Your chin remained high, your eyes focused on the path ahead. He had known for a long time that to you, the voices of men who call to you were merely just buzzing of summer insects, something too beneath your notice.

“I’ll work on that, brother, then I’ll get back to you,” he told the senior warrior, nodding to him seriously. The latter clapped his shoulder before walking away.

“What a shame,“ he heard one of the hunters mutter. “To have such beauty in the clan, only for it to be locked away for the Great Mother. She takes after Äye. She won't ever look at a man, let alone mate with one.”

“Unattainable,” heard another agree, sighing. “She’s like the High Peak. Beautiful to look at, but no one is meant to live there.“

Their conversation, though, halted instantly the moment Neteyam strode out from the shade. His eyes were dark and unimpressed as he looked at them, that even the hunters a few years older than him couldn’t help but look away.

“Is that what we do now?” Neteyam asked, his voice low but cutting. “Stand around the racks, bothering those on tasks for the Tsahik? Talking about our women with disrespect?”

The first hunter looked away, embarrassed. “It was just a joke, Neteyam.”

“Your mouths keep buzzing like forest insects,” Neteyam snapped, stepping forward so they were forced to look at him. “This constant hooting at her is getting old. Have you not outgrown it? She is doing important work for the clan. If I see the bunch of you doing anything other than training again, I will personally ensure all of you spend the rest of the moon cleaning the waste pits.”

They nodded efficiently, their faces the poster of good behavior, but Neteyam would remember. The next time this happens again, it won’t be just scolding they are getting. He remained standing there though, reflecting on what the hunters have said. None of it had been a lie and he’d felt the bitter, familiar spark of pride and pain flickered in his chest. They are right, he thought, you are unattainable.

He knew better than anyone the depth of your conviction. Over the past years, your quiet friendship had become the foundation of his life, but it was a foundation built on a boundary he could never cross. He had seen you at your most vulnerable and your most powerful, and in his heart, he had long ago committed a quiet kind of blasphemy. He worshiped Eywa the best he could, but you were his deity on land, one whose words he followed without question. One he guards with all of him.

Now, at twenty-one, he had become as reserved as you are, making a silent vow of his own: if you were to be alone, he would be alone with you. He would make a good Olo’eyktan but he didn’t need to be mated to ensure that. The tradition of the leaders being mated was a strong one, but Neteyam knew he could never give himself to another woman when his soul and his heart had long been claimed by a woman who belonged to the Great Mother. If friendship was all the nectar you could offer, he would live his entire life on that single drop.

He turned back to his warriors. He would lead, he would hunt, and he would protect. And in the quiet hours of the night, he would continue to love you from the distance you required, content to be the only man you didn't ignore, even if he could never be the man you held

Hours later, you are alone in the Tsahik’s tent, the adrenaline of the birth you assisted for the first time had yet to leave your system. You were wiping down a set of obsidian scalpels when the tent flap lifted, letting in the cool evening breeze that carried the familiar smell that always seemed to ground you.

Neteyam didn't speak at first, standing just inside the entrance. He had showered away the dust of the training grounds, his skin gleaming in the soft light of the firepot. You lifted your eyes, your lips still curved in a small, satisfied smile. You let your eyes do the thing they always do when he’s in front of you. Feast on. He was the very image of a future leader. Muscled, scarred, and radiating an authority that silenced most men with a single look.

“Hi,” you greeted.

His lips formed a boyish smile. “The village is finally quiet,” he said, his voice dropping into that private, velvet register. “Was the delivery alright? How was it?“

You sighed softly, and for the first time that day, your mark dissolved into a radiant, tired smile. “It was a boy,” you breathed, setting the scalpel down. “Healthy and loud. He didn't stop wailing until Mo’at placed him on his mother’s chest.“

Neteyam moved closer, leaning against a support beam near your herb rack. “And the mother?“

“Strong. She was incredible, Neteyam.” You moved to a bundle of dried leaves, your hands working quickly to sort them, your enthusiasm bubbling over. “But you should have heard Mo’at. While she was cleaning the babe, she looked at him and then looked at me and said, ‘this one is small. Neteyam, now, he was a giant. The biggest baby I have seen in all my cycles’. She said you were so large she nearly wondered if Neytiri had hidden a second child behind you.”

Neteyam’s ears flicked back, a rare flush appeared on his cheeks. He huffed a laugh, looking down at his large, callous hands. “A giant, was I? I suppose I’ve given my mother’s back quite the ache.”

You let out a genuine, silvery chuckle, the sound dancing through the quiet tent. “I truly wish I could have seen you then. You were the very first of your kind, your father’s blood... and that of ours. I’m sure you were beautiful.” you mused, your voice softening as you looked at him. You realized too late how that sounded, and you quickly turned back to your jars. “It is a wonder of Eywa.”

“Is that why you look at me so closely sometimes?“ he teased, stepping into your personal space to reach for a heavy jar on a high shelf you are struggling to reach.

“I do not look at you closely,” you lied, your heart doing that treacherous dance against your ribs as he reached over your head. His arm was a solid wall of muscle beside your ear, and the scent of mint enveloped you.

“You do,” he countered softly, handing you the jar but not pulling his hand away until your fingers were firmly around his. “You track my movements like I am a complex creature you are trying to categorize. It is quite intimidating, being under the gaze of the clan’s most devoted scholar.”

You rolled your eyes, though your hands were trembling. “You are imagining things. Why would I look at you...” Your lips pushed forward, your voice lacking bravado.

Your heart is beating too heavily against your chest and your palms are sweating. He notices. He knows your eyes are often on him. He knows you watch each of his movements, he knows you feel hot every time you see how his shoulder and chest significantly broadened and filled out with muscles, or how the sight of his muscled abdomen flexing makes your breath catch at your throat.

“Research? To see how the 'hybrid' grows?” he says, his voice too innocent.

Your teeth gritted at your attempt to stop a groan from escaping. You are going to hyperventilate! You cleared your throat. “Maybe,“ you managed to say, your voice tight as you gripped the jar he’d just handed you. “It is a healer's duty to be thorough. I simply... pay attention to detail.”

He chuckled while your face felt like it had been plunged into a firepot. Neteyam is too innocent, while your mind is filled with inappropriate thoughts that shouldn’t even be there in the first place. You are a woman firm on the sanctity of your path! For Eywa's sake, gather your wits!

“Well,” he murmured. “If the research is still ongoing, I suppose I am already here. Do you need to... measure anything else? Or is the height of the hybrid sufficient for today's report?”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was obviously teasing, his voice light and playful, but because you're guilty of your shameful thoughts, what is to him simple banter between friends is slow torture to you.

“I need to boil the nettles,” you said, abruptly turning your back you nearly bumped into a tray of obsidian.

Your hands trembled as you reached for a pot of water. Your mind, usually a home of prayer and medicinal formulas, was currently a chaotic mess. You’re both ashamed and shameless, because despite your guilt, you’re still thinking about how soft the chest on his skin looked in the light.

“You're using the cold-press pot for a boil,” Neteyam noted softly.

You felt him behind you, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder blades as he reached around you to get the correct ceramic vessel. For a heartbeat, you were encased in him. You could see the way the veins mapped his hands, hands that were built for a bow and arrow but also held the young with devastating gentleness.

Eywa, strike me down, you thought, squeezing your eyes shut for a fleeting second.

“Right. Of course,”  you choked out, grabbing the correct pot from him with an unusual rashness that his surprised eyes flitted up to meet yours.

“You seem distracted,” he said, his voice losing some of its playfulness.

Your brows furrowed, intending to give him a sharp dismissal, but your gaze caught on the way his lower lip was slightly tucked under his teeth, a habit he’d had since he was ten. It was so boyish, so familiar, and yet, on this man’s face, it was lethal.

“No, of course, not... I’m just tired. It’s been a long day,” you said.

He nodded, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray braid behind your ear. “I’ll work on that, you can go and sit down. I’ll clean up, too,” he said, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made you want to scream. His hand wrapped around your upper arm to gently nudge you away from the hearth.

“I can do it,” you said, though your feet were already moving.

“You've been on your feet since the first light,” he countered, his voice firm with that quiet authority he had perfected over the years. “Let me do it, alright? I’ve got so much energy to spare. I didn’t have patrol today, so I’m practically a live wire.”

He turned back to the hearth, his movements fluid and confident. You sank onto the woven mat and from this lower vantage point, the view was even more treacherous. You tried to look at the ceiling. You tried to recite the properties of your herbs. You tried to pray. But your eyes kept drifting back to the way the light of the flames danced across the broad expanse of his back, and the way his tail flicked in a slow, content rhythm as he worked.

“There,” Neteyam said after a few minutes, oblivious to the spiritual crisis happening three feet behind him. He set the pot to simmer and began to move around the workbench. “The nettles are on. I’ve organized the herbs, cleaned everything, and put the scalpels back in its place. Is there anything else, or can I walk you back home now so you can get a better rest?”

“I can walk myself,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly. You scrambled to your feet, desperately trying to reassemble the fragments of your dignity. “Thank you, Neteyam. For the... assistance.”

He stood by the tent flap, holding it open for you. He didn’t press, you know he never would. You passed by him and he gave you a small, tired smile. “Sleep well,” he murmured, your name on his lips a soft caress.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The summer heat had settled over the forest like a heavy, humid blanket, causing most Omatikaya youth to retreat to the river when the sun is at its high. Today alone, half the village had migrated to the banks, the air filled with splashes of water and sounds of laughter.

You sat on a smooth, warm boulder, the rock's heat seeping into your skin. Being bare was as natural as breathing for the people held no shame in the bodies Eywa gave them. Your legs were still submerged in the cold water as you eat the snacks you brought with you. Tasi and Yaremu were wading in the shallows nearby, their voices dropped to conspiratorial whispers that still carried easily over to you.

“He didn't stop there,” Yaremu was saying, her eyes wide and dancing with a secret, frantic energy. She was describing a rendezvous with her boyfriend las night, her hands gesturing toward her lower extremities submerged in the water. “He started at my ankles, and then… well, the way his tongue felt between my legs… I thought I was going to see the Great Mother right then and there.”

Tasi squealed and giggled, leaning in for more. “Was it better than the last time?”

“Oh, it was! It seems to get better and better, you know... We are exploring and learning each other’s bodies,” Yaremu grinned.

Tasi sighed dreamily. “I could say the same. But it’s the way he breathes against my neck that gets me,” Tasi whispered, her fingers tracing the line of her own collarbone. “The heat of it. And when he finally... when he enters, it’s like your whole body forgets how to be separate from his. You are basically a single entity, moving as one—”

Yaremu giggled, splashing a bit of water. “Oh, Great Mother! And the hands! How heavy they feel when they finally stop being polite and start claiming what they want.”

They both giggled, their bodies vibrating with frantic energy. Tasi looked at you and smiled a small one, “Oh, sister! I wish you could have experienced it... But the path reserved for the Great Mother is just as good,” she said.

You made a face of theatrical disgust. “Oh, don’t feel bad for me, sister, I’m not missing out. I can’t even imagine,” you said sassily.

But oh, that’s a big lie. Your mind, usually so disciplined, had been picturing a very specific set of calloused hands, a very specific weight. You saw them on your waist, just as Tasi had described, pulling you flush against the solid warmth of a very familiar body. You imagined the “weight” Yaremu spoke of, imagining how a certain body would weigh. Your mind even completed the picture by providing you with the familiar scent of mint and woodsmoke, you could actually smell it.

It’s like their words were seeds who fell into fertile soil, and now you felt a flush that had nothing to do with the sun.

That was when you saw him.

Neteyam was waist-deep in the deeper water a few paces away, his skin glistening. He was surrounded by a few other hunters, their voices a low drone but their laughter boisterous. He was mid-laugh, but anyone can tell his eyes would wander to you every now and then, because when his gaze drifted back to where you are, his laughter died down a little. His eyes locked onto yours, and the air between you seemed to burn.

There was no boyish embarrassment in the way he stared at you, no hurried glance at the sky. He watched you with a heavy, predatory stillness it made your nape feel like it’s burning as goosebumps pricked your skin. You are not ashamed in your nakedness, the people have always swam in the river like this, and nothing is new with seeing each other naked.

But the gaze of the man across from you had given you a defiant, primitive urge. Instead of hiding, you shifted. You leaned back on your palms, tilting your head to the side to let the sun hit your neck. You arched your spine slowly, a deliberate, feline stretch that pushed your chest forward. Your breasts, firm and perky, on display as the tips pebbled. You felt his eyes track the movement. From this distance, you could see his pupils blow wide, his tail breaking the surface of the water behind him in a sharp, agitated flick. He didn't move, but the tension radiating from him was palpable.

The tension followed you back to the village, and now, even as the sun dipped below the horizon and the communal fire dimmed, the memory of his gaze still made your skin hot. You were walking back to the Tsahik’s tent, intending to collect the herbs you dried and make the poultice you’ve been meaning to make.

The walk was silent, until it was broken by the sound of familiar footsteps behind you. You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. His scent had reached you and the air seemed to tighten, enough to tell you who it is. You plastered on a calm facade before you turned around, seeing him standing in the shadows, his silhouette tall and imposing, his breathing heavy as if he had run to get here.

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” he said, his voice a low, rough grate. He stepped into the light of the firepot, his expression uncharacteristically strained. “Earlier, at the river... I hope I did not frighten you.”

Your lower lip caught between your teeth. You remembered the way your body had reacted to him, the way you had arched your back, offering yourself to his eyes. The shame you expected to feel was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a blooming heat, and a frantic beating heart.

“I wasn't frightened,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper. You took a small, daring step toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m... I’m glad you saw me.”

Neteyam’s breath hitched, and then a huff of chuckle escaped his lips. What you said was just the surface, small in the vastness of what he had always held for you. “I have always seen you,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

It seemed so simple, and yet it was all he could say. He wanted to tell you the truth of it, how he had been here since you were children, since the first time you ever looked at him after he had become aware of his feelings. That there was never been anyone else he truly saw. But he would not frighten you. To know that you were not frightened of him after his boldness at the river had been a relief.

You smiled softly, a genuine, aching look that reached your eyes. “I know... I also know that not everyone does...” you said, your hand lifted to press a palm against his muscled chest.

You are perceived differently by everyone in the clan. Just like Äye, you will soon be seen more as a figure of religion or the shadow of the Great Mother. But in your most private daydreams... This man in front of you sees you as a woman... But even if you know that he does, your path does not lead to him. Your palm felt scorched where it touched his chest, feeling the powerful thud of his heart against your fingertips. He was flesh and blood and heat.

He took a half-step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “They are fools...” he whispered.

You knew you should pull back. You should change the topic and speak of the cooling salves or the morning rituals. But the memory of the river, of the way he had looked at you when you were bare and unashamed, was the only thought taking over your mind.

“Neteyam,” you breathed.

You voice was so soft, so lovely in his ears, that for the first time in his life, he dared to break through the boundaries. He leaned down, his movement slow, giving you every second to turn away. But you stayed. You stayed until his forehead and nose touched yours. You heart was beating too fast it was aching in your chest. You wanted to hold him, to grab him and hold him tight to you.

When his lips finally met yours, it was a collision of years of unspoken feelings and repressed hunger. You let out a soft sound into his mouth as your fingers curled into his chest strap, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you. The kiss was clumsy at first, the frantic meeting of two people who had only ever touched in dreams, but then his hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your braids to tilt your head just right.

As he deepened the kiss, his other arm wound around your waist, hauling you flush against the unyielding lines of his body. You felt the heat of his skin and the terrifying strength of his hold. For this one moment, the twenty-two generations of solitary women in your family were silenced. The path was gone. There was only the weight of his hands and the feel of his soft lips against yours.

When he pulled back, just an inch, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. He kept his arms locked around you, his chest heaving as he stared down at you with a look of pure, terrifying devotion. A huge smile sliced across your lips and he grinned, huffing a shaky laugh. You let a breathless laugh yourself, your fingers tangling in his braids.

“Are you making cooling salves? I can be of use. I make the best of them, you know that,” he said casually.

Your nose wrinkled. “I guess I’ll need the help,” you said, your eyes drifting back to his lips. “And the kisses, too.”

You startled when a thunder of laughter escaped him, pulling you to him for a more thorough hug. “Oh, my middle name has always been generous.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You felt his tail wrap possessively around your leg, a grounding, heavy weight as his mouth moved to the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder. Your head fell back, a soft, traitorous moan escaping your lips. “Neteyam...” you muttered breathily. “Don’t leave marks...”

“Hmm?” he hummed with humor, his mouth already sucking some skin into its warmth.

“Tasi pointed out... the marks on my neck the other day,“ you said. “I can’t keep telling her it’s insect bites.”

His body shook as he chuckled, lifting his head to press a kiss on your lips. Then his lips repeated a trail on your jaw, leaving wet kisses and licks, making you smile as you held him tighter. “Why... Can’t help it. You taste so good,” he murmured.

“I’m not a fruit,” you countered.

He hummed, sucking on your skin softly. “So sweet, nonetheless.”

You cupped his face, bringing it up so you could kiss him. You both have improved significantly in the past weeks, having found a different hobby aside from talking, when you two are alone. He helps you in the healing tent, but it’s not always that your companions are not around, like today. Kiri and Mo’at are in the tent, preparing for a severe injury a hunter got from a hunt. You had told Mo’at you will search for night-blooming lilies, but your feet had led you straight to where you knew Neteyam finished his scout rounds.

And now, you’re here, half-lying against a massive tree root, under the comforting weight of a warrior who couldn’t stop kissing you. He deepened the kiss and you felt his hand hover on your waist. One of your hands lowered to hold one of them and his hand immediately move to intertwine his fingers with yours.

You smiled, but that was not your intention. You brought his hand to one of your peaks, moving your top aside so his hand could touch the soft flesh bare. You gained a soft groan from him and he lifted his head to look at you. You rose to chase his lips, pressing his hand on your boob and moaning when he began kneading it.

“Yes...“ you mumbled.

His lips lowered down and you arched your back, waiting for his lips to reach your peaks, and when it did, you fought with your entire body just so you wouldn’t shake and buck. The sensation felt so good, it made you feel even hotter. It made you want to close you thighs, but because his body was between your legs, you could only buck against him.

“Oh...” you moaned, bucking against him again when you felt a hard ridge make contact with your clothed softness. “Neteyam...”

He hummed, his mouth full of your soft flesh, sending delicious vibration across your chest. You felt his hand move down to your hips, holding you in place before his hips came down on you, dragging that hard ridge you felt earlier across your crotch. You shivered, squeezing your eyes tight as you moaned. He repeated it again and again until you felt so ticklish in that spot between your legs, feeling a warm pool of liquid gushing out of you.

“Fuck,“ you heard him say, moving away from you a little to fumble at his loincloth. You felt a warm wetness land on your thigh and he groaned. “Fuck, sorry,“ his deep voice grated and you felt his hand, but you were already lifting your head to see.

You lips parted at the sight of his erected cock on display, a gasp escaping you. It was long and thick, its wide tip a flush of dark indigo, wet with his own release. Most of the glistening essence was on the floor and some were on your thigh. You genuinely didn’t know what to focus on. Your mind wandered to Tasi’s talks and this can’t possibly be the thing that enters a woman.

You curiosity got the better of you though, your hand shot down to grab it but his hand was faster, grabbing your wrist and moving it away. Your nose flared in annoyance and your eyes lifted to glare at him, but he met you with eyes that spoke of challenge.

“That's right. Keep your eyes up here,” he said in that private, lower register, his hand putting that thing back inside his loincloth.

You groaned and pulled your wrist from him. “I just want to touch it,” you whined.

He angled his head to kiss you. “Unless you want to drive me insane, you can’t,” his hand hovered over your thigh to wipe his release off of your skin.

Your hand shot down again, but this time, to dip a finger on his release, popping it to your mouth before he could even react. You were like a kid left unattended with a food that fell on the ground and he's the adult keeping you away from it, because now, he's staring at you both in surprise and wonder. You hummed at its surprisingly good taste and he wasn’t even able to stop you when you dipped a finger the second time around, scooping more essence, and keeping eye contact with him as if daring him to stop you.

You broke eye contact to look at it, intending to scoop down again but his hand already wrapped around your wrist, stopping you. You glared at him, groaning again, but he was already wiping your thigh clean with a piece of cloth. Your lips pushed forward, sad to see the essence gone. “You’re such a kill joy,” you said in a whine, your tail moving under you in an agitated flick.

He huffed a chuckle, his face moving to kiss your pouting lips softly. “Sorry, my love... Maybe next time,” he murmured.

Your hands lifted to hold his face properly so you could kiss him better, smiling against his lips.

A week later, you found yourself standing above the plains, overlooking the valley below as you gripped your basket half-full of cliff-blossoms. Neteyam was leading a pack of young hunters on a sweep of the forest floor. From this distance, he was a vision of controlled power, commanding the space around him without even speaking. You watched him signal a halt with a sharp, fluid movement of his arm. He barked an order, his voice carrying upward, deep and resonant.

He was wearing his full warrior gear, the woven chest straps accentuating the massive breadth of his shoulders and cummerbund hugging his muscled torso. You felt a wave of heat wash over you, settling low in your belly. You were practically vibrating with a hunger that felt both blasphemous and inevitable. You imagined him coming to the Tsahik’s tent later tonight, covered in the dust of the hunt, and the way he would look at you when he finally got you alone.

“A natural leader, isn’t he?”

You jumped, nearly dropping your basket. Kiri was standing a few paces away, her head tilted, watching you with an expression that was far too perceptive for your comfort.

“The clan is in good hands,” you said quickly, forcing your voice into its usual even tone. You turned back to the cliff-side, picking at a blossom with trembling fingers.

She didn't say anything else, but the way she sniffed the air, a subtle twitch of her nose, made your heart stop. For weeks, she had been quiet, but you know how observant Kiri is; she knew the difference between the scent of night-lilies and the scent of her brother who had been spending far too much time tangled in your limbs.

Later that evening, the Tsahik’s tent was filled with the sounds of your friends’ chatters and the air thick with the smell of boiling herbs. Mo’at was away at a naming ceremony, leaving you, Kiri, Tasi, and Yaremu to manage the evening prep.

“He was so frustrated,” Yaremu giggled, crushing a handful of seeds. “I told him we couldn't go all the way, so he just... he took my hand and guided it. I didn't know a man could make those kind of sounds just from a touch of the fingers.”

Tasi leaned in, her eyes wide. “Wait, you just... with your hand? Like you were kneading dough?”

“More like stroking clay, but faster,” Yaremu whispered, her face flushed. “They get so sensitive there. It’s like they lose their minds.”

Kiri let out a boisterous cackle, throwing a piece of bark at Yaremu. “You two are so inappropriate! We are at the Tsahik’s tent!”

You stared into the boiling pot, the memory of Neteyam’s... thing... flashing behind your eyes. You had never seen it again, he made sure of that. But you remembered the way he had stopped you from touching it, the way he had claimed it would "drive him insane."

“Is it... difficult?“ you asked without thinking, your voice cutting through the laughter.

The tent went dead silent. Tasi and Yaremu stared at you as if you had just grown a second head. Even Kiri stopped laughing, her luminous eyes narrowing as she shifted her gaze toward you.

“Difficult?” Tasi repeated, stunned. “Since when do you care about the mechanics of a man’s pleasure?“

“I am a healer,” you said, your chin tilting up, though your pulse was racing. “I am simply curious about the... response. Yaremu mentioned they make sounds. Is it a reflex, or a choice?”

Yaremu grinned slowly. “Oh, it's a reflex, sister. They can't help it. If you move your thumb just right over the tip... they break. Even the strongest of them.”

You swallowed hard, your mind instantly picturing Neteyam breaking under your hand. The thought made the tips of your breasts ache against your top. “I see,” you said, stirring the pot with a bit too much force. “Fascinating. From a research perspective, of course.”

“Of course,” Kiri echoed. She moved closer to you, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Might I ask, sister, if you have been giving Neteyam your favorite lillies... Because he’s been smelling an awful lot like them lately.”

Your lips parted. You haven’t even noticed that! “M-Maybe... Maybe he uses them when he bathes,” you lied.

She pulled away with a smile, nodding as if she understood, while Tasi and Yaremu continued to gossip, blissfully unaware of what’s going on. You didn’t know whether to be worried about Kiri’s reactions or not, still thinking about it even when the evening meal was over. You went back in the Tsahik’s tent, focused on grinding a stubborn root into paste, your pestle acting as a heartbeat for the quiet room.

Your entire body seemed to melt into a puddle, though, when you heard the tent flap rustle. Neteyam stepped inside, looking exhausted but exhilarated. He had shed his heavy scouting gear, leaving only the chest strap. A small smudge of blue paint was smeared across his temple.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice gravelly from shouting orders all day. He didn't wait for an answer before closing the distance, reaching out to tug playfully on one of your braids.

“How was the hunt?” you asked.

“Successful, except that we saw a palulukan on the way back. The Great Mother was kind, because it didn’t see us. Young Kamu was practically swallowing air by the time it was gone, the boy has forgotten how to breathe.”

You pictured the boy, one of the youth who just passed their iknimaya last season. “Cut him some slack, you mighty warrior. The boy is only fourteen,” you said, chuckling. You reached for a damped cloth to wipe the paint on his temple.

His hand followed yours, grabbing it gently and pressing a kiss on your fingers. “Your hands are shaking, baby. How long have you been at this?” he grabbed the pestle and mortar, his forehead furrowed.

“Since the sun was high. Don’t worry about it,” you said, because your hands weren’t shaking because of what he’s thinking, but yoy were grateful for the reprieve nonetheless. You leaned back against the table, watching him take over the task with effortless ease.

“Don’t worry? Your hands seem so overwork, what with that Tsahik’s tasks and your classes at the pavillion,” he reprimanded softly.

You pushed your lips forward, ignoring him as you took your damp cloth again and began to wipe the dust from his shoulders with a damp cloth, your movements lingering. “Yaremu and Tasi were talking today,“ you started, trying to sound clinical as you moved the cloth over the swell of his chest.

“About...“ he trailed after it took you long to continue, still focused on his paste.

“About how... a man responds to a certain touch. With the hand.”

Neteyam went still, and you saw his eyes zeroing in on something. “What touch?”

“They said it makes even the strongest warriors break. That they lose their minds,” you whispered, leaning in until your breath fanned over his skin. “I find the claim about reflex... questionable. I believe I need to conduct my own study. For research.”

He stared at you before letting out a choked, dark laugh. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a possessive heat. “Not here,” he whispered.

Your lips broke into a huge grin. “You’ll allow me?”

He moved to kiss the tip of your nose. “I will never say no to you,” he said.

“You did say no... Last week,” you pointed out and a deep laughter rumbled in his chest.

“I did say next time, didn’t I?” he replied, stealing another deep, searing kiss before pulling back with a wink. “I’ll finish here. Go up the higher branch, I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”

You pursed your lips and nodded, almost skipping your way out of the tent. The higher branch of the Hometree was so high in the clouds that the village sounds were reduced to a distant hum. It was a little cold but it was of the good kind, lulling the vibrations of excitement in your body as you looked far beyond the never-ending sight of the rainforest.

When Neteyam arrived, you two didn’t waste time. The moment he was within reach, he pulled you into a kiss that felt like a claim, his hands sliding down to anchor you against him.

“Show me this research, then,” he rasped against your lips.

Your hands were trembling as you reached for his loincloth, but curiosity was a more powerful force than shame. He was also trembling when he was finally bared to you, his cock looking even more formidable in the dimmed light. You caressed the length of it with your fingers first, hearing him take a swift, sharp breath, and when you wrapped your fingers around him, your lips parted at the heat and the velvet-like texture.

You remembered Yaremu’s advice, like stroking clay, but faster, and began to move. Neteyam’s head hit the bark of the tree with a dull thud as you caressed him, pumping your hand up and down high length. A low, gutteral sound tore from his throat, a raw animalistic noise you had never heard from him. His eyes were droopy but not even a palulukan could make him close his eyes right now.

"Oh, baby..." he groaned, his fingers digging into the flesh of you hips.

You watched him with fascinated eyes. He was breaking. This brave and mighty warrior was trembling under your touch, his breath coming in jagged hitches. Emboldened by your power, you moved your thumb over the wide tip, just as Yaremu had described.

Neteyam’s hips bucked uncontrollably, his entire body shuddering. "Fuck—wait, stop—"

But you didn't stop. The curiosity that had been burning in you all day reached a fever pitch. You lowered yourself, your hair spilling over his thighs, and before he could realize your intent, you took him into your mouth.

The sensation was overwhelming. The taste of him, the heat, the sheer size. Neteyam let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl, his hands flying down to grab your hair. He only let you stay there for a few seconds, his body vibrating so violently you thought he might actually fall from the branch, before he scrambled to lift your head up.

“No,“ he gasped, his face flushed, his eyes wild. He hauled you to straddle him, crushing your lips with a kiss that was almost feral. “Not yet. I can't... if you do that, I'll never let you go back to that tent.“

He held you tight, both your hearts racing and both of you gasping for air in the high, cold wind. You cupped his face, kissing him softly. Nothing mattered, not your path, nor your vow to yourself, it was replaced by the loud, screaming truth of what you were becoming to each other.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Weeks later, the celebration of the new harvest was in full swing. The communal clearing was filled of the sounds of drums, swirling colors, and the intoxicating scent of fermented berries. The elder warriors were generous with the brew, and for once, you didn't hold back. You leaned back against a carved root, a soft giggle escaping you as you watched a group of younger children unsuccessfully try to mimic a warrior's dance.

Kiri nudged your shoulder. “Careful, sister.”

“Let her have her fun, Kiri,” Neteyam intervened, though he was grinning just as widely. He held up his own bowl, the blue paint on his arm shimmering under the bioluminescent lanterns. “To the best healer-in-training and the worst berry-picker in the clan.”

“What?” you protested. “I am an excellent picker. It’s really just quality over quantity for me.” you said sassily, rolling your eyes.

“Is that what we're calling it now?” Neteyam laughed, the sound deep. He turned to Kiri. “She spent five minutes today analyzing a single fruit while I had already filled two baskets.”

“It's called attention to detail, Neteyam! You wouldn't understand,” you shot back, your eyes dancing. The brew was making everything feel warm and golden.

Kiri watched the exchange, her head tilting in that way that usually meant she was talking to the creatures, but tonight, she just looked at you two and smirked. Neteyam took a long sip of his brew, his eyes locked onto yours over the rim of the bowl, challenge sparking in them.

“I'm going to find Tuk before she tries to eat every pie there is tonight. Try not to get ‘lost’ in the woods, you two...”

She vanished into the crowd with a knowing wink. The moment she was gone, the space between you and Neteyam seemed to evaporate, and in the chaos of the festival, you were the only two people in the world.

“Another bowl?” he whispered, his tail twitching rhythmically behind him.

“I think,” you breathed, looking at his lips, “that I've had enough of the brew. I'm starting to want things they aren't offering.”

Neteyam’s grin turned slow and predatory, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh under the table. He tilted his head toward the dark periphery of the Hometree and raised a brow. You smirked, and bowed down to your food, picking a nut to pop it in your mouth. He stood up to go, and you waited before following him, your heart racing with a fluttering excitement.

By the time you reached the outskirts, the sounds of the party were a distant muffle and the cool night air hit your skin, but it did nothing to douse the heat between you. Neteyam walked closer to you, his pupils blown wide, his movements slightly sluggish and drunken, which only made him look devastatingly handsome.

He cupped your face and kissed you. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about it,“ he murmured against your lips.

“Hm?” you hummed, kissing him softly.

He trailed a hand down your side, his palm hot and heavy, before coming to rest on your thigh. He squeezed gently, his thumb tracing small circles. “I want to return the favor,” he whispered, his breath smelling of sweet berries and forest air.

“How?” you asked, your voice breathy, your body already leaning into his.

He leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Mouth or fingers?”

A shiver of anticipation raced down your spine. You feel like you know what this was. You looked up at him, a bold, drunken grin spreading across your lips.

“Both?”

Neteyam let out a sharp exhaled breath, a flicker of nervous energy crossing his face despite the haze of the brew. “Okay,” he whispered.

He started with your neck, his mouth hot and insistent, sucking at the sensitive skin until you knew a mark would be left for sure.

You two sat by the large root of a tree, his hands were everywhere, caressing and squeezing, until it untied your loincloth around your tail. When the fabric fell away, he didn't hesitate. He knelt before you, his golden eyes filled with a sudden, sharp clarity.

He pressed a reverent kiss there, and then he parted his lips so he could lick your slit from the base to the top, making you pull your hips away in a jerk. His hands on your hips firmly held you in place, though, keeping yoy from running away from his intense ministrations. You bit your lip but small sounds still escaped you, your thighs wanting to close, and when he added a finger, you had to cover your mouth to muffle your loud moan.

Neteyam let out a low, frustrated groan as his finger worked inside you, you were so tight. His mouth and tongue never left you and you didn’t know what hit you, you just began to tremble in his grip, your fingers tangling in his braids and grabbing hard at a handful.

“The world is spinning...” you chuckled as he kissed his way up to your body, sucking hard on your nipple.

“Yeah?“ his lips came down to kiss you softly, and then he lifted his body up, fitting himself between your parted thighs.

He stared at you, his chest heaving, his jaw set in a line of restraint. You moaned in protest when your felt his thumb rub your clit, but you didn’t pull back because it felt so good. You bit your lip and moved your hips gently against his finger. He looked, looking at your bare pussy, and how he had his hand on it, his thumb rubbing you.

And you liked it. He shivered at the reality of it all, his breath catching in his throat. If a year ago, someone told him he’d be here with you, he wouldn’t have dared to believe it... And right now, if he were only dreaming, the person who’ll wake him up will receive the punch of a lifetime.

You looked at him, watching how his pupil blew so wide it’s practically eating up the gold. You smiled breathlessly, reaching to cup his face, your heart overflowing. “What do you want to do, hm?” you craned your head up a little to kiss him sotfly. “Do it... do what you want.”

He stared at you and you yelped when his fingers pinched your folds. “Are you sure?” he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel.

You nodded firmly. With an animalistic growl, he shed his own loincloth in one fluid motion, revealing the thick, pulsing length of his arousal. You tried to sit up to see his bare form better, but he pressed you back with a hand on your shoulder, and your body tingled at how dominant he seemed to be when he’s drunk.

He didn't enter you, not truly, but he lined himself up against your folds. He began to work his hips, dragging his ridiculous length against your slit in deep strokes from base to tip.

“Fuck, baby...” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he found a rhythm.

The friction was overwhelming. The thickness of him was overstimulating your clit until every nerve ending in your body was screaming. You arched your back, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his. “So good, ‘teyam...” you moaned in jagged breaths.

He groaned, catching your mouth in a feral kiss. “I’m coming... fuck...”

He wanted to hold out so bad, to prolong the moment, but it was so fucking difficult, especially when you keep whispering in his ear. He came in a hot rush on your stomach just as you came your high again. You clung to him, your body quivering in the aftermath. As he collapsed against you, you reached down, scooping a bit of his essence and bringing it to your lips. You moaned in pleasure, while Neteyam let out a soft, tired laugh, kissing your cheek and letting you do as you pleased.

Once you’re both dressed, you chased each other out of the woods but Neteyam’s hand snaked out, his fingers catching the end of your tail as you tried to dart ahead of him. He gave it a light tickle, a sensation that sent a playful jolt right up your spine.

“That’s cheating!” you squealed, spinning around with a wide, lopsided grin. You smacked his muscled abdomen, but it felt like you hit a warm stone wall, stinging your palm.

Neteyam didn't even flinch, he just huffed a breathy laugh. “Did you hurt yourself?“ he asked, catching your hand.

“Humble bragging, aren’t we?” you teased, stepping into his space and poking a finger into the center of his chest. “I think the brew caused your head to grow bigger than it already is.”

He caught your finger, pressing a kiss to the tip of it. “If my head is big, it is only because you occupy every corner of it.” He pulled you closer, his tail winding around yours in a tight, possessive curl. You leaned your head against his shoulder as you giggled, and for a few more steps, the world was nothing but the scent of him and the dizzying joy of the night.

But as you rounded the final thicket leading back to the communal clearing, the laughter died in your throat. At the sight of your father standing just outside the Hometree’s entrance, you moved away from Neteyam faster than lightning could hit the ground. He was deep in conversation with another senior warrior, his arms crossed over his chest. The shift in the air was instantaneous and your joy was replaced with cold anxiety.

Neteyam felt it, too. He immediately untangled his tail from yours and straightened his spine, his posture shifting from the relaxed lover back to the disciplined son of the Olo’eyktan. Your father turned his head. He didn't move, and he didn't stop his conversation, but his gaze locked onto the two of you. You walked faster to get to your father, feeling the guilt rise in you a little. You wondered if there were marks on your neck, or if your hair was in disarray.

Neteyam reached your flock, raising his hand in a formal warrior’s greeting, his voice steady and respectful when he greeted your father. Your father offered a curt nod, his stare never leaving Neteyam’s face for a long heartbeat. It looked like a silent warning, one that acknowledged the rank Neteyam held, but reminded him exactly whose daughter he was walking home.

“Go inside, daughter,” your father said quietly.

You didn’t look at Neteyam, turning on your heels to walk toward the entrance of the Hometree. You felt ashamed of your feebleness, how you folded so easily at the presence of pressure. You knew your father won’t let it go and that reckoning will soon come, so when you heard the tent flap rustle one evening and didn’t smell Neteyam’s familiar scent, you turned and saw that it was your father. You straightened up, greeting him as you would greet a superior.

“You spend much time in the Tsahik’s tent at night, daughter,“ he started, touching one of the hanging braided ceremonial beads. “And you are rarely alone. Kiri is your friend, isn’t she?”

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding. “Yes, father...”

“And Neteyam?“ he inquired.

You blinked, you knew this was coming, and yet, you weren’t able to prepare a proper excuse. “Neteyam is a good friend, father. We have been friends since we were kids,” you said, your words tumbling over one another.

He nodded. “I know that. Neteyam is a fine warrior, the pride of the Olo’eyktan... But a man of his vitality and youth does not seek out a woman of your path night after night, nor does he come out of the dark woods with the same woman.”

Your fingers tightened at the herbs. “We are friends, father. N-Neteyam helps me—”

“Friendship between a future leader and Eywa’s maiden is good, yes, but this is not it," he warned, stepping closer. He gestured to you, to the way you had begun to arrange your hair with more care, the subtle oils you used to make your skin glow. “You are becoming worldly. You are looking at the ground when you should be looking at the Great Mother. Do not forget the honor of our lineage. Do not forget the path that was chosen for you.”

That warning rang in your ears for days. You had shed tears about it, spending your days weakly. You are frightened. You fear that you do not have enough will to fight against this path that has long blurred for you. The only sight you can see is the path leading to the man you have loved half of you life. The man you will have to turn your back to in favor of your family’s honor. The man you will lose to another. You can’t even stand imagining it. He will mate someone worthy and strong... She will have him and his children, and there will be nothing for you.

Those thoughts weighed you down. It was a tragedy.

It followed you into the woods a week later, where you were meant to be foraging berries for a pie you had promised Kiri. The basket felt heavy, the vibrant reds of the fruit blurring before your eyes. You were standing in a patch of sunlight, but you felt cold, your tears freely flowing, something you couldn’t do when you’re back at the village because Neteyam will surely know.

But as if summoned, the large leaves near you shifted and Neteyam appeared, his smile was bright, his eyes searching for yours, but when he saw the tears on your cheeks, the slump of your shoulders, and the way your hands moved listlessly among the bushes, his expression shifted instantly to one of deep concern.

“Hey,” his voice murmured, coming to stand before you right away. “What is it? Did something happen in the village?”

You tried to give him a small smile. “No, I’m alright,” you said in a soft voice.

Neteyam has never seen you cry before, save for whe you are moved by wonder or by something sad happening to others. You have always been composed and laid-back, sometimes he doesn't even know if you ever get mad at all. Ans right now, you were crying, and it seemed so personal it’s breaking his heart. Gently, his lips pressed against your temple, pulling you close.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice so soft it made your heart spasm.

You wanted to say you’re alright again but it shattered before it even reached your lips. The dam you had built with such effort finally broke. A sob escaped you, and then the tears were falling, frantic and unstoppable. Neteyam inhaled a sharp breath, pulling you into his arms, his chest a solid, warm wall against your grief. He didn't ask questions; he simply held you, his hand stroking your hair as you wept into his shoulder, pouring out your fears on how the path now felt like a cage, how your father’s words had cut you, and most of all, the soul-crushing fear that you would be forced to watch him mate with another while you lived a life of cold, sacred solitude.

“I can't do it,” you choked out, clutching the leather of his harness. “I can't watch you take a mate. I cannot watch you belong to someone else. Neteyam, I cannot do it,“ you are crying so hard you could barely understand your own words.

Neteyam pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands. The fear in your eyes threatened to break him from the inside out. He hadn’t known you had this much fear in you, and although he knew he shouldn’t feel good about it, he still felt it, but it would never be in him to want to prolong your agony. He loves you so much, his heart could burst. He wiped your tears with his thumbs, his gaze so intense it felt like he was looking directly into your spirit.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing honesty. “I have always loved you. Ever since we were children learning in the pavillion under the watchful eyes of the healers, you were the only one for me.”

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing as if in prayer.

“When I was young, I worked until my bones ached because I wanted to be worthy of you. I wanted to be a man who deserved to stand at your side. I wanted to be your mate. I wanted to be the father of your children.” His voice dropped to a reverent, shaky register, smiling at you. "But I also know the path you have chosen. And my love, listen to me, you will never, ever lose me. I have long made my decision. I promised myself I will never mate with another.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes wide with shock. “Neteyam, you are the future Olo’eyktan. You have to—”

“I can be a good leader without a mate,” he countered firmly, his eyes burning with conviction. “I have decided. If the Great Mother requires you to be alone, then I will be alone with you. I will be your shadow. I will guard you and walk your path from a distance, but I will never give myself to another woman. I have long been claimed.”

The image of him, noble, strong, and utterly alone in the dark because of you, shattered your heart into a thousand pieces. You didn't want him to be a shadow. You wanted him to be the man who held your hand in the light. You wanted it so much.

“Do you understand?” he asked, his voice low and steady. "Whatever happens, whatever choice you make, I am here. I will be here. You have me. You will always have me.”

You looked up at him and saw the absolute certainty in his eyes. It frightened you, to say the least, to know that he was willing to let the future of his bloodline wither away just to be the man who stood outside your door.

​“You cannot,” you whispered. You cannot possiby be this selfish. You regretted telling him your fears for you know it only solidified his decision. “Neteyam, the clan... they expect a mother for the people. Your father and Neytiri... they want to see you happy. They want to see your children.“

​“Then they will be disappointed,“ he said, his jaw tightening with an uncharacteristic stubbornness. His hands moved to cup the back of your head, grounding you. “There is no happiness for me if I am lying next to a woman who is not you. I would be a shell. How could I lead our people with a heart that is half-dead?“

“You wouldn’t be with me anyway...” you rasped, your head bowing.

He looked at you with sad eyes but still, he chuckled and kissed the tip of your nose. “You haven’t been paying attention, my love. I have long known that and I have accepted it,” he said. “I will do anything you ask of me, you know that, but you cannot ask me to be with another. I will not obey you.”

You parted your lips to breathe, gripping his forearms to feel the solid warmth of him. The selflessness of his love shamed you. What good have you done to deserve such devotion? That question lingered with you even after you two parted. You knew the answer: you have done nothing. You have never been willful your whole life.

Following your great aunt’s path, the path that twenty-two generations of women in your father’s family have taken, have never before felt like an order to be obeyed. You wanted it before you truly knew what you wanted, but now, as you looked back... Neteyam has always been there. He has always stirred your heart in the way only he could do. You have always loved him.

And you will never stop.

Driven by a desperation you couldn’t name, you found yourself at the secluded dwelling of your great aunt. The air was thick with incense and you knew this would be one of those few days where she could be disturbed from her prayers, and even now, she was a silhouette of stillness, her back to you as she whispered prayers that had been her only companions for sixty years.

You didn't speak. You simply sat behind her and began to pray, the minutes stretching into hours. You watched the way the smoke curled in the air, wondering if your life would be just like hers: sacred, hollow, and hauntingly quiet. You wanted to feel guilty for thinking it look gray, but it was what you were thinking.

When the last of the incense burned out, Äye turned slowly. Her eyes, fill of wisdom and spirit, settled on your face. She didn't see her successor; she saw the crumbling ruins of a girl in love.

“What is it that brings you to this quiet place with such a loud heart?” she asked, her voice both stern and full of concern.

“The medicinal roots in the southern ridge are coming in early this year," you said casually, your voice a dry rasp. “I’m thinking of beginning the harvest before the syaksyuk get to them."

She tilted her head, her eyes sharp and assessing.  “You have been sitting here for five hours, praying to a Mother who has already answered you, yet you refuse to listen. I can see it in your face,” she reached out, tilting your chin up. “What is it? And do not tell me it is the harvest.”

You swallowed hard, the weight in your chest becoming unbearable. “I wanted to ask if... If your heart has ever stirred... For a person, I mean. Not for the Great Mother, nor for the people. For a man.” You paused, your voice trembling. “Have you ever felt... desire?“

You waited for her to look at you as if you’ve grown two heads but she didn’t. The old woman’s eyes softened, a distant. She didn't answer right away, instead, she let her hand fall to your shoulder. “Is that what is clawing at you?”

You looked away, the first tear finally breaking free. “This is my path, Auntie... I have known this my whole life. But... These feelings I have in my heart, I have carried with me long before I knew what it was. I have loved him since we were children. And this man loves me with all he is... I supposed it would be easier if he didn’t love me back. It would be easier to accept the solitary path ahead of me, but now, because he loves me, he will forsake his own duty to the clan just so he could freely love me.” You gripped your knees, your knuckles turned white. “I do not want that for him. I cannot let him be alone and empty, I cannot deny him the love I can give him...“

Äye let out a long, slow breath. “The son of Toruk Makto.”

Your eyes snapped to hers. “How... how did you know?”

A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “I have seen it, and I still see it. You have always had the boy’s eyes, and his heart. You see only now.”

“I am scared,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I look at the path laid out for me... This life of solitude and it feels like a cage. I want him... I love him. I want to give him myself...” you looked at her. “Is it wrong, Auntie? To want the ground more than the sky? To want a man more than a goddess?”

Äye reached out and cradled your face in her weathered hands.

“Is it truly the path she gave you?” she asked softly. “Eywa does not give paths, child. She simply makes us feel. What you feel here will tell you where you belong.” She smiled, her palm pressing firmly over your heart. “And clearly, your heart has been showing you the path for a very long time.”

You sniffled, leaning into her touch, a flicker of hope sparking in the dark.

“I have easily done my duty because Eywa did not see it fit to put desire in my heart,” Äye confessed, her gaze turning distant and thoughtful. “I walked this path because it was the only one I saw. But, if I had only felt love and desire for another... if I had felt even a fraction of what you described... I would have let it consume me. I would have allowed myself to be loved by someone I loved.” Her expression became fiercer. “It is a gift, child, and you must not deny yourself what Eywa has given you. You must not deny Neteyam the love that you could give him, or the life you two could live. To turn away from such a love is the only true blasphemy.”

“But my father... the clan...” you whispered.

She scoffed. “Do not worry about your father. He is handled,” she said with a small, knowing smirk. “You go to your warrior. Tell him everything you told me.”

The weight that had been crushing your ribs for years had simply evaporated. You hugged her and she patted your back. When you finally stood up, your legs feel so light, as though you were floating. You ran through the village, past the staring eyes of the hunters, straight toward the training grounds where you knew a certain warrior was spending his day.

You didn't care about the path anymore. There has only ever been one for you, and it led straight to him. The sounds of clashing practice staves and rhythmic grunts welcomed you as you reached the training grounds. You stood at the edge of the clearing, thinking about how you have never done this before even though you passed by it every single day. You’ve never even thrown Neteyam a glance when he was over here, so now, you indulged yourself to the sight of his skin glistening with sweat as he moved with lethal grace.

He was giving corrections, his voice commanding and steady, until his gaze swept toward the edge and snagged on you. He stopped mid-sentence and had to do a double look, his golden eyes widening in genuine disbelief. It was always he who sought you out, he who lingered at the edges, waiting for you to pay him attention. And now, to see you standing here, in the open light, was a surprise that seemed to steal the air from his lungs. A slow, radiant smile began to spread across his face, one that he didn't even try to hide.

The other hunters followed his gaze lazily, shocked as Neteyam was to see you standing there, looking only at him. When he signaled for a break, Neteyam practically glided toward you, his focus so intense it felt like he was pulling you toward him by an invisible thread. He opened his mouth to ask what had brought you there, but you didn't give him the chance.

You stepped forward to meet him halfway, reaching up, tagling your fingers in the braids at his nape to pull him down into a soft, lingering kiss.

The silence that fell over the training grounds was almost funny, jaws practically hit the dirt, and Lo’ak who was standing a few yards away dropped his staff, his eyes bulging.

“When will you be done?” you asked casually, your voice clear and steady. Your thumb traced the line of his jaw, grounding him.

Neteyam looked dazed, as if he were caught in a dream and was terrified of waking up. The smile on his face was huge and utterly devoted, it brought ache to your chest. “Now,” he rasped, his voice sounding hypnotized. He didn't even look back at his men. “I’ll finish this early. Right now.”

You let out a melodic chuckle, your palm pressing flat against the heat of his abdomen. “Don’t be silly. I can just wait here,” you said, gesturing toward the wooden benches.

He nodded fervently, his tail twitching with an excitement he couldn't suppress. You couldn't resist, he looked so uncharacteristically flustered and cute that you leaned in for another quick kiss before patting his chest.

“Go,” you whispered, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “I’ll wait.”

Neteyam turned back to his warriors, but the sternness was gone. The men themselves were in a state of total shock, their eyes kept on darting back to where you are. The rest of the training session was a blur and you couldn’t take your eyes on Neteyam, and you’re glad he was the opposite. He was so focused on it, even though he was less strict, the intensity of his approach did not wane.

He dismissed the session right on time, handing his staff to a young hunter and was at your side in a heartbeat, his skin still glistening with sweat. He wiped it off with a soft cloth and you stood up, grabbing the cloth to help him wipe his sweat. “I need you to come with me,” you said, fighting the urge to smirk.

He breathed, catching your hand to graze a thumb on your knuckles. “Where? The forest? The high ridges?”

“Further,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your stomach. You grabbed his hand and his fingers intertwined with yours as naturally as vines coil on a branch.

The walk was surprisingly casual, the air cooling as the forest began its slow transition into the bioluminescent glow of dusk. You stepped over a spike plant and he gripped your hand tighter. “Careful,” he said, hopping over a fallen log and reaching back to steady.

“I am a healer, Neteyam. I know which leaves bite and which ones soothe. If anything, I should be the one worried about you. You almost walked straight into a stickyplant back there because you were too busy looking at me.”

“Can you blame the warrior for admiring the view?” he countered with a cheeky waggle of his brows.

You laughed, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Getting bold, aren’t we? Must be all those pies Tuk didn't eat. I saw her trying to smuggle a third one past Mo’at at dinner last night. She looked like a prolemuris with its cheeks full of fruits.”

“She’s a menace,” he chuckled, his tail flicking with amusement. “The young these days...” he shook his head. “Just last time, I saw a young hunter trying to impress girls by showing off his battle scars. Most of them were from tripping over during drills.”

“Be kind,” you teased. “We were all young and desperate for attention once. Though some of us,” you glanced at him sideways, “didn't have to try quite so hard.”

Neteyam’s smile softened, his fingers tightening around yours. “I don't know about that. I spent half my youth trying to figure out why the smartest girl in the pavilion wouldn't look at me for more than two seconds.”

“I was busy studying!” you protested. “I had to learn the difference between a glow moss and a spice leaf. One heals a burn, the other causes a rash that lasts for three days. Imagine if I'd gotten those mixed up because I was staring at your growing muscles.”

“A tragedy for the clan,“ he joked, pulling you by the waist and pressing a kiss against your neck. “But a win for my ego,” he whispered.

You squealed and pulled away, running away from him. You heard him chuckle, chasing after you until you two reached the purple glow of the ancient sacred tree. You looked at him with a soft smile and he stared at you, his eyes softening into a reverent look as he savored the look of you bathed in purple light

“It is beautiful tonight,” he whispered, reaching out to caressed your jaw.

“It is,” you agreed, tiptoeing to kiss him again, your arms hooking on his nape.

His hands immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to him as he deepened the kiss, his mouth devouring yours. You pulled him down with you onto the soft moss, laying back so he’d follow you. You spread your thighs and he settled his body between them, breaking away from the kiss as if he’d just noticed what position you had pulled him into under the sacred tree.

You smiled, leaning in to press a slow, deep kiss to his lips, “I love you, Neteyam...” you whispered as if it was your secret, kissing him again.

His head lifted, his lips curling into a small, yet triumphant, smile. “I love you more, baby. So much,” he said, his arm wrapping around you to pull you to him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

You smiled and kissed him again, you didn't let him break away, and as your hands moved to his shoulders, the kiss deepened. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest. You pulled back just an inch, your eyes locked onto his, and then, with a hand that didn't tremble, you reached back and brought your queue forward. Neteyam’s eyes snapped at your kuru, widening a fraction in a surprise so profound he actually moved back an inch.

“My love...” he rasped, his voice breaking. He looked from your kuru to your eyes, his face pale but his eyes dancing with joy.

You kissed him. “I want to be with you. I want to be your mate... I want to have your children...”

His smile widened, though his eyes still needed more answers. “Are you sure? Once this is done... there is no turning back to the path they chose for you. You will be mine. In the eyes of Eywa and the clan, you will be mine for life.”

“I have never been more sure of anything,” you whispered, reaching out to take his hand. “The path I chose isn't the one they gave me. It’s this. It’s you.”

Neteyam’s hand was shaking as he brought his own queue forward. The intensity of the moment was suffocating, a silence so heavy it felt like the ancestors themselves were holding their breath. “I love you so much,” he said, the words a solemn vow. “You have me, until my last breath. You have always had me, baby.”

Slowly, deliberately, the pink tendrils of your queues reached out, entwining and locking together. You gasped, your back arching when a flood of physical sensations surged through you. You felt the raw, unbridled power of Neteyam’s love for you. The years of pining, the quiet agony of watching you from afar, the fierce protectiveness, and the sheer, blinding joy of this moment. And he felt yours. The fear you had felt, the desperate need for his touch, and the struggle you fought that led to this absolute certainty that you belonged by his side.

Neteyam let out a choked sound, pulling you flush against him, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that promised he would never, ever let go. You kissed him until you were both breathless, then his lips trailed down your jaw, making you arch into his touch as a low moan rumbled in your throat. Your hands found purchase in his braids, pulling his head back up, your gaze locking with his.

“Are we doing it?” you asked, your eyes looking up at him in both apprehension and excitement.

He caressed your thigh. “Do you want to? It doesn’t need to be tonight—”

“No, I want to! I want to... Just...” you cleared your throat. “I mean you’re big and... And how did the other girls take this—”

“What?” he whisper-shouted playfully. “There have never been other girls. I’ve never kissed anyone before you...” His eyes looked away from yours to look at your lips.

“What?” you chuckled breathily, the scholar part of you panicking. “No one here knows what to do?”

“No, I do know what to do,” he said, his eyes widening a little. “Trust me.“

You smiled and reached up to kiss him, he met you halfway, his mouth descending, but hungry now, no longer sweet and hesitant. His tongue plunged and you met his fervor, your own tongue dancing with his. His hands moved, tracing the curve of your hips, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending a jolt of pleasure through you as you felt the hard ridge of his cock press against your thigh.

Your fingers fumbled with the straps of his loincloth, your fingers caressing the soft skin of his abdomen. He undid your own, hands quick and deft, discarding the simple covering the same time you shed his. His fingers found your slippery folds, caressing it as he kisses your jaw. Your hand shot down to wrap around his cock, caressing the thick and long flesh.

He huffed, his lips pressing against your cheek before he leaned down, his mouth finding your neck, his teeth gently nipping at where you’re most sensitive. You whimpered, your head falling back against the moss. His tongue traced a path down your throat, over your collarbone, until it reached the swell of your breast. He suckled, his mouth hot and wet, drawing your nipple into his mouth.

Your hips arched involuntarily. “Neteyam,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He moved to your other breast, giving it equal attention before kissing his way down your body until you felt a long swipe of his tongue on the soft skin of your inner thigh. His fingers brushed against your slick pussy, followed by his warm tongue, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your core, his hands slid under your hips to tilt you toward him before his mouth lapped at your wetness like a man starved.

You clutched on a moss, letting yourself moan to your heart’s content until you were a shaking mess with a spinning vision. You can feel his lips and tongue working its way up your body but your mind was zeroing in on the electrifying sensation you’re feeling on your clit, your thighs jolting every time his skin grazes it.

Only when he positioned himself between your legs did you make the effort to lift you head up to look at him, catching him with his eyes darkened with desire as they devoured your nakedness. Your connected kurus pulsed brighter and you felt the jolt of excitement and ecstasy he is probably feeling. You bit your lip, looking at his cock, thick and heavy, pressing against your entrance. You looked up at him, your own eyes burning with desire, and he met your gaze, his lips curved in a small smile and his eyes suddenly became the look of longing and adoration.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice rough with need.

“Yes,” you gasped, pushing your hips up, urging him forward. “Now.”

He chuckled, his hand squeezing your hips before he thrusted, slowly at first, his thick shaft pushing past your eager lips, stretching you, filling you with a sensation so profound it stole your breath. You cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure, as he pushed deeper, until he was fully buried inside you.

He paused, letting you adjust, his chest heaving, his eyes closed for a moment in pure bliss. “It feels so warm... So tight,” he groaned, his voice thick with emotion.

You hugged him, a little breathless at the feeling of being so full of him and yet, you pulled him deeper still. “You’re so big...” you groaned, clenching around him.

He opened his eyes and you saw a primal look in them as he began to move, slowly at first, a gentle motion that soon picked up pace. He pulled almost all the way out, then plunged back in, his rhythm becoming more urgent, more demanding.

“Ah!” you moaned, your body arching, meeting his thrusts with equal enthusiasm. The sounds of your skin slapping together and the wet sounds of him moving inside you filled the air.

One of his hand found your folds, his thumb parting them to flick at your sensitive nub, making you buck and pull away in overstimulation but he only leaned down, his lips finding yours to devour your cries, his tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips continued its relentless rhythm. His hands gripped your hips to lift and tilt you, finding new angles that gave you so much pleasure. His cock felt enormous inside you, stretching you to your limits, yet it was a delicious fullness, a sense of being completely claimed.

The gentle rocking turned into powerful, rhythmic thrusts, his body slamming into yours with increasing force as you felt a familiar feeling in your lower abdomen, a knot that promised release. You clawed at his back, your nails digging into his firm muscles, leaving faint red marks.

“Harder,” you gasped against his lips, your voice hoarse. “Please, baby...”

He responded instantly, his thrusts becoming even more violent, more primal. He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in with a force that made you scream, the air whooshing out of your mouth.

“You like that, baby?” he rasped, his voice raw, his breath hot against your face.

You whimpered, unable to speak, your hips bucking involuntarily to meet his every thrust. You felt your muscles clenched around his shaft, milking him, urging him on. He groaned and thrusted one last, powerful time, burying himself to the hilt, holding you tight as your body convulsed around him. Your climax hit you like a lightning strike, giving you a full body tremor that left you breathless and clutching at him. Your muscles seized, squeezing his cock, making him cry out your name.

His body tensed, then relaxed as he emptied himself deep inside you. You felt the hot gush of his seed filling you as he collapsed onto you, his weight heavy but welcome, his breath ragged against your neck. His heart hammered against your chest, mirroring the frantic beat of your own. You lay tangled together, spent and satisfied, the purple glow of the tree a silent witness to your mating.

“I swear to the Great Mother, if this were a dream I’d beat up the person who will wake me up,” he whispered breathily, kissing you.

You chuckled weakly, hugging him tighter to you and kissing his cheek. “It is real, husband. I am here with you,” you told him.

He melted in your embrace, kissing your forehead, and then your lips. “I love you so much...”

A few hours of sleep punctuated with a series of waking up only to make love later, you lay tangled in Neteyam’s arms under the glowing tendrils,  your core still sore from the intensity of your last coupling. His chest was warm under your cheek, and you traced the faint, drying marks your nails had left on his shoulder. Neteyam shifted, his tail winding lazily around your thigh.

“The sun will be up soon,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hand tracing the curve of your hip with a new, possessive ease. You let out a soft sigh, tightening your hold on him. Neteyam pulled back slightly to look at you, his golden eyes clear and filled with a fierce, protective light. “I’ll face your father. I’ll tell him it was my doing. The haste, the lack of a formal ceremony. I’ll take the weight of his anger.”

You shook your head, reaching up to cup his face. “No. I made this choice just as much as you did. I won’t let you stand there like a criminal for loving me. I’ll handle him, and Äye said she would help. I’m more worried about Mo’at... I am a healer under her. Surely, she’d expect me to follow the traditions.”

“Then we face them together,” Neteyam said firmly, interlocking his fingers with yours. “As one. We are mated now. I am your husband and you are my wife.”

Those words brought you so much relief and joy, you couldn’t help but smile, especially when his eyes reflected a certain, even smug, light in them. The walk back to the village felt different, but as you approached the central clearing of the Hometree, the sight of the gathering made your heart skip a beat.

Not only were your parents already there, Jake and Neytiri were there, too, standing near the breakfast hearth, and beside them sat Mo'at and Äye. The air was thick with the smell of morning broth and an unspoken tension. Your father stood as you both emerged from the ramp, his eyes immediately dropping to your clasped hands and then to the unmistakable, glowing pride in Neteyam’s posture.

“You did not return last night,” your father said, his voice flat but not yet angry.

Äye, who was calmly sipping from a bowl of tea, let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, let the children breathe, Laykon. Do not overreact. Look at them, they look like they’ve finally found where the air is.”

Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, gently releasing your hand only to sink onto both knees before your parents. He bowed his head low, his forehead nearly touching the ground in a gesture of profound respect and apology.

“I ask for your forgiveness,” Neteyam’s voice was calm, carrying the weight of a leader. “I have acted with haste, and I have taken your daughter as my mate without the formal blessing of the clan. But I have loved her before I even I understood what it was. I ask only for your blessing now, for I will spend every day of my life proving I am worthy of her.”

You dropped to your knees beside him, your shoulder touching his. “Father, I love Neteyam, I have always loved him. This wasn't a mistake or a moment of weakness. It was the only truth I’ve ever known. I choose this life. I choose him.”

A long, suffocating silence followed. Jake looked at Neytiri, who had a soft, knowing expression on her face, one that spoke of a woman who had once made a similarly reckless choice for love. Finally, your father let out a long, heavy breath. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, urging him to stand.

“I understand that, daughter,” he told you, his voice softening. “And I do not think this kneeling and bowing are necessary anymore. Words would have sufficed. You two are already mated in the eyes of the Great Mother; what is there for me to do? To fight the wind?” He looked at Neteyam, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his stony exterior. “It is my honor to have an honorable man as my son.”

Neytiri stepped forward then, pulling you into a fierce, warm embrace that smelled of woodsmoke and motherhood. “Welcome to the family, daughter,” she whispered.

You looked toward Mo’at, your stomach twisting with nerves. The Tsahik stood slowly, her face unreadable. Jake cleared his throat, glancing at the matriarch. “Mo’at? Perhaps, you can... give them the official blessing?”

Mo’at let out a sharp, huffed breath, reaching into the woven pouch at her side. To everyone’s surprise, she pulled out a bowl of ceremonial oils and a bundle of sage that had clearly been prepared in advance.

“Why do you think I am sitting here with these?” she asked, a rare humot flickering in her eyes as she looked at Äye. “Some people in this family cannot keep a secret. Come here, you two. If you are going to be mated, let us do it properly so the ancestors don’t think I’ve gone lazy.”

As Mo'at began the rhythmic chant of the blessing, marking your forehead and Neteyam’s with the cool, fragrant oil, you looked at your husband. The fear was gone. The gray path etched on sand was blown by the wind, leaving only the path forged by the Great Mother.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The council meeting had dragged on for hours, with the elders debating trade with so much meticulousness that Neteyam can’t believe it’s starting to annoy him that the second Jake signaled the end, Neteyam couldn’t have exited the council hall faster than anyone. He moved through the village with a restless, joyful energy, his heart pulling him straight to the healer’s tent.

And when he pulled back the flap, the golden afternoon light spilled over you, hunched over a mortar, the same sight that had greeted him for years, but now, strapped to your chest in a soft woven wrap was your months-old son.

“Hello, baby,” Neteyam caressed your arm, leaning down to kiss you. He cupped your jaw and deepened the kiss.

You’d chucke at his eagerness if your son hadn’t let out a soft, melodic cry. It was as if he could sense his father has arrived before Neteyam even greeted him. Neteyam looked down at his son, his large hand caressing the boy’s head.

His face split by a wide, devoted grin. His large hands gently lift the bundle from your chest and you gave him his son, watching him settle the boy into the crook of his arm, his thumb tracing a tiny, rounded cheek. “How was he? Did he give you trouble while I was on patrol?”

You chuckled, wiping your hands on a cloth. “He is just a baby, ma ‘teyam. He slept almost the entire day, only waking to eat and then falling back to sleep.”

Neteyam let out a deep, vibrating chuckle that made the baby’s eyes fly open. “You’re the hungriest boy in this village, do you know that, hm? The biggest baby, too. You’re growing so fast, my son, look at you.”

You leaned against the worktable, watching them with a chest full of warmth. You reached out to tickle your son’s ear, watching his tiny shoulder shrug in reflex. “Remember when Mo’at said you were the biggest baby she’d ever seen?” you laughed. “She said your boy rivals you. Look at his tummy. So full, aren't you, sweet boy?”

The baby suddenly let out a tiny, gurgling chuckle, his first real laugh.

Your eyes snapped to Neteyam’s in shock. You both froze, breath held for seconds, before you both bursted into a quiet laughter. The boy stretched, his chubby limbs sprawled across his father's powerful arm, looking utterly content. As you looked at the small person you had created together, your eyes began to glisten with unshed tears and when you lifted your eyes to meet Neteyam’s his own eyes were pooling with tears.

Neteyam leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “Have I told you how thankful I am that you chose me?”

You grinned, cupping his face. “You do every day, 'teyam. But I am more thankful to you. I couldn't imagine not living this life... you made me realize what I truly wanted.”

“I love you so much,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I love you more, ‘teyam—”

“That couldn't be possible—”

“Uhhmp!” A sharp, demanding shriek from your son broke the moment. His tiny hand had clamped onto your beaded top, his neck craning with singular focus toward your chest.

You laughed, booping his nose. “Hungry again?“

Your smile was huge as you reached for him. Neteyam gently handed him back, chuckling as you settled the boy and eased your top aside. The baby latched in an instant, a rhythmic, quiet sound filling the tent. Neteyam sat beside you, his gaze fixed on the sight.

He remembered being in this same tent years ago, watching you hold Tuk in your arms and drowning in a forbidden pining. Now, you are his wife, and the child in your arms is one you two created. He was no longer your shadow, he is now the man whose life is inextricably woven with yours. Your cold indifference was long gone, and in its place was a woman full of his love and the promise of his future.

[jiminie-08]

I love a quiet, pining-for-many-years, DEVOTED neteyam 🥹I want one of those 😩 Great fic💖💁🏽‍♀️

[sakunai]

🪷 — DRIASWRLD PRESENTS . . . A ROYAL AFFAIR ( discontinued — for now )

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, this author finds herself compelled to impart the news of the most exciting arrival of the year! prepare the carriages...

SOCIETY PAPERS

🪷 A NEW SCANDALOUS SEASON IS UPON US. . .

— PRINCE GOJO ANNOUNCES BETROTHAL TO CHILDHOOD FRIEND ( but wait ! PRINCE GETO has suddenly arrived ! )

⋆ one. ⋆ two. ⋆ two (b) ⋆ three ⋆ tba. ⋆

— COUNT NANAMI GETS ABSOLUTELY DESTROYED IN PALL MALL BY HIS FIANCÉE'S SISTER ( the game we play called love ! )

— FORMER KNIGHT KASHIMO HAJIME STUMBLES UPON THE INN KEEPER'S DAUGHTER ( a classic retelling of love at first sight ! )

— KING SUKUNA FALLS FOR HIS DOTING CONCUBINE ( such passion and raw devotion ! )

— PRINCE MEGUMI GROWS FOND OF THE NEW KITCHEN MAID ( ah, young love ! )

— ITADORI, THE BLACKSMITH'S SON VIES FOR THE PRINCESS' AFFECTIONS ( how cute ! )

[jiminie-08]

I hope one day these fics are written….too many great ideas here🥹💖😩

[the-darklings]

RIPPED AT THE THIGH — VALARR TARGARYEN.

pairing: modern!valarr targaryen x f!stark!reader summary: Your boyfriend Valarr is a gentle lover. But not always. Not always. contents/warnings: smut (18+), established relationship, dom/sub power exchange, switch dynamics (fem!dom shifting to mal!dom for one night), oral (f receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, edging, multiple orgasms, insane amounts of overstimulation, praise kink, mild degradation, dirty talk (extensive), breeding kink (verbal fantasy only, not enacted), possessive behaviour, hair pulling, holding by the nape/hand at throat, biting/marking, rough sex, prone bone, carpet burns, physical exhaustion to the point of collapse, primal/depth play, cum watching, obsessive!dark!valarr, aftercare for dayssss, switch reversal in aftermath (needy!reader, fussy!valarr). notes: I feel like I got pregnant writing this, so enjoy! 🤪 ✶ modern/trailer trash au.

It’s just past eleven on a Wednesday in early March, and you’re in bed.

The lamps are dim, turned down to the lowest setting on the wall dial. The duvet is the cool slate grey Valarr bought because you said once, in a hotel in Pentos two and a half years ago, that you preferred greys to whites. A thing spoken in passing, the way you'd mention preferring the window seat. Three weeks later, the bedding in the apartment had quietly changed.

You’re propped on three pillows with a battered paperback open against the bare swell of your thigh, your head pillowed on the flat plane of Valarr’s stomach. The book is something forgettable, a thriller you started on a plane in February and haven’t bothered to commit to. Your other hand is hooked, lazily, in the loose linen at Valarr’s hip. He’s reading a memo on actual paper—marked up, because Valarr is the only man under forty who still likes to mark up memos by hand—and his other hand is buried in your hair, three fingers stroking idly through the strands at your temple. The unconscious pet he’s been doing in his sleep since month four of year one.

He hasn’t turned a page in eight minutes.

You’re watching him through your lashes.

He is, you have decided in the last forty seconds, ridiculously beautiful in this light. It’s not the first time you’re struck by how beautiful Valarr is. You decided it the first time, nearly three years ago, when he first crossed the room to greet you, and you had thought, briefly and without sentiment, oh, that face is going to be a problem. 

You’ve continued to think that in intervals since: when he wakes up next to you in the morning with the white streak at his temple sleep-mussed, when he comes out of his shower with nothing but a towel slung around his hips, when he laughs without performing it. He is, you have come to accept, simply a beautiful problem you’ve been living with for thirty-six months.

In the lamp light, he’s at his worst. The silver at his temple catches the dimmed bulb. The dark of the rest of his hair has gone floppy at the edges. His nose is long and elegant in shadow. The line between his brows surfaces when he reads. His lower lip is bitten where he’s been worrying it for the last forty seconds, and his eyelashes are long and dark. The long, elegant fingers of his left hand are tapping, faintly, at the edge of the page in a rhythm you don’t think he’s fully aware of.

He’s in a thin grey t-shirt and the loose dark linen pyjama bottoms you bought him for Christmas. The flat of his toned stomach pillows your cheek. A muted warmth comes up through the cotton when Valarr breathes. You can feel his pulse faintly against the corner of your jaw. A slow, steady, easy rhythm of him. The resting heart of a man who is, on every measurable metric, content.

You think, then, about the thing beneath the gold.

Even when you first met Valarr, he wasn’t all gold. You had thought he was, in October of year one. Through the flowers and the careful kisses and the can I. You had braced for the patient lesson plan, assuming the iron would have to come from you.

And then, at the edges, you had begun to find something else in your Valarr. 

The fixed, immortalising quality of his attention across rooms in those early weeks, which was not the gaze of a charming boy at all. The cufflinks lined up no matter how desperate he was. The phone call about the man at the bar.

You never shamed him for it. You had nurtured that dark edge in him, quietly, inch by inch. You were, after all, the one who taught him to bite in March of year two. The one who taught him to hold you down. To say mine, and good girl, and the unhurried narrating filth Valarr hadn’t known was in him. Each thing you had asked of him, he had folded into himself with the relief of a man being told that the dark thing behind his teeth was, in fact, allowed to exist. 

But he’s never fully taken. Not without you partially holding the leash. He’s always been asking.

You let the paperback fall closed.

“Val.”

He makes a small sound at the back of his throat.

“You haven’t turned that page.”

His stomach contracts under your cheek. A laugh, embarrassed.

“No,” he says in agreement. “I haven’t.”

“Where'd you go?” you ask.

He sets the memo on the nightstand with a papery whisper as it lands on the wood. His hand returns to your hair, brushing a strand off your temple with his knuckle.

“Work,” he replies, “Sorry, my love.”

You gaze up at him.

He looks down at you. Warm. A little tired. The crease between his brows softens as he meets your gaze. He does this when you look up at him. Three years, every time, the same expression: a man who can’t quite believe what he's been allowed to keep you.

“What's wrong?” he asks softly.

“Nothing.”

“You've got a face on,” he informs you sagely. 

Your eyes narrow, albeit playfully. “I haven't got a face on.”

“You've got the face on, my love.” His thumb traces the arc of your eyebrow fondly. “The thinking face. Tell me.”

You push up off his stomach, rolling onto your side. Prop on one elbow. You bend and press your mouth to the cotton over his sternum. Valarr’s heart picks up under your lips. 

“My love?”

You kiss him again, higher this time. The soft hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse drums. The clean baseline of his soap and the warmer chemistry of his skin underneath. You drag your mouth, unhurried, along the underside of his jaw, where the faint trace of his evening stubble drags lightly against your lip.

“Just thinking about you,” you tell him.

Valarr’s hand goes flat against your back, fingers spreading, settling. 

“Yeah?”

You hear the quiet pleasure in that. 

“Yeah.”

“What about me?”

You set your chin on his chest.

“That I love you,” you tell him frankly. 

Valarr’s face folds, the corner of his eyes tightening. His other hand comes up at once to find the side of your face, his thumb sweeping along your cheekbone.

“My love,” he says gently, fondly.

You lean into his touch. “That you're a wonderful lover.”

He looks down with a wry chuckle. “Where is this going?”

You hum, a slight twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Somewhere good. Promise.”

“You're making me nervous.”

“I know I am,” you breathe against his skin. “Stay with me.”

“Mm.”

“You are, Val. You're attentive. Patient. You read me better than anyone ever has. You know my body, and you treat it like—” You pause, stroking the silver at his temple with your fingertip. The white hairs are coarser than the dark; you’ve always found, slightly wirier, a small tactile pleasure you’re routinely smug about being the only woman in the world to know. “You’re stupidly, ridiculously, unfairly handsome. And the way you look at me. The way you have always looked at me, from the first time. As though I might dissolve under your hand.”

Valarr’s expression softens further. “Because I always think you might.”

“I know.”

“Three years and I still can't believe I get to have you.”

“I know, Val.”

He turns his face into your palm, shutting his eyes for half a beat. You feel the small grain of his stubble against your wrist. The warm press of his cheek into your hand.

“My golden Val,” you whisper lovingly. 

His mouth goes slack, pressing closer. “Yours.”

There’s a lull between you, and you let it sit for a while.

“There's an edge to you, though,” you remark carefully after several minutes. 

His eyes crack open. Valarr doesn’t flinch, but you watch his focus sharpen, his thumb stop moving on your cheekbone. He has gone, in the space of a breath, utterly quiet.

You examine him. “Don't go away from me.”

“I'm not,” he answers smoothly.

“You are,” you say. “A little. I can feel you leaving. Come back to me.”

He breathes out, his hand drifting down to rest at your jaw. The slow, careful press of his palm there follows, the heel of his hand against the side of your throat.

“I'm here.”

“Valarr.”

“I'm here, my love,” he repeats, but you hear the caution in his voice.

“Look at me.”

He looks at you.

“Don't be ashamed,” you tell him.

He works to swallow. “I'm not ashamed.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Val.”

His jaw moves, rippling once as his eyes drop. “A little ashamed.”

“I know.”

His brows furrow. “You shouldn't have to—”

“Stop.”

You take his face in both hands. You tip it down to you, setting your mouth on his. A sustained press, closed-mouthed. The kind of kiss whose only purpose is to tell him you’re not leaving, that you’re right here, his.

Valarr kisses you back with a low, throaty sound. His hand proceeds to the side of your throat, fingers gentle. You break the kiss with your forehead against his.

“I like that side of you,” you breathe against his mouth.

He stills.

“Do you hear me?” you pose. “I like that side of you.”

Valarr opens his eyes, searching your face. You’ve seen this expression perhaps eight times in three years.

“You like—”

You press your forehead closer against his. “I’ve always liked it, pretty thing. It’s part of you, Val. I've known about it since month four. I'm not afraid of it, or put off by it. I've been quietly encouraging it for two and a half years, and I want you to know I've been doing it on purpose."

He stares.

“On purpose.”

“Of course, on purpose,” you tell him, almost insulted by the disbelief in his voice. “I don't do anything by accident. Not with you.”

Valarr goes quiet, then. A stillness that tells you he’s processing something you’re not privy to just yet, an internal mechanism of him moving. Memory by memory works through the beautiful slopes of his face. Those times you’ve coaxed that silky, dark edge out of him or driven him to the edge where it would slip out, how you’ve never once pulled back, encouraging it in your own subtle way. 

“Do you prefer it?” he asks lastly, his voice pitched low. 

You stare. “What?”

“That side of me,” he clarifies cautiously. “Do you prefer it?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“My love—”

“No. Listen to me very carefully.” You hold his eyes. Neither of you blinks. “I like both. Equally. Completely. I love Valarr who brings me tea with honey when my sinuses hurt. I love Valarr who knows my body better than anyone has ever known it and treats it like a fucking cathedral. Because you do. I feel adored with you. I love Valarr who’s in this bed right now with his hand in my hair, looking at me like he can't believe I'm real.” His throat works, softening, almost bashful. Your voice pitches lower. “And I love Valarr who will fuck me hard when I ask him to. Who bites and grips and holds me down. Who comes inside me with his hand on my throat and tells me I'm his. That man is also you. That man has always been you, Val.”

He’s quiet.

A muscle moves in his jaw. Valarr looks shy, you realise. He does the wry duck of the head you used to get from him in year one when you'd catch him watching you across rooms. The boyish, unstudied embarrassment of a man who’s spent his entire life in front of cameras and is, only in this bed, only with you, occasionally caught.

You laugh gently. “Oh, come here.”

You pull him in. Wrap your arms around his neck, tug him down so his face is pressed into the side of your throat, and you can hold the back of his head.

Valarr folds into you without hesitation. His arms come around your waist. His face presses into the curve of your neck, and you register the unsteady breath he releases there. A long, quiet thing. One of those deep breaths he saves for the rare moments he is being held instead of holding.

You stroke through his hair, waiting until he steadies. Then you press your mouth to his ear.

“I want to try something.”

He shifts against you.

“What?” he wonders quietly.

You thread your fingers through his soft hair, caressing the silver streak. “I want you to use me, Val.”

The whole of him goes utterly, painfully still.

It takes over a minute for him to find his voice again. “Love—”

“Just listen,” you say with soft urgency, holding him to you. “I want you to use me. Fuck me raw and mean. Take complete control. Do all the things you've been thinking about and not allowed yourself to do. Every dark thought, the ones you think you can't ask me for.”

He doesn't speak.

“If you're not comfortable, that's the end of it,” you say softly. “I’ll never bring it up again. Not once. We continue exactly as we are. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

You kiss his hair. “Say it back to me, pretty thing.”

“You'll never bring it up again,” he says quietly, almost dazed. “If I'm not comfortable.”

“Right. But if you wanted to. If you wanted to indulge that side, explore it… Then I want to as well. You have permission, Val. You’ve always had permission because I trust you.”

A long quiet.

“My love.”

You press your mouth to his hair again. “Yes?”

“I don’t know what to—”

“Don't say anything yet,” you cut in gently. “Think about it. You have all the time you need. No pressure. None. Ever.”

He nods against your skin.

You tip his face up and kiss him. With a hand at the side of his face, the way you've been kissing him since year one. Valarr’s mouth is warm, familiar. His lower lip catches against yours, and you taste the faint chemistry of his evening. The espresso he had after dinner, the trace of mint at the corner of his mouth from his toothpaste.

“I love you, sweet girl,” he whispers against your mouth with quiet desperation.

“I know,” you reassure him.

“More than—”

You press another urgent kiss to his mouth. “I know, Val.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. His temple. You let him pull you in and fold you against his chest in the careful, absorbed manner he’s always used, and you let him reach over and turn off the lamp without untangling himself from you.

He sleeps with his arms locked around you.

You feel him settle. The drawn breath of him against the crown of your hair. His hand at the small of your back has gone heavy. The smell of his skin warms against your face—Bergamot, cedar, and the warmer animal note that lives at the base of his throat.

But you can feel Valarr thinking. It hums in the faint tension that never quite leaves the muscle of his arm. His pulse, when you set your fingertips to the inside of his wrist, hasn’t eased all the way down for sleep.

You smile in the dark, turning your face into his throat and let him think.

He thinks for a long, long time.

You drift off before he does.

The week that passes is, on the surface, ordinary. 

Valarr goes to work. You go to work. He calls you on Tuesday on his way out of an offsite, and you talk for forty minutes about nothing. He brings flowers on Wednesday. Purple anemones, the ones you said you liked, and he enjoys giving you things you like. He kisses you Friday morning on the temple before leaving for the gym, attentive, fond, the warm press of his mouth in your sleep-tangled hair.

Throughout, you note the weight of his thinking.

He’s doing it under everything, a background hum. He’s even more attentive than usual. The hyper-focused warmth of a man who’s been given a piece of homework he intends to do well on.

You don’t bring up your late-night conversation once.

Saturday night, you’re out. A dinner with your old roommate and her husband. The dinner runs long. You drink more chianti than you planned. It’s nearly midnight when the cab finally pulls up to the building, and you let yourself in with your own penthouse key, calling out an automatic I'm home. You’re slipping out of your coat in the foyer when—

Wrong.

No. Not wrong. Different.

You pause with one arm half out of the sleeve.

The penthouse is dark. The lamps are turned down to the lowest setting, almost theatrical. The city is laid out in the long glass at the far end of the living room, golden but cold at this distance. The air carries him faintly. The woody base of his soap, something close to bergamot, at the base of his throat.

You finish slipping out of the coat, holding it on your arm. Then you step carefully into the doorway of the living room.

Valarr is on the couch.

Not in the centre. Off to one end, in the long shadow where the lamp light doesn't quite reach. Bare feet on the rug, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. A glass of bourbon held loose between two fingers—index and middle, the others curled toward his palm—resting on his thigh. 

He wears a black shirt, barely buttoned, the collar open well past the second button so you can see the hollow at the base of his throat and the faint blue-shadowed line of his collarbones under the fine cotton. The sleeves are rolled, neatly, to mid-forearm, exactly the way you like on him. The rolled cuffs sit just below his elbow, exposing the long cut tendons of his inner forearm and the soft veins along the underside of his wrist where they vanish into his palm. Hair damp. Recently showered. The pale streak at his temple dark with it, plastered slightly to the side of his head, the rest of his hair falling forward over his brow in that loose post-shower way that you have, if you’re truthful, never been entirely able to look at without losing a small portion of your composure.

His face, when it turns to you, is—

You stop.

His gaze is not warm. It’s not the tired warmth of a man waiting up to ask you about your night. There’s something fixed about it. Steady. Dark in a particular register you’ve seen flicker, briefly, two or three times in three years, and have never, before tonight, seen settle for longer than a glimpse.

Less golden. More predator, more dragon.

Valarr doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t stand.

A tingling, cold shiver ripples the length of your spine.

In a quiet, private corner of yourself, you observe the following: your boyfriend has been thinking intently for six days. Your boyfriend has, in your absence, showered, drunk a few mouthfuls of bourbon, dimmed the lamps, and arranged himself on a couch in a half-buttoned black shirt with his sleeves pushed up. Your boyfriend has put a stage together for you, and your boyfriend has placed himself at the centre of it. When he turns his head to look at you, his face has a dark, collected quality to it.

In an even smaller, quieter corner of yourself, you observe: he’s so beautiful you can’t look at him directly. You have to look at him in pieces. The line of his throat first. Then the line of his sleeve. Then that veiny hand on the glass. Then his mouth.

You wet your lips.

“Hi,” you call out, testing.

Valarr doesn’t answer.

“You waited up.”

“I did,” he agrees, voice low.

His voice has gone smoky. Not the smooth, charming Valarr voice. Not the rawer, boyish one underneath when you take him apart. Something further down than both. The voice of a man who’s been sitting alone in the half-dark with a glass of bourbon and a thought, and has worked the thought through to its end.

“Valarr.”

“Come here.”

You hesitate.

A brief thing, but you hesitate. Not from fear. From a bright, unsettled curiosity that wants to test the boundary. You’ve been in charge of this room for three years. Even the few times he’s had you against a wall, even the few times he’s bent you over a counter and fucked you into it, you’ve been holding the reins.

You set your coat down on the bench. This is a test. You want to see him do it again, want to see if he can commit. 

“How was—”

“Come here.”

Sharper. The smoky voice has acquired an edge, an edge that lives just under the golden surface, and your breath catches before you have time to be embarrassed about it.

You go.

You walk across the rug. Stop in front of him. Valarr sits looking up at you, the bourbon set aside on the side table without a sound. He hasn’t put his hands on you yet. He drags his eyes over you instead. Leisurely, no apology, drinking in every line shamelessly, possessively. From the heels you haven’t stepped out of, up the dark stockings, the hem of the dress where the wool has ridden up an inch from the cab, the swell of your hips, your waist, your throat above the collar, your parted mouth.

The look lands as if it were a hand.

He stands. One motion. Suddenly too close. Valarr’s hands come up and take your face. Both of them. The long, elegant fingers along your jaw, his thumbs at your cheekbones, gentle in their hold but absolutely settled. He tilts your face up to him.

For the first time in three years, Valarr doesn’t ask.

He looks at you.

He looks at you for a long beat. You wait for the kiss he usually gives you, but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t speak. Only gazes at you the way he’s looked at you a thousand times—the immortalising look, the focused-fascinated drink—except now there’s something underneath it, something darker, and the reverent question that’s always lived at the bottom of that look is gone. The look is, for the first time, the look of a man who’s stopped asking.

This close, you can see his eyelashes. The long dark fan of them. The brown eye now almost black, the blue one bright under the lamp light. The faint shadow under his cheekbone where he’s been clenching his jaw for an hour. The slight parting of his lips. The fine bone at the bridge of his nose, half a centimetre from yours.

Your breath hitches.

Valarr hears it. His mouth moves. Just slightly. Not a smile, that dark corner tug again.

“Val—”

“Be quiet, my love.”

It comes out low, almost gentle. The endearment lands in its usual place. The instruction does not.

A bright shock runs through you. Valarr has never once told you to be quiet. You open your mouth, then let it close.

You decide—in the half-second of his thumb stroking once along your cheekbone—that you’ve asked him for this. That you’ve given him every key. That if you’re going to feel the edge of him, you have to let him hold it, fully, and he can’t hold it fully if you keep your hand on it too. You decide to let him have the reins for once. You decide to feel it.

You stay quiet.

His thumb strokes again. A pleased sound escapes him at the back of his throat. Valarr’s palm sets against the side of your jaw, the heel of it under your ear, his fingers spread back into the small, fine hairs at your nape. He turns your face, fractionally, the way a man might turn an art piece he’s examining in good light.

“Look at you,” he murmurs.

His voice has a brow furrow in it. You can hear it without looking. The line between his brows that’s been there all week, the same line that was there over the memo Wednesday, working a problem.

“Look at you in this dress. Out at dinner. Laughing. Drinking. With your friends. While I sat here for three hours thinking about you.”

You start to speak. He sets his thumb, gently, against your lower lip.

“No.”

You swallow.

A small, pleased sound hums at the back of his throat. “Good girl.”

His other hand drops to the buttons of your dress.

He undoes the first. Then the second. The cool air of the apartment reaches your sternum. Valarr doesn't look down at his hands. He keeps his eyes on you the entire time. The act of undressing you is a thing he’s set himself, tonight, to enjoy. You feel the faint warm brush of his knuckle against the bare skin of your stomach as the third button gives, and the fourth, and the fifth.

You watch his face the entire time.

You watch the small absorbed concentration in his expression. The faint line returns between his brows. His eyes follow the line of skin he’s uncovering, then return to your face, then back. His mouth has parted wider. The pink swell of his bitten lower lip is faintly damp now. He’s breathing through it, shallow, the long line of his throat working when he swallows.

He undoes the last button at your hip.

He sets his palms flat on your shoulders and draws the dress carefully off you. The wool slides down your arms, pools at your feet.

“Out of the heels.”

You step out. The world shrinks down by three inches. The weight of the room shifts around the lost height, and shifts again when Valarr steps in closer. He’s now noticeably taller than he was a moment ago, and the long line of his chest in the half-buttoned black shirt is at the level of your eyes.

“Valarr—”

“Quiet, my love.”

His hands find your waist, turning you. Controlled. Deliberate. He draws you back against him. Your spine to the front of his black shirt, and through the fine cotton, you register the solid line of his chest at your back. Through the linen of his pyjamas, you register that Valarr is hard. Has been. Possibly for the entire hour he’s been waiting for you.

His mouth comes down to the side of your throat. He breathes against you without kissing. The heat of his exhale at the hinge of your jaw burns. The faint grain of his stubble against the soft skin under your ear scratches.

His hands come up. Take hold of the front of your bra with both hands. Pull. The clasp is at the back, but Valarr isn’t interested in the clasp.

The seam at the front gives. The sharp tear of fine fabric tears through the room. The bra comes away in Valarr’s hand. You gasp before you can catch it. He sets the ruined thing aside on the side table without looking. His palms return, flat, to cup your breasts. The cool air of the apartment brushes against the bare skin of your chest, and you swallow down a gasp when Valarr rolls your breasts thoughtfully in his palms. 

He laughs. Once, low and dark. Right at your ear.

“You're going to talk back, aren't you, my love? You always do. You don't know how to be quiet. Such a difficult woman. Such a hard, beautiful, difficult woman.”

One hand drops down the line of your stomach. The other stays cupped over your left breast, his thumb working a slow drag across your nipple that pulls a faint, involuntary noise out of your throat.

“All week I've been thinking about you. Did you know? Of course, you knew. You always know.” You hear a silky, affectionate chuckle behind you. “You set it on me Wednesday night, and you went back to sleep. You knew I'd think about it. You knew I wouldn't sleep properly until I had an answer for you.”

His hand finds the top of your stockings.

“I have an answer for you, sweet girl.”

Valarr sets two fingers under the lace edge. The fine fibres go taut against his hand. Then—

He rips.

You gasp. The bright sound of stockings tearing reaches you. The lace at the top gives way, the long ladder running down the inside of your thigh, and his hand spreads flat against the bare skin of your thigh through the rip. Hot. Purposeful.

“Val—”

“I told you to be quiet, love.”

He rips the other side. The same gripping, unapologetic pull. The same brilliant sound of fabric giving up. The second stocking comes apart along the inside of your other thigh, and Valarr’s hand splays there too, and the cool air of the apartment finds the bare skin of your thighs through the shredded mess of what had been, two minutes ago, a hundred-and-forty pair of stockings.

You register, low and immediate, that you’re very wet.

So does Valarr. 

His hand has come up, exploratory, two fingers pressing flat over the thin silk of your underwear, and he goes still for half a second. A pleased hum comes out of him that you haven’t heard before in three years.

“Oh, my love,” he says fondly. “You're soaked.”

Silence. He has told you to be quiet. You bite your own cheek. 

“Look at you. I haven't done a single thing yet. I've torn a bra and a pair of stockings, and you're already —” His fingers press against the silk. “Were you wet in the cab? You knew what you were coming home to.”

Valarr hooks both thumbs in the silk at your hips. Pulls. The underwear gives at the side seam. He has to pull harder this time, and then it gives entirely. Valarr draws the ruined silk away from you and sets it on the side table on top of the ruined bra.

You stand naked in the half-light of the living room with Valarr Targaryen, fully clothed, pressed against your back.

“Down,” he says. “On your knees.”

His hand presses, low, between your shoulder blades, and you go.

You go forward awkwardly, your bare heels coming up off the rug, and you go down onto your knees on the heavy wool. The immediate roughness of the weave registers on the bare skin of your kneecaps, the dense pile against your shins. He follows you down. Not all the way. Valarr kneels behind you, and the linen of his pyjama bottoms is at the backs of your thighs, the fine cotton of his shirt at your spine, and the hard line of him, still clothed, against your bare lower back.

Both his hands come around. One settles flat and claiming on your stomach. The other goes up to your throat. Not gripping, his fingers are too loose, but the heel of his palm settles at your collarbone. The way you’ve set your hand on him a thousand times.

The way he has not, before tonight, set his on you.

“You like this so much,” he murmurs in your ear. “Don't you?”

You don't answer. You’ve been told twice now to be quiet.

A hum. “You can answer.”

“Yes,” you rasp.

Another hum. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Val.”

A pleased chuckle. The hand at your throat strokes once with the long line of his fingers.

“You set this on me Wednesday night, and you went out for chianti tonight,” he says quietly. “You let me sit here and think about it for six days. You knew exactly how I'd be when you walked in. You wanted me like this.”

He nips lightly at the lobe of your ear.

“You think I haven't been hard for a week, my love. You think I haven't been on calls, in meetings, in the back of cars, thinking about every single thing I'd never let myself do to you. I've been picturing this. You. Naked. On my floor. Soaked through. Quiet, for once in your life, because I told you to be.”

His thumb drags over the centre of you, over the tight peak. You breathe out, unsteady.

“Don't be angry,” you whisper.

“I'm not angry.”

“You sound—”

“I'm not angry,” Valarr interrupts quietly. “I'm thinking. I've been thinking all night about you. Be quiet, my love. Listen."

His hand at your stomach drops, sliding deliberately between your hips. Valarr pushes your knees further apart on the rug, gently but purposefully. He arranges your hips at an angle he wants them. His other hand spreads at your nape. You feel, distantly, the warning of the carpet under your knees, the way it’s going to burn in the morning.

“Lean forward.”

He pushes. The flat of his hand at your nape, the gentle, insistent press that puts you down onto your forearms on the rug. Your back arches. Your hips rise. The cool air of the apartment hits the bare wetness of your cunt.

Behind you, the whisper of linen fills the air as Valarr undresses. The clean thud of cotton landing on the side of the couch sounds. He’s thrown the shirt. Valarr has never once thrown a piece of clothing in three years you’ve been together, and you file it; you file it; you’ll think about it later.

His hand returns to your nape.

He drags the head of his cock, leisurely, through the wet of you, and you suck in a breath. He doesn’t push in. Not yet. There’s only the unhurried drag, the burning heat of him along the slick of you. You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. You’re not allowed to speak, and you’re not allowed to take the way you usually do. You’re forgetting how not to.

“My love.”

You try to find your voice as Valarr drags his cock between your folds again, coating himself in you. “Yes?”

“Tell me what you wanted,” he says calmly.

“I—Val, please—”

“Tell me.”

He drags the head of him through you again, using his thumb to part your folds, opening the slick of you against him. Valarr looks down. You can't see him, but you can feel the angle of his attention, the exact spot where he’s rubbing himself against you, at the slick mess of you against him.

“Use me,” you breathe.

A low, curious sound rumbles in his chest. 

You swallow over your dry tongue, tingling all over. “You… Use me. I asked you to use me.”

“You did, my love,” he agrees, almost lazily. 

“Please, Val. Need you.”

A pleased, dark sound builds at the back of his throat.

“I'm going to use you,” he confirms gently, the swollen head of his cock, dragging back and forth. You can feel his pre-cum mixing with your arousal, your pelvic tightening around the emptiness inside you. “I've been thinking about it for a week. I'm going to use you exactly the way I've been thinking about, sweet girl. I'm going to wreck you on this rug, my love, and I'm going to enjoy it.”

He pushes in.

To the hilt. One fluid stroke. No pause. No asking. No half-second of letting you adjust. The sound that tears out of you is loud, choked. Valarr doesn't soften for it. His hand at your nape holds you down where he wants you. His other hand finds the curve of your hip, fingers spread, and he stays in you. The deep stretch of him against the inside of you is shocking, the thick heat splitting you apart, the pulse of him against the tender walls. 

Valarr breathes out slowly through his teeth. A sound of pure, masculine satisfaction. 

“Oh,” he breathes. The half-word cracks.

He pulls out. Almost all the way, then pushes back in. Hard. Again. Harder. The slap of his hips against the back of your thighs echoes through the room. The drag of him through you leaves a trail of fire; the wet, slick sounds of how ready you are unmistakable, too loud. You try to focus on the cool stretch of your spine. The dense burn of wool under your forearms. 

Valarr fucks you the way a man fucks a thing he’s been told he’s allowed to wreck completely.

“Look at you taking it,” he drawls behind you, his voice silky, faint breathlessness catching the syllables. “Filthy thing. Greedy thing. You wanted this, didn't you? Tell me how long.”

“Months, Val—”

“Months. My pretty, polite, perfect girl. Sitting across from me at dinners, thinking about being on her knees on my carpet. All those nights I was being good to you, my love. Gentle. Patient. Asking. Were you wanting this then, too?”

“Yes—”

“Were you lying in our bed waiting for me to stop being so fucking gentle and just take you?”

You muffle a moan against your forearm when he thrusts into you at a particularly shallow angle. “Val—”

“Tell me.”

“Yes, I was—”

“Good girl. Look at how honest you are when I've got you like this,” he says, breathless, his fingers tightening at your hip, holding you in position. “Look at how truthful my good girl gets with my cock inside her. You're a different creature down here, aren't you, my love? All that steely composure. All that poise. And here you are with your face on a rug and your knees apart and your cunt dripping for me. What would anyone say if they could see you right now? They'd never believe you. They'd never believe what a filthy, desperate, greedy thing you are for me.”

Valarr’s hand at your hip slides up your back, across the wing of your shoulder, and grips at the back of your neck like the scruff of a creature he means to hold. His palm spreads. His fingers press into the muscle on either side of your spine. Holding.

He pulls out. Stops himself, catches the edge of his own discipline, and pushes back in with a slower, purposeful slip. He leans forward over you. His mouth comes down to the long curve at the back of your neck, and Valarr sinks his teeth in.

Just hard enough that you feel his teeth in your flesh. Hard enough that the sound you make is half a yelp.

He sucks the bite afterwards.

“All week, my love,” he says conversationally. “Do you want to know what I've been thinking about?”

“Yes, yes.”

“That’s my good girl.”

His hand, the one that had been at your hip, slides down between your bodies and finds the clenched, weeping centre of you. His finger works you with the precise, dedicated focus, exactly at the spot where his cock keeps pushing into you. A wrecked sound escapes you at the dual sensation. Valarr’s voice fills your ear. 

Low, smoky, silken, every consonant placed with the same patient attention he's giving the centre of you.

“I've been thinking about all the things I'd never let myself say to you. Filthy, ugly things, my love. The kind of things polite men aren't supposed to think. I've been thinking about you bent over my desk in the office.” He pauses at the hungry sound you let rip and huffs, low and fond. “About how I've watched men look at you for three years and sat there and smiled. About every time I touch you, I have to count the seconds before I'm allowed to move. About everything I could do to you if I just stopped counting."

A wet sound bubbles at the back of your throat between every lazy, rolling thrust. “Val—”

“I've been thinking about your mouth, sweet girl. About how it looks when you're talking to my mother at brunch. About how my mother thinks you're a perfect girl. The perfect heiress. The most well-mannered young woman she has ever met, she said that to me in October. Did I ever tell you?”

A laugh, soft, dark, genuinely amused.

“And here you are,” he coos. “On a Saturday night with your face on a rug and your perfect mouth on my floor. What would she say? What would anyone say, hm? They'd never believe what a filthy thing you are for me.”

“Val, please, Val—”

“I've been thinking about how good you'd look, anywhere, with my hand at your throat,” he goes on pleasantly.

His hand drops back to your hip. He pulls almost out. Slams in. The heat of him hammers through you, sending you forward by several inches. Your breath comes in punched pieces, your heart tripping over itself. The carpet burns, rough wool rubbing against your forearms and knees. The bone at the side of your hip, where it’s closest to the floor, aches pleasantly, mixing with blinding pleasure between your thighs where Valarr fucks into you. His chest is sweat-slick where it brushes your back when he leans in. The long damp line of him is hot, the smell of him gone fully animal now, the bergamot warmed by the salt of him. The hot, heavy musk of a man who’s been hard for an hour and is only now being permitted to claim what he wants.

Valarr’s hand slides up, splaying low on your stomach. He flattens his palm there under your navel. The heel of it pressed in. Then he stops moving—fully seated, deep—and holds.

You feel him through every inch of yourself. 

Through your own body, against his hand. The hot thick line of him deep inside you, pulsing. The insistent throb of him against your soft inner walls. His palm pressed flat on the outside. The impossible faint pulse of yourself between the two. Like he’s holding himself in his own hand through you, like your body is the thinnest possible distance between his cock and his hand. 

You’re aware, suddenly, of how full you are. Of how thoroughly Valarr has nestled himself inside you. Of the warm, wet stretch of yourself open around him, sucking him in deeper, of the slick of you running down the inside of your thigh, of the slow, constant clench of yourself trying to hold him deeper without your permission. Your back arches slightly, instinctively. Your hips lift the fractional hopeful inch.

“Feel that?” he breathes against the shell of your ear.

“Yes, I, Val—”

He kisses your damp skin. “Feel where I am. Feel how deep, my love. Feel my hand.”

He presses. Ever so slightly. The pressure makes you gasp, clawed hand tearing at the rug beneath you.

“That's me,” he rasps, his hot breath burning against your neck. “That's where I am inside you. Right there. Right under my hand.”

He starts moving again. Slower, more punishing this time. Each thrust drags the long, thick length of Valarr’s cock through you and presses you down against his hand again. His palm stays flat on your stomach the whole time so that you can feel him from inside and outside at once. 

The pulse of him against your inner wall washes away all else. You register the faint slick of his sweat against your belly under that hand. The unhurried withdraw—the sudden ache of emptiness, the rim of you fluttering helplessly around the head of him before he mercifully sinks in again, like he can’t be parted from you too long—and the slide back. The wet sound of him entering you fills your ears, over and over. Followed by a strangled, involuntary noise that escapes you each time.

“I've been thinking about you carrying my child.”

You go still, your breath catching.

Valarr doesn't stop.

He fucks into you on the word child—once, firm, deep, the head of him reaching the high pulse of you in a way that makes your toes curl on the rug—and his hand presses harder against your belly. His other hand at the back of your neck tightens. His voice has gone lower. Silken. The quiet register of a man who has, for six days, been thinking about nothing but this.

“I couldn't stop thinking about it,” he goes on, words turning more ragged. “I'd be on a call, I'd be in a meeting, and I'd be thinking about putting a child in you, sweet girl."

Another thrust. Deeper, all the way to the bottom. The press of his palm into your belly. A small wet whimper slips past your clenched teeth.

“About filling you up.”

A thrust. Valarr’s hand spreads wider. His long, careful fingers rubbing across the soft of your stomach. The head of him bumps that high, impossible place inside you that makes your spine arch and your hips push back into Valarr’s thrust, seeking more.

“About watching it take.”

A sound, maybe half sob, bubbles past your lips. Valarr pushes back into you. The wet smack of his hips against the back of your thighs making him sigh. A bead of his sweat drops between your shoulder blades, sliding into the dip of your spine.

“About your belly going round under my hand. Just like this. The same hand. Right here.”

Valarr drags his palm, flat, in a slow circle low across your stomach. His thumb traces the small soft rise where, in some imagined version of this, his child would be growing under his hand. Your hips give a small involuntary roll up into the press of his palm, seeking more pressure.

He registers it.

“Oh, my love.”

He presses harder, so hard your vision nearly blacks out, his cock pulsing inside you so hard that Valarr hisses behind you. He doesn’t stop thrusting into you despite it, going shallow and deep, so deep you could feel him at the back of your throat. 

“I want to spread you open, my love,” he gasps. “I want to spread you open and watch myself go into you. I want to do it again and again until your body learns. I want to make a habit of it. Every night. Every morning. I want to put myself inside you and not stop until you take. Until it takes."

He pulls out almost all the way, the long drag of him through your swollen cunt, and sinks back in to the hilt. He stays there.

“Look at how you open for me. Every. Single. Time. Look at how easy it is. Look at how your body knows me. Like we were made for each other.”

Valarr drags out again. Slower. Sinks back in. Even slower, gliding past every inflamed nerve. The deliberate watching cadence of a man who’s doing this so you can feel each individual stroke. So you can feel each filling. So you can register, in its leisurely deliberatness, that he’s taking you and giving you back to yourself, emptier, and then taking you again.

“I want to see you swollen with it, my love.” His voice is unravelling. The smooth, controlled Valarr is gone. This, you realise through your pleasure haze, is Valarr undone, speaking of his darkest, most private fantasies. “Heavy. I want my hand here for nine months, love. I want every man who looks at you to know what I am to you, what I've done. What you let me do. Every time I see you in a dress in a room of three hundred people, I want them to know that you go home with me, and you let me put myself inside you, and you let me keep me there until it takes.”

He fucks you harder. His hand presses hard against your stomach with each thrust now. Palm flat, the heel of his hand pressing the soft swell of you down onto the next slide of him.

“I want to keep you. I want to keep all of you. Every soft place. Every secret place. Every place a man would never see. I want all of it. I want to mark every inch of you I'm allowed to, and a few I'm not. I want my hand on your stomach in restaurants when you're eight months along, and I want everyone in the goddamn room to see it."

“Fuck, Val, Val—” 

Your voice cracks.

“Some day, my love,” he hisses. “I'm going to breed you exactly like this. I'm going to put a baby in you with my hand here and your face on the floor and your cunt clenching around me, and I'm going to keep you full until it takes, and then I'm going to do it again. Again. Again."

A strained, dazed noise comes out of you. Not a word. Your whole body has gone hot. Liquid. You can feel your face burning into the rug, your nipples burning against the wool, the bright wet ache between your thighs going molten, the absurd impossible pulse of want at the place where his palm is pressed flat to your stomach.

“Not tonight. I'm not going to tonight. I know. But I'm going to think about it. The entire time. Every time I'm inside you tonight. Every time I come in you. I want you to know that, my love. I want you to know what I'm thinking when I finish."

“Yes, yes.”

“Tell me you want me to think about it.”

You squirm, your whole body one massive coil of pleasure. “I want you to think about it, Val—”

He laughs softly, relieved. “My good, beautiful, ruined girl. My wolf.”

He fucks you harder.

His hand returns to your throat, his fingers loose. Valarr leans over you now, the length of his strong body along the length of yours, his mouth at your ear. His hips work in deliberate strokes. The burn of the carpet is getting worse. Your forearms feel like they’re on fire, your knees beginning to ache. Each thrust sends your nipples dragging on the rough wool of the rug, a bright burn that threads all the way down into the heat of your stomach and joins, somehow, to the place where his palm stays pressed. To the place where he’s just been telling you he wants to put a child.

You come.

You come with your face turned into the rug and Valarr’s teeth at the back of your shoulder, his hand at your throat. You come hard—a long shuddering ache of it, your whole body locking almost painfully around him, your spine arching up into the long warm pin of his weight—and Valarr fucks you through it without slowing, and his voice, in your ear:

“That's it. There's my filthy, perfect girl. Come on. All of it. Take it. Keep taking it.”

You moan weakly. “Val.”

“My greedy, perfect, filthy girl. Look at you,” he whispers, dazed. “Listen to you. I haven't even properly started, my love."

You’re still pulsing around him, the aftershocks, when his hand at your throat tightens fractionally, and he says—

“Not done. Stay open for me.”

You shudder. Valarr keeps going.

Valarr fucks you through the over-sensitive aftermath. Slower now but not gentler. His hand stays at your throat, his other hand splayed flat under your stomach to keep your hips up at the angle he wants. Dazed, reflexive sounds leave you. The drag of him inside you feels almost torturous when you’re still soft and pulsing. The bright unbearable —

You come again. Shorter, sharper, less prepared. You sob, faintly, against the rug.

“There we go,” he pants. “Look at how greedy you are for me. So greedy for my cock, sweet girl. Such a greedy, beautiful girl.”

Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth, tied up by sheer pleasure pulsing through your limbs. 

“You can take more,” Valarr declares silkily. 

It’s not a question.

He pulls out, flipping you. The world spins, briefly—your back is on the rug now, the rough wool against your shoulder blades—nd he’s over you, his eyes black, the streak in his hair gone fully damp at the temple. His bitten mouth shines,  aflush high on his cheekbones, and Valarr is peering down at you with the fixed dark focus.

You drink him in.

You take him in for the first time tonight from this angle, and he’s…

He’s unfair, practically impossible. The most beautiful thing your eye has settled on in three years and possibly your life. The flushed, gleaming line of him in the lamplight fills your sight. The white streak, bitten swell of his lower lip where his own teeth have been. The long rope of muscle along the inside of his arm, where he braces by your head. The narrow cut of his hip. The long, lean torso slick with sweat. The wide spread of his shoulders bracing over you.

You make a sound. A small, hungry, appreciative noise. Valarr hears it, and the corner of his mouth crooks.

“Look at you looking at me,” he murmurs lovingly. Almost amused. “My perfect love. Look at you.”

He hooks one of your knees up. Sets it over his shoulder. Drives back in.

You arch, gasping, your mouth staying open.

He fucks you on your back with your knee at his shoulder, the angle deeper, the wool of the rug burning the bare skin of your back and the curve of your other thigh. Your breasts are exposed to him now. Valarr's mouth comes down. He bites—once, hard, on the upper swell—and sucks the bruise after, the long drag of tongue you taught him, then licks across to the centre of you and closes his mouth around a nipple. The shocked noise you make is all impulse.

“Val.”

“Mm.”

“I can't, I can’t, t’much—”

A gentle little hum, considering, then, “You can.”

“I—I’m… much—”

“Mm. I know, my love. I know.”

He lifts his mouth. Looks at you. Something patient, watching. Almost cruel. The boyish wonder is gone, replaced with something more predatory.

“Take it, sweet girl,” he says, a low order.

His pace picks up again, harder, deeper. 

You take it. You take it because there’s nothing else to do. You take it because everything in your body has reached the point of no resistance. You take it because somewhere underneath the oversensitive blinding burn of it, you’re coming again, coming a third time, smaller, longer, the rolling thing of having been used past your own sense of yourself, and Valarr—

Valarr keeps fucking you through it, and his voice, wrecked above you, the flush spreading down his throat, the long lean line of him gleaming, the streak in his hair black with sweat. He bows his forehead to yours.

He hasn’t finished.

He’s been holding off the whole time. The iron self-discipline of three years is now applied in the service of taking you for as long as he wants.

“Val—please—come—”

“Soon,” he drawls, almost dismissively. “You don't decide that anymore. Not tonight. I do.”

He flips you again. You go limp, let him handle your body. You’re entirely his to position by now. Your body gone soft and used, the distant remove of being fucked into the floor by a man who has, finally, stopped asking. Valarr puts you back on your knees, your forearms. His hand slots at your nape. He pushes back in, the wet sound of him sliding into swollen cunt you the loudest thing in the room.

“Stay there for me.”

You stay.

For a count.

You stay through ten thrusts. Twenty. You stay through the burn in your shoulders, the deeper ache in your hips—

And then your arms go.

The tremor at the elbow. The loss of feeling at the wrist. The bright fizz of overworked muscle, and your forearms simply slide forward on the rug. Your cheek hits the wool. Your shoulders come down. Your hips drop a degree—

And then your knees give. They simply quit. Both of them. You collapse forward onto your stomach on the rug with a muffled noise.

Valarr doesn’t stop.

He follows you down. His weight comes with you—the powerful, damp heavy length of him along your spine, his cock still buried in you, his hand still fisted at your nape—and he braces his other hand flat beside your head on the wool, and he—

He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t withdraw to thrust again.

Valarr sinks himself inside to the hilt and stays.

He grinds.

His pelvis presses flush against the curve of your ass. The bone of his hip against the soft of you. His cock buries as deep as he can put it, deeper than he has ever taken you, and he doesn't pull back. He doesn't stroke. He doesn't fuck. He works himself in short, blunt grinds and twitches—the unrelenting, slow press of a man who’s no longer interested in motion, only in depth, in trying with the entire animal focus of his body to push that impossible additional inch into you, to bury himself further than the biology of bodies allows.

The carefully articulate man is gone. There’s only silence behind you, only animal focus. 

What's left underneath is the instinct of a creature trying to put itself into another creature in a way that takes.

He grinds. He stays. He presses.

Valarr’s sweat slicks the long line of your back where his chest has come down on you. Another bead of it rolls between your shoulder blades slowly, and he doesn't notice; he’s somewhere deeper than awareness, the hot ragged broken pant of his breath at the back of your neck, the salt of him heavy in the air. His hand fists tight in your hair. The bone of his hip drives against the soft of your ass—again, again, again—in the constant ungovernable rhythm of a man trying to plant himself.

You can’t move.

You’re pinned. Hips flat to the wool. Knees splayed loose where they had given. Cheek pressed to the carpet. Valarr is heavy. He’s so heavy. The full damp warm crushing weight of him on you, his teeth set against the place where your neck meets your shoulder, and the impossible deep blunt pressure of his cock somewhere high inside you that you’ve not, in three years of being fucked by him, ever felt him reach. He’s not in motion.  There’s only pressure and depth. He’s sheer weight. The warm, wet impossibility of a man trying to get further inside you than he’s ever been.

You feel him through every inch of you.

Through your stomach against the rug, where his hand had been splayed. Through your hips against the floor. The high pulse where the head of him is grinding against the inner wall of you, the small, impossible spot that makes your toes curl. The angle that makes your eyes go wet against the wool, that makes you helplessly clench and flutter around him each time he presses deeper. Through the pulse of yourself between his cock and the rug, between his weight and the floor, the tight pulse of being completely and entirely held in place.

You sob into the wool.

You’re not in pain, you’re not scared, there’s only pleasure so consuming, your entire body has gone numb. Valarr opened your body past where you can hold any logic. There’s only the deep, blunt grinding pressure of him at a place you had not known existed. You’re going to come from this, you realise distantly, from being held down and pressed open and used like a thing that exists only to be filled by him.

The dark hunger gathers low in your stomach, where his hand is no longer splayed because his hand is at the back of your neck again, because he’s no longer narrating, no longer praising, no longer checking. He has, finally, stopped checking.

You are a thing he’s using.

You let yourself be it.

You make a wrecked, broken sound into the rug.

Valarr answers with a groan of his own. Half a word, half a growl, all of it animal. His grind goes harder, the tiny, frantic pressure of him going tighter against you, his hips driving forward in shorter and shorter pulses, and you feel him stutter.

His pace breaks. His rhythm fractures.

“Going to come,” he gasps. “Going to come, my love—inside—tell me—”

“Inside, Val—”

He groans deeply, and it sounds animal. “All of it —”

“All of it—”

Valarr finally breaks.

Teeth at the back of your neck. Weight pressing you flat. A ruined, broken sound at your ear that’s not a word, but instead something older than words. The helpless, drawn-out moan of a man whose body has given itself over to something deeper than reason. He holds inside you. Pulses. The long shuddering release into you, the hot spill of his cum going deep, his hips still working in those compact, relentless grinds long after he should be still. Pressing, pressing, pressing, the unconscious instinct to work himself further, to make sure of it, to push every drop into the impossible space he’s been trying to reach. You feel each pulse of him as a separate event. The shudder runs all the way down the length of his back, where your hand can’t reach.

Valarr stays.

His weight folds on you, his mouth hot at your nape. His pelvis presses flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt and softening but not yet leaving. His sweat-slick chest presses against your back, breath ragged in your ear.

He stays for a long time.

You can hear him come back to himself.

The breath against your neck slows. Gradually. The fist in your hair loosens. The hot, tight blind grip of Valarr at your nape unfists, his fingers spreading instead. That diligent, slow spread of a hand that’s remembered, somewhere, that it belongs to a man who loves you. The ragged, animal pant goes quiet. The grinding presses of his hips ease. Valarr sets his forehead down against the back of your shoulder. He breathes.

The shift is total.

You feel it in his body. In the room. In the air over you. The animal that had been pinning you to the floor—the heavy rutting pressing crushing thing that had been working itself deeper into you for the last however-many-minutes—is, all at once, gone. In its place: Valarr. Your golden Val. The attentive, tender man who’s spent three years asking before each thing returned to you between one breath and the next. 

The warm weight of him is a different creature entirely from the heavy, primal grinding thing of two minutes ago.

His hand, the one that had been fisted in your hair, opens. The long fingers spread, gentle, against the side of your skull. He strokes once, soft, behind your ear. His other hand slides off the rug from where it had been braced beside your head and settles, palm-flat and tender, at the curve of your hip. A possessive, soothing weight.

“Oh, my love,” he breathes. His voice has gone soft, frayed. Not a hint in it of the smoky predator from before. “Oh, my love. Look at what you let me do.”

He pulls out carefully. Cool air bites into your flushed skin. You whimper at the loss. He hushes you, soft, his palm flat at the small of your back. You can already feel him dripping out of you, streaking down your inner thigh in thick gushes. 

He kneels behind you.

His thumbs come to either side of you, and he spreads you. Gently. Both hands drawing you apart, and you feel the cool air between your stinging thighs. You feel Valarr looking. Examining. The slow leaking warmth of his cum, beginning to slip free of you, your cunt unable to hold everything he’s put in you inside.

A sound comes out of him. A low, drawn, broken breath. 

“Look at that.” His voice cracks, shaky. “Oh, look at that. Look at you. Look at what I've done to you. Look at how full you are of me, sweet girl.”

He keeps you spread. Scrutinising his work. His thumb rests—not pressing in, just resting—at the rim of where he just spent god knows how many minutes fucking you like an animal. What follows is long focused quiet of him drinking the sight of his own mess leaking out of you down the inside of your thigh.

“Mine,” he says, low, silky. “Mine. Mine.”

He lets it leak. He watches for a long time.

Then his hands ease. Valarr lets you close. He sets his palm flat on the curve of your hip. Smoothing. He drags his thumb tenderly through the wet on the inside of your thigh, lifting the thumb and pressing the warm wet print against the small of your back and marking you with the mess of yourself. He sets his mouth, after, against the place he has marked with his cum. Kisses it. A soft, loving, closed-mouthed press, almost reverent. The kind of kiss he gave you on the temple this morning before the gym.

The kiss undoes you.

You make a sound. A tiny, low wet sound. Not under your control.

He hears it. The whole quality of him changes like a switch.

“My love.”

He’s back.

Golden Valarr is back, returned, the soft, attentive boyish warmth of him flooding into the room as if it had only been waiting for permission. You feel, through the shift of his body over you, through the change in his breathing, that the dark thing he’s been holding for an hour has, at last, completed its work and stepped aside.

“My love. Hey. Hey.”

His hand comes up to cup the side of your face, where it’s still turned against the wool. His thumb strokes your cheekbone. His other hand settles, possessive but soft, low at your hip.

“Hey. Sweet girl. Look at me,” he urges. “Look at me, sweet girl.”

You make another sound.

“Oh, no," he breathes. “Oh, no, sweet girl. Oh—look at you. Please.”

His voice has gone high and concerned, the voice he uses in the rare instances you’re properly hurt. When you twisted your ankle last winter at Winterfell, when you cut your hand on a glass last summer.

“My love. Talk to me. Please. Are you all right?”

You try to find your voice, and it takes several attempts. “I'm—I'm fine.”

You hear the rush of breath leave him. “Yeah?”

“More than fine,” you whisper weakly.

“Are you sure?” he demands urgently, and you hear the fear in his voice. 

“Val.”

“Please tell me,” he chokes out. “I need you to tell me.”

“I'm sure,” you reassure him softly, your voice a croak. “I'm—Val, I'm more than sure. Come here, pretty thing.”

He gathers you at once.

He moves fully onto the rug and draws you into his lap. Both arms careful, the long careful arrangement of your limbs against his chest. Your head settles into the warm hollow under Valarr’s jaw. The strong, damp line of his chest is against your side. His arm under your knees. His other arm around your back.

You burrow.

You burrow the way you do not, ordinarily, burrow. You press your face into the warmth of his throat, set your fingers weakly into the fine hair at the base of his neck, and stay there. He smells like himself. The salt of his sweat. The clean baseline of his soap underneath. You inhale all of it. You inhale him.

Your eyes prickle.

You’re not a woman who cries easily. You’re a Stark; the cool one; the one who does the holding. You feel a small warm tear leak out of the corner of your eye anyway, run slowly into the fine hair of his throat where your face is pressed, and you feel Valarr’s whole body register it.

He freezes like someone’s struck him.

For one half-beat. Then—

“Oh, my love.”

His arms tighten around you. The hand at your back spreads, drawing you in tighter to his body. His mouth comes down to your hair, and he’s kissing the crown of your head with the small, frantic kisses.

“Oh, sweet girl. Sweet girl. Come here. Let me hold you, let me love you.”

“Val.” His name comes out soft, needy in a way it never is coming from your mouth.

“I've got you,” he whispers fiercely into your skin, glueing you to his body. “I'm right here. I'm right here, sweet girl.”

He rocks you. Faintly. Not a sway you’re sure he’s conscious of. This is the instinct of a man holding a precious thing, the small back-and-forth of his weight on the rug, his arms locked around you, his mouth pressed to your hair.

“My love. My sweet, brave, beautiful, perfect wolf.”

You don't speak. You can't, quite. Not yet. Everything is too big, too loud, and you’re floating in your own body. You make a muffled sound into his throat instead, and Valarr makes one back, low, almost a coo. The smallest endearing wordless noise, a sound you’ve never heard from him before in three years.

You hum into his throat.

The hum vibrates against his pulse. You feel—under your mouth, against his skin—his pulse jump. You feel his arms tighten another fraction, hear his breath catch in his chest.

Valarr kisses your temple. Once. Closed-mouthed. The press of his lips into the fine hair at your hairline.

You sigh. A long unguarded sigh, the kind you would never permit yourself in Valarr’s presence on any ordinary night. The kind he’s been waiting three years to hear.

He kisses your eyebrow.

Then the corner of your eye where the tear had been. Then the bridge of your nose, the small bone there. Each kiss is gentler than the last. You tilt your face into him, blindly, seeking each peck.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he breathes, sounding awestruck. “Oh, you sweet, sweet thing.”

You nuzzle.

You press your face deeper into his throat. You drag your nose unhurriedly along the line of his throat from the line of his jaw to the hollow at the base, and the slight grain of his stubble catches against your cheek, and you make another throaty sound. He shudders faintly. His hand at your back goes flat, those long fingers spread, holding more of you against him.

“Sweet girl.”

Your answering sound is lost in his throat.

“Look at you with me,” he whispers tenderly, pressing a chaste kiss to your skin. 

You drag your mouth slowly across the line of Valarr’s throat. The faintest closed-mouthed press, the slightest open of your lips against his pulse. He breathes out, ragged.

“My love—”

“Mm.”

“You're undoing me,” he jokes quietly, but it comes out strangled. 

You hum. Pleased. The low sound vibrates against the warm hollow at the base of Valarr’s throat, and Valarr—Valarr makes the smallest sound in answer, something low and destroyed that lives somewhere between a laugh and a moan, and his hand at your hip slides up your back and finds the back of your head and holds you there.

“My love. Christ. Look at you.”

You lift your face from his throat and stare at him.

Valarr peers down at you with an expression you’ve not, in three years, seen settle on his face this fully. His eyes are wet. The brown one is almost black, the blue one almost glowing. The white streak at his temple is sweat-darkened still. His mouth is bitten and pink and parted, breathing through it. His cheekbones are flushed. The frenzied colour has gone soft at the edges, less feverish than during the sex, more open, more raw, the high colour of a man whose careful interior fortifications have come down.

You set your hand on the side of Valarr’s face, stroking your thumb along his cheekbone. The way he’s done to you a thousand times in three years, drinking in the faintest tremor under his skin.

He shuts his eyes, turning his face into your palm. 

“Val.”

“Yes, love?”

“You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, and mean it.

His eyes snap open. Valarr laughs. Soft. Surprised. A startled wet laugh, the laugh of a man who’s not, on this evening, expected to be told that.

“Thank you, love,” he says.

“You are,” you insist, drinking his flushed, sweaty appearance. Golden, so golden. “Look at you. Just look at you.”

“I'm a wreck.”

“You're beautiful. My beautiful, golden Val.”

His entire body responds to those words, breath hitching. “You can’t say that to me.”

“Be quiet, Val,” you say sternly, kissing his pulse once. “You don't get to argue with me. Not about this.”

He smiles. The corner of his mouth tugs up. He bows his head, briefly, that wry duck that you’ve always loved on him, the small, modest gesture of a man being told a thing he doesn't quite know what to do with.

You stroke your thumb along the line of his lower lip.

He makes a quiet sound. He turns his face fractionally and catches your thumb with the smallest closed-mouthed kiss. Then he holds it there. His mouth pressed to the pad of your thumb. Eyes shut.

You watch him.

The long lashes lying against his cheekbone. The cut of his jaw under your wrist. The small private pleasure on his face that he is, for once in his life, allowed to be tender out loud. You’re so attracted to him that you almost cannot stand it. He has, in this state, all the careful, gilded beauty he has when he’s in front of a camera, but stripped of the polish.

You bend your face. You kiss his temple where the white streak begins.

Valarr’s breath catches.

You kiss the line of his eyebrow. The corner of his eye. The bridge of his nose. The bone of his cheekbone. You are doing back to him, in slow, exact echo, the kisses he’s been giving you. He registers it. His breath comes faster, his hand at your back tightening.

His mouth opens, but you beat him to it.

“Hush.”

You catch the corner of his mouth.

The faintest closed-mouthed press. Valarr turns his face in. He chases it. A small, unsteady noise comes out of him, not a word, and he kisses you properly. This time it’s soft, tender, his hand cradling the back of your head, his mouth pressing yours open just a fraction. You hum into the kiss.

He breaks. His hand has come up to cup the side of your face, thumb sweeping once along your cheekbone. 

“Sweet girl?”

“Yes, Val?”

“I want to take you to the bath.”

You feel yourself nod slightly. “All right.”

“May I?” he questions. 

“Yes, pretty thing.”

A small wet laugh rumbles in his chest, and he kisses the bridge of your nose.

“Good girl.”

He shifts, gathering you up off the rug, and stands. He stands with you in his arms naked, the firm line of him pressed against the long warm line of you, and you make a small sound and curl your face into his throat.

He laughs again. Full of wonder.

“Don't let me go,” you say faintly, barely audible. 

His arms tighten around you. “Never.”

“Promise.”

“I promise, my love,” he whispers fiercely into your damp hair. “I have you. Always. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

He pauses, briefly, at the linen closet, and somehow, without letting you go, he extracts the cashmere blanket and wraps it around your shoulders one-handed. Then he half-carries you toward the back of the apartment, the murmur of him in your hair the entire way: there we go, sweet girl, there, almost there, that's right.

The bathroom is warm.

Steam sits thick in the air. He’s put your bath salts in. The eucalyptus and the lavender one he buys for you specifically and pretends not to know the name of. The mirror is fogged. The lamps are low. He’s lit two of the candles you keep on the long marble shelf, the small flicker of flame doubled in the steam.

“You ran a bath,” you say, muffled against his throat.

“I did,” he says.

“For after.”

“For after,” he confirms.

You smile, pressing your forehead to him. “I love you, Val.”

A press of his mouth to your temple. “I love you. I love you. I love you, sweet girl.”

Valarr sets you gently on the wide, flat ledge of the tub. He kneels on the warm stone in front of you. He takes both your hands in his, kisses each of your knuckles in order, one to ten, and turns one of your hands over to look at the rug burn on the inside of your wrist, the crape down the underside of your forearm. He kisses it, kisses the next mark. Kisses each one. 

“Look at you,” he says after a beat, staring up at you, eyes hooded. “You’re so beautiful."

“Val.”

“Hold on. Don't move.”

He gets up, retrieving the small jar of cyclist's cream and a soft white washcloth. There’s a glass of water with a slice of lemon in his other hand.

He slots the glass into your hand.

“Drink, love.”

You drink greedily, mouth full of zingy lemon. You hadn't realised how thirsty you were until the water touched your throat. You drink half the glass without lifting your face from the air over it. Valarr watches you.

He takes the glass when you’re done and sets it down. He kneels again on the stone.

“Up, my love,” he instructs patiently. “Just for a moment.”

He stands you, keeping one hand at the small of your back, steadying. He bends slightly and draws the cashmere blanket off you, then sets it aside on the warm towel rack. Then Valarr lifts you into the water.

You sigh.

The heat hits the back of your knees, the rug burns, the stinging places along your ribs and your shoulders and the bone of your hip. The eucalyptus soaks into your skin. Valarr steadies you with one hand at your shoulder, one at your hip, and lowers you all the way down until you’re sitting in the warmth of the water with your back against the curved porcelain of the tub.

You groan, slumping at once into the steaming water. 

“Yeah?” Valarr murmurs, stroking your neck. 

“That's perfect,” you tell him. “Thank you.”

A slight smile twitches Valarr’s mouth, and he climbs in behind you. Naked and sculpted still. He lowers himself slowly, his body settling, his toned legs framing yours, and draws you back against his chest. His arms come around you, and you let yourself to fall back.

For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. 

“This is perfect.”

Valarr chuckles at your pleased little sigh. “You said that.”

“I'm saying it again,” you snark, relaxing fully into his solid chest. 

Valarr laughs quietly against your ear, followed by a kiss on your temple.

He scoops water in his cupped palm. Pours it over the line of your shoulder, where the wool of the rug burned you. Pours it over your collarbone next. Scoops more. Runs his hand, long-fingered and strong, along the bone of your hip. Works the warmth into the marks. 

He sets his palm flat over your sternum.

“Look at you.”

“You keep saying that,” you tease, repeating his earlier words. 

“Because look at you.”

This time you’re the one laughing softly. Tired. He kisses the side of your hair.

Valarr works methodically. He presses his fingers gently into every tight muscle at the side of your neck where they’ve gone tense from holding your head down on the rug. You groan again, shivering. He hums, pleased, at the back of his throat, and works the muscle out. Focused circles of his thumb, the warm spread of his palm against the side of your throat. He does this for a while. Down to the curve of your shoulder. The long line at the back of your neck where his teeth had bitten.

He talks to you. Quietly. Through it.

“You did so well, my love. I'm so proud of you. You did so well. I’ve never… oh, love that was… it was everything. What it felt like…” He laughs under his breath. “You were so beautiful, so perfect. I couldn’t stop, love. My beautiful, brave girl. Look at you."

You breathe through your nose. Your eyes prickle again, and you grind your jaw, annoyed now.

“Oh,” he exhales behind you, hearing it. He turns your face gently so he can see. “Oh, sweet girl.”

He sets his thumb at the corner of your eye. Soothes the small wet glaze of it away. Kisses the place his thumb’s just been. Kisses the bridge of your nose lightly. Valarr’s forehead rests against yours for a long count, the warm steam billowing between you, his breath against your mouth.

“Love?”

“Yeah?”

There’s slight hesitation. “Can I say something?"

“Of course.”

Valarr loosens a breath, like he’s afraid to speak. “You've never been like this with me.”

“Like what?” you ask, your nape prickling. 

“Like—this,” Valarr says softly, squeezing you close, and he sounds almost dizzy with happiness. “Tucked in. Needy. Letting me hold you. You're always the one who holds. Always the steady one. And right now you're—”

He pauses. You feel him searching for the word.

“Undefended,” he says, finally, his voice quiet, happy. “You're undefended.”

You’re quiet.

“It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” he adds quietly. 

“Val—”

“Listen,” he cuts in. “Please. Let me say this.”

You close your mouth. You wait. His arms tighten around you in the warm water. His chin rests against the side of your hair. When he speaks, his voice is mild, careful, stripped of any performance.

“You told me not to be ashamed,” he begins. “Of the dark thing. Of whatever this is in me. You told me you'd been nurturing it on purpose. And tonight I—I held it. I held it in my hands, and I used it, and I didn't—I didn't feel ashamed. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like there was something wrong with me for wanting what I want because you trusted me. And I… I knew I was safe with you.”

He breathes.

“And now I'm looking at you, my love,” he goes on. “I'm looking at you crying in my lap on a bathroom floor. I'm watching you be vulnerable and needy in a way I’ve never, ever been allowed to see from you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“I think you were teaching us both something. I think you were teaching me that I don't have to be ashamed of the dark. And I think you were teaching yourself that you don't have to be afraid of the soft. And I think those are the same lessons.”

You’re quiet for a long time. The water laps against the porcelain, steam kissing against your sensitive skin.

“When did you get this smart?” you mumble, your chin partially in the water and your chest full. 

He laughs. A warm, startled, relieved laugh. It comes up out of his chest behind you, his arms tightening around you again, the press of his grin against the side of your hair.

“I've been doing homework, my love,” he answers promptly. 

“I noticed.”

“Did I pass?” he asks, and you hear the boyish grin in his voice. 

You lace your fingers through his under the water. Bring his hand up. Set it, palm flat, over your sternum, where your heart is. Hold it there.

“You passed, Val.”

You turn your face into his throat, where you can reach. You set your mouth against the place just under his jaw and kiss it. You drag your nose along the line of his throat. His hand at your sternum closes over yours.

You smile against his throat, kissing the line of his jaw. You kiss the corner of Valarr’s mouth where the angle lets you reach, and his head turns, blindly, seeking more. He kisses you back—soft, the warm, reverent press of his mouth, the ragged, wobbling breath he releases between kisses.

Valarr works methodically through the rest of the aftercare while you do this. He scoops warm water over each mark. Opens the cyclist's cream and works it into the rug burn at your hip with careful circles of his thumb, kissing each spot before he doses it. 

You hum at each kiss. He breathes out, frayed, at each hum.

Each time you make a thin, needing sound, Valarr answers with a softer one. Each time he kisses a place, you nuzzle into him a fraction further. The two of you build, in the warm quiet of the bath, an entire small private vocabulary of pleased noises and answering kisses. His hand strokes up and down the bare line of your arm under the water. Your fingers thread through his.

“Does that hurt?”

“A little,” you reply honestly.

He sighs. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I’m happy.”

“I'm still a little sorry,” he says

You stroke his forearm underwater, feeling the muscle relax at once. “Hush, pretty thing.”

“All right.”

He kisses the place again. Without apology this time. Claiming, approving. 

When the water cools, he nudges the warm tap with his toe—a manoeuvre you would, on any other evening, have laughed at, the small domestic competence of a man who’s done this for you before—and the warmth comes back. Valarr hushes you when you stir, pressing you back against his chest.

“Stay a little longer.”

You can hear the need in his voice. The desperation to keep you like this a little longer before your steel comes back again. 

“I'm staying,” you reassure him, lacing your fingers again.

“Good.”

You lace both your hands in his, setting them together, low on your stomach. Valarr stills. You feel him remembering. His thumb strokes, once, the curve of skin below your navel.

“Some day,” he murmurs.

“Some day,” you agree softly. 

He presses his face into the side of your hair. You feel the breath leave him. A long, shaky, unburdened breath, the breath of a man who’s been carrying something for a long time and has, tonight, been allowed to set it down.

“My love.”

“Mm.”

“I'm so happy.”

You smile. “I know, Val.”

“I’ve never been this happy. In my entire life."

You tilt your face up, and he bends his down. You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, the bone of his jaw. Valarr kisses your hairline, your temple, your eyebrow, the corner of your eye. You kiss his mouth, and he kisses yours back. The unhurried kisses of two people who have, tonight, found something neither of them had quite known existed in the other.

an: lord fucking help me. hope y'all feel as insane after reading this as I did writing it. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[jiminie-08]

Another hopelessly devoted and dark!Valarr. Obsessed 😍🥺💁🏽‍♀️

[fireproofs]

happy mother’s day to that mom who sold y/n to one direction

[lalalovelyly]

I think...i miss my wife...

part two part 1

Valarr Targaryen x reader Synopsis: In which you come back home word count: 4.9k

The celebrations had been lovely. The baby, little Valerya, named after her darling husband in a fit of sentimentality that you still felt slightly smug about, was perfect, with your brother's eyes and his wife's nose and a tiny tuft of dark hair that made her look like a particularly adorable potato. The food had been plentiful, the company warm, and the excuse to escape the Red Keep for a while had been genuinely refreshing.

For the first two days.

By the third morning of your absence, you had begun to wonder if Valarr was managing alright. He'd looked so tragic when you'd left, standing in the yard with his hand over his heart like a knight in a sad song, watching your wheelhouse disappear down the road. You'd waved until you couldn't see him anymore, touched by his devotion, mildly concerned by its intensity.

By the fourth day, you'd stopped wondering and started knowing.

The first letter arrived at breakfast.

It was from your good-father, Prince Baelor, and it was masterfully diplomatic, which immediately told you something was wrong, because Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen was many wonderful things, but diplomatically subtle was not typically among them.

My dear Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying your time with your family. Please extend my congratulations to your brother and his wife on the birth of their daughter.

I write with a small matter that has come to my attention. Your husband, my son, has apparently been unwell since your departure. He has not attended council, has taken his meals in his chambers, and has been observed by multiple servants staring at the southern road for hours at a time. Matarys reports that he is "utterly pathetic" and "in desperate need of intervention."

I do not wish to alarm you or cut short your visit. However, I feel you should be aware that Valarr has commissioned a portrait locket which he kisses approximately every few minutes, has forbidden the servants from changing your bedsheets, and was overheard having a lengthy conversation with your pillow.

A pillow, my dear.

If your visit could be concluded in a timely manner, I would be most grateful.

Your loving good-father,

Baelor

You read the letter three times, each time with a broader smile. He'd commissioned a locket? With your face? And he was kissing it? You pressed the letter to your chest and giggled like a girl of twelve.

"Oh, Valarr," you murmured. "You ridiculous, wonderful man."

Your sister-by-law, seated across the table with the baby in her arms, raised an eyebrow. "Good news?" "Excellent news." You folded the letter carefully and tucked it into your pocket. "My husband is losing his mind without me."

This was said with such obvious delight that your sister-by-law laughed. "That's… a good thing?"

"The best thing. The absolute best." You reached for another pastry, suddenly ravenous. "He loves me. He loves me so much he's talking to my pillow. How could that not be wonderful?"

The second letter arrived that afternoon. This one was from Matarys, and it was considerably less diplomatic.

Y/N,

Come home. Now. Immediately. I cannot stress this enough. Valarr has taken to wandering the halls at night, sighing loudly and clutching this locket he had made. He looks like a ghost. A very sad, very lovesick ghost who keeps asking people if they've heard from you. I ran into him at the godswood at midnight. He was just standing there, staring at the moon, and when I asked what he was doing he said, "She liked the moon. Did you know she liked the moon?" I did know. Everyone knows. She's mentioned it once or twice. He then showed me the locket for the seventeenth time and asked if I thought the painter had captured your smile correctly. I said yes. He said he wasn't sure, that maybe the left side was slightly off, that he was considering commissioning another one from a different artist just to be safe. Y/N. He is planning to commission a SECOND locket. Father is worried. Grandfather is amused, which is somehow worse. Even Aerion offered Valarr his condolences yesterday, and Aerion has never offered anyone condolences for anything. Please come home before he commissions a third one. Or starts talking to your shoes.

Your desperate good-brother,

Matarys

P.S. He also had the kitchens make your favorite lemon cakes and left them in your solar "so they'd be ready when you return." They are not keeping well. The servants keep eating them and replacing them with fresh ones so he doesn't notice. This has been going on for three days. The man is a menace to the household staff.

You doubled over laughing.

You read the letter again, savoring every detail. The locket. The moon. The shoes. The lemon cakes being constantly replaced. He was so thorough in his misery, so committed to missing you with every fiber of his being.

Your heart felt like it might burst. The third letter came the next morning.

This one was from Valarr himself, and it was so utterly, perfectly him that you had to stop reading twice because you couldn't see through the tears of laughter and love.

My love,

I am writing this at dawn because I couldn't sleep. Your pillow doesn't smell like you anymore. I think I've used it up. Is that possible? Can missing someone actually wear away their scent? I've asked the servants not to wash it, but maybe I should have asked them to preserve it somehow? In a jar? Is that strange?

(Don't answer that.)

I miss you. I miss you so much that I've started telling people about your laugh. Complete strangers. Guardsmen. The man who sharpens my swords. I told him, "My wife has the most beautiful laugh in the Seven Kingdoms. It sounds like bells. Happy bells. Bells that have just heard excellent news." He looked at me strangely. I don't think he understood. I had a locket made. Matarys probably told you. It's beautiful—you're beautiful in it, I mean. The painter captured your eyes perfectly, but I think your smile might be slightly off. I'm considering having another one made so I can compare them. Is that too much? It's probably too much. I don't care. I talked to your shawl yesterday. It was nice. Not as nice as talking to you, but nice. Please come home soon. I'm running out of your things to talk to. The shoes are next, and while I'm sure they'll be excellent conversationalists, it's not the same.

Your devoted husband,

Valarr

P.S. I love you. I love you I love you I love you. I'm going to write it a hundred times but the maester says ravens can only carry so much weight so I'll stop here. But imagine a hundred. Imagine a thousand. Imagine more than that, because that's how much I love you.

You pressed the letter to your heart and simply sat there for a long moment, overwhelmed by the sheer muchness of him.

Then you stood up.

"I have to go home."

Your brother, who had just entered the room with news about lunch, blinked at you. "What? Now? The celebrations aren't finished—"

"My husband is holding my shoes and talking to my pillow and commissioning lockets of my face." You were already moving toward your chambers, mentally cataloging what needed to be packed. "He's telling strangers about my laugh. He's having the servants replace lemon cakes so they'll be fresh for me. He's—" You stopped, turned, and beamed at your brother. "He loves me so much he's falling apart."

"That sounds… concerning?"

"It's romantic." You grabbed his arms and kissed his cheek. "I love you, I love the baby, I love that you named her after him, but I have to go. My husband needs me. He's out there being ridiculous and devoted and I need to go kiss him until he stops looking at the moon and asking if people know I like it. Tell your wife goodbye for me. Kiss the baby. We'll visit again when Valarr can be trusted to survive a separation of more than a week."

You were packed within the hour.

The wheelhouse was readied within two.

And as the horses began their journey south, toward King's Landing, toward the Red Keep, toward your ridiculous, perfect, shoe-holding, pillow-talking, locket-kissing husband, you sat back against the cushions with a smile so wide your cheeks hurt.

You couldn't wait to see him. You couldn't wait to let him hold you properly, to breathe you in, to stop talking to inanimate objects and start talking to you again.

You also couldn't wait to tease him about every single detail from the letters. The moon. The shoes. The pillow. The locket. The lemon cakes. The guard who'd heard about your laugh.

You were going to make him blush so hard.

And then you were going to kiss him.

"Faster," you told the driver, leaning out the window. "My husband is waiting."

---

The wheelhouse rolled through the gates of the Red Keep as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. You pressed your face to the window, heart hammering against your ribs, scanning the yard for a glimpse of dark hair and brighter eyes.

You didn't see him, he didn't know you were coming. You'd sent no raven, wanting to surprise him, and now that impatience clawed at your chest like a living thing. The wheelhouse hadn't even fully stopped before you were pushing the door open, leaping down with absolutely no regard for dignity or the servants rushing to assist you.

"Where is my husband?" you asked the nearest guard.

The man blinked at your sudden appearance. "The Prince? I believe he's in your chambers, my lady. He's been—"

You didn't wait to hear what he'd been. You were already running. Through the yard, past the startled faces of guards and courtiers alike, your slippers slapping against the stone, your traveling dress bunched in your fists to keep from tripping. Up the stairs, along the corridor, past the Targaryen banners hanging still and silent in the evening air.

You burst through the door of your chambers and stopped.

Valarr was seated at the window, his back to you, his shoulders curved forward in a posture of such profound loneliness that it pierced you straight through. He held something in his hands—the locket, you realized. He was holding the locket, his thumb moving gently across its surface in a slow, rhythmic stroke.

Evening light fell across his dark hair, picking out that distinctive streak of silver-gold that marked him as dragon-blooded. He looked thinner than you remembered. Tired. Like a man who hadn't been sleeping or eating properly, who'd been pouring all his energy into simply existing until you returned.

"Valarr."

His name left your lips before you could stop it, soft and broken and full of everything you felt. He went completely still. For one heartbeat. Two. Three.

Then he turned. The locket clattered to the floor, forgotten. His eyes, those mismatched eyes that had looked at you with love every single day of your marriage, went wide, disbelieving, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst who'd suddenly stumbled upon an oasis.

"Y/N?"

His voice cracked on your name.

And then he was moving, rising from the window seat so fast he nearly stumbled, crossing the room in four desperate strides, and then his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly.

"You're here," he breathed. "You're actually here."

"I'm here."

"I was just—I was looking at your locket, thinking about you, and now you're—" His thumbs traced across your cheekbones, gentle and reverent. "You're real? This is real?"

"Valarr." You covered his hands with your own, pressing them more firmly against your face. "I'm real. I'm here. I came back."

Something broke behind his eyes.

With a sound that was half sob and half sigh, he pulled you into his arms and held you. Not carefully, he crushed you against his chest, wrapped himself around you so completely that you could feel every line of his body, every tremor running through him.

"I missed you," he whispered into your hair. "Gods, Y/N, I missed you so much. I didn't know it was possible to miss someone this much. I thought I understood missing you before, when you visited your family for name days or when I had to go with Father on progress, but this—this was different. This was worse. This was—"

You felt wetness against your hair.

He was crying.

Your strong, devoted, ridiculous husband was crying into your hair because you'd come home.

Your own eyes burned. You pulled back just enough to look at him, to see the tears tracking down his cheeks, the way his jaw was clenched tight against the flood of emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

"Look at me," you whispered, framing his face in your hands. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know. I know, I just—" He laughed, wet and broken. "I talked to your pillow. Your pillow, Y/N. I told it about my day. I held your shoes. I—" He shook his head, fresh tears spilling over. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes. And when you're gone, I don't know how to be myself. I don't know how to exist without you. You're half of me. You're the better half. You're—"

You kissed him.

It wasn't like your usual kisses—the quick pecks goodbye, the gentle brushes goodnight, the teasing presses when you were laughing together. This was different. This was desperate and deep and full of everything you hadn't been able to say across the miles between you.

His arms tightened around you, one hand sliding into your hair, the other pressing against the small of your back, holding you as close as physically possible. He kissed you like you were air and he'd been drowning. He kissed you like you were water and he'd been crossing a desert. He kissed you like you were home, and he'd been lost for four endless days.

When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours.

"I commissioned a locket," he murmured. "Two, actually. Three, if you count the one I'm having made with both our faces. I—" He huffed a laugh. "I'm sorry. I know that's too much. I know I'm too much. I can't help it. I love you too much."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

"You talked to my pillow."

His cheeks flushed red. "I… yes."

"You held my shoes."

The flush deepened. "Matarys told you about that?"

"And told strangers about my laugh. And asked the servants to preserve my pillow in a jar. And commissioned a locket of my face that you kiss constantly."

Valarr's expression shifted from embarrassed to horrified to resigned in the span of three seconds. "I did say it was too much."

"Valarr."

He braced himself, clearly expecting teasing, expecting laughter, expecting you to make gentle fun of him the way you always did when his devotion tipped into absurdity.

Instead, you reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the soft skin beneath his eye where tears still lingered.

"I love you," you said simply. "I love every ridiculous, excessive, overwhelming part of you. I love that you missed me so much you talked to furniture. I love that you commissioned lockets of my face. I love that you told strangers about my laugh." You rose on your toes and pressed your lips to his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, each point of contact a silent promise. "I love that you held my shoes. I love that you couldn't sleep without me. I love that you're standing here, crying because I came home, because it means you love me as much as I love you."

He stared at you, eyes bright with fresh tears.

"As much?" His voice was barely a whisper. "You can't possibly—I love you more. I love you most. I love you in ways that don't have words. I love you—"

"I know." You smiled, soft and warm. "I know, Valarr. I've always known."

He kissed you again.

This time it was slower. Deeper. A conversation rather than a desperate plea. He mapped your mouth like he was learning it for the first time, like he'd forgotten the shape of you in his days apart and needed to memorize it all over again. You let him, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the silver-gold streak that made him yours.

"I dreamed about you," he murmured against your lips. "Every night. You were always just out of reach. I'd wake up reaching for you and you weren't there and I'd—" He shuddered. "I'd lie in your spot and pretend you were still warm."

"Valarr."

"I know. I'm pathetic."

"You're romantic." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "You're devoted. You're the most loving man I've ever known." Another kiss, this one to his cheek. "You're mine."

His arms tightened around you. "Yours. Always yours. Only yours."

You drew back, taking his hand, leading him away from the door and toward the window seat where he'd been sitting when you arrived. The locket still lay on the floor, glinting in the fading light, but neither of you moved to pick it up. You didn't need a painted version of his face. You had the real thing.

You sat together in the window, you tucked against his side, his arm wrapped around you, his face buried in your hair. He kept breathing you in, deep and reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real.

---

The candles had long burned down to nothing, leaving your chambers awash in moonlight and shadow. The city had gone quiet beyond the windows, the distant sounds of guards changing shifts and the occasional bark of a dog the only interruptions to the deep, peaceful silence of the night.

You lay on your side, eyes half-closed, drifting in that warm space between waking and sleep. The sheets were soft beneath you, the pillow perfect beneath your cheek, and behind you—wrapped around you like he might never let go—was Valarr.

You could feel him everywhere. One arm curved beneath your head, pillowing it gently. The other draped across your waist, his hand splayed warm against your stomach. His chest pressed against your back, solid and steady, rising and falling with each breath. His knees tucked behind yours, fitting together like you'd been made to rest just so.

Perfect.

This was perfect.

You were almost asleep when you felt him shift.

It was small at first, a slight adjustment of his hips, a tiny movement of his hand. You dismissed it as him settling, finding comfort, letting sleep take him as it was taking you.

But then he shifted again.

And again.

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, as if the inches between you were an unbearable distance. His breath hitched against your hair, warm and uneven. His legs moved, tangling with yours, trying to pull you even nearer.

"Valarr?" Your voice was thick with approaching sleep. "Are you alright?"

"Mm." The sound was vague, distracted. "Fine. Go back to sleep."

You should have. You were so tired, so warm, so perfectly comfortable. But there was something in the way he held you—a tension, a need—that kept you hovering on the edge of awareness.

His hand moved.

Just a little. Just the barest slide across your stomach, fingers spreading wide as if he could absorb you through touch alone. His thumb traced a slow circle against the thin fabric of your nightgown, and you felt the gesture all the way through you, a shiver of response that had nothing to do with cold.

"Valarr." This time his name was a question.

"I can't—" He stopped, his voice rough. "I can't get close enough."

You turned your head slightly, trying to see him in the darkness. Moonlight caught the edge of his profile—the silver streak in his hair, the curve of his cheek, the intensity in eyes that should have been closed in sleep.

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer with words.

Instead, he moved.

His arm withdrew from beneath your head, and for a moment you felt the loss like a physical thing. But then his hands were at your shoulders, turning you gently, and you went willingly, rolling to face him in the tangle of sheets and moonlight.

He looked at you like you were everything.

"I need—" He swallowed hard. "I spent four days without you. Four days of nothing. Of empty space where you should be. And now you're here, and I have you, and it's still—" His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "It's still not enough. I don't think it will ever be enough. I want to be closer than this. I want—"

He broke off, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

"I want to crawl inside you," he whispered. "I want to wrap myself around your bones and live in your heart and never be separate from you again. I know that's insane. I know that's too much. But I spent four days alone and I can't—I can't be far enough away from you ever again. I need to be closer. I need—"

Your heart cracked open.

This man. This ridiculous, beautiful, overwhelming man who loved you so much it hurt him. Who couldn't sleep because the inches between you felt like miles. Who wanted to crawl inside you and never leave.

You kissed him.

It was soft and slow and full of everything you felt—the love, the tenderness, the absolute wonder that someone could want you this much.

"Then come closer," you whispered against his mouth.

His eyes opened, searching your face in the darkness. "What?"

"Come closer." You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. "However close you need to be. I'm yours. All of me is yours. Take what you need."

For a long moment, he simply stared at you, his expression caught between wonder and disbelief. Then something shifted in his eyes—a decision made, a need acknowledged—and he moved.

His hands went to the laces at the neck of your nightgown.

Slowly, carefully, he worked them loose. Not pulling, not rushing—just undoing, one by one, until the fabric gaped open at your throat. Until there was space enough.

"Tell me if it's too much," he breathed. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I won't."

He kissed you once—soft, quick, a promise—and then he moved.

His head ducked beneath the fabric, slipping through the opening he'd made. You felt him against your skin, warm and seeking, as he pulled the nightgown over himself like a second layer. His arms slid around your waist beneath the cloth, wrapping around your middle, pulling you flush against him. His body pressed along yours, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, legs tangling together beneath the sheets.

And then his head emerged from the neck of your nightgown.

It was absurd. It was ridiculous. His dark hair was mussed, the silver streak catching moonlight, and he was looking at you from inside your own clothing, his face inches from yours, your breath mingling in the small space you now shared.

But it wasn't absurd. Not really.

It was the most intimate thing you'd ever experienced.

He was inside your clothing. Wrapped around you beneath the fabric, his arms around your waist, his legs intertwined with yours, his heart beating against your heart. You were as close as two people could possibly be without ceasing to be two people.

"Valarr." His name left your lips on a breath, soft and wondering.

"Closer," he murmured, and there was something almost desperate in the word. "I'm closer. I can feel all of you. Every part of you. You're everywhere."

His hands spread across your back beneath the nightgown, palms flat, fingers splayed, as if he could touch every inch of you at once. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, nose tracing along your pulse point, breathing you in with deep, reverent breaths.

"I can feel your heart," he whispered against your skin. "It's beating against mine. They're beating together. Can you feel it?"

You could. Two pulses, separate but synchronized, thrumming through the space where your chests pressed together.

"Yes," you breathed. "I can feel it."

His arms tightened. His legs wrapped more firmly around yours. He curved himself around you like a second skin, like he was trying to pour himself into your very bones.

"I love you," he said, and the words were muffled against your throat, but you heard them anyway. Felt them. They vibrated through your skin and settled somewhere deep inside. "I love you so much. I never want to be apart from you again. Not for a day. Not for an hour. Not for a moment."

"Valarr."

"I know it's not possible. I know you'll have to leave sometimes, and I'll have to leave sometimes, and there will be moments when we're separate no matter how much I hate it. But right now—" He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes in the darkness. "Right now, you're here. Right now, I'm inside your clothes and wrapped around your heart and as close to you as I can possibly be. Right now, you're mine and I'm yours and nothing else exists."

You felt tears prick at your eyes.

Not sad tears. Not even happy tears, exactly. Just—tears of overwhelming muchness. Of being loved so completely, so excessively, so thoroughly that you didn't know what to do with it except feel it. Let it wash over you. Let it fill every empty space you'd ever carried.

"Kiss me," you whispered.

He did.

It was different from before, slower, deeper, more intimate. You kissed in the small space inside your nightgown, your breath warm and shared, your lips moving together like you had all the time in the world. His hands never stopped moving on your back, gentle circles, soft strokes, mapping every inch of skin he could reach.

When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"For what?"

"For letting me be close. For not thinking I'm insane. For—" He huffed a soft laugh. "For letting me wear your nightgown."

You laughed, the sound muffled by the fabric around you. "You're not wearing it. You're in it. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Wearing it would be far less romantic."

He smiled, you felt the curve of it against your cheek and pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"I love you," he said again, and it wasn't repetitive, it was essential. Like breathing. Like heartbeat. Like the only words that mattered.

"I love you too." You wrapped your arms around him beneath the nightgown, holding him as close as he was holding you. "Now try to sleep."

"I don't know if I can. I'm too—" He paused, searching for the word. "Too aware of you. Too full of you. I don't want to waste a moment of this on sleep."

"Then don't sleep. Just rest." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Stay here, inside my clothes, wrapped around me, and just—rest. I'm not going anywhere."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, you felt some of the tension leave his body. His arms loosened just slightly—not releasing you, never releasing you, but relaxing into the hold. His breathing deepened, evening out. His eyes fluttered closed against your skin.

"Closer," he murmured, already half-asleep. "Always want to be closer."

You smiled into the darkness and held him.

You lay like that as the night deepened around you—two people tangled together beneath a single nightgown, wrapped in each other, breathing each other's breath, heart beating against heart, and somewhere in the darkness, the line between where he ended and you began blurred into nothing.

Sometime in the deepest part of the night, you woke to find that Valarr had somehow managed to get even closer. His face was pressed into the curve of your neck, his nose against your pulse point, his breath warm and steady. One hand had found its way beneath your nightgown to rest directly over your heart, palm flat, as if he needed to feel it beating.

The other hand was tangled in your hair.

You didn't move. Didn't dare disturb the perfect peace of this moment. You simply lay there, wrapped in him, and marveled at the miracle of being loved this much.

"Y/N," he breathed in his sleep, the sound barely more than a sigh.

"Shh." You pressed your lips to his hair. "I'm here. I'm right here."

His arms tightened reflexively, pulling you closer even in sleep, and you smiled.

In the morning, the servants would find you like this—tangled together, sharing a nightgown, utterly ridiculous and completely content. There would be gossip. There would be raised eyebrows. Matarys would never let you forget it.

But that was tomorrow.

[jiminie-08]

We love a devoted yearning man🥹😩💖

[honeyhotteoks]

this night together | series masterlist.

summary: you're finally getting your dream job, working with some of the best dancers in the business, but a job change means a break in your healthcare coverage and suppressants these days are expensive. going into heat at the studio pretty much seems like the worst case scenario, but you find yourself in the care of two alphas who won't let you go through it alone.

pairings: yunho x mingi x reader as the main pairing, but features seonghwa x san x wooyoung x reader

genre: smut, a/b/o/omegaverse, angst, fluff, romance, polyamory, non!idol!reader, non!idol!ateez, alpha!yunho, alpha!mingi, omega!fem!reader, alpha!seonghwa, alpha!san, omega!wooyoung

warnings: handled on a chapter by chapter basis, but just know now that this is an omegaverse fic so everything that goes with that like heat, knotting, etc. will be discussed across the board. any stronger cw/tw will be clearly identified, but please note that there are conversations around consent throughout.

current word count: 158.6k

main storyline:

one ✿ two ✿ three ✿ four ✿ five ✿ six ✿ seven ✿ eight ✿ nine ✿ ten ✿ eleven ✿ twelve ✿ thirteen ✿ fourteen ✿ fifteen ✿ sixteen ✿ more to come...

deleted/extra scenes:

in their hands; 7.7k (chapter 12 from the boys perspective)

if you prefer to read on AO3, you can find that here.

my fic masterlist can be found here!

[jiminie-08]

Great ABO fic, one of those I won’t forget anytime soon 💁🏽‍♀️💖

[notiddygothgf]

𝙄'𝙈 𝘽𝙀𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙍𝙄𝘿𝙄𝘾𝙐𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙎. 𝘐'𝘔 𝘓𝘖𝘚𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘏𝘖𝘗𝘌. 𝘏𝘖𝘗𝘌 𝘖𝘍 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛? 𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘝𝘐𝘕𝘊𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘈 𝘔𝘈𝘙𝘙𝘐𝘌𝘋 𝘞𝘖𝘔𝘈𝘕 𝘛𝘖 𝘽𝙍𝙀𝘼𝙆 𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝙑𝙊𝙒𝙎?

Marriage had its highs and lows, and you told yourself you were content - But a trip back to Public Safety's Tokyo sector opens up new feelings and introduces a tempting dilemma: a charming Lieutenant Captain who'e determined to have you at all costs.

❝ Say it louder, say it louder. Who's gonna love you like me? Say it louder, say it louder, who's gonna touch you like me? Ooh, said you wanna be good but you couldn't keep your composure. Ooh, come over, ooh, Sayin' Who's gonna fuck you like me? I don't wanna hurt you, but you live for the pain. I'm not try'na say it but it's what you became. You want me to fix you, but it's never enough. That's why you always call me, 'cuz you're scared to be loved. But I'll always be there for you, I'll always be there for you, I'll always be there for you, girl, I have no shame. (Shame!) ❞ —The Weeknd, Shameless

╔═.✾. ═════════════════╗

▷ arrival in tokyo. ▷ ankle biter

▷ dance with me. ▷ an affair

▷ obsessed. ▷ right here

▷ taste like nicotine ▷ not a date

▷ murderer ▷ stained sheets

▷ troublemaker. ▷ little black dress

▷ behave. ▷ leaving

▷ addictive ▷ freedom

▷ bathroom ▷ next lifetime

▷ early breakfast ▷ it starts here

▷ conflict of interest

╚═════════════════.✾. ═╝

completed : March 8th, 2025

cw/tags: hakakawa aki/reader , hayakawa aki x reader, himeno, denji, makima, power, kishibe, others idk, forbidden love, coworkers to lovers, but she's married, based loosely off of; ANNA KARENINA , but without the cautionary tales and just the sexiness, eventual smut, resolved sexual tension, sexual content, explicit sexual content, unsafe sex lol, implied/referenced cheating, excessive drinking, which leads to bad decisions, like aki might be an addict, he's also, addicted to youuu, feral!aki, obsessive behavior, he wants her so bad, she also wants him though so its ok, we all want him though, extramarital affairs, which i do not condone btw, except just this once, bc aki is not the one being cheated on, implied/referenced abuse, au - nothing bad happens and everyone is happy , coping, tags are hard, just read it it'll be sexy i promise, slow burn, oral sex, cigarette confessions, anna karenina ff.

[jiminie-08]

Amazing fic!!🤗🌸🔥

[mullermilkshake]

Master list

Jinwoo is the tenth reawakened S-Rank hunter. But what happens when the eleventh is thrown into the mix? Sparks don't fly immediately, and when they do, they don't catch fire. They simmer and smolder before bringing the heat. You just happen to be an accelerant.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Master tag list - Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, yandere!solo levelling au, Jinwoo's villan arc, Murder, Blood and Violence, Jealousy, Forced pairing for breeding, Smut, Jinwoo definitely has a breeding kink, Breast Play, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, p in v sex, Creampie, Manipulation, mentions of swallowing/blowjob/facial, Canon-Typical Violence, possessive thoughts, Mentions of Infertility, Yandere, Yandere Sung Jin-Woo, Dark Thoughts, Intrusive Thoughts, Alcohol, Mild Threats, Nipple Play, Choking, Pregnant Reader, Anxiety, Panic Attack, Pregnancy, Cunnilingus, Unprotected sex/semi-public sex/car sex/quickie/kinda role playing, Trying for a baby/breeding/impregnation/pregnancy/labour and birth, Prenatal Depression, Setting Boundaries, medication/needles, implied psychological diagnosis (I am not a doctor), Controlling Behaviour, Lactation Kink, Squirting, Giant Spiders, Spiders, Premature Babies, Hurt No Comfort, Grief/MourningBurning/Cremation, mention of suicide, Dealing With Trauma, Fluff, Torture, Denailing, Referenced non-con/Rape

EDIT - I'll put this on each post as it's important >>> I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers.

I used this site for the font and drew my version with a different font and lines.

<<< Mood board >>>

Chapters ->

Praise the hard work - Settle in with me - I'll look after myself, first - Sixty one days - I'l look after you, second - Even praise hurts - Baby fever? Baby mana - A joint hallucination - It’s pointless if you don’t know the reason - Two wrongs can make a right

An unreadable measure - Meet the family - A well known announcement goes public - Don’t leave me all on my own, it’ll break me - It’s from your perspective, and it matters to me - A recipe for... something - Dinner for four - Late night caller - The missing mother - Just like a pill

Realisation is a fucking eyesore - Diary of a Yandere!dad to be - Surviving bad dreams - Eight legs? I'll cut them off - Torchlight down a long tunnel - Lucid memories - I'll run towards you in any life - Time constraints - Fear - New arrivals

One track ride - Regrets - Removal of the Chair - A formula to fix everything - Broken glass - Finding ties - Last resort, or something like that - Half life, half chance - A fever I'd want to keep - I’ll never live without you again

Telling the truth? - One step at a time. Nope, all at once - Repairing old bridges - Meeting mom - Death brought us together - Rising to the top - When one door closes, another one opens - Retest, recall - A train to the future

Clear box, muddied lies and a few lost nails - Ending things - Mana one way or another - And they all lived happily ever after

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! Thanks so much for all the support on this likes, reblog and comments appreciated! ❤️

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhua. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[jiminie-08]

Amazing Au… I love how devoted Jinwoo is, he’ll do anything for oc🥹🤗

[cherry-lala]

Rust & Gold

Chapter 4 (Final): The Legacy Pairings: Jay x fem!reader x Jake

Wordcount: 14k

Chapter Summary: The baby is coming. The walls are down. But as the pain sets in and new life enters the world, the final question remains: Are you just a vessel, of are you the Queen of the Spire? A birth, a realization, and a promise written in black diamonds. The cage is open, but you're not łeaving.

Warnings: Dystopian Setting ,Established Polyamory, Heavy Pregnancy Content & Kink, Labor & Childbirth, Medical Procedures (Epidural), Body Dysmorphia/Insecurity (Pregnancy-related), Hormonal Mood Swings, Lactation (Maternal), Past Trauma Mentions, Possessive/Overprotective Behavior, Domestic Fluff. Smut M/M/F, M/M (Jay x Jake), Masturbation (Object Insertion), Voyeurism, Lactation Kink/Adult Breastfeeding, Breast Orgasm, Breeding Kink, Praise Kink ("Good girl"), Overstimulation.

A/N: Chapter 4 is finally here and that concludes rust & gold😭 I’m sad to see it go because I really enjoyed writing this piece. It was really fun and enjoyable. Thank you guys for all the support and for loving the story just as much as I did❤️❤️ I will open my request up for scenarios you guys want to see for the Drabbles I will write for r&g. I am working on another fic rn too another dystopian world which I am really excited to write, I wonder if i should make it a one shot or another series idk yet. But thank you guys again for all the support makes me want to write more great fics like this. Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated.

Rust & Gold

Six months.

The pregnancy was no longer a secret, or a condition, or a project. It was the center of the universe.Your body had transformed. The small, firm bump of the early months had blossomed into a full, round globe that dominated your silhouette. Your movement was slower now, a deliberate waddle that Jay watched with the intense focus of a bodyguard escorting a head of state.The penthouse, once a fortress of minimalist chic and masculine edges, had been invaded.

Soft things were everywhere. Plush blankets draped over the stark white sofas. Pillows piled in corners. A bassinet—an antique, hand-carved piece of wood that looked like it belonged in a museum—sat in the corner of the living room, waiting.

And Jay... Jay had evolved.

The cold, terrifying Apex who had once threatened to break you had vanished. In his place was a creature of absolute, smothering devotion.He didn't just manage your care; he micromanaged your existence.He had installed air purifiers in every room, calibrated to the exact humidity level Dr. Vance recommended for optimal fetal respiration. He had the kitchen staff (bots, mostly, but supervised sometimes by a new human chef from sector 2 he hired) prepare meals based on your cravings, but nutritionally balanced to the microgram. If you wanted pickles, you got organic, artisanal pickles served with a side of calcium-rich cheese.

Jake watched this transformation with a mixture of amusement and awe.

"I've known him for more than a decade," Jake whispered to you one afternoon, watching Jay carefully test the temperature of your herbal tea with a digital thermometer. "I have never seen him fuss over anything. Not even his hover porshe."

"He's nesting," you giggled, sipping the perfectly temperate tea.

"He's terrifying," Jake corrected fondly. "But in a cute way."

The gender reveal had been a turning point.It wasn't a party. Jay didn't do parties. It was a private scan in the medical bay.When the hologram resolved into the undeniable image, Jake had let out a shout that probably alerted the perimeter drones."A girl!" Jake had yelled, grabbing Jay’s shoulders and shaking him. "Jay! It's a girl! A princess! We're having a princess!"

Jay had stood perfectly still. He stared at the image of the tiny, curling fetus. His hand, usually so steady, trembled as he reached out to touch the blue light.

"A daughter," Jay had whispered.The word sounded foreign on his tongue, soft and fragile. He looked at you, his eyes wide and shining with something that looked suspiciously like tears.

"A queen," he corrected himself, his voice gaining strength. "She will rule this sector."

Since that day, the shopping had begun.It was an arms race of adoration. Jake bought dresses. Tiny, ridiculous things made of tulle and lace, in every shade of pink and purple imaginable. He bought headbands with bows bigger than a newborn's head. He bought stuffed animals that were larger than the furniture.

Jay bought practical things, but "practical" in Sector 1 meant "indestructible and obscenely expensive." He bought a stroller made of carbon fiber and ballistic weave. He bought a crib that had its own localized forcefield. He bought tiny, leather combat boots that looked exactly like yours, but miniature.

And then came the nursery war.

"Pink," Jake insisted, holding up a swatch of fabric that was the color of bubblegum. "Soft pink. With clouds."

"No," Jay countered, holding up a slate of grey stone. "Neutral tones. Calming. We do not want to overstimulate her visual cortex."

"She's a baby, Jay, not a monk!" Jake argued. "She needs color! Stimulation is good for brain development!"

"Chaos is bad for sleep regulation," Jay shot back. "Grey. With perhaps... a muted lavender accent."

"Lavender is for grandmas!"

They argued for three days. They stood in the empty guest room—now gutted and prepped for construction—waving holographic paint samples at each other like swords.Finally, you waddled in.You were wearing one of Jay’s shirts, which now struggled to cover your belly, and a pair of maternity leggings Jake had bought. You were eating a bowl of grapes.

"Sage green," you said around a grape.

They both froze. They turned to look at you.

"Green?" Jake asked, wrinkling his nose. "Like... moss?"

"Like the forest," you said, swallowing. "Like the trees in the living room. It's calming but alive. And we can do gold accents. Like the sun."

Jay lowered his grey stone sample. He looked thoughtful.

"Green," he murmured. "Nature. Growth."

He nodded slowly. "Acceptable."

Jake looked at the swatch Jay had dropped, then at you. A smile spread across his face.

"Gold accents," Jake mused. "Like a little fairy forest. Okay. I can work with that."

He walked over and kissed your cheek. "You win, Mama. Green it is."

Tonight, the war was over. The nursery was being painted (by silent, efficient drones) in a soft, dusty sage green.You were in the living room. It was evening, the city lights twinkling below like a carpet of diamonds.You were lying on the massive sofa, propped up by a mountain of pillows.Jay was sitting at the end of the sofa. His suit jacket was gone, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held your left foot in his lap. His large, warm hands were massaging your arch, his thumbs digging into the swollen tissue with practiced skill.He did this every night. He called it "circulatory maintenance," but you knew it was just an excuse to touch you. To serve you.Jake was lying beside you. His head was resting on your chest, right above the swell of your stomach. His hand was splayed over the bump, caressing the fabric of your shirt.

"So," Jake said, his voice vibrating against your ribs. "Dr. Vance said she's hearing us now. Like, really hearing us."

"She's been hearing your voice for months, Jake," you said, running your fingers through his hair. "You never stop talking."

"Hey!" Jake protested weakly, but he didn't move. He nuzzled closer. "I'm educating her. She needs to know about the neural grid before she's born so she can take over the company by age five."

"She is not taking over anything until she is twenty-five," Jay interjected calmly, switching to your other foot. "She needs a childhood."

"Says the man who started coding at four," Jake scoffed.

"That was necessity," Jay said. "She will have luxury."

Jay pressed his thumb into a sore spot on your ankle. You groaned, the pleasure-pain radiating up your leg."Good?" Jay asked, looking up at you. His eyes were soft, dark pools of affection.

"Amazing," you sighed. "Don't stop."

"I won't," he promised.

"What are we watching?" Jake asked.

"Jay's pick," you reminded him. "Last night was The Princess Bride. Tonight is... what is it, Jay?"

"The Engineering of Speed," Jay announced. "A retrospective on 21st-century internal combustion sports cars."

Jake groaned loudly. "Boring. Cars that go vroom and pollute the air. Why do you like them?"

"They are mechanical perfection," Jay said defensively. "The analog feedback. The raw power. It is art."

He tapped the holo-screen, and the documentary began. Images of sleek, shiny machines from a hundred years ago filled the air. Engines roared. Narrators spoke in hushed, reverent tones about torque and horsepower.It was boring. But watching Jay watch it was fascinating.His face relaxed. He watched the engines being assembled with the same focus he used on the defense grid. He appreciated the structure, the order, the power.You lay there, lulled by the drone of the narrator and the rhythmic pressure of Jay’s hands on your feet.Jake seemed to be falling asleep on your chest. His breathing slowed. His hand on your stomach went still.

And then, it happened.

Thump.

It wasn't a flutter. It wasn't gas. It was a distinct, solid kick against the abdominal wall.

Right under Jake’s hand.Jake gasped.His head snapped up. His eyes flew open, wide and shocked.

"Did you feel that?" Jake whispered.

"Feel what?" Jay asked, pausing his massage.

"She kicked," Jake breathed. He stared at your stomach as if it had just spoken to him. "She actually kicked me."

You smiled. "She's been moving a lot lately. She likes the engine noises."

"No," Jake said, shaking his head, his eyes filling with wonder. "That wasn't a move. That was a high-five."

He pressed his hand flatter. "Do it again, baby. Say hi to Papa."

We waited.

Thump. Stronger this time. A visible ripple moved across the fabric of your shirt. Jake let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Jay!" Jake yelled, turning his head without moving his hand. "Jay, come here! Now!"

Jay didn't hesitate. He dropped your foot (gently) and moved.

He crawled up the sofa, moving over your legs until he was hovering over you.

"Where?" Jay asked, his voice tight. "Here," Jake guided Jay’s hand to the spot on your upper right side. "Wait for it."

Jay placed his large, warm hand on your belly. His calloused palm covered almost the entire surface. He held his breath. He went completely still, his focus narrowing down to the sensation under his fingers.On the screen, a Ferrari engine revved.

THUMP.

It was a big one. A rolling turn followed by a sharp jab of a tiny heel.Jay flinched.He pulled his hand back as if he had been burned, then immediately pressed it back down, harder this time.His eyes widened. The stoic mask shattered completely.

"She..." Jay started, then stopped. He looked at you. His expression was unguarded, open, vulnerable in a way you had never seen. "She is strong."

"She's playing soccer," Jake laughed, tears actually spilling onto his cheeks. "Or karate. She's fighting the engine noise."

Jay didn't laugh. He was mesmerized. He moved his hand, chasing the movement.

Thump. Swish. Thump.

"Hello," Jay whispered to your stomach.His voice was unrecognizable. It was the softest sound you had ever heard him make. It was a sound reserved for secret things, for precious things.

"I am your father," Jay said to the bump. "I am Jay."

He leaned down. He pushed Jake slightly to the side (Jake didn't mind; he just shifted to hug your other side) and pressed his ear to your belly. He closed his eyes.

"I can hear it," Jay murmured. "The fluid. The movement. Her heart."

He stayed there, listening to the life he had helped create. The man who built walls to keep the world out was now completely undone by something so small it hadn't even taken its first breath.

You reached out and touched his hair. It was soft, thick.

"She likes you," you whispered.Jay lifted his head. He looked at you.He leaned up and kissed you.It wasn't a sexual kiss. It was a kiss of profound gratitude. It was a seal. A promise.

"Thank you," Jay said against your lips.

Jake sniffled, wiping his eyes. "Okay, group hug. I'm feeling left out." Jay chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest. He opened his arm, pulling Jake into the pile.You were sandwiched between them again. But this time, it didn't feel like a trap. It felt like a fortress."We need to get her a car," Jay announced suddenly, pulling back.

"She's a fetus, Jay," Jake laughed.

"A model," Jay clarified, looking back at the documentary. "A classic 1967 Mustang. So she knows what real engineering looks like."

“Do they even make those anymore?” Jake asked.

“No but I can just request for it to be made.” Jay said.

"We are getting her a pony," Jake countered. "A real one. Genetically modified to be pink."

"Absolutely not," Jay said.

"Pink pony," Jake insisted.

"Mustang," Jay argued.

They bickered over your stomach, their voices light and happy.

You closed your eyes, listening to them. The baby kicked again, a happy flutter.

You were far from Sector 7. You were far from the rain and the rust. You were in a 

glass tower in the sky, surrounded by men you once believed were monsters who had turned into fathers.And as Jay’s hand rested protectively over your daughter, and Jake kissed your cheek, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

The outing to the Arboretum was supposed to be a gentle reintroduction to the world, a brief excursion to let you breathe air that didn't cycle through the penthouse filtration system. But at eight months pregnant, even a leisurely stroll felt like a tactical endurance mission.You were enormous.The bump had stopped being a cute, manageable curve months ago. Now, it was a massive, commanding presence that led the way wherever you went. It pressed against your ribs, sat heavy on your bladder, and threw your center of gravity into a constant state of rebellion.You were wearing a dress Jake had picked out this morning. It was a knit material in a soft, dusty rose color that clung to every inch of you. It stretched tight over your belly, hugged your swollen breasts, and flared slightly at the knees. It left nothing to the imagination. You felt like a piece of ripe fruit, ready to burst.Jake, walking on your left, couldn't keep his eyes off you. He was dressed in a black suit jacket over a loose shirt, the silver chain around his neck glinting in the filtered sunlight. He had a hand constantly hovering near your lower back or gripping your elbow, treating you like you were made of porcelain.

"You look edible," Jake whispered for the tenth time in twenty minutes, leaning in to nip at your ear. "Like a peach. I just want to squeeze you."

"If you squeeze me, I might pop," you huffed, stopping to catch your breath.On your right, Jay stopped instantly. He was a wall of charcoal wool and stoic protection. He scanned the park perimeter—the manicured trees, the few other high-ranking citizens strolling in the distance—with the sharp, assessing gaze of a predator checking for threats."Sit," Jay commanded.He didn't point to a bench. He guided you to a stone wall warmed by the sun. He took off his suit jacket and laid it down on the stone before you could protest, creating a cushion.

"My feet are throbbing," you admitted, sinking onto the jacket with a grateful groan.

"It is the fluid retention," Jay said, crouching down in his expensive trousers without a second thought. He lifted your foot, resting it on his knee. His large hands began to massage your ankle, his thumbs working deep into the swollen tissue. "The doctor said walks are good for circulation, but we may have pushed the duration."

"I'm fine," you sighed, leaning back on your hands and tilting your face to the sun. "It feels good to be out. I felt like I was going crazy in the house."

Jake sat next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. He rested his other hand on top of your belly."She's awake," Jake grinned as a sharp kick thumped against his palm. "She likes the fresh air."

"She likes that I'm sitting down," you corrected.

You looked at them.Jay, the stern CEO of Valeris Defense, kneeling in the dirt to rub your swollen feet. Jake, the genius behind the Neural-Link, cooing at your stomach like a fool.They looked different out here. The sunlight softened the hard angles of Jay’s face, catching the strands of hair falling over his forehead. It made Jake’s skin glow. They were undeniably beautiful men—Apex in every sense of the word. And they were yours.The realization didn't terrify you anymore. It settled in your chest, warm and heavy, right alongside the baby.

"Ready, love?" Jay asked after ten minutes, looking up at you. The endearment slipped out naturally, a soft contrast to his usual gruff demeanor.

"Yeah," you said. "Let's go home."

The walk back to the car was slow. You waddled—there was no other word for it—and they flanked you like royal guards. By the time the hover-car docked at the penthouse landing pad, you were exhausted. Your body felt heavy, sweet, and ripe.The transition from the foyer to the bedroom was seamless. There was no discussion of dinner, no talk of work. The atmosphere had shifted during the car ride. Jake’s gaze had grown heavier, darker, fixated on the way the knit dress rode up your thighs when you sat. Jay had spent the ride with his hand on your thigh, his thumb rubbing rhythmic, possessive circles into your skin.

They brought you to the master bedroom."I've got her," Jake murmured to Jay.Jake undressed you. He did it slowly, peeling the rose-colored dress up your body, revealing the pale, stretched skin of your stomach, the heavy sway of your breasts, the curve of your hips. He didn't let you put on pajamas. He didn't let you cover up.

He guided you to the bed.You climbed in, sinking into the mountain of pillows Jay had arranged against the headboard. You lay back, your legs falling open naturally, too tired to hold them together, too comfortable to care.

Jay climbed in next to you. He didn't undress fully; he just shed his shirt and trousers, leaving him in his boxer briefs. He positioned himself against the headboard, pulling you back so you were resting between his legs, your back against his chest.It was your favorite position. The "throne," Jake called it. You were enveloped by Jay, protected by his size, while your front was open and available.

"Relax," Jay rumbled into your ear, his arms coming around to rest on top of your bump. His hands were massive against your skin, grounding you.Jake crawled onto the bed. He was naked. He moved like a cat, sleek and predatory.He positioned himself between your spread legs.

"You look so good," Jake whispered, his voice thick. "So full."

He didn't touch you with his hands yet. He lowered his head.

His tongue found you."Oh," you gasped, your head falling back onto Jay’s shoulder.

Jake ate you out with a devotion that bordered on religious. He licked slow, broad stripes from your perineum up to your clit, savoring the taste of you. You were sensitive—heightened by the pregnancy hormones that flooded your system constantly now. Every touch felt electric."She tastes sweeter," Jake murmured against your wet folds, the vibration sending shivers through you. "Jay, she tastes like honey."

"I know," Jay growled, his voice vibrating against your spine.

Jay’s hands moved. He slid them up from your belly to your breasts.

They were massive. Heavy, veined with blue, the areolas dark and wide. They ached constantly these days, a heavy, tight pressure that signaled your body was readying itself.Jay cupped them. He weighed them in his palms, squeezing the soft flesh.

"So heavy," Jay whispered. "Filled."

He began to massage them. His thumbs worked over the nipples, circling, pressing. It felt good—a relief from the pressure—but it also sent a sharp line of arousal straight to your womb.

"Jay," you whined, arching your back against him.

He pinched your nipples. Not hard, but firm.You cried out.And then, you felt it.

A release of pressure in your chest. A warm, wet sensation trickling over your skin.

Jay froze.He pulled his hand back slightly. On his fingers, stark white against his tan skin, was a milky fluid."Look," Jay commanded, his voice sounding strangled.

Jake lifted his head from between your legs. He looked up.He saw the milk dripping from your nipple, running down the curve of your breast, coating Jay’s hand.

The sight seemed to break something in both of them.For them, this was the ultimate proof. The biological seal on the contract. You weren't just pregnant; you were a mother. You were providing. You were working exactly as their biology intended.

"Milk," Jake groaned, the sound raw and hungry. "Fuck. She's lactating."

"White gold," Jay whispered reverently. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked the milk off his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours in the reflection of the mirror across the room.Jake couldn't resist. He crawled up your body, abandoning your pussy for a greater prize.

"Mine," Jake hissed.He latched onto your breast.His mouth covered your nipple, hot and wet. He sucked."AH!" you screamed, your entire body bowing off the mattress.

The sensation was indescribable. It was relief and pleasure and overstimulation all at once. As he suckled, drawing the colostrum from you, a rush of oxytocin flooded your brain, making you dizzy.

"So good," Jake moaned against your skin, drinking you. "You taste so fucking good."

You sobbed, the pleasure overwhelming your system. You came.

It wasn't a clitoral orgasm. It was a breast orgasm, a rare, rolling wave of heat that started in your chest and radiated outward, making your toes curl and your womb contract."She's cumming," Jay noted, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Just from that. You are so responsive for us, love."

"She's so fucking sexy," Jake mumbled, switching to the other breast, greedy for more.Jay couldn't stay passive. The sight of Jake feeding from you, the smell of the milk, the way you were trembling in his arms—it was too much.He shifted. He pushed your legs wider apart.He reached down between your legs. He rubbed his cock—fully hard, straining against his briefs—against your ass cheeks.

"I need inside," Jay growled.

"Take me," you begged, delirious. "Please."

Jake pulled back from your breast, his lips slick with milk. He looked at you, his pupils blown wide.

"Both of us," Jake said. "We need to be inside."

You nodded frantically. You felt empty down below, despite the fullness of your womb.You needed them to plug the ache."Side," Jay ordered. "It's safer for the baby."

He maneuvered you. He rolled you onto your left side. The bump rested on the mattress, supported by a wedge pillow.Jay curled behind you, big spoon. He pressed his hips against your ass.Jake moved to face you. He lay down, tangling his legs with yours.You were sandwiched. Trapped in the most beautiful way possible."Leg up," Jake whispered, hooking your top leg over his hip.You were open. Exposed to both of them.Jake moved first. He guided himself to your pussy. He pushed in.

"Oh god," you moaned as his thick head stretched you. He was careful—he never slammed into you anymore—but he was relentless. He filled you, slow and deep, taking up space you didn't think you had.

"Tight," Jake hissed. "Still so tight."

But he didn't take up all the space. Not the way they were going to do it.

Jay shifted behind you. You felt his hardness pressing against your ass, but he didn't aim there. He aimed lower. He aimed for the same wet, desperate heat that Jake was occupying.

"Make room," Jay growled.

Jake withdrew slightly, just enough to open the entrance. Jay pressed the head of his cock alongside Jake’s.You cried out, a high, keen of disbelief and anticipation. Two heads. Two glans pressing against your ring of muscle.

"Relax, love," Jay whispered in your ear, kissing the side of your neck. "You can take us. You were made for us."They pushed together.It was an impossible stretch. You felt yourself opening wider than you ever had, your body accommodating the dual intrusion because it craved it.

"Fuck," Jake groaned as Jay slid in beside him.They were both inside.

Your pussy was stuffed. Completely, utterly full. The sensation was overwhelming—a wall of meat stretching you, filling every nook and cranny of your canal.

"I can feel you," Jay grunted from behind. "Our tips are rubbing."

"I know," Jake gasped, his forehead resting against yours. "It’s... incredible."

They began to move.It wasn't a fast pound. It couldn't be. It was a slow, coordinated grind. When Jay thrust forward, Jake pulled back slightly. When Jake drove deep, Jay ground down.Their cocks rubbed against each other inside you, the friction transferring through their shafts and into your walls. You were the sheath that held them together."Look at her," Jay commanded.Jake looked at you. You were a mess. Your hair plastered to your face, milk drying on your breasts, your eyes rolled back in your head, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.

"Goddess," Jake whispered.He leaned forward and kissed Jay.It was a three-way connection. Jay leaned over your shoulder, capturing Jake’s lips. You were in the middle, your mouth finding theirs, tongues tangling. You kissed Jake, tasting your own milk on his tongue. You kissed Jay, tasting his aggression.

The rhythm picked up.Thrust. Rub. Slide.The friction was too much. The tightness of your body, the rubbing of their cocks directly against each other inside your pussy, the visual of being double-teamed while heavily pregnant—it sent them spiraling toward the edge."So full," you whimpered, your hands gripping Jake’s shoulders. "You're both in there."

"Every inch," Jay vowed, snapping his hips against your buttocks. "We are stretching you for the birth, love. Preparing you."

Jake was the first to break.

"I'm gonna—" he choked out, breaking the kiss. He buried his face in your neck. "Jay, I can't hold it."

"Cum," Jay ordered, his voice strained. "Fill her."

Jake slammed into you, his hips snapping forward. He groaned, a long, broken sound, as he poured his seed into you. You felt the pulses, the hot liquid flooding the already crowded space.The sensation of him climaxing inside you triggered you.

"Jay!" you screamed.

Your walls clamped down. Your pussy spasmed, milking both of them with terrifying strength.You squirted.It was sudden and violent. Fluid gushed out of you, coating their shafts, soaking the sheets beneath you.

"Fuck!" Jay roared.

The combination of your tightness, the squirting, and the vibration of Jake’s orgasm against his own cock pushed Jay over.He gripped your hip—hard, his fingers digging into the muscle—and forced himself as deep as he could go, right alongside Jake.He erupted.He filled you with hot, thick ropes of semen, adding his fluids to the mess. He groaned your name, his forehead pressing against the back of your head, his body shaking with the force of his release.For a long, long time, nobody moved.You lay there, pinned between two panting, sweating men. You were completely stuffed, leaking, your body humming with the aftershocks. The fullness was absolute. There was no part of you that wasn't touching them.Slowly, carefully, they began to withdraw.Jake pulled out first, making a soft noise of disappointment at the loss of contact. He wiped himself with the sheet, then turned his attention to you.

Jay pulled out a second later. A gush of mixed fluids—yours and his and Jake's—escaped you, pooling on the mattress.Jay collapsed back against the pillows, pulling you with him so your back was to his chest. He kissed your shoulder, his lips lingering on the damp skin.

"Perfect," Jay cooed. His voice was unrecognizable—soft, ruined, affectionate. "You did so well, love. So well."

Jake moved. He crawled around to the other side of the bed, wiping your inner thighs with a towel he’d grabbed. He was gentle, reverent.He leaned down and kissed your breast, licking a stray drop of milk from your nipple.Then he climbed up, resting his head on the pillow next to yours. He looked at you, his eyes shining, glassy with endorphins and emotion.He brushed the hair out of your eyes.

"I love you," Jake said.It wasn't a question. It wasn't a dramatic declaration. It was simple, natural, slipping out as easily as a breath.

You froze. Your heart, which had just started to slow down, skipped a beat.You looked at him. At the messy hair, the swollen lips, the absolute adoration in his gaze.You gasped, air filling your lungs.

"Jake," you whispered.You reached out, cupping his face. The love had been growing there for months, hidden under layers of fear and survival instinct, but tonight, stripped bare and filled to the brim, there was no room for fear.

"I love you," you said back. "I love you too."

Jake’s smile was blinding. He leaned in and kissed you, sweet and slow.

Then, you turned your head.Jay was watching. His chin was resting on your shoulder. His eyes were dark, intense, and unreadable.

You looked at him. You thought about the man who had bought you. The man who had threatened you. The man who had knelt and kissed your belly. The man who had just held you together while you fell apart.

"Jay," you whispered.His hand tightened on your waist.

"I love you," you said to him.

Jay went still. For a second, he didn't breathe. The stoic mask cracked, revealing the raw, terrifying depth of feeling underneath.A smile—slow, rare, and genuinely breathtaking—spread across his face.He leaned forward and kissed you. It was deeper than Jake’s, heavier. It tasted of a promise kept.

"I love you," Jay said against your lips. "My queen."

He pulled back, looking at Jake, then at you, then at the bump between you all.

"We are complete," Jay murmured.

You closed your eyes, surrounded by their arms, their scent, and their love. The Sector 7 Scrapper was gone. In her place was a mother, a lover, and the heart of a home built high in the clouds. And as you drifted off to sleep, feeling the baby settle and your lovers hold you tight, you knew you were finally, truly home.

The nursery was supposed to be a sanctuary. It was painted the soft sage green you had chosen, accented with gold that caught the afternoon light. It was beautiful. It was expensive. It was perfect.And it smelled absolutely revolting.It was the smell of "new." In Sector 7, nothing was new. Everything smelled of rust, ozone, and old sweat. But here, everything was fresh out of the packaging. The synthetic polymers of the crib mattress, the off-gassing of the non-toxic paint, the pristine fibers of the rug—it all combined into a sickly-sweet, chemical bouquet that assaulted your heightened senses.You sat on the plush nursing chair, clutching a tiny pair of socks, trying to breathe through your mouth. But the nausea was a rising tide, slick and heavy in your throat.It wasn't just the smell. It was the mirror.Jay had insisted on it. It was a massive, smart-glass mirror mounted on the wall, ostensibly for "developmental tracking" and AI monitoring of the baby’s movements. But right now, it was just monitoring you.You stared at your reflection.You didn't recognize the woman looking back.The Scrapper who could fit into tight spaces and run for miles was gone. In her place was a swollen stranger. Your face was round, your cheeks full. Your ankles had disappeared days ago, swallowed by fluid retention. The knit dress you were wearing—one that Jake loved—felt like it was straining at the seams, outlining every lump and bump.A sob bubbled up in your throat, burning like acid.

"I look like a planet," you whispered to the empty room.

The AI mirror, helpful as always, flashed a gentle notification near your reflection's head. Weight gain within healthy parameters. Hydration levels optimal.

"Shut up," you hissed at the glass.The tears started then. Hot, stupid tears that leaked out of your eyes and dripped off your chin. You felt huge. You felt ungainly. You felt like an incubator that had swallowed the woman you used to be. And the smell—that cloying, plastic smell of the crib—was making your stomach churn violently.You had come in here to put the new socks away, to feel happy about the daughter arriving soon. Instead, you were paralyzed by self-loathing and nausea.

Whoosh.

The door slid open.

"Knock, knock! Delivery for the prettiest—"

Jake stopped dead in the doorway.He was holding a box of the spicy crackers you had been craving yesterday, a bright grin on his face. But the smile vanished the second he saw you.He dropped the crackers. The box hit the floor with a thud.

"Baby?" Jake’s voice dropped, filled with instant alarm.

He crossed the room in a blur. He didn't care about his expensive trousers; he dropped to his knees on the rug in front of you."Hey, hey," Jake soothed, his hands hovering over you before gently cupping your knees. "What's wrong? Is it pain? Is she kicking too hard? Do I need to call Vance?"You shook your head, unable to speak through the sobs. You covered your face with your hands, trying to hide the puffy, tear-stained mess you were sure you looked like.

"I'm ugly," you wailed, the words muffled by your palms.

Jake froze. "What?"

"I'm huge," you cried, gesturing vaguely at your body. "I look like a balloon. None of my clothes fit. My ankles are gone. And Jay... Jay keeps looking at me like I'm a medical experiment, and you... you're just being nice because you have to be."

You took a ragged breath, the chemical smell of the room filling your nose again.

"And this room stinks!" you shouted, the nausea spiking. "It smells like plastic and fake flowers and I hate it!"

Jake stared at you. He looked at your tear-streaked face, your swollen belly, the way your breasts were spilling out of the top of your dress.He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but it was thick with emotion.He reached up and grabbed your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from your face.

"Look at me," Jake commanded softly.

You blinked at him, your vision blurry.

"You think you're unappealing?" Jake asked, his voice incredulous.

He moved his hands up your thighs, gripping the soft flesh firmly.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you?" Jake whispered intensely. "Every time you walk into a room, I want to bend you over the nearest furniture. You aren't just 'pretty,' [Y/N]. You are the sexiest thing I have ever seen."

He leaned forward, kissing your wet cheek.

"You're carrying our daughter," he murmured against your skin. "You're round and soft and full of life. Do you know what that does to me? It makes me feral. I don't just want to fuck you; I want to worship you."

He kissed your other cheek, then your nose.

"You are not ugly," Jake said firmly, looking deep into your eyes. "You are magnificent. And if you say that about yourself again, I'm going to have to prove to you exactly how much I want you, doctor's orders be damned."

The sincerity in his eyes was overwhelming. He wasn't lying. He looked at you with a hunger that hadn't dimmed a single watt since you got pregnant—if anything, it burned brighter.

You sniffled, the self-loathing receding just a fraction. "Really?"

"Really," Jake promised. He squeezed your thighs. "Now. About the smell."

He wrinkled his nose, sniffing the air.

"It does smell like new plastic," he admitted. "Is it making you sick?"

You nodded miserably, clutching your stomach. "I think I'm going to throw up."

"Okay, nope. Not happening," Jake said instantly.

He stood up and scooped you out of the chair. It wasn't as effortless as it used to be—you were heavier now—but he didn't falter. He held you tight against his chest.

"We are leaving," Jake announced. "We are going to the terrace where there is wind. And I am going to have the bots scrub this room with lemon water until it smells like a citrus grove. Better?"

You rested your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes against the dizzying nausea.

"Better," you whispered.

"Let's go," Jake said, carrying you toward the door, stepping over the fallen box of crackers. "Before you vomit on the heirloom rug. Jay would never let us hear the end of it."

The ninth month was not a time of glowing anticipation. It was a siege.

The atmosphere in the penthouse had tightened into a wire so taut it hummed. Every breath you took was monitored. Every wince was analyzed. The go-bag for the hospital was packed and repacked by Jay three times a day. Dr. Vance was practically living in the guest quarters.Jay and Jake watched you like hawks. Not the predatory hawks of the early days, but anxious, hovering protectors who seemed terrified that if they blinked, you might spontaneously combust or go into labor on the stairs.Jay was vibrating with energy. He paced the living room, his stride eating up the floor, checking his wrist comm for updates on traffic patterns to the private medical center, checking the humidity, checking the perimeter.

Jake was the counterweight, trying to project calm, but you saw the way his leg bounced when he sat, the way he chewed his lip when he thought you weren't looking.And you? You were miserable.You were enormous. Your belly was a hard, heavy drum that led the way into every room. Your back ached with a constant, grinding throb that no amount of expensive ergonomic furniture could fix. Your ankles had vanished weeks ago.But worst of all was the itch.The hormones that had been a slow burn in the second trimester were now a raging inferno. Your body was preparing for birth, flooding your system with chemicals that were supposed to help with bonding and pain, but right now, they were just making you ferociously, blindingly horny.

And you were in a dry spell."It is unsafe," Jay had decreed a week ago, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The cervix is softening. We do not risk infection or premature rupture."

"But I need it," you had whined, pressing your heavy breasts against his arm.

"No," Jay said, though his eyes had darkened. "We wait."

So they stopped. They massaged your feet. They rubbed oil into your stretch marks. They kissed your temple. But they wouldn't touch you there.You were climbing the walls. You were irritable, snappy, and prone to tears.Tonight was the breaking point.You had tried. God, you had tried. You had put on the sheerest nightgown you could find—the one that used to be loose but now stretched tight over your bump.You had waddled into the living room where they were reviewing security feeds. You had draped yourself over the sofa, trying to look alluring.But when you caught your reflection in the glass, you didn't see a seductress. You saw a whale. A round, swollen creature stranded on the beach of the sectional sofa.Jake had looked up, smiled that soft, damning smile, and said, "You look cute, mama. Like a little nesting bird."

Cute.

That was the final straw. You didn't want to be cute. You wanted to be railed.

"I'm going to bed," you had snapped, pushing yourself up with a groan.

"Do you need help?" Jay asked instantly, rising halfway from his chair.

"No!" you barked. "I can walk!"

You had stormed out—as much as one can storm while waddling—and headed not for the master bedroom, but for your old room. The glass cage. You needed to be away from their suffocating care. You needed to fix this yourself.The bathroom in your old suite was cool and white. You locked the door, not that it mattered with the AI override, but it made you feel a shred of privacy.You stripped off the nightgown, leaving it in a pile on the floor. You stood in front of the mirror, naked.

You looked at your body. The dark line running down your stomach. The swollen nipples. The sheer size of you.

"Unattractive," you whispered, tears pricking your eyes instantly. "I look like a science experiment."You sniffled, wiping your nose. You were crying again. You hated these hormones. You cried at commercials. You cried when they ran out of spicy crackers. Now you were crying because you were horny and huge.

"Fine," you hissed at your reflection. "If they won't do it, I will."

You sat down on the closed toilet lid. It was awkward. Your belly got in the way of everything. You had to spread your legs wide just to reach.You slid your hand down. You were soaking wet. You had been dripping all day, a constant reminder of your frustration.You found your clit. It was swollen, hypersensitive.You began to rub.

"Oh god," you moaned, your head falling back against the tank.It felt good. It felt like relief. You circled the bundle of nerves, your breath hitching. You closed your eyes, imagining Jay’s rough hands, Jake’s mouth.You were close. You could feel the coil tightening.And then, your hand cramped.A sharp, seizing pain shot through your wrist and up your forearm.

"Ow!" you gasped, stopping.The pleasure receded instantly, leaving you frustrated and aching. You shook your hand out, waiting for the spasm to pass.You tried again.You used your other hand. You got the rhythm back. You were panting, sweat beading on your upper lip. You were right there, hovering on the edge.

Cramp.

"Fuck!" you cried out, dropping your hand.

You tried five times. Five times you built the tower, and five times your exhausted, swollen body betrayed you before you could topple it.You sat there, naked and weeping, your hands useless claws in your lap.

"I hate this," you sobbed. "I hate everything."

You were edging yourself against your will. The ache in your pelvis was now a throbbing pressure that felt like a bruise. You needed release. You needed something to fill you, something that wouldn't get tired.Your eyes scanned the counter. Toothbrush. Lotion.

Hairbrush.It was a sleek, silver-handled brush made of heavy chrome. The handle was smooth, thick, and cool.Desperation overrode dignity.You grabbed the brush.

"Please," you whispered to the universe.

You adjusted your position, leaning back as far as you could. You spread your legs wider.You guided the handle to your entrance. The cool metal was a shock against your feverish skin.You pushed it in.It wasn't Jay. It wasn't Jake. But it was something. It stretched you just enough to remind your body of what it was missing.

You began to thrust.

It was awkward. Your arm had to reach around your belly. But you found a rhythm.

In. Out. In. Out. "Yes," you whimpered, your hips bucking to meet the handle. "Just... please."

You were lost in it. The sound of your own wetness, the clinking of the brush against your ring, the desperate need to just finish.

Whoosh.The bathroom door slid open.You didn't hear it over the blood rushing in your ears.

"I thought I heard you crying, are you—"

The voice stopped dead.

You froze.Jay was standing in the doorway.He was wearing his lounge pants and a tight black t-shirt. He had one hand on the doorframe, his body tensed as if ready for a medical emergency.But there was no emergency.

He looked at you. Sitting on the toilet, naked, legs spread wide, belly huge.

He looked at the hairbrush handle disappearing inside you.

He looked at your face, flushed and tear-streaked.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

"Uhh," Jay said, his eloquent vocabulary failing him for the first time in history. "What did I just walk in on?"

You stared at him. The shame should have killed you instantly. You should have dissolved into a puddle of humiliation.But you were too tired. You were too horny. And you were too angry.You didn't cover up. You couldn't fast enough anyway.Slowly, you pulled the hairbrush out.It made a wet, squelching sound that echoed in the tiled room. The chrome handle was coated in thick, clear fluids, dripping onto your inner thigh.You tossed the brush into the sink. It clattered loudly.You looked Jay dead in the eye.

"Horny," you said flatly.

Silence stretched between you.Jay stared at the brush in the sink. Then back at your dripping slit. Then at your face.A corner of his mouth twitched. Then the other.He shook his head, a low, disbelief-filled chuckle escaping his chest. A smirk—arrogant and amused—settled on his lips.

"Unbelievable," Jay muttered.

He walked into the room.

"You're laughing," you accused, your voice rising in a wail. "This is serious, Jay! I'm suffering!"

"You are ridiculous," Jay corrected, stopping in front of you. He towered over your seated form. "If you wanted to get fucked, you could have asked."

"I did ask!" you grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest, though it did little to hide anything. "I asked all week!"

"Trying to seduce us by wearing sheer nightgowns and sighing loudly is not asking," Jay said, looking down at you with hooded eyes. "That is pouting. Asking involves words. 'Jay, please fuck me.' See? Simple."

"I hate you," you huffed, looking away. "You said no. You said the doctor said no."

Jay tutted softly. He reached out and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"The doctor advised caution," Jay murmured. "But if I knew you were desperate enough to violate a hairbrush... I might have dismissed the rule."

You glared at him. "It's not funny."

"It's a little funny," Jay whispered.

His gaze dropped. He looked at your center. It was swollen, pink, and glistening with the evidence of your need.His amusement vanished, replaced by a sudden, dark heat."Look at you," Jay growled softly. "So wet. So needy."

"Don't tease me," you warned, a sob threatening to surface again. "If you're not going to help, just leave."

"Help?" Jay repeated.

He knelt.He didn't care about his knees on the tile. He knelt between your spread legs.

"Look at me," Jay commanded.

You tried to look away, stubborn to the end, but he reached out and placed his hand on your thigh. His thumb brushed the sensitive skin near your groin.You gasped, your legs twitching involuntarily.

"Look at me," he said again, softer this time.

You looked. His eyes were black pits of desire.

"You want relief?" Jay asked.

He didn't wait for an answer. He reached out and covered your mound with his large hand.He found your clit with his thumb and rubbed.

"Ah!" you cried out, your head falling back. It was electric. His skin was rough, calloused, so much better than your own hand.

"Pathetic," Jay murmured, watching your face contort. "One touch and you fall apart."

He rubbed harder, circling the nub, applying the pressure you had been craving.

"Please," you moaned, gripping his forearm. "Please, baby, keep going."

All defiance evaporated. The anger melted into pure, distilled need.

"Begging now?" Jay taunted lightly, but he didn't stop.

He slid one finger inside you.You clamped down on him instantly, your walls hot and tight."Tight," Jay hissed. "Even with that belly, you're so tight."

He added a second finger. Then a third.He began to pump his hand, curling his fingers inside you, simulating the thrusts you missed. His thumb kept working your clit, relentless and skilled.

"Jay!" you screamed.It didn't take long. You were already on the edge, primed by five failed attempts.You came with a violent, shaking cry. Your hips bucked off the toilet seat, grinding into his hand. You flooded him, your juices running over his wrist.

Jay held you through it, his other hand gripping your hip to keep you steady on your perch.When the tremors subsided, you slumped forward, resting your forehead on his shoulder, panting.Jay slowly withdrew his hand.He brought his fingers to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes locked on yours, making a show of tasting you.

"Sweet," he groaned.You watched him, your breath catching. The orgasm had taken the edge off, but seeing him taste you... seeing the hunger in his eyes... it sparked a new fire.

You reached for his belt.

You fumbled with the buckle, your hands clumsy.

Jay grabbed your wrists.

"Not so fast, love," he said.

"Jay," you whined, a high, frustrated sound. "I want you."

"Not here," Jay said. He stood up, pulling you gently to your feet. "The bathroom is too small. And Jake is upstairs."

"I don't care about Jake," you lied.

"He cares about you," Jay said. "And he'll want to see this."

He scooped you up.

"Jay!" you gasped as your feet left the floor. "I'm heavy!"

"You are substantial," Jay corrected, adjusting his grip to support your back and your knees. "My strong girl."

He carried you out of the room, down the hall, and toward the stairs.

The master bedroom was bathed in the blue light of a holographic screen.

Jake was lying on the bed, shirtless, wearing only grey sweatpants. One arm was tucked behind his head, the other holding his datapad. He looked bored.

The door slid open.Jake looked up. His eyes widened as he saw Jay carrying you—naked, flushed, and clearly ravaged—into the room.

"Whoa," Jake sat up, tossing the datapad aside. "What happened? Is she okay? Is it the baby?"

"She is fine," Jay said, walking to the bed. "Better than fine. She is... voracious."

Jay sat you down on the edge of the mattress. You sank into the duvet, feeling exposed but thrilled.

"I found her in the guest bathroom," Jay announced, standing between your legs and looking at Jake. "Fucking a hairbrush."

Jake blinked. He looked at Jay, then at you.

"A hairbrush?" Jake repeated.

You looked away, your face burning. "I was desperate."

Jake stared at you for a second longer, processing. Then, a grin split his face. He threw his head back and laughed—a loud, delighted sound.

"Oh my god," Jake crowed. "That is... that is the cutest, saddest thing I have ever heard."

"It wasn't cute!" you protested. "It was tragic!"

"It was resourcefulness," Jay corrected, unbuckling his belt. "But unnecessary."

Jake crawled over to you. He grabbed your face and kissed you hard.

"You poor thing," Jake murmured against your lips. "We neglected you. We're monsters."

"Yes," you agreed breathlessly. "Fix it."

Jake pulled back, his eyes darkening. He looked up at Jay, who was stepping out of his pants. Jay was hard. Rock hard.

"She needs it, Jay," Jake said, his voice dropping. "Look at her."

"I know," Jay said. "But she can't take us both. Not yet. Not like this."

Jay’s eyes shifted to Jake. They were heavy, filled with a dark, commanding intent.

"Position one," Jay ordered. "She likes to watch."

Jake shivered. He knew the drill. He moved to the center of the bed and lay on his back. He didn't argue. In fact, he spread his legs instantly, bending his knees toward his chest, offering himself up.

Jay climbed onto the bed. He positioned himself between Jake’s legs, looming over his husband like a storm cloud.

He looked at you.

"You wanted to see us," Jay said, his voice rough. "Watch."

Jay spat into his hand—a thick, generous amount. He reached down and coated Jake’s entrance, rubbing the spit in with his thumb.

Then, without further preamble, Jay leaned down.

He didn't enter with his cock. He buried his face in Jake’s ass.

You gasped.

Jay’s tongue came out, broad and wet. He licked right over Jake’s hole, slurping loudly.

"Fuck!" Jake cried out, his hands gripping the sheets, his back arching off the mattress.Jay was relentless. He pressed his face into Jake’s glutes, spreading them with his hands to get deeper access. He worked his tongue into the tight ring of muscle, swirling, probing, devouring him. The sound was obscene—wet, sloppy slurps mixed with Jake’s high, keen whines.You watched, your hand drifting between your legs automatically. Seeing Jay—the stoic, terrifying Apex—eating his husband out with such animalistic hunger was the hottest thing you had ever seen.

Jay pulled back, his chin glistening with saliva.He inserted a finger.Jake gasped, his hips bucking. "Jay..."

Jay added a second finger. He scissored them inside, stretching Jake open, preparing him. The wet squelching noise filled the quiet room.

"Loose for me," Jay commanded, his voice muffled against Jake’s thigh. "Take it."

He withdrew his fingers. He lined himself up.Jay’s cock was thick, veined, and dripping with precum. He pressed the head against Jake’s rim.

He drove inside.It wasn't gentle. He slammed into Jake, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke.

"Ah!" Jake screamed, his head thrown back, his throat bared.

Jay groaned, a guttural roar of possession. He grabbed Jake’s hips, his fingers digging in bruisingly deep, and began to pound him.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The sound of skin colliding was rhythmic and brutal. Jay fucked him with long, powerful strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making sure he hit that sweet spot every time.

"Look at her," Jay growled, leaning down to bite Jake’s neck. "Look at her watching you take my cock."

Jake turned his head, his eyes watering, his face flushed red. He looked at you. His mouth was open in a silent scream of pleasure, drool escaping the corner of his lips.

"Jay," Jake choked out. "So deep."

Jay didn't let up. He reached down with one hand and grabbed Jake’s cock. It was leaking, clear fluid dribbling from the tip.

Jay began to jerk him off, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

You could see it all. The way Jay’s balls slapped against Jake’s ass. The way white froth began to gather around the base of Jay’s cock where he was joined with Jake, a mix of spit and arousal. It coated Jay’s red shaft, glistening in the light of the room.

"Please," Jake begged, his hips snapping up to meet Jay’s thrusts. "Jay, please."

"Cum," Jay ordered.

He hit Jake’s prostate with a brutal, curling thrust.

Jake shattered.

Thick, white spurts of semen shot from his cock, landing on his own chest and Jay’s arm. He bucked wildly, his hole clamping down on Jay’s shaft, milking him.

Jay groaned, his face contorted in pleasure-pain.

"Not done," Jay rasped.

He pulled out with a wet pop. A gush of fluids dripped from Jake’s gaping hole.

"Turn over," Jay commanded.

Jake scrambled to comply, flipping onto his hands and knees, shaking his hair out of his eyes, panting like a dog.

"Ride me," Jay said.

Jay lay back against the headboard, his cock standing straight up, shiny with fluids.

Jake straddled him. He lowered himself onto Jay’s waiting cock.

SPLAT.

The sound of their connection was wet and heavy.

Jake began to ride. He bounced on Jay’s lap, his back arched, his neck bared.Jay wasn't passive. He reached up and gripped Jake’s ass cheeks. He spread them wide, forcing the hole open so he could drive deeper.

Smack.

Jay’s hand landed on Jake’s ass. A red handprint bloomed instantly.

"Faster," Jay growled.

Jake obeyed. He picked up the pace, the sound of slap-slap-slap filling the room. He was riding Jay like his life depended on it, his cock flopping against his stomach, leaking more precum.

Jay looked at you. He saw you writhing on the edge of the bed, dripping, needy.

"Jake," Jay said, his voice strained. "Get her."

Jake didn't stop riding Jay. He reached out an arm.

"Come here, baby," Jake gasped.

You crawled over. You couldn't get there fast enough. You positioned yourself next to them.

Jake grabbed your waist. He pulled you close.

He was still impaled on Jay, bouncing rhythmically.

"My turn," Jake panted. "Lie back."

You lay back on the mattress, right next to Jay’s hip.

Jake leaned over. He was still riding Jay, his hips moving up and down, but his upper body turned to you. He crawled over you, his knees on either side of your hips.

"Jay, hold him," you pleaded.

Jay reached up and gripped Jake’s hips, helping him maintain the rhythm on his cock while Jake focused on you.

Jake positioned himself at your entrance. He was still semi-soft from his orgasm, but the sight of you spread open for him hardened him instantly.

"I'm filling you," Jake whispered.

He pushed inside you.

"Yes," you sobbed.Now the chain was complete. Jay was buried deep inside Jake, filling him from below. And Jake was buried deep inside you, filling you from above.

It was a staggering amount of sensation. You could feel the shockwaves of Jay thrusting into Jake travel through Jake’s body and into yours.

Jake began to rock. It was a complex motion—he had to grind down on Jay’s cock while thrusting into yours. He rocked back and forth, a human conduit of pleasure.

"Fuck," Jake moaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. "I can feel him... and you..."

Jay wasn't idle. He thrust upward into Jake, hard and unyielding.

"Take it," Jay growled. "Both of you."

He reached around Jake’s waist and grabbed your breast, squeezing it hard.

The rhythm intensified. Jay slammed into Jake. Jake slammed into you.

Thrust. Rock. Thrust. Rock.It was madness. You were being fucked by proxy and in reality. The bed shook with the force of it.

"Jay!" Jake screamed, his body seizing as Jay hit his spot again.

"Cum for me," Jay roared.

Jay exploded inside Jake. He poured himself into his husband, his hips locking as he emptied himself.The force of it pushed Jake over the edge again.Jake cried out, his back arching. He clamped down on Jay, and at the same time, he pulsed inside you.He came a second time, a weaker but still potent stream of hot seed filling you up.You screamed, your own orgasm ripping through you as you felt him flood you. Your walls milked him, trying to drain every drop.

Jake collapsed. He fell forward, crushing you into the mattress.

For a long time, the only sound was the harsh, ragged breathing of three people.

Jay didn't pull out of Jake immediately. He stayed there, keeping them connected. Jake stayed inside you.

You were a human chain of exhaustion and fluids.

"Okay?" Jay asked from behind Jake, his voice a low rumble.

"Yeah," Jake breathed into your neck. "Yeah. We're okay."

He kissed your cheek, lazy and satisfied.

"Good girl," Jake whispered.Jay finally withdrew, the sound wet and final. Jake shivered, then slowly pulled out of you.

You lay there, open and filled, as they collapsed onto the bed on either side of you. They pulled the duvet up, sandwiching you between their heat.

"Sleep," Jay commanded, his arm heavy over your waist.

And you didn't argue.

The sensation that woke you wasn't pain. It was a strange, heavy pop deep inside your pelvis, like a rubber band snapping underwater.You blinked into the darkness of the master bedroom. The digital clock on the nightstand read 04:12 AM. The Witching Hour again.You shifted your hips, groaning as the weight of your belly pulled at your spine. A pressure built low in your bladder—intense and urgent.

"Toilet," you muttered to yourself, pushing the heavy duvet off.

You rolled to the edge of the bed. It was an olympic event these days. You had to rock back and forth to generate momentum.

Jay grunted in his sleep as the mattress shifted, his hand instinctively reaching out to the empty space where you had been. "Mm?"

"Bathroom," you whispered, patting his hand. "Go back to sleep."

He settled instantly, his breathing deepening.You waddled toward the bathroom. Your feet were swollen, the carpet feeling overly plush between your toes. The pressure in your lower abdomen was getting worse with every step, a heavy, downward drag that felt different than the usual urge to pee.You reached the bathroom. The motion-sensor lights flickered on, dim and soft.You reached for the waistband of your sleep shorts.

Whoosh.

It happened before you could even lower your hand.

A gush of warm, clear fluid released from between your legs. It wasn't a trickle. It was a flood. It soaked your shorts instantly, running down your thighs, splashing onto your feet and the pristine white tile.

You froze. You stood there, legs spread wide, staring down as the puddle expanded around your feet. The pressure in your womb vanished, replaced by a sudden, terrifying emptiness."What the..." you whispered.

Then, the pain hit.It wasn't a ramp-up. It was a sledgehammer. Without the cushion of the amniotic fluid, your uterus clamped down hard on the baby. A contraction seized your entire midsection, wrapping around your spine like a burning iron chain and squeezing until you couldn't breathe.You doubled over, gripping the marble counter with white-knuckled hands.

"JAY!" you screamed.

The sound tore out of your throat, raw and panicked. It echoed off the tile, bouncing into the bedroom.

"JAKE!"

You heard the crash before you saw them. Someone had fallen out of bed.

"Y/N?!" Jake’s voice was high, frantic.

Thundering footsteps. The bedroom door slammed open.They burst into the bathroom.Jay was naked, his eyes wide and wild, scanning for a threat. Jake was in his boxers, looking like he was about to have a heart attack.

They stopped dead in the doorway.

They saw you hunched over the counter, gasping for air. They saw the water soaking your shorts. They saw the clear puddle spreading across the floor.

"Her water," Jake breathed, his hands flying to his mouth. "Oh my god. The water."

Jay moved.

The shock lasted less than a second. His training kicked in. The CEO vanished, replaced by the Commander.He was at your side instantly. His large hands gripped your waist, supporting you as your knees buckled under the force of the contraction.

"Breathe," Jay ordered, his voice rough with sleep but steady as a rock. "Look at me. Breathe."

"It hurts!" you cried, squeezing your eyes shut. "Jay, it hurts so much!"

"I know," he said. "The cushion is gone. It’s bone on bone now."

He looked back at Jake, who was still frozen in the doorway, staring at the fluid on the floor.

"Jake!" Jay barked. "Focus. The bag. Now."

Jake jolted. "Right. Bag. Yes."

He spun around, sprinting back into the bedroom. You heard him crashing around the closet, grabbing the pre-packed hospital bag Jay had been obsessing over for weeks.

The contraction peaked, holding you in a vise of agony for ten infinite seconds, and then slowly began to recede.

You slumped against Jay, panting.

"She's coming," you whispered, terrified. "Jay, she's coming right now."

"She is right on time," Jay soothed, smoothing your hair back from your clammy forehead. "We are ready."

He didn't let you walk. He scooped you up into his arms, ignoring the wetness of your clothes against his bare chest.

"Let's go," Jay said.

He carried you out of the bathroom. Jake met you in the hallway, the bag slung over his shoulder, shoving his feet into shoes while hopping on one leg. He had thrown a t-shirt on inside out. 

"Car is summoned," Jake panted, checking his wrist comm. "ETA to the medical center is six minutes. Vance is prepped."

Jay strode down the stairs. He didn't rush—he never rushed—but his stride was long and purposeful. He had thrown on clothes faster than you could pick up.

"Hold on to me," Jay murmured to you.

Another contraction hit just as he reached the foyer.

You screamed, burying your face in his neck, your teeth grazing his skin. Your body went rigid in his arms.Jay stopped. He held you through it, tightening his grip, murmuring low, nonsensical words of comfort against your ear.

"Good girl," he whispered. "Strong girl. You can take it."

When the wave passed, he moved again.

The front doors hissed open. The wind on the landing pad was cold, whipping your hair around your face.The hover-limo was already there, hovering silently, the rear door open.Jay placed you gently on the back seat. He climbed in beside you. Jake jumped in on the other side, sealing the door.

"Go," Jay commanded the driver. "Override all traffic protocols. Use the emergency clearance."The car surged forward, the G-force pressing you back into the leather.

You were trapped in the backseat between them. Jake grabbed your hand, squeezing it until your fingers went numb. Jay had his hand on your belly, timing the hardening of your uterus.

"They're close," Jay noted, his eyes on his watch. "Three minutes apart."

"That's fast," Jake squeaked. "That's really fast."

"She is efficient," Jay said, though you could see the tension in his jaw.

"I'm going to be sick," you moaned.

Jake grabbed the emesis bag from the seat pocket—Jay had stocked the car too—and held it for you just in time.You retched, your body convulsing. It was miserable. Pain, nausea, fear.

"I can't do this," you sobbed, wiping your mouth. "I changed my mind. Put it back."

"Too late for returns, sweetheart," Jake said, his voice trembling but trying for levity. He wiped your face with his sleeve. "She's already evicted."

"We are almost there," Jay said, pointing out the window.

The lights of the private medical wing of the Spire loomed ahead.

The transition from the car to the suite was a blur of bright lights and voices.

You were in a carrier. Then you were in a bed. People in blue scrubs were swarming around you.Dr. Vance was there. He looked calm, efficient.

"Dilated to seven centimeters," Vance announced after a quick, invasive check that made you yelp. "She's flying. This baby wants out."

"Pain relief," Jay demanded, standing at the head of the bed, gripping your shoulders. "She is in distress."

"We can do an epidural, but it might slow her down," Vance warned. "At this speed, she might be pushing in twenty minutes."

You looked at Jay. The pain was blinding, a red haze that consumed your entire world.

"I don't care," you gasped. "Give me the drugs."

"Give her the drugs," Jay ordered.The anesthesiologist moved in. You had to curl around your belly, staying perfectly still while a contraction ripped through you.

Jay held you. He stood in front of you, locking his eyes with yours.

"Look at me," Jay commanded. "Don't move. Focus on my eyes."

You stared into his dark pupils. You anchored yourself to him. He was a stone in the river of pain.The needle stung,though technology was advanced the process was still painful but more effective. A cold sensation spread down your back.Within minutes, the sharp, jagged edges of the pain began to dull. It didn't disappear—the pressure was still immense, like a bowling ball pushing through your hips—but the agony receded.You slumped back against the pillows, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.

"Better?" Jake asked, wiping sweat from your forehead with a cool cloth.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Better."

The room quieted down. The nurses retreated to the holo monitors. The only sounds were the steady whoosh-whoosh of the baby's heartbeat on the monitor and the hum of the equipment.It was the calm before the storm.

Jay pulled a chair to the left side of the bed. Jake took the right.

They held your hands.

"I'm scared," you admitted into the quiet.

"Don't be," Jake said, kissing your knuckles. "We're right here. We're not going anywhere."

"You are built for this," Jay said. He reached out and brushed a stray hair from your face. His touch was incredibly gentle. "You survived the Rust Belt. You survived the fall. You survived us. This is just biology."

"Biology hurts," you muttered.

Jay smirked. "Victory usually does."

Thirty minutes later, the pressure changed.It shifted from a general squeezing to an undeniable, overwhelming urge to bear down. It felt like your body was trying to expel itself.

"I need to push," you gasped, gripping the side rails.

Vance checked you again.

"Ten centimeters," he confirmed. "Head is at plus two station. She's right there."

The room transformed into a battlefield. The bed was broken down. Stirrups appeared.

"Okay," Vance said, positioning himself at the foot of the bed. "On the next contraction, I need you to bear down. Chin to chest. Push into your bottom."

Jay stood up. He moved to your left side, supporting your upper back.

"Grab my arm," Jay ordered, offering his forearm.

You grabbed it. His muscles were hard as rock under your grip.

Jake took your right leg, supporting your knee.

"Here it comes," you groaned as the wave started to build.

"Push!" Vance commanded.

You curled forward. You pushed. You poured every ounce of strength you had into your core. You squeezed your eyes shut, gritting your teeth.

"Good," Jay growled in your ear. "Keep going. Push."

You pushed for ten seconds. When you collapsed back, you were gasping.

"Excellent," Vance said. "We can see the hair. Dark hair."

"Dark hair," Jake repeated, his voice thick with emotion. "Like Jay."

"Again," Vance said.The next contraction hit. You pushed again.It was exhausting. It was the hardest physical work you had ever done. Sweat soaked your hospital gown. Your hair was plastered to your skull.

"I can't," you cried after the fourth push. "I'm too tired."

"You can," Jay said. His voice wasn't soft. It was the voice of a commander. "You do not stop now. She is right there."

He leaned closer.

"Bring her to me," Jay whispered intensely. "Give me my daughter."

The demand lit a fire in your belly. You weren't going to fail him.

You took a massive breath. You grabbed his arm so hard your nails dug in.

You pushed.You pushed until you thought you would break in half.

"The head is out!" Jake yelled, looking down. "Oh my god, Jay, look! The head!"

Jay looked. His eyes widened. He stared at the crown of the baby's head emerging.

"One more," Vance said. "Shoulders next. Big push."

You roared. It was a primal, animalistic sound.

You felt a massive stretching, a ring of fire that the epidural couldn't fully mask, and then—

Slither.

A sudden release of pressure. A gush of warmth.

And then, a cry.A thin, high-pitched wail filled the room.

"She's out," Vance announced.

You collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing with relief.

Vance lifted the baby.She was covered in vernix and blood, looking purple and angry. She was flailing her tiny limbs, screaming her indignation at the cold air of the world.

"A girl," Vance confirmed. "Healthy. Strong."

He placed her on your chest.The weight of her settled on you. She was warm. She was slippery. She smelled of iron and life.You looked down.She had a full head of black hair. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her tiny fists were clenched.

"Hi," you whispered, touching her back. "Hi, baby."

Jake was crying openly. He was leaning over you, staring at the baby with an expression of pure, unadulterated wonder.

"She's perfect," Jake sobbed. "Look at her fingers. She has ten fingers."

Jay was silent.He stood frozen for a moment, staring at the crying infant on your chest. He looked terrified. He looked like he was afraid if he breathed too hard, she would shatter.Then, slowly, he reached out.His large finger touched her tiny hand.

The baby’s instincts kicked in. Her tiny fingers uncurled and then clamped around Jay’s index finger. Her grip was surprisingly strong.Jay let out a shuddering breath.

"Hello, Luna," Jay whispered.

An hour later, the chaos had subsided.You were cleaned up, moved to a recovery suite that looked more like a hotel room than a hospital. The baby—Luna—was swaddled in a soft pink blanket, sleeping in a clear bassinet next to the bed.

You were exhausted, but too wired to sleep.Jay was sitting in the chair next to the bassinet. He hadn't taken his eyes off her for forty-five minutes. He was just watching her chest rise and fall, his face softened into an expression of absolute peace.

Jake was sitting on the bed with you, feeding you ice chips.

"She looks like you," Jake said quietly. "She has your nose."

"She has Jay’s scowl," you countered, watching the baby furrow her brow in her sleep.Jay looked up. He smiled. It was a tired, genuine smile.

"She is perfect," Jay said.

He stood up. He picked up the bundle with practiced care—he had clearly read the manuals. He held her against his chest. She looked impossibly small against his broad frame.He walked over to the bed.

"Move over," Jay said to Jake.

Jake scooted.

Jay sat on the edge of the bed. He held the baby out to you, but didn't let go completely. He kept his arm around her, supporting her.

"We did this," Jay said, looking at you. "You did this."

He leaned in and kissed you. It tasted of relief.

"The family is complete," Jay murmured.

Jake leaned his head on Jay’s shoulder, looking down at the baby.

"She's going to be a terror," Jake predicted fondly. "With Jay’s genes and your attitude? We're doomed."

"She will be magnificent," Jay corrected.

You looked at them. The two men who had kidnapped you, terrified you, and then, slowly, methodically, loved you into submission.You looked at the baby in Jay’s arms. The product of the spire and the slum.

You felt the lingering ache in your body, the soreness, the exhaustion.

And you felt a fierce, overwhelming sense of belonging.

"Yeah," you whispered, closing your eyes as Jay’s free hand found yours. "We're doomed. But I think we'll be okay."

The cage was gone. The castle walls were up. And inside, everything was warm.

Epilogue

The silence of the Spire used to be its defining feature. It was a vacuum-sealed silence, expensive and heavy, broken only by the hum of the air recyclers or the click of Jay’s dress shoes on marble. It was a silence that demanded posture, performance, and obedience.That silence was dead.It had been replaced by a new, chaotic ecosystem of sounds that ruled your life with an iron fist. The wet, rhythmic suckling of a mouth. The beep of biometric sensors. The soft, synthesized lullabies drifting from the nursery. And, most predominantly, the sheer volume of noise two grown, powerful men could make while trying to interpret the needs of an eight-pound human.You were awake before your eyes opened. It was a biological alarm clock wired into your milk ducts and your heart.

05:30.

You rolled over in the massive bed. Your body felt different now. The hard, round bump was gone, replaced by a softness in your belly that Jay seemed obsessed with kneading. Your breasts were heavy, aching behind the nursing pads. You were tired—a bone-deep, grainy exhaustion that made the Sector 7 fatigue feel like a nap—but it wasn't the tired of survival. It was the tired of giving life. You reached out. The space to your right was empty. The space to your left was empty.Panic flared for a microsecond—a reflex from the old days—before you heard it. Voices. Coming from the nursery. "The trajectory was calculated," Jay’s voice rumbled, low and defensive. "The absorbent material should have handled the payload."

"Jay," Jake’s voice was thick with suppressed laughter. "She peed while you were wiping. It's not a payload failure. It's a timing issue. You took too long analyzing the rash cream."

"I was ensuring even coverage," Jay argued. You smiled, burying your face in the pillow for one last moment of peace. Then, you pushed the duvet back.

You padded down the hallway. You were wearing one of Jake’s oversized hoodies and thick socks. The floor heating was set to tropical, a standing order from Jay since the birth.You stopped in the doorway of the nursery.It was a room that cost more than your entire childhood block. The walls were smart-glass, currently dimmed to a soothing twilight violet. Holographic stars rotated slowly on the ceiling. In the center of the room, the anti-grav crib hovered silently. But the action was at the changing table. Jay Park, the man who controlled the defense grid of the most powerful city on earth, was wearing a pristine white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he looked like he was defusing a nuclear warhead. He was holding a fresh diaper like a weapon, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.Jake was leaning against the crib, holding a bottle of warm water and a cloth, grinning like a fool. And on the changing pad, kicking her legs and making happy, gurgling squeaks, was Luna. She was tiny. She was perfect. She had Jay’s dark, intense eyes and hair. She had your stubbornness and Jake’s personality. "Need backup?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe. Jay’s head snapped up. He looked frazzled. There was a small, wet stain on the cuff of his shirt.

"She is... active," Jay reported gravely. "The target is moving."

"She's stretching, Jay," you laughed, walking over. Jay stepped back immediately to let you in, but he didn't leave. He hovered behind you, his hands instantly finding your waist, his chin hooking over your shoulder. He needed the contact. Since the birth, his possessiveness had shifted. He wasn't just guarding you anymore; he was anchoring himself to you. "Hi, baby girl," you cooed, looking down at Luna. She recognized your voice. Her limbs stiffened, and she let out a sharp, demanding cry.

"Hungry," Jake diagnosed, tossing the cloth into the hamper. "She's been fussing for ten minutes, but Jay insisted on a 'structural integrity check' of the diaper first."

"Hygiene is critical," Jay muttered into your neck, inhaling your scent. "You smell like milk."

"And you smell like pee," you teased, turning your head to kiss his jaw.

Jay froze. He sniffed his sleeve. He scowled.

"Jake," Jay barked. "Hold her. I must change."

"Aye aye, Captain," Jake saluted. Jake scooped Luna up. He was a natural. While Jay approached fatherhood like a tactical operation, Jake approached it like a contact sport. He held her easily against his chest, bouncing on his heels, making silly noises that made her eyes go wide.

"Who's a stinky princess?" Jake cooed, nuzzling her soft stomach. "Is it you? Did you pee on Daddy Jay? Good job."

"Do not encourage insurrection," Jay called from the doorway as he unbuttoned his shirt with one hand, storming off to the master bedroom to sanitize. You sat in the rocking chair—a plush, velvet thing that adjusted to your spine automatically.

"Hand her over," you said.

Jake settled Luna into your arms. He didn't walk away. He sat on the ottoman at your feet, his knees pressing against yours. You adjusted your hoodie, pulling it down to free your breast. Luna latched instantly, her small hands splaying against your skin. The sensation was grounding. It pulled you out of the Spire and back into the basic, primal reality of being a mammal. Jake watched. His eyes were soft, filled with that golden-retriever adoration that used to annoy you but now just made your chest ache.

"She's getting big," Jake whispered, reaching out to stroke Luna’s foot with his thumb.

"She eats like a machine," you said. "She takes after Jay."

"She has your eyes, though," Jake said, looking up at you. "When she's mad. That glare? That's all Scrapper."

You ran a hand over Luna’s dark fuzz of hair. "Ideally, she won't have to scrap for anything."

"Never," Jake promised fiercely. "She's never going to know what 'cold' feels like. Or 'hungry'."

Jay returned. He was in a fresh black t-shirt, his wet hair slicked back. He walked into the room, and the air pressure changed. He was the gravity well. He didn't say anything. He walked behind the rocking chair. He placed his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tense muscles of your neck. He looked down at the scene. You, Jake, the baby.You felt his tension bleed away. This was his hoard. This was his vault.

"Is she feeding well?" Jay asked quietly.

"Biometrics show intake volume is up 10%," you mimicked his robotic tone. Jay cracked a small smile—a rare thing, reserved only for this room.

"Smartass," he murmured. He leaned down and kissed the top of your head.

"Breakfast is arriving," Jay announced. "I ordered extra protein. You look pale."

"I'm tired, Jay," you sighed. "She was up three times last night."

"I know," Jay said. "I monitored the feeds."

"You monitored?" you raised an eyebrow. "You didn't come in."

"You said you wanted to handle the 03:00 shift alone," Jay reminded you. "I respected your parameters. Though it was... difficult." You leaned your head back against his stomach. You knew how difficult it was. Jay Park didn't like being on the sidelines. He wanted to fix everything. Watching you struggle with a fussy baby at 3 AM while he sat on his hands in the other room probably gave him an ulcer.

"Tonight," you said, "you take the 03:00 shift."

Jay stiffened. "Me?"

"She likes the way you walk," Jake chimed in. "That military pace. Puts her right out."

"Acceptable," Jay nodded, looking terrified and honored simultaneously. "I will prepare a schedule."

The afternoon sun was brutal, but the polarization of the floor-to-ceiling windows turned it into a gentle, golden wash. You were in the living room, Luna asleep in a portable bassinet next to you. You were folding laundry—tiny onesies, socks the size of thimbles. It was busy work. You didn't need to do it; the bots could do it. But you needed the texture of the fabric in your hands. You looked out the window. Far below, through the layers of smog and traffic, lay Sector 7. It was just a grey smudge from up here. A grid of misery. You wondered if the Scrappers were freezing today. You wondered if they looked up at the Spire and flipped it off, just like you used to. A shadow fell over you. Jay stood there. He held a datapad, but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking at you looking at the slums. "Do you miss it?" Jay asked.

It was a question he asked often, in different ways. Are you happy? Is the cage gilded enough?

"No," you said honestly. "I don't miss the hunger. I don't miss the fear."

You picked up a tiny pink sock. "But sometimes I feel guilty," you admitted. "That I'm here. That she's here. And they're still there." Jay sat down on the sofa next to you. He didn't touch you immediately. He respected the mood.

"Guilt is a useless metric," Jay stated. "You survived. You climbed. That is evolution."

"I didn't climb, Jay," you gave him a dry look. "You kidnapped me."

"I acquired you," Jay corrected shamelessly. "And looking at the result..."

He gestured to the sleeping baby.

"...it was the most successful acquisition of my career."

He reached out and took your hand. His grip was firm, calloused, and warm.

"She will not be soft, [Y/N]," Jay said, his voice lowering. "She is a Park. She will be trained. She will be educated. She will know that the world is dangerous."

"She's a month old, Jay," you sighed. "Can we wait on the combat training?"

"I am simply managing expectations," Jay said. "But... she will be safe. I kept this wall for you. Now I build it for her." He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

"You are the matriarch of the Spire," Jay whispered. "Stop looking down. Look here." He turned your face toward him. His eyes were dark, intense, swallowing you whole.

"You belong to us," Jay said. "And we belong to you."

It was a threat and a promise.You leaned forward and kissed him. It was slow, tasting of coffee and power. For a moment, you weren't a mother. You were just his. The kiss deepened. Jay’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his thumb pressing into the pulse point. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of hunger that hadn't abated even after a month of recovery.

"Jay," you breathed, pulling back. "Doctor Vance said six weeks."

"I know," Jay gritted out, his eyes black. "Two weeks remaining. I am counting the hours."

"You're obsessed."

"I am starving," Jay corrected. "But I can wait."

From the bassinet, Luna let out a sharp sneeze. The moment shattered. Jay immediately released you and leaned over the bassinet, scanning the baby for signs of plague. "Did she sound congested?" Jay demanded. "AI, scan for respiratory pathogens." You laughed, picking up the laundry basket. The Matriarch of the Spire and her overbearing Warlord. It was a strange life, but it was yours.

18:00. Bath time.

This was the main event of the day. It required all hands on deck.The master bathroom was heated to exactly 78 degrees. Soft, ambient music played from the walls. The massive soaking tub was filled with three inches of water.You sat on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up.Jake was on his knees next to you, holding a rubber duck that looked suspiciously like Jay (it had angry eyebrows drawn on with marker by Jake as a joke). Jay stood guard with the towel, the thermometer, and the lotion.

"Temperature is 99.8 degrees," Jay announced. "Optimal."

"Okay, bring her in," you said. Jake lowered Luna into the water. She hated the transition. She scrunched up her face, turning bright red, and opened her mouth to scream.

"Hey, hey," Jake cooed, splashing water gently over her tummy. "It's okay! Look at the duck! Look at grumpy duck!" Luna paused. She looked at the duck. She looked at Jake. She decided not to scream. Instead, she kicked her legs, splashing water directly into your face.

"Oh, nice," you sputtered, wiping your eyes.

"She has excellent aim," Jay noted with pride.

"She's a menace," you corrected. You washed her. The sponge was soft against her skin. You cleaned the rolls of fat on her thighs—the "Michelin tires," Jake called them. You washed her tiny hands, which were always clenched into fists. "She's getting so heavy," you murmured, supporting her head.

"Good," Jay said. "She is thriving."

He stepped forward, unable to resist. He knelt down on the other side of the tub. The three of you formed a circle around the baby. Jay reached out. He took Luna’s hand. She grabbed his index finger. Her grip was surprisingly strong. Jay froze. He stared at his massive hand being held by her tiny, perfect one. You watched his face. The "Warlord" mask cracked. His eyes softened, turning into pools of absolute, terrifying love.

"Hi," Jay whispered to her.

Luna cooed, blowing a bubble of spit. "She recognizes you," Jake grinned, bumping shoulders with Jay. "She knows you're the one who panics about the diaper cream."

Jay didn't even glare at him. He just watched the baby holding his finger."I will burn the world for her," Jay said calmly. "Okay, calm down, Nero," you laughed, lifting Luna out of the water. "Let's dry her off first."

Jay sprang into action. He wrapped her in the hooded towel with the efficiency of a field medic. He carried her to the vanity, laying her on the padded mat.He dried her. He lotioned her. He put her in a fresh sleeper.He did it all with a reverence that made your heart stutter.

"You're a good dad, Jay," you whispered.

He looked at you, startled. His ears turned pink.

"I am adequate," he muttered, snapping the last button. "I am learning."

22:00.

Luna was asleep. The monitor sat on the nightstand, glowing softly, showing her rhythmic breathing. The penthouse was quiet again, but it was a warm silence now. You were in the big bed. The "Family Bed," Jake called it. You lay in the middle, propped up against a mountain of pillows. You were wearing a nursing tank top and soft shorts. Jake was on your left, his head resting on your shoulder, his leg thrown over yours. He was playing a game on his datapad, but mostly he was just enjoying the contact. Jay was on your right. He was reading a report, his glasses perched on his nose. But his hand was under your shirt, resting flat on your soft, post-partum belly. He wasn't doing anything sexual. He just wanted to hold the place where she had been.

"You smell like lavender," Jake mumbled, sniffing your neck. "From the bath."

"Better than spit-up," you noted.

"I don't mind the spit-up," Jake shrugged. "It's a badge of honor." He kissed your collarbone. His hand slid up your arm, squeezing gently.

"How are you feeling?" Jake asked. "Really?"

"Sore," you admitted. "My back hurts from the rocking chair."

"Turn over," Jay commanded immediately.He set his report down. He took his glasses off. "Jay, I'm okay—"

"Turn," he repeated, but his voice was gentle.You rolled onto your stomach.Jay straddled your hips—carefully, keeping his weight on his knees.His hands landed on your shoulders. They were heavy, hot, and magic.He began to massage you. He worked his thumbs into the knots along your spine. He kneaded the tension out of your lower back.

"Oh god," you groaned into the pillow. "Right there."

"You carry tension here," Jay murmured, working on your shoulder blades. "You are still bracing for impact."

"Old habits," you mumbled.

"You can let go," Jay said. "We have the watch."

Jake moved. He crawled up to the head of the bed. He lay facing you, stroking your hair while Jay worked on your back. "We've got you," Jake whispered. "You did the hard part. You built her. You delivered her. Now let us take care of you."

You looked at Jake. His eyes were so kind.Then you felt Jay lean down. He pressed a kiss to the center of your back, right over your spine.

"You are incredible," Jay said. His voice rumbled through your ribs. "I watched you bring her into the world. I have never seen anything so strong."

Tears pricked your eyes. Post-partum hormones, probably.

"I was screaming and cursing at you," you laughed wetly.

"You were a warrior," Jay corrected.

He slid his hands down to your hips, squeezing the wider, softer curve.

"And you are beautiful," Jay added thickly. "Softer. I like it."

"I'm squishy," you argued.

"You are lush," Jake corrected, leaning in to kiss your nose. "More of you to hold."

Jay rolled off you, pulling you back against his chest. Jake curled around your front. You were sandwiched between them—the safest place in the world.Jay’s hand moved down, brushing over the front of your shorts.

"Two weeks," Jay whispered against your ear.

You shivered. The desire was there, waking up slowly from its hibernation.

"Maybe sooner," you teased.

"No," Jay said firmly. "We follow the protocol. You heal completely. I want you for the long haul, [Y/N]. Not just for tonight."

He kissed your cheek. "Sleep now," Jay ordered. "I have the 03:00 shift."

"You sure you can handle it?" you yawned, your eyes heavy.

"I have studied the manuals," Jay said seriously. "I have a strategy for the colic."

"Good luck, Warlord," you murmured.

03:15

You woke up.The bed was empty on the right side.You lay there for a second, listening.You heard footsteps in the hallway. A low, rhythmic pacing.You crept out of bed. You walked silently to the nursery door.The room was dim.Jay was walking the perimeter of the room, holding Luna against his shoulder. He was patting her back with a steady, military cadence.She was asleep. Fast asleep.But Jay wasn't putting her down.He walked to the window. He looked out at the stars—then the city lights far below,his empire.He looked down at the tiny bundle in his arms.

"You will own all of this," Jay whispered to the sleeping baby. "But you will not have to fight for it. I will fight for it."

He turned and saw you standing there.He didn't startle. He just looked at you.His face was unguarded. He looked tired, yes, but he looked... complete. The restless, prowling energy that had defined Jay Park was gone, anchored by the weight in his arms.

"She is sleeping," Jay whispered.

"Then put her down," you whispered back.

"In a minute," Jay said. "I just... I want to hold her a little longer."

You walked over. You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek on his back.

"She's lucky," you said into his shirt.

"I am lucky," Jay corrected.

He turned slightly, encompassing you in his free arm.

"Go back to bed, [Y/N]," Jay murmured, kissing your forehead. "I have this."

"I know you do."

You pulled back. You looked at them—your captor, your husband, your partner, and your daughter.You walked back to the bedroom where Jake was sprawled out, snoring softly. You climbed in.You closed your eyes.For the first time in your life, you weren't planning an escape. You weren't counting rations. You weren't waiting for the other shoe to drop.You were just a mom. And you were home.

You slept, content in the knowledge that while your history was written in rust, your future was paved in nothing but gold.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter Please support me by Liking, Commenting and Re-blogging!

Taglist: @kristynaaah , @fancypeacepersona , @vanillakirstein , @kyunlov , @gabrielinhaa , @blindingvenomss , @graythecoffeebean , @firstdivisiongirl , @strxwbloody , @love4choso , @woninabillionn , @tunafishyfishylike , @vveebee , @heesbabygurl , @twocupsofsuga , @meandmyboringlife , @artezia4 , @neabrownn (Thanks for ALL the support ^^)

[jiminie-08]

Series overall was a great read! Many push and pull dynamics in this relationship, but overall the boys are devoted to oc.. Love!! 🥰💖🙌🏽

[lolli-apop]

Weak - Varang x Reader x Quaritch - Part Two (14k wc)

After months of peace, everything shatters the moment Quaritch and Varang return from the Battle of the Great Reef. But something is wrong. Varang has lost her ability to bond with Eywa, and the transformation is immediate and devastating. The woman you loved is gone, replaced by someone consumed with violence, rage, and a spiraling madness you can barely recognize. As she slips further from your grasp, one truth becomes painfully clear: the only way to save her is to return her to the Great Mother's embrace.

Warning- Forced feeding, toxic Varang and Quaritch, light smut (not detailed), dub-con, religious trauma, chronic pain, fem-reader, polyamory

A/N- Ok... so...don't get mad at me guys but uh... its 23k. I really wanted to make this one chapter but Tumblr is forcing me to split this into two. Because of that, part three will be released in two days instead of my usual three (I'm honestly just doing this to allow myself time to like--rest) Anyway, this went a direction I hope you guys like... there's plot now... yay??? (As always I'll add a banner as a checkpoint since its long!) Part One - Part Three

Varang knew the kind of person people saw her as. She knew because she ensured that every bit of it was cultivated, curated and perfectly perfected as she wished others to see her.

She was the flame.

She was the heat that scorched its enemies and brought warmth to its allies. That danced as it spread and created a vision so tantalizing, others would reach just to feel its beauty.

Quaritch had been hypnotized just as he had been hypnotizing. In that front, the two shared an understanding to either's rage and velocity no other woman or man lived up to.

But he was no flame, not the spark of one either. He was thunder. Loud and instant. It shook the sky and brought the world shaking. Because before rain, was always the thunder.

And that thunder had grown weak.

"Ngh—" Varang swept through the sky and brought her nightwraith crashing down onto the RDA port.

The bond felt thinner than it ever had. Eywa's bitch. She hissed through clenched teeth. Her nightwraith writhed beneath her, confused and hurting, a connection that flickered in and out. The neural link stuttered against her consciousness—there one breath, severed the next, over and over until she forgot when it started and when it stopped.

The cable had been damaged.

"Move."

She slung Quaritch's body onto the ground roughly, letting the surrounding pinkskins do whatever they needed to do. His chest still rose and fell. She could hear the wet rasp of life dragging through whatever injury he sustained.

That was enough. He’ll live. She had other priorities now.

She needed to find you, and so she slid off.

"Where is she." 

Yepa appeared at her elbow—materialized, really, because she hadn't heard him approach. That can’t be...She always heard footsteps.

Yepa was still bloody from the battle, huffing out air. Gashes mapped his ribs, one eye had swollen shut. He lowered himself immediately, gaze hazed and unfocused. "The—" he swallowed, tongue thick in his mouth. "She's helping the wounded."

She stumbled, pushing past him.

Her senses felt shredded, smeared across the ground in some frothy mix of blood and adrenaline. Left had become right. Up felt like down. But she placed one foot in front of the other.

"Tsahik," Yepa murmured behind her.

His voice seemed impossibly far away.

The world tilted sideways, then over-corrected. She caught herself against a support beam, bark rough beneath her palm, and forced another step.

Focus. Y/n. Need to find…

She looked around the settlement. Smoke floated through the air. Fires still guttered in oil drums. Bodies—both Na'vi and human—lay in careful rows, awaiting the clan or the RDA corpse-ships.

There.

You were tucked behind the barest hint of shoulder poking out from a yurt, gun in hand for defense.

"Y/n!" she called.

You turned, and your eyes went wide. Relief flooded your face before you bolted across the clearing. "Varang!" Tears were already streaming as you crashed into her, laughing breathlessly, tucking your head beneath her chin and clawing at her back like you could pull her closer. "You're okay!"

Varang closed her eyes, and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "I am now."

"Where is Qua—"

ZAP.

Varang suddenly went still, her entire body becoming rigid. "NghAAhh!" A painful screech tore from her throat, her eyes went wide, hands suddenly clawing at the sky as though she could tear away whatever invisible thing had seized her. Every muscle locked. She couldn't move—couldn't stop moving—caught between convulsion and paralysis.

"Varang?!"

You cupped her cheeks and looked at her, now trying to find any obvious wounds, anything you could fix. Her screams would not stop, and it was as if she was unable to do anything but suffer.

What is happening…?

You lifted her top with shaking hands. No bullets, no arrows. You examined every part of her—ribs, stomach, shoulders—searching for the wound that had to be there. Blood smeared under your fingertips, but none of it was hers. And then—

You caught the flickering bioluminescence of her queue.

"...Varang…?"

Purple and wrong, swelling as if it were cooking.

You hooked your own queue to hers.

The moment the connection snapped into place, you felt it. It was a violent, repeating pulse of sensation gone haywire. It was the repeated flicker of senses simply going—neurons misfiring, signals scrambling, the very structure of thought collapsing and rebuilding and collapsing again.

Your entire nervous system lit up like it was being electrocuted from the inside. You stiffened. A scream ripped from your throat before you could stop it.

You felt your heart stutter in your chest—skip a beat, then two, then slam back into rhythm so hard it hurt.

Disconnectdisconnectdisconnect—

Your legs gave out.

You hit the ground hard, palms scraping against dirt, and Varang collapsed with you. Her weight crushed into your lap, head lolling against your thigh, and you couldn't—you couldn't breathe—

"Varang! Y/n!"

Yepa lunged forward, yanking the queues apart with both hands.

Yepa knelt beside you, both hands still gripping the separated queues, his eyes wide and panicked. "What—what was—"

You couldn't answer.

Your own tendrils felt sore now, and you felt the flicker throb only to disappear, the simplist echo of agony that left your skull ringing

Varang stared at nothing.

"What is happening...?" Yepa's voice cracked.

Behind him, more Mangkwan landed with ikran screeching and warriors bleeding from arrows lodged in arms. The settlement was quickly becoming a makeshift field hospital.

"I don't know." You barely heard yourself.

You looked down at Varang—at the way her pupils had blown wide, at the way her fingers twitched against her thigh like they were trying to grip then release.

"Go help the others, Yepa."

He hesitated. “Y/n—”

"Go."

You didn't want anyone to see her like this, and you knew—you knew—she'd curse you later if you let them.

Yepa rose slowly, backing away, before finally turning and jogging toward the cluster of wounded warriors. You watched him go, then looked down.

You hoisted her onto your shoulder, steadying her weight against you. 

Over the chaos, you caught it: Quaritch's body being hauled onto a stretcher, with burns tracing down his sides and falling into bloody drips. Your breath snagged. Two recoms grunted under the bulk of him.

What happened to him? Weren’t they winning? Thats what you overheard from a pinkskin.

Your attention quickly fled from Miles to Varang, and your breath steadied. "Come on," you whispered, fingers digging into her hip. "Please, Varang. Come on."

Varang stumbled, dragging a path of resistance that followed into streaks of ash against the hot metal floor.

You led ger to the nearest yurt—now abandoned or forgotten, you didn't care—and lowered her into the hammock with soft hands. The hammock swayed until you fisted the rope, keeping her steady. 

She didn't even resist. Didn't speak. Her head lolled back, exposing the long line of her throat. No injuries, not even there.

ou grabbed a rag, dunking it in the water bowl, and began wiping the paint from her face. Red smeared to pink. White turned blotted, only to come into nothing. You pulled the stool closer.

"Y/n…" The word was barely a murmur. Her head dipped, eyes glazing as they tracked your movements. Then, impossibly, she smiled.

"Shh." You took her hand and threaded your fingers through hers, squeezed gently. You felt the bone underneath the skin, and even that felt hot. "You're okay." You will be okay. You thought. You just aren’t now.

You began undressing her. The beads and bones and leather ties, the feathered collar you helped her make. When you reached her mother's bag, the one she never let anyone touch, you placed it right beside her head.

"I need to see the queue, Varang."

“The queue is the na’vi.” You remembered her telling you, far too long ago. “It is the great pretenders curse to all beings. To rely on the connection of all things, a reminder that we are only her children, and will forever be hers. An extension”

She’d been sitting, pelting the metal into a ring. Sweat dripped trails down her face, but she did not move to wipe the droplets. “The pinkskins do not have this tether, Y/n.” She looked at you now. Stopped. “This forever umbilical cord. That is why they can kill the Na’vi, and why Eywa cannot stop it.”

You remembered just watching her, then drifting to her belt of queues, to your own she adorned as love. “You believe Quaritch can kill the great mother—” Mistake. “---The great pretender, I mean.” You grumbled.

Her face relaxed. “Yes.”

You rolled her onto her side. The queue spilled over her shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

The bioluminescence that marked every Na'vi's neural whip had dimmed to almost nothing. The tendrils that should have been gentle and searching coiled inward as if experiencing a great dying. You didn't touch it. 

Your throat tightened. "What happened?"

Varang's jaw clenched. She turned her face into the hammock, shoulders rigid. "Eywa's bitch," she seethed. "That's what."

You didn't press. Instead, you reached for a length of soft cloth and began wrapping the queue with the kind of care you’d give to a dying thing. She’s not dying. You reprimanded yourself. Hurt. That is all. All things that can be hurt, can bleed.

Even that—the barest brush of fabric—made her twitch. A sharp intake of breath. A bitten-off sound that could've been a cry.

"I know, I know." You kissed her neck between each gentle wrap, lips pressed to sweat-slick skin. "Almost done, yawntu."

At the final tie, she went slack.

You stayed and stroked her hair until sleep took her somewhere nice and sweet. You gave one final kiss, smelled the smoke, and slipped outside.

Yepa was waiting. Of course he was.

He straightened when he saw you, concern careful into every line of his young face. "Y/n." His head dipped. "How is the Tsahìk?"

A glance back at the yurt entrance. "She will be fine." A second lie, easier than the first. You took his arm and pulled him closer. "But… in case the others ask, say she is resting after battle. Tell them not to worry."

Yepa's nod came without hesitation. "Of course, Y/n."

The camp was chaos.

Pinkskins ran in every direction, hauling buckets of water toward buildings still licked by flame. Your people carried the injured—warriors, hunters—into yurts or toward the tsahik-like healers Quaritch called doctors. Among the orange sky, voices rose in languages meshed with your peoples, and theirs.

Quaritch.

Where is Quaritch.

He’d left your mind completely, shamefully. Too preoccupied with the pressing matter of Varang becoming much less than a na’vi but still a little more than a human.

You ducked low, catching a passing pinkskin by the arm. He stumbled, eyes wide beneath the strange helmet.

"Quaritch," you said. "Where is he?"

"Shit—shit, uh… the infirmary? I think. If it's not overloaded, you might find him in the cafeteria." They tore away before you could ask further.

Your tail lashed once against the ground. You straightened, scanning the smoke-stained horizon.

Cafeteria or infirmary.

.

.

.

You had tasted the copper and antiseptic.  An-tuh-sep-tik. Human word, four syllables. You said it hidden in your tongue. Good practice when Quaritch was gone and you needed training.

"Get me a scalpel, Christ, someone—"

"Anyone have saline water?"

Overcrowded didn't begin to cover it. Tsahìk-like humans in pale coverings ran past, smeared wrist to elbow in red. Wailing rose from cots arranged in crooked rows, or other bodies resting on any surface available. Failure, it seemed, was something the RDA did not account for.

The ego of these people. Your ears flickered.

You hunched smaller, shoulders curling inward. This was no place for you. That much was clear. You pressed against the wall, trying to become nothing.

"The hell—move!"

One of them shoved your leg aside without looking, carrying something slick and dark between bloodied hands. You caught enough of a glimpse. Some organ you’d seen on a poster once. In-tes-tine. Three syllables.

You flinched. "Apologies. Where may I find Quaritch?"

The healer stopped. Sniffed. Shook their head like you were the stupidest thing they'd seen all day."Jesus—the southside industrial zone, sweetheart. We're fucking swamped here, can't you see that?"

You frowned but nodded. I do see that. But I cannot do anything about it.

More walking.

Your feet ached by the time you found him. You'd asked—what, five people? Six? Their faces blurred together—flat features, dark eyes, impatient— All too busy dying or saving the dying to care about one Na'vi looking for one man. Until finally, someone jerked their chin toward a narrow corridor. "Down there. Can't miss the big blue bastard."

And there he was.

"Quaritch." You sighed his name.

Wires snaked across his chest, disappearing beneath strange white wrappings that covered most of his torso. An IV drip hung beside him, clear liquid trickling down into the crook of his elbow. The healers had already moved on, focusing on those with worse bodies and greivious wounds. He’d been triaged.

His ear twitched first. Then a groan, low and pained. "Buttercup, that you?" He forced his eyes open. His arm jerked—tried to—but he couldn't. Nothing moved right.  “Got me hooked on a fuck-ton of morphine. Can you believe that?”

“Morphine…? Mor-fine. Two syllables." You said it aloud this time, you knew he liked it when you practiced his language.

"Yeah, sugar." A ghost of his usual grin. "That's right. Morphine. Makes my head feel like I got hit by a goddamn freight train."

"What is... freight train?"

He laughed. Winced immediately after, hand twitching toward his ribs. "Ah, fuck—don't make me laugh, doll. Hurts like a bitch."

You smiled despite yourself, sinking down beside the cot. "Okay." Your hand found the edge of the metal frame. "I was looking everywhere for you." It came out more petulant than you meant. Annoyed, like he'd hidden on purpose.

He sucked air through his teeth. "That's sweet of you, real sweet." His head lolled toward you, gaze still hazy.  "Varang send you?"

"No." You paused. “She’s—”

“Course she didn’t,” He grunted. "Our little lady tossed me aside in the dirt, goddamn hurt."

He tried to sit up.

Your palm found his chest, pressing him back with gentle insistence. "No, Quaritch. Please." A whisper. "You are injured."

His jaw worked. "Yeah, well—"

"The both of you."

That made him still. "What?"

You frowned, fingers twisting together in your lap. "Varang. Her queue." The words tasted wrong. "Did someone... slice it? I could not unbraid her hair to look. But..." You shrugged, helpless. "I have never seen anything like it." Your gaze drifted away, fixing on nothing. "What happened, Quaritch?"

His jaw clenched so hard you heard the grind of teeth. Behind him, his tail tried to lash—stopped short by his weight pinning it to the cot. "Jake Sully." The name came out like rot. "Him and his batshit wife and their shitty half-breeds."

You gave a slow nod. "The man you are hunting, yes? The one like you?"

"Not like me." The snarl was immediate. "Not a damn traitor."

But Quaritch wore your colors and dressed like your people. He put the same ash you did over his own body. He was far more Na’vi than he was human, at any point. Dumb, not weak. Just dumb.

You frowned, then sighed, then rubbed your face with both palms because that was the only thing you could possibly do at this moment. "Did you recover Spider?" The question came quiet.

But you already knew the answer.

He scoffed. Turned his head away, staring at the ceiling. Mumbled something low enough that even your ears couldn't catch it.

"Quaritch—"

"Who do you think gave me this, sweetheart?"

He lifted his arm—the bandaged one, red blooming through white gauze like a flower you'd never want to pick. The movement made him wince and suck air through his teeth. "Kid wants nothing to do with me, hell he shot me himself. My own goddamn son put an arrow—" His voice cracked. Just enough that you heard it. He was forcing anger when you could see his sadness, forcing rage to cover the wound underneath.

"That is not true." You whispered, thumb stroking across his knuckles. "You are his father despite everything. Blood does not change.”

"He shot me—"

"And you probably gave him no choice." You huffed, meeting his gaze. "Quaritch. We both know how you are. You are relentless and I love you for it but—" You paused. "But sometimes... sometimes you push too hard. Sometimes you do not know when to stop."

He was grinning now. 

Actually grinning, the bastard. That crooked, shit-eating smile pulling at his mouth despite everything—the pain, the morphine, the failure. "Love me for it?"

You wanted to hit him. "Do not—"

"Nah, nah." His grin widened, even through the pain. "You said it, buttercup. Can't take it back now."

Instead you sighed. "Skxawng." Idiot. "Dumb man."

He chuckled.. "Yeah, but I'm your dumb man."

You hid your tired smile, and he laughed again. His hand found yours, threading your fingers together despite the IV line. "You're good for me, you know that?" His thumb traced lazy circles against your palm. "Don't let me get too dark."

For a moment you just sat there, hand on his knee, listening to the machines beep their steady rhythm. Alive. Alive. Alive.

“Well I should—”

His hand shot out—faster than you'd thought possible for someone leaking blood and swimming in drugs—and his fingers closed around your wrist. The grip was pathetic, but you didn’t mind it.

"Buttercup."

Something in his face had cracked open, softening at the seams where the morphine pooled, made him honest in ways sobriety never allowed. "Varang" He swallowed. "She... she's alright though, right?"

"It’s… too soon but she is angry," you said carefully. "At herself, I think. Or at you. Or—" The words dissolved. You lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. "Everything."

He nodded in understanding. "Yeah. That sounds like her. Sully's got nine lives or some shit. Slippery bastard."

You watched his face, saw the way his eyes glazed in thought. Or morphine, the two syllable word  that felt more like an excuse. "You will try again." You looked away from him, defeated once more.

"Damn right I will." His grip on your wrist loosened, fingers going slack. "Soon as I can walk without feeling like my guts are gonna spill out onto the floor... soon as they clear me for duty..." His head lolled back against the pillow. "Gonna get my boy back. Gonna make Sully pay for every goddamn—"

"Quaritch."

"Mm?"

"Rest."

He cracked a smile, looking at you. "You're bossy when you're worried."

"I am not worried."

"Then leave."

You didn't move.

His mouth quirked. "Or stay." Softer now. He patted the space beside him, shuffling over despite the wince it earned. "Come on. Really gonna leave me alone? After my battle wounds, bleedin' out here?"

He doesn't want to be alone.

The thought sat strange in your chest.

You frowned, glancing toward the door, the hallway beyond. "Is that... you know..." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Fine?"

"Regs say patients need rest and comfort. I want the company. Doctor's orders." He tapped his temple, sluggish. "I'm self-prescribing."

Your tail curled before you could stop it. You climbed onto the bed with careful hands, pressing your cheek to his chest where the bandages weren't, where you could feel his heartbeat against your ear.

"You hate me, huh?"

“What…?”

"Nothing." He exhaled slow, and you felt it ruffle your braids. "Just thinkin' out loud. Morphine makes me philosophical." A pause. Then, quieter: "Move closer."

"I am close."

"Closer." His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your braids. That stupid grin was back. You could hear it in his voice. "I don't care for the pain. Means I'm livin' ain't it?"

Your brows twisted. "But I don't want to—"

He lifted you.

Just—lifted you, hands finding your hips and dragging you up to straddle him despite the way his face went white, despite the fresh blood seeping dark through gauze. He swallowed the pain, jaw locked, and resettled you like it was nothing.

"Miles!" Your hands flew to his shoulders.

"See?" His thumbs pressed into your hipbones. Rubbed small circles there. "Not so bad."

Your tail wagged. Traitor. It thumped against his knee, betraying the warmth flooding your chest at the display. Strength. Devotion. Something else you didn't have words for.

You didn't pull away from the warmth or the wet copper smell blooming beneath the bandages. Instead you curled around him—over him, into him—face buried against the crook of his neck and shoulder where his pulse beat steady. The bloody scent should have repelled you.

It didn't.

"You are an idiot," you whispered.

"Been called worse." He squeezed your ass. "Usually by you, actually."

"Teylupil," you muttered.

"Yeah, that one." He laughed—a soft, huffing thing that made him wince. "Still don't know what it means but I'm guessin' it ain't a compliment."

His hand found your back. Spread wide. Holding you there.

I love him.

.

.

.

You visited Quaritch as often as the guards allowed. When they barred his door, you went to Varang instead. And where Quaritch grew stronger, Varang did not.

Her queue.

As the Tsahik-like pinkskins had said, her queue had been scrambled. Utterly, completely, frayed. They didn’t mince the words. “It’s connected to her nervous system.” They’d grumble. “And that nervous system is basically washed.” They described it like a current rushing through and overloading the system. “She basically experienced lighting, and her queue was the singular rod. It just burned the receptors until nothing existed.”

She would never bond again.

She would never see you again.

The absolute devastation.

"There must be something," you pressed, following the medic as he moved between shelves of supplies. Your voice came out thin, desperate. You hated the sound of it. "Sky-people technology—surely you have something… Maybe…?"

The man shook his head. He didn't even look up from his clipboard. He scribbled another line, reached for a vial, set it back down.

"Nothing we have is made for Na'vi. Not designed for your physiology." A pause. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We might be able to grow a queue in a lab. Theoretically. But attaching it without killing her?" He exhaled through his teeth. "The complexity alone—"

"But it's hurting her. Please—"

"Look." His tone sharpened, then softened into something worse: pity. "The RDA will never fund a project like that for a simple sav—"

Your teeth snapped together. A hiss escaped before you could choke it back.

He froze mid-breath, then tried again, gentler this time though the tone had taken something patronizing, curling beneath softer words. "What I'm trying to say is, if it's not an avatar, there's no budget. No authorization. That's just how it is."

You felt lost, and the RDA scrubbed their hands clean of any responsibility.

You turned away, pressing your palms to your face, pacing the narrow length of the tent. The fabric walls shuddered with each gust of wind outside.

Varang would be like this. Forever. Locked in constant, gnawing pain. Unable to bond with any living thing, unable to command or comfort or feel the world the way she once had. Varang would never be the Varang you knew.

Please, great mother… please.

For the first time in years, you found yourself praying.

You'd slipped away from the compound under cover of dusk, moving deep into the forest where no one would think to follow.

This was yours. A secret.

The tendrils hung from the branches, gentle and swaying against the wind. They were purple and pink and white, all the colors you had forgotten existed in the world, a beautiful brilliance that no fire could truly emulate.

"Please, Great Mother," You sank against the base of the tree, knees drawn to your chest, and let your queue unfurl. "Forgive her." The braid trembled as you lifted it toward the hanging vines, hesitating only once before the connection took hold. The world opened.

Warmth flooded your senses. Not heat—something gentler. The pulse of thousands of lives breathing in unison.

"Forgive her. Forgive the violence she's carried, the pain she's caused." You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the words to reach into the heart of the ancestors and be carried into the soul of the Great Mother. "Please heal her."

Silence.

Of course.

Your throat tightened. Tears pricked hot behind your eyes, and you hated them, hated the weakness, hated that you were here at all. "Please… Please…"

Eywa did not listen to prayers. Eywa followed the balance of life, protected it. And Varang had tried to destroy it. Had brought metal and death to the People. Why would Eywa listen now? Her back would be turned to you all, surely.

Eywa holds all her children in her heart.

You swallowed hard.

If Varang was condemned to live in misery, then let Eywa grant her peace in death. Let her spirit return to the earth, forgiven at last, held gently in the embrace you could no longer give her.

Let her return to the roots, the soil, the endless green. Let her be held, even if she'd never allowed herself to be held in life.

Let her come home.

Your hand found your songcord, fingers tracing the beads there. The amber one with the red skittle inside. The small carved bone from Varang's first scalping. The woven fiber Quaritch had tied there one night when you weren't looking, smelling faintly of gunpowder and something sweet.

You watched the tendril glow as you let go. A calm filled you—unexpected yet not entirely forgotten. It had been so long since you'd felt anything close to peace.

Your smile came small and bitter. "I am so sorry, Mother," you whispered. The words tasted like confession. "But I love her. And I believe my love is shrouded in selfishness."

Your head bowed. Atokirina descended, one pale seed against the dark, and settled on your shoulder. You cupped it in your palms, careful. It was so weightless, so beautiful. It only hovered, the judgement of something so pure against the filth that was your sin. 

Crack.

You whirled. Gun raised, safety off, barrel trained on the shadow bleeding out from between the trees. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Tears still wet on your cheeks, salt stinging the corners of your mouth.

You grimaced. “Who are you?”

A woman stepped into the clearing, hands raised in a gesture both placating and unafraid. She wore the sacred red of the Tsahik draped over her shoulders. Curiosity softened her features, not fear. You glared back, teeth bared, dragging your forearm across wet eyes. “Answer me."

The Atokirina drifted away. The woman's frown was gentle. "I am Saye." Her gaze traced your rifle, then traveled your ash-marked skin. "You are of the Mangkwan, the ash clan." Confusion creased her brow, not judgment—although you had expected it. "What are you doing here?"

You clicked the safety. The sound meant nothing to her, and yet she flinched. "None of your business," you hissed, rising slowly. 

She carried no weapons save the ceremonial dagger all Tsahik bore at their waist. Nothing against a gun.

She studied the rifle again, frown deepening. "You bring metal to a sacred place?" A smile ghosted across her mouth. "You expect the Great Mother to hear you with such a thing clouding your heart? Poisoning it?"

You raised the gun higher. Her smile died.

"I am sorry." Her voice dropped. "My mother tells me I am too blunt." She inclined her head. A pause. Her gaze lifted, meeting yours with unnerving steadiness "...But you never answered. Why are you here? Will you burn this place too?"

Your chest heaved, and you found breath came hard. Lying to a Tsahik felt sacrilegious, somehow.

When did it start mattering?

The rifle lowered, heavy now in your grip. "No." The word barely carried. "I did not come here to burn." You turned toward the tree, fingers finding a tendril. "I have come here to—"

"To pray?"

Your gaze snapped back to her, suspicious. Searching for mockery—but found only patience. You nodded, the admission scraping out of you. "To pray."

The rifle returned to your back. Saye's smile returned, warmer now, and she stepped closer. When you retreated a pace, she stopped.

"Please. Let us pray together then." She extended a hand. Your eyes flicked to her dagger. She reached down slowly, lifted it from its sheath, and placed it on a nearby stone. "In peace."

You studied her. "Why are you being kind?"

"There is no reason." She shrugged, lowering herself onto one of the great roots. She knelt and brought her queue forward, joining it to the tree. "I just want to visit my mother.” Her eyes found yours again. “And you will not move."

You paused.

"Oh."

"You assumed she was alive."

"You spoke to her as if she was." The words came quieter now. You knelt beside her—still tense, still ready to bolt—but the woman was at ease, hands lifting to cradle the tendril with a gentleness you'd forgotten existed.

I've forgotten how to be soft, you realized.

You watched her, studied the bits of her in her face. Every small shift—the flutter of her eyelids, the way her jaw softened—all of it. Her hair had been shaved close along both sides, leaving only the center: thick dreads pulled back into a high tail that swayed when she moved.

"You are staring," she murmured without opening her eyes.

Heat crawled up your neck. You turned your head. "I'm sorry."

One eye cracked open, amber catching the filtered light. Her mouth curved. "Don't be." Then she closed it again, still smiling. Communing, you realized. Speaking to the Great Mother in ways you'd long abandoned.

Your chest tightened. You thought of your own mother—her kind eyes, her hands that never raised in anger. The headdress she'd woven from forest flowers and vines, burned to ash in the fire that took everything. How could you face her now, even in memory? How could she look at you and not see what you'd become: the weight behind your gaze, the red and black paint marking your skin, the ash that left trails of hometree against greener lands.

So instead, you reached back and attached your queue to the tree's sacred tendril. And you prayed.

Great Mother, if you can hear me, grant me strength. Just that. Nothing more. Strength to carry this body forward. Strength to stop running.

Saye's communion lasted only minutes. When she released her queue, she offered a soft thanks to the darkness above before turning to face you fully. Her scrutiny was unhurried—tracing the paint dried in the hollows of your cheeks, the bumpy scars across your abdomen. Self-inflicted, those. Marks of devotion carved in the Mangkwan way.

"I thought the mangkwan abandoned Eywa," she said at last, curiosity softening the accusation. 

She shifted to sit cross-legged, weight braced on her left hand, head tilted like a child puzzling over a broken toy. "Unless I'm mistaken. Which I must be."

“Pain is a reminder of what we will never forget!” Varang’s speech had been absolute: Starving men and women, children too weak to lift their heads, looked high at Varang as she slashed her own forehead, a deep cut that resulted in the scar.

Pain was everything, and it was a rite of passage all members underwent.

The more scars, the more respect you garnered.

You nodded once. "You're not. We don't believe anymore."

"And yet." Her gesture encompassed you, the tree, the connection still tingling at the base of your skull. "Here you are."

"Here I am."

Silence stretched. She dipped her head, catching your eyes before you could look away. "Why are you really here, lost one?"

"I told you—"

"To pray. I know." Impatience cmae through her tone now. "But for what? You turn your back on the People, on Eywa. You go to the demons. What does someone like that beg forgiveness for?"

Your jaw clenched. "Careful, Saye. I've killed Na'vi for less."

She didn't flinch. If anything, one brow arched higher, waiting.

You pulled back, pressing your spine against rough bark. The truth clawed its way up your throat before you could stop it, until it found the tremble of your lips.  "My love. My mate." So quietly. 

 "Her queue's been damaged and I don't know how to heal her. I'm desperate—she's in pain. So I come here." You lifted your gaze to the tree above. Atokirina drifted through the branches like tiny stars. Saye watched you watch them.

"I'm the Tsahik of my village," she said quietly, rising to her feet. "The Yangor clan. Perhaps I can help." She extended one hand, palm up.

Slowly—so slowly—you stood, but didn't take it. "How?"

Her hand dropped to her side without offense. She laced her fingers together instead. "Remedies. Rituals. There must be something." Her voice took on the cadence of a healer cataloging symptoms. "What afflicts her? Is there rot? Did she fall and damage the base? Is it—" She listed other possibilities—illnesses, severed tendrils, cuts, deformities.

"No." The word came too sharp. You shook your head, tried again softer. "No. It's... limp. The bioluminescence is gone. Sometimes it flickers, and when it does—" Your voice cracked. "—she's in agony. She can't bond with anything. Not ikran, no kind of tsaheylu, not..."

Not me, you didn't say. But Saye heard it anyway.

She reached for you then, and this time you let her. Her hand was warm. You squeezed back, drowning.

"I don't know what caused it," you managed. "She won't talk about it."

"How strange." Saye's thumb traced gentle circles against your knuckles. "I'll speak with the others, there is—" You tensed violently. "Peace,” She smiled. “I won't mention you."

Your grip loosened a bit. "Thank you."

She released your hand, glancing back toward where she'd come from. "I should leave before my people come looking." She raised her hand in the gesture of the People—fingers spread, palm out. "I see you, Y/n. Travel well. May Eywa remain in your heart."

For one breath you hesitated. Then you brought your hand to your forehead, fingers clumsy and uncertain as they extended outward. The gesture felt foreign after so many years. Blasphemous, even.

"I see you, Saye."

She smiled—sad and knowing—then retrieved her blade from where it rested against the roots. You turned toward your ikran. Anything. You'd do anything to help Varang.

.

.

.

"There you are."

Varang's silhouette filled the scene, her ceremonial paint catching firelight in fractured flickers of flame that came behind her. The usual bonfire.

She wore her armor. Feathers and metal piercings traced what was her authority—olo'eykte and tsahik in every choice of acessory—but you had learned to read the micro-tensions beneath. The way her jaw set a fraction too tight. The deliberate slowness of her breathing.

"Varang." Your tongue pressed the name carefully against your teeth.

The gathered clan watched from the edges of the clearing, faces turned with studied casualness that fooled no one. 

You swallowed the reprimand that wanted to surface—You should not be up, what happened to your queue, why is the wrapping different—and instead closed the distance between you. 

Your arms found her waist. She smelled of medicinal salve and something scorched. The black fabric wound around her queue caught your peripheral vision. Beneath it, you knew: white gauze, and beneath that, the thing neither of you had named aloud.

Quaritch came beside her. Weeks had filed down his worst injuries to manageable pain. The third-degree burns still wore their dressings, angry marks across his shoulders and neck, but the first-degree damage had faded to gentle pink that faded purple along the edges.

"There's my little lady."

Sweet words

He stepped into your space with the presumption of earned intimacy, arms circling your shoulders in an embrace. "You didn't tell anyone where you ran off to. Got me and Varang all worried."

His fingers dug into your arms hard enough to bruise, and it translated what his mouth wouldn't say: furious.

And if Quaritch was furious, Varang was enraged.

"Sorry." Your ear twitched. "I went to the forest."

Neither of them acknowledged the explanation. They just tugged—Varang on one side, Quaritch on the other—until you stumbled between them.

A concession you'd learned to appreciate. 

Small mercies. You thought. Anger her, not him. He was the nicer of the two.

"Yeah?" He hauled you forward with just enough force to make the point. "That so."

"Yes."

They pushed you into their yurt. Their yurt. Quaritch's things were spread throughout the home that used to be just yours and Varang's—his boots by the entrance, his rifle propped against the carved wood post.

Quaritch's additions had come through the space with those small things. But it was enough. Your home. His home. Her home. You’d gotten used to it, his scent that mingled over Varang’s herbs and your gunpowder. The hammock itself had been re-strung wider, reinforced to bear his mass alongside yours and hers.

You'd adjusted. You had to.

But still—

"You bring metal to this sacred place?"

Your gaze dropped to the rifle in your hands. When did you pick it up? You couldn't remember. 

You shook your head. One moment with Saye and she’s infected my beliefs. 

You lifted the rifle from your shoulder and set it against the woven wall. Each gesture performed under Varang’s stare. She’ll see my tail and see the flick of it. Then she’ll know. Because Varang always—

"Where were you."

You hid the frown but your ears betrayed you, flicking back flat against your skull. She knew everything except how to fix the rot that spread through her queue, and the madness what will follow if it wasn’t stopped.

"I told you. The forest." The snap in it surprised even you. Your ears flattened in immediate regret as you turned, already backpedaling. "I'm—"

Varang's hand closed around the base of your queue.

Your head wrenched back, spine arching until you were bent nearly double, staring up at her from an impossible angle, until the world inverted. The yurt spun in your vision, tears pricking hot at the corners of your eyes. "Ngh—"

You saw her face hanging above yours, upside-down, expression carved into apathy and false innocence.

"Do you think yourself capable?" She hummed the question like a lullaby. 

Her nails found itself past the threads of your hair, into the sensitive base of your queue, digging just deep enough to make everything crystallize into sharp, undeniable focus.

"Quaritch gives you the gift of metal, and now you believe you can slip away unaccounted for?"

"I'm sorry, Varang..." The words came pitched high with distress. You didn't push against her grip. Didn't try to twist free or pry her fingers loose. You had learned that lesson already.

"Honey, sweetbuns."

Quaritch's hand closed around your wrist while his gaze slid sideways toward Varang. 

"Come on, sugar." He clicked his tongue, a careful sound that eased Varang's fingers from where they'd tangled in your queue. "She's apologizing. It was just a slip, that's all."

You didn’t fight when he guided you toward the hammock. You never did. He settled himself first, then pulled you into his lap with his usual ease, the one that made your breath catch, but not from comfort.

“She should watch her tone.” Varang huffed. You pressed yourself deeper against Quaritch’s chest, who seemed to like that action. He thinks himself a savior.

"Yeah, yeah. But look at her.” He gave a pointed look, before circling his attention back to you. “Look, little lady. We have a tracker on you." His tone shifted. “You know that. Saw you close to the Yangor clan. Got worried. Almost sent out a damn patrol."

His palm slid lower, settling over your stomach. He'd been doing that more often lately. You knew why. At your lack of response he frowned, you felt it—or rather heard it. The lips pulling back, gums hitting something wet. Let the great mother hope it was a frown.

"Got some new shipment of Skittles. You like those, don't you? Might make you feel better."

Your ears perked, you wrestled them flat. No. You were upset. Angry. "I don't want any." Soft and learned. A good answer from a mouth that learned earlier about raising your voice. At least for now, while it was recent and until tomorrow came and you’ll yell again and—

“Mm.” He sounded unconvinced, tapping your thighs rhythmically. "What were you doing out there anyway? You never go out by yourself."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. You glanced at Varang and caught the way she'd gone still, predator-like. The lie died on your tongue.

"...Medicine." Your head dipped, gaze fixed on the woven floor. "For… for Varang. I thought that maybe…"

Varang stopped moving. Quaritch, by contrast, exhaled a chuckle and leaned forward to raise your chin.

"Ain't you so sweet." He looked past you to Varang, and you felt her presence shift just beyond your sight. "Told you, sugar. She's innocent." 

He pressed a wet kiss to your cheek then lifted you from his lap with easy strength, his hand delivering two light pats to your backside that made heat crawl up your neck. His hands found his pockets, head cocking to the side in that easy, expectant way of his.

"Find anything, darling?"

You shook your head. Not yet. The words caught behind your teeth. But I will.

Varang's scoffed, a sound that carried the weight of too many conversations they'd had about you, without you.

She wouldn't apologize. She never did. Instead she moved into your space and kissed you. Her mouth was claiming as usual, and buried underneath it was the sweetness of love she’d never say outloud.

"Dumb of you." The words ghosted against your lips. "This is Eywa's curse, and my blessing, Y/n." Her grip tightened fractionally. "Remember that."

You kissed her back, because that is what was expected. Let her tongue slide against yours, let her hands find your waist and squeeze. But the heat that lived and made you stupid for her—

It wasn’t there.

So instead you made the right sounds, shaped your body into the right softness.

"I know," you whispered against her teeth. "I won't."

But you would. You had to.

Because Varang had gotten worse.

Not the injury—that would heal, or it wouldn't. Pain had a way of leveling out, of becoming background noise until the body learned to carry it like any other weight.

No. It was everything else.

She had no patience left. Not for you or the clan. Not even for Quaritch, and that—that was new, which meant it was something dangerous.

And Quaritch?

Days later, he cracked.

"What's got her so pissy," 

He paced. Back and forth, back and forth, boots scuffing against stone. His hands worked over the gun with violent efficiency, scrubbing at the barrel. Red and black paint—her paint—flaked off in angry little curls. She'd packed powder into the mechanism on purpose, made it jam.

It was off-putting in the way Varang loved metal. She fetishized it, found it sacred. And she decided to desecrate it, to make it useless.

You watched him from your spot on the mat, tail swaying in slow, disinterested arcs. All you wanted was to finish your new top. The beadwork kept slipping through your fingers. 

"Everything, Quaritch." The words came out flat, tired. "She's been like this since the battle." You glanced up, frown deepening. "Which neither of you want to tell me about."

He paused mid-scrub and sighed through his nose. "Not you too. Don't be mad." His jaw worked. "It's complicated, is all."

“Hm. Complicated.”

"Shit—look at this." He held up the gun, tilting it so you could see the clogged mechanism. "All because I told her to calm her fuckin' tits down." He shook his head, bitter. "It's like she's on her period or somethin'."

Your mouth twitched. "Period?"

"Something women of my species go through. Makes them lose their minds for a week, they go all batshit and emotional." He scrubbed harder now, the rag catching on the notches she'd carved into the barrel. Then he slammed it down.

The gun shattered.

Pieces scattered across the floor—springs, pins, the firing mechanism spinning in a lazy circle before settling near your knee. You picked it up carefully, turning the small metal piece between your fingers.

Quaritch hit the pillar, knuckles splitting against the wood. “God-fucking-dammit!”

Then he slumped against the hammock, breath coming hard and fast. His shoulders curved inward, all that furious energy draining out of him as if it never existed.

You watched him for a long moment. 

"What is the matter?" you asked softly.

You rose, padding over, and settled beside him until your thigh pressed against his. 

He wouldn't look at you.

"I had it," he muttered.

"The gun?"

He shook his head. Slow. His gaze fixed on something you couldn't see—just inside his own skull.

"Spider. I had him." His voice cracked on the last word. "And he shot me. I gave him a damn burger—you saw, remember?"

"I do." You had. Just briefly. A boy with blonde hair and his father's mouth, dressed like the forest clans, moving like he'd been born among them instead of the sky-people.

"And my dog tag." Quaritch's hand went to his chest, fingers closing around empty air where the metal should've hung. "I thought we were bonding. And he chose that traitor."

"JakeSulli," you murmured. "The traitor."

You felt like a bigger one.

"He called me dad."

Your ears snapped up.

You turned to look at him fully now. His eyes were wet. Not crying—Quaritch would never—but wet.

"I want my son back," he said. "And he shot me."

You almost told him—almost pointed out that he'd kidnapped the boy. That Eywa—the Great Mother—had given Spider breath, had woven him into the forest's roots just as surely as any born Na'vi. Why would he ever turn his back on Her?

But you didn't.

You glanced down at your hands, at the three fingers and scarifiation along the wrist. 

The great mother gave him breath, and choked our own lungs full of fire and ash.

But that didn't feel proper. It wasn't your thought.

The voice sounded suspiciously like Varang.

"Do you want another?"

The words left you before you could stop them. As if you were offering. As if you could. Quaritch knew by now—Varang would never allow it. She'd allow him to touch you, to see you, to fuck you breathless against the woven mats until your voice gave out.

But you two could never bond. And you would never carry his children.

"Here." She'd always say it. Just like that.

An herbal tea that made Quaritch's jaw lock tight, teeth grinding audible even across the yurt. No amount of complaining would ever make her stop. She'd even made a special brew—kept it right beside the hammock in a clay cup for you to drink from. Right after. While you were still slick and sticky with him—and Quaritch would watch with something dark and helpless behind his eyes.

Once, he'd tried to knock the cup from your hands.

Varang had slammed her knife near his cock.

He never tried again.

Varang forbade it.

And if she forbade it, then it was law.

Quaritch looked at you for a long time. His eye twitched. Then his gaze dragged lower, slower, until it stopped at the base of your stomach. It lingered there.

"To start over?"

You shrugged. "If there was an opportunity."

You watched him shift.

Then he scoffed, that grin splitting his face wide. "Little lady, if you're offering—"

"You know I can't."

He shrugged right back. "Not yet. But you'll see." His hand found your knee, thumb tracing idle circles. "Babies are cute. Despite what Varang says, she likes cute things." A pause. His smile gentled. "You're proof of that, honey."

You weren't so convinced.

Your gaze drifted back to the entrance of the yurt. The beads swayed, disturbed by nothing. Beyond them, voices rose and fell. Varang was doing her daily drugging—the ritual that turned her clan pliable, devoted. 

In the beginning of your partnership, she'd had you dependent on them. On her. For the longest time. You could barely see the tattoo of her eye without flinching now—that third one, inked above across her palm.

"You won't join them?"

"Nah." His fingers tapped a rhythm against your thigh. "Not into that drug shit. Once is enough. Never really took substances, even back then. Saw what it did to good soldiers. Watched 'em turn soft, useless." His lip curled. "I don't do soft."

But you are with me. Sometimes.

He watched you for a long time. You felt it in your peripheral. "What are you thinking about?"

About Varang. The Great Mother. My relationship with both. How to fix both.

"My people." You said it simply. Glanced back at him, and felt his suspicion rise.

His eyes narrowed. "Your people."

"Mhm."

"The ones Varang's got eating outta her palm?" He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. The muscles in his forearms shifted. "Or the ones buried under volcanic ash?"

You flinched. That was cruel. “Quaritch…” You whispered.

His tail flickered. "That's what I thought." But his voice went sweet and he pulled you in, kissed the top of your head. "Are you planning something, doll?"

"No."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not—"

"Yeah, you are." He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger now, forcing your gaze to his. "I've interrogated better liars than you. Scarier ones, too. You got a tell." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "Right here. Twitches when you're lying through your teeth."

Your tail lashed.

He grinned. "See? There it is."

Varang thought him dumb. You had too, at first. And maybe he was—dumb with matters that meant nothing. Dumb with his own emotions.

But Miles Quaritch was smarter than he appeared.

And you knew exactly how to stop it.

You smiled now. The one you gave Varang to calm her down, and crawled onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips. You knew the rhythms of both—adapted to either's anger and impatience, to either's weaknesses.

Your hands found his shoulders. Your mouth found his jaw.

"I love you, Miles."

He smiled then. Dopey. And there it was—stupid.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." You nuzzled against him, the picture of devotion, arms winding around his neck. Let your breath ghost over the shell of his ear. "I love you, sir."

You'd found out he liked that a bit ago. A cheat word that always got him going.

"Look at you—" He manhandled you down, flipping you with an ease that drew a practiced giggle from your throat. His grin was all teeth. "Dirty minx. Tryna distract me?"

"Is it working?"

"Hell yes, it is." His mouth found your throat, teeth grazing. "But we're comin' back to this conversation later, cupcake. Don't think I'm gonna forget."

You would make him forget.

Sex.

You two had sex.

His hands were rough, familiar, mapping the planes of your body like territory he'd claimed a hundred times before. Your loincloth hit the floor. His followed. He hiked your leg over his hip, breath hot against your collarbone as he lined himself up.

"Gonna make you sing for me," he muttered, and pushed inside.

You gasped. Clutched at his shoulders, let your head fall back in a display of surrender that wasn't entirely false. He felt good—too good. Big enough to make you ache, to make your body remember him long after he'd gone.

"That's it. That's my girl." He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against yours, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the yurt. "So fuckin' perfect. Made for this, weren't you?"

"Yes—" You choked on the word. "Yes, sir."

And the whole time, you stared at the beads hanging in the doorway, counting each one, waiting for them to part. Waiting to drink the tea in three swallows, feeling the familiar numbness spread through your belly, your womb, killing everything before it could take root.

The beads didn't move.

.

.

.

"Ngh—"

The hiss tore through your teeth before you could swallow it. Your fingers wound the bandage over your nape where the flesh screamed red. You'd carved into yourself with one of Quaritch's knives, the one with the green pattern he called camouflage, like the word meant anything to you beyond three syllables and a way to count through pain.

Cam—one. You made a deeper cut.

Ou—two. You grit your teeth, sucking air for the pain.

Flage—three. You dug your fingers inside the wound

Cam-ou-flage..

The tracker sat in your palm now.

Small thing. Barely the size of your smallest nail. It pulsed with the faintest blue glow, slick with your blood, and you stared at it like it might just alert everyone what you’d done.

You wouldn't destroy it. You knew better. Knew what that would do—send a signal straight to him, and then he'd know. He'd come looking. And he wouldn't be sweet this time. Wouldn't call you cupcake or press candy into your hands with that rough, embarrassed laugh.

Nah. You could already see it.

The shift in his shoulders. That mean scowl he wore when you pushed too far. "You trying to sneak off?" His voice would drop, go cold, and you'd be looking up at fifty-years of meanness stuffed into twenty years of youth.

You wondered if he'd lock you up. Put you in one of those metal RDA boxes with the flickering lights and the stale air. wondered if he'd embed three more trackers just to make you suffer thrice over when you tried to dig them out.

This one had taken hours. 

Careful slicing. A mirror angled behind you, your arm twisted at an angle that made your shoulder ache. Blood slicking your fingers. And even now, you'd barely managed it.

For Varang. The thought was bitter. They're so stubborn. Both of them. Always thinking they owned you just because you weren’t as aggressive as them.

You turned the tracker between your fingers, then rose. You crossed to Yepa's bag where it hung by the entrance, then slipped the little glowing thing inside, buried it beneath his tools and rations. He'd carry it around without ever knowing. Good.

Outside, you paused.

You tied the bandage tighter around your throat, then felt the sting and welcomed it—proof you could still do things they didn't know about. You'd tell them you fell. Clumsy little thing, tumbled right out of the hammock, landed on a corner. They'd believe it. They always did. You were just so helpless to them.

You walked.

You didn't meet anyone's eyes—not the pinkskins, not your own people. It didn't matter. They didn't look at you anyway. Another one of Varang's laws. Do not meet her gaze. She is mine to see.

The roost was ahead.

Upue stood distracted by a pinkskin—some grunt who probably couldn't tell one Na'vi from another. Great Mother, one of them had thought you were Varang until you laughed in his face. Idiots. All of them.

"Shhh, come here girl." You formed the bond with your ikran, feeling her heartbeat slam against yours before softening. Matching. Slow. We must not make any movement. She understood. Then shifted several inches, wings tucked tight, then launched skyward with barely any sound.

The wind swept at your braids as you took to the sky.

You swept low over Yangor's forest, weaving between branches until the Tree of Souls rose before you, bioluminescent tendrils swaying with each flutter of your ikran. You dropped—

"I was beginning to think I imagined you."

You jumped.

Saye sat in the branches above, smiling and chewing something with that infuriating casualness. "I've come every night," she added.

Your tail lashed. "It is hard to sneak past," you muttered.

Her gaze dropped to the bandage at your neck. She hummed, thoughtful, before dropping down beside you. "Do they not allow you a simple journey?"

Another bite. Loud. 

"All Na'vi are enemies to the pinkskins." The words came flat.

"What a terrible way to look at the world. To only see enemies."

You didn't answer. Didn't have one. Instead you shrugged the bag from your shoulder, crouched and began unpacking. "These come from my home. Rare—they do not grow in many places where ash does not touch the ground. If you need—"

Her hand rose. "There is no need for it," she whispered.

Your chest tightened. "...No?"

She smiled. Small thing, but it reached her eyes. "I have asked all around. And I think I know the solution." She gestured forward in a coaxing manner.

You hesitated.

“Don’t be a fool, Y/n. Kindness is another word for leverage.” You heard Varang then. You could already see her, watching you in the corner, head tilted in disapproval. “It’s a trap. Do not trust any na’vi not ours. They will not protect you.” 

And you stepped forward.

Nothing they can do could possibly be worse then what Varang does.

Saye's fingers closed around your wrists. She tugged, and you hissed through your teeth, but she only laughed. Such a bright sound, nothing like the chitters you were used to. "I want to show you my clan. You must talk to Tui!"

You dug your heels in. "You told me that—"

"I know." The smile she threw over her shoulder was easy. She tugged again. "But I told them you aren't a threat."

Not a threat.

Your ears flattened. Heat crawled up your neck, settling hot and bitter behind your teeth. Somehow that felt worse than suspicion. You were Varang's chosen, marked by death itself, and this girl reduced you to—what? Harmless? Not that she’d know, but if she did, would her assessment change then? Would it?

You sighed. Relented.

Somehow that stung worse than an insult, but you yanked your wrist free and followed anyway. Stupid. The thought gnawed at you with every step. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Your tag was gone. If they decided to kill you now, neither Quartitch nor Varang would lift a finger to avenge you. You'd just be another name scratched off a ledger somewhere, filed under poor judgment.

Saye led you deeper, until the trees opened to reveal a cave mouth draped in hanging vines. She held them aside for you—polite, careful—then let them fall and shoved you forward with both hands.

You stumbled into firelight.

The village sprawled above you—woven platforms strung between massive trunks, suspended high where the canopy thinned and let the sky bleed through. Not ground-level like yours had been before the volcano swallowed it.

Here, the trees still stood.

People moved between the structures—resting, talking, laughing in clusters. The moment you stepped through, every eye turned.

You looked wrong here.

They wore colors. Ochre and green, blue and cream, beads threaded through braids and woven into cloth. You wore black and white paint. Red streaked across your cheekbones. Scarification that told stories they didn't want to hear. Ash clung to you, followed you, and you wondered if they could smell it. Death, maybe. 

You forced your head up.

Show no fear. Like Varang would.

They looked wary—reasonable. Their eyes flicked to Saye, pointedly as if this wasn’t the first time she picked up a stray.

"This is the one," she said simply.

You walked beside her across the canopy, following her up trunks and branches until you reached the upper platforms. There, they eyed your scarification. A few reached out, fingers ghosting over the metal piercing you'd stuck through the end of your tail. 

You hissed, and they scattered like startled prey.

"Do not be so rude," Saye chided, amused. "They are just curious."

"I do not like touches," you grumbled. You kept your eyes forward.

But it wasn't just that.

You looked at them—really looked—and something bitter coiled in your chest. Look at them. With their homes intact. The green of the forest wrapping around them like a mother's arms. Look at them, untouched by fire, by ash, by the great mothers silence.

You swallowed it down.

For Varang. Remember.

Saye led you to a specific platform,  slightly larger than the others, though not by much. It was decorated—shells and carved bone hung from the support beams, and soft hides were draped across the floor. She knocked. "Tui?"

A woman sat cross-legged on woven cloth, running a sharpening stone along the edge of a spear. She turned her head, measured you with a single sweep of her gaze. Older than Saye, frailer too—but you knew immediately. She was the Olo’eykete

Instead of a grimace or even distrust, she smiled.

"This is the one?"

Saye nodded, almost giddy. "Yes."

Tui rose slowly, and that's when you saw it. She was small. Smaller than you, the crown of her head barely reaching your collarbone. But it didn't make her less. If anything, she wore her size well. Power lived in her movements, in the quiet authority that filled the space around her.

Varang would disagree. She believed one must stand as tall as the mountains, as unmovable as—

You frowned.

"You are sweeter-looking than I'd think," Tui’s voice was so warm.

You held your tongue and chose politeness over instinct. "Thank you," you mumbled.

Saye settled beside you, expectant. Her tail swayed. She looked between you and Tui.

Tui clicked her tongue. "Right."

The sound was decisive. She reached into her bag dyed the deep red of clay—and withdrew something that made the air between you still.

An atokirina.

Saye took it from her, swaddling the seed between her palms. "Forgive me," she whispered, lips brushing the glowing wisp. "For trapping you, pure spirit."

You stared.

"I do not understand." You said bluntly. Your gaze flicked between them, then back to the seed pulsing soft white in Saye's palm. "Seeds of the sacred tree?"

Both women nodded. Saye especially—her ears dipped forward, something eager flickering behind her eyes.

"There was a rumor," she said, voice hushed like prayer. "After the great battle of the reefs. It traveled from the Omatikaya—carried by a distant Sarentu traveler."

Saye pressed the atokirina into your hand.

It hovered there, its wisps gentle and tickling against the faint glow of your skin. You frowned. "What rumor?"

"Kiri." Tui leaned forward. "The adoptive daughter of Jake Sully. You know this name?"

Your gaze snapped up.

Toruk Makto.

Of course you knew that name. Varang spat it sometimes, usually followed by Eywa's bitch or forest rat or—on particularly venomous days—the demon who thinks herself People. You'd heard she fought in the battle at the reefs. Heard she'd turned the tide, called the creatures of the deep like they were hers to command.

Snippets. Fragments. The kind of half-truths your people traded in the dark when Varang wasn't listening.

"Kiri," you repeated. "I have... heard things. But forgive me—I do not understand what this girl has to do with—"

Tui whistled a laugh and patted your knee with such easy familiarity that you flinched before forcing yourself to relax. "The Great Mother loves that one." Tui's voice carried something like awe. Something almost jealous. "Truly loves her. Speaks through her, some say. And there is a human boy—"

"—who breathes." The realization hit you slow, then all at once. "Spider. Quaritch's son."

Both their ears flicked backward. Saye nodded. "Correct."

You looked down at the seed. Your thumb brushed one of its wispy tendrils and it curled toward the touch like it recognized you.

"This… Kiri." You swallowed. "She did this? Made him breathe?"

Another nod.

You stared down at the atokirina, harder now. "But what is the seed for?"

Saye's hand found yours. Then Tui's. Four-fingered and warm, bracketing you on either side.

"To swallow it," Saye said simply. "Your beloved must swallow the seed." Her thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles. "And you bring her here. The clan will begin the ritual, and—" She paused, choosing her words with care. "—hopefully, we fix her queue."

Your throat closed. Bring her here.

"I can't—" The words choked out. "She wouldn't. Eywa has no place in our hearts."

They smiled and looked at one another as if they already knew.

"Eywa will always be in your heart." Saye pressed her hand to your chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath. "The great mother loves all her children. Even the ones who do not wish her to."

You looked at her, and your eyes burned hot and wet. You managed a nod, no matter how jerky. "I'll see what I can do." 

You lifted as if to rise, but Tui hummed low in her throat. "Stay—

“for a bit." Saye said now, patting the ground beside her. "We are having drink and food. The People are curious of you. They've never seen a Mangkwan before."A pause. "Not one who still has kindness left, anyway."

That hit harder than it should have.

Her smile widened. "Tell us of your people's ways."

You glanced between them, weighing. "My people's ways aren't something to celebrate over."

"We know," Saye said.

Just that.

"And still," Tui added, "we are curious."

Something in you softened. A smile slipped free before you could stop it.

"Just before eclipse is over," you murmured, and sat back down.

.

.

.

You stayed longer than you'd meant to.

The horror came first—it always did. When you spoke of your people's ways, some wept. Others turned their faces, unable to meet your eyes. But none looked at you like you were monstrous. Only lost.

That word sat strange in your mouth. Lost.

You'd been drinking in a circle beneath the purple-white glow of bioluminescent vines, the sweet tang of yovo fruit coating your tongue. Hunters boasted. Warriors laughed. Someone passed a rumor about a sky-person settlement to the north, another about a thanator sighting near the river.

And then one of them, far too into their cups, mentioned the Mangkwan.

"Varang clouds your judgment."

Your hand twitched toward your gun before you remembered you'd left it with your ikran. Muscle memory of a cold sheen pressing against your back. But you stopped. They didn't know. How could they? They knew you had a lover, a wounded lover who you loved oh so much—surely it could not be Varang herself. So you locked your jaw and smiled with all your teeth.

"Whatever do you mean?"

The hunter shrugged, swirling his cup in lazy circles. He hiccupped. "It is the truth. She has taken the role of the great mother and corrupted it." Another sip. "She is a coward."

Coward.

Your fingers tightened around the cup—knuckles white, lips pulling back from your teeth. What would they know? Varang had survived more than any of them could fathom. She'd crawled through fire and loss and grief that would have killed softer people. She was courageous. She was wonderful.

These people who still had their forests, their mothers, their green.

"She ran from the Omatikaya," someone else added. "Left her warriors behind."

"That's not—" You stopped. "She would not."

Laughter rippled through the circle.

Saye's hand found your shoulder, a gentle weight. Calm, it said.

"She is the strongest person I know." you said, and the words came out harder than you meant them to. 

More laughter. Like they knew something you didn't.

"If she's your strongest," one of them snickered, "then I'm appalled at your clan's ability to fight anything."

Another hunter smiled—polite, apologetic—and his tail whipped out to smack the first. Too much, the gesture said. You are making her uncomfortable.

The laughter died. Guilt flickered across the drunk one's face.

"I heard from the Sarentu," someone else offered, quieter now, "that she ran from battle. Toruk Makto's daughter overpowered her with her queue. The woman fled with her tail tucked."

Your rage turned to confusion.

"...What?"

Nods all around. "Don't you know? They say Kiri's queue was floating like—" She made a vague gesture with her hands, something that looked like tendrils rising. "Well… I am not sure how much I believe that part, but the Sarentu heard it from Neytiri's mouth. And Neytiri is not one to exaggerate feats."

Liar. They were lying. Varang would not run. She would fight. She would win.

Varang's queue is limp, Y/n.

No.

Saye squeezed your shoulder again, firmer now. "You should get going." Her voice was soft, almost pitying. She knew. Somehow, she knew. "Take the atokirina. Convince her." She smiled then, pulling you into an embrace. "Be safe, lost one."

You did not hug back.

You thanked them for the drink, for the circle, for their time. They stared at you like you'd grown a second head before bursting into confused laughter. "Why are you thanking us for this? Poor Mangkwan—do they not even share cups?"

They did not, you told them.

The laughter died.

Saye walked you to where your ikran waited, pressing a woven bag into your hands. Inside, the atokirina pulsed with faint light. "Be careful with this," she murmured. "I blessed the spirit and apologized for its capture. Still..." She trailed off, watching your face.

You took the bag. Your hands were steadier than you expected.

Varang. Weak. Quaritch weaker for not protecting her.

"Thank you," you finally said.

"It is my pleasure." Saye stepped back, her silhouette framed by the glow of the village behind her. "Visit more. The People enjoyed you."

You did not consider her words. You left.

.

.

.

Your ikran shrieked when you landed too hard, claws scraping stone. You didn't apologize. Didn't soothe. Just disconnected your queue and slid off, legs shaking.

When you returned, the secret sat heavy in your chest. The biggest secret.

Varang is strength.

You repeated it while walking through camp, past warriors sharpening blades and children chasing each other in circles. Past Yepa who glanced up from whatever he was cleaning and opened his mouth—

Varang is strength.

You repeated it while brushing aside the cloth of the hut, beads clicking soft and accusatory against each other. While your eyes adjusted to the dim firelight inside.

You repeated it while looking at her.

"Varang." You clutched the bag tighter.

Varang glanced back. She was naked—well, both she and Quaritch were—The two looked as if they just returned from the rivers, water still gleaming across their bare skin. 

Neither looked pleased.

"There she is." Quaritch's mouth pulled into something not quite a smile. "Again, darling?"

You bowed your head. "I am sorry."

"And here I was about to check the tracker." His drawl stretched lazy across the words. "Where you been, hon? Didn't catch you all day."

Your weight shifted foot to foot. You looked between them—him, her. "Somewhere." You whispered.

"Vague." Varang tilted her head. Her hand reached, fingers finding the tight band across your breasts. She leaned in and inhaled. "You smell of fruit." Another sniff. "And something floral."

You met her eyes, then didn't. Her touch felt different now. Poisonous, maybe. Not like Saye's calm hands or Tui's gentle prodding. Even the Yangor clan's curious jabs felt lighter than Varang's undressing.

Your hands twisted together. "One of the pinkskins were showing me…" You feigned confusion. A careful pause, eyes lifting to Quaritch now. "Er… per… perf…."

"Perfume." He chuckled, rising without a care for his own nakedness. You'd seen him enough by now. "That's how you say it, hon."

When Varang finished unwinding the cloth, she tossed it aside and cupped both breasts, bouncing them against her palms with usual disinterest. "Will you bathe tonight?"

You smiled, blushing a bit, but it felt forced. “No.”

A huff escaped her. "I prefer my scent on you." She kissed your cheek, nuzzling everywhere—your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. Almost purring. "You should bathe. Let me wash away this musk of flowers and fruits."

A soft laugh escaped you. Your heart wasn't in it.

She noticed.

"What is wrong?" The question came softer now. Her teeth found your nipple, tugging the piercing. You winced—still sore from Miles earlier—and the thought of more tonight made your stomach clench.

"Varang…" You pressed gentle hands against her shoulders, creating distance. Strike one. You knew that. But she needed to understand. You lifted your gaze to meet hers.

Now or never, you thought. My courage won't survive later.

She went still. Those large eyes locked on yours. Her smile faltered into something scarily blank.

Quaritch, oblivious as ever, groaned from the hammock. "You movin' already? Come back here. I'm cold." That usual grin. "Want to feel those itty-bitty-cupcake-titties." He winked.

You just rolled your eyes. So crude. 

You turned your back to him. The bag trembled in your hands as you lifted it. "Please… I need to…"

For one brief, cowardly moment your thumb pressed against the middle—where the Atokirina waited inside. Press into it. Forget about it. You'll find another way without the great mother's help, without the Yangor.

But you couldn't.

The Great Mother loves all her children. Even the ones who do not wish her to.

You loosened the drawstring. The seed floated free, wisping away from the fire's heat, luminous and impossible.

"You—" Varang saw it and scrambled backward, hissing. As if Eywa herself had materialized between you. "What are you doing!"

"If you allow—"

Varang lunged for the atokirina. You shoved her back.

Strike two.

"Stop." A sneer pulled at your lips.

Varang froze mid-reach. She stared at you like you'd become someone else entirely. Someone she didn't recognize. Slowly, she straightened. "...You ungrateful—"

Quaritch moved between you both, hands raised. "Let's stop having a catfight, alright ladies? Let's just—"

"No." Your gaze locked on Varang's. "It needs to be said."

You stepped beside Quaritch—not behind him. Beside. Your expression softened despite everything burning in your chest. "I would not bring a seed of the sacred tree if not for you."

"For me, she says—"

"Varang, please." Desperation bled through now. "You are not the same as before. You are…" You bit your lower lip. "Angrier. And I love your fury, you know this—but it's different. You are in constant pain. But the Yangor—"

"The Yangor?" She hissed the word like venom. "You went to the Yangor? When—" A pause. Her pupils narrowed. "You went right now. Didn't you."

A slow nod. "I did. Saye, the Tsahik of their village, told me that—"

She scoffed, pacing like a caged animal, shaking her head in furious disbelief. "Another woman. You went to another woman, a tsahik of another clan who worships the false mother—"

"You aren't listening—"

"Why should I?" A yell. A screech, really. "You've been… distant. Quaritch sees it too. And that man sees nothing!"

"Hey!" Quaritch frowned, hands finding his hips. He looked between you both. "Look, I don't know what's going on with the two of you, but you're acting like a bunch of toddlers. We got a problem, we talk about it. Alright?"

You both hissed at him.

“Shit, fine!” He raised his hands in defeat and slouched back against the hammock, sighing, watching with lazy eyes and attentive ears.

Varang's eyes tracked the Atokirina.

You moved without thinking—body curling around it, sheltering. The seed spirit seemed to know. It drifted higher, pressed itself against the woven ceiling as far from her as the small space allowed, and its tendrils curled inward like a hand making a fist. It too understood the danger in the room.

"Varang." Your voice came slower now, careful.  "All I ask is that you swallow the seed. Let me take you to the Yangor." Your voice dropped to something softer, pleading. "They've agreed. Their clan will perform the ritual. Your queue—it can be fixed."

You reached for her hand. Yours was shaking.

"It's not weakness to accept help." The words felt thin, stretched too tight. "We can bond again. I miss you. I miss seeing you."

Varang's gaze held yours. Her eyes tracked over your face, your trembling mouth, the tears already gathering at your lashes. Her lips pressed inward, rolled between her teeth. Beneath your palm, her pulse galloped. Then something in her shoulders unknotted. She looked past you to the Atokirina.

"Eat it?"

"No. Swallow it." You barely whispered now. "That's what she said."

Varang went quiet. Her eyes grew glossy—wet where iris met the rim. She glanced back at the limp queue draped over her shoulder, then at the spirit hovering behind you, then—strangely—at Quaritch, as if he might weigh in. As if his answer mattered.

He shrugged, all lazy indifference. "Not my problem." A grumble. "Don't appreciate her goin' behind our backs, but..." His jaw worked. "It was for you, Varang. Can't expect me to get mad at that."

You smiled at him despite yourself. Quaritch was the nicer one.

Slowly—so slowly—Varang reached for the Atokirina. Her fingers grazed the wisps just as yours had. Her tail swayed, uncertain. Her throat worked around something she couldn't name.

Then she crushed it beneath her palm.

"NO!"

Your eyes went wide. Her fist shook from how tightly she gripped, knuckles bleached pale under blue skin. You watched the light die between her fingers, heard the faint, sickening crunch. Her eyes had gone hard, flat—as if the softness before had been nothing but performance.

It was performance. You realized it too late, but you understood that now, standing in the wreckage of your own hope. You'd fallen for it. Again.

When she opened her hand, the Atokirina fell in pieces—tendrils falling to the ground. Their bioluminescence was all gone.

"Why would you—" The sob choked off the rest. You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. You were crying now. 

Varang ground her heel into the remains. She glanced back at you with a tight frown that might have been pity. "Do you believe I need the bond? That I need to see you in order to love you?"

Her lips quirked up—an expression that looked almost fond. "I am farther from Eywa than I have ever been. The queue was my last tie to Her, and it's gone. In its place is pain." She paused, tilted her head. She watched your tears with something like fascination. "And I am happy for it."

You just stared.

Shoulders shaking. Sobbing. You couldn't look at her past the blur. Couldn't see her face without wanting to claw it apart or kiss it or scream until your throat bled. Couldn't reconcile this woman with the one you'd loved.

"You…"

Quaritch frowned, genuine discomfort creeping into his features. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh baby, don't cry. Just a damn seed." He shifted his weight, clearly out of his depth. "Now let's move on and sleep? I'm goddamn tired..."

"Shut it, Quaritch." Varang didn't look at him. She opened her arms instead, smile soft and coaxing. "Come here..."

And you pushed her away—hard—so hard she actually stumbled backward, caught off-balance, and hit the floor.

Strike three.

"Get away from me."

Quaritch's eyes widened. He was on his feet immediately, shoulders squared. "You stepped over the line, missy." His voice dropped into something dangerous, protective. A scowl carved deep lines around his mouth.

"I hate you." The words came out whispered, vicious. "Both of you. I hate you."

Quaritch's ears flicked back. His face crumpled—genuine hurt—before he locked it down. "You take that back." A grumble. "You take that back right now."

Varang watched from the ground, chest heaving, eyes wide with what might have been disbelief. Then her expression curdled. She hauled herself up and hissed—all that bared teeth and coiled fury. "You're emotional over a silly seed? You've always been weak, Y/n, but—"

"No." You glared. "No, you're the weak one."

She froze.

"You ran from Kiri. Ran from the battle." Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. "Yepa is just a boy and he had more wounds than you did! You are the weakest woman I know, Varang!"

"Butterc—"

You rounded on him, jabbed a finger into his chest. Teeth bared. "You couldn't kill a man you've hunted for sixteen years. You lost your son and then lost the winning battle!" Your breath came ragged now, furious. "You both think violence is strength. But violence isn't strength!"

They both went still.

Perfectly, terribly still.

You were huffing now, breath coming in ragged gasps. Their faces had gone placid—expressionless in a way that made your stomach drop, made ice crawl up your spine.

You'd messed up.

And yet, somehow, you did not care.

You were done with the lies.

"I hate you both."

The words came out wet, choked. Your face was a ruin of tears and snot and something uglier—something that had been rotting inside you for months. "I wish I never met you. I wish I went with your sister to a faraway clan."

Varang lifted herself up. Her head tilted, and you watched her think—watched the gears turn behind those golden eyes. She looked girlish now, in the way you just wanted to hug and hold her and tell her you are sorry.

Don’t you remember, Y/n? Finding me amongst the white hazy ash, barely a child, watching with wide eyes as soot overtook us both, screams of—

You shook your head.

"This is how you feel?"

The crack in her voice was barely there. A hairline fracture in stone. But years tangled with Varang had taught you—however much you hated it—to read her better than anyone.

You nodded and wiped at your tears with the back of your hand.

Quaritch's tail lashed once—sharp, deliberate. His stare locked onto Varang, then swung back to you and didn't leave. His fists opened and closed, opened and closed, as though she vanished entirely and it was just you two. And Varang? Varang—

Varang giggled.

It was light and sweet. Quaritch never blinked. His gaze pinned you in place while she circled closer, close enough to boop your nose like you were a child playing make-believe. She kissed you—deep, then pulled back with that same terrible lightness.

"My little flame," she murmured against your lips. "Burning so hot." 

She pulled back, still smiling. 

“Eat it.”

You paused. “...What?”

Her hand found your queue before you could pull away and her smile stayed eager, like she'd just asked you to look at a funny insect or pretty rock. "I said. Eat. It." She shoved you down, palm flat between your shoulder blades, pressing your face toward the atokirina's delicate threads. "You love the Great Mother, don't you? Love her enough to believe she can heal all wounds. So eat it. Do as you told your woman."

"I don't want to… I…"

You looked up at Quaritch through the blur of tears, eyes round and desperate, searching for—what? Mercy? He just watched. Then he grinned.

"Aww, look at her," he drawled, squatting down until his face was level with yours. His voice dripped with mock sympathy. "Beggin' now. What happened, sugar?" He tilted his head, bottom lip jutting out in a cruel pout. "Not so nice now, is it?"

He settled lower, knees spreading, forearms resting on his thighs. Eye level. "Just a bite, little lady."

You couldn't see anymore. Couldn't breathe. Your chest heaved in sharp, uneven gasps, ribs aching with the effort. You squirmed but Varang's hand was iron—pressing your face into the delicate threads until they crushed against your lips.

"Eat."

You opened your mouth and shut your eyes. A whine crawled up your throat. Your teeth closed around the delicate threads, and you chewed.

Forgive me, Great Mother. Forgive me for eating this pure spirit. Let it, if anything, bear the curse of my sins and—

Varang cooed, soft and sickly sweet. She eased the pressure on your skull and stepped back, watching you with the same fond attention one might give a pet learning a new trick. "There. Now you are one with the Great Mother, yes? Do you feel pure now? Hm?"

She waited. You chewed. The taste was nothing—but the texture was everything. Light, wispy, crunchy.

Her voice sharpened, just a fraction. "Little one. I am speaking to you."

You nodded. "Yes, Varang." The world felt distant. Muffled. Your body wasn't yours anymore—it was something you watched from far away, a puppet going through motions you controlled, but didn’t acknowledge. 

She stepped past you, naked and laughing. “Good.” She left the yut. You heard her voice drift back, sing-song. "She's finally blossoming."

Quaritch didn't follow. He stepped forward instead, closing the space until you had nowhere to go but backward. Your ears flattened, and you acknowledged the shame you felt with your tail tucked in tight. His grin curled sardonic at the edges when he caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up. He pressed a light kiss over the crown of your head.

"There's that fire," he grumbled. "Proud of you."

And you realized.

They didn't think you were being serious.

They thought this was a tantrum.

"Quaritch—"

He hummed, a dismissive sound, and slapped your ass in passing. The crack echoed. "That was some mean stuff." He grabbed his loincloth from where it had been discarded. Unlike Varang, he still had some modesty left in him. "Almost believed you, hot stuff. But Varang knows how to reel in brats. Better than me, truthfully."

He tied the cloth at his hip, movements easy, unbothered. "Gonna give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn't mean it. 'Cause I know you wouldn't hurt my heart like that."

He glanced back over his shoulder, all teeth. "Dealt with Spider long enough—kid does the same shit. Spouts off about how much he hates me, then turns around and calls me dad."

He finished the knot, then straightened. Watched you for a beat too long.

Then, finally, he stepped closer.

And closer.

He leaned down. You could smell the sweat on his skin, the faint tang of gunpowder that never quite left him. His breath ghosted over your ear.

"But if you say that shit again, Y/n..."

He never called you by your name.

"Well."

He patted your ass again and turned toward the door. "See you at dinner."

Like it was nothing. 

You stood frozen in the empty hut, staring. Your eyes burned.

Hate.

A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!!

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[jiminie-08]

OBSESSED 🤩 love the dynamic between soft oc and tough Quaritch+Varang, they adore her🥺😩