Do you know what kind of reader I would like to read more? A tall reader. Look, I'm not against short readers, but I also need the reader to be taller than the s/o or the same height. I WOULD LOVE TO READ SOMETHING LIKE THAT.
“you don’t believe that sex is the most intimate thing that two can do together?” you repeat sukuna’s previous words with a raised eyebrow, skepticism lacing every word you spoke.
“i had concubines before i was devoted to you. do you really think i see intercourse as something significant?” he doesn’t even spare you a glance, all four of his eyes focused on carefully peeling the fruits resting in the bowl in front of him (mangoes, to be specific. a special order he put in with uraume for you). your eyes narrow at his words.
“so you don’t see intercourse with me as something significant?” that earns you a roll of his eyes.
“i don’t recall those words leaving my lips, woman.” he glances at you with a bored look, already much too used to your antics and the nonsensical conclusions you often pulled from his words (“it’s called reading in between the lines, ryo.” you had insisted. he chose not to debate you on it).
he sighs when you go silent, seemingly waiting for an explanation from him that would fix the small pout gracing your lips. he would’ve let you sulk if you were anybody else, but you weren’t.
“i realize the significance humans place on it now that i am yours, but i partook in the act purely for pleasure before you. it was simply to fulfill my fleshly desires.” he doesn’t need to look at you to know that the frown on your face still hasn’t faltered. in fact, the displeased look on your face probably only deepened upon the mention of him being intimate with other women.
“human customs are foolish, that will never change.” his hand lifts to your lips, a cube of mango held delicately between his fingers. he continues speaking only after feeding you the fruit.
“but if my stubborn little wife sees it as something of importance, then it shall be so.” he says the last part with a sense of finality, as if it was a part of his life that he accepted a long, long time ago.
you contemplate his words for a moment, your posture easing against the lavish pillows of your shared bed. you stall on swallowing the piece of fruit on your tongue, considering a question in that ever curious mind of yours.
“what’s significant to you, ryo?”
he pauses for a brief moment but doesn’t answer, simply bringing another piece of fruit up to your lips (whether the action was out of care or to keep your mouth occupied was unclear).
his lack of an answer was as good of an answer as any, though.
this was significant to him. the way he cut and fed you soft fruit with hands that had slaughtered armies, handling you as if you were made of fine china. never yelling, never arguing.
the king of curses devoted himself to you because deep in his heart he acknowledged his subservience to you.
Also available on AO3, depending on where you prefer to read!
Thanks to @zuunary for letting my use her incredible JJK art! Go check it out, it's awesome!!
Part 1 here! ❣️
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
CW: Yandere!Na'vi Gojo Satoru, Alternate Universe, Alien/Human Relationships, Female Human Reader-Insert, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Forced Proximity, Smut, Extremely Dubious Consent, Riding, Rough Sex, Gojo Satoru has a Big Dick
A/N: Ok so as always I am a bit nervous when it comes to writing smut but I'm still happy with what I did! I also managed to smuggle some plot in and tiny pieces of Sa'toru lore lol, enjoy!
“No!”
You immediately tried to flee, scurrying off the same way lizards did when startled under the sun, back on Earth, except the shelter you were reaching for was a clump of overshrooms and not warming up stones. Two big, gentle blue hands slowly closed over your sides, dragging your hissing and twisting body back without an ounce difficulty. Sa’toru’s gaze was thoughtful as he looked from your snarling face to the three broken exopack masks lying on the ground. The shards of glass were now littering the soft bed of moss, gleaming almost proudly under the dim pulsing lights of sun lilies in the cave. The ragged stone you had used, the murder weapon, had been tossed next to what should have been your fourth victim.
You looked at him fiercely, angrily, spitting like a feral cat, ready to fight him with all your small human might, wishing he would fight just as hard, just this once. However, your little act of rebellion, not the first, maybe the last, was yet again met with the same forgiving, benevolent gaze you always got when you misbehaved.
Sa’toru started manipulating you with great care, thumbs rubbing over your ribs, bringing your writhing form close to his tall one. You squirmed, protesting loudly, your dreading mind fighting against your body warming up to what was to come, but the Na’vi ignored your pleas, as always. He sat comfortably, knees first in the dirt. You were then placed right on his crotch, where you could already feel his stiffening dick between your legs. His body folded around yours, lithe arms closing over your shoulders, muscled legs twisting around your own, his whole shape bending and curling around you like a protective leaf. With practiced gestures he removed your shirt, careful not to widen the tear he had made the first time. The fabric went over your head and fluttered to the ground like a discarded sheet, followed by your pants. You were left completely bare in the half-light of the cave. Again. The feeling of cold air flowing over your skin was sickeningly familiar to you now. Your squeals of protests were replaced by pitiful whines when his cock tingled the inside of your thighs, sticky pre-cum smearing your skin, pushing softly between your wet folds.
“It’s okay,” he murmured in your ear, his braid trailing against your shoulder. “I’m not mad at you.”
Your first instinct was to whirl, bite and scratch, slap that gentle, loving tone right out of his peaceful face. Your continued resistance, the poor little efforts you could make to oppose him were always reduced to that voice, to a childish human tantrum he could just brush away with a flick of his tail and a wave of his hand. As if you didn’t matter. And the truth was, you didn’t. As a scientist, you knew denying facts, logical or psychological, could only lead to a wall. As a human, you couldn’t give less of a shit. The cozy little cave was a prison. The quirky Na’vi was a captor. You were no one and nothing, with no way of getting out or ever surviving by your own means. The environment around you was tailored for dependence, to further be reinforced by the only living creature you could talk to. Pandora had lost pretty much all its shine now that your world had been cut down to a cave, an ikran and an insane, lovestruck Na’vi.
You whined again as he slowly buried himself to the hilt inside you with a grunt, his big, veiny Na’vi cock painfully stretching every inch of your human pussy. His Na’vi body was too big, too strong for you, trying to fit itself into a human shape too unfit for a proper union between two alien fleshes, but difficulties had never stopped Sa’toru before. They hadn’t stopped him for this. What some would have seen as an obscene act against nature, he saw it as the greatest proof of love he could bring to you. Sa’toru still believed in humans reading actions much more efficiently than words and took each opportunity to speak his own attachment through the gentle caresses or loving rolls of his body against yours. Each time you felt filled to the brim by his throbbing cock, slithering in your flesh until you were so full it almost hurt, was one more victory over you, one more solidification of a relationship you didn’t want to exist. You couldn’t move without feeling each slimy inch stretching you, rubbing stubbornly against your plushy, wet walls. You squirmed uselessly on his crotch, feeling his thick dick grind slowly against your aching pussy, a faint need to resist fighting against the pleasure that was pooling both around your legs and his cock.
Your thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the first thrust. You arched, half-moaning, half-whining as Sa’toru started pulling you up and down with a wet squelch on his hard leaking dick, hands locked around your arms, hips rising as gently as he could without hurting you while keeping up a firm pace. The faint need to resist gradually faded away while you were bounced like a mere toy on his lap, wearing nothing but your stupid breathing mask. Your breasts, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and free of the constraints of your bra, bounced joyfully along each thrust in a delicious, painful way against your torso, tearing another strangled moan from you. The glass of your exopack rapidly fogged up with little puffs of harsh breathing. The glinting cave blurred in front of your eyes, and soon your world was quickly narrowed to your harsh pants mixed with his own growls and the fierce swatting of his tail against nearby plants.
Sa’toru picked up the pace, as always when he got overwhelmed by pleasure, slamming his cock a bit too hard deeper inside of you, tip kissing your walls in sloppy thrusts. Pain exploded alongside pleasure and you arched again, back immediately snapping forward as obscene leaks of drool trickled lazily over your chin, pleasure coiling low in your belly. Suddenly, the Na’vi’s hands crawled from your hips to your sides. His own hips slowed down, his cock reluctantly pulling out of your body shaking after waves upon waves of pleasure. He locked his hands around your sides, gently pulling you forward. You understood his intention and got on all fours, fingers sinking slightly into the moss beneath, the soft caress of the grass momentarily soothing your overwhelmed senses. He followed, his tall, thin body draping over you like a warm, overheated blanket. His lean torso, slightly out of breath, heaved against the entirety of your back. His kuru braid fell in front of you, snowy locks trailing against your cheek, pink filaments opening to instinctively seek a connection your flesh couldn’t provide. You watched in a daze the frail pink tendrils curl around your wrist in a firm grip, shivering at the dozens of tiny claws stabbing into your skin. The sight always left you with a strange taste, reminding you of Pandora’s great mysteries, but also the twisted mindset you found yourself in company of. You panted, sweaty with the effort, when strokes fell on your body, words of love translated by caresses of wonder. There was a firm gentleness to the Na’vi as he carefully listened to your body, testing its boundaries with precaution. Each time he had sex with you was a way for him to rediscover your human body, so small and pliable, so prone to weakness, with wonder. Hands touched your ribs, skimmed over your nape, grabbed your breasts, ridiculously small in his palms, groped and cupped firm, round ass cheeks. Slender fingers dwarfed your own. Fangs sunk in your skin. Passionate love bites rained on your back, replaced by apologetic kisses when you cried out in pain, tongue lapping over bruises.
You moaned softly when his hands glided over your damp skin, rough palms trailing down your quivering body. They rested on the small of your back for a few seconds, squeezed your ass cheeks hard around his cock, once, twice. Then he picked up the pace again. Your moans soon filled the otherwise empty cave, echoing off the stony walls, accompanied by grunted out growls of fresh pleasure. No matter how gentle Sa’toru tried to be, he still remained twice as tall as you, perhaps more, and each snap of his hips was a fierce pounding inside your womb, his cock forcing its way in and out with ugly, dirty squishy sounds. Sa’toru had to hold you to keep you your body still, hips slapping harshly against your own while your hands slipped in the earth at the brutal force of his thrusts. The wet sound of skin repeatedly smacking skin filled the cave as well, growing and swelling until it drowned even your shared noises of pleasure. Then It finally came. Pleasure shot through skin. Eyes rolled back. The orgasm bloomed, exploded and ripped through your pussy. The Na’vi’s claws sunk in your ribs and he arched behind you, coming just as you did with a rough, unintelligible cry.
The obscene sounds of interspecies sex died little by little, first harsh pants, then softening gasps slowly replaced by a peaceful silence. You would have collapsed had Sa’toru not held you, his grasp assured and firm against your shivering frame. You had barely lied on the grass when the angry beeping of your mask and lowering oxygen levels broke the fragile peace. Sa’toru huffed behind you, a smug little sound you knew all too well by now. He pulled out of your pussy, your thighs slick with his dripping seed and your own wet arousal. He grabbed an exopack out of the pile he had gathered for you, tearing the straps of the old one off your face, putting on the new device with regular gestures that were second nature to him now. It was a strange kind of aftercare, but you supposed it was better than nothing. You let him do it, taking a deep breath of the newly recycled oxygen, your exhausted body, still coming down from the aftershocks, was grateful for. The Na’vi curled around you, burying your small self against his muscled chest, one arm slung protectively around you, tail soothingly brushing your thigh. You breathed, too tired to think, and sleep came swiftly.
The breaking of the exopacks had been your third attempt at asserting defiance over Sa’toru’s control of your mind and your body. You had involuntarily repeated a pattern you had failed to notice and understand, but still believed you could overstep. The mixed, slimy liquids leaking slowly down your legs was proof you couldn’t.
Over the past few days, Sa’toru had left little clues, little cracks in the solid walls of the captivity he had constructed around you, cracks you had immediately thought about exploiting. The truth was, your attempts were doomed from the start, but you didn’t care. You hadn’t thought about how obvious each trap was, like Sa’toru’s ikran purposefully left without surveillance. Of course you would try to mount the damn thing and escape, cursing quietly as the beast simply stared at you with a curious kind of look. Of course Sa’toru had caught your transgression right away. Of course you had ended up fucked out of your brains.
The second time was even more obvious than the first, making it even more embarrassing. Sa’toru was crouched, weaving new feathers into the ends of his arrows, leaving his bow well out in open, alone and unguarded. You had pounced on the opportunity, crawling like a little creature hiding in the shadows toward a weapon too big for you to maneuver anyway. You had wanted to try nevertheless. You were too desperate. The string was too thick, too tight, the arrows out of reach, and you weren’t muscular enough or even trained to use the bow correctly, but that hadn’t discouraged you from stopping inches of it. You had drunk in the sight of what you thought to be a possible way to freedom, looking carefully at Sa’toru’s idle flicking tail. In your distraction you had failed to notice his ears angled toward you. Your eyes had trailed over the wood, stopping on three names carved with obvious, tender care in the curve of the bow. The letters ran deep, rising in gentle but proud curls. Then you had frozen. Next to the names was a hideous scar, violently stabbed into the weapon, a stain into the majesty and gracefulness the weapon carried, like the very touch of darkness Sa’toru kept in him. Your most dreaded fear about him, coming true. The mark of banishment.
That was when Sa’toru had turned with a mischievous smile toward you, and you had ended up on all fours again. Sa’toru loved to see you quietly planning in your little corner, drawing blurry maps in the damp ground, hastily erasing the lines when you heard him coming, searching for potential weapons among the ferns, testing the solid boundaries of the world he had constructed for you. Your discontent pout and grumbling amused him to no end. However, he also thought it was a great way of teaching you what you could and couldn’t do within his realm. The Na’vi’s apparent carelessness allied gentleness to cruelty in his guiding, wanting to lead you to the eventual understanding of your own powerlessness, which would last as long as he was around. You were still stubborn for now, but Sa’toru was hopeful his teachings would come to fruition.
That was the last time, you swore to yourself as you rode the Na’vi’s dick, hips rolling in short movements against his own.
The remnant of Sa’toru’s poisoned dinner laid next to you. You had tried to lace it with a broken shard of glass in a half-hearted and sloppy attempt. After so much time spent away from your peers, alone and defenseless, your heart was slowly realizing you truly had no way out of this pretty prison of greenery, no matter how badly you wanted it. You hadn’t even hidden the piece well. It poked out of the meat, tearing through cooked tendons like a tooth of glass peeking out of burnt gum. Sa’toru had simply inspected his meal with curiosity, turning the food over and over in his palm. Then he had looked at you, and thus the ritual had begun, except this time Sa’toru had chosen to reward your guilty, fleeting stare by letting you take over.
You were slightly ashamed of your own neediness, but it felt good to be handed even this little piece of control back over something as trivial as a sex position. It felt good to see the giant warrior lying under you, whimpering lips curled over predatory fangs, snowy hair fanning out in a white, messy halo on the ground, neck tilted to offer you his flesh, back arched in obvious pleasure. It felt very, very good to set your own pace, slamming yourself on him however you wanted, letting your swollen pussy milk his throbbing cock over and over, even though you looked ridiculously small on top of him. Your hands didn’t even reach his pecs when you leaned on him. Your fingers instead splayed over tightening abs, nails sinking in his blue skin, tearing through a constellation of white dots. A pathetic whine was torn out of the Na’vi lips, his eyes rolling at the delicious mix of pain and pleasure, fingers long enough to crush your head curling helplessly in the earth. You kept going, letting sensations drown out sour shame, using the ripples of pleasure twisting your body to cope with the sadness the knowledge of your long-term captivity brought. Emotions mixed, welled up inside your chest. You stubbornly ignored them, instead focusing on the sounds of your breathy moans and Sa’toru’s constant whimpers. Tiny drops of blood blossomed like tiny roses on his wounded skin, swirling over the torn dots of white. His hands rested on your hips, thumbs brushing over your hipbones, steadying you with a gentle grip. You hated and loved the feelings of his slender fingers holding your body with such care, as if you were a doll of flesh, fragile and breakable. Which you were.
The thought was so sudden, so sharp you couldn’t stop an uncontrollable, unexpected sob among your whines and whimpers. Sa’toru’s eyes snapped back from their haze of pleasure to yours, panicked, worried, caring. The Na’vi sat up, one hand crawling over your back, before pulling you gently against him. He took over, hips pushing into you with all the gentleness he was capable of while tears flowed freely on your cheeks. It felt horrible. It felt good. You let him cradle your face in his chest, glass bumping against his sweaty muscles, feeling blood and cum drip over your trembling legs. With a frustrated hiss, as sudden as your sobs, you unstrapped the cursed thing and let it fall on the ground. Sa’toru’s breath hitched in surprise, but he didn’t stop you as you nuzzled against his chest, feeling his skin, alive, breathing, rippling with life, against you. Sa’toru’s body folded against yours again, shielding your tears as the orgasm came, jerking your body against his own.
You looked up at the stars. The wind brushed softly over the ikran’s wings, and the beast uttered a little cry, carving its way higher against the breezes to get closer to what its rider was admiring. Here, the sky was pure, untainted even by nightly drifting clouds. The stars unfolded above you like a dotted tapestry, the thin milky white tail of distant comets and the bright green of exploding nebulas weaving themselves into the familiar dark blue pattern of the night. The planet Polyphemus hovered like a gentle giant above it all, its eye of twirling clouds watching over his little Pandoran sister in the emptiness of space. It was beautiful. It was gorgeous. There weren’t enough words to describe the soft swirls of otherworldly colors and the lovely twinkling of stars above your head.
Yet you couldn’t feel anything.
There was once a version of you who would have craved the sight, eyes jumping from stars to stars, noticing patterns, mapping down a new sky your young mind had dreamt of walking under. There was a version of you who would have loved comparing the curling paths of stars the constellations here, new and foreign, were made of to the old constellations of Earth. Well, to say you felt nothing was maybe a bit of an overexaggeration. At least here the quiet song of the wind, calmer, more soothing brought you a small relief. It was infinitely better than that awful silence you were locked in, back at the cave. Out in the open, you could enjoy this tiny piece of freedom Sa’toru was willing to give to you. He was sitting behind you, arms laced tenderly around your waist, letting you lean against him when the ikran turned or gained altitude. A necklace of carefully collected feathers and seashells adorned your bitten neck, designed to match the color of your eyes. The Na’vi had made a point of taking you out at least thrice in a week, to let you familiarize yourself with what he definitely saw as your new home. He loved to let you discover places he particularly enjoyed, like secluded meadows draped over rolling hills in the plains or shivering ribbons of coiling water falling into lush valleys. Sa’toru also hoped one day to get rid of your fear of flying. It saddened him to see your stiff fingers and rigid postures whenever you mounted his ikran. If the beast had long gotten used to you, you still weren’t comfortable with having your legs dangle miles away from the ground, no matter how hard Sa’toru was holding you or how careful his ikran was flying.
The good part of these frequent outings was that you could at least pretend you weren’t treated like a prisoner. The bad part was that you couldn’t pretend you weren't treated like a pet.
Sa’toru pressed his chest against your back, ears twitching as he sensed your tired, dwindling interest. The loving nuzzle he gave your neck and the tiny but sharp nibble he gave your ear brought you back to the present. You turned toward him and he smiled, leaning in to press a kiss on your head. The Na’vi’s affection was both a gift and a curse, something you couldn’t refuse. However, you didn’t have much choice but in a world deprived of interaction with any other living creature.
“Isn’t this beautiful?” he repeated cheerfully, tail curling, trying to coax your old wonder back to life.
You nodded.
“It is,” you whispered, eyes travelling over the dancing patterns of stars.
Comfortable silence fell over you. You searched among the glittering, frozen strings of dots above you, trying to distract yourself from the rising gusts the ikran was fighting off. Suddenly Sa’toru straightened behind you, his tail swishing excitedly from side to side.
“Y/N! Look! Up there!”
You followed the direction he was pointing at. Your eyes widened. A shining star, a mess of grayish white, burned brightly in the sky, way closer than it should have been. You squinted, slightly intrigued, slightly uneasy. Then you understood.
Not a star. A spaceship.
Your breath hitched. Sa’toru understood too. He let out a hiss full of defiance, hungry for battle. The ikran screeched softly.
You heard neither, eyes locked on the ship. The distance made its outlines nearly impossible to distinguish, but the geometrical, unnatural shape among the gracefulness of space was unmistakable. The RDA, the mighty company you had deluded yourself into thinking was gathering its strength back, was fleeing. Humanity bowing in front of the might of the bioluminescent planet and its unseen goddess. For a few seconds you pictured the inside of the only vehicle capable of bringing you home. The rough, metallic corners hovering precariously above a hostile atmosphere. The vague smell of oil and repairs flowing into the corridors, almost sweet, too bitter. The walls, low, clear-cut, practical, pulsing almost imperceptibly with the vibrations of the engines below, roaring to life, their thundering noises of burning fuel absorbed by the interstellar space outside. The stark, annoying beeping of too control panels. The staff running into positions, scientists and civilians hastily strapping themselves into the safety of their cabins, pilots meeting head-on the millions of light years separating them from Earth. You saw it, as clear as day, your mind temporarily transported to the spaceship, the one which had sheltered your frozen body during your trip to Pandora.
A trip you now knew you wouldn’t be coming back from.
A tiny part of you had hoped. Even strapped on this ikran, skin adorned with Na’vi bites, your captor holding you against his chest, you had hoped for it. A miracle. Stumbling on a patrol during one of your outings with Sa’toru. A SA-2 Samson chopper flying near the string of floating islands, close enough to the entrance of the cave to notice you. Patrols of AMP suits roaming the forest for missing members of Bridgehead. Anything.
But no. Humans weren’t coming back.
Or at least, they weren’t for a long, long time.
A numbness settled over your heart like a quiet fog. Your eyes stayed glued to the retreating figure of the spaceship, high, high above, the lights of engines faintly piercing the calmness of the Pandoran sky. Sa’toru snickered behind you, lips victoriously curled back over sharp fangs, body stiff with feverish, arrogant pride, as if the spaceship itself was just another competition for territory he had finally managed to ward off.
“Serves them right. Good riddance,” he scowled, his usually melodious words emerging out into a smug growl.
The rough sound was picked up and amplified by his ikran, whose wings cut relentlessly through the air, picking up speed as if heading for battle, fueled by the sudden hostility of his rider. The colorful scales rippled under your fingers, quivering under the strength of the increasing growl. You were already dizzy with fear when the beast let out a powerful, ear-tearing shriek, a raw mimicry of his rider’s war cry, a sound so full of aggressivity you startled on the saddle, recoiling in front of such contained ferocity. Sa’toru laughed good-heartedly, proudly patting the ikran’s sides while you involuntarily snuggled your body against his chest, seeking reassurance from the sharp teeth and the snapping wings of the beast you were riding on. Sa’toru smiled, nuzzling your head soothingly.
“Don’t worry. He gets excited when I’m like this.”
You glanced at the tsaheylu joining them.
“I bet.”
Sa’toru kept patting the ikran’s sides until it settled back into a normal flying position, with little growls of frustrated bloodlust. You stayed securely snuggled against Sa’toru, watching warily the ikran shake its head once, twice, as if trying to get rid of his rider’s previous murderous thoughts.
You looked up again, quietly. Sa’toru noticed. He kissed your shoulder, letting his lips linger against old bruises and blossoming new ones.
he doesn’t mind if you’re cooking, reading, watching a movie… he needs to have contact with it in any form that he can. you’re laying on your stomach, biting your nails after you ate the whole popcorn bucket, in tension due to the movie you’re watching.
only for him to jump on the bed and bury his face on it while palming each asscheek. he will shake his head against your flesh, covered by some sweatpants, while you tell him to go away.
smacking it when you’re cooking, a loud noise that echoes through the kitchen and makes you smack his biceps in revenge (a hit that he barely feels).
“it’s just so perfect, baby. look at it” he mutters before smacking it again and pressing himself against you.
“you’re such a caveman” you sigh, yet you start lowering your sweats slowly down the curve of your ass. his mouth waters at the sight and grinds against your know bare skin, burying his face in your neck.
“trust me, i control myself a lot more than a caveman could” yuji bites your neck, his cock aching before he frees himself and pushes into your tight pussy. “fuck yourself, sweetheart. lemme see your ass shaking”
two big hands are laid on your hips while you move back and forth, filling yourself with his huge cock, every thrust making you melt more and more against him. your breaths are quick, his grip bruising as you feel the knot on your lower stomach tightening. “yuji—!”
“it’s okay, mama” he growls, spitting on your asshole before filling you up with his sticky seed. you freeze, your body collapsing as your orgasm rips into you. he chuckles and holds you firmly against him, “you’re sooo kinky”
note: Ateez's In Your Fantasy was playing when I thought of this, so enjoy. I might release a part 2 of their families finding out.
summary: Neteyam has always been there, a stable, sturdy figure in your peripheral vision as you ran around the forest with Lo'ak and Kiri. He saved your asses more times than you would like to admit. So why now is it that you can't get him off your mind?
pairing: aged up!Neteyam Sully x fem Omatikaya!reader
warnings: swearing, fighting, explosions, blood, unconsciousness, mentions of wet dreams, smut, p in v, oral (m & f receiving), anal (mildly), minor miscommunication trope (I know, I hate me too)
word count: 6k
For as long as you could remember, Neteyam Sully has always been there. A looming force.
Neteyam has always been the constant in your chaotic world, a towering figure of blue-skinned reliability lurking at the edges of your wild romps through the forest. A fixture in your life since the earliest days of your childhood, a steady presence woven into the fabric of the Omatikaya clan's vibrant existence on Pandora.
You don't remember the first time you truly noticed him. Not because it wasn't important, but because he had always been there.
Like the trees. Like the wind moving through the leaves. Like the distant calls of creatures you had grown so used to hearing, that silence felt wrong without them.
Neteyam was simply... part of things.
You, with your boundless energy, had spent countless days darting through the dense undergrowth alongside Lo'ak, Tuk, and Kiri, the siblings who felt like your own blood.
Lo'ak's reckless grin matched your own, while Kiri's quiet insights grounded the madness. Even when you were older, and Tuk came along, her little legs trying to keep up as you and Lo'ak went about the forest on another adventure that was sure to lead you to trouble.
But Neteyam?
He was the one who shadowed you all, his bow always at the ready, his voice a sharp command cutting through the thrill of the chase.
You were just a young kit, barely old enough to toddle through the underbrush, when your paths first crossed in earnest. Your father was a skilled hunter, and when he was lost in the brutal wars against the Sky People, it left a void in your family kelku that echoed with his absence. As the only child of a widowed mother who wove baskets and tended the clan's communal fires, you carried the weight of his legacy early — expected to embody the hunter's spirit, to track and provide as he once did. But in those tender years, play was your world, and it was through Lo'ak that you found your way into the Sully family's orbit.
Jake and Neytiri, the clan's revered leaders, embraced you as one of their own from the start. Your mother's ties to the old ways, her quiet strength mirroring Neytiri's, made it natural.
Evenings became routine: you'd join the family pod for meals, sitting cross-legged by the fire, Tuk, a tiny bundle of curiosity, then crawling into your lap for comfort. You'd hum lullabies your father once sang, stroking her soft ears until she dozed, her small tail curling around your arm.
You belonged with them.
You ran when they ran. Climbed when they climbed. Fell, laughed, argued, and made up just as quickly.
And somewhere behind it all, Neteyam watched.
Not in a strange way. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. Just… present. A steady figure lingering at the edges of every moment, always close enough to step in, never quite part of the chaos.
As the eldest son of Jake Sully, the Olo'eyktan, and Neytiri, the fierce warrior Tsahìk's daughter, Neteyam carried the weight of expectation on his broad shoulders. He trained relentlessly, leading patrols and mediating clan disputes, his golden eyes always scanning for threats to the harmony Eywa demanded of him.
He'd saved your behinds more times than pride allowed you to count.
Lo'ak, with his mischievous spark and untamed energy, had spotted you one dawn while you gathered wildflowers near the village edge, your small hands clutching stems as if they were spears.
"Come on, let's race the ikran shadows!" he'd called out, and you'd followed without hesitation, your laughter mingling with his as you dashed through the ferns. From that day, you were inseparable. Two wild spirits chasing the forest's secrets, climbing vines and splashing in shallow streams. Neteyam, even then, the responsible elder brother at perhaps eight cycles old, watched from afar. His golden eyes tracked your escapades with a mix of exasperation and quiet protectiveness. He'd linger at the pod's entrance, bow in hand for his own training, pretending to focus on sharpening arrows while stealing glances as you and Lo'ak vanished into the green.
Despite it all, your responsibilities extended beyond play. With your father gone, the clan looked to you to honour his role — hunting small game as you grew, but also gathering herbs for Tsahìk Mo'at, the clan's healer.
Mornings often found you in the misty glades, basket slung over your shoulder, fingers deftly plucking healing ferns and luminous fungi that glowed faintly under Eywa's touch. Mo'at would nod approvingly as you delivered them to her tent, her wrinkled hands sorting your finds. "Your father would be proud, child. The Great Mother guides your hands." These duties grounded you, a reminder of the expectations: to contribute, to survive, to weave your thread into the clan's tapestry without faltering.
Yet, despite your duties, trouble followed you and Lo'ak like shadows, and Neteyam was always there to pull you from its grasp.
One afternoon, at around ten cycles, you'd ventured too far toward the floating mountains, daring each other to touch the Hallelujah Mountains' vines. A sudden storm whipped up, winds howling as rain lashed the cliffs. Lo'ak slipped on slick rock, dangling precariously, while you clung to a root, heart pounding. Neteyam's voice cut through the gale; he'd trailed you, as always, sensing the recklessness. His small but strong frame reached out, hauling Lo'ak up first, then you, his grip firm on your wrist.
"Skxawngs! You'll get us all killed," he'd scolded, but his eyes held relief, lingering on your mud-streaked face. "Foolish," he'd continued, snapping and reprimanding the two of you, his golden eyes flashing with frustration, bioluminescent spots flickering like stars on his skin.
You'd yanked away, muttering about how you didn't need his babysitting, but the heat of his grip lingered on your flesh, a phantom touch that haunted you long after.
That night, as the family gathered in their pod, Neytiri smoothed her hand over your braids as she checked you and Lo'ak for wounds. "You are family, but the forest tests the careless." She mused, moving around the Sully kelku with grace and familiarity.
Jake chuckled, clapping Neteyam on the back. "Good instincts, son. That's what makes a leader."
Neytiri nodded approvingly, her tail swishing, but Lo'ak rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because climbing cliffs is such a threat to the clan." He grumbled, his tail lashing behind him in his annoyance at his father's praise towards his brother.
Neteyam shot him a warning look, the sibling rivalry simmering — Lo'ak's wildness clashing with Neteyam's duty-bound restraint. Kiri, ever the peacemaker, changed the subject to Eywa's signs in the stars, but you caught Neteyam glancing your way, his expression unreadable.
As cycles turned, the pattern persisted. At twelve, during a mock hunt with slingshots, you and Lo'ak startled a thanator cub, its mother charging from the brush. Neteyam, practising nearby, fired a warning shot from his bow, drawing the beast away long enough for you to flee. He fought it off with a spear twice his size, earning scars that Jake cleaned later, praising his bravery.
"That's my future Olo'eyktan," he'd say, while you hovered guiltily, offering herbs from your pouch.
Neteyam waved you off gruffly. "Just stay out of trouble."
But in quiet moments, he'd watch you teach Tuk basic weaves, your patience shining as you guided her tiny fingers. Tuk adored you, calling you 'sister' in her lisping voice.
Once, when Neteyam suggested you show her a safer knot, you snapped, "She's learning fine without your critiques!" Tuk giggled, siding with you, and Neteyam backed down, a rare smile tugging his lips.
Throughout this, Kiri became your confidante in those growing years, her spiritual attunement mirroring your own subtle connection to Eywa.
You’d wander the bioluminescent groves together, baskets heavy with herbs, sharing whispers. “I feel her everywhere,” you’d start, pressing a hand to a glowing tree. “Like she’s breathing with me, in the wind, the roots.”
Kiri’s eyes would light up at finding a kindred spirit who felt Eywa similarly to herself. “Eywa speaks through you, too. The signs are strong. The shifting of the wind, in dreams, pulls towards certain paths.” She’d weave flowers into your hair as she redoes your braids, sensing the unspoken tension with her brother, but you’d deflect, laughing it off as sibling-like bickering.
By adolescence, the pretence solidified. You insisted you couldn’t stand Neteyam’s rigidity, his constant shadowing like an unwanted guard. He'd retort that your impulsiveness endangered everyone, especially as his duties as future Olo'eyktan mounted — leading young warriors, mediating minor disputes under Jake’s watchful eye. Family dynamics deepened the strain. Meals were lively: Lo'ak teasing Neteyam about his 'watchdog' habits toward you, Kiri mediating with knowing glances, Tuk piping up with innocent questions that made you soften. Neytiri often pulled you aside for archery lessons, treating you as a daughter, while Jake shared hunting strategies, emphasising your role in the clan's survival.”Your father’s spirit lives in you. Hunt well, protect the young ones.”
Yet, beneath the barbs, attraction simmered. Neteyam watched from patrol perches as you rode off with Lo'ak on gathering runs, his heart twisting with unspoken worry — and something warmer. Saving you became a ritual: pulling you from a collapsing vine bridge at fourteen, his body shielding yours from falling debris; diverting a stampeding herd during a herb forage, his direhorse barreling between you and danger. Each time, touches lingered, his hand on your back, steadying; your fingers brushing his arm in thanks, igniting sparks neither acknowledged.
Interactions with Tuk grew tender. At sixteen, you'd teach her to ride a small pa'li, your voice soft as you adjusted her grip. “Gentle, little one—feel the bond.”
Neteyam watched, then suggested, “Hold the reins firmer for control.” You'd whirl on him.
“She's not a warrior yet! Let her feel Eywa first.”
Tuk hugged you, whispering, “You're the best teacher.” Neteyam sighed, but his eyes softened.
Conversations with Kiri deepened during herb runs. “Eywa's presence... It's overwhelming sometimes,” you'd confess, kneeling by a sacred pool. “Like she's urging me toward something.” Kiri nodded along with your words.
“Toward balance. Perhaps a bond waiting to form.” She added, voice fading softly as she looked out into the horizon.
Nights brought dreams that blurred the lines. Yours began innocently but twisted heat. In the first, at eighteen cycles, Neteyam cornered you in a dream-glade, pinning you to moss, his mouth claiming yours before trailing down to suck your nipples, teeth grazing until they peaked. His fingers plunged into your pussy, thrusting deep, curling to hit that spot, thumb rubbing your clit until you came hard, juices soaking his hand. He flipped you, cock sliding into your slick folds, pounding relentlessly until you shattered again.
You woke up panting, aroused and confused. Your arousal dampening your thighs from the remnants of your dream still clinging to your clouded mind.
Across the scattered array of pods, Neteyam’s dreams mirrored the intensity of your own. He envisioned you kneeling against the soft moss of the forest floor, lips wrapping around his hardened cock, sucking deeply as he fucked your mouth, cum spilling down your throat. Then, bending you over, he thrusts into your pussy, gripping your hips tightly as the rhythm of his thrusts builds to a mutual release. filling you there also. The guilt that overtook Neteyam mingled with ecstasy upon waking as he looked down, his cock spent in his loincloth.
These dreams haunted your days. Training sessions dragged, bodies clashing in spars. Your breasts brushing his chest, his thighs pressing your core accidentally as he overpowered you down to the mossy floor, leaving you both flushed and pulling away before you were told to.
“Focus!” he’d bark, but his voice roughened.
Hunts prolonged the torment. The great migration hunt spanned days. Tracking sturmbeest across plains, Neteyam commanded the group, which consisted of you, Lo’ak and a small handful of warriors. Mornings started with strategy by the fire, Jake overseeing via the comms that rested around Neteyam and Lo’ak’s necks. “Neteyam, keep formation.”
You'd scout ahead with Lo'ak, spotting tracks, but veer into thickets, Neteyam calling you back. The chase unfolded over hours — galloping through dust clouds, arrows loosed in volleys. One bull charged your flank; Neteyam shoved you aside, downing it with a precise shot. During rests by rivers, you'd share water skins, fingers touching, eyes locking too long. “You're reckless,” he'd murmur, but his tail flicked toward you. Lo'ak teased, and Kiri smiled knowingly. The hunt yielded a massive haul, but the tension built like storm clouds.
Another extended pursuit targeted prolemuris in the canopy forests; their agile forms were a challenge for three days. Neteyam assigned vines for swings, his body brushing yours as he demonstrated. You swung ahead, gathering herbs mid-hunt for Mo'at, rare blossoms only found high. A branch snapped; you fell toward thorns. Neteyam caught you mid-air, arms wrapping your waist, pulling you to safety. Pressed together on a limb, breaths shared, his hardness nudged your hip. “Why do you test me?” he whispered.
You pulled away, heart racing. Evenings around campfires, family stories flowed — Jake recounting war losses, including your father's, his hand on your shoulder. “He fought bravely. You honour him every day.”
Dreams multiplied, ranging from a simple kiss in front of the clan or escaping duties to explore one another.
Yours: Neteyam binding you with vines, spanking your ass before he knelt, hands roaming your body as he licked your pussy, tongue thrusting inside, sucking your clit to orgasm. Watching as your body shook under the skilled hands of the man who you were sure hated you. Then he rose, moving your pliant body as he entered you slowly before fucking you hard, cock slamming deep until you squirted as moans ripped from your throat.
His: You laying him against the soft mossy floor, kissing down the expanse of his chest as the bioluminescent dots on his body pulsed in time to his wildly beating heart before you straddled him. You slid down his hardened cock, riding him to the rhythm of the forest, pussy clenching his cock, then in dreams, shifting to the tight ring of your ass, the forbidden tightness making him shudder at the sensation of you wrapped around him as he came explosively.
The breaking point loomed during the RDA skirmish. Scouts warned of encroachment; Jake led the assault, Neteyam at his side. You joined on your ikran, diving into chaos — bullets zipping, explosions blooming. You targeted a saboteur at a vital root vein, arrow flying true, but his dying twitch detonated charges. The blast hurled you from your ikran, world tumbling.
The world dissolved into fragments — shrapnel's white-hot kiss, the jarring impact of Neteyam's ikran beneath you, his arms locked around your waist as blood soaked his chest, warm and sticky against your skin. Consciousness ebbed in waves, each beat of your heart pushing more of your life force through the wound in your side. The wind roared past as he dove, his voice distant, frayed with panic.
"Stay with me. Stay with me."
You tried to answer, but your tongue was thick, throat dry. The canopy blurred into smears of green and gold, and then you were moving — not flying, but running. Neteyam had dismounted mid-stride, cradling you against his chest, his long legs eating up the ground toward the healers' tents. Each jostle sent fresh agony through your side, and you whimpered, your hand weakly gripping his shoulder.
"I'm here," he gasped, voice cracking. "I'm here, I've got you. Just hold on."
The tent flaps whipped open. Mo'at's sharp voice cut through the haze — commands, reassurances, the clatter of bowls and the acrid smell of burning herbs. You were laid on soft furs, hands pressing against your wound, and Neteyam's face swam above you, pale as moonlight.
"Don't leave," you whispered, though you weren't sure the words made it past your lips.
"I won't." His hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "I'm not going anywhere."
Then darkness swallowed everything.
Neteyam sat vigil, holding your hand. Pain ebbed under the tonics, but your face — pale, skin torn from the shrapnel — cracked his heart.
The first day passed in fevered fragments. You drifted in and out, never fully awake, never fully under. Mo'at worked tirelessly, stitching the jagged tear in your side, packing the wound with numbing pastes and healing moss. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Your breath steadied into a shallow rhythm.
Neteyam didn't move from your side.
He sat cross-legged on the furs, your hand clutched between both of his, thumb tracing absent circles on your wrist. His eyes were fixed on your face; the flutter of your eyelids, the occasional twitch of your lips, watching for any sign of returning consciousness. The healers bustled around him, but he was a statue, unyielding.
By the second day, the tent had become a pressure cooker of tension. Lo'ak came, then Kiri, then Jake. They tried to coax him away, to make him eat, to make him rest. He refused.
"Neteyam, you need to–" Jake started.
"I'm fine."
"You haven't slept. You haven't eaten–"
"I said I'm fine."
His voice was clipped, sharp as a blade. Lo'ak tried a different approach, settling beside him with a bowl of broth. "Come on, bro. You're no good to her if you collapse. Just a few mouthfuls."
Neteyam's golden eyes flashed. "I told Mo'at I'd stay. I'm not leaving her."
"You're not leaving her," Kiri said softly, crouching opposite him. "But you have duties. The patrols need direction. The young warriors look to you."
"Let them look elsewhere." The words came out bitter, almost snappish. He didn't look at her. "I have one duty right now. This one."
Lo'ak opened his mouth to argue, but Kiri placed a hand on his arm, shaking her head. They left the broth beside Neteyam, uneaten, and retreated.
By the third day, he was a frayed rope. Dark circles carved hollows under his eyes. His queue hung limp, unbraided. Neytiri came, her face unreadable as she watched her son, her strong, steady, reliable son, crumble at the bedside of a girl he'd spent years claiming to despise.
"Son," she said, her voice gentle, "you must tend to yourself."
"I can't."
"Eywa gives us strength, but even the strongest tree bends before it breaks."
"She needs me." His voice cracked. "I can't– if she wakes and I'm not here–"
"She will wake." Neytiri's hand settled on his shoulder. "But you need to trust the healers. And trust her."
He shook his head, jaw tight. Neytiri sighed, but she didn't force him. She simply sat beside him, silent, offering presence instead of words.
On the fourth evening, Mo'at finished her examination of you and turned to Neteyam with a look that brooked no argument.
"You will walk with me."
"I can't–"
"You will." Her voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "The girl is stable. The spirits have spoken. She will live."
Neteyam’s breath caught. A tremor ran through his shoulders. "She– you're certain?"
"I am Tsahìk. I do not speak uncertainly." Mo'at's weathered hand took his, pulling him to his feet. "Come. There is something you must hear."
He followed her out of the tent, into the dusk that painted the forest in shades of violet and amber. They walked to a quiet grove, the bioluminescent plants casting soft light on their faces. Mo'at turned to face him, her ancient eyes studying him with a knowing that made him feel like a child again.
"You love her."
It wasn't a question. Neteyam flinched as though struck, then slowly, painfully, nodded. "I do."
"Then why have you fought it so long?"
He ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion bleeding through. "Because I am the future Olo'eyktan. Because my duty is to the clan. Because I thought–" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought I could bury it. That if I kept her at arm's length, I could focus on what mattered."
"And what matters, Neteyam?"
He looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears. "She matters. She's always mattered. I just– I was too afraid to admit it."
Mo'at was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the canopy above. "The Great Mother does not gift us feelings by accident. Love is not a distraction. It is a foundation. A leader who cannot love is a leader who cannot lead with his whole heart."
"But the clan–"
"The clan will see what I see: a young man willing to sacrifice his own well-being for another. That is not weakness. That is the heart of a true leader." She stepped closer, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. "You have choices, Neteyam. You can continue to hide, to pretend, to let duty consume you. Or you can choose her. Choose to mate her, to bond with her, to make her your partner in leading this clan. That is not abandoning duty — it is enriching it."
He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking into his chest like roots into the earth. "And if she doesn't want me?"
Mo'at's lips curved into a faint smile. "Then you will survive. But I think you know her heart better than you admit."
She left him there, standing alone in the grove, the night settling around him like a cloak.
You woke to the soft glow of firelight and the weight of a hand in yours.
Your head felt stuffed with tree sap, thoughts slow and syrupy. You turned your head, wincing at the pull in your side, and found Neteyam slumped in a chair beside your bed, his head bowed, braids falling over his face, his hand wrapped around yours as if terrified to let go. He was asleep, chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted breaths. Even in slumber, his brow was furrowed, tension etched into every line of his face.
You didn't move. You just watched him — the way the firelight played across his features, the faint scars on his arms, the way his thumb was still pressed against your pulse point, as if checking that you were still alive.
A surge of emotion — gratitude, confusion, something deeper and hotter — swelled in your chest. You squeezed his hand.
He jolted awake instantly, eyes snapping open, locking onto yours. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just stared, as if afraid you'd vanish if he blinked.
"You're awake." His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
"I'm awake." Your own voice sounded like gravel, dry and cracked. "How long...?"
"Four days." He lifted your hand and pressed his forehead to it, a shudder running through him. "Four days. I thought– I thought I'd lost you."
"You stayed."
"Of course I stayed." His laugh was broken, raw. "Where else would I be?"
You should have said something sarcastic, something sharp to break the tension. But the look in his eyes — vulnerable, open, unguarded — stole your words. Instead, you just let your fingers curl around his, a silent promise.
The next few days were a strange, awkward dance.
Neteyam was still at your side constantly, but now that you were awake, the closeness felt charged, electric. He brought you broth, adjusted your bandages, and helped you sit up. His touches were gentle, lingering — a hand on your back steadying you, fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. But whenever your eyes met, he looked away, jaw tightening.
You tried to needle him, falling back on old patterns.
"You know, you could let someone else fetch the water. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I'm fine."
"You've said that four times today."
"Because it's still true."
You raised an eyebrow, and he huffed, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. But the teasing felt different now, lighter, but weighted with something unsaid. Every barb was a deflection, every laugh a shield against the truth that hung between you like a held breath.
Kiri visited, her knowing smile driving you mad. "You two are insufferable," she said one afternoon, helping you walk outside for fresh air.
"Excuse me?"
"Neteyam hasn't left your side in days. He's been a terror to everyone — snapping at poor Lo'ak for breathing too loudly. And you-" She poked your arm. "You watch him like he's the sun when you think no one's looking."
"I do not."
"Do too."
You scowled, but your cheeks burned.
On the fifth day of your recovery, he found you sitting by a stream, watching the glowing fish dart between rocks. He settled beside you, close enough that his tail brushed your ankle.
"You should still be resting."
"You should stop telling me what to do."
A pause. Then, softly: "I don't want to fight with you."
You turned to look at him. His profile was sharp against the fading light, his jaw set. "Neither do I."
The silence stretched, filled with the sound of water and the distant calls of night creatures. His hand inched across the moss between you, stopping just short of yours.
"I was so scared," he whispered. "When you fell. When I saw the blood. I thought-" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought Eywa was taking you from me before I ever had the chance to-"
He broke off, shaking his head. You reached out, your fingers brushing his.
"Chance to what?"
He turned, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. "You know what."
Your heart hammered. The words hung in the air, fragile and precious. But neither of you moved further. Not yet.
Three days later, you were well enough to walk the path to the Tree of Souls.
Neteyam had suggested it; a pilgrimage, he said, to give thanks for your recovery. But the look on his face told you he meant more. You agreed without hesitation, your pulse quickening as you walked through the forest, following the familiar trail to the sacred grove.
The Tree of Souls stood in the centre of a clearing, its tendrils cascading like waterfalls of light. The air hummed with Eywa's presence, thick and alive. You stepped into the grove, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Atokirina drifted down around you, glowing seeds of light that danced through the air like stars. Some brushed your skin, warm and tingling, and you gasped as they settled on your shoulders, your hair, your arms.
Neteyam turned to you, and the seeds landed on him too, cocooning you both in a gentle, shimmering embrace.
"This is–" you started.
"Eywa's blessing," he finished, his voice reverent. "I've heard it's happened once before. At the bonding of my parents."
Your breath caught. He stepped closer, the atokirina swirling around you both, creating a barrier of light and warmth. His hand came up, fingertips brushing your cheek.
"I can't pretend anymore." His voice was raw, stripped of all pretence. "I've tried. For years. I've told myself you were a nuisance, a distraction, something I had to watch over and tolerate. But every time I saved you, every time you argued with me, every time I watched you laugh with Tuk or teach the young ones, I fell deeper. And I didn't know how to stop."
"Neteyam–"
"I don't want to stop." He stepped closer, his body inches from yours. "I want you. As my mate. As my partner. As the one who drives me mad and makes me whole."
The atokirina pulsed, humming with energy. Your hand found his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm.
"I've hated you," you said, your voice trembling. "Because hating you was easier than admitting I dreamed of you."
His eyes widened, a flash of emotion passing through them. "Dre– You dreamed... Of me?"
"Every night. You, in my arms. Your mouth on mine." You pulled him closer, your lips a breath away from his. "Show me I'm not dreaming now."
He didn't hesitate.
His mouth crashed into yours, fierce and hungry, all the pent-up longing bursting free. His tongue swept along your lower lip, and you opened to him, tasting the salt of tears — yours, his, you couldn't tell. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you moaned into the kiss as his teeth grazed your lip.
The atokirina swirled faster, a vortex of light and approval.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his braids, tugging him closer. "Neteyam-"
"I need you." His voice was rough, desperate. "I want to bond with you. Tsaheylu. Here. Under Eywa's eyes. If that is what you want also."
"Yes."
You reached behind you, shaky fingers gasping your queue as he mimicked your actions. His hand outstretched as your queue was already reaching for his, the tendrils intertwining before either of you could think. The tsaheylu snapped into place, and the world exploded into sensation.
You felt everything. His racing heart, the ache of his longing, the overwhelming tide of love he'd buried for years. It washed over you, through you, drowning you in warmth. And then you felt him feel you. Your own tangled emotions, your fear, your desire, the love you'd denied so fiercely. His forehead pressed to yours as you both took in the new sensation, the intense experience of being one in mind and soul as his eyes stayed on yours.
"Oh," you breathed, tears streaming down your face. "Oh, Eywa–"
He kissed you again as he lowered you to the moss, the atokirina blanketing you both like a living quilt, moving around you in a silent, ancient dance as they rose and fell in time with your shuddered breaths. His hands moved over your body, reverent and urgent, pulling at your loincloth, baring your skin to the night air. You did the same, your fingers shaking as you untied his.
When he entered you, it was slow, measured, his eyes locked on yours.
The tsaheylu made everything feel magnified, like your body wasn't your own. Every inch of his cock sliding into your pussy sent pleasure-pain sparking through your shared nerves. You gasped, your fingers curling around his forearms as you felt him push in further, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck.
"I can feel you," he gasped, thrusting deeper. "Every part of you. Fuck–"
He thrust in, slow and deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You cried out, nails raking his back as he bottomed out, balls pressing against your ass. The rhythm built, powerful strokes that filled you completely, his hips snapping forward. “So tight... made for me,” he panted, one hand pinning your wrist, the other teasing your clit in circles.
The sensations amplified. The pace raw and primal. He fucked you with abandon, no pretence, no restraint. His hips snapped against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the grove, mingling with your moans and his growls. The tsaheylu amplified every wave of pleasure that crashed through you, doubling each crest, each clench, each shudder.
You flipped him, straddling, sinking down to ride him. Breasts bouncing, you ground your hips, clit rubbing his base. He gripped your ass, thrusting up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing in the sacred space. You came first, your pussy clenching around him, pulling a cry from your throat that echoed across the clearing. He followed, hips stuttering, spilling his seed deep inside you with a roar that shook the trees.
But he didn't stop. He pulled out, licked the mess from your thighs, then flipped you over, entering you from behind. The new angle hit deeper, and with the bond still humming, you felt his pleasure as he thrust into you, felt the coil of your own orgasm building again.
"You're mine now," he rasped, hand fisting your hair gently, pulling your head back. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Forever."
"Forever."
The second orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and he followed, filling you again. Then he turned you onto your back, lifted your legs over his shoulders, and took you again, slow and deep, your sweat-slick bodies sliding together.
The night stretched, endless, sacred. By the time the tsaheylu finally released, you were tangled in each other, breathing in unison, the atokirina settled like crowns on your heads.
You woke to the soft grey of pre-dawn, the air cool against your skin, and the solid warmth of Neteyam wrapped around you.
His arms were around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm on your neck. The Tree of Souls loomed above, silent witness to the night's passion, its tendrils glowing faintly. You felt heavy, sore, but deeply content.
You stirred, and he tightened his arms, a sleepy grumble escaping his lips.
"Don't move."
"Need to breathe."
"No."
You laughed softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes were still half-lidded, hair a tangled mess, a lazy smile curving his lips. He looked ruined—in the best way.
"Good morning, mate," he murmured, the word sending a thrill through you.
"Don't get used to it."
"Get used to what?"
"Me being nice." You poked his chest. "I still think you're insufferable."
His grin widened. "And I still think you're reckless, stubborn, and impossible."
"Yet you mated me."
"Wouldn't have it any other way." He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then his hand slid down, cupping your ass with a playful squeeze. "Now, about those dreams you mentioned..."
You shoved him, laughing, as he tumbled onto his back, pulling you with him. You ended up sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
"We should probably go back," you said, without conviction.
"Probably."
"Tuk will be worried."
"She's fine. Kiri's probably told everyone the atokirina showed up."
You lifted your head, a mock glare on your face. "You planned this."
"I hoped." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I didn't know if you'd–"
"I would." You kissed him, soft and quick. "I did."
He smiled, and for a moment, the world was perfect. Then his hands wandered lower, and his grin turned wicked. "We should probably offer thanks to Eywa properly."
"You're insatiable."
"You have no idea."
He spread hot kisses across your neck and the curve of your breasts.
Dawn painted the forest in a soft golden glow as you and Neteyam finally stirred, now fully awake. The Tree of Souls is still humming with the memory of your union. The atokirina had scattered with the rise of the morning light, leaving only the moss and the lingering warmth between you.
Neteyam helped you sit up, his hand lingering on your lower back. "We should go back before they send a search party."
"Lo'ak probably already knows," you muttered, stretching your sore muscles. "He's insufferably nosy."
"He's also insufferably bad at keeping secrets." Neteyam's grin was soft, almost shy. "So maybe we... keep this between us? For now?"
You raised an eyebrow. "You want to keep me a secret?"
"I want to keep us a secret. Just for a little while." He traced a pattern on your thigh, gaze dropping. "I want to enjoy you without the whole clan watching. Without my parents' expectations. Just... us."
Something warm unfurled in your chest. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Fine. But I'm terrible at hiding things."
"So am I." He laughed, pulling you closer. "We'll be terrible together."
correct me if i'm wrong, but i don't see any good reason for institutions to hoard thousands of photos taken by people who are no longer alive, keep them hidden, and then make money from access and from people wanting to use them for their own projects or any other purpose. these images are part of our shared history, not commodities. they should be seen, not stay hidden.
the asala collection (spanning 130 years, 355 albums/items, and more than 30.000 images) is a perfect example
the collection has been exhibited and promoted, & it is clearly an important historical archive. but who gets meaningful access?
a single rare photo album like those in collections such as this can cost thousands, putting them mainly within reach of wealthy collectors, universities, or museums.
these images are records of human history. when our shared visual heritage is locked behind ownership, price, and restricted access, most people lose the chance to see and learn from it.
they should be preserved, digitised & made accessible.
there is a pdf giving a glimpse into this huge collection; here.
and this is only one collection; focused on the middle east & arabian peninsula. there are countless others.
A trip to the grocery store turns into a nightmare when an attack leaves you praying for a quick end. That prayer arrives in the form of something monstrous: a demon who intervenes with brutal, effortless violence. Finding your savior wounded in the aftermath, you bring him into your home. As you wash the blood away in soapy water and stitch his skin, the fear dissolves into an unexpected intimacy. You soon learn that while his nature is dark, being favored by a demon is the most divine thing you've ever felt.
ᦏ9k words, reader is said to have brown skin, plot before smut, vivid detailing of murder and dismemberment, violence, attempted sa, light horror erotica, tention, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), dirty talk (I KNOW HE HAS A FILTHY MOUTH), choking, spanking, riding -> doggy, namecalling/petnames (e.g., sugar, baby, sweetness, and little bird), sensory play, sweet ending, etc᪔
ᦏ18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕᪔
The 1930s Mississippi Delta had a soul-crushing climate. The air hung heavy, a stagnant soup of humidity and rotting cypress swamps that smelled of damp earth and the iron-rich musk of the river. By the time you stepped off the general store’s creaking porch, the sun had long since bled out below the flat horizon, leaving the sky a ink-stained purple that swallowed the cotton fields whole.
You had driven the rusted-out Ford nearly twenty miles from your patch of dirt—navigating past sagging sharecropper shacks and endless, skeletal rows of white bolls—just to secure salt pork and peach preserves for your brother and his kin.
The gravel in the lot crunched like bone under your heels. Behind you, the store’s lone, grime-streaked window cast a sickly yellow glow that struggled to reach the edge of the lot, leaving you to contend with the encroaching dark. You clutched the brown paper bags to your chest, the paper crinkling under your grip, feeling like they were the only fragile shield you had against the vast emptiness of the Delta.
Then came the sound.
Boots.
Four of them.
The yellow light caught the sweat on their pale, unsightly faces, making them look like cruel carvings rather than men. They weren't just walking; they were closing in, a pack of hounds finding a scent. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you watched them approach.
"Late for a girl like you to be out, ain't it?" the one in the lead drawled. He stepped into your personal space, smelling of cheap moonshine and stale tobacco.
"Gettin' groceries for my family," you said. You forced your voice to stay steady, even though your knees were slightly trembling.
"Family," another one hissed. He stepped behind you, and you felt the cold, sharp draft of his presence. "Bet you got a lot of 'family' tucked away."
The leader reached out, his hand a dead weight on your shoulder. "Maybe you oughta share some of that sweetness with us. A girl like you... you oughta know how to treat a man right."
Another man chuckle. "I don't know boss. Her kind ain't good for much." He followed it with a word—a cruel, ugly slur.
The heat in your belly—a sudden, sharp flare of anger—overrode the cold terror in your veins for a split second. You looked him dead in the eye, your vision blurring with tears of rage. "I’d never do a damn thing with a racist cracker like you," you spat, the words coming out like venom. "You don't know how to please a woman. You're only good for stealin' and carryin' the evil you was born with."
The leader’s face contorted, turning a mottled red. "I’m gonna teach you a lesson the Delta won't ever forget."
They lunged.
The paper bags hit the gravel with a sharp clack, jars of preserves shattering with a wet, heavy sound. They dragged you away from the safety of the light, pulling you into the pitch-black maw behind your car. The mud was cool and slick against your skin as they shoved you down, the grit of the gravel digging into your palms. You screamed and fought, your nails clawing at the dirt, until—crack.
The slap made your head whip to the side, white spots exploding behind your eyes. The taste of blood bloomed in your mouth immediately. You closed your eyes, a silent, desperate prayer for a quick end dancing on your tongue.
The tall one loomed over you, the metallic clink-clink of his belt being unlooped from his trousers sounding like a death knell in the silence of the swamp. You scrambled back on your elbows, your nails clawing into the mud, but another man pinned your wrists to the ground, his weight crushing your chest.
Then, the world shifted.
It wasn't a human sound that changed things. It started with a pressure—an unnatural chill swept through the humid air, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The man over you froze, his hand still on his buckle.
Suddenly, a blur of movement—something darker than the night itself—hit the man standing guard at the rear of the car. There was no struggle. Just a wet, terrifying crunch, followed by a sound that didn't belong in a human throat.
A scream ripped through the air—"AHHGLUR!"—not a shout for help, but a high-pitched, gargling shriek of pure, unadulterated terror. On the other side of the Ford, you heard the sound of heavy metal being crumpled like tissue paper, and then the petrifying sound of something being systematically dismantled.
Rrip. Rrip. Snap.
The three men standing over you scrambled back, their bravado evaporating into the thick air like mist. They stared into the dark behind the car, their faces turning as white as ghosts (if at all possible). The leader pulled a small revolver from his waistband, his hand shaking so violently the barrel rattled against his knuckles with a click-click-click.
"Go see what that is," the leader hissed at one of the men.
The man looked hesitant, his eyes wide and bulging with fear, but he stumbled toward the back of the car, his boots dragging in the gravel. Silence for two long heartbeats. Then, a sharp yell that was cut off by a wet crunch—the sound of a ripe melon being dropped from a great height, or a dry branch snapping while wrapped in raw meat.
A thick, dark liquid began to pool from under the car, snaking through the gravel like an oil slick. It was too dark to be water. It was viscous, steaming slightly in the cool night air, the copper smell of it overwhelming the swamp rot. Then, a heavy thud—the sound of a body being dropped like a sack of grain, followed by the wet sliding sound of intestines hitting the mud.
You scrambled to find your footing, desperate to run, but the leader’s hand clamped onto your hair, yanking you back with a force that nearly tore your scalp. "S-stay put!" he barked, his voice cracking with a fear he couldn't hide.
"You stupid son of a bitch! We need to run!" you croaked, your voice trembling.
From the shadows behind the car, a figure emerged.
He was tall, lean, and drenched in a dark, glistening crimson that coated his white shirt until it clung to his frame like a second skin, mapped out in horrific detail. He stepped into the faint spill of yellow light. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace. Too smooth, too silent. His skin was a pale tan, almost translucent in the moonlight, and his hands... his fingers were tipped and dripping with fresh, steaming blood.
"W-what the hell are you?" the leader screamed, cocking the pistol.Bang. The shot echoed off the store walls like a cannon blast. You saw the bullet hit Bo’s upper arm, tearing through the fabric and the flesh beneath. Bo let out a low groan—not of pain, but of irritation, like a man being stung by a common bee.
Before the leader could even think of cocking the hammer again, Bo was gone. He didn't run; he blurred. One second he was feet away, and the next, he was a solid shadow standing directly behind the leader. A large, blood-slicked hand reached around, catching the leader’s throat. There was a brief, desperate struggle, the leader's feet kicking uselessly in the air, and then the sound of windpipes collapsing—a dry, crushed whistle—as Bo squeezed until the man’s head lolled at a sharp, unnatural angle.
The fourth man turned to run, his boots slipping and sliding in the mud. He didn't get three steps. Bo reached out, his hand moving like a whip. There was a flash of something sharp, a wet shluck sound, and then the man’s head was simply... gone.
It didn't just fall; it was taken off with such surgical, violent force that the headless body kept running for a split second, blood geysering from the neck, before collapsing into a heap of spasming nerves.
The shock had your eyes wide, your body trembling so hard you could hear your teeth chattering against each other. The rumors you’d heard about the juke—the whispered stories about the "man" who haunted the outskirts, the one who didn't fear the lynch mobs because he was the one who hunted the hunters—they were all true.
Every terrifying word.
The gravel crunched. You looked up, paralyzed with a different kind of fear, as he walked back toward you. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at your broken groceries and the blood smeared on your lip. He reached out a hand—the one not covered in the men's blood—and offered it to you.
"They're gone, little bird," he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, carrying a soft, melodic lilt that felt entirely out of place amidst the carnage and the smell of death behind him. "It's not safe. You should get home."
His eyes, dark and ancient, trailed over your body with a slow, heavy pressure that felt like it was peeling back your skin. He lifted his other hand, the fingers still slick and dripping with the life of the men he’d just dismantled, and slowly licked a smear of blood from his knuckles. He did it with a focused, animalistic intensity, his tongue rasping against his skin. You stared, paralyzed by a nauseating mixture of terror and intrigue, as the faint yellow light from the store caught the unmistakable glint of his fangs. Long, needle-sharp, and so real.
You noted then, through the haze of your panic, that he was Chinese. His features were sharp and elegant, carved with a precision that seemed out of place beneath the splattered gore. But your eyes quickly dropped to his arm. A steady stream of dark blood was pulsing from the bullet hole in his tricep, dripping onto the gravel with a heavy, rhythmic drip-drip-drip that sounded like a ticking clock in the silence of the night.
"You're hurt," you whispered, your voice a ghost of itself, thin and reed-like. "You’re bleedin' bad."
Bo looked down at his arm as if he’d forgotten it was even attached to his body. He watched the blood flow for a moment, his expression unreadable, almost bored.
"I don't feel it," he said flatly.
You didn't believe him.
You couldn't.
The wound was deep, the flesh jagged and torn where the lead had bitten through, and even in the dark, the sheer volume of blood he was losing was enough to kill a normal man three times over. But as he looked back at you, the darkness in his eyes seemed to expand, swallowing what little light was left in the world. You stood there, your knees knocking together so hard it was audible, looking at that dark hole in his arm. The blood wasn't slowing; it was a pulsing, red leak.
“You need to let me bandage that,” you said, your voice finally finding a shred of its footing, though your hands were still shaking. “Before you bleed out right here in the mud.”
Bo looked at the wound, then back at you, his face a mask of elegant stone. “I’ll be alright. It’ll stop.”
“Until the sun is up?” you countered. The words slipped out before you could stop them, fueled by the folk stories and the sheer wrongness of the man standing before you.
Bo stilled. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips—one that showed just a hint of the ivory points behind his teeth. It wasn't a friendly look; it was the look of a predator realizing his prey had been paying closer attention than he thought. “And what do you know about the sun, girl?”
You swallowed hard, your heart thudding against your ribs like a trapped, dying moth. “I hear things. R-rumors from a few towns over... about what happened at that juke joint. They said dead people came through and left nothin’ but death. No, they didn't say people. They said haints... demons.”
Bo’s brown eyes searched yours, heavy and unblinking. The silence between you was taut as a wire about to snap. “Still gonna patch up a haint?” he murmured, his voice a low, melodic rasp that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Or do you not like my kind?”
You took a shaky breath, looking past him at the carnage—the splats of bloodied blonde hair on the gravel, the detached limbs, the torn skin of the men who would have done far worse to you if he hadn’t intervened. The horror of what he was balanced by the horror of what those men were.
“I’ll help you,” you whispered, the fear thick in your throat. “As long as you don't hurt me. You gotta promise.”
You held out your pinky, a childish gesture that felt absurd in the face of such violence. Bo looked at your small, trembling finger for a long moment. Then, he reached out. His skin was unnaturally cool, sending a jolt through your system. He didn't just hook his finger into yours; he brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a lingering, velvet-soft kiss to the knuckle of your pinky.
Your breath hitched.
“Make the promise official,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. “Kiss the promise.”
You hesitated, then pressed your own lips to the spot he’d just kissed. As you pulled your hand away, you felt the tacky, drying blood from his face stick to your skin for a split second before parting with a faint, wet sound. The bond felt heavy. Visceral. Like you’d just signed a contract in salt and iron.
ᦏ᪔
The ride back to your place was an unsettling stretch of silence. The Ford’s engine groaned as it cut through the darkness, the headlights barely carving a path through the hanging moss that looked like drowned hair. Bo sat in the passenger seat, his frame dwarfing the interior, making the car feel like a coffin. He didn't move, didn't talk, just stared out into the blackness of the cotton fields. The scent of him—ancient earth, cold metal, and the sharp, copper sting of fresh blood—filled the cab until you felt lightheaded and dizzy.
When you pulled up to your small, weathered house, you hurried out, your heels clicking on the packed dirt as you fled the confines of the car. You unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, clicking on the warm, orange kitchen light. When you turned back, Bo was still standing on the porch, his silhouette tall and imposing against the night, his eyes reflecting the light like a cat's. He was just... waiting.
Is he slow? you wondered, a flicker of irritation cutting through your mounting dread. “Well? Come on in,” you said, waving him forward.
A faint, knowing smirk tugged at his mouth—a look that mocked your limited knowledge of the rules he lived by. But as soon as the invitation left your lips, he crossed the threshold.
The house felt smaller the moment he entered. He took up so much space, his broad shoulders and tall, fit frame making the ceiling feel dangerously low. You weren't a short woman, but standing near him, you felt fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain held next to a sledgehammer.
Bo stood in the center of your kitchen, his nostrils flaring.
He was smelling you. Beneath the scent of fear and the iron of the blood on your dress, he caught the deep, intoxicating aroma of your skin—sweetness mixed with a light earthiness. Your blood was still running hot from the adrenaline, pulsing visibly in the hollow of your throat, and to him, you sounded like a drum in the absolute silence of the house.
“Sit,” you commanded, pointing to the sturdy wooden chair at the table.
He obeyed, the chair creaking ominously under his weight. You turned away, moving toward the cupboard to gather what you needed—the jug of corn liquor for disinfectant, a needle, heavy thread, and clean strips of linen. As you moved, Bo’s eyes never left you. He tracked the line of your back, the curve of your hips, and the way your hands shook as you reached for the supplies. He watched the way your rich, brown skin glowed under the dim bulb. To him, you were a feast he was trying very hard not to devour.
You walked back to him, the supplies clutched to your chest. Up close, his handsomeness was frightening. His features were sharp, carved with a precision that was almost too perfect. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, slicked back but messy from the fight. You took a moment to give him a once-over, your eyes lingering on the way his white shirt was torn open, revealing the muscle of his chest, and the still-bleeding hole in his arm.
He was a monster. A haint. A dead man. But as he looked up at you, his gaze heavy and expectant, your stomach did a slow, treacherous roll.
“Hold still,” you whispered, unscrewing the cap on the liquor. “This is gonna bite.”
Bo’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr that vibrated in your own chest. “I told you, little bird... I don't feel a thing.”
You rolled your eyes, huffing a breath through your nose to hide the way your heart was racing. The corn liquor hit the open wound with an audible hiss, the sharp, medicinal sting of it rising in a cloud that made your own eyes water.
"Mhm, keep talkin’ that big talk," you muttered, dabbing the blood away with a rag that was quickly turning a sodden crimson. "Don't feel a thing. Like you ain't made of the same meat and bone as everybody else."
Bo didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even blink.
His skin was slick under the low warmth of the kitchen light, his muscles corded like iron cables. You glanced up at his face and found him just... watching you. Not with the frantic gaze of a man who’d just been shot, but with a deep, unsettling stillness that made your skin hum with a strange, forbidden electricity.
"What they call you?" you asked, trying to fill the heavy silence.
"Bo Chow," he said. His voice was so smooth; it seemed to settle into the very floorboards beneath your feet.
"Bo Chow," you repeated, humming the name under your breath. You kept cleaning the ragged edges of the hole in his arm, noting with a start that his skin didn't feel cold like a corpse's anymore; it felt like a low-burning stove, radiating a heat that began to seep into your own fingers. You couldn't believe you were sitting here—in the same place you’d fried green tomatoes just yesterday—patching up a haint.
But he looked so... beautiful. In a way that felt like a trap. The blood smeared across his high cheekbones didn't make him look hideous; it made him look like something out of a dream you shouldn't be having.
Is he the type that likes the pain? you wondered, your mind wandering down a lewd, forbidden path as you looked at the raw power of his frame. He looks kind of cute all bloody like that. You caught yourself and shook your head lightly, your face heating up. Lord, girl, stop it. Imagine if this man could read your thoughts. LALALALALAH.
You reached for the needle and the heavy black thread, your fingers trembling just enough to make the metal glint. When you looked back down at his face, his eyes caught yours. They looked strange—not just dark, but shimmery, like the surface of the river under a full moon, shifting with a light that didn't come from your kitchen lamp.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Your eyes," you whispered, leaning in a fraction closer despite the internal alarms screaming in your head. "They look... weird."
Bo’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smirk. "That’s because I’m Chinese, little bird."
Your eyes widened at the dry wit, a small, startled laugh escaping your throat. "I know that. I mean they’re—um... shimmery. Like there’s a fire in ‘em."
Bo just hummed, a deep sound in his chest. Your gaze dropped from his eyes to his body—the broadness of his chest, the way his shirt clung—and for a second, a thought so filthy it made your ears hot flashed through your mind. You didn't say a word, just bit your lip and threaded the needle with a sharp, decisive tug.
"If that alcohol didn't hurt," you warned, leaning over him so your breath fanned across the hard line of his shoulder, "this definitely will. Bullet’s out, but I gotta close the door behind it."
You pushed the needle through the torn skin.
Suddenly, a large, cool hand clamped onto your inner thigh.
You froze, the needle halfway through his skin, your breath hitching in your throat. His grip was firm, his palm heavy and certain against the soft skin just above your knee. You could feel the heat radiating from his fingers now, the weight of him anchored to you.
"It hurts," he rasped, though his face remained a mask of tranquility. "Hurry up."
You nodded dumbly as wetness began pooling between your legs. His hands were massive, the veins standing out like mountain ridges. He squeezed your thigh—just a little, just enough to make your pulse jump—as you pulled the thread taut.
He inhaled deeply, a long, dragging breath that made his chest expand. You thought it was the pain, but Bo’s eyes were half-closed, his nostrils flaring. He wasn't bracing for the needle; he was drinking you in. You smelled like the rain coming off the Delta, like the sweet, dusty scent of dried herbs in the rafters, and the intoxicating, metallic spice of your own racing blood. To him, you were a feast.
You stitched as fast as you could, your fingers flying, trying not to focus on the way his hand was subtly, almost imperceptibly sliding an inch higher on your thigh with every stitch. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but it was being smothered by a want you couldn't name.
"Okay," you gasped, your voice sounding higher, more breathless than you intended. "Okay. Done." You tied the knot and nipped the thread with your teeth, your face inches from his, the scent of him overwhelming your senses.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"Y-you're welcome," you stammered, the words tripping over the frantic rhythm of your heart.
Bo didn't let go. Instead, he reached out with his other hand, large and cooling, and hooked it behind the back of your other thigh. He slid his fingers under the hem of your torn dress and pulled you forward, dragging you between his knees.
He was still sitting, his head level with your chest, looking up at you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping the very marrow from your bones. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin at the back of your leg—calloused, rough, and stained with the dark, drying iron of the men he’d slaughtered. It sent a shiver up your spine that had nothing to do with the room's humidity and everything to do with the predatory heat radiating from him.
"You're a kind woman," he said, his voice dropping into an intimate register that made your body ache.
"You too," you replied, your brain fumbling for any shred of logic to hold onto. Then the absurdity of the statement hit you. "I mean... obviously you ain't a woman."
Your eyes trailed down, unbidden. You followed the line of his flat, hard stomach to the unmistakable bulge straining against the dark fabric of his trousers. It was thick, prominent, and pulsed with a life that seemed at odds with the "dead man" stories. Your heart nearly stopped, a cold spike of fear warring with a shameful heat.
"Oh! Lord—I—I’m sorry," you blurted out, your face hot with embarrassment as you jerked your eyes back up to the ceiling, focusing on a spiderweb in the corner just to keep from looking at the monster’s hunger.
Bo didn't look offended. He let out an amused, dark laugh—a sound that was rich, deep, and surprisingly warm, like honey poured over gravel. He let go of your thighs, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second too long, and stood up in one fluid motion.
The transition was so fast it seemed to skip a frame of reality, making the kitchen floorboards groan and creak under the sudden shift of his weight. He loomed over you, his frame completely blotting out the yellow light of the kitchen lamp, casting a long, predatory shadow that swallowed you whole.
"It’s okay," he murmured, that mischievous, knowing smirk returning. It was a look that made your stomach turn—a perfidious mix of horror and a raw, magnetic attraction you couldn't suppress. "I've seen women look at me before. But never one who could sew me up without fainting."
You cleared your throat, clutching the blood-stained rag so hard your knuckles hurt. "Well, I ain't most women. And you ain't most men."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not. Now, show me where I can wash this filth off. I can taste the dirt in my pores."
You nodded, your legs feeling like jelly. You led him out of the kitchen, your back feeling exposed and vulnerable with him walking behind you. The floorboards groaned under Bo’s weight as you led him down the narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air in your small house felt different now—charged, like the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm breaks the heat. His silent, looming presence seemed to swallow the flickering light of the wall-mounted oil lamps.
You stopped at the door to the washroom, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and the heavy scent of lye soap. "In here," you said, pointing to the galvanized tub in the center of the floor.
You didn't turn around to face him.
You couldn't.
"I’ll—I’ll get the water hot for the tub," you murmured to the wall. "I reckon I got some of my brother’s old work shirts and trousers in the chest. You can wear 'em while I wash yours."
A dark thought flickered in the back of your mind—that a man like him probably didn't need to borrow clothes; he likely just took what he wanted from the bodies he left behind. But you shook it away, choosing to believe in the quiet, euphonious lilt of his voice instead of the carnage you’d seen in the gravel. You wanted him to be a decent man, even if you knew deep down he was something else entirely.
ᦏ᪔
In the small, cramped washroom, you hauled the heavy kettle you’d left on the stove, pouring the steaming water into the metal tub. The steam rose in heavy, humid plumes, turning the small bathroom into a hothouse that smelled of woodsmoke and the iron tang of the well water. You felt the dampness immediately; the fine coils of your hair began to tighten and frizz against your neck, the edges of your kitchen-wrap softening into a halo of wild texture in the heat.
Bo stood in the doorway, a solid weight against the flickering light. He began to strip with a slow, crude lack of shame. The ruined white shirt made a wet, sticky sound as he peeled it away—a sound that sat heavy in your stomach.
Your eyes betrayed you, trailing over the map of his back. He was a landscape of fit, scarred muscle, shoulders broad enough to block out the world, tapering down to a waist that looked lean and lethal. The jagged lines of old wars—some silver, some deep and puckered—were smeared now with the fresh, drying blood of the men he’d just finished. It looked like war paint against his skin, dark and drying in the air.
His nostrils flared. He drew a breath so deep his ribs expanded like an animal scenting the wind. His gaze fixed on the back of your neck with a focused hunger. The steam was acting as a messenger, carrying your scent directly to him—the sun-dried cotton of your dress, the earthy sweetness of your skin, and the sharp, copper sting of the blood where the gravel had torn your knees.
"Wash me," he commanded.
The words weren't a request. They were a low, alluring rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into the soles of your bare feet.
You gripped the washcloth until your fingers ached, the water dripping hot and stinging against your knuckles. You hesitated, every instinct screaming at you to run out the back door and never look back. The air in the room was too thin, too hot.
"You got two hands, Bo," you said, trying to summon the ghost of your courage. "I already did the hard part with the needle and thread. I ain't your maid."
"It’s the least you can do," he countered. He took a step into the room, the space shrinking instantly. His eyes locked onto yours, hooded and unblinking. "I took a bullet in my dominant arm for you, sweetheart. Hard to scrub when you're stitched up tight."
You tried to find your spine, forcing a huff of indignation even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "You’re a monster. I reckon you got enough of that super-human devilry in you to handle a bar of soap without my help."
The smirk vanished instantly. His face dropped, a glum expression crossed his features, making the room feel even smaller and colder despite the steam. He looked at you with a startling vulnerability that felt more dangerous than his anger. It was the look of a thing that had forgotten it could be perceived as anything other than a threat to be put down.
"Is that all you see?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave into a bleak, hollow place. "A monster?"
A pang of guilt pricked at your chest. You looked at him—really looked, past the blood and the horror. You followed the line of his jaw, the tired curve of his eyes, and the way the blood was matted into his dark hair like a crown of thorns.
He looked exhausted.
He looked lonely.
"I didn't say that's all," you whispered, the words coming out softer and more regretful than you intended. "But you are what you are, Bo."
To break the smothering weight of the silence, you reached for the jar of dried lavender and bath salts on the shelf. You threw a handful into the steaming tub, the floral scent blooming instantly in a desperate attempt to mask the smell of the road and the kill.
"This should take the edge off the pain," you murmured, your hands shaking as you stirred the water. "Help you sleep."
Bo didn't look away from you. His hands moved to the buttons of his trousers. The metallic clink of the fly being undone sent a jolt of white-hot heat straight to your thighs, a pulse that matched the frantic, ragged beat of your heart. You watched, paralyzed, as his stomach muscles raised, the dark hair disappearing into the waistband as he pushed the heavy denim down his hips.
"I—um—I’m going to get the clean clothes," you blurted out, the panic finally winning. Your pulse was a wild, trapped thing in your throat, and you felt like you were about to drown in the steam. "I’ll leave 'em right outside the door so you can get in the water. And If you really can't do it yourself, I'll help. Promise."
You scrambled out of the room, your face burning and your skin damp with the ghost of his heat. You instantly regretted the last part of your statement. Why had you even offered? Maybe it was the lingering sting of guilt from your earlier words, a clumsy and impulsive attempt to balance the scales. Maybe it was the heavy silence that followed, making you desperate to fill the air. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you.
Those brown eyes held a pull you couldn’t quite name, an unspoken gravity that made you want to do things for him, to be the person who fixed whatever was broken. You didn't have to look back to know his eyes were on your spine, trailing the path of your retreat like a hunter watching a deer vanish into the brush. You stood in the hallway, shivering in the sudden draft, while the scent of lavender and iron lingered in your lungs like a curse.
ᦏ᪔
The kitchen was quiet, save for the rhythmic, wet shuck-shuck of the wooden scrub board. You stood hunched over the bucket, your knuckles raw and stinging from the harsh lye soap. You watched, mesmerized and appalled, as the water turned a deep plum color—the blood of the men Bo had slaughtered bleeding out of the white fabric of his shirt.
Your mind was a hornet’s nest, buzzing with images you couldn't unsee. Every time you blinked, you heard it again: the metallic clink-clink of that man’s belt, the weight of him pinning you down, the taste of Mississippi dirt and your own copper blood in your mouth. And then... the shift.
The sound of Bo’s arrival hadn't been human. It was the sound of a butcher shop at midnight—the wet, splintering crunch of bone, the melon-dropping thud of a head hitting the gravel, and that gargling, truncated scream. You had witnessed four murders. You had seen a man’s head taken off with the casual ease of someone plucking a cotton boll.
I’m patchin' up a demon, you thought, your rhythm slowing until the scrub board went silent. I’m washin' his sins off his clothes like he’s my own kin. A cold shiver raced down your spine, clashing with the sweltering heat of the stove.
Had you made a terrible mistake?
You had invited a thing into your home that didn't eat, didn't breathe right, and carried the stench of the grave beneath a veil of lavender. You were a lone woman in a sharecropper shack with a monster. If he decided he was still hungry, there wasn't a lock in the Delta that could keep him out.
But then, you remembered the way he’d gripped your thigh—not with the bruising, entitlement of the men in the lot, but with a anchoring certainty. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world of ghosts. The fear was there, sharp as a razor, but it was being crowded out by a thick, honey-slow heat. You knew that look in his shimmery eyes. He wanted to ruin you, yes—but he wanted to be the only thing that ever touched you again.
And God help you, you were ready to let him.
The water in the bucket was too foul to continue. You needed to change it and get the rinsing rack you’d left in the washroom. You wiped your damp, soapy hands on your apron, the fabric rough against your sensitized skin, and walked down the hall.
You knocked softly, your heart beginning that familiar, erratic dance against your ribs. "Bo?"
"Come in," his voice drifted through the wood.
You pushed the door open. The steam hit you first, a thick, comforting fog that smelled of the lavender and salt you’d thrown in. But underneath the flowers was the unmistakable scent of him—rain, cold earth, and a hint of ozone. Bo was submerged in the galvanized tub, his long legs folded uncomfortably against the metal.
His wet hair was pushed back, revealing the stark, haunting beauty of his face. His tan skin glistened with water and oil, the blood finally gone, leaving him looking like a polished jade statue.
"I just came for the scrubbing rack," you whispered. You tried to keep your eyes on the wall, but they drifted, fixed on the way the water beaded on his collarbones and the muscles of his chest. "For your clothes."
Bo didn't move. He just watched you, his eyes shimmery and dark, tracking the rise and fall of your chest. "The clothes can wait, little bird. 'Member what I said?"
"Oh... yeah," you breathed.
You walked toward him, the floorboards creaking. There was a mesmerizing charm in his gaze that felt like an illusion of safety.
As you reached the edge of the tub, Bo’s hand shot out—the uninjured one—and caught your wrist. His skin was cool, a shocking contrast to the steaming water, and his grip was a firm cuff. He guided you down until your knees hit the damp floorboards with a soft thud.
"You made a promise," he murmured, pressing the hot washcloth into your hand. "Be thorough. I don't want a speck of dirt or blood left on me."
He leaned back, exposing the wet planes of his stomach and the strong column of his throat. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking and predatory. "Don't let your shyness keep you from seeing where you need to clean," he warned, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "I want to feel every bit of that kindness you claimed to have."
You took a shaky breath, your fingers trembling as you pressed the cloth to his shoulder. You began to scrub, tracing the lines of his muscles. Bo watched you with an intense focus. He could smell the way your pulse had spiked, the scent of your arousal blooming like a night-flower in the cramped room.
He reached out, his large hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back. "Look at me while you do it," he commanded softly. "I want to see you realize what you're touchin'."
The steam had become a lavender-scented disinhibitor. As you moved the cloth lower, your knuckles brushed against the solid weight of him, submerged in the soapy water. You felt the thick, hard length of his dick stir beneath the surface, pulsing against your hand.
Bo let out a long, shuddering sigh. He didn't pull away. He just watched you, his shimmery eyes blown wide. Your lips were parted with a mix of curiosity and a hunger you couldn't hide anymore. You were gentle, your soapy hands sliding over his slick skin, but the more you cleaned, the harder he became.
Bo’s hand clamped onto your waist. Before you could gasp, he hauled you over the rim. The water surged over the sides, splashing onto the floorboards with a heavy thud, as you landed in the tub with him. It was cramped; the metal bit into your hip, and your dress was instantly a heavy, sodden weight clinging to your skin.
Bo’s grip was absolute. He held your waist with one hand, his fingers digging into your flesh, while his other arm draped casually over the edge, his veiny hand twitching.
You leaned in, your lips trembling as you pressed a tentative kiss to his.
Bo didn't do tentative. He moaned into your mouth, his hand pulling you flush against his chest. He took over the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperate hunger that tasted of ancient promises. You felt his dick pressing between your thighs. You ground down, the wet fabric of your dress providing a friction that made your toes curl into the metal.
His hand slid beneath the wet hem of your dress, his fingers ghosting over your thighs until they hooked into the waistband of your panties. With one effortless tug, he ripped the fabric. The sound of the tearing cotton was a sharp snap of finality. He flung the ruined scrap into the corner.
He pulled back just enough to nip your bottom lip. When you looked down, your heart nearly stopped. His fangs were fully descended—ragged, ivory daggers that looked like fresh bone. They were jagged, lethal, and capable of tearing the life from you in a single heartbeat.
You felt a spike of pure fear, and Bo felt it too. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "Relax, little bird. I've got you. Don't let the teeth scare you... I'll only bite if you ask me too."
He licked a slow, hot path across your lip before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned, your head falling back as you grinded onto his dick. It was perfectly positioned, stimulating you until you were seeing sparks.
"Put it in for me," he rasped.
He began to kiss a trail down your neck, the points of his fangs dragging across your skin, leaving thin, white lines that stung and burned. You reached down, your fingers fumbling through the soapy water until you found him. He was big—thick and pulsing with a life that didn't belong to a dead man. You lined him up, your breath catching, and slowly, you started to sink down.
The stretch was deep, a forceful opening that made your vision swim. You felt every ridge, every inch of him as he filled you.
"Mghn, fuck..." you breathed, your nails carving small crescents into his skin.
"All the way," Bo commanded, his breath hot against your throat. "Take it all, sweetness. Every bit of it."
You pushed through the resistance until you bottomed out. He hit a wall with a blunt pressure that made your stomach ache with the sheer fullness. You sat there for a moment, impaled and trembling, while the water lapped at your waists and the steam curled around your heads.
"There," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup your face. "Now you know exactly what a monster feels like inside you." Bo’s damp hand stayed clamped on your face, his thumb dragging roughly across your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the slick, red inner flesh of your mouth.
He watched the way you trembled, your breath coming in shallow, broken hitches as your body tried—and failed—to accommodate the sheer, unyielding stretch of him.
He shifted his hips, a slow, teasing roll that forced you to feel every ridge and pulsing vein of him. You let out a high, thin whimper, your hands flying to his chest to push him away, to find some air, but his weight was like the Mississippi mud—heavy, ancient, and impossible to move.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, condescending purr that vibrated through your joined heat.
"All that fire in the gravel lot, spittin’ venom at those crackers... and here you are now, shakin’ like a leaf just ‘cause a real man’s fillin’ you up. You’re a pathetic little thing, ain’t you? All mouth and no room for the consequences. You think you’re brave ‘cause you sew up a wound? You’re just a fragile woman who doesn't know how to leave things be."
The mean edge in his voice made your stomach flip, a toxic cocktail of shame and heat. "Shut—uhn... shut up," you gasped, your head rolling back as he thrust upward—a sharp, blunt jab that hit your g-spot with the force of a hammer, making your vision streak with white light.
"Make me," he challenged, his eyes shimmering with a wicked, gold-flecked shimmer that made your blood run hotter.
He didn't give you a chance to answer. He reached for the straps of your dress. He didn't bother being gentle; he ripped the fabric down, the wet slap of the ruined dress hitting the floorboards echoed loud in the cramped room. Your bra followed, snapped and flung aside until you were bare, your skin glistening with sweat and lavender-water in the flickering light.
Bo’s breath hitched as he leaned in, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue rough and scorching as he swirled it around your nipple. He sucked deep, his fangs grazing the sensitive peak just enough to draw a pinprick of blood—a jolt of pain-pleasure that traveled straight to your clit.
He thrust again, slow and agonizing, his hips grinding into your soft thighs with a crude force. You reached out, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer as you found a dulcet rhythm. You began to bounce, the water in the tub sloshing violently over the rim with every downward stroke, soaking the floor.
Bo threw his head back, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat. He let you ride him, but his hands weren't gentle. They moved to your chest, his palms engulfing your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh with a bruising strength that made you gasp. His thumbs found your nipples, pinching and twisting until you cried out.
"That's it," he rasped, his fingers digging into your hip bones to anchor you as you hammered yourself down. "Ride it, baby. Show me how much you want it. You like the way I feel, don't you? Like I’m stretchin’ you out so far you’ll never close right again? You’re lucky I found you, or those men would’ve torn you apart... but I’m the one actually doin' it, ain't I?"
He sped up his own hips, his thrusts turning quick and short, hitting you with a force that made the galvanized tub rattle against the floorboards. You felt his fangs scrape against your shoulder as he leaned in to bite at your skin, not breaking it yet, just marking you with the weight of his hunger.
"You're so wet," he groaned against your ear, his breath smelling of lavender and the copper of his own blood. "Drippin' all into the water. Shit... I'm gonna make sure you can't walk for a week without—ahh—feelin' me between your legs, remindin' you who you let in."
You nodded, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice nothing but a broken, humid whisper. "Y-you feel so good, Bo... Lord, you feel so good."
Bo let out a sound that was half-growl, half-purr, his chest vibrating against yours. He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and the iron-sweetness of his. His tongue sweeping deep as he thrust upward, meeting your downward motion halfway. The wet slap of your bodies meeting echoed off the damp wooden walls.
"Mhmm, I bet I do," he mumbled against your lips, his drawl thick and heavy with condescension. "Better than anythin’ you ever imagined in that quiet little life of yours, ain’t it? You spend your days haulin’ water a-and pickin’ okra, never dreamin’ a demon from the dark would come and stretch you out like this, sweet girl."
You tilted your head, your tongue flicking out to lick across the sharp, jagged ivory of his teeth. The danger of it—the knowledge that he could snap your neck in a second—made your blood sing. "You're a mean one, Bo Chow," you breathed, your eyes fluttering. "But you can be as mean as you w-want, as long as you keep fucking me."
His eyes flashed, a shimmery darkness. Without a word, he gripped your waist and stood up. The water cascaded off his body, splashing onto the floorboards in a heavy torrent. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs dangling for a split second before he flipped you over the cold, narrow edge of the galvanized tub. Your stomach hit the metal, your hands scrambling for purchase on the damp floor as you were forced into a deep arch. Bo was behind you instantly, his shadow swallowing you whole.
He didn't wait. He grabbed your hips—his fingers digging deep—and drove back home in one violent thrust that bottomed out with a wet squelch.
"Ahhn—!" You cried out, your fingers clawing at the wood.
He was fucking you like you owed him a debt you could never pay, his movements fast and relentless. It was rough, the friction of the wet skin and the deep, forceful stretch of him making your vision streak with color. He was marking you from the inside out, claiming every inch of your internal space.
"Look back at me," he ordered, as he reached back and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to your ass. One that made your skin tingle and your pussy clench tight around him. "Look at what I'm doin' to you. See how you take it."
You twisted your neck, looking over your shoulder with blown-out eyes. You watched as his shaft disappeared into you and reappeared, glistening with your combined slickness. You watched your own flesh stretch and yield, your hole squeezing him with every pulse.
Bo let out a long, ragged moan. "Oh my... look at that. Look at how you're grabbin' me. You're s-so greedy for it. Just a hungry little hole for the haint." He leaned down, his chest pressing into your back, and whispered something dark and filthy in Cantonese—the sounds sharp and ancient against your ear. Then, his voice dropped back into that Delta rasp. "I bet if I sink these teeth into that pretty neck of yours, you'd squeeze me so tight I’d never get out. I could drink you dry while I fill you up.
He kept pounding into you, his pace turning frantic, his breath hitching. The overstimulation was too much; you reached back, your hand pressing into his lower stomach, trying to find some leverage against the assault.
"Bo, w-wait... slow down," you sobbed, your eyes teary, your lips pouting in a desperate plea. "Please, it's too much..."
He paused, but he didn't pull out. He looked down at your face—the tears, the flushed skin, the absolute wreck he’d made of you—and a slow, possessive smirk crossed his lips. He reached out and folded one of your arms behind your back, pinning it there with his large hand, and began to fuck you slow and deep.
It was worse this way. Every inch of him was felt, every ridge of his dick dragging against your sensitive walls. You watched as your own cream began to coat his skin, dripping down his thighs and into the pink-tinted water on the floor. Bo reached around with his free hand, spreading your cheeks wide, his thumb tracing the seam of your ass with a strange gentleness.
"You're a mess," he murmured, watching the way you took him. "A beautiful, wet mess. I’m gonna eat this pretty pussy later, once I’m done usin’ it. I’m gonna taste every bit of what I put inside you. You’re gonna miss me for days."
Your hand drifted down to your clit, your fingers finding the swollen, sensitive nub and rubbing in frantic circles. The slow, deep thrusts were driving you to the edge of a cliff.
"Can you take it faster, baby?" Bo rasped, his hand leaving your back to wrap firmly around the base of your neck. "You want me to finish in you? You want the monster to fill you up?"
"Yes," you gasped, your head falling forward. "Yes, Bo! Please! Just do it!"
He gripped your neck, anchoring you as he began to pound into you with everything he had. The sounds were wet and violent, the tub rattling against the floor as he reached for his own peak. You felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat that crashed over you just as he delivered one last deep thrust that pinned you against the metal.
You screamed into the empty washroom, your body convulsing as you came in wave after wave of paralyzing pleasure. A second later, Bo let out a low moan, his body locking up as he erupted inside you. You felt the scorching heat of him, the thick, pulsing ropes of his release filling you to the absolute brim, making you feel like you were overflowing.
He stayed there for a long time, his forehead resting against your back, both of you panting in the cooling steam. When he finally pulled out, the sound was wet and heavy. You stayed slumped over the tub, your legs shaking, watching as his thick, white cum began to leak out of you, dripping slowly onto the dark, damp floorboards of your home.
Bo stood over you, his eyes still shining, his thumb reaching out to catch a stray drop of his seed from your thigh before bringing it to his lips, tasting you one last time.
ᦏ᪔
The scent of lye soap and fresh floor wax had mostly chased away the copper sting of blood and the heavy musk of the night before. Your small house looked right again—quilts snapped straight, the hearth swept clean, and the kitchen table scrubbed down for the arrival of your brother, his wife, and their little ones. But despite the domestic order, the air still felt charged, humming with the ghost of the intimacy that had unfolded in the washroom.
Bo sat at your small kitchen table, draped in a set of your brother’s old work clothes. The denim was faded and the shirt was tight across his broad, scarred shoulders, but he wore them with a strange, effortless dignity. He looked like any other man from the Delta, save for the stillness in his posture and the way his eyes seemed to swallow the afternoon light.
You leaned against the counter, smoothing your apron, feeling the dull ache between your thighs—a constant, thrumming reminder of exactly what he was.
"Everything’s ready," you said, your voice a little raspy. "I reckon you can stay on and rest a bit longer, but you got to be gone before the crickets start their real loud chirpin'. My brother and his kin... they can’t find you here. Especially not lookin’ like you do."
Bo didn't answer right away. He stood up, his frame making the kitchen feel small again, and crossed the room with that fluid, silent stride. He stepped behind you, wrapping his large, cool arms around your waist. He pulled you back against his chest, his chin resting in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath, cold and smelling faintly of the lavender salts, against your skin.
"I’ll be gone before the first headlight hits the gravel, little bird," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. He didn't bite, but the threat—the promise—of his fangs was always there. "When can I see you again?"
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes. "Whenever you want, Bo. I'm sure you know the way."
He let out a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through your spine. He squeezed your waist once, firmly, before letting go. "Thank you again. For the thread. For not callin' the law or the lynch mobs." His eyes drifted to the window, looking out toward the cypress trees. "I’ll pay you back for the trouble. Name your price."
You didn't hesitate. You knew the value of your silence and your safety in this world. You named a price—a bold amount of silver that would keep your family fed and the taxes paid for a long, long time.
Bo let out a short, dry bark of a laugh, his shimmery eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re a greedy woman," he said, but there was a deep, underlying respect in his tone. He reached out, his thumb dragging across your cheek. "I like that. I used to own a store myself, back before the world got so dark. I know the cost of doin' business. You'll have your silver."
ᦏ᪔
The house was full of the sounds of family later that night—the high-pitched giggles of your nieces, the heavy thud of your brother’s boots, and the soft chatter of his wife as they settled into the guest rooms. You played your part, serving food and enjoying family time, but your mind was stuck in the quiet shadows of the washroom.
When you finally crawled into your own bed, the sheets felt cold and lonely. You fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted by the weight of the secrets you were carrying.
In the dead of the night, the air in your room shifted. There was no sound, just a subtle change in pressure.
Bo appeared at your bedside like a shadow detached from the wall. He stood over you for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, and pressed a lingering, feather-light kiss to your forehead.
He reached out, his long fingers snagging a small scarf you’d left on the nightstand—one you’d used to tie back your hair. He brought it to his nose, inhaling the scent of you that clung to the fabric: the peach-sweetness, the earth, and the lingering spice of the night before. He tucked it into his pocket, a piece of you to take back into the dark.
When you woke the next morning, the room was empty and the sun was beginning to bleed over the horizon. You sat up, shivering slightly, and noticed a small piece of paper weighted down by a small sack on your vanity.
You picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and slanted.
The Delta is a dangerous place, dear. Keep your doors locked and your fire high. I'll be back for the rest of what I owe you.— B.C.
You clutched the silver coin in your hand, feeling its cold weight, and looked out at the swamp. Bo Chow was gone, but you knew that he was still watching.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ; Headcaons on how I think San would be if he was a stoner.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ; Stoner!San x Fem!Reader.
☆ — 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 312. ☆ — 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : Smut. ☆ — 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Marijuana intox, swearing, drug selling, lap sitting, makeouts, dry humping, whimpering, love bites, cumming in pants, and submissive!san.
♡ — 𝐕𝐢𝐩 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ; @kissmatz @eggielix @miisanthropology @mywonuverse send a ask to be added or removed!
Stoner!san who always has something on him, whether it’s a blunt or a pen. He will get high anytime, and anywhere.
Stoner!san who glares at you whenever you take too long to pass it back to him, he gets mad and tells you “you’re fuckin up the rotation, man. It’s puff, puff, pass. Everyone knows that.”
Stoner!san who tries to act like he doesn’t have to cough, just to walk away for five minutes to ‘get a drink’ but he never comes back with one, and you can hear him almost hacking up a lung in the kitchen.
Stoner!san who greens out really easily, passing out for almost an entire day afterwards as well.
Stoner!san who was supposed to help his friend sell off weed, just to end up smoking everything he was given.
Stoner!san who stares at you mid session and doesn’t say anything, but he does giggle a lot.
— “I got new shit.” “How new?” “Like just bought it type of new.”
Stoner!san who likes when you sit in his lap, letting his hand rest on your ribs just to end up trying to cop a feel.
Stoner!san who’s favorite this is making out with you when he’s high, claiming that it just feels better. Meaning it gets him horny easier than it would be if he was sober.
Stoner!san who guides your hips to grind against his bulge, burying his face into your neck so you can hear his little whimpers.
Stoner!san who gets so needy that he’ll accidentally leave bite marks along your neck and collar bone.
Stoner!san who cums in his pants before you even actually get to do anything, claiming it was the weed’s fault.
Stoner!san who continues to buck his hips up against you, telling you to use him however you please to.
you can't tell me that mingi doesn’t look like he gives spine-demolishing backshots. have you seen how he moves his fucking hips during say my name? have you seen him dance to rocky?? have you seen him act like a whore while doing san’s part in cyberpunk??? have you seen this man be a whore on stage???? he's the type to purposefully overstim you with his fingers and mouth, just so you squirm and writhe when he finally slides into thick cock into your warm hole. real mean with it too; “aww look at you, trying to run away.” while he grabs your hips and pulls you back into him. wants you crying, screaming, and creaming on his dick. bonus points if you squirt on him. but be warned; doing so will only make him fuck you harder. if you start squirting, expect to do it at least three more times. mingi is always hungry and you’re his favourite meal 🎀
i love to headcanon that bucky barnes takes his time when prepping you. he loves foreplay, so fucking much that he could spend hours on his knees just pleasuring you
and that’s not to say that he didn’t want you
no.
he yearned for you when he’s on his knees, his tongue in your cantor his fingers knuckle deep. having you cum over and over and over again on everything but his cock
and he loved watching your body react to him
he could wait forever if it meant he was able to pull orgasm after orgasm from you — those beautiful moans slipping from your lips and going right to his cock always strained in his boxers
sometimes…he even forgets about getting off.
him laid out on his stomach with your thighs comfortably around his head. he’s been at it for hours and it’s soothing for the both of you, messily running your hands gently through his hair while whining and moaning here and there
the gentle gazes from him between your thighs as he eats you out slowly, methodically.
fuck. he even falls asleep at one point. you do too. just to wake back up with his fingers pumping slowly inside of you, sleepy moans from each of you
Synopsis: tiger hybrid Wooyoung has been looking for someone to carry his cubs for a long time. his bunny college classmate y/n seems like the perfect fit. he'll have you no matter what it takes-whether you agree or not.
tw: predator/prey dynamics, alpha tiger hybrid wy, bunny hybrid reader, dubcon, dacryphilia, knotting, semi-public sex, come inflation, breeding, mating bites. If you don’t like, don’t read or comment because you’ll be blocked, thank ya!
Wooyoung has seen you around multiple times, a pretty little bunny with your big wide eyes and cute floppy ears that you’d use to cover them whenever you’d get startled. Wooyoung’s never believed in perfect mates, but from the first time he laid eyes on you, he just knew you were meant for him—made to be his, to take his bite and carry his mark, to carry his cubs. He just had to have you, and he wouldn’t stop at anything to get you.
You were way too precious and innocent of a bunny for a predator as mischievous as him. Wooyoung could clearly see from the very beginning that you kept as far away from predators as possible. Your closest friends were all prey; he’s seen you walking around with them at your side multiple times. You were constantly together, and Wooyoung had yet to catch you on your own. That is, until now.
Granted, he didn’t think the first time he’d ever get to corner you would be in a public restroom during one of his free periods, but he’s always been an opportunist—and he was definitely going to take advantage of this situation. It’s very common for prey not to associate themselves with any predators, especially prey as fragile and easily startled as bunnies. Wooyoung knew you would never come anywhere near him willingly, especially not on your own, but that doesn’t stop him from creeping up behind you when he sees you dash for the bathrooms.
It’s easy for him to sneak in quietly after you, tiptoeing as he walks in front of every stall, noticing that only one of them is taken, which makes him smile. It’s just him and you, perfect.
With a pleased little hum, he leans against one of the sinks, crossing his arms over his chest, and waits. Taking a whiff of the air around, he sniffs past the smell of chlorine and focuses on the faint scent that makes his mouth water: warm milk and honey. The sweetest bunny. Wooyoung wonders if you taste as sweet as you smell. He’ll get to find out soon enough.
The toilet flushes, and Wooyoung’s toes wriggle in his shoes from impatience. He can’t wait to finally sink his claws and teeth into your skin, to touch those fluffy ears and grip them tight between his fingers. He hums a low tune as he waits, and the previous sound of movement from behind the door instantly quiets down. That’s good. Wooyoung wants you to hear him, to know he’s here, waiting for you to come out and fall right into his arms. He’s been waiting for this moment for a long time.
When the door finally cracks open, you tentatively peek your head out, big bunny eyes taking in your surroundings. As soon as they land on Wooyoung, they are completely overtaken by fright, and you let out a shaky gasp, loudly shutting the door once more. It’s not as if Wooyoung hadn’t expected that, but the reaction still makes him chuckle.
The tiger knows how light on his feet he can be, even your big bunny ears would most likely not be able to pick out the sound of his tiptoeing as he maneuvers his way to your bathroom stall. As carefully as possible, he presses his ear against the door. The sound of your rapid breathing makes him smile. You must be so scared—poor little bunny, cornered by the big bad tiger, with no chance to escape. Wooyoung’s gums ache with the need to dig his fangs right into your skin.
He doesn’t say a word, staying as quiet as a mouse for a long five minutes until you have calmed down enough. Wooyoung is known for his patience; he could sit right here and wait all day if he had to. Of course, he’d prefer it if you would come out sooner and he could quell the urge to be rammed balls deep inside you as fast as possible, but he’s still going to wait as long as he must. He can offer you that much.
When the lock on the door finally comes off again, Wooyoung’s ears perk up. His muscles tense, and he takes a long whiff of the air around. Acrid milk, no longer as sweet as it first was. You must be frightened out of your mind.
As soon as the door creaks open and the only part peeking out are your eyes, Wooyoung’s lips curl into a grin. The sight of the tiger so close makes you almost scream. Wooyoung’s arm shoots forward to stop the door from slamming shut again.
“Hi, bunny.”
His body slides swiftly inside the stall, door locking behind him. Your eyes are wide, so wide you fear they might pop out of their sockets. Your ears flop down and stick to your cheeks, a sight Wooyoung finds way more endearing than he should. He licks his lips hungrily as he stares you down.
Your shrill scream of terror is quickly silenced when Wooyoung slaps a hand over your mouth. The skin on skin contact makes your eyes instantly fill with tears that stream down your face. Wooyoung tuts and hushes you with uncanny gentleness.
“There, there,” he whispers, grabbing a hold of your waist before you can try to move away in the limited space there is left. “Oh, no, don’t cry.” He tuts in faux concern, peeling his hand off of your mouth just so he can pet over your ears—something you don’t find comfort in in the slightest.
You’re shaking like a leaf in Wooyoung’s arms, too scared to try to fight back or move away—just as he intended for it to be. You’re even more perfect than Wooyoung imagined.
You bring your hands up to tug your ears over your eyes, small hiccups falling from your mouth as you cry, wishing this was just a bad dream you could wake up from. The sight makes Wooyoung coo out loud.
“So cute,” he squishes your cheeks, and another gasp of fright leaves your mouth. You tug your ears even harder over your eyes. Wooyoung is concerned for a brief moment about them hurting.
“Can you look at me, bun?” When you do nothing but cry harder, Wooyoung begins to get a little frustrated. “Come on, just a peek.” His voice is still gentle, but the grip on your waist is getting stronger. “Look at alpha.”
Wooyoung is not one to proclaim his status out loud, mostly just lets his actions speak for themselves, but the word instantly has you dropping your hands from your ears, letting them flop uselessly. Wooyoung is pretty sure you’re not even breathing as you peer from behind your fluffy ears at him. Of course, the title would have anyone cowering before him. You’re just a small bunny, you’re in no place to try to defy a tiger, that’s an alpha at that.
Your teeth rattle inside your mouth as you finally meet Wooyoung’s eyes.
“There you go,” he smiles mischievously, smoothing a hand over your forehead to pull your ears back, which he admittedly tugs on a little harder than he should. Your gasp is a worthy reward. “Good bun.”
You swallow hard and try to stop your hiccups enough to be able to speak. “I–I have t–to go.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, stuttering over each syllable. Wooyoung frowns, taking a step forward, which makes you take one back. The tiger’s hands are still on your hips, his eyes sharp on your face. “Go? Already?”
You nod rapidly and exhale a loud breath when your back hits the wall, with no place left to move. You look around helplessly, knowing there’s no way for you to escape, but still hoping.
“Can’t let you go just yet,” Wooyoung says. “I need you to do something for me first.”Your bottom lip wobbles. “C–can’t.” Your head shakes from side to side desperately.
Wooyoung sighs dreamily. You’re so precious. “Yes, you can,” he speaks sweetly. “It’s so easy, will only take a little while if you’re good and do as I say.”
Wooyoung would take his time if he could—fuck you slowly until your cries and begs were no longer ones of fright, but of want. Knot you over and over until you were so full of his seed it would be impossible for it not to catch. Bend you in each and every way until your little body aches in places it has never ached before. Wooyoung’s eyes glow a bright gold with all the thoughts swimming through his head. The sight makes your breathing come to a stop.
The alpha licks over his lips. “I need you…” he trails a finger down your cheek, softly grabbing onto one of your ears and petting it lightly. “To carry something for me.”
You seem completely taken aback, your fear melting into confusion. “C–carry?”
Wooyoung beams, “Yes, carry! Think you can do that?”
Your nose twitches as you bring a sweater paw up to rub over it. Wooyoung could eat you right up. “M’ a strong bunny…” The whisper is so quiet, it’s almost as if you say it to yourself to spur yourself on.
Wooyoung laughs, head thrown back, his teeth on full display. The sight of sharp incisors makes you cower back even more against the wall. “Good, Very good.” Wooyoung is still lightly chuckling when he focuses his attention back on you. “Then it’s settled.”
Suddenly, his features turn stoic. The lightheartedness is gone, and the small amount of relief you had felt disappears as well. The hands at your waist become harsh, fingertips pushing into your skin until he’s gotten a good enough grip to turn you around, manhandling you until your front is pressed to the wall.
You cry out loud, “B–but,” your breathing is so fast, you might just send yourself into overdrive. Wooyoung’s nose pushes against your neck, breathing in your scent. his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Y–you said—”
“I said?” Wooyoung rumbles, chest vibrating against your back.
You shriek and feel your eyes fill with fresh tears when the alpha’s fingers grab ahold of your skirt, swiftly tugging it down your hips and down your legs in one swift move. Your bunny tail trembles in fear, legs instantly squeezing together when you feel the cold air of the bathroom hit your bare skin.
“N–No!” You whimper quickly, shaking your head, your ears flopping along with your movements.“No?” Wooyoung questions, not hesitating once before grinding his crotch right against your backside, his dick pressing between your ass cheeks. “But you agreed.”
You’re so scared, so confused. You thought maybe you would have to carry the tiger’s backpack or his books. You don’t know how him having his dick pressed right against your ass has anything to do with “carrying.” The alpha’s hand trails over your stomach, the skin feeling soft against his palm. Wooyoung presses closer, taking huge lungfulls of your scent, which makes his dick throb even harder inside his jeans.
“Your body is so perfect, bunny,” You cry out weakly when you hear the sound of his zipper coming undone. “You have to carry them for me.”You’re more confused than you’ve ever been in your entire life. Your cheek presses against the cold wall in front of you, a frown etched between your brows. “C–carry?”
“My cubs.” Wooyoung says. “Gonna carry my cubs so well for me, aren’t you? Give me a healthy litter?” Realization finally dawns on you. He wants you too….
“No!” You try to protest, but you still don’t dare move. You’re too scared to. Wooyoung’s breath is hot against your neck, teeth barely scratching the surface of your skin. He could take a bite straight out of you if he wanted to. Tear you to shreds. You wouldn’t even get to blink once before you’d be dead. You sob uncontrollably.
“No, alpha, p–please—”
Wooyoung moans, delighted to hear his title being called from your sweet lips. He tugs his cock out of his pants, hard and wet in the cold air of the bathroom stall, smacking lightly right over your shivering tail. “Yeah, there you go.” He groans, pulling your underwear down. “You can cry, sweet bunny.” He doesn’t hesitate to part your ass cheeks, pulling the skin taut, until both of your holes are winking at him. “Cry for your alpha.”
You gasp feeling utterly embarrassed as your body presses further against the wall as Wooyoung exams you. You bite back a whimper at the feeling. But the response is obvious in the way your pussy starts to drip. Wooyoung smiles when he touches it, only for his fingers to come back sticky.
“Look at you, so perfect.” The first intrusion of his finger makes you squeak, your ears instantly slapping back over your eyes. The feeling is so unexpected and sudden. Wooyoung wastes no time in opening you up. Three fingers sink inside of you until the last knuckle in mere seconds.
“Can’t, s–stop!” you sob, as your pussy grips around his fingers tight holding them hostage. They’re twisting and turning inside of you so good, touching places you could never reach, you feel your mouth go slack as Wooyoung's fingers continue with their onslaught.
“Yes, you can.” Wooyoung says, almost as if he’s chastising you for doubting yourself. You can do this. You can carry his cubs. You’re gonna do so well, the alpha is sure of it. “Oh—” With one solid thrust against your bundle of nerves, you come undone pussy squeezing around his fingers inside of you so tight, he swears under his breath. It’s so sudden it has you screaming, which makes Wooyoung slap a hand right over your mouth.
Any other day, he would’ve loved nothing more than to have you scream for him. But right now, you’re not exactly in the most ideal setting. He steadily massages his finger against that special spot inside of you, as you come down from your high. Wooyoung is going to mate you right here and now.
As soon as his fingers pull out of you, he sucks them into his own mouth, savoring the sweetness over his tongue. If he could, he’d eat you out for hours. He’d suckle against your clit until you’re crying from overstimulation, fuck you with his tongue until you’re silly from it. He marks that on his bucket list for later. The blunt head of his cock feels wide against your entrance. Too wide to even go in. You’re still shaking from the unexpected orgasm, babbling nonsense when you feel Wooyoung trying to push his way inside.
“N–no, wha–” you sniffle weakly, your knees feeling numb. “Alpha…” Wooyoung inhales sharply. One moment he’s pressing against the entrance of your pussy, the next he’s buried balls deep inside your tight little hole. The shriek you release is muffled by Wooyoung’s palm that presses over your mouth in anticipation. Your walls spasm around the sudden intrusion, trying their hardest to accommodate it.
You cry, loud and whiny, your tears falling on the back of Wooyoung’s hand as the alpha groans in your ear, a snarl getting caught in the back of his throat. You feel so warm, so wet, so impossibly tight. Wooyoung might be popping a knot a lot faster than he originally intended.
“Fuck yeah, there you go…” he exhales into a moan, slowly grinding his hips until his cock is nestled deep inside your cunt, filling you up to the hilt. “Taking your alpha so well.” You feel dizzy, your eyes swimming inside their sockets, gargling incoherent sounds as Wooyoung pulls almost all the way out, only to slam back in and push you harshly against the wall. You feel like you’re going to come again with the way Wooyoung is fucking you. You wouldn’t mind bearing his cubs if he keeps fucking you just like this.
Wooyoung takes his hand off your mouth just so he can tug on your bunny’s ears, he’s harsh in the way he pulls them until your head is leaning on his shoulder, you crying from the feeling. “You’re my good bunny, aren’t you?” He accompanies his words with a harsh thrust, followed by a steady rhythm that has you leaking like a faucet around his cock.
“Can you say it? Say I’m Woo’s bunny, hm?” Your muddled brain doesn’t even realize this is the first time you’re hearing the alpha’s name. All you know and feel right now is the pounding right against your sweet spot that has you seeing bright white. “W–woo. I’m–” you sniffle, drool slowly seeping past your lips. “Woo’s b–bunny!”
You cry in fright and tug at your own ears in search of comfort when the tiger’s fangs dig into your skin, breaking the surface. You bite on your own ear, nibbling on it to try and calm yourself down, the endorphins releasing inside your body making you lose your footing. If there weren’t strong arms wrapped around your waist, you would be a crumbled mess onto the ground.
The slap of Wooyoung’s balls is harsh against your pussy. You whine weakly when you feel him getting even larger inside of you, if that’s even possible. You gasp and your ear falls from your mouth when you feel something swell inside of you. “Gotta sit still.” Wooyoung exhales harshly, pulling back to lick over the punctures he’s made on your neck. “Sit still so it’ll take, yeah?” It takes you a good few seconds to realize what the tiger means.
Sit still so that you’re guaranteed to fall pregnant with the alpha’s cubs. You’re too delirious to think about the implications that come along with that. All you can do right now is whine weakly and thump your foot as Wooyoung drives continuously into you, threatening to push the swollen base of his cock right inside of your cervix.
"M' a good bun." You sob, sniffling over and over. "Gonna…babies. C–carry babies." You think about them: cute little cubs and possibly baby bunnies. It's everything you've ever wanted. You never thought it would happen so fast; you're entirely not prepared for it, barely in your second year of university, but the choice has already been made for you. You'll carry Wooyoung's cubs like the good little bunny you are, the good little bunny you were always meant to be.
"Fucking—" Wooyoung curses, a loud growl resonating against the walls as he drives his cock up to the hilt, nudging into your cervix, knot plopping in mercilessly. Tears and snot run down your face as you feel Wooyoung's come make home inside of you; your tummy swells from the copious amounts of it. You're so warm, so unbearably full, you cramp up from it, foot thumping uselessly. Nothing but Wooyoung's low moans and your incessant babbling echoes around the otherwise silent bathroom. Both of your breathing is loud, harsh, and labored.
Wooyoung suckles on the mark he's left on your neck. As he palms down over your swollen stomach, Wooyoung's chest vibrates with a content rumble. He can feel it, he knows it'll take. He's gonna have you pregnant and showing by next month's come. Wooyoung will have healthy and beautiful cubs by the end of the year, and along with it, a cute and obedient bunny as his mate.
Yunho and Mingi had been dating for quite a long time. It seemed they started loving each other back in middle school, confessed in high school, and began dating. They even enrolled in the same university. Literally everyone knew about their relationship by the time they started college. Everyone knew. And you did too. So what the hell were you doing, falling in love with your best friends?
Your interaction with them started gradually: you’d exchange a few words during shared lectures because you sat next to each other, then sometimes meet during breaks, sometimes in parks, and later at parties. Slowly but surely, you became their best friend. As friends, you really liked them. They were like two puppies who loved to cuddle. You loved cuddling too. The perfect trio, right? You knew about their relationship and fully supported it—they were so sweet together! You even felt a little jealous watching them sometimes; after all, you still hadn’t been in a relationship, despite being fairly popular on campus. Unfortunately, no one really caught your interest. Or so you thought.
You didn’t realize right away when you started developing feelings for them, but a turning point came at one of the parties.
Everyone was drunk as usual, music was playing, people were talking or laughing loudly. You were sitting on a couch chatting with your girlfriends when your gaze landed on Yunho and Mingi in the opposite corner of the living room. They were kissing. You were used to it by then. Hard not to be, when those two seemed to devour each other. But that night, something tugged at your chest. You never figured out what it was.
That strange feeling never left you whenever you saw your best friends. It didn’t matter if they were together or apart. Your heart clenched every time you saw them, and it felt like your insides were twisting into knots. All these emotions weighed on you. What the hell was happening? You were so desperate that you locked yourself in your apartment for a few days to sort yourself out. Your friends texted you almost every hour with messages like: "How are you?", "Did you eat?", "Is everything okay?", "Should we come over and suffer together??" and so on. Each message made you tremble, your heart pounding wildly. You finally understood what was happening. You had fallen in love.
This realization was accompanied by laughter and tears. Damn it, you’d fallen in love not only with your best friends, but with two guys who were dating each other! Just perfect. You cried all through the first day, calmed down (with great difficulty) on the second, and by the third, you’d accepted it. What else could you do? Go and scream about your hopeless love to them? No way. You weren’t ready to humiliate yourself and lose their friendship and trust.
And so began your "survival." You thought it would be easy, but things didn’t go very well.
Every time you saw them, you felt jealous. You were jealous that they only kissed each other, and not you. Jealous because they didn’t look at you the way they looked at each other. And that jealousy burned your heart. Why the hell were you even jealous?! You told yourself you had no right, but the burning envy never left you. However, you found a way to cope with it—alcohol.
You became a regular at parties, whether alone or with Yunho and Mingi. Alcohol clouded your mind enough that for a moment, you could forget about Yunho’s puppy-dog eyes and Mingi’s sweet lips. But the relief alcohol brought faded as quickly as the hangover headaches arrived.
So you started sleeping with almost anyone who even slightly resembled your best friends. Honestly, it made you feel a little loved by them, even if it wasn’t real. Sometimes you had one partner, sometimes two. And every time, you pictured Yunho or Mingi. Or both at once. Of course, out of pride and shame, you never uttered their names—otherwise, you’d have burst into tears at the first sound.
You also started distancing yourself a little from your friends, and they noticed. You began avoiding eye contact, skipping meetups, sometimes even ignoring them. They tried to talk to you, but you’d brush it off every time, blaming your studies. The only problem was, you were never particularly passionate about studying.
Lying to those close to you wasn’t pleasant, but you didn’t have much of a choice. What would they think if they knew the truth? You didn’t even want to imagine. It was much easier not to tell the truth, at least in your opinion.
｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆
You wake up with a terrible headache. A hangover is definitely not how you like to start your mornings.
Last night, you decided to drink—something you hadn’t done in a while—and clearly overdid it. You reach out to find your phone but come up empty.
Sighing, you slowly sit up in bed and, not spotting your phone, get up. Your vision immediately darkens, forcing you to sit back down, rubbing your temples.
Damn, you should’ve just spent the evening miserably sober.
Once the pain subsides, you drag yourself to the kitchen. Several empty bottles on the table testify to where you got drunk.
At the edge of the table, you spot your phone and snatch it up. It’s already 1:24 PM—thank goodness it’s the weekend—but what catches your attention isn’t the time.
34 missed calls from YuYu.
27 missed calls from GiGi.
54 unread messages in the group chat.
What the fuck happened?
You stare at the notifications, but you can’t remember anything from last night. Unlocking your phone, you see that your group chat with Yunho and Mingi is open.
And then you see what you wish you hadn’t. You sent them a damn confession message. Holy shit.
You immediately lock your phone. How humiliating.
Before you can sink further into shame, loud knocking echoes from the front door. Then another. And another.
You start toward the door, but the voice from the other side freezes you in place.
"If you don’t open this door right now, I’ll break it down."
Yunho’s voice, quiet but clear, rings in your ears.
Another voice follows.
"Y/N, please open the door."
Mingi’s pleading, gentle voice also carries through the door.
A shiver runs down your spine.
Fuck, what are you going to do now?
Hehe, and here's a new AU! I dreamed about it day and night, but in my head it looked much better... Still, I'm somewhat satisfied with the result!
And by the way, it's another "in love with best friends" trope!!! Seems like someone has a hyperfixation on this cliché... (let's not point fingers)(▀ Ĺ̯▀ )
Who would you like the next AU to be about? Woosan or Jongang? Or maybe just one member??? Or... do you want a continuation of something?!(⊙_⊙)
